Assault Force. Don Pendleton

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      He suddenly felt his mood darken, lost the smile as the enormity of the mission slammed like a meteor on his shoulders. He froze in midstride, the clamor of joy and freedom, the smell of arrogant money and rich, sated flesh was like a living barrier falling over him.

      Everywhere they were laughing, hyenas in human skin, a babble of tongues raised in grand spirits from the dozen or so dialects of Spain and other countries. They clinked glasses, kissed, embraced, downing one drink after another like there was no tomorrow—and, oh, if they only knew, he thought. They frolicked in the water, splashing around like innocent children. A pair of ripe melons flashed for his eyes to behold as some joker held up a bikini top like a trophy.

      Soft music piped in from invisible amplifiers, a melodious love song, it sounded, as if the flames of lust really needed stoking. So much jewelry glinting in the sunshine, it was like watching countless stars wink wherever he turned, a sea of wealth flaunted to signal the peasants to stand back, gape and wish.

      All the beautiful people.

      He realized just how different he was from them, but also how much he hated them. None of them could even begin to fathom the dark, angry, bloody world from which he came, had probably never known a tough day in their lives. Their existence was a gilded, privileged fortress, a towering wall, a great chasm that kept him…

      Oh, but how sweet it would be.

      Another panning scour and he detailed the security guards, staggered at intervals on both sides of the pool. Six in all, easy enough to spot, they were little more than clones in black jackets, dark shades and earplugs, muscle attempting to look casual but failing. Sacrificial idiots.

      Harmon stared at the palatial monument where it would all happen.

      Twelve stories, he considered, 683 rooms. More than three miles of corridors, and capacity enough for close to five thousand bodies. The ritzy nirvana for the rich and famous was purgatory for service staff, a small city unto itself. A multi-billion dollar facelift was on the drawing board to stretch even farther up the coast, he knew. Those dream teams of architects and engineers—backed by private Saudi cash—were still hard at it to pick clean every last sore of the old barrios, upgrade marinas to berth seven-figure yachts and flashy cigarette boats.

      The New Barcelona Hotel.

      Staring at the top floor of Presidential Suites, he tried to envision the interior layout from memory, but already knew he’d fall short. Between ballrooms and dining rooms, restaurants, bars and clubs, the shopping complex, the spas and gymnasium…throw in cinemas, the vast expanse of kitchen with staff that rolled out entrées, buffets and room service meals around-the-clock, the security-management-utility vault belowground…

      How in the world were they going to pull it off? he wondered.

      Nothing but a challenge, he told himself, the biggest to date, without question, but he was, after all, the Entity.

      He rolled on, shouldered past some guy in nut huggers, sending his umbrella drink airborne. The squawk of French outrage was music to his ears as he set his sights on the hoopla at the pavilion on the north edge. The gold lion on its haunches, all of two stories and maybe thirty feet across with shamelessly displayed testicles the size of small cars, was his signpost. As he drew closer to the gaggle of reporters and autograph hounds—mostly teenaged kids, a smattering of female oglers—Harmon couldn’t help but indulge a wide smile, nurse some contempt.

      America’s new celluloid action hero and the hottest matinee idol in Europe was in town to scout locations for his latest flick. Harmon had seen the guy’s mug and muscled self—always grim and wielding guns the size of howitzers—plastered all over the place during the dry run. Half of six in-house screens were running the drivel daily. Little did big shot know, Harmon thought, he and his entourage had made the cut, all destined for stardom in a script already written and approved.

      Marching toward the gilded lion, Harmon suddenly felt worlds collide. It happened sometimes when driven toward a fate so bold. Armored with little more than experience, guts and sense of utter invincibility, sight and sound meshed, a living vacuum, it felt, sucking him toward destiny even as physical reality ground into slow motion. Human beings? Scapegoats? Sacrificial lambs? Look at them, he thought. They were oblivious, the walking dead, shielded in privilege and money, above it all.

      He felt their energy, drawing it into the fire igniting inside. He became so acutely aware of his own lethal uniqueness it was as if he was floating past the group by the statue. The King of Tinseltown, he observed in the shining haze of his adrenalized free-floating state, fit the bill, as far as standard film handsome went. Tall, broad, dark-haired, the six-figure pearly whites flashed at the adoring throngs. A leggy, large-breasted bimbo adorned each muscled arm. With black shades hiding action hero’s eyes, Harmon couldn’t get a read into the man’s soul as he passed before the gold lion, angling for the bar set beneath the marble rooftop.

      But he could read the type. Two gorillas were on standby, scowling unchained beasts, set to slap anyone who got out of line with the movie star or didn’t pay sufficient homage. The man was early thirty-something, but Harmon believed he could absorb the star’s life force easily enough. He marked him as a pampered, overindulged phony who would most likely curl up into a fetal position at the first sign of real danger—just another Hollywood asshole.

      The entourage staking out tables beside the film hero was an interesting mix, however. The usual squeeze things, of course, there to keep the star happy. A trio of jokers stuffed into four-figure suits looked properly self-important, directors or whatever else, women hanging on their every breath. A few scruffy, bleary-eyed guys down the line, minus the chicks, looked as harried as hell, hard-core boozers the way they hit the drinks. Harmon read them as being forever worried about job security as they rifled through papers, all animated heated talk. He figured scriptwriters, the unsung fuel that powered any Hollywood juggernaut. One guy, who might have been a ringer for the star—or close enough at first look—sat with two men. The physical double of the star, only light-years tougher, Harmon chalked him up as ex-military. All of them were clearly unimpressed with the showboating. They were confident and comfortable in their skin as only men who’d been down some dark alleys and walked out standing could be. Had to be stuntmen, the real deal, taking all the risks while getting slapped around and abused, humiliated and killed for the greater glory of the hero. Bunch of damn nonsense. For his money, judging them as nothing less than solid balls-to-the-wall stand-up acts, the roles should have been reversed.

      Only in Hollywood.

      Choking down a raw smart-ass one-liner, satisfied to reserve it, nonetheless, Harmon hastened his strides. He was past the empty bandstand, unattended instruments waiting to woo the happy-hour crowd, when he spotted his man. Harmon fell into his meandering guest act next, smiling at the milling crowd, inhaling the rich aroma of the best food money could buy as waiters in black tuxedos set up the buffet. The bar was packed tight with suits and skirts, but the high leather chair was empty next to his man, as he had known it would be. There was enough barfly tumult for their purposes. He glanced at the swarthy handsome face bent over a bottle of beer. Smiling, he said, “Is this seat taken, sir?”

      Without looking up, the slightly built dark man answered back in Castilian Spanish, “It’s reserved for you.”

      Harmon settled in, dumped the bag on the deck, managed to catch the bartender on the fly and ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser. Then he looked around, smiling, awed by it all. He sensed before seeing him, the man’s backup at the far end of the bar. He had no names, had never met them, but he knew the look of a killer when he saw it. He spotted a couple of his own guys in a booth to his deep four o’clock. Lighting a cigarette, Harmon rode out the silence while the bartender fetched СКАЧАТЬ