Assault Force. Don Pendleton

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      “In Barcelona?”

      “Could be.”

      She seemed to think about something, then said, “Perhaps there is too much time, lonely time to pass. Someone you may care to spend such time with.”

      He nodded, sipped his beer. “I’m doing that now.”

      “Kat. You can call me Kat,” she said, smiling.

      He felt her stare, the stunning Ukrainian blonde probing him closely from the other side of the table. “I remember. Kat to your close friends, Katerina Muscovky to everyone else.”

      “Among other things to remember, I hope. And you, are you more than a close friend to Kat? Forgive me,” she quickly added, turning away to watch the crowd, shifting in her chair. “I had no right to imply there is anything more than what there already is.”

      “There’s nothing to forgive, Kat.” He looked at her. “I couldn’t have dreamed of time better spent with such a beautiful woman.”

      She paused, then, shifting gears, said, “You do not belong here.”

      A curve ball, but he kept his look and voice neutral. “How’s that?”

      She sipped her drink, weighing whatever was on her mind for a long moment. “I do not know…there is something about you. Different. You are not like any man I have ever met. Certainly not like these jet-setters and playboys, most of whom because of their money pretend to know what being a man is all about. You, on the other hand…well, beyond what is already obvious to me, I sense you are only passing through, coming from some place I could never begin to understand. Two nights we have been together, making love, and you tell me so little about yourself. I do not know who—perhaps what—you really are.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond, said, “I am prying, but I cannot help myself. I should know better, having seen both the good and the bad the world has to offer. You do not mind if I act like some infatuated teenaged girl?”

      “Kat, there are men right now who would like nothing more than for me to drop dead just for the chance to sit here with you.”

      An enigmatic smile passed over her lips. “The way in which I caught the movie star look at me perhaps? Not that it would matter in the least to me. He is not a true man, only concerned about how he looks, whatever pleases him. I have seen fame, it does not impress me. What the famous show the world, what others think they love and aspire to be like is rarely what they get in person.”

      Mack Bolan thought she could have spoken no truer words. The ex-super model fell silent. She was done fishing for the moment about Matt Cooper, appearing content to watch the crowd, work on her drink, enjoy time spent together. The silence was comfortable enough, the kind, he supposed, shared between lovers where trust and respect didn’t require an out-pouring of talk to keep their bond from being severed.

      He began scanning the crowd, nagged suddenly by a troubled feeling he couldn’t pin down. Relax, reflect, recharge the warrior, let physical wounds heal, scars on the heart fade from witnessing firsthand man’s inhumanity to man. Or so—urged by Hal Brognola, his longtime friend from the Justice Department—this brief stint of R and R was meant to do.

      Strange how it never really worked that way, he decided, not in his world, where he would soon enough return. His companion couldn’t possibly fathom the dark, bloody arena he came from. But she was right on one point. She was unaware of his real identity, the real man behind the concocted cover story he’d given her in one of the hotel’s bars the night they met. No, he would never fit in with this crowd of rich and famous types, worlds apart even from the few vacationing families he’d seen. His own experience was light-years from this fleeting illusion where all was money, pleasure and bliss. Where life was just one big party.

      Different worlds, no question, as day to night, life to death.

      And they would never know it, of course, but the man also known as the Executioner waged a War Everlasting on their behalf, prepared, in fact, to give the ultimate sacrifice, if need be, so they could live free whatever their lives.

      He was out of his element, he knew, a lion in a cage. Certainly it was not in his warrior’s nature to kill time in a resort, rub elbows with the privileged elite while standing down. Similar in remote orbit, he supposed, but another universe removed nonetheless when compared to the humble man of the cloth he’d spotted. The priest struck him as if he wished he was anywhere but there, if he read the agitated body language right. And who were the loners? Six, maybe seven or eight at last count. Swarthy guys, hardly unusual for this part of the world, all with similar black bags in hand, smart business suits, strolling the pool deck, trying to look casual behind the shades.

      Why couldn’t he just unwind?

      He recalled Spain was lately becoming an incubator for the kind of fanatics he hunted to extermination, a magnet for all walks of life, it seemed, legit and otherwise from all over Europe and Russia.

      He’d been in France, and the chartered flight had allowed him to bring the Beretta 93-R and .44 Magnum Desert Eagle along, both stowed in a customized briefcase charged with an electrified field to jolt the curious or the thief into instant but nonlethal collapse. Bearing that in mind, he tried to will himself to relax but he felt a stalking invisible presence, one he knew all too well from sixth sense earned the hard and old-fashioned way.

      “The hotel management is throwing a party in the ballroom for its guests in honor of its one-year opening. Or we could just order room service and…” He realized Muscovky was still speaking.

      Her voice faded as Bolan spotted the white-haired man emerge from the bar. Just a strong hunch, but he sensed the guy didn’t belong. The Executioner knew the type, having seen it countless times: a predator. Only this one, Bolan thought, was uneasy in his present appearance and environs but holding it all together around so much choice meat. The look was right, hard and lean, the gait military, but loose and oiled, proud of the way he could handle himself thanks to hard-earned experience. The man had a stare that devoured the model’s flesh. A penetrating search lingered on Bolan, the guy doing his damnedest to figure him out, but coming up short. That same sixth sense told Bolan the man was dying to look back, but he kept heading for the doors, bag in hand, walking with purpose.

      “Matt? Hello? Did you hear me?”

      Bolan hoped the forced smile masked his inner rumbling. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, and said, “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d prefer just us. Unless…”

      “No,” she said, her puzzled expression softening into a smile. “It is what I had hoped you would say. So? Your room…or shall we use my place again?”

      “Your place. The view’s better,” Bolan told her with a smile. He held the expression, feeling she wanted to push it, then she nodded.

      He preferred to stick to her suite, lest she be tempted to ask questions, such as why, when he was so far from home, did he have only the briefcase and a small duffel with a change of clothes. The soldier considered stopping by his second-floor room, just the same. Then again, switching the weapons to his duffel, or putting the briefcase in her suite might only arouse female curiosity, questions nonetheless.

      Still, all the dead enemies burned down in his wake, many of whom were sure to have vengeful surviving allies, friends or relatives—a chance encounter or stalking him—there was always the possibility, slim as it might be considering his surroundings…

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