Serpent's Lair

“Oh great. The cavalry is here,” Honey answered. Her upper teeth clicked against the rings piercing her lower lip.

“I wish you well in your endeavor, Rebecca Anthony.”

“Call me Viscious Honey,” she answered.

Machida looked at her. “I wish you well, Viscious Honey.”

She managed a smile as the Yakuza man left the vehicle.

NICKLES LOOKED OVER at Hogan. “There was a quick spurt of cell-phone activity. Only one ring, though.”

“They’re good. We must have passed a scout. For people without military-level communications equipment, they’re very efficient,” Hogan answered. “Any word on Cooper?”

“No sign of him since he crossed the road and went into the woods over the top of the hill.”

“How long ago was that?” Hogan asked.

“Three minutes,” Nickles replied.

Hogan looked at the map strapped to his forearm and judged overland travel versus the speed and distance they had traveled by road in the convoy.

“There could be a small problem,” Hogan said. “This guy, Cooper, if he’s a fast runner, he might actually show up on site when we’re making the trade.”

“One more body to add to the pile,” Nickles pointed out. “He’s one guy with an 8-shot pistol.”

“Nine shots. Thomas always kept that thing cruiser-loaded with an extra shot in the chamber.”

“Nine bullets against us?” Nickles asked. “Body armor and automatic weapons and fifteen-to-one odds.”

“Not counting the Yakuza.”

“Who we’ll be taking care of, too.”

Hogan listened to his com man’s words and didn’t quite believe them. There was something about the lone FBI agent. Something that wasn’t right. He smelled phony as a Fed, but he actually seemed like someone Hogan would have picked up for his mercenary unit. The way he checked and cleared the Glock without even a second’s sloppiness showed him as a professional weapon handler. The way he handled himself against a half-dozen men stuffed into the back of a van, and evading four armed killers in the woods was further proof that Cooper was more commando than federal cop.

Hogan knew having him pop into the scene with his gun blazing would only serve to make a tough situation even worse.

The convoy pulled slowly into the clearing.

BOLAN HAD CLEARED the top of the mountain and was three-quarters of the way to the meeting site when he slowed and evaluated his gear. The Walther P-38 K was accompanied by four magazines and a cylindrical tube. Having a sound suppressor for the little handgun would give him an element of surprise, and if he couldn’t have audacity and superior firepower, he’d take stealth and deception on his side.

He quickly screwed the attachment into place and stalked slowly through the increasingly thick foliage. By the time he was in sight of the clearing, he saw Hogan’s lead car arriving.

Bolan also spotted a Yakuza gunman hunkered down behind a tree trunk with a bolt-action hunting rifle. The Executioner knew it wasn’t as clear-cut as a trap. Not with the kind of deal that Anthony wanted to make with the mobsters.

The sniper seemed oblivious to anything around him. Bolan knew from experience that good snipers were stealthy and could sneak in close to the enemy, but they needed a spotter, not only to confirm kills and record other intelligence, but to perform escort duty for the shooter.

Bolan was never ashamed to have someone watching his back as a sniper. But it seemed that the Yakuza gunman hadn’t been given such backup.

The Executioner stayed his hand. He scanned the shrubbery, looking for other hidden forms. He stopped counting when he reached five men, all armed with hunting rifles or long-barreled revolvers with hunting scopes. He couldn’t see more than the quintet present, but that was enough for him to realize that the mobsters were expecting the mercenaries to cause some trouble. The high-powered weaponry postioned at the tree line was enough to cut through even the best of body armor at that relatively short range. Firing from ambush, these five, and any others hidden at angles around the clearing, could make Hogan’s mercenaries honest.

The convoy rolled to a stop as Bolan looked at the main Yakuza vehicle, a white stretch limousine parked near a small, overgrown path leading back up the mountain.

The door to the limousine opened slightly, and Bolan caught sight of a young woman’s face, pale with lack of sunlight, the dark rings around her eyes highlighted by days’ old makeup. Light reflected off the two metal hoops that pierced her lip. It was Rebecca Anthony, or Viscious Honey as she apparently liked to be known.

Bolan looked at the gunmen with their backs to him. He could see that the girl was looking for a distraction, and probably didn’t have a clue about the armed men at the tree line who could cut her down if she tried to make a run for it. He lined up the sights of the Walther, knowing that even with a suppressor, the 9 mm bullet’s flight through the trees would bounce enough supersonic echoes to make it known that he was on the scene.

He’d be giving up his advantage.

But he’d be protecting a young life.

Despite the mission to destroy the Yakuza boss, he still had a duty to protect the helpless.

MACHIDA OPENED HIS JACKET and drew a Beretta from his shoulder holster, taking a deep breath as Hogan and his men got out of the van. They approached slowly and were not subtle about their body armor and automatic weaponry. He counted them and was pleased to see that there were fifteen. Perhaps they wouldn’t be foolish enough to initiate violence knowing they were outnumbered.

“Where’s the girl?” Hogan called out.

“She’s in the limousine. I have sharpshooters in hiding too,” Machida replied quickly.

Hogan paused in his journey to meet Machida halfway. “Sharpshooters? What for?”

“To make certain you behave.”

Hogan smirked.

“You come to take the girl. You will have the girl,” Machida explained. “However, we will have what we need, and we will go home happy as well.”

Machida watched as Hogan leaned toward one of his men.

“Oh, it’s never soft and easy, huh?” Hogan whispered. “Okay, bring out the girl, and we’ll give you the goods,” Hogan said loudly.

The sound a walking stick disturbing the gravel path broke off the dialogue.

BOLAN LOOKED TO HIS LEFT, to the overgrown path. A gaunt man wearing old-fashioned robes was tapping a seven-foot-tall walking staff as he made his way among the rocks and weeds. His wooden sandals swept aside stones and gravel with each step. From the length of his hair and beard, he seemed to be ancient. Bolan was torn between shouting for the old man to turn back and opening fire on the marksmen in the tree line.

He glanced down and saw that even the Yakuza men were looking among themselves. They, too, wanted to say something, and one of the gunners even waved at the walker on the path. Bolan knew enough Japanese to understand the hissed “Go back!” command.

The walker stopped, gazing glassily over to the tree line, scanning it as if to catalog the men hidden among the bushes and grasses.

Bolan held his fire as the limousine door was flung open in a sudden flash of movement.

Rebecca Anthony was running for her life into the middle of a hellzone.

HOGAN SHOUTED AS HE SAW the girl break from the limousine. “She’s getting away!”

Nickles ran toward the trees, making it three steps before a single gunshot into the sky brought everyone up short. Honey paused, halfway to the tree line, her feet already bleeding from cuts where the gravel of the clearing dug and jabbed into the soles of her bare feet. She was suddenly rethinking the preference of being shot in the back. She took a deep breath, then started whimpering as she glanced between Machida, Hogan and the stranger who was coming down the path.

“I’m not going to let you get away, Rebecca,” Machida called out. “Everyone stays where they are.”