Don Pendleton: Dragon's Den

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Bill and Joan Oliver

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Washington Post, AP—Los Angeles

At approximately 7:15 a.m. PDT yesterday morning, narcotics officers of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department conducted a drug raid against a private yacht moored at the world-famous Marina del Rey. Sources report the yacht belonged to Raul Montavo, thirty-two, Hollywood’s hottest Latin superstar. Police confiscated more than two hundred kilograms of opium and an undisclosed amount of heroin that one officer stated “was in plain view.”

In a recent press conference, police spokesperson Martha Stellano said, “There were no fatalities or injuries during the raid. We found several bodies on board we believe are drug-related homicides.”

When questioned about the identities of the deceased, police refused to comment until members of the immediate family were notified and causes of deaths determined. However, confidential sources indicate Raul Montavo is among those dead, as is the relative of a U.S. politician. There is no word yet on when police plan to provide further information.

Mack Bolan parked his rental car in the lot of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department’s Marina del Rey station and climbed from the air-conditioned interior into the midday August heat. The salty odor of the Pacific breezes stung his nostrils. Bolan pulled the mirrored sunglasses from his face and rubbed his eyes. He still felt the aftereffects of jet lag. Shortly after his return from a personal mission in Europe, Hal Brognola had called and begged him to go to California.

“What’s up?” Bolan asked the Stony Man chief.

“We don’t have all the facts quite yet, but it was enough to draw the Man’s attention.”

Mention of the President got Bolan’s interest. “Let’s back it up a little. Tell me what you know.”

Brognola—head of the ultracovert Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm—told Bolan about the drug raid in Marina del Rey. Police had seized almost two hundred kilos of pure-grade opium. “And there were seven bodies,” Brognola added.

“Any make on them?”

“Three were Asian, but local law enforcement is having one hell of a time putting names to faces.”

“The other four?”

“Three Hollywood celebrities and Senator Simon Lipinski’s daughter.”

“Lipinski…” Bolan murmured. “From California?”

“Yes, the same Lipinski who’s been making such a big stink over human rights on cheap, exported labor. He also happens to be a close personal friend of the President’s family. Their kids went to high school together.”

“That explains why the Man’s involved.”

“It gives us a possible reason for why someone might want to kill the girl, too,” Brognola said. He paused and his tone softened. “She was just a college freshman, Striker. Barely out of high school with her whole life ahead of her, and just like that it’s snuffed out.”

Bolan could sense his friend’s pain, even empathize with him, but he’d learned long ago he couldn’t take those things personally. Vengeance, even exercised with righteous might, wasn’t the sort of baggage a professional soldier could afford to carry—not that Bolan hadn’t been tempted himself a time or three. He’d started his war against the Syndicate for the sake of vengeance but quickly converted it to a much higher call: duty.

“Lipinski may not be popular, but I doubt professionals would risk indiscriminate murder,” Bolan replied. “If the killers wanted to send him a message, there are easier and more effective ways.”

“We considered that possibility,” Brognola said. “Truth be told, it’s the drugs that concern us the most.”

“Yeah, that’s the angle I think we should play. Myanmar’s the place I think of for that volume of pure opium.”

“And they have the distribution network to back it up.” Brognola’s tone became matter-of-fact. “If anyone could move it without drawing attention, the heavies in the Golden Triangle would be my first choice.”

“Practice makes perfect. There are two main transshipment points in that area. China, via the Thai route, or straight out of Myanmar. Myanmar still runs the major action, near as I recall. I’d say we start there,” Bolan said.

“I’ll make some calls to our DEA contacts, see what I can come up with as far as the current atmosphere. We’ll make the travel arrangements here. You can expect Jack there within the hour.”

“So soon?” Bolan asked.

Brognola chuckled. “I already knew you’d say yes.”

So four hours later the Executioner stood before the LASD’s station in jeans and a polo shirt. A DEA badge hung from his belt, and the Beretta 93-R rode in a canvas shoulder rig beneath his left arm.

Bolan entered the cool station, and a uniformed woman behind the desk greeted him. Sergeant stripes adorned her sleeve. She sported an enviable California tan, and her blond hair was short. Her clear blue eyes immediately locked on Bolan’s pistol. He tapped the badge and the cop relaxed some.

“Special Agent Cooper, DEA. I’m looking for Captain Amherst.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the young officer asked him in a brisk, judicious tone.

“Not exactly, but I’m sure she’s expecting me,” Bolan replied. It didn’t exactly constitute a direct answer to the sergeant’s question, but it wasn’t entirely untrue, either. Bolan’s experience in role camouflage had taught him middle-of-the-road tales always sounded the most believable.

“Maybe not, but just a moment,” she replied, and reached for a telephone.

Bolan turned to look out the glass doors and tuned out the sergeant’s conversation with whoever picked up at the other end. He couldn’t have cared less about their internal bureaucracy. Bolan had come to find out about the death of an innocent college girl, and partly because his friend had asked for his help.

“Captain Amherst will be with you in a moment, sir. Would you like something to drink while you wait?” the sergeant asked. Her voice had lost much of its edge; someone had obviously instructed her to show him the first-class treatment.

Bolan requested a mineral water. The sergeant smiled and inclined her head, mumbled something, then turned to a compact refrigerator. She produced a plastic bottle a moment later and tossed it to him. He caught it one-handed and nodded his thanks.

Captain Amherst came around the corner of the hallway to Bolan’s left. She strode with confidence, but the uniform didn’t quite hide the curves of her slight, lean form. She wore her coal-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, but the oval face looked mature. She projected the air of a woman in charge, and Bolan immediately pegged her as a pro through and through. This wouldn’t be easy.

“Captain Rhonda Amherst,” she said, extending her hand.

“Matt Cooper,” he replied.

“We weren’t expecting anyone from the DEA just yet,” she said.

“You probably weren’t expecting us at all,” Bolan said with a lopsided grin. “Or at least hoping.”