Don Pendleton - Dark Alliance

“I’ll see what I can do. What have you done about him?”

“At the moment, I am keeping him under surveillance. I want to see what he does.”

“Don’t let him run on a long leash. If he gets lucky your troubles might get bigger.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Costa muttered as he disconnected the call.

THE EXECUTIONER WAS in South Beach.

Paul Sebring ran his business from the top floor of a low-rise building. The street level was a seafood restaurant. Access to Sebring’s office was via the wide alley that ran along the side of the building. White-painted steps led to the studio setup. Bolan made his way into a reception area with the walls covered in examples of Sebring’s work. Even a cursory glance told Bolan the man was good. Behind the desk a pretty young woman glanced up from her computer keyboard.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help?”

“I need to speak to Paul Sebring,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

“Okay,” the woman said. She pointed at a door to one side of the desk. “Through there. Paul’s office is on the left. Third door.”

Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”

As he walked along the corridor a door opened and a man leaned out.

“I’m Paul Sebring. Is there a problem?”

Bolan followed the photographer into a spacious, airy office that was expensively decorated and looked out over South Beach.

Sebring was a tall, fit-looking man in his midthirties. He was dressed in casual clothing and his pale blond hair was thick. He held out a large hand, smiling at his visitor.

“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. He showed Sebring his Department of Justice credentials and watched the man’s expression grow serious.

“Now you have me worried.”

They sat facing each other across Sebring’s large desk.

“Maggie Connor,” Bolan stated simply and watched Sebring’s reaction.

“Is she okay?”

“That sounds as if you know she might be in trouble,” the Executioner said.

“I never could hide my feelings. Look, all I can tell you is the last time she contacted me, Maggie…well, she sounded stressed. I’ve known her a long time and she isn’t easily rattled.”

“Did she tell you what was getting to her?”

“Not straight out. I just guessed it had to do with her current investigation. Something about illegal weapons dealing in Colombia. I told her she was on pretty thin ice with something like that. Those people do not play nice.” Sebring stared hard at Bolan, trying to read his thoughts. “Jesus, is she hurt? Missing?”

“Looks that way. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did Maggie leave anything with you? Send you anything?”

Sebring sat upright, color draining from his face. He pushed up out of his chair and crossed the office, sliding open a drawer in a filing cabinet. He took out a small padded envelope.

“This arrived the other day. Never gave it much thought. Maggie’s always sending me stuff to hold for her. She isn’t much of an organizer.”

Sebring offered the envelope to Bolan. He checked the postmark. It had been sent four days ago. Mailed from upstate Florida. He tore the sealing strip and tipped the contents out on Sebring’s desk. There were two items. A digital camera memory card and a computer flash drive.

“I wonder what’s on them,” Sebring said.

“I’ll know when I read them.”

“No, you won’t,” someone said.

The Executioner turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in light pants and a colorful shirt. The thug had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and a taut, angular face. There was a large pistol in the man’s hand. It had a sound suppressor screwed on to it and the muzzle was pointing at Bolan. Behind the gunman was a second guy, dark and squat. He had Sebring’s receptionist held tight against him, one hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm around her waist.

“Just give me the pieces,” the gunman said.

Sebring exploded with anger. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The man didn’t blink. He shifted the muzzle of the pistol and fired. The slug smashed into Sebring’s left shoulder, knocking the surprised photographer backward.

Bolan swiveled from the waist, his right forearm sweeping around to catch the shooter’s arm and deflect the pistol. Continuing the swift move Bolan brought his left arm up and circled the gunman’s wrist. He trapped the arm beneath his own, clamping it to his side, swung hard and hauled the man off balance. Bolan grabbed for the pistol, twisting it brutally, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. The gunman let out a shout of pain and dropped the pistol. Bolan pivoted, the point of his right elbow thudding hard into the man’s face. His nose broke under the impact. Blood began to gush from his nostrils. Bolan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head forward and down. His rising knee met the gunman’s forehead. The impact sent him reeling across the office, moaning, his hands clutched to his smashed face. Bolan spotted the dropped gun and scooped it up.

Satisfied that the man was out of action Bolan turned in the direction of the second intruder who was still holding Sebring’s receptionist. The stocky man seemed stunned to see his downed partner curled up on the floor of the office. He turned his attention back to Bolan, now holding the pistol and closing the distance between them with speed. In a split second decision he released the receptionist, pushing her at Bolan, then turned and ran for the exit.

As the Executioner strode through the reception area he was only a couple of steps behind the fleeing figure. He raced through the door and caught the man at the top of the exterior steps. The man half turned in Bolan’s direction as he sensed his pursuer’s close proximity. His hand came out of his pocket to reveal a knife. The Executioner slammed the pistol across the side of the man’s face. The blow was delivered hard, opening a raw gash. The thug squealed, an odd, high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife. The squeal trailed off as Bolan hit him a second time. The man stepped back, trying to avoid the blow. He moved too far and stepped over the edge of the top step. He tumbled down the steps, turning over a couple of times before hitting the bottom where he lay motionless.

Bolan returned to Sebring’s office. He found the photographer slumped on the floor beside his desk, a bloody hand clutched to his shoulder. The receptionist was on the phone, calling for assistance. When she saw the gun in Bolan’s hand her eyes widened in alarm.

He put the gun away. “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

He crossed to check the gunman. The man was still clutching his face, moaning softly. Then he went back to Sebring. The photographer, pale-faced and sweating, glanced up at the Executioner.

“You always bring guests to the party?” he asked.

“Never invited ones,” Bolan said grimly.

“Next time, Cooper, just bring a bottle.”

The receptionist put the phone down. “Police and ambulance are on their way.”

Bolan turned to her. “Got any towels we can use to stop the bleeding?”

The young woman nodded and left the office.

“This has to do with Maggie?” Sebring asked.

Bolan took the items from the envelope and dropped them into his pocket. He glanced at Sebring. The photographer sensed what Bolan was silently asking and gave a brief nod.

The receptionist came back with some towels. She helped Bolan get Sebring into his chair. The Executioner wadded one of the towels and placed it over the wound.

“Hold that in place, miss.”

She nodded and said, “The name’s Carrie.”

“Just keep good pressure on that towel, Carrie.”

Bolan crossed to the door, taking out his phone. He punched in his contact number for Brognola. When the big Fed answered Bolan calmly explained what had happened.