Outback Assault

“It’ll take us a while to get a flight to Darwin.”

“I’ll arrange it all for you. You can pick up the tickets at the counter,” Waylon informed him. “Do I have you on board, or do I have to look elsewhere for someone with balls?”

“Nobody tells me I ain’t got balls, Eugene,” Victor snarled. “I’ll rouse the boys and we’ll bring this fucker’s head to you.”

Waylon smiled, and told them at which airline they could pick up their tickets.

With a group of easily goaded, overly macho thugs like these four, Eugene Waylon could not only recover from the loss of Augustyn, but continue living in the style he was accustomed to.

But first things first. The tall man in black was going to have to die.

4

Bolan’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he plucked it out.

“We’ve got a sighting on the girl,” Bobby Yeung said. “I’ve got a man on her tail, but he’s holding back, as per your instructions.”

“Good,” Bolan replied. He pushed away his dinner plate and snapped his fingers for the waitress to bring his check. The efficiency of the Chinese gangsters was excellent, and Bolan knew he’d only needed to wait until they had spotted Arana Wangara. “No contact until I arrive.”

“You’ve got it,” Yeung answered. “The address is in text format.”

Bolan looked at it. He’d picked a small diner in the general neighborhood of the Darwin bus station, and Wangara’s location was only a few blocks away, according to the tiny GPS map screen on his phone. The waitress arrived and Bolan paid her, leaving twice as much for her tip than his meal cost.

“Keep the change,” Bolan told her and he left the restaurant, his jacket hanging loosely over his broad shoulders. Its billowing folds hid the Walther P-99 hanging in its shoulder holster. No bulge was visible, despite the fact that the weapon’s blunt suppressor was still attached.

Having memorized Wangara’s last reported position on the GPS screen, he made a beeline, altering his course to get ahead of the Aboriginal woman. Bolan didn’t want to spook her, and he knew if he took custody of her, with the Chinese gunmen alongside him, he would never be able to win her trust. The Executioner figured he needed at least a minute of privacy to explain his ruse to her, otherwise there was a good possibility that he’d be forced into a gunfight with the gangsters.

A shootout would blow Bolan’s cover with the Black Rose Triad, and potentially draw the attention of the law. Kurtzman had been able to finesse new background information for the gun dealer in order to provide Red with some cushion, and to keep tighter observation on him. The cyber expert had given Bolan a heads-up that Waylon was making calls over a heavily encrypted line. Augustyn’s paranoia had been such that he had tight security on his cell phone and Waylon’s. With a constantly morphing encryption key, it took even the Farm’s awesome computer resources more than a minute to break each phone call, and Waylon’s phone discipline was strict, hanging up before Kurtzman could determine the contents or the recipients of the call.

It was one of the reasons the Executioner had stopped off at a grocery store and bought some duct tape and a heavy-spined butcher’s knife as soon as he left the airport. Tucked under his shirt in a duct tape and cardboard sheath, the butcher’s knife was invisible under his waistband, but the foot-long blade had the power to punch through bone and heavy muscle. Two paring knives strapped to his forearms were backups, their blunt, triangular points making them good throwing weapons once he popped off their handles, turning them into front-heavy darts. With the tape-fashioned forearm sheaths, he could have whipped out the improvised throwing knives and planted them in the throats of whatever gunmen were backing Red’s play.

The fact that Red hadn’t sprung a trap on him was the only reason the Executioner hadn’t exploded into a flash of bloody action and taken his head off with the butcher’s knife. Restraint had saved the Australian black marketeer’s life, as well as those of his henchmen. Of course, Red’s honesty had only confirmed Bolan’s suspicions. He would have to return to Hong Kong to deal with the lying, traitorous Waylon.

Since visiting Red, Bolan’s improvised combat knives were supplanted. He’d put the butcher’s knife away and had replaced it with a Gerber LMF Bowie to back up his 9 mm handgun.

Bolan moved at a steady pace, mindful of appearing too aggressive. Wangara, having been stalked halfway across the continent, would be on edge, and if he approached her like a bull, she’d turn and run like hell. He didn’t need that, either. A six-foot-plus white man chasing a young Aboriginal woman through the streets would also attract unneeded attention.

He spotted Wangara, her head tucked down, white earbuds dangling around her neck. Her knapsack looked lumpy and heavy, as if it were packed with rocks rather than clothes. The Executioner realized she wasn’t going to be a pushover if anyone stepped up to her and tried anything rough. Picking up his pace, he caught up with her and slowed to match her stride. It took a few moments for her to notice him, but he was too close for her to pull down her bag and swing it to crack his head.

“Don’t make a scene, Arana,” Bolan said softly, almost soothingly. “I know you’re being chased. The people after you think I’m working for them.”

She looked up at him, brown eyes wide and fearful. The young woman took a sidestep, and only ended up bouncing against a storefront. Bolan rested his hand on her shoulder, pinning her shoulder strap in place to defang her. “I’m not looking for a fight. In fact, I don’t want you hurt at all,” he said.

Wangara looked at the hand on her shoulder, then longingly at her knapsack. She pursed her lips and sighed. “I came here looking for help. Those Chinese destroyed my home.”

“I figured as much,” Bolan answered. “I want you alive and safe. That means you have to pretend that you’re frightened of me.”

Wangara glanced up at him. “That won’t be difficult.”

The Executioner nodded. They stopped walking and Bolan checked on the two Black Rose Triad soldiers on their tail. They were closing in, relaxed. One had a smug smirk on his face, glad that they had finally gotten their job done. “Just stay close,” he said.

“I figured I was in for a rough time,” Wangara said calmly.

“You’re safe from that for now,” Bolan told her, taking her knapsack. He opened it and saw three heavy rocks. “I just need to ditch these two.”

Wangara looked at him and took a step back. “Why?”

Bolan grabbed her wrist tightly and tugged her closer. The move looked harsher than it felt. Bolan didn’t want to seem too accommodating of the young woman in front of the gangsters, but he measured the amount of force he used perfectly. “Stay close,” he repeated.

Looking back to the Chinese mobsters, he saw them slow, looks of doubt crossing their features. A deft turn of his head allowed Bolan to see what was up. A van slowed, the side panel rolled back and men in black sat perched to leap out. Bolan yanked Wangara off her feet and twisted, throwing himself through the plate-glass window of a clothing store, his broad shoulders smashing the glass and shielding the woman from shards and splinters. As his feet cleared the hole he’d created, he heard the crack of handguns filling the air. Bolan and the young woman struck the floor as bullets popped above their heads, the high velocity creating miniature sonic booms that crackled in the Executioner’s ears.

He pushed Wangara against the base of the wall with one hand, the other pulling the Walther from its shoulder leather in one swift movement. “Stay down!” he shouted.

Bolan rolled to one knee, the 9 mm pistol leading the way. He spotted a handgun-wielding Chinese man gaping at the broken window, wondering at the blur of motion that had snatched his target out of the way. The Executioner milked the trigger twice. Bullets tore into the chest of the gunman, the shooter’s dying reflex jerking him back toward the panel van, forcing his allies to stumble as they tried to get out of the vehicle.

Bolan swept his Walther to a second gunman and punched a single 9 mm pill through his ear. The Asian marauder tumbled face-first to the concrete, eliciting a cry of dismay from the van’s driver. A third and a fourth gunman exploded through the open side panel, spreading out in response to Bolan’s marksmanship. The Executioner dropped and rolled on his shoulders as a shotgun belched violently. A clothing rack above him jerked and billowed under the 12-gauge assault, pellets shredding fabric, hangers clanking on metal tubing. People in the store screamed in fear, but Bolan’s explosive entry had driven them to cover. No one had been struck by gunfire yet, except the attackers.