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  “Friend,” he replied quietly. “If you can accept that.”

  She shook her head. “That isn’t enough. You’ve probably made the whole thing up.” She was kidding while not kidding, ticking off the possibilities, seeking sanity in an insane situation, voicing it all in the same frame of mind as a whistler in the dark. “Either I’ve been kidnapped—or Cass is going to walk through that door any minute and we’re all going to be laughing over a very brutal practical joke, or—”

  He had to shut that off. “Call him, then.”

  She looked surprised and relieved, all at once. “Call Cass?”

  “Give it a try, yeah.”

  “Where do I reach him?”

  “I’ve already told you that. To satisfy your doubts, though, give it a try. Try JR.”

  “Try who?”

  “JR.”

  “Why should I call JR? I don’t even know JR.”

  “You’re Cass Baby’s secretary. There must be a couple of reasons why you need to contact him. Call the actor.”

  She again shook that lovely head at him. “No I—I’m not supposed to even know about JR.”

  “But you do.”

  Her color changed ever so slightly. “Yes. I do.”

  “How much do you know?”

  Those eyes blinked rapidly. “This is beginning to sound like a third degree. Let’s go back to just being friends.”

  He said it flatly. “You knew about Cass’s mob connections.”

  Her gaze settled on the fruit in her lap. “I’ve suspected,” she admitted. “Nothing that I could really pin down. But, well, you can’t travel the world with someone for a year and not notice peculiar little things. Yes, I’ve wondered about him. Believe it or not, I had decided to make this my final trip. I was going to give him notice when we got back to Detroit.”

  “Could it be that simple?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There were no personal complications between you?”

  She smiled wryly at the zapote and gave a rather bitter little reply to that accusation. “My own father thinks the same way.”

  “It’s a natural assumption,” Bolan said lightly. “Most of the world thinks that way.”

  “Well, think again,” she said. “Is he really dead?”

  Bolan nodded his head. “Does the thought tear you up?”

  “Later, maybe. Right now I’m just sort of numb. But listen, I—why should I care what you think? Who are you?”

  He smiled and said, “Later. First, I need a perspective on your relationship to the deceased.”

  “Strictly business,” she muttered. “I respected him, I liked him—at first—but there was absolutely nothing else between us.” She lifted those great eyes to search his. “Is he really dead?”

  Bolan sighed and handed her the telephone. “Call your hotel. Ask for Cassiopea. But don’t identify yourself.”

  “What will that prove, if he isn’t there?”

  Bolan said, “Just do it. If I’ve read the Man correctly, you could be in for a revealing surprise.”

  “Who is this man you keep talking about?”

  “Just do it. Make the call, dammit.”

  She did, and her gaze lurched at Bolan as she replied to some information from her hotel switchboard. “Of course he’s registered,” she said angrily.

  “Find out if you are,” Bolan suggested.

  Her eyes flashed. “Let me speak to Miss Canada, then—Miss Martha Canada.”

  Bolan muttered, “Get ready for a shock.”

  She whispered, “Thank you,” into the telephone, hung up, and said to Bolan, “Well, that is very weird. They say that neither of us is registered there.”

  “The Man works very fast his wonders to perform,” Bolan soberly told her. “You want to know who he is? He’s the sultan of Acapulco and points south. He runs a very tight ship, and right now, I’m afraid, Martha Canada is a glaringly loose end in his scorched earth cover-up. Are you convinced?”

  The girl bit her lip as she dug into the purse for a small memo book. She riffled the pages, found the information she sought, and again worked the telephone.

  “Play it cool,” Bolan advised. “Tell nobody where you are.”

  Her eyes signaled that understanding and remained fixed on Bolan’s cold gaze while she awaited the connection.

  “Yes, buenas tardes—do you speak English?”

  That wide-eyed gaze maintained penetrating contact with Bolan.

  “Yes, thank you. I am Martha Canada. I am Mr. Cassiopea’s secretary. I was told I could reach him at this number. Yes, thank you.”

  She covered the transmitter and reported to Bolan, “It’s a man with a Mexican accent. He’s gone to ask someone.”

  “Oh, yes—who is this again, please? John Royal! Oh. I’m sorry to disturb you—I didn’t know. Mr. Cassiopea left this number in case of—is he there?”

  She signaled Bolan with her fingers and angled the receiver outward for his monitoring. He leaned forward, his face touching hers, to listen to a very familiar voice.

  “… and don’t ask any questions, Miss, just listen and take it for gospel. Don’t go to your hotel—don’t go near it. They’re probably waiting for you there. Don’t ask who they are and don’t doubt for a minute that there’s nothing left for you in this town, so do as I say. Don’t go to the cops, and for God’s sake not to the American consulate. Just get out of the country as fast as you can shake it.”

  “Mr. Royal, I—”

  “Wait, better not try the airport. They could be looking for you there, too. Take a bus to Mexico City and work out something from there. If it was me, lady, I’d hire a cab to Mexico City. Listen, don’t call here again and don’t—”

  “Mr. Royal! Where is Mr. Cassiopea?”

  “Don’t you have it yet, lady? I never heard of the guy—and, if you’re smart, neither did you.”

  Royal hung up.

  Bolan took the phone from a dazed young lady as he told her, “The town is shaking with scorched earth.”

  “But why?” she whispered. “It’s crazy.”

  He pressed a marksman’s medal into her hand. “Because of this,” he said quietly. “And because of the Acapulco Conference.”

  “What is this?” she asked, inspecting the bull’s-eye cross with troubled eyes.

  “It’s my signature,” he told her. “My name is Bolan.”

  “Far out!” she gasped, and fainted dead away.

  He lifted that technically nude body in gentle arms and carried her to the bed. His hands tingled from the touch of her, and transmitted shock waves in reverberating patterns from his skull to his feet.

  “You’re quite a scorcher, yourself,” he told the unconscious beauty, then went to the bathroom to wet a towel.

  No, dammit, it was no time for fun and games, love and laughter.

  The Executioner had come to Acapulco for an all-consuming purpose.

  He had come to shake their Mexican house down.

  Buy Acapulco Rampage Now!

  About the Author

  Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful that it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the auth
or’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1976 by Pinnacle Books, Inc.

  Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-8577-2

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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