Murder Island

“You’ll do what you think is best, Striker. You always do.” Brognola paused. “Before we lost contact with him, Spence said there’d been trouble.”

“Someone tried to stop the plane,” Bolan said. “Given the situation, I figured it didn’t matter who they were.”

“Ops like this leak like sieves, you know that. And chances are, word about the plane vanishing has already spread. That means you might not be alone in your search. Think you can handle that?”

“Definitely,” Bolan said.

“If you wait, I can have Lyons and the others—”

“We don’t have time, Hal. I’m our best shot and you know it.” He sighed. “If I need help, I’ll call. You know that.”

“I know, Striker.” Brognola sounded tired. “Be careful. Call me back when you’re ready to go and I’ll have those coordinates for you.”

“Always am, and I will,” Bolan said and hung up. It looked as if his reckoning with Gapon was going to be postponed a little while longer.

He sat for a moment, the phone in his hand, considering his options. He couldn’t charter a flight legally—not without adding to the plethora of complications—which meant he had to find a pilot who didn’t mind working off the books. He also needed someone who knew the area, which narrowed his pool of candidates substantially. He knew a few pilots with those qualifications, but he didn’t have time to track them all down to see whether they were free. The longer he went without finding Spence’s plane, the less likely it was he’d ever find it, if it had crashed. There was a lot of ocean between Hong Kong and Tokyo.

He tossed the phone onto the bed. That was the question, however. Had the plane crashed? Or had it gone off course and, if so, why? It was a mystery, and Bolan hated mysteries.

His job right now was to find a pilot, and quick. And he knew just the man who could help him.

With a sigh, Bolan left his apartment and went back upstairs. The three thugs were gone and the rain was coming down steadily, pooling ankle-deep on the roof. Mr. Regmi was still at his table, examining his Mahjong board. He looked up as Bolan sat across from him.

“I might have time for a game, after all,” Bolan said.

6 (#ulink_fec4b587-805f-51b8-8969-677ebe5f952c)

Tai Kok Tsui, Kowloon Peninsula

Music spilled out into the wet night as Bolan entered the bar. The Beretta was a comforting weight, hidden beneath his coat, but even so, he remained wary. He was carrying a heavy duffel bag, packed with his gear and enough untraceable cash to tempt even the most honest man.

The bar was crowded and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the tang of spilled alcohol. In the background, multiple televisions showed sports, newscasts and music videos, the noise of each merging into a single dull pulse. Hopefully, his stay wouldn’t be long.

Mr. Regmi had been only too happy to divulge the whereabouts of Bolan’s first choice of possible pilots, and all for the price of a game. Bolan had lost, as always, though not for lack of trying. Regmi was a terrible teacher. Or maybe he simply liked winning. But he’d told Bolan where to find McQueen.