Stolen Arrows

The fat arms dealer grunted. “My second in command,” he muttered, incensed at the treatment. “Handles all of my security matters.”

“Not very good at your job, Os,” Bolan said.

“Fuck you, cop!” he snarled, then stopped. “You know my name, then why…” Shit, it was a test to see if he would tell the truth!

“And now I know that your boss will cooperate,” Bolan said. “How about you?”

“I don’t know anything!” Fontecchio snarled. “So there’s nothing I can tell you, even if I fucking wanted to, punk!

“Then who needs you?” Mack asked, raising his other gun.

As the Beretta fired, Michael Prince recoiled as his bodyguard’s shoulder gushed blood from the front and back, the man clutching the wound with both hands trying to staunch the flow of his life. Swearing loudly, Fontecchio staggered around slowly bleeding to death.

“You just going to let him bleed like that?” Prince demanded, removing the cigarette holder.

“And how much is mercy worth today?” Bolan asked.

The guy was cutting a deal? “So what do ya want?”

“Information.”

“Done. Help him, please.”

Weapon trained on Prince, Bolan carefully removed two field bandages and tended to the now unconscious Fontecchio as best he could.

Walking around the desk, Bolan stood with his back to the file cabinet and looked hard at the fat man in the expensive chair.

“That will have to be good enough. So, the S2,” he said. “Start talking.”

“Who are they?” Prince asked, trying to sound confused.

But his eyes betrayed the truth and Bolan fired the Beretta, flame stabbing across the desk, and the cigarette holder exploding into a million pieces.

“Okay, okay, I do business with them,” Prince cried, holding his bleeding hand. “What do you want? I can give you names. All you want. I’ll rat them all out.”

“More.”

Taking on a crafty expression, the arms dealer inhaled sharply and let the breath out even slower, buying time to think.

“It’s that goddamn submarine,” Prince said at last. “Right? Sure, no problem. Always knew the damn thing would be trouble. Now I didn’t make the sale, but I know who did. Just come back tomorrow and I can—”

The Executioner stroked the trigger and the Desert Eagle roared, the desk in front of the fat man shifting as it kicked out a spray of splinters. Crying out, Prince grabbed his face to find slivers of wood sticking out of his cheeks.

“You crazy son of a bitch!” he started, grabbing a pocket handkerchief and holding it to the wounds.

Without comment, Bolan fired again and the headrest of the chair was blown off. Then the Beretta coughed and the collar of the silk suit was tugged hard, making the man jump.

“Okay, okay!” Prince cried, raising both hands in surrender. “Enough already, I get the message. I’ve got to make some phones calls.”

“I’ll wait,” Bolan said. “And this is your only chance at life. Don’t waste it.”

Sweating profusely, Prince hauled the telephone closer and started making calls.

Bolivia

RISING ABOVE the teeming city of La Paz was a low hill of manicured grass, land mines and razor wire, the granite-block wall patrolled by armed guards and dogs. Safe behind a protective cover of thick trees, far from the stink of the open sewers in the village below, a mansion sprawled luxuriously through landscaped hedges and perfect green lawns decorated with imported Italian statues.

The president of Bolivia, a former general, was lying on a table on the eastern terrace, two women massaging scented oils into his muscular frame. He had seized the country in a military junta and planned never to relinquish control. He refused to become a victim of those he subjugated on a daily basis.

The French-style double doors swung open and a butler approached the man, waiting to be recognized before daring to speak.

“Yes, what is it, Jose?” the president said, his face buried in his arms.

Not having been told to stop, the women continued to rub the older man’s body, never slowing nor increasing their speed. Both actions were punished severely. Soft music played from somewhere in the mansion, along with the occasional crack of a bullwhip followed by a muffled scream of pain.

“Sir, we have a message from the Scion,” Jose whispered, glancing briefly at the nearly naked women. One was wearing only the bottom half of a bikini, while the other was dressed in the matching top. He found the combined effect to be quite stimulating.

“We have no work for them,” the president murmured peacefully. “Tell them to call back in a few months when the big push starts into the mountains.”

“If I may, sir,” Jose said. “This is about some other matter.”

“They’re not looking for work? Then why are they calling?”

“Apparently, sir, Mr. Zalhares has an item to sell.” Jose scowled. “Although I do not understand why we should want to buy some broken arrows. Yet he seemed quite serious in the matter.”

The president jerked his head up at that and the girls retreated quickly to get out of his way. “Repeat that,” he growled, swinging his legs around to sit upright on the table.

“The Scion has some broken arrows for sale.”

That was the code term used by the Americans for a lost or stolen nuclear device. The Scion had a nuke for sale?

“How much did he say?” the president demanded urgently. “What was the price? Do they have more than one? Speak to me, man!”

Trying not to glance at the man’s exposed genitalia, Jose stared him directly in the face. “Sir, Zalhares said he would call again soon with the details about an auction.”