Murder Island. Don Pendleton
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of sparks and a scream of tearing metal. The truck was old; British army surplus, Bolan judged, though he wasn’t certain. “That’s why,” he said, pulling his pistol. “The plane, Spence!”
The truck barreled across the tarmac, trailing the remains of the fence after it. Spence ran for the plane and Bolan went to the window, smashing out a pane to clear himself a line of fire. The truck didn’t slow as it rumbled toward the plane. Bolan fired, emptying the magazine at the windshield and the driver’s cab in quick succession.
The windshield and side window exploded and the truck slewed awkwardly, rocking on its wheels. The section of fencing tore loose and spun toward Bolan, forcing him to seek the floor. It burst through the window and sliced over his head, smashing against the far wall. He pushed himself up quickly, ejecting his weapon’s spent magazine as he did so. As he reloaded, the tarp on the rear of the truck was thrown back and an assault rifle opened up. Bolan dropped below the edge of the window. What small protection the thin wall provided wouldn’t last long. He looked at the plane and saw that it had left the hangar and was taxiing down the weed-choked runway. He only needed to buy Spence a few more minutes.
Bolan glanced at the helicopter. If he could get to the M-60, he might have a shot. And if not, well, whether Spence was able to escape would be the least of his concerns. He crawled quickly to the door and headed for the hangar. Spence’s crew was putting up a fight, but they hadn’t been prepared for an attack. Gunfire rattled back and forth between the tarmac and the hangar as the plane moved slowly past. The attackers, whoever they were, were moving quickly to take the hangar.
Bolan darted out and slammed the door behind him even as shots chopped into it. Without pause, he moved away from the hangar, running full tilt for the helicopter. He fired as he ran, hitting one of the gunmen. The man spun away from the truck, his weapon firing into the air as he fell.
Bullets plucked the tarmac, pursuing him, and he felt bits of concrete strike the backs of his legs. At the last moment he leaped into the still-open compartment of the helicopter. Bullets hammered its frame, making the metal ring.
He had to move fast.
Bolan holstered his Desert Eagle and snagged the M-60. He drew his knife and used the heavy blade to pop the ammunition box loose from the body of the weapon. Quickly, with a precision born of experience, he cleared the jam and stood, swinging the machine gun around to face the truck.
He fired, letting the M-60 sing its deadly song at full volume. Spent brass dropped to the floor of the compartment. The truck rocked and its tarpaulin covering disintegrated. Gunmen tried to return fire, but Bolan swung the machine gun in a deadly arc, sending the survivors scrambling for cover. The plane continued to move down the runway.
The truck suddenly rumbled to life and began to reverse, rolling back toward the helicopter. Bolan grinned mirthlessly. He’d managed to distract them. He continued to fire as the truck bore down on him. The M-60 stuttered into silence, finally out of ammunition, and the truck’s engine roared as it sped up. Bolan threw himself backward as the truck closed in. When it struck the side of the helicopter in an explosion of shattered glass and twisted metal, he tucked himself into a ball, hoping to ride out the impact.
The truck continued to roll backward, shoving the helicopter along the tarmac in a steady spray of sparks. Bolan uncoiled and leaped for the twisted hatchway. Ignoring the flying shards of metal, he flung himself into the bed of the truck. Bolan hit hard and rolled to his feet. His adrenaline was flowing now, carrying him toward the truck’s cab.
He threw himself forward as the driver twisted around and fired a pistol. Bolan caught the man’s wrist, forcing the barrel of the pistol aside as he drew his Ka-Bar. The driver had time to cry out once as the tip of the knife plunged into his throat. The man slumped sideways and Bolan reached past him and grabbed the wheel. He brought the truck to a rattling halt as the plane left the runway at last.
Bolan allowed himself a small sigh of relief and murmured, “Good luck, Spence. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
“Well, isn’t that wonderful? All of them? Are you sure?” Hugo Meltzer hefted the remains of a chair and tried to force the tiger into the penthouse’s kitchen. His other hand held his phone to his ear. Meltzer grimaced as the tiger swiped at him. He kicked at it awkwardly and then jabbed at the animal with the chair. The tiger laid back its ears and exposed its teeth in a silent snarl. It wasn’t really dangerous. The beast was overfed and spoiled—little more than a plus-size house cat—but right now it was also wet, frightened and pissed off, thanks to Cloud and his as-yet-unidentified guest.
Meltzer was a tall man, and built spare. He’d been told he resembled a young Ron Ely, but he didn’t know who that was. He dressed nicely—not as well as Cloud, but better than he had. He didn’t buy-off-the-rack anymore when it came to clothes and guns, if he could help it.
“He used a what?” Meltzer glared at the phone and shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I know it was on the helicopter. I’m the one who showed him how to shoot the damn thing…Well, what about the truck— No, forget it. Keep an eye on the place…No, I don’t care if that’s where they filmed a scene from One-Legged Swordsman.”
The tiger pawed at the chair, nearly tearing it from Meltzer’s grip. “Get in the goddamn kitchen,” he shouted. “Not you,” he added quickly into the phone. “All you should be worried about is finding out where that damn plane went.”
The tiger roared. Meltzer cursed and bounced the phone off the tiger’s head. It jerked back, blinked and scrambled into the kitchen. Meltzer quickly pulled the door shut and wedged what was left of the chair under it.
He stared at the door for a moment and then tried to smooth his hair down. He cinched his tie and took a breath. Calm blue ocean, he thought. Calm blue ocean, soft sand, happy place. Hugo, go to your happy place.
His happy place was getting harder and harder to find, the longer he worked for Byron Cloud. Cloud was an immature psychopath, as rich as Croesus, with all the common sense of a particularly stupid and self-indulgent child. Meltzer was certain that working for Cloud was causing him to go prematurely gray, not to mention giving him an ulcer. He’d chased after Cloud for five years and considered shooting him at least twice a week. But the money was good and Cloud was generous when he remembered that actual humans were working for him. Which wasn’t often.
So, when Meltzer had heard that Byron’s big mouth had finally gotten him into the sort of trouble you didn’t get out of, limbs intact, he’d known it was time to renegotiate his contract. It had seemed simple. Grab Cloud and turn him over to the highest bidder.
Only somebody else had had the same idea. He looked around, taking in the bullet holes and spent grenade canisters. Whoever the guy was, he knew how to party. He’d played it sneaky right up to the penthouse when he’d gone straight to savage. Bodies were stacked in the corridor outside and the carpet was soaked in blood, which was a shame because it had been expensive.
He caught sight of a bullet-torn painting and winced. He covered his eyes and turned away. He’d spent weeks finding that painting. It really tied the whole room together. It even matched the damn tiger. He looked up at the ceiling. “I’m being punished, aren’t I? I’m in Hell right now, because that’s the only way I can explain this.”
Meltzer kicked a broken table, sending the pieces clattering across the tiles.
The day wasn’t going well. Then, his career hadn’t exactly turned out the way he’d hoped. He’d bounced from the military to the private sector fast enough to give him whiplash, and the one wasn’t turning out any better than the other. “I should have been a dentist,” he muttered.
He’d sent some of his best men—well, they