Murder Island. Don Pendleton

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       5

       Sham Shui Po District, Kowloon Peninsula

      The Executioner’s Hong Kong safehouse wasn’t very big, but then, Bolan had never required much space. He rented the apartment under an assumed identity provided for him by Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s burly computer expert. Kurtzman had found the space in the gray market and rented it out through local brokers. The top-floor apartment had been made into Bolan’s safehouse. It contained only a military cot, a fridge full of cheap food bought from the large market on the corner of Ki Lung Street and, of course, an armory.

      The latter wasn’t as well-stocked as Bolan ordinarily liked. It was built into the apartment’s closet and hidden behind a wealth of knock-off clothing bought from street vendors on Cheung Sha Wan Road. Bolan had constructed it himself, using the materials he’d had at hand to create a false back. Behind a section of loose paneling, he kept a spare set of gear—another set of fatigues, body armor and web gear, a UMP and ammunition and a backup pistol.

      He’d left the airfield as soon as possible. Once Spence and Cloud were in the air, Bolan had figured that his part in the operation was done. He’d taken the truck and left it several blocks from the safehouse. Spence’s ground crew would take care of the bodies left behind and the helicopter, and then split, if the Agency was still following standard protocol. Someone in the chain of authority would smother any reports of gunfire, and the whole event would be buried under Bullshit Mountain, along with every other screwup.

      And it had been a screwup. As he stripped out of his shredded body armor and damp fatigues, Bolan wondered whose mistake it was. Had Cloud’s helicopter been tracked to the airfield? Or had there been a leak somewhere further up the line? The truck must have been in transit not long after he’d caught Cloud, which meant that whoever had sent it was efficient, or they had reason to suspect where it was going. If it was the latter, then Spence’s operation was compromised and had been since the beginning.

      In Bolan’s experience, that was true of most such operations. It was one of the many reasons he preferred to work alone; fewer moving parts meant fewer mistakes. Dressed now in his street clothes, he sat on the cot, swiftly dismantled both pistols and then dried and oiled them. They could survive a dunking, but proper weapon maintenance was paramount in the Executioner’s view.

      Once he was finished, he would arrange for his departure. When Brognola’s call had come, Bolan was preparing for another mission—one of his own, rather than one for Stony Man. The target was a man named Gapon, an ex-KGB operative. Bolan had never come face-to-face with Gapon, but he’d seen the killer’s handiwork more than once. He had photos, a mug shot and files spread across the cot, and he flipped through them as he worked.

      Gapon, like a lot of former KGB agents, had found new employment with the Russian mafia. He’d put his skills to use, doing terrible things for terrible people, and he was currently in Melbourne. It was possible that Gapon had contracted out to one of the many organized crime cartels based in Melbourne, such as the Carlton Crew or the Honoured Society, but for what reason, Bolan couldn’t tell.

      He’d been happy enough to put that particular job on the back burner, for Brognola. Whatever Gapon was up to, he hadn’t looked as if he was going anywhere anytime soon. But now that Cloud was safely in Spence’s custody, Bolan could deal with Gapon.

      Spence’s offer of a lift had been tempting, but Bolan preferred making his own way, where possible. Fewer screwups were likely if he handled his own transportation. Besides, Bolan wasn’t sure if he could have taken any more time in close confines with Cloud. With Gapon, he could kill the man and be done with it, rather than have to play nice. A smile spread across his face as he considered what the future held. At the very least, Gapon wouldn’t throw a tiger at him.

      As he worked he listened to the noise drifting down from above. The roof of the tenement was home to a claustrophobic mass of concrete huts and shanties of wood and tin. The residents were mostly Nepalese, with a few Pakistani families in the mix. The tenement was noisy, even at night, but he didn’t mind. Though he was a solitary man by nature, Bolan liked the rush of life and the noise and the smells of food cooking. Occasionally he needed to remind himself why he fought.

      Someone knocked on the door. Bolan tensed. He went to the closet and retrieved his spare Beretta, clipping the holster to his belt. СКАЧАТЬ