Murder Island

3 (#ulink_cd0ee7cb-d5e3-5a61-81ff-15e17f38c114)

“Hello, Byron. How’ve you been?” Tony Spence said, his amusement evident. Bolan shoved Cloud forward. He’d bound the man’s wrists with a zip-tie on the trip to the airfield. He’d done the same to the pilot, and he propelled his second captive forward to stand beside Cloud.

“Spence,” Cloud said. He made the agent’s name sound like a curse. Spence was the CIA’s man in Hong Kong. He was short, plump and dressed like a tourist. The tooled-leather shoulder holster he wore beneath his cheap sports coat was occupied by a 9 mm pistol and his hands had the hard calluses of a fighter.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Spence said. He took his sunglasses off and grinned at Bolan. “Agent Cooper, good to see you again.” One of Bolan’s many cover identities, Matt Cooper was an agent of the Justice Department.

“Cooper,” Cloud said slyly, glancing at Bolan. “Is that your name? I’ll remember it.” Bolan didn’t feel threatened as much as amused. Cloud might consider himself a hard man, but Bolan had faced worse in his long, bloody career.

“Shut up, Byron,” Spence said, swatting Cloud on the back of the head. “The grown-ups are talking.” He smiled at Bolan. “They told me you were good, Cooper, but I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

“We aim to please,” Bolan said. “I wasn’t aware we’d met before.”

“Oh, we haven’t. I saw you at a distance, during that Ackroyd thing a while ago.” Bolan nodded. “The Ackroyd thing” as Spence put it, had been bad—a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to let loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented. “Good job with that, by the by,” Spence continued. “Anyway, when they said you could get our guy out of his sanctum sanctorum, I wasn’t sure, but we’ve tried everything else. Ol’ Byron here is a slippery one.” He took hold of Cloud’s arm. “Come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee. We got time before our flight.”

“I could go for a coffee,” Cloud said.

“Shut up,” Spence replied amiably. He gestured to the pilot. “Bring him, too.”

Bolan hooked the pilot by the back of his shirt and pushed him after the others. As they walked, he took in the airfield. The cracked tarmac sprouted grass and the hangars and buildings had seen better decades. This had been an RAF base, once upon a time, but now it was privately owned. Whether the CIA was the owner in question, or merely borrowing it for the occasion, Bolan didn’t know.

Spence led Bolan toward a hangar that held a midsize private jet and a crew working to get the plane ready.

“Mine’s bigger,” Cloud said.

“Yours was bigger. The Chinese have probably confiscated it by now,” Spence said. He shoved Cloud at another man. “Get him on the plane and make sure he’s cuffed, for God’s sake. Wait—you got to use the toilet?” he asked, grabbing Cloud.

“I’m not a five-year-old,” Cloud snapped.

“Long flight.”

Cloud made a face and mumbled, “Yes.”

“Let him use the toilet and then cuff him.” He turned back to Bolan. “They used this place for Operation Yellowbird, you know,” he said as his people took the pilot and Cloud away. “One of several former airfields. MI-6 and the Agency share this one, though it’s on the books as the property of a Hong Kong film studio. You watch martial arts movies?”

Bolan looked at him blankly. Spence smiled. “Not a film guy, Cooper?”

“I read,” Bolan said.

“So do I,” Spence replied. “Mostly film books.” He grinned and Bolan shook his head and smiled back. “Anyway, they used filming as a cover for transporting a number of activists out of China to more hospitable climes. Whole thing was cooked up by a bunch of Hong Kong businessmen and the Agency got involved…”

“As they tend to do,” Bolan said.

Spence laughed. “Yeah. Got to keep those plates spinning, man.” He led Bolan into the hangar office. “Before my time, but I heard it was a hoot. Anyway, we’re lucky you got to him when you did. Someone—probably the Chinese—spilled the beans that we were onto Cloud, and it looks like his own people were getting ready to…you know…” Spence drew his thumb across his throat. “Hard to be an arms dealer these days, I guess.” He paused and then added, “Well, one that sells to terrorist groups, anyway.”

“You seem to be on a first-name basis with him,” Bolan said.

“Who, Byron? Yeah. He’s a mouthy little asshole, isn’t he?” Spence went to the desk, where a French press carafe sat on a tray. He tapped it. “Kenyan roast,” he said. “My one weakness.” He began to lower the press and the contents of the carafe gurgled. “I take this bad boy with me wherever I go. Anyway, yeah, Cloud’s a third-generation criminal. His granddaddy used to run a floating casino. He was mostly a blackmailer, but he dabbled in the arms trade and murder-for-hire. His daddy was of similar cut. Both were pretty nasty, so Byron’s comparatively harmless.”

“The weapons he sells aren’t,” Bolan said as Spence poured him a cup of coffee.

“Hope you like it strong,” Spence said, preparing his own cup. “And, no, they aren’t. But at least he’s not as good with a straight razor as his grandfather was, by all accounts.”

Bolan smiled. “True. So why bother with him now?”

Spence sipped his coffee. “Need-to-know, Cooper.” He smiled when he saw Bolan’s expression and waved a hand. “But between you, me and the deep, blue sea, he sold something he shouldn’t have had access to, to a group of Nigerian militants. We need to know how he knew about said something, how he got his paws on it, and who exactly he sold it to.” He scrubbed his chin with his knuckles. “Along the way, if we get a few more names and a few more grocery lists from him, well, so much the better.”

“Grocery lists? Is that official Agency terminology?” Bolan asked. He drank his coffee, which was good, he had to admit, and looked out the window at the edge of the airfield.

“That’s official Tony Spence terminology. Besides, what would you call them? They’re grocery lists, all right, only instead of radishes and yogurt it’s guns and bombs.” A crewman knocked on the office window and Spence nodded at him. “Plane’s about ready. You want to come along?” He sat on the desk. “I’m not going to lie. I’d feel better about having backup. Tokyo is a pretty friendly town, but a lot can happen between there and Melbourne.”

“You think someone will make a play for him,” Bolan said. It wasn’t a question.

“Oh, yes, sir. I do,” Spence said, refilling his cup. “I wouldn’t be surprised if every knucklehead with a gun between here and Sydney is getting a call right about now, asking for poor old Byron’s scalp.”

Bolan frowned and took another swallow of coffee. He was inclined to deal himself in, if only to make sure the Agency didn’t screw things up too badly. A situation such as this one could get very bloody, very quickly. Transporting prisoners was a dangerous job, and though Spence seemed competent enough, Bolan had a feeling skill alone wouldn’t see Cloud to his final destination safe and sound. He was about to reply when he spotted the truck. It rolled along outside the fence line, looking out of place.

“Is that truck one of yours?” Bolan asked.

Spence rose from the desk. “No,” he said, all trace of humor wiped from his round features. His hand moved for his pistol.

“Get to the plane,” Bolan said.

“Why—?”

The truck made a sudden, sharp turn and struck the fence, tearing it open in a spray of sparks and a scream of tearing metal. The truck was old; British army surplus, Bolan judged, though he wasn’t certain. “That’s why,” he said, pulling his pistol. “The plane, Spence!”

The truck barreled across the tarmac, trailing the remains of the fence after it. Spence ran for the plane and Bolan went to the window, smashing out a pane to clear himself a line of fire. The truck didn’t slow as it rumbled toward the plane. Bolan fired, emptying the magazine at the windshield and the driver’s cab in quick succession.

The windshield and side window exploded and the truck slewed awkwardly, rocking on its wheels. The section of fencing tore loose and spun toward Bolan, forcing him to seek the floor. It burst through the window and sliced over his head, smashing against the far wall. He pushed himself up quickly, ejecting his weapon’s spent magazine as he did so. As he reloaded, the tarp on the rear of the truck was thrown back and an assault rifle opened up. Bolan dropped below the edge of the window. What small protection the thin wall provided wouldn’t last long. He looked at the plane and saw that it had left the hangar and was taxiing down the weed-choked runway. He only needed to buy Spence a few more minutes.

Bolan glanced at the helicopter. If he could get to the M-60, he might have a shot. And if not, well, whether Spence was able to escape would be the least of his concerns. He crawled quickly to the door and headed for the hangar. Spence’s crew was putting up a fight, but they hadn’t been prepared for an attack. Gunfire rattled back and forth between the tarmac and the hangar as the plane moved slowly past. The attackers, whoever they were, were moving quickly to take the hangar.

Bolan darted out and slammed the door behind him even as shots chopped into it. Without pause, he moved away from the hangar, running full tilt for the helicopter. He fired as he ran, hitting one of the gunmen. The man spun away from the truck, his weapon firing into the air as he fell.

Bullets plucked the tarmac, pursuing him, and he felt bits of concrete strike the backs of his legs. At the last moment he leaped into the still-open compartment of the helicopter. Bullets hammered its frame, making the metal ring.

He had to move fast.

Bolan holstered his Desert Eagle and snagged the M-60. He drew his knife and used the heavy blade to pop the ammunition box loose from the body of the weapon. Quickly, with a precision born of experience, he cleared the jam and stood, swinging the machine gun around to face the truck.

He fired, letting the M-60 sing its deadly song at full volume. Spent brass dropped to the floor of the compartment. The truck rocked and its tarpaulin covering disintegrated. Gunmen tried to return fire, but Bolan swung the machine gun in a deadly arc, sending the survivors scrambling for cover. The plane continued to move down the runway.

The truck suddenly rumbled to life and began to reverse, rolling back toward the helicopter. Bolan grinned mirthlessly. He’d managed to distract them. He continued to fire as the truck bore down on him. The M-60 stuttered into silence, finally out of ammunition, and the truck’s engine roared as it sped up. Bolan threw himself backward as the truck closed in. When it struck the side of the helicopter in an explosion of shattered glass and twisted metal, he tucked himself into a ball, hoping to ride out the impact.

The truck continued to roll backward, shoving the helicopter along the tarmac in a steady spray of sparks. Bolan uncoiled and leaped for the twisted hatchway. Ignoring the flying shards of metal, he flung himself into the bed of the truck. Bolan hit hard and rolled to his feet. His adrenaline was flowing now, carrying him toward the truck’s cab.

He threw himself forward as the driver twisted around and fired a pistol. Bolan caught the man’s wrist, forcing the barrel of the pistol aside as he drew his Ka-Bar. The driver had time to cry out once as the tip of the knife plunged into his throat. The man slumped sideways and Bolan reached past him and grabbed the wheel. He brought the truck to a rattling halt as the plane left the runway at last.