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  He didn't answer. The driver turned the dome light off and stepped on the gas, the vehicle lurching forward. Bolan opened his eyes, turned his body a little and found himself staring at the back of the driver's head.

  The Executioner smiled grimly. If the man was no lawman, he was even less of a driver. It looked as if Buck Allenson wasn't good at anything. The man in the passenger seat was silent, but Bolan had seen him somewhere before.

  A smear of light washed through the rear window. Allenson cursed and turned to look behind him.

  "What fuck is that? Rodrigo, take a look."

  The passenger crawled over the back of the seat and squirmed past Bolan. He held a machine pistol in his left hand, and it clanked against the wheel well as he maneuvered himself to a sitting position. Rodrigo cranked the rear window down.

  "What is it?" Allenson shouted.

  "I don't know, man. It looks like a Jeep or something, but I can't see. Not past the fucking headlights."

  "Hang on. I'm gonna make a turn."

  The Subaru swerved to the right, and Bolan was slammed into the side of the vehicle. His pinioned arms were twisted under him, and his shoulder felt as if it had caught fire.

  "Can you see anything now?"

  "It's black, man. That's all I can tell."

  "Well, the hell with it. Cut loose at him. Take him out. Do whatever the fuck you have to. Just get him off my ass. I can't push this crate any faster in the goddamned desert. Too many freakin' saguaros."

  Rodrigo poked the muzzle of his machine pistol over the rear door, and Bolan recognized it as a Skorpion, a 7.65 mm, Eastern Bloc specialty, the best Czechoslovakia had to offer. Rodrigo cut loose with a burst, and Bolan heard several slugs whining off metal. The headlines kept on coming.

  "Stop, man. Maybe I can nail him if you stop. We're bouncing around too much."

  "Oh, shit! You greaseballs are worthless fuckers. Hold on."

  Allenson hit the brakes and swung the Subaru in a wide semicircle. Instead of following it, the pursuing vehicle cut across a tangent. Rodrigo pushed the tailgate down as Allenson threw the transmission into neutral and grabbed another Skorpion from the front seat.

  The Mexican hit man slipped down onto the desert floor, but the deep, resonant boom of a heavy rifle covered the sound of his feet on the sand. He sprawled backward, slamming into the open tailgate with the base of his spine. Then he disappeared below the gate and out of sight.

  Three more quick shots rang out, splintering the glass over Bolan's head and showering him with fragments. Allenson opened the driver's door as a fifth shot slammed through its window and out through the windshield. Bolan dragged himself back over the tailgate and dropped onto the sand. He landed beside the dead Rodrigo, and rolled onto his stomach.

  Allenson had opened up with the Skorpion, and the short barrel rattled against the doorframe he used as a brace. Bolan spotted the smeared shadow of Rodrigo's Skorpion. He swung his body around to face away from the gun, then groped in the sand until his fingers felt the warm muzzle.

  Gripping the weapon tightly, he rolled back onto his stomach, balancing the gun in the middle of his back. With little leverage, it was a difficult maneuver, and he lost his grip twice.

  The rifleman had stopped to reload, and Allenson fired several quick, short bursts. In the sudden silence Bolan heard him ram home a new magazine. The Executioner finally got the grip of the Skorpion in his fingers and heard the crunch of boots on the sand, realizing Allenson was about to charge.

  Suddenly the big man shot past him, and Bolan squeezed off a burst. The 7.65 mm slugs chewed at the sand, and the warrior rolled onto his hip, trying to raise his line of fire. Allenson turned, frozen in midstride. He seemed to realize what had happened and brought the Skorpion around, muzzle up and tracking.

  Then, like a rotten fruit, the renegade cop's head burst open, spraying blood and gray matter over the Subaru. A moment later Randy Carlton knelt beside Bolan.

  "You all right?"

  26

  Calderone stood outside the room and listened to the grumbling. The men inside were confused. They were also angry. Calderone smiled to himself. "If they only knew," he whispered, "they would be terrified." He paced anxiously, stopping at either end of the corridor as if the wall were something he had never seen before. After a few moments he would turn jerkily, like a puppet in the hands of a novice, and march back the other way, only to stop and stare at the other wall.

  He didn't hear the door open. It wasn't until Tomás Sanchez stuck his head in and called to him that he turned.

  "Are you ready, Tomás? Are the men ready?"

  "Yes, Don Carlos, we are all ready."

  "You understand what you are to do?"

  "Very well. I don't screw this one up. You will see."

  Calderone nodded his head absently, like a man agreeing with someone he wasn't listening to. "Good, Tomás, good. Will you send Ramón out here a moment?"

  Sanchez pulled his head back through the doorway, but left the door open. A moment later Ramón Santana stepped through and out into the hall. He waited patiently until Calderone turned away from the blank wall and started back in his direction. Calderone stopped for a second, a frown on his face. Then, remembering he had asked for the young man, he smiled.

  "Ramón, you startled me."

  "Sorry, Don Carlos. I thought you wanted to see me."

  "I do." Calderone appraised his choice of a new bodyguard thoughtfully. The kid — and he was that, barely into his twenties — was a big man. Santana's large head, with its flat, vaguely Indian features, sat on a stump of a neck that almost immediately broadened into massive shoulders. At six-two, he towered over his boss, and his 250 pounds were as hard as oak. His black hair, cropped close to his scalp, was so thick and dark that one had to look closely to realize he didn't need a haircut.

  Calderone reached up to put an arm around Ramón's shoulders, pulling him down to listen. He whispered for several minutes, keeping one eye on the door through which Santana had come. Occasionally he backed away from the young man and scrutinized his features, as if trying to determine whether Santana truly understood what he was being told or was merely agreeing in order not to offend his employer.

  Santana nodded his head every so often, usually in response to a pull on his neck from Calderone. When he was finished speaking, Calderone straightened up, still gripping the back of Santana's neck. "So, you're certain you understand me?"

  "Yes," Santana said. "I understand."

  "All right, then, Ramón. I am counting on you, okay? Don't disappoint me."

  Santana shook his head. "I won't, Don Carlos."

  "Okay, get me Tomás again, eh?"

  Santana rushed away eagerly, as excited as a child. He seemed elated, as if he had just been given a pinata of his own, without the need to compete with other children for the prizes. He opened the door again, ducked through and left it open. Calderone could hear the young man over the grumbling coming through the opposite door. "Tomás, Don Calderone wants you. Tomás, you better hurry."

  Calderone fitted a cigarette into his ornate cigarette holder, staring at the empty doorway while he twirled the cigarette firmly into place. He stuck the holder in his mouth and fished in his pocket for a lighter. He was still groping around for it when Sanchez reappeared.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  "Is everything ready?"

  "Just about."

  "How much longer?"

  "Five minutes, maybe ten. No more."

  "Very well." Calderone turned on his heel and resumed pacing, the unlit cigarette in its holder. He felt rather than heard someone coming up behind him and turned just as Sanchez reached out with a lighter in his hand. The round man thumbed the wheel and produced a flame, but it went out before the cigarette caught. His boss waved him away impatiently. "Never mind, Tomás. I'll do it myself."

  Sanchez looked hurt, and Calderone turned his back rather than watch the man make a fool of himself. Sanchez was about to say some
thing when Santana poked his head through the door. "All set, Tomás. Let's go."

  Sanchez seemed torn, unwilling to leave such a foolish impression unaddressed, but was reluctant to delay implementation of Calderone's wishes any longer. Finally he walked off, looking over his shoulder at Don Carlos and yelling to Santana to wait for him. He yanked open the second door and hollered for quiet. The men milling around inside turned to look at him, but continued their individual conversations. Sanchez cleared his throat impatiently.

  When he had their undivided attention, he asked them to follow him, then stepped through the center of the room, the men dividing like water ahead of a speedboat. As he passed through, the men behind him drifted back together, never quite closing ranks, leaving a narrow aisle to mark his transit. He threw open a pair of tall wooden doors on the far side of the room and stepped out into a graveled courtyard. Turning to face the doorway, he waited for the men to follow him.

  "All right, all right," he shouted. "Quiet down. Those of you with the green name tags, get on the green bus. Those with blue name tags, get on the blue bus. Make it snappy. We're on a tight schedule."

  "Where the hell are we going?" Raul Ramirez demanded.

  "Never mind, never mind. You'll see."

  "I don't want to see, asshole. I want to know."

  Sanchez shook his head. "You want to be convinced, okay, be convinced. Don Carlos has arranged for a little demonstration to persuade you of the wisdom of his proposition. Okay, you satisfied, moron?"

  "You watch your mouth, Sanchez. I'll eat you for breakfast."

  Sanchez grinned. "You need a man, huh. Those little boys not enough for your big belly?"

  Ramirez lunged toward him, but Sanchez stepped to one side and Santana moved in between them. He kept his eyes on Ramirez, but spoke out of the corner of his mouth to his comrade. "Tomás, I don't think Don Carlos would be happy to see you fighting with his guests."

  Ramirez sneered over Santana's shoulder, but Sanchez ignored it. The younger man was right. He was already in the doghouse, and Santana was obviously angling for his job. He'd better be careful. There would be time soon enough to take care of a blowhard like Ramirez.

  Sanchez moved away, urging the milling men to shut up and get on their designated buses. When they were all aboard, he climbed aboard the blue bus, Santana moving to the green. The blue bus led the way, Sanchez sitting right behind the driver, jabbering at him between instructions.

  The rough terrain rocked the bus from side to side, and the driver kept cursing as he wrestled the steering wheel to a draw. Glancing in the driver's side mirror, Sanchez saw the headlights of the second bus as they rose and fell, and behind them a second pair of lights, lower to the ground and closer together, bounced wildly, the van's shorter wheelbase responding more acutely to the narrow gullies gouged in the soil by the infrequent rain.

  So far, so good, Sanchez thought. He smiled at the driver's image in the mirror, then leaned forward to wave his hand. "About another mile, my friend. We're almost there."

  The driver grunted, brushing away the waving arm. "Watch it," he said, "unless you want me to have an accident." He stepped on the gas, and Sanchez had to hang on to the sides of his seat with both hands. Constantly shifting gears, the driver had begun to work up a sweat. Sanchez stared in fascination at the small drops, which caught stabs of light from the following headlights and glittered like jewels on the driver's neck and arms.

  Suddenly a huge mound of earth rose up off the desert floor like a pyramid. It was so tall, its peak rose high above the reach of the headlights, and seemed to hang in the air like a dark cloud.

  "To the left," Sanchez shouted. "Left, for the love of Mary!"

  He leaned forward to grab the wheel, and the driver swung a weak right at Sanchez's clutching hand. "Let go of the wheel, you idiot!"

  "Stop here for a minute," Sanchez insisted.

  The driver, grateful for a respite from the grueling drive, did as he was told.

  "Open the door!"

  When the pneumatic door hissed open, Sanchez climbed down and crossed in front of the bus. The driver watched him as he passed through first one headlight then the other, each time seeming to grow in size as the light expanded his figure like a balloon taking on additional air.

  Off to the left, the driver could see a steep slope, its surface compressed by some heavy weight and wearing the twin corduroy strips of a pair of bulldozer treads. Sanchez waved, indicating that the man should drive the bus down the incline, but the driver shook his head. When twin beams lanced into the driver's eyes through the left window, he threw up his left arm to shield them, and squinted into the glare.

  The second bus had swung around, and now steered perilously close to the edge alongside the excavation, stopping about midway. The driver heard the exhalation of air brakes, and the headlights of the second bus went dark. Its running lights glowed dark amber along one side, and the golden glow of its parking lights gave it the forbidding scowl of a huge cat.

  Sanchez suddenly appeared just below the driver's window, rapping on the glass with a pistol. The driver started, backing away from the angry rapping until Sanchez twirled one hand over his head. The driver cranked his window open, and Sanchez stood on tiptoe to holler through the opening. "Move this damn thing. Now!"

  "Down there?"

  "You heard me, move it!"

  The driver shrugged. He was reluctant to comply, fearful that the heavy bus would get mired in the soft earth on the floor of the pit. But one glance at the contorted face of Tomás Sanchez made him frightened not to obey.

  He jerked the gearshift into first and raced the engine. Letting the clutch out slowly, he could feel the bus begin to strain forward. As it started to roll, he swung the wheel in a tight left turn. The nose pitched down at a sharp angle, and he hit the brakes, but the weight of the bus kept it moving downhill, its locked wheels skidding on the steep incline. Easing off on the brakes, the driver felt the wheels begin to turn, and the bus picked up speed.

  Nearing the bottom of the ramp, he noticed another pair of headlights across the pit from the second bus. He leaned forward to look up over the lip of the excavation, but the sides of the pit towered high overhead, and he could see nothing but the shadow of the rim. The incline flattened suddenly, and the sheer wall of the pit loomed up ahead. He hit the brakes again, this time skidding to a halt.

  Jerking the pneumatic handle to open the door, he slipped out of his seat and fell to the floor. Behind him his passengers began to shout questions, demanding to know what was happening. He nearly fell again descending the steps, and tumbled out on the freshly dug floor of the pit. Climbing to his feet, he looked up to see the stark outlines of several men peering over the edge and down into the hole. A sharp report echoed in the pit, and a bright white scimitar flashed overhead.

  The passengers had begun to pour from the bus as a brilliant burst of white light exploded high above him, then started a long slow fall. The phosphorous flare showered sparks, swinging in a gentle arc as it dangled from its parachute.

  Raul Ramirez grabbed the driver and spun him around. "You son of a bitch! What the hell is going on?"

  The driver's answer was drowned by the first burst of gunfire from the Up of the pit. Wave after wave of automatic weapons fire poured into the bus, sparking rainbows from the metal as they ripped through the roof of the vehicle and ricocheted from the struts and bumpers. In a rising crescendo the windows shattered, cascading like a sheet of ice onto the damp earth.

  The men in the pit began to scream, but it was already too late for them. An RPG ripped through the front window and detonated on impact, ripping the bus in two. The ruptured fuel line splattered gasoline over the wreckage, and the second RPG ignited the fumes. Thick tongues of greasy flame licked at the walls of the pit, charring thin tendrils to ash and blackening the earth.

  Along the rim the passengers of the second bus absorbed their lesson in stunned silence. Tomás Sanchez leaned over the edge and shook his
fist at the heart of the inferno. "Ramirez, you asshole, that'll teach you, you bastard."

  Behind him Ramón Santana stepped forward, leaned down casually and reached out with his right hand. He tapped Sanchez at the base of the skull, then let the.357's muzzle rest on the protruding bone and pulled the trigger.

  He turned before Sanchez disappeared into the holocaust, stepped back and sat down against the rear wheel of the bus. With a handkerchief he wiped the blood and tattered brain tissue from his arm and the Colt Python, shook the handkerchief once, then tucked it back into his pocket. Impassively he watched the flames crack like whips over the crumbling edge of the pit.

  In the east the sun was just beginning to brighten the sky, bleaching the deep velvety black to a hard gray dawn. He hoped Don Carlos could see the thick black smoke from his balcony.

  27

  Everything was in place now, and Carlos Calderone was on a high. Nearly four years of sweating and planning were about to bear fruit. He had been awake all night, pacing the floor. Hours of trying to relax, hours in which he spun his web out to a hundred times its current size. Then, like Penelope, he took it apart strand by strand to start over, to weave some new, more intricate design. As each one was found wanting, he ripped it to pieces and began again.

  Down in the kitchen he poured himself a half glass of vodka, splashed some tomato juice into the glass, dropped in a slice of lemon and downed the drink in two swallows. Unused to alcohol, he was hit by the vodka immediately. The air-conditioning was on, but he felt hot, almost feverish.

  Calderone yanked open the freezer and grabbed a handful of ice cubes. He wrapped them in a towel and held the cold compress to his forehead. The melting water felt soothing, and he let it trickle down over his nose and eyes. Mixing another Bloody Mary, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and stood in front of the sliding glass doors. The desert was dark gray, and he glanced at a gaudy clock, shaped like an orange, hanging on the wall.