Don Pendleton - Serpent's Lair

There was a chance, she thought. She wouldn’t have to go back to her father, and she could get away from these Yakuza thugs, if only she could create some kind of distraction. Her heart hammered under her breastbone, the uneasy tingle of nausea and anticipation filling her mouth with a coppery taste. She could run—

And what? Have not one but two small armies hunting her through the woods?

Anything was better than being Daddy’s little hostage, she thought.

If it came to a choice between living with a murderer or dying with a bullet in her back, she’d take her chances with the slug through her spine.

Her hand touched the door release for a moment, then she looked at Machida.

“They’re coming to take you home,” Machida told her. “If you try to run, people will get hurt. You’ll be one of them.”

“Mercenaries and criminals. What’s my father paying to have me freed?”

Machida shook his head. “That is not my place to say.”

“I can’t live with that. Because of me, some psychopath is going to get his hands on the equipment necessary to exterminate a few hundred people with the push of a button.”

“We do what we have to do,” Machida said. “I am bound by duty to my family to hand you over to your father’s negotiators.”

“No matter who suffers?” Honey asked.

Machida didn’t answer, his face becoming a hard mask. She knew she’d pissed him off, and regretted it. Somewhere, deep inside, she could sense there was something different about him.

“Then, child, if you truly believe in doing your duty, I shall honor you. I will do what I have to do, and I will try to stop you, but I do not blame you for doing what you feel is the honorable thing.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Honey said.

The cell phone in Machida’s hand rang once. He checked the readout on the caller identification. He managed a smile. “I shall be outside of the vehicle. Your father’s men have just passed one of the checkpoints we’ve set up.”

“Oh great. The cavalry is here,” Honey answered. Her upper teeth clicked against the rings piercing her lower lip.

“I wish you well in your endeavor, Rebecca Anthony.”

“Call me Viscious Honey,” she answered.

Machida looked at her. “I wish you well, Viscious Honey.”

She managed a smile as the Yakuza man left the vehicle.

NICKLES LOOKED OVER at Hogan. “There was a quick spurt of cell-phone activity. Only one ring, though.”

“They’re good. We must have passed a scout. For people without military-level communications equipment, they’re very efficient,” Hogan answered. “Any word on Cooper?”

“No sign of him since he crossed the road and went into the woods over the top of the hill.”

“How long ago was that?” Hogan asked.

“Three minutes,” Nickles replied.

Hogan looked at the map strapped to his forearm and judged overland travel versus the speed and distance they had traveled by road in the convoy.

“There could be a small problem,” Hogan said. “This guy, Cooper, if he’s a fast runner, he might actually show up on site when we’re making the trade.”

“One more body to add to the pile,” Nickles pointed out. “He’s one guy with an 8-shot pistol.”

“Nine shots. Thomas always kept that thing cruiser-loaded with an extra shot in the chamber.”

“Nine bullets against us?” Nickles asked. “Body armor and automatic weapons and fifteen-to-one odds.”

“Not counting the Yakuza.”

“Who we’ll be taking care of, too.”

Hogan listened to his com man’s words and didn’t quite believe them. There was something about the lone FBI agent. Something that wasn’t right. He smelled phony as a Fed, but he actually seemed like someone Hogan would have picked up for his mercenary unit. The way he checked and cleared the Glock without even a second’s sloppiness showed him as a professional weapon handler. The way he handled himself against a half-dozen men stuffed into the back of a van, and evading four armed killers in the woods was further proof that Cooper was more commando than federal cop.

Hogan knew having him pop into the scene with his gun blazing would only serve to make a tough situation even worse.

The convoy pulled slowly into the clearing.

BOLAN HAD CLEARED the top of the mountain and was three-quarters of the way to the meeting site when he slowed and evaluated his gear. The Walther P-38 K was accompanied by four magazines and a cylindrical tube. Having a sound suppressor for the little handgun would give him an element of surprise, and if he couldn’t have audacity and superior firepower, he’d take stealth and deception on his side.

He quickly screwed the attachment into place and stalked slowly through the increasingly thick foliage. By the time he was in sight of the clearing, he saw Hogan’s lead car arriving.

Bolan also spotted a Yakuza gunman hunkered down behind a tree trunk with a bolt-action hunting rifle. The Executioner knew it wasn’t as clear-cut as a trap. Not with the kind of deal that Anthony wanted to make with the mobsters.

The sniper seemed oblivious to anything around him. Bolan knew from experience that good snipers were stealthy and could sneak in close to the enemy, but they needed a spotter, not only to confirm kills and record other intelligence, but to perform escort duty for the shooter.

Bolan was never ashamed to have someone watching his back as a sniper. But it seemed that the Yakuza gunman hadn’t been given such backup.

The Executioner stayed his hand. He scanned the shrubbery, looking for other hidden forms. He stopped counting when he reached five men, all armed with hunting rifles or long-barreled revolvers with hunting scopes. He couldn’t see more than the quintet present, but that was enough for him to realize that the mobsters were expecting the mercenaries to cause some trouble. The high-powered weaponry postioned at the tree line was enough to cut through even the best of body armor at that relatively short range. Firing from ambush, these five, and any others hidden at angles around the clearing, could make Hogan’s mercenaries honest.

The convoy rolled to a stop as Bolan looked at the main Yakuza vehicle, a white stretch limousine parked near a small, overgrown path leading back up the mountain.

The door to the limousine opened slightly, and Bolan caught sight of a young woman’s face, pale with lack of sunlight, the dark rings around her eyes highlighted by days’ old makeup. Light reflected off the two metal hoops that pierced her lip. It was Rebecca Anthony, or Viscious Honey as she apparently liked to be known.

Bolan looked at the gunmen with their backs to him. He could see that the girl was looking for a distraction, and probably didn’t have a clue about the armed men at the tree line who could cut her down if she tried to make a run for it. He lined up the sights of the Walther, knowing that even with a suppressor, the 9 mm bullet’s flight through the trees would bounce enough supersonic echoes to make it known that he was on the scene.

He’d be giving up his advantage.

But he’d be protecting a young life.

Despite the mission to destroy the Yakuza boss, he still had a duty to protect the helpless.

MACHIDA OPENED HIS JACKET and drew a Beretta from his shoulder holster, taking a deep breath as Hogan and his men got out of the van. They approached slowly and were not subtle about their body armor and automatic weaponry. He counted them and was pleased to see that there were fifteen. Perhaps they wouldn’t be foolish enough to initiate violence knowing they were outnumbered.

“Where’s the girl?” Hogan called out.

“She’s in the limousine. I have sharpshooters in hiding too,” Machida replied quickly.