Triangle of Terror Page 12

  Locked in a near slow dance step with his adversary, the Executioner somehow slid his left arm across his body, a tight tunneling motion between two walls of flesh, before he clawed at his right hip and slid the Desert Eagle free. He jerked his own feet back, as far as he could, the spittle and snarling rage of his opponent in his face. He figured he had the mammoth handgun on-line, and squeezed the trigger. There was a sonic boom, followed a microsecond later by a roar of agony.

  Not a second to spare, as the man toppled into the kitchen, bringing down a rack of pots and pans, the Executioner flung himself around the edge of the pillar, free hand coming around, filled with the Beretta. It was impossible to say how much time had elapsed—most likely four to six seconds—but the trio of terrorists had apparently opted to sit tight, leave the problem to fate.

  Fatal mistake.

  The Executioner tapped the Desert Eagle’s trigger, catching one midvault over the couch, a crimson bull’s-eye erupting through the sternum. The man was hurtled backward with the mule-kick impact into crimson mist, assault rifle flying from his hands and hammering the wall as Bolan tracked on, double-tapping the triggers on both weapons. The second target was howling, one hand swiping at blood in his eyes, when Bolan tagged him with a round each from Beretta and Desert Eagle. The terrorist was lifted off his feet from near point-blank double impact before landing in a heap, twitching out beside his fallen comrade. The third man swept a burst in Bolan’s general direction, but it was powered most likely by panic, as rounds tattooed the far pillar from the Executioner. Three went to ground again as Bolan blasted out another pair of rounds.

  But Bolan still had lethal problems, front and back. One hunkered behind the sofa, prolonging the standoff, another adversary growling and cursing to get back into the fray.

  A flashing look down the hall showed clear, and Bolan pivoted toward the shouting man, Beretta drawing a bead between his eyes as he wobbled, hand braced against a counter. The Executioner painted a 9 mm dead-eye in his forehead.

  Then another hostile reared up, out of nowhere.

  Bolan was turning death sights toward the couch when he glimpsed a dark and armed shape floating across the front door. The soldier’s hearing was cut to near deafness by the din of close quarters combat, but his eyes and combat instinct picked up the slack.

  There was no mistaking the black beret with the screaming hawk, as Hanover grabbed a knee beside the front door and cut loose with his submachine gun.

  16

  It was a proud moment for Solano Fulgenzial when his two expected guests stepped through the front door. For once, a man of notoriety, of power and means needed him.

  During the hours after he received the first call from the Brazilian colonel, he had pondered the immediate future—namely his own.

  The colonel needed ten to twelve hired guns for an as yet unspecified job. Fulgenzial was not personally acquainted with the man, who was rumored to have headed numerous death squads in Rio de Janeiro, but he had, on occasion, been hired out by the Colonel’s underlings. He knew they were holed up in the southern part of the city, dealing large quantities of narcotics, reaping illicit profits he had, up to now, only dreamed of.

  The payment for torching an abandoned building of squatters in Rio, or executing a drug dealer unwilling to pay tribute back then seemed insulting compared to what he was being promised.

  Was this opportunity to be a turning point in his life? he wondered. His time to shine?

  As the whiskey flowed and the lines of coke were huffed up, a few of the angrier members of his gang began fiddling with their assault rifles, spouting bluster about whose blood they hoped they would be hired to shed. He already knew the answer, even without concrete specifics from the colonel’s end.

  Crime did pay, he thought, whether in São Paulo, Rio or Ciudad del Este, but the choice meat always went to the hungrier predator always ready and willing to act with indiscriminate ferocity to feed himself. It made no difference who or what he consumed with violence, as long his belly—his wallet—was fat. And, in both Brazil and Paraguay, there was plenty of prey, opportunity forever calling to those unafraid to dip their hands in blood. The problem facing him, though, was how to climb the ladder to the success he so desired. There were any number of crime cartels operating out of the Triangle, and they alone were proving a stumbling block to group and personal ambitions. From the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian mafiya, la Cosa Nostra, to the Nigerian heroin gangs looking to set up shop here, they all carried the briefcases stuffed with cash, wielded the latest in technology and firepower, and had command and control of all the right contacts.

  For some time he had been looking to cut himself into the cocaine trade. He was tired of running whores, strong-arming local shopkeepers, stealing cars, or dabbling in small arms sales that earned little more than a good three- or four-day bender. Fulgenzial knew he needed a lucky break, just one, and he would be on his way to greater things. Money first, then power and respect. He had some ideas in that regard, and the future, suddenly looking bright and promising, was heading right his way.

  As he eased back in his chair at the round table in the cantina of the gang’s clubhouse, Fulgenzial ran a hand over his bristled scalp. He was watching, sizing up his guests as, flanked by two gang members with Russian AKMs, they slowly traversed the short foyer.

  Though they were around the corner, off the main drag of the hotel block, and tucked midway down a row of shops and boutiques—recently abandoned for failure to pay tribute to the new alliance—Fulgenzial found it somewhat strange the normal pulse of party nightlife was not up to thundering levels. One of his men looked out the door, checking the alley in both directions. Moments later, Fulgenzial saw him throw a curt nod, giving both himself and the man to his right side the all-clear.

  The gangster poured another shot of whiskey and glanced through the smoke cloud at his co-leader, Paulo Santival. Like the other ten members of his crew, Santival wore a new red beret with skull and crossbones insignia. A 9 mm Makarov pistol was displayed in a shoulder holster where he let his leather jacket hang open and loose. Santival was known for intimidating first impressions and had a vicious reputation that backed him up. A killer, whose lily-white hands had been immersed in the blood of whole neighborhoods in Rio’s slums, Santival kept his AKM across his lap.

  Fulgenzial watched as the colonel and the Yankee with the two nylon bags approached. Both of them, he observed, took in his armed force, scattered down the length of the bar, twenty strong under the roof. The colonel, Fulgenzial thought, looked pale, as if set to collapse from illness, his eyes glazed. The nameless Yankee in the black beret ran a contemptuous look around the squalid interior, his tongue clucking in disapproval.

  Fulgenzial smiled at the colonel. This was his turf, their terms would be met, but Fulgenzial felt anger stir the longer the Yankee eyeballed him like he was nothing more than a bug.

  “Let’s do this,” the American said.

  “And you are?” Fulgenzial asked.

  “Your temporary boss.”

  Fulgenzial glanced at Santival, who appeared more interested in the Colonel. “Colonel Poscalar. It’s been awhile. I have to say, you don’t look so good.”

  “He just got some bad news,” the Yankee said, “regarding a few family members.”

  Santival arched an eyebrow, grinning, blowing smoke their way. “Really? My condolences.”

  Fulgenzial wondered if it was a croak or a sob he heard as he saw the colonel teetering. But the Yankee launched into what he wanted them to do, barking orders, before he could decide. At first, Fulgenzial thought the plan was either suicidal, or they were being set up by Brazilian authorities working in collusion with Americans. The Yankee assured him it was a straight hit, no tricks, no ambush, as if reading his thoughts. They were to kill anyone in uniform who didn’t wear black with the matching beret. Why, the Yankee didn’t explain, but there was an armory inside the prison fence, packed with the latest in military hardware, and they cou
ld help themselves to the whole store, if they agreed, if they did the job. Their team would follow the Yankee to an undisclosed location and move only on his orders.

  Fulgenzial looked at Santival, the man’s face betraying no expression. Santival met his eye.

  “We can spare you twelve men,” Santival said.

  “But the price is four thousand per shooter,” Fulgenzial added, in negotiating lockstep with his partner, both of them having hashed out their conditions beforehand.

  “With an extra ten thousand thrown in,” Santival said, “for the pleasure of their company.”

  As the Yankee snorted and delved into his windbreaker, he said, “Then they better damn well understand I’m paying for more than just some bullshit joyride.”

  “They do,” Santival said.

  The Yankee was dropping six rubber-banded bundles of U.S. hundreds on the table when Fulgenzial said, “One more thing.”

  The Yankee bared his teeth. “That’s sixty grand. There is no more.”

  “It doesn’t involve any more of your money,” Fulgenzial said.

  “What?”

  “We have an interest in breaking into new business ventures,” Santival said. “Despite what you might think, we are not a bunch of neo-Nazi scum, living in the past.”

  “The colonel stays here with us,” Fulgenzial said.

  17

  From where the Executioner stood, with nowhere to bolt for cover without getting cut to ribbons in the attempt. There was no lesser of two evils. It was small comfort in the heat of the moment, but the gray area blurring the picture before then was obliterated. Bolan knew Braden and his brigands were fair game, assuming he made it out of there alive.

  With the latest tempest blowing over his scalp and whizzing past an ear in a hot rush of hair trimming, Bolan lurched behind the pillar, out of Hanover’s line of fire, but exposed to his other adversary. The last terrorist standing, though, didn’t appear too eager to jump back into the fray. The lack of nerves or something else altogether granting Bolan a critical heartbeat or two of grim respite. Either way, there was no option, he knew, but stand hard, keep blazing.

  One eye on the living room, Bolan drove Hanover to cover around his doorjamb post with a double Beretta–Desert Eagle blast, then spied the subgun’s muzzle, peeking up, midway down the couch.

  A half-pivot, and the Executioner unloaded the mammoth Desert Eagle where he framed the invisible target to mind. Two blasts, and Bolan blew a gaping tunnel through fabric. Stuffing spumed into the misty scarlet hitting the air as a howl of pain competed for Hanover’s return engagement, a head popping into Bolan’s view.

  Between the spray and pray of the terrorist shuddering to his feet, pounding out a subgun burst with what appeared to be his only good arm and Hanover’s cold professional comeback, Bolan nearly bought it. He hit the deck, rounds tattooing the hallway cornerstone, thrust the Beretta around the gnawed edge and capped off rounds. The 9 mm peppering was flaying the doorjamb. Hanover was grunting and throwing himself out of sight, when Bolan lifted the Desert Eagle and dropped the terrorist with a .44 Magnum round through the chest. A fresh spray stained white stucco already streaked with running blood and chewed bits of flesh and cloth, the terrorist crash-landed, down and out.

  One man left. Or so Bolan hoped, as he found the Beretta’s slide locked open. He quickly changing clips on both weapons.

  “Stone! Listen to me! It doesn’t have to be like this!” Hanover shouted.

  Ears ringing, straining to catch the words, Bolan raised himself to a knee, peered around the pillar.

  “That was some sweet work you did on Poscalar’s bunch!”

  The Executioner stowed the Desert Eagle. He was way overdue bailing, he knew, as he dug into a pocket, palmed a frag grenade and pulled the pin.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you. Braden could use a man of your obvious talent. Camp Triangle’s going up in flames, Stone. It’s over. Washington can go to hell, truth is, it’s going to anyway. There’s big stakes once we blow the Triangle, but big reward for anybody with the program! You listening, Stone?” Hanover called out.

  Bolan sounded a grim chuckle, released the spoon, set it silently on the floor. Beretta blasting at the jamb, he rolled the steel egg, bowling it toward the corpses wedged in the opening. He was up and sprinting down the hall, glancing back as Hanover surged into the doorway, HK subgun stuttering. Bolan felt rounds punch through where his coat flowed out like an umbrella, as he flung himself into a nosedive. There was abrupt silence, as he belly flopped, sliding on for deeper cover down the hall, wrapping arms around his head. He thought he heard Hanover shouting a curse, a mili-second before the expected thunderclap.

  Rising, Beretta aimed at the smoke boiling down the hall, Bolan retraced his path. Senses choked, rolling into the foul vapor, and he found what was left of Hanover was little more than bug splatter, from foyer all the way across the hall.

  There was another blitz to go in the heart of one of the world’s most notorious criminal havens before he’d be on his way to what would become yet another raging hell, if the words from the late and unlamented Hanover held even a ring of truth. Regrettable, to some extent, as he knew there was plenty of butcher’s work needed in Ciudad del Este.

  Maybe another day, assuming there was a future beyond this night.

  Retrieving his mini-Uzi, the warrior was all adrenaline and steam as he beat a hard march toward his exit. Mini-Uzi and Beretta leading the way, he bulled through the jagged shards where his first attacker had come through the door and body-slammed him to the pillar with such force and rung his neck so hard.

  No time to nurse a few battered muscles and sore ribs, even if he was so inclined. He made a rolling weapons sweep of the tiny bedroom, a check under the bed and closet, but finding no snakes ready to bite at his heels, he headed for the window, which was barred inside with an iron grate. He shot the lock off with a 3-round burst.

  The job was far from over, the worst, he suspected, yet to come, but Bolan nodded as he spotted the roof of his GMC directly below. A straight drop, figure less than twenty feet to the vehicle’s roof, and Bolan went for it.

  18

  “Take it easy on the booze, big man. The three of us need to talk business. I want straight talk, straight answers, not a bunch of promises you’ll forget when the hangover wears off tomorrow.”

  Hunched and staring into the shotglass, Poscalar ignored the skinhead.

  The overpowering urge to crack up into a weeping fit had ebbed to black depression after the first two drinks. Now, with half the bottle of cheap tequila burning his belly, Poscalar felt a dangerous fire spreading, loosening limbs, shooting wild and crazy thoughts through his mind. Desperate men, he knew, could prove reckless to the extreme, the most dangerous and cunning animals alive, truth be told. Nothing left to lose, take as many along the way before checking out, sure as there was fire in hell, he thought. Was he of that lion pride? Or was there something to hope for—any reason left to live?

  Either way, he wasn’t sure he could control himself much longer, as he glanced at the AKM assault rifle at the end of the bar, three stools down, unattended. The other thugs, he noted, looking quickly into the bar mirror, were busy swilling from bottles, snorting lines. His world had all but shattered, and it incensed him they were whooping it up, this vicious racist trash who had never known a real dollar in their sorry lives, as they slapped cash on a big table in the far corner, cheering for or cursing whoever they were betting their night’s earnings on over a game of cards.

  Shock effect had thankfully begun wearing off, the nausea no longer threatening to see him faint, silent hysteria having faded to cold anger once the henchman abandoned him to the gang of thugs. Briefly, Poscalar hated himself, recalling how meekly he had submitted to their demand he remain, pretty much a prisoner, and one on death row if any number of disasters flew back in his face. How could it get any worse? He went straight for the bottle, shoving the shot glass away with the back of his h
and.

  “What’s wrong with you, Colonel? You look like a man who has more than family problems. You look sick. Please, do not puke all over my bar.”

  The colonel choked down the bitter curse, as the rabble took a stool, one on either side. Chugging from the bottle, he considered confessing the truth. They were small fish looking to morph themselves into rich man-eaters. His fear was that the truth would most definitely get him killed on the spot. He knew Santival from Rio, and the man’s reputation for getting what he wanted, whatever it took, made Poscalar think carefully about how to proceed. Despite the night’s horror and the frightening uncertainty of the immediate future, the dark thoughts faded as he knew, deep in his heart, he wanted to keep breathing. With luck, some fast talking and slapping together a few million here, a few million there from various accounts he had scattered from Rio to the Caymans, he might appease the Bolivians. He would direct the blame toward the corrupt, bungling Paraguayan police he had paid great personal sums to for protection. The vengeful wrath of the Bolivians would be fearsome and swift.

  “Colonel, I get the impression you are either ignoring us, or you don’t care too much for us,” Fulgenzial said.

  “How very perceptive of you.”

  Santival, he saw, started to scowl, then erupted in laughter. “That’s much better. Now, that’s the mean-spirited bastard of Rio I used to know.”

  Poscalar grunted, pulled away from the bottle. “So, you want to be big-shot traffickers, Scarface.”

  Fulgenzial spoke up. “We’d settle for something more in the midlevel distribution range.”

  Santival clapped Poscalar on the back. “Enough so we can get out of this dump, maybe drive a new sports car.”

  “We’re not the flashy types,” Fulgenzial said. “We don’t want the world.”

  “Just a small corner of it. We kind of like it here in Ciudad del Este. But we need to make money, good money. Whatever else follows, some fame, women, respect and honor…” Santial grinned.