Survival Reflex. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ cities had bad neighborhoods, omitted from the tourist guidebooks and sightseeing tours, where locals walked in fear and the police patrolled in two- or three-man teams. Bolan found one such neighborhood, parked on its outskirts where his car probably wouldn’t be stripped down for parts within the hour, and made his way from there on foot.

      One myth about the world’s great urban slums was that they teemed with cutthroats waiting to snatch any man or woman off the streets in broad daylight. The thugs existed, of course, but they were typically nocturnal predators, and long experience had taught them how to pick and choose their prey.

      Some people were natural victims, defeated by life and timid to a fault. They seemed to lurch from one disaster to the next, recognized by bullies on sight. Others were strong and confident, broadcasting an alert that told potential hunters any confrontation might prove hazardous.

      Belém’s slum dwellers noticed Bolan as he made his way across their turf, but no one tried to intercept him. Even if he hadn’t been a clear-cut Alpha male, the fact that he was trailing heat had registered before he covered half a block.

      Both trackers from the black American sedan came after him on foot. It was their first mistake, and Bolan meant to save them the embarrassment of making any more. He led them three blocks deeper into hostile territory, then picked out an alley that was well-shadowed despite the midday hour. Turning in, he ducked behind the nearest garbage bin and stood back to wait.

      The stalkers followed him, then passed him by. One of them started to say something, but his partner shushed him. “Quiet now, and watch your step,” he said.

      “Too late,” Bolan advised.

      THEY TURNED as one, to find him standing in the middle of the alley, blocking off their access to the street.

      “What’s this?” the seeming leader asked him.

      “You tell me,” Bolan replied.

      “I don’t know you from Adam, pal.”

      “Which makes me wonder why you’re tailing me,” Bolan said, standing fast.

      The leader’s ruddy cheeks flushed darker still. Apparently his brief didn’t include a face-to-face with Bolan, even though they clearly meant to spook him out of town.

      “You must have us mixed up with someone else,” he said.

      “Convince me.”

      “How would I do that?”

      “You could show me some ID,” Bolan suggested. “Maybe tell me why you’ve been tailgating me since I left the hotel.”

      The second spook had worked up nerve enough to speak. He said, “Hey, now!” before his partner cut him off.

      “You’ve got some nerve,” the leader said. “I’ll give you that.”

      “Your boss left that part out when he was briefing you, I guess,” Bolan replied.

      “My boss?”

      “Downey.”

      The two men blinked as one. “I don’t know anybody by that name,” the leader said, too late.

      “So, he won’t miss you, then.”

      “Miss who?” The second spook had trouble keeping pace.

      “We’re going now,” the leader said. “Have a nice day.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      They telegraphed the rush with sidelong glances, back and forth. Not certain what to do, now that their crude surveillance had backfired, the pair surrendered to machismo. Bolan saw it coming and was ready when it got there.

      Number one, the mouthpiece, led his partner by six feet or so, looking to tackle Bolan, taking him down and maybe thumping him for a while before he tired of it and left.

      It didn’t quite work out that way.

      The Executioner dropped to a fighting crouch at the last second, while his adversary’s thick arms closed on empty air. He fired a rabbit punch into the spook’s short ribs and heard him grunt with pain as he was doubling over. No time to evaluate the damage as he drove a rising knee into the stranger’s nose and flattened it across his florid face.

      The leader dropped to hands and knees, while Bolan turned to face his sidekick. Number two was growling as he sprang toward Bolan, one arm cocked to throw a mighty haymaker. If it had landed, Bolan would’ve been in trouble, but he ducked the punch instead, seized the extended arm and used his enemy’s momentum as a weapon, flinging him to earth.

      The spook went down, then came up cursing, red-faced, instantly forgetting most of what his martial-arts instructor would’ve taught him during basic training. What he tried and failed to execute was a high kick toward Bolan’s face.

      Bad move.

      It was a simple thing to block the kick and grab his ankle, twist it sharply, and kick through the knee of his remaining leg where it supported him. This time, when he went down, the spook was squealing in pain.

      Bolan turned back to number one and found him struggling to his feet, blood streaming from his broken nose to stain his white dress shirt.

      “Bathtid,” he growled. “Ahm gawn kitchur ath.”

      Bolan feinted a swing, then caught him with a roundhouse kick behind one ear. The guy went down, poleaxed, and hit the ground this time without a whimper.

      Leaving one.

      His backup had rolled to the garbage bin, clutching one rusty side as he struggled to drag himself upright. It was painful to watch, and he was wasting precious time.

      Bolan chose his spot, the base of the skull, and aimed his elbow shot for maximum effect without the killer follow-through. It dropped his man, inert, and he was pure deadweight as Bolan hoisted him into the bin. Moments later, when the two spooks lay together on a bed of reeking garbage, Bolan dropped the bin’s lid and left them to their troubled dreams.

      Sleep tight.

      Don’t let the slum rats bite.

      No one appeared to notice Bolan as he walked back to his car. He found it at the curb, untouched, and saw the black American sedan parked on the far side of the street. It might still be there when the two spooks woke and crawled out of the garbage bin.

      Then again, it might not be.

      Too bad.

      Still watching out for tails, he joined the flow of traffic and set off to see a man about some combat gear.

      THE DEALER’S SHOP was half a mile from where Bolan had left his two incompetent shadows. Out front, bilingual signs offered repair of watches, small appliances and such. Inside, a man of middle age was hunched over a cluttered workbench, peering at the guts of an electric motor through a jeweler’s loupe. He glanced up as a cow bell clanked to signal Bolan’s entry and set down his screwdriver.

      “Boa tarde, Senhor.”

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