Survival Reflex

“When you say missed…”

“My people found the place, all right. Just where you promised it would be. A scout saw people in the camp, guerrillas, some of them on stretchers.”

“So?”

“We still aren’t sure what happened. By the time he came back with the main force and they had the camp surrounded, there was no one there.”

The spook reached for another cancer stick. “You tipped them off somehow,” he said accusingly.

“We’re looking into it.”

“Fat lot of good that does.” He smoked and fumed.

“It’s worse,” the caller said.

“Worse than another empty bag? All right, tell me.”

“The team took casualties. One man dead, another six or seven injured.”

“How the hell? You said there was nobody there.”

“Some kind of booby trap, or maybe just an accident. We’re—”

“Looking into it, I know. This isn’t what we talked about at all. You understand that, right? This doesn’t just reflect on you.”

“Of course, you’ll blame me all the same,” the caller answered back, showing some attitude.

“I call ’em like I see ’em,” the spook said. “You said yourself, the intel I provided led your hunters to the target. They saw people in the camp, for Christ’s sake! Now you see ’em, now you don’t. What kind of crazy shit is that? You want to say it’s my fault that your people can’t throw down on targets standing right in front of them?”

“I will find out what happened.”

“Beautiful. And what about the mark?”

“We’ll have to try again.”

“Just like that, is it? Let my fingers do the walking through the goddamned business pages, maybe. See what they’ve got listed under traitor comma dirty fucking.”

“You have contacts,” the caller replied. “We have contacts.”

“And they’ve told us where to look for him three times. How many strikes are you entitled to, I wonder?”

“Strikes?” The caller was confused now.

“Never mind. Forget about it. I’ll put on my thinking cap again and see if I can find another angle. In the meantime, it’s your job to make sure that the latest screwup does not go public under any circumstances. Are we clear?”

“I hear you.”

“Right. But are you listening?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“I hope so, for your own sake.”

And for mine, the spook thought as he dropped the telephone receiver back into its cradle. Once again he felt the urge to rip, discard, destroy.

Instead he lit a fresh smoke from the one he’d had clenched between his teeth and waited for the nicotine to work its magic on his jangling nerves.

Spilled milk, he thought. No use crying about it.

What he needed now, and goddamned soon, was some spilled blood to solve his problem. One more chance, if he was very lucky, and he didn’t dare waste it.

But what was left?

He needed specialists.

And with that thought in mind, he reached for the hated telephone.

CHAPTER TWO

San Diego, California

Mack Bolan took his time on Harbor Drive, westbound, checking his rearview mirror frequently. He hadn’t been in San Diego for a while, no reason anybody should be looking for him here, but vigilance was the price of survival. The first time Bolan let his guard drop, taking personal security for granted, it was safe to bet that negligence would turn and bite him where it hurt.

No tails so far.

His progress in the rented Chevrolet was leisurely enough that other motorists were glad to pass him, but he wasn’t driving slow enough to risk a ticket for obstructing traffic. Just the right speed, Bolan thought, for someone seeking a specific address in an unfamiliar neighborhood.

The address in question belonged to a block of professional offices, one of those buildings designed to resemble a twenty-first-century bunker. It was bronze and brown, metal and stone, with windows that reflected sunlight in a painful glare across the nearby lanes of traffic. In short, it was an eyesore, but the ritzy kind that advertised the affluence of those who had their offices within.

He wheeled into the parking lot and checked the rearview mirror once more, just to play it safe. Nobody followed him, none of the other drivers slowed to track his progress as they passed.

Now all he had to think about was what might be inside the ugly building, waiting for him.

Theoretically, it was a friend he hadn’t seen in better than a year. The contact had been clean, secure on Bolan’s end, no glitches to excite suspicion. Still, he was alive this day because he always took that extra step, preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.

The parking lot was only half full at this hour, approaching lunchtime, and he found a space within a short sprint of the revolving glass door. No one was loitering outside, but tinted windows wouldn’t let him scan the lobby from his vehicle.

Twelve minutes left.

He didn’t have the hinky feeling that an ambush often prompted, small hairs bristling on his nape, but Bolan didn’t live by premonitions. Instinct, training and experience all went together in the mix, occasionally seasoned by audacity.

Do it or split, he thought.

He didn’t need to check the pistol slung beneath his left armpit in fast-draw leather—fifteen cartridges in the Beretta’s magazine and one more in the chamber—so he simply had to squeeze the double-action trigger. Two spare magazines in pouches underneath his right arm gave him forty-six chances to kill any assailants who might try to jump him at the meet.

Relaxed? No way.

Frightened? Not even close.