Don Pendleton: Splinter Cell

Phil opened his eyes and was surprised to find that they were in a section of the city he had not seen during his two weeks of furious touring. “Where are we?” he asked the driver.

The man glanced up into the rearview mirror. “Another fare to pick up,” he said. “No worry. I charge you one-half only.”

Phil shrugged. He had never liked arguing with people, especially with the additional complication of the language barrier. So he just closed his eyes again.

This time the smile that came to his face was genuine. He remembered the first night he had arrived in Amsterdam. Although he had caught a good six hours of sleep on the plane, and it had only been eight o’clock in the evening, he had convinced himself he was too tired to go looking for the fleshpots of the city. The next day he had spent several hours at the same museum toward which he was headed again now, eaten dinner at a small outdoor café, then returned to his hotel when the wine he’d drunk told him he was too woozy to get his money’s worth from any of the prostitutes who had smiled at him on the sidewalks.

The third day he had gone to the Kalverstraut—the busiest shopping area in Holland. He had surprised himself when he’d returned to the hotel later that evening, unwrapped his purchases and suddenly realized they had all been presents for Janie.

So that night he had forced himself out of the hotel even though he hadn’t wanted to go. He had made himself walk along the streets, eyeing the prostitutes who sat on display in the windows. Many were scantily clad. A few were completely nude. Without trying, he had found himself comparing each woman to Janie, and each time they came up short. Finally, he had come across a beautiful woman wearing a transparent negligee. Her long red hair fell past her shoulders and glimmered in the streetlights, and her skin was the color of milk. He had gone inside, paid the brothel owner for the entire night with her, then allowed the man to escort him to her room.

It was only after the man had shut the door on his way out, and the prostitute had let the negligee fall from her shoulders to the floor, that he had realized what had attracted him to her.

And why he could not go through with the act for which he had already paid.

The woman looked enough like Janie to be her sister.

Phil Paxton had left the room and taken a cab back to his hotel. The next day he had gone to one of Amsterdam’s more famous diamond-cutters and had a stone cut and mounted in gold, doing his best to guess at exactly what Janie would like. And for the next week and a half, art, architecture and history really had become the reason for his trip.

His eyes still closed, Phil reached into the side pocket of his sport coat and felt the small felt-covered gift box that contained both Janie’s engagement and wedding rings. In less than a day now, the engagement ring would be on her finger, and the thought made Phil’s smile widen.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted when the driver slammed on the brakes. Phil opened his eyes to see that they were no longer on the streets but had entered a dark alleyway that stank of garbage.

Then, as if on cue, the driver turned and aimed a pistol over the seat at his passenger. “Don’t move,” he said in a completely different accent than he had used earlier. “Or I’ll kill you here and now.”

A second later, white lights from outside the vehicle flooded the interior. Phil’s door flew open and rough hands jerked him out. In a flash of vision, Phil Paxton saw rifle barrels and angry, dark-skinned faces. Then a hood was dropped over his head and tied in place around his neck with rope. Next he felt a hypodermic needle prick the skin on his upper arm.

A moment later, euphoria overcame Phil Paxton. For a moment, he knew that whatever was happening had to be just fine. Everything would work out.

The euphoria, however, was short-lived. A few seconds later, he lost consciousness.

Only a highly trained soldier, cop or intelligence officer would have been likely to notice the differences. Tiny differences, like the fact that his bearing was slightly more erect, that he exuded more confidence than the average man. Or that the set of his jaw was a little firmer. But it was his eyes, he knew, that would have really given him away had he not taken great pains to keep anyone from staring into them. In those eyes other warriors could see that he’d seen hell, and lived to tell about it.

On the surface, however, Mack Bolan looked little different than any of the other men flying first class from New York. He wore a well-tailored gray pin-striped suit much like bankers, gem dealers and other businessmen wore when visiting Amsterdam. His passport claimed his name was Matt Cooper instead of Mack Bolan, or the more mysterious, and descriptive, appellation by which he was also known—the Executioner.

Bolan shifted slightly in his seat. He had felt tension in the air aboard the 747 ever since boarding. He had sensed that something was wrong ever since the plane had left the runway. Who knows how he knew—he just did.

The soldier leaned back against his seat and glanced to the man at his side, next to the window. The danger that filled the air was not coming from John “Brick” Paxton. Paxton had boarded the flight with the Executioner as his confederate rather than an adversary. Granted, accompanying Bolan had not been the former Army Ranger’s idea; Paxton had made plans to rescue his younger brother, Phil, on his own. Just prior to boarding an earlier flight to the Netherlands, he’d been detained by representatives of Stony Man Farm, America’s top-secret counterterrorist organization. The Farm’s operatives had whisked Paxton away to a secluded safehouse while a secret meeting took place at the White House.

Bolan had been present at that meeting.

“There’s no way to stop Brick Paxton from going after his brother short of throwing him in jail,” the President told Hal Brognola, Stony Man Farm’s director, as well as a high-ranking official at the Justice Department. “And I’m going to look like hell in the press if I jail a guy who’s won two Silver Stars and is currently up for the Medal of Honor for his actions in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

The Executioner watched as the Man nodded his way before concluding with, “So the best thing we can do is let him go after his brother. But I want Bolan with him.”

Brognola nodded his agreement. “And I’d suggest sending them immediately, Mr. President,” he said. “All of our intelligence at the moment indicates that the terrorists picked Phil Paxton at random, just because he was American. But sooner or later, they’re going to find out just what a prize they’ve stumbled on to.”

None of the three men had thought it necessary to further identify that “prize.” They were all fully aware that Brick Paxton’s younger brother was one of America’s top nuclear engineers.

And a man who could build nukes for America could be forced to build them for America’s enemies, as well.

The Executioner glanced out of the corner of his eye, studying Brick Paxton’s face while he continued to review the past few hours in his mind. The Army Ranger’s eyes were closed, but it was impossible to tell if he was asleep or not. He’d been against going with Bolan from the moment the idea had been presented to him, and had only agreed when it had finally become clear that the President would find a jail cell for him somewhere if he didn’t.

Bolan turned back to the seat in front of him. The chain of command still wasn’t fully clear in Paxton’s mind. That might become a problem sooner or later. But the problem on the Executioner’s mind at the moment came from somewhere else on the 747.

Dinner had been served aboard the plane a half hour earlier, and the remnants were still on the first-class passengers’ trays. Lifting his plastic beverage glass, Bolan drained the contents, then he took the plastic fork and spoon from the table in front of him with his other hand and dropped them into the inside pocket of his jacket.