Don Pendleton - Serpent's Lair

Hogan paused in his journey to meet Machida halfway. “Sharpshooters? What for?”

“To make certain you behave.”

Hogan smirked.

“You come to take the girl. You will have the girl,” Machida explained. “However, we will have what we need, and we will go home happy as well.”

Machida watched as Hogan leaned toward one of his men.

“Oh, it’s never soft and easy, huh?” Hogan whispered. “Okay, bring out the girl, and we’ll give you the goods,” Hogan said loudly.

The sound a walking stick disturbing the gravel path broke off the dialogue.

BOLAN LOOKED TO HIS LEFT, to the overgrown path. A gaunt man wearing old-fashioned robes was tapping a seven-foot-tall walking staff as he made his way among the rocks and weeds. His wooden sandals swept aside stones and gravel with each step. From the length of his hair and beard, he seemed to be ancient. Bolan was torn between shouting for the old man to turn back and opening fire on the marksmen in the tree line.

He glanced down and saw that even the Yakuza men were looking among themselves. They, too, wanted to say something, and one of the gunners even waved at the walker on the path. Bolan knew enough Japanese to understand the hissed “Go back!” command.

The walker stopped, gazing glassily over to the tree line, scanning it as if to catalog the men hidden among the bushes and grasses.

Bolan held his fire as the limousine door was flung open in a sudden flash of movement.

Rebecca Anthony was running for her life into the middle of a hellzone.

HOGAN SHOUTED AS HE SAW the girl break from the limousine. “She’s getting away!”

Nickles ran toward the trees, making it three steps before a single gunshot into the sky brought everyone up short. Honey paused, halfway to the tree line, her feet already bleeding from cuts where the gravel of the clearing dug and jabbed into the soles of her bare feet. She was suddenly rethinking the preference of being shot in the back. She took a deep breath, then started whimpering as she glanced between Machida, Hogan and the stranger who was coming down the path.

“I’m not going to let you get away, Rebecca,” Machida called out. “Everyone stays where they are.”

The old man continued walking toward the tableau.

Machida switched to Japanese. “I told you, old man, stand still.”

Hogan looked at the walker’s eyes. They were glazed and unfocused, hard black marbles that looked everywhere and nowhere at once. It was an odd, disconcerting visage, like the world was completely beneath him. The walker didn’t stop his movement, despite the command in Japanese.

“Kill him,” Hogan said.

Machida regarded Hogan coldly.

BOLAN CLOSED IN ON the first sniper he’d seen, hoping to cut the distance the bullet from his Walther flew. The shorter the flight path of the bullet, the less disturbed air. The sonic crack from the 9 mm slug wouldn’t draw as much attention. He glanced to his right, and saw that the snipers at the tree line were all keeping their eyes focused on Hogan’s mercenaries.

Machida had just been challenged to kill the intruder on the scene, and Bolan wanted to give the old man a chance to get out of this alive.

At three feet away, Bolan stood over the gunman with the hunting rifle. The sniper sensed the Executioner’s presence and swung the rifle around quickly. Bolan squeezed the trigger, and the gunman toppled lifelessly to the forest floor. Bolan’s hand snagged the rifle before it clattered to the ground.

The Executioner dropped to his knees and quickly slid into the dead Yakuza soldier’s place. In the shadows of the foliage around him, none of the other gunners reacted to his sudden action. The bolt-action rifle would be worth a lot in a gunfight. Ten spare rounds for the magazine were stuck into a saddle on the stock of the rifle.

The Executioner turned his attention back to the stand off in the clearing. The walker passed by Rebecca Anthony as she stood in the middle of the gravel. The spindly figure stopped, looking her over.

“Dammit… I just want to get away from all of this,” she said, voice trembling and soft, but full of angry resolve.

Bolan shouldered the hunting rifle. He’d have five, maybe six shots before he had to reload or switch to the Walther, but he refused to let the girl be harmed.

The walker grabbed her wrist and sneered, flipping aside his robes.

That’s when everything that Bolan knew about the situation turned upside down. The old man was suddenly sporting a fistful of Uzi.

When the walker pulled out his gun and yanked the girl in close to his body, several things happened at once.

The fleeing hostage screamed in terror. Her black-lipstick-smeared mouth opened wide, and she clutched a wiry arm of the walker.

The Yakuza head soldier, leveled one Beretta at Hogan and quickly drew a second pistol to aim at the walker. He shouted for his men to remain calm, but even from where he sat, Bolan could see that there was a tremor as he aimed unsteadily at the old man with the Uzi.

Hogan shouldered his MP-5, ready to spray either the Yakuza leader or the stranger who’d grabbed the girl. His bulletlike head lowered over the sights, deep-set eyes squinting.

The Executioner tightened his grip on the hunting rifle in his hands, brain racing to evaluate which was the greatest threat to the hostage.

The walker laughed as he pressed the Uzi to the girl’s temple. She closed her mouth but still looked around, the muzzle sliding all over her greasy, slicked hair.

Bolan couldn’t risk a head shot on the goon, in case he pulled the trigger on the girl. He swept the meeting ground. Mercenaries and mobsters alike were taking cover behind vehicles, and to either side of him, along the tree line, gunmen were communicating from their hiding spots. Everyone was trying to figure out what to do.

“Kojo,” someone said. A trail of Japanese followed that was too quick for Bolan to understand, but he knew it was directed at him.

“Hai,” Bolan whispered in response. He hoped to hell he hadn’t blown it.

There was a sudden movement to his left. A harsh sentence was uttered, and Bolan brought up his Walther, pumping out a single bullet into the darkness. The 9 mm slug quietly hit its target, but the gunman gave a scream as he tumbled from the tree line.

The walker spun, and the Uzi came away from the girl’s head. The dying Yakuza shooter crashed into a clump of tall grass, and the old man twisted, looking around for more enemies in the trees.

The Goth girl seized the opportunity, bent double and broke away from the man. She charged madly toward the path, paying no heed to the sharp stones digging into her feet. Fear drove her onward.

Bolan shouldered his rifle, targeting Hogan, who was in midswing to shoot down the Anthony girl. Bolan squeezed the trigger. He felt the hot splash of a stray shotgun pellet slice across his shoulder midshot. The Executioner’s round was off target.

Machida blasted the walker full in the chest with his Beretta, while others opened up on the man, throwing him to the ground.

Hogan grunted, his weapon getting off two shots, then stopping short as a .30-caliber rifle bullet smashed into the frame of his machine pistol and drove him onto his back. Bolan adjusted his aim and threw the bolt on the rifle, hurriedly chambering another shot.

“Hogan! There’s someone else in the tree line!” Machida warned. The gangster opened fire with his other Beretta. The Yakuza men swung their weapons to open fire on the Executioner’s position, but by that time, Bolan was already hot-footing it out of the way.

The mercenaries held their fire, looking on in disbelief as the Japanese mobsters ignored them, turning their attention on some mystery threat.