Don Pendleton - Lethal Compound

The assassins should have had someone watching the back door.

“Now!” Bolan said.

Manning’s automatic rifle roared to life and the gunners and loaders froze in shock as bullets ripped across the tree trunks. The commander sensed something behind him and started to turn.

Bolan spoke quietly. “Freeze.”

The man dropped his binoculars on their strap and went for the Uzi slung by his side.

The Beretta 93-R machine pistol in Bolan’s left hand walked a three-round burst up the commanding assassin’s chest. The .50 caliber Desert Eagle in Bolan’s right swung as the two loaders went for their submachine guns. They lost the tops of their heads for their trouble. The anti-materiel rifles were far too big to be wielded in close combat. The gunners dropped their weapons and went for their pistols. The Beretta trip-hammered one man’s head apart and Bolan took two strides forward to point the smoking machine pistol between the surviving assassin’s eyes. “Last chance. Take the pistol out with two fingers, left hand, and toss it away,” he said.

The man stared down the muzzle of the Beretta and complied.

“How many more?” the Executioner asked.

The man gave the unwavering machine pistol a leery look but kept his mouth shut. Bolan chopped the Desert Eagle down and clubbed the man unconscious. “Manning, I have four hostiles down, one prisoner.”

“I see no more activity on the hill from my end. You want me to come ahead?”

“No, go down and let Eckhart know the situation seems to be contained. He’ll probably be pretty grateful. Try to pump him for anything useful before local law enforcement show up and start asking questions or his lawyers show up and start advising him. I’ll secure the prisoner. Then I’m going down the trail to see if I can locate their extraction point.

“Copy that,” Manning said.

San Luis Obispo, California

The Executioner connected his laptop computer to his secure satellite link and then leaned back on the hotel bed. He’d left Gary Manning with Eckhart for the last twenty-four hours to see if he could pick up any intel around the lodge while Kurtzman worked the angles from his end. Bolan had found an SUV on the back side of the hill. It had been rented in town under a false name. The prisoner wasn’t talking so local law enforcement had handed him over to the FBI.

Bolan typed in a few codes and Aaron Kurtzman popped up on his screen in real time. “So what can you tell me about our buddy Eckhart?” Bolan asked.

Kurtzman grinned on the screen. “Well, Gary says his spit-roasted wild boar is fantastic. He’s hot-tubbing with supermodels, drinking single malt Scotch and Eckhart calls him ‘good buddy.’”

Bolan shook his head.

“He also says that Eckhart really is a hell of a guy. Real regular Joe, for a billionaire,” Kurtzman added.

“That’s what everyone seems to be saying,” Bolan replied.

“I’ve been researching our man, and it seems to be true. For example, a few years back he invested in African diamond mines. He started dating a French actress who gave him the lecture about African blood diamonds and he completely divested himself of the business on his end and took a loss.”

Bolan had to admit that was unusual for a captain of industry. “What else? There’s got to be some dirt on the man.”

“Well…he likes to date models.”

“Big deal,” Bolan said. “Anything else?”

“Well…he’s always had a love affair with archaeology.”

“Well, now we’ve got him.” Bolan folded his arms across his chest decisively.

Kurtzman sighed. “I know. Hear me out. Amateur archaeology is his passion. The guy hands out grants like party favors to universities with red-hot archaeology departments. And if there’s one real boondoggle in his life, one place where he makes bad business choices, it’s archaeology. The man has thrown away some serious coin on far-flung digs and treasure hunts that went nowhere. Of course he can afford it, but we’re talking about a genuine addiction for digging around in the sandbox.”

Bolan considered the information. “Bring up his guest list at the hunting lodge again.”

Kurtzman clicked keys and the names and photos popped onto Bolan’s screen. He scanned them and pointed at a name. “Dr. Marcus Klein. Doctor of what?”

Kurtzman searched. “Professor of classical archaeology, UC Berkeley.”

“Not your average great white hunter,” Bolan said.

“No.” Kurtzman’s craggy brow furrowed. “He’s a card-carrying member of PETA, actually.”

“Something very intriguing must have made him ignore his scruples and attend a billionaire’s pig hunt in rural California.”

“He wants a grant? A lot of academics do a lot of things they’re ashamed of to receive funding.”

Bolan tapped another picture on his screen. “Who’s the blonde?” She had long straight hair, arched eyebrows, full lips and big white teeth. She looked curvaceous and was wearing a pink argyle sweater and pin-striped pants. Stylish square eyeglasses completed her look. She had the fulsome, librarian seductress look going to the hilt. “She’s not Eckhart’s usual Euro-lanky ice-queen girlfriend.”

Kurtzman grinned. He was a man who appreciated a woman with curves. “That is Nancy Rhynman. Double major in archaeology and linguistics. Specializing in ancient Greek studies on the one hand and primate body language on the other.”

“Primate body language?”

“She wrote a thesis matching ape gestures, expressions and body language to humans. She speaks on the lecture circuit and gives corporate seminars on reading body language to help businesses get ahead.”

“That’s got to pay more than the ancient Greeks.” Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “What is Professor Klein’s specialty?”

Kurtzman smiled as he saw where this was going. “The ancient Greeks.”

“Eckhart probably wouldn’t care about reading body language except as cocktail conversation. This Nancy gal is attractive but he already has a supermodel girlfriend. She’s there for her archaeological expertise. So is Klein. I need you to find out what they’re all up to,” Bolan said.

The computer chimed. The Executioner clicked on Accept and a video inset of Gary Manning appeared. “Hello, boys!”

“What have you got on your end?’ Bolan asked.

“Turns out the guys with the big guns were doing more than firing for effect. The weapons were Hungarian Gepard rifles. The M3 version, chambered for 14.5 mm Russian rounds. We’re talking a thousand-grain bullet traveling at over three thousand feet per second. I surveyed the damage. You could put your fist through some of the holes they punched through that house.”

Bolan had seen the weapons up close and didn’t doubt it.

“And here’s the real interesting thing,” Manning continued. “They put a round through Eckhart’s bedroom that hit his bed, his pillow actually, right on the side of the bed where he sleeps. In his private study his computer was smashed apart and the trajectory would have cut him in half if he’d been online. They put a round where he sits in his favorite chair in the TV room, one through the dining room that would have killed anyone sitting at the head of the table and another one would have taken him on the can in the master bedroom. These guys had intimate knowledge of Eckhart’s place and had his usual stationary spots plotted in their firing computers. I’ve never seen an assassination attempt like this, but I’m telling you, it was slick.”

The fact they knew the inside of Eckhart’s house and the usual places he lurked implied he’d been betrayed from within and his enemies were willing to go to extraordinary lengths to kill him. “How’s life at the lodge otherwise?” Bolan asked.