Don Pendleton - Serpent's Lair

“Why was he talking about executioners?” Honey asked.

Bolan didn’t say a word.

The flash of a laser sight suddenly crossed his shoulder.

HOGAN PAUSED, holding his receiver a little tighter.

“This is Higgins. We’ve got activity at the tree line. There seems to be more than just Cooper in these woods,” the mercenary said.

“Are they together or what?” Hogan asked.

“Seemed like there was a scuffle at the top of the ridge. I’m not sure, but maybe silenced gunfire.”

“Take out Cooper, but don’t harm the girl. If she bolts, put a bullet in her arm or leg. Nothing fatal,” Hogan ordered.

He looked at Machida, who stared on, his face unreadable. “Do you have a problem with shooting the girl?” Hogan asked.

“It does not matter. I am not on the scene to take the shot,” Machida replied.

“Nobody likes a smart-ass,” Hogan grumbled.

“I will keep that in mind.”

Hogan was about to growl when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Branches shifted slightly, but not in the direction of the breeze. He turned and swung up his spare machine pistol. “Indian country!”

The mercenaries around him understood the two-word shorthand for ambush. The Yakuza gunmen in the clearing with them needed only to see Hogan’s people dive for cover to react. Machida’s and Hogan’s forces crouched, aiming outward around the clearing.

Hogan directed the first gunfire. He blasted away with a borrowed machine pistol and swept the area of tree line that had moved out of sync. A gunman grunted and stumbled into view, but he wasn’t killed by the initial blast. The ambusher’s weapon spoke, chopping off a mercenary at the knees, then walked a blast of gunfire up into the stomach of a Yakuza gunman.

The raider’s victory was short-lived, however. Mercenary and mobster alike lit him up with their weaponry, focusing the arc of their fire on the woods around him in a blasting firestorm of activity. Hogan ducked behind the limousine as more incoming gunfire chopped its side panels apart. Machida was right at Hogan’s heels, returning fire with his two Berettas even though he couldn’t see anything.

“Cease-fire! Cease-fire!” Hogan called out.

Mercenaries and Yakuza gunmen dragged their injured and dying companions to cover behind the parked convoy of vehicles in the clearing. Moans of the wounded resonated to drown out the ringing in Hogan’s ears that resulted from the firestorm of automatic weapons cutting the air.

Hogan reloaded his weapon and looked around. He didn’t dare call out to confirm the condition of his men. Betraying the status of their remaining forces would leave them open for any attackers to move in and finish them off. He didn’t know how many were striking from the woods, but he wasn’t going down so easily.

Machida was reloading his two pistols. “It seems the old man had friends in this area,” he said softly. “And they are well-armed.”

“No kidding,” Hogan snarled. “Is there a reason for you to tell me the obvious?”

“It is a more productive use of nervous energy than screaming in fear,” the Yakuza man replied. He stuffed one Beretta into its holster, keeping the other out. His free hand dived immediately for his cell phone, and he hit the speed dial.

“What are you doing?” Hogan asked.

“I am calling for my backup. You call for yours. We’re not leaving without our intended trade,” Machida answered. “Or else.”

“Or else what?”

Machida’s silent stare was more effective than any boast. His calm face housed eyes full of black clouds of fury.

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