Fire Eaters Read online

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  ACADEMY OF DEATH.

  The bizarre killing of an ex-Vietnam buddy brings Mack Bolan to a military academy in California. In his role as survival instructor at the school, the Executioner uncovers a plot so sinister, it rivals any atrocity he has yet encountered in his war on evil.

  Bolan finds himself caught in a maze of murder, high-tech crime and international intrigue. He must protect his cover at any cost — or face sudden death.

  * * *

  Don Pendleton's

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  * * *

  Don Pendleton's

  The Executioner

  Fire Eaters

  I recognize a positive responsibility to kill in the prevention of atrocities. Humanity demands a violent intervention when there are no viable alternatives.

  Mack Bolan, at his trial

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Raymond Obstfeld for his contributions to this work.

  OCR Mysuli: [email protected]

  1

  The old gray bulldog lifted his mashed face and made a noise somewhere between a bark and a sneeze.

  "I hear them," Mack Bolan said.

  Having done his duty, the bulldog lowered his head back onto his paws and closed his eyes. His snoring sounded like someone sloshing through deep mud.

  Bolan listened. It was three men. Their heavy footsteps clomped down the hotel hall, not caring how much noise they made. Bolan lay propped up in bed reading a battered magazine he'd found wedged behind the chipped toilet.

  Quickly he slid the magazine under his bed and snapped off the reading lamp. At three in the morning they'd expect him to be asleep. He resisted the urge to dig out the Beretta from its hiding place in the closet. That wasn't part of the plan. Yet.

  The footsteps shuffled to a halt right outside Bolan's door. They might have a key. In this kind of dingy skid-row hotel, five bucks would buy you almost anything from anybody. He half closed his eyes and waited.

  Bolan opened his eyes as the door burst inward. He saw the big size fourteen foot and even bigger leg sticking through the shattered panel.

  The man yanked his foot back out, dislodging huge chunks of plywood. Then all three men boiled into the room. Two of them rushed at Bolan, their thick fingers clamping around his arms and legs with expert efficiency. The third man yanked Bolan's wrists behind his back, then snapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Then he looped a piece of yellow rope around Bolan's ankles. Bolan, wearing only his boxer shorts, struggled a little, just for show.

  "Fucking places always smell like fish. You ever notice?" The leader shook his head as he tightened the knot around Bolan's ankles. "Where do these winos get all that fish?"

  "H-hey," Bolan stammered. "What're you guys doing?"

  "Whatta ya think we're doin', sport? We're invitin' ya to the prom." He chuckled, turning to his buddies. "Now throw this asshole out the fuckin' window."

  The two men hoisted Bolan off the bed like a sack of onions and carried him toward the window. The leader, the big one who owned the size fourteen shoe, tried to open the window, grunting against the stuck frame. He pounded it to loosen the rails, but it was no use.

  Bolan had tried to open it earlier with no better luck. Age and paint and grime had sealed it more tightly than a coffin lid.

  "Goddamn thing won't open," the leader announced, wiping the dirt from his fingers with a white silk handkerchief. Long white scars crosshatched his walnut-size knuckles, as if he'd punched down a lot of doors in his time.

  "What'll we do, Donny?" the guy carrying Bolan's feet asked the big man.

  Donny shrugged. "Throw him through the window, I guess."

  Bolan thought of the eight floors to the cement alley below and put a little more effort into his struggling.

  Until then, the bulldog had merely lain in the corner, staring up through bored, drooping eyes at the proceedings. Now that Bolan was twisting and straining, the dog climbed to its short stubby legs and waddled over to the men. First he growled.

  Donny stopped wiping his fingers and looked down at the dog. "Ugliest fuckin' dog I ever seen. Okay, Rooster, what's his name?"

  Remembering who he was supposed to be, Bolan let his voice quiver as he spoke. "I don't know what's going on here. What do you want?"

  Donny snapped his fingers. It sounded like someone cocking a Winchester. The two men carrying Bolan toward the window stopped in midstep. "I want to know the name of your dog, Rooster."

  Bolan shrugged. "Gypsy."

  "Gypsy, huh?" Donny chuckled. The two men carrying Bolan snorted.

  In truth, Bolan didn't know the dog's name. He'd borrowed it from the pound as part of his role camouflage. The real Rooster McKay had a bulldog so Bolan needed one. He hadn't bothered naming the dog. He didn't want to get that close.

  "Don't look like no gypsy to me," Donny said, bending down to pet the dog. He patted the animal's head and suddenly the old English bulldog flashed his teeth and clamped them on Donny's thumb. Donny let out a howl of pain. But the dog wouldn't let go of the thumb. He backed up, pulling Donny to his knees.

  The two men holding Bolan looked at each other, as if unsure whether or not to help Donny or just toss their cargo through the window.

  But Donny solved the problem himself. Still roaring with pain, he hammered his giant hand down on top of the dog's head again and again until finally the dog's legs collapsed and his mouth opened. His eyes were closed, but Bolan could still see his barrel chest rising and falling.

  Donny rose to his feet, wrapping his silk handkerchief around his mangled thumb. Blood soaked through immediately.

  "Fuckin' dog!" he spit and kicked the unconscious animal in the ribs. A dull thump sounded as his huge foot made contact and Bolan could see a cracked rib poking out through the dog's pink skin, and blood being soaked up by the fur.

  "What now, Donny?" the guy carrying Bolan's arms asked.

  "Throw the son of a bitch out the window."

  "Which son of a bitch? The guy or the dog?"

  "The guy, asshole! He's the one that owes Mr. Danzig the money."

  The two men nodded and continued toward the window.

  "I… I… I got the money," Bolan pleaded. "Most of it. Tell Mr. Danzig I'll have the rest by Friday."

  "That's three days away, Rooster," Donny said.

  "Okay, okay, Thursday. I'll have it by then."

  "Not good enough, Rooster. You're already a week overdue. You owe two grand."

  "Tomorrow!" Bolan shouted. "Tomorrow for sure. I swear!"

  "Bye-bye, Rooster."

  And suddenly Bolan was airborne, his head crashing through the greasy window. He could feel the ragged glass of the window slicing furrows of skin along his arms, his back, his thighs. He thought of the eight-floor drop. No pool below to splash safely into, no awning to break his fall, no garbage truck conveniently passing by. Just a dull, flat, hard surface. He could see the dark wet cobblestones below, like the shiny scales of a deadly snake.

  He strained against the cuffs, but it was no use. Even if he freed his hands, what could he do? Grab on to a window ledge? In the movies maybe. Not here in the battlefield.

  There was a sharp yank on his ankles and Bolan stopped falling. The sudden jerk wrenched hard against his legs, shooting pains throug
h his knees and ankles. He twisted his body to avoid smacking his head into the side of the building. His back bounced against the rough stone, the impact knocking the air out of him and scraping a few inches of skin from his shoulder.

  Above him, Donny was leaning out the window. "Hey, I thought roosters could fly. Guess not."

  They started hauling Bolan up by the rope they'd tied around his ankles. The jagged brick of the building gouged chunks of flesh from his skin with each tug on the rope. Finally they wrestled Bolan back into the room and dumped him onto the floor.

  Donny leaned his wide doughy face real close, grabbing a handful of Bolan's hair as he spoke. "Tomorrow, Rooster. Noon. Two grand or your next flight will be without benefit of a rope. Got it?"

  Bolan nodded.

  Donny continued to stare menacingly into Bolan's eyes, his expression gradually changing. First, a little confused, then maybe a little nervous, as if what he saw deep in those eyes didn't match the timid man they'd just bullied. He backed away, shaking off the feeling. "Tomorrow. Noon." He led the other two back out the shattered door.

  Next to Bolan, the dog breathed in raspy spurts.

  * * *

  "You're blowing it, Striker."

  Bolan smiled into the phone. "Everything's going according to plan."

  Hal Brognola snorted. "Well, since you haven't seen fit to fill me in, I wouldn't know. Did your clever plan include being thrown out of an eighth-floor window?"

  "Not exactly."

  Brognola paused. The heavy silence that carried from Washington, D. C. to La Jolla, California was filled with anger, concern, affection. Bolan discerned each of those emotions in the faint static of the phone.

  "I'm a little worried about you, guy. Lately you've been different. I don't know, almost as if you've been enjoying your work a little too much."

  Bolan's mouth stiffened into a hard line. "Yeah, I enjoyed lying around some armpit of a hotel waiting for Danzig's goons to come by and boost me through the window. I enjoyed having my skin shredded when they hauled me up the side of the building in my skivvies. Great time."

  "That's not what I mean, soldier."

  "What the hell do you mean?"

  "I don't know exactly. Just that lately you've been more secretive about your plans. Suddenly I'll get a call from you asking me to do something…"

  "Am I asking too much?" Bolan snapped.

  "Damn it, no. We're in this together. I'm just making a point. You tell me just enough so that I can do my part, but no more. I don't find out the rest until it's all over and they're counting bodies."

  Bolan listened to his friend's words, the voice made gruff and raw from years of smoking harsh cigars. Hal was right. Lately Bolan had kept him in the dark about many of the details of his plans. Not out of malice or distrust, but to protect his friend from too much involvement. And yeah, Bolan's plans had become more elaborate, more cunning. But they'd had to. It wasn't like the old days anymore when he could just burst in with his AutoMag spitting fireballs. The bad guys were expecting him now, waiting for him. Good. Because he wasn't about to disappoint them.

  "Got a message for you," Brognola said casually. "From an old friend of yours. Name of Danby."

  For a moment Bolan had trouble placing the name. As a young soldier in Vietnam he had spent an extremely short time under Danby's command.

  "Colonel Leland Danby?"

  "Close. His wife. Wanted to know if I could find a way to get a message to that renegade sergeant that used to serve in her husband's outfit in Nam."

  "What message?"

  "She didn't say. Just that she'd like to talk. She seemed, I don't know, shaken about something."

  Bolan frowned. "Maria Danby's a pretty tough lady, as I remember. It would take a hell of a lot to shake her. She say anything else?"

  "No. Just that it was urgent. How the hell you suppose she got my name?"

  "Her husband's Colonel Leland Danby. Daredevil Danby. If there's a way, he'd know it."

  "Yeah, I heard of him. Been working with the CIA since he mustered out. San Diego."

  "That's the last I heard, too. Well, I'll finish up this little episode and give Maria a call."

  A young Oriental woman in a crisp white uniform knocked on the door and entered. "Your eleven o'clock is here, Dr. Field."

  "Thank you, Ming Soo," Bolan said.

  She smiled brightly and left.

  "Gotta go," Bolan said into the phone. "Danzig is here."

  "Dr. Field?" Brognola sighed.

  "Yeah, I've been promoted."

  "If Danzig recognizes you, his goons will promote you right out the window again."

  "Don't worry, guy. Everything's under control."

  The big fed didn't answer right away. Bolan could hear him unwrapping a cigar, snipping one end, roasting the other end. A deep draw, a long windy exhale.

  "Watch your back," Brognola finally said.

  "Right," Bolan said, then hung up.

  * * *

  "So, Mr. Danzig," Bolan said, smiling broadly, "back for another treatment, eh?"

  Danzig's hatchet face frowned. "Wait a minute, Buster. Where's Dr. Zimmer? He's my doctor."

  Danzig's three bodyguards bunched up around their boss as if any change in routine was life threatening. Bolan recognized the three thugs from the other night when they'd tossed him through the closed window.

  Donny stood in the middle, towering at least six inches over everyone else in the room, his broad doughy face puckered around a soggy toothpick. He looked straight at Bolan.

  Bolan's smile widened. He stepped closer, letting them get a good look at him. With his hair greased back, wearing the white lab jacket, phony beard and tinted glasses, there wasn't much chance they'd recognize him. "No need to worry, Mr. Danzig. Dr. Zimmer's home in bed with a nasty case of food poisoning. Took his in-laws out last night for their anniversary. I warned him about that Thai food…"

  Danzig cut Bolan off, turned to Donny. "Get Dr. Zimmer on the phone."

  Donny nodded, left the room.

  "He's quite sick, you know," Bolan said. "May not be able to come to the phone."

  Danzig stared at Bolan but didn't say anything. He adjusted the golf cap on his head. The cap said Palm Springs and matched his turquoise golfer's sweater. The patent leather shoes cost about three hundred dollars, Bolan figured. The watch was a 1936 Rolex Prince, worth about seventy-five hundred. The money came from a profitable loan-shark operation that preyed on the poor small-business owners in the deteriorating downtown section of Los Angeles.

  The family-owned stores struggled for survival against dwindling population and competition from cleaner, safer suburban malls. Out of desperation, many owners had come to Danzig to keep going. Those who fell behind in payments had to answer to Danzig's goons.

  Two months ago Eddie Peters fell behind. He owned a small shoe repair shop that he and his pregnant wife and their eighteen-month-old daughter lived above. Danzig had the place torched one night. Eddie and his wife burned to death. The little girl was still in the hospital wrapped in sterile gauze.

  Bolan kept his friendly smile pasted onto his face while they waited for Donny to return. Danzig didn't shift his gaze a fraction, but kept his eyes nailed to Bolan's.

  The door opened and Donny reappeared. "Dr. Zimmer's sick all right."

  "You talk to him?" Danzig asked.

  "Nope. Talked to his service. Told me he was over at St. Francis Hospital."

  "My, my." Bolan clucked. "Must have had a bad night."

  "You talk to the hospital?" Danzig asked Donny.

  "Sure. He's checked in all right."

  Danzig continued to stare at Bolan, thinking. He was a careful man.

  Bolan frowned with concern. "If Fred is in that bad condition, perhaps we'd better just cancel for today. I really should go over and visit Fred." Bolan started to unbutton his lab jacket.

  "Hold on," Danzig said. "Dr. Zimmer fill you in on my problem?"

  "Of course. I have your file
right here." Bolan tapped the manila folder on the desk.

  "You know what the fuck you're doing?"

  "I was trained by Dr. Zimmer himself."

  Danzig fingered the brim of his cap, a little nervousness fraying the edges of his steely composure. "Yeah, well, you'd better be good. If not, I'm going to have these three gentlemen carve you into dog meat. You understand?"

  Bolan nodded.

  "Good." Danzig started to take off his cap, then stopped. He turned to the three men behind him. "Donny, you stay. Ted and Granger, wait outside."

  Ted and Granger left. Donny went over to the corner and lowered himself onto a chair. The chair disappeared under his massive bulk.

  Danzig removed his cap.

  "Sit, please," Bolan said, screwing his face into a professional expression. Danzig sat and Bolan hovered over the loan shark, examining the top of his head. "Yes. Yes, indeed. Dr. Zimmer's done his usual excellent job." Bolan fingered the long scar that divided the round bald spot on top of Danzig's head. Bolan had done some reading that morning while waiting for them to show up, thumbing through the clinic's brochures as well as Danzig's file.

  Danzig had been coming to Dr. Zimmer's clinic for three months, being treated for his premature baldness. Zimmer had performed the first step in treatment, but there were many more to go.

  "Just relax, Mr. Danzig," Bolan said.

  Danzig turned around. "Quit talkin' and get on with it, for cryin' out loud. I've got business to do."

  "Yes, sir." Bolan gestured to Donny, who sat in the corner like a grizzly, still sucking on that mangled toothpick. "Coffee's right there. Just brewed it. Help yourself."

  Donny grunted, poured himself a mug and sat down again. The way he stared at Bolan, the coffee steam swirling around his head, made him look a little like a huffing dragon waiting to pounce.

  Bolan continued to circle Danzig, pretending to examine the scalp, occasionally hovering over a particular spot.

  Since Danzig rarely left his heavily guarded Bel Air mansion, everything had taken such precise planning. The only regular trip he ever made outside his fortress was down here to Dr. Zimmer's La Jolla clinic, and even then only in his bulletproof limo with these three bodyguards. Not an easy target.