Don Pendleton - Stolen Arrows

Atlantic Ocean

A steady thumping pervaded the small metal room and the air smelled strongly of machine grease. A rack of beds covered the far wall, a folding table stood in the corner, and in the middle of the room was a lead-lined safe draped with a fine wire mesh netting attached to an array of car batteries.

Kneeling by the apparatus, Zalhares carefully checked a voltage meter to make sure the Faraday Cage was working properly. Driving the armored truck into a private garage, there had been plenty of time to burn open the armor and then breech the safe. However, he suspected the CIA of having planted a tracer or even a repeater circuit in the Zodiacs, and thus had taken the precaution of having a Faraday Cage ready. With a steady current moving through the fine mesh, no radio signal could possibly penetrate.

Satisfied for the moment, Zalhares took a seat on the lower bunk and leaned back against the steel wall. The regular beat was oddly soothing, like the rhythm of a living heart.

Sitting at the table, Jorgina Mizne was sharpening a knife, her strokes unconsciously matching the pulse in the walls. Minas Pedrosa was drinking from a bottle of beer, while Dog Mariano groaned softly, holding a bucket between his shaky knees.

“Feeling any better, my friend?” Zalhares asked, crossing his arms behind his neck for a cushion. The thumping eased into a gentle background vibration.

Breathing for a moment, Mariano finally shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “How…soon….”

“Until we disembark? Quite some time.”

“Why couldn’t we take a plane?” the man muttered, closing his eyes. “I like planes.”

“Every airport was covered ten minutes after we left the park. No, my friend, this was the only way.”

“I hate the sea,” Mariano groaned.

“And yet you love the beach,” Mizne said, inspecting the edge on the blade. “One of God’s little jokes, eh?”

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the hatch that served as a door for the small water-tight compartment.

“Fine,” Mariano corrected weakly, placing the bucket aside. “I hate submarines. Better?”

“Of course.” She smiled, sliding the blade into a sheath behind her back.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Still drinking his warm beer, Pedrosa walked to the hatch and pulled it open on squealing hinges. The air tasted greasy, yet the metal was rusty. And this was considered a reliable transport?

In the corridor stood an unshaven slim man in rumpled coveralls, the tarnished insignia of a Taiwanese naval lieutenant pinned to his limp collar. Nodding to the passengers, the officer stepped through and tossed a casual salute to Zalhares. It wasn’t returned.

“Sir, there is a problem,” the lieutenant said, smiling widely.

Pushing away from the wall, Zalhares sat upright but said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.

“The captain has learned of your identity.” He glanced at the safe. “If not that of your cargo, and believes that our deal needs to be—how shall I say it?—adjusted properly.” The man grinned again, pretending to be embarrassed. “You are very wanted men by a great many people. Rich, powerful people.”

“A deal is a deal,” Zalhares said flatly. “We paid enough to buy this craft, and he wants more?”

With a sigh, the lieutenant shrugged, displaying both palms upward. “What can I say? My captain disagrees.”

For a few minutes the members of the Scion exchanged glances.

“Fine. You leave us no choice then,” Zalhares said. “Dog, pay the man.”

Pulling out a wallet, Mariano removed a wad of cash and offered it to the lieutenant. His eyes bright with greed, the man eagerly reached for the cash. Mariano Dog extended his arm past the hand, a stiletto snapping out from his sleeve to ram into the officer’s stomach. As the lieutenant’s mouth flew open wide to scream, Zalhares stuffed in a bunched glove, careful to not be bitten.

Still sipping the beer, Pedrosa stepped to the hatchway, a silenced Imbel .22 pistol in his other hand. Meanwhile, Mizne grabbed the bleeding sailor by the shoulders to hold him steady as Mariano slowly sawed the razor-sharp blade back and forth straight up the middle of the torso. Thrashing against the grip of the muscular woman, the officer was helpless, his eyes rolling back into their sockets from the incredible pain. Blood poured from the yawning wound as his intestines began to slither out, most of them plopping into the waiting bucket.

With professional detachment, Zalhares watched as the life faded from the man’s eyes and the body went limp, twitching a few times before finally succumbing to death. They all died so easily; it wasn’t even interesting anymore.

“Still feeling seasick, old friend?” Zalhares asked, retrieving the saliva-streaked glove.

“Not any more,” Mariano said excitedly, easing the gory blade out of the corpse and wiping it clean on the coveralls.

“Good,” Zalhares said, sliding the glove back on his hand to cover a curved scar of teeth marks. “Get the guns. We’re taking over the ship. Minas, you stay with the safe.”

“And if the crew resists?” Mizne asked, opening a metal locker and removing an Uru caseless rifle from the collection inside.

“Kill them,” Zalhares ordered, accepting one of the weapons. “But save the captain for me. Understood?”

“Make it quick,” Mariano suggested, catching an Uru in one hand. “He’s a fellow Brazilian.”

Flicking off the safety, former Sergeant Cirello Zalhares looked at the mercenary with eyes as dead and empty of life as a child’s grave.

“Then he should have known better than to cross me,” the S2 operative rumbled deep in his throat.

“Leave the damn hatch open when you go,” Pedrosa finally spoke, sitting in the corner and resting an Uru on his lap. “It stinks in here.”

Staying low and fast, the Scion moved out of the storage compartment and soon the sound of gunfire filled the submarine, but not for very long. Then the screaming started and it lasted all through the long night.

Belmore, Long Island

THE TRAFFIC in Belmore was heavy, with stop lights at every intersection, taxi cabs, delivery trucks and station wagons fighting for every inch of space. Every street was lined with crowded stores and full parking lots, with cars hunting for any available spot. Long Island seemed to carry the impression that everybody was in a big hurry to get somewhere else, and you were personally in their way.

Mack Bolan turned down a side street, the traffic immediately thinning to a more conventional level. Bolan increased his speed. The Jaguar hummed around the man as if every piece of the luxury car was directly involved in generating speed. Bolan had chosen the X-series because the vehicle blended well into the wealthy suburbs of Long Island and because the four-wheel drive gave it amazing traction at high speeds. A good soldier always planned a retreat route in case the enemy had unexpected reserves of strength. Michael J. Prince was a twenty-first-century monster, and those always had a cadre of devils around to hold back the just. The question was how many devils did he have. Honestly, Bolan didn’t know. This was a crap shoot, the worst kind of a fight to go into, but there was no other way.

Unfortunately, while all of the downtown arms dealers had been mere facilitators and brokers, merchants in the selling of destruction, Prince was a dealer. A hands-on kind of guy who actually moved the physical weaponry, storing a lot of his stock in a warehouse strategically set between an elementary school and a shopping mall. Any kind of an armed assault by the feds or the police, would almost definitely result in civilian casualties. Unless the area was sealed off first, which would give Prince all the time he needed to escape and burn his records. No, this had to be a blitzkrieg, a lightning strike directly into the heart of the enemy.