Fireburst Page 6

  All along the length of the beach and boardwalk, smiling vendors pushed along wheeled carts and sold hot dogs, ice cream, cold beer, sandwiches, sunglasses, cell phones and shark repellant.

  Trying to blend into the crowd, Bolan and Kirkland were wearing civilian clothing, loose white slacks, and Hawaiian shirts of multicolored orchids. Bolan had the Beretta holstered behind his back, a water bottle in a nylon-mesh sling disguising the telltale lump. Kirkland had the same, a leather camera case masking the presence of his big bore Webley.

  Leaving the boardwalk, the two men turned inland and crossed the street. Pausing for a traffic light, Bolan suddenly took out his cell phone. “Cooper here,” he said, using a favored alias.

  Watching the ebb and flow of humanity, Kirkland waited patently until Bolan finished the call.

  “What was hit?” Kirkland asked, waving off an approaching taxi.

  “An army battalion in Afghanistan,” Bolan replied. “Everybody was killed, and even the vehicles were destroyed—trucks, tanks and gunships.”

  “The sons of bitches are getting bold,” Kirkland growled, glancing at the fleecy white clouds in the blue sky.

  “There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be,” Bolan replied, taking a sip from the water bottle.

  “Think the strike was advertising?” Kirkland asked with a scowl. “Show the world what they could do to the mighty United States?”

  “Unlikely. Afghanistan is too remote to receive proper TV coverage.”

  “Now, we could go there in person,” Kirkland suggested, as a group of kids in tight formation zoomed by on roller skates. “But there are far too many terrorist groups in that part of the world for us to question. It would take years.”

  “I have something else in mind,” Bolan said.

  “Hey, there it is!” Kirkland said suddenly, pointing across a busy intersection.

  Nestled among the rows of T-shirt emporiums, yogurt shops, hair salons and bars was a three-story building that occupied half of the block. A sign on top merely had the single word Montenegro.

  “Let’s go,” Bolan said, starting across the street.

  “Why did she paint the building pink?” Kirkland asked. “That doesn’t really seem her style.”

  “Look around, brother. Most of the larger buildings are pink or blue,” Bolan said, waving a hand. “I think the mayor wants the city to look the way it does in movies.”

  “Bloody tourists,” Kirkland growled, as if expelling a piece of rotten fruit from his mouth.

  Bolan laughed. “This from a man who runs a casino hotel?”

  “Hey, my dice and wheels are honest! Tourists pay a lot for nothing. That just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Ever been to a museum?”

  “Sure…okay, point taken. But I still don’t like them and all their damn cameras!”

  As they started toward the pink building, Bolan had a strong feeling that that was the real source of Kirkland’s dislike. Undercover DEA agents, covert ops, spies and mercenaries had all taken a big hit the day the cell phone camera was invented. Jamming devices helped a lot, but nothing could stop all of them. There were just too many.

  The row of windows along the top floor of the building were open, and as Bolan and Kirkland got closer they could hear the assorted cries, slaps and grunts of hard physical exercise in progress.

  “We need her,” Bolan said, pulling open the glass door. “So keep the safety locked on that smart-ass mouth.”

  “I’ll do my best, Sarge,” Kirkland said. “But no promises.”

  The lobby inside was cool and crisp, with potted ferns in every corner, and the walls covered with photographs of famous clients: professional athletes, politicians and a lot of movie stars.

  “The woman is good,” Kirkland said grudgingly.

  “Few better,” Bolan stated, going to the front desk.

  “Hello, can I help you gentlemen?” the receptionist asked, switching her gaze back and forth between the two men.

  A mature woman with mocha-colored skin and ebony hair, she was wearing a flower-print skirt, but above the waist a skin-tight leotard displayed her firm figure to its full advantage.

  Any tighter and Bolan would have been able to see her religion. “We’re here to meet Heather,” he said. “We’re old friends from out of town.”

  “How nice, Mr… .” She waited.

  “Dupree, Roger Dupree,” Bolan said.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dupree.”

  “Roger, please.”

  She smiled, revealing unexpected dimples. “Hitesri Chandra… Sherry to my friends.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Sherry.”

  She glanced at Kirkland.

  He grinned. “Lamont Cranston.”

  She arched an eyebrow at that. “Is Ms. Montenegro expecting you?” Sherry asked hesitantly.

  “No, this is a surprise visit,” Bolan said.

  “However, we did leave a message at her AA meeting,” Kirkland suddenly added with a straight face.

  Frowning at that, Sherry turned to look only at Bolan. “Well, I’m sorry, but Ms. Montenegro is conducting a private class at the moment. But if you’d care to wait…” She smiled invitingly and didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Mind if we just go straight up?” Kirkland asked, pulling open the stairwell door.

  “Sir, that’s not allowed!” Sherry shouted, reaching out a hand.

  But Kirkland was already gone, taking the steps two at a time.

  “Please excuse my friend,” Bolan apologized, heading for the open doorway. “He was raised in a cave by bears.”

  “Pity they didn’t eat him,” Sherry muttered, sitting back down.

  At the top of the stairs, a small landing led to a changing room lined with lockers. There were private showers, a steam room, and from down a short hallway came the familiar sounds of a fight in progress.

  Heading that way, Bolan and Kirkland caught the smells of sweat, blood and some sort of stringent herbal compound.

  “Ah, Tiger Balm, just the smell makes me ache,” Kirkland said wistfully. “You know, I still carry some of the stuff in my bag?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Bolan replied, as they proceeded along the hallway.

  “I just wish it didn’t reek like the southern end of a northbound rhinosaurus.”

  As they’d expected, the room wasn’t a gymnasium, but a dojo, a martial arts studio. Although it was large and well-lit by ceiling fixtures, there was no furniture of any kind, just thick mats covering the floor and punching bags hanging in every corner. On the walls were racks of blunt bamboo poles, cushioned wooden sticks, then uncushioned sticks, knives and swords, followed by a wide variety of more exotic weaponry. The only decorations were framed pictographs in Japanese, Chinese and Korean extolling the virtues of honor and courage.

  There were a dozen people of various ages sitting on the mats. Everybody was barefoot and wearing a loose cotton judo uniform, the twill jackets held shut with twisted cloth belts. Most of the students wore the red belts of advanced pupils, but there were also a few beginners in white belts and one high-ranking brown belt.

  Standing at the front of the class was a tall woman with flaming red hair tied off her face with a strip of rawhide. She was completely without cosmetics and strikingly beautiful, with a full mouth and slightly slanting eyes of emerald-green that spoke of a mixed ancestry. Her white uniform was edged with black piping, and she wore the black belt of a teacher tied
around a trim waist.

  “So that’s the deal. The first person to physically touch me gets a full refund on all of their fees,” Heather Montenegro said, tightening her belt.

  “That’s all?” a burly black man asked suspiciously. “Just touch you? Not put you down or draw blood?”

  Tolerantly, Montenegro smiled. “If you manage either of those, Mr. Cortland, you can have the building. Now, everybody stand!”

  In unison, the students rose smoothly to their feet, many of them going immediately into an attack stance.

  “Any volunteers for today’s demonstration?” Montenegro asked, adjusting the rawhide around her forehead.

  Three men and two women stepped forward, everybody else stayed in place.

  “All right, begin,” Montenegro said calmly, both hands at her side.

  Instantly, the group of five charged forward, three of the students assuming the cat stance, the last two dropping into the horse position. Separating fast, they all converged on Montenegro from different directions.

  “Pitiful,” Kirkland muttered. “Five will get you six she drops them all in under a minute.”

  “No bet,” Bolan said, shaking his head.

  As the first student got close, she collapsed into a dragon crouch and did a leg sweep. Swaying out of the way, Montenegro caught the foot by the ankle, and twisted, sending the woman tumbling away.

  Extending both arms, a man dove forward, obviously intent on trying merely to touch the teacher. Montenegro ducked under the arms, then spun around the man and slammed him in the back, adding her force to his own rush. Out of control, he slammed into the cushioned wall and rebounded, bleeding profusely from a broken nose.

  The third student flipped over backward like an acrobat to land in the drunken monkey position, both arms raised for a double strike. A split second later, Montenegro buried her heel into the stomach of the man. Turning bright red, he doubled over, gasping and choking.

  The last two students immediately retreated slightly, circling the motionless Montenegro. Then they both moved with blinding speed, the man chopping for her neck, while the woman kicked for a knee. A classic hi-lo formation.

  Swatting aside the punch, Montenegro lashed out a foot to block the kick, then threw the man over her shoulder to crash into the woman. They went down in a tangle of limbs.

  “Enough!” Montenegro called, straightening her stance. “Now, class, what was wrong with—” Spinning, she blocked a punch from the man with the bloody nose, then effortlessly flipped him sideways.

  “While I applaud your tenacity, Steven,” Montenegro said, walking closer to stand over the panting man. “The next time you attack after I called a stop, I’ll break both of your arms.”

  “Yes, sensei,” he muttered, his face pressed into the mat.

  “Only try something fancy when you’re desperate,” Montenegro continued, kneeling to massage his spine with her knuckles. Almost instantly, the bleeding stopped and he began to breath more easily.

  “Better?” Montenegro asked, ceasing the administrations.

  “Better,” he muttered, stiffly getting to his feet. “You’re fast, sensei.”

  “True. So never underestimate an opponent,” Montenegro said sternly, then turned about. “All right, class, as I was saying…” Her voice faded away at the sight of Bolan and Kirkland across the room.

  “What the hell are you two doing…aw, crap,” Montenegro said, yanking off the rawhide strip.

  Politely, Bolan gave a short bow of respect, while Kirkland waved in greeting. “Hiya, toots! How’s tricks?”

  Scowling in annoyance, Montenegro deeply inhaled, then sighed. “Barbara!”

  “Yes, ma’am?” replied the short blonde wearing the brown belt.

  “Please take over for me. Work on disarming an opponent armed with a knife without breaking their bones. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Days,” Bolan corrected.

  “After that, who knows?” Kirkland added with a grin.

  Frowning for a moment, Montenegro then shrugged in acceptance. “Barbara, the class is yours until further notice.”

  Barbara seemed flustered. “But, ma’am—”

  “Hey now, wait just a damn minute!” said a burly man wearing a white belt. “I came here for Montenegro, not some teenager barely out of diapers!”

  Without comment, Barbara stepped sideways to grab him by the wrist, then twisted hard, sending him to the mat. Then she buried a thumbnail into his throat. Twitching with unbelievable pain, the man broke into a sweat, his mouth opening and closing, but nothing coming out.

  “What were you saying again?” Barbara asked, easing her grip.

  “Yes, sensei,” he wheezed softly.

  “Senpai,” Barbara corrected. “I’m only a teacher, not a master.”

  Seeing that everything was in order, Montenegro bowed to the class, then crossed the mats to kiss Bolan warmly on the cheek. “Nice to see you again, Blackie.”

  “Same here, Heather.” Bolan smiled. “You look great.”

  “You, too!” Montenegro chuckled.

  “I see you’ve updated the curriculum,” Kirkland said diplomatically.

  “Shut up! Never speak to me again,” Montenegro growled. “And just who the hell do you think you are?”

  Confused by that, Kirkland struggled to formulate a response as Montenegro strode down the hallway to the locker room.

  After a moment, the men followed.

  “So, where are we going, jungle or desert?” Montenegro asked, taking off the black belt before going into a private changing stall.

  “We’ll discuss that somewhere less public,” Bolan said, leaning against the wall. “But pack light.”

  There came the sound of a running shower. “Guns, guts and garters?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “If you need any help with the garters, just let me know,” Kirkland said teasingly.

  “Why, are yours slipping?” Montenegro asked as the shower stopped. “Colonel, are you sure that we need the shaved ape?”

  “Wouldn’t have brought Bill along if he wasn’t necessary,” Bolan said, trying not to grin. “And call me Matt during this gig.”

  “Matt it is,” Montenegro replied. “I suppose that somebody has to carry the luggage.”

  “Heather, don’t say things like that!” Kirkland exclaimed in a shocked voice. “We don’t think of you as the luggage! More like…deadweight.”

  Just then, the door swung open and Montenegro stepped out of a steamy cloud. She was still barefoot, but was now wearing a loose khaki shirt tucked into cargo shorts that showed a lot of leg. Her tousled hair was damp, but Montenegro was wearing full makeup, with jade earrings and a silver necklace.

  “What happened to your legs?” Bolan asked in surprise.

  “Laser surgery,” she replied, stepping into sneakers. “Scars make a man look tough, but aren’t very attractive on a woman.”

  Just then, his cell phone vibrated and he took the call.

  “Heads up! The main NASA launch facility at Cape Canaveral has just been attacked,” Bolan announced. “Over a hundred dead, including the head of NASA. The assembly building is gone, along with the prototype for the new Falcon rocket. Most of the base is on fire…”

  He scowled. “Okay, Base. Striker out.” He put away the cell phone.

  Instantly, the atmosphere in the locker room changed.

  “Okay, I brought a full kit, and Matt has an
arsenal,” Kirkland said quickly. “Anything special you need at home?”

  “Yes, some new Glocks that I’ve been training with, and my body armor,” Montenegro replied, tucking away the knife.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got enough level four body armor to sink Manhattan.”

  “General issue level four, or some specifically tailored for female soldiers?”

  “General issue.” He gestured at the door. “Okay, you’re right. Lead the way.”

  As Montenegro started down the stairs, she asked over a shoulder, “What’s our first move, Matt?”

  “I have our ride waiting at the airport,” Bolan said. “From Miami we fly directly to Andrews Air Force Base where we pick up some heavy ordnance and switch to a C-130 Hercules.”

  “And then?” Montenegro asked, pushing open the ground-floor door and rushing across the lobby.

  Both men said nothing until they were outside and on the street.

  “Sri Lanka,” Kirkland replied. “We’re going after the White Tigers.”

  She paused. “They’re behind the attack on NASA?”

  “Not a chance in hell,” Bolan said honestly.

  Furrowing her brow, Montenegro started to ask a question, then comprehension flared.

  “You clever bastards,” she said, slowly smiling. “Come on, my Hummer is this way. Let’s go!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eyl Bay, Somalia

  The morning sun was bright and hot enough to melt the flesh off a person’s back.

  The sluggish water in the bay moved thick and gray, foamy with toxic chemicals, and raw sewage floated about on the surface. Seagulls screamed in annoyance overhead, and dead fish lay rotting on the pebble shore. Not even the local insect population was interested.

  Clustered protectively along a torpid river were hundreds of ramshackle buildings. Most of them were squat and ugly, the ancient engineering adage of “form follows function” played out here as the impoverished inhabitants were forced to make do with whatever they could get their hands on. However, there were a handful of large buildings, made of tan brick instead of crude adobe bricks. The roofs were beautiful blue domes that reflected the bright sunlight, and more than a few had television antennas or shiny satellite dishes. The cracked streets were strewn with garbage, dotted with potholes and puddles of human waste.