Death Run

“I tried to contact you several times over the weekend to reschedule,” Botros said, “but I couldn’t reach you. I assumed you were indisposed.”

“I was fishing,” Bolan said. Botros’ smile wavered momentarily at Bolan’s reply, but returned more sickly sweet than ever.

“Well, Mr. Cooper, I hope you won’t disappear on a fishing expedition this week. Musa bin Osman, Free Flow’s vice president of racing, is flying in from Kuala Lumpur. He will be in San Francisco this evening and would very much like to meet with you. Our recent difficulties have been problematic for him. Free Flow’s CEO is starting to question the expenses of racing, especially after the unfortunate incident last week. Getting sponsorship from your company would help smooth over the situation.”

“You don’t think this will create friction with Arexpo?” Bolan asked, referring to Team Free Flow’s primary sponsor.

“Arexpo is an oil exploration company, not a refining company. They do not provide us with fuel. We purchase that,” Botros said, referring to an Italian fuel company. “Of course we would have to analyze your fuel at the factory, then conduct extensive testing before we could come to an agreement. You really must discuss these details with my superior.”

Bolan arranged to meet with bin Osman that night.

FOLLOWING THE MEETING, Bolan rode over to the Ducati garages in search of Eddie Anderson. Perhaps his supposed proof of his brother’s murder might help him find the missing plutonium. It was a long shot, but right now it was the best shot Bolan had. No one at the Ducati garages had seen Eddie. The soldier overheard Daniel Asnorossa remark to his crew chief in Spanish, “Maybe he’s off getting drunk, like his older brother.”

Bolan walked around behind the garage area to where the riders’ motor homes were parked. When practice got underway the following day, security in the area would tighten up, and by race day he knew he wouldn’t get near the motor homes without an official escort, but this early in the week the area was practically deserted and security was lax. Only about half a dozen truly driven riders like Anderson and Asnorossa had shown up this early; everyone else would drift in later that night or early the next morning.

He found Anderson’s motor home with the door wide open. The latch had been broken, and there were signs of some sort of struggle having taken place within the vehicle. Cushions had been knocked off the sofa and a broken cup and saucer lay on the floor in the kitchen area. A burner was still on under a stainless steel espresso pot on the stove and finely ground coffee was spread all over the counter and floor. Small drops of blood mixed with the coffee grounds and left a trail leading out the door. Bolan looked out the window above the stove and saw three men trying to stuff a struggling figure into the back of a Chevrolet Impala.

The Executioner exited the motor home and in several long strides he was almost to the car. The sight of the big man charging them momentarily distracted the kidnappers. Anderson took advantage of their paralysis, driving his knee into one of their crotches so hard he felt soft tissue rupturing in the man’s groin. He may not have been a physically large man, but what mass he had consisted of strong bones wrapped in corded muscles, the result of constant training, years of wrestling the most powerful motorcycles on Earth around racetracks and good genetics. The wounded man collapsed to the ground, only to be replaced by two others, the driver and the front-seat passenger.

Bolan reached the melee at the moment the driver stepped out of the car and pointed an AK-47 his way. He had no time to draw his own weapon but from the angle at which the man held the rifle against his hip the soldier could see that the shooter’s aim was high. The Executioner dived into the grass beneath the stream of bullets, sliding into the shooter’s legs and knocking him back into the car. Bolan leapt to his feet, grabbing the hot rifle barrel on his way up and wrenching it away from the shooter’s hands.

Meanwhile, Eddie Anderson fought like a demonic howler monkey against the two would-be kidnappers, but they were proving too much for him. Bolan raised the gun barrel over his head and brought the wooden stock down square in the shooter’s face. When he pulled the stock from the man’s face, which no longer bore any resemblance to a human face, he spun around and slammed the gore-covered rifle butt into the temple of one of the men attacking Anderson. The man fell to the ground.

Anderson had the other attacker on the ground, his knees pinning the man’s arms and his fist pumping into the man’s face. Anderson looked as if he might beat the man to death, but the fellow whose scrotum he had ruptured rose up and pulled him off the man before he could deliver the killing blow. The man Anderson had been beating struggled to his feet, blood spraying from a deep gash near his left cheekbone. He reached behind his back. Bolan knew he was going for a weapon so he swung the rifle stock around again and caught him right across his right temple, hitting him so hard that a geyser of blood erupted from the left side of his head. His eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground.

Bolan flipped the rifle around as he spun to see the remaining kidnapper holding Anderson in front of him, a 9 mm Glock 17 pressed to Anderson’s right temple. Bolan put the hooded post of the front sight on the portion of the kidnapper’s head that was the farthest away from Anderson. Though he had no idea how well sighted in the AK was, at this short range the executioner could see the gun barrel was pointed past Anderson’s head. He gave the trigger a short squeeze, firing off just one round even though the selector was on full auto.

That round did the business. The man flew back and dropped, his torso falling against the back seat through the open door. Anderson whirled around, ready to fight some more, but there was no one left to fight. The four would-be kidnappers all lay dead at their feet.

The dead man looked Asian, possibly Filipino, judging by what was left of their faces. Laguna Seca was still relatively empty and so far no one had arrived on the scene, but Bolan could tell the gunshots had attracted attention because of the sirens he heard coming their way. He looked inside the car and pulled out a magazine. Bolan knew it would be filled with blow-in subscription cards, so he shook it until four cards fell out. He dipped each of the kidnapper’s right-hand index fingers in blood and made fingerprint imprints on the card stock. He had the cards in the vest pocket of his sport jacket before the police arrived.

Four squad cars skidded to a stop on the grass. “You’re no gas salesman, are you?” Anderson asked the soldier.

“I’m a sales representative for the manufacturer of quality racing fuels,” Bolan said, “but I had some combat training when I was in the military.”

“Whatever,” Anderson said. “I don’t care. I’m just glad you came along when you did. Thank you.”

BOTH ANDERSON AND BOLAN spent the next several hours at the Monterey Police Department describing what had happened. Since Bolan wasn’t suspected of anything besides being a good Samaritan who stopped the kidnapping of a celebrity, they allowed him to ride his motorcycle to the precinct. This enabled him to stash his weapons before he went through the metal detector at the security checkpoint in the precinct’s entrance. Bolan’s credentials as Matt Cooper were impeccable, and even though his brutal slaying of the attackers raised suspicions, his reactions were justifiable, and they’d had a beneficial result for the department. Having one of the world’s top motorcycle racers kidnapped under their noses would have been a tremendous embarrassment to the force. Bolan was allowed to leave before Anderson, who remained behind because he wanted to tell the police his theories about his brother’s murder. After the attempted kidnapping, the authorities were much more interested in what had happened to Darrick Anderson. So was the Executioner, but at the moment he had other matters to attend to.

As soon as he was back at his hotel, Bolan scanned the fingerprints he’d pulled from the corpses on his portable scanner and sent them to Stony Man Farm. He wanted to find out who he’d just killed.

Within half an hour Aaron Kurtzman was on the phone with that information. “You were right about their being Filipinos, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “These were some particularly badass Filipinos, too, known members of Jemaah Islamiah.”

“So what’s the connection between these guys and Team Free Flow?”

Kurtzman paused, obviously reading through the information he’d uncovered in the short time since Bolan had sent him the fingerprints. “It all seems to point back to Musa bin Osman.”

“Speak of the devil,” Bolan said. “I have an appointment with him in three hours.”

“There’s something else you should know,” Kurtzman said. “The men you killed also had strong ties to the BNG.”

Bolan knew the BNG—the Bahala Na Gang—was one of the most powerful Filipino street gangs. Originally formed by inmates in the notorious jails of the Philippines in the early 1940s, the BNG eventually spread its operations around the globe. Originally Bahala Na meant “God willing,” in Tagalog, but in recent generations the term had come to mean a more fatalistic “whatever.” Fatalism defined the BNG, and fatality followed it from the Philippines to North America, where the organization had evolved into an especially violent criminal syndicate. The BNG was strong in the San Francisco area.

“I didn’t have time to examine the bodies before the police arrived,” Bolan said. “I didn’t see any question marks.” Each member of the BNG tattooed a question mark symbol somewhere on his body. “So these guys are hooked up with al Qaeda now?”

“At least the four men you killed today were,” Kurtzman said. “It might be more accurate to say that Jemaah Islamiah is hooked up with the BNG. My guess is that they’re just hiring the BNG for muscle.”

“That would be my guess, too,” the Executioner said.

“But they’re good muscle,” Kurtzman replied. “Watch your back tonight, Striker.”

“How’d they get into the paddock?”

Kurtzman took a moment to answer, meaning he was once again looking through the reports he and his team had generated. “Says here that they were posing as reporters for City Rider, a San Francisco-based motorcycle magazine.”

“Has our little altercation at the track this morning attracted any attention?”

“Attention? It’s being broadcast on every major news channel nonstop. You couldn’t have attracted more attention. All the major newshounds are already on the scene. I don’t know what’s going to be harder for you—finding the plutonium or dodging those nitwits.”