Serpent's Lair

“You’re giving me new conditions for the deal? You already have the ransom from Anthony.”

“I’m not talking about the blueprints,” Machida answered. “Well, in a way I am.”

Hogan lowered his gun. “What are you talking about, then?”

“You came dressed to kill, so to speak. That’s why I had men watching, ready to burn you back. I figured you’d have body armor and automatic weapons,” Machida answered. “What I didn’t anticipate were the two problems coming out of the woods.”

“And how do you know they were two separate problems?”

“Simple. One didn’t want his presence known, but his hand was forced when you were about to shoot the girl,” Machida answered. “This one is Japanese. I’m not sure about the identity of the other man….”

“He’s allegedly an FBI agent named Matt Cooper,” Hogan replied.

“Allegedly an FBI agent? Or allegedly named Matt Cooper?” Machida inquired further.

“Both. I’m thinking he was using us to get closer to you and your boss, and just ended up on the wrong end of our sting,” Hogan answered.

Machida rubbed his chin. “A temporary truce, then? It’ll be more profitable to work together. And there is nothing wrong with taking the blueprints you have, and making two copies of them. One you can blackmail Anthony with, and one we can sell on the black market.”

Hogan tilted his head. “It sounds like a win-win situation.”

“But does it sound acceptable to you?”

The mercenary put his hand forth. “It’s a deal.”

Machida didn’t trust the American as they pressed flesh, but at least it would give the Yakuza headman some stretch to figure out how to deal with him.

BOLAN CAME TO A HALT, his reserves of strength exhausted during his frantic run through the trees with Rebecca Honey in his arms. He set her down and squatted, looking at her feet.

“What’re you stopping here for?” Honey asked, trying to mask her doubt and uncertainty with a hard edge to her voice.

Bolan didn’t bother looking up from the cuts on the soles of her feet. Most of them were shallow, but a couple of them were deep and painful looking, seeping blood. He grabbed his T-shirt and ripped it. There was a slight gasp as Honey looked at his naked abdomen.

“Did you lose a fight with a weed cutter?” she asked.

Bolan shook his head. “Occupational hazard. Scar tissue. Your feet look like they’ll be okay if I can control the bleeding with some direct pressure compresses.”

“And all you have is your T-shirt. What happened, you forgot to go to the standard action-hero supermarket before going on this little adventure?” Honey asked. She looked down at herself, her deliberately torn clothing had no extra material to add to her own healing.

“Why the hell were my father’s men trying to shoot me?”

“They wanted more money,” Bolan answered.

“And you?”

“Name’s Matt Cooper. FBI Hostage Rescue Team. Rebecca…”

“Call me Viscious Honey…or Honey for short.”

Bolan looked at her. “Honey, we’re cut off and have to find some transportation out of this valley. There are men hunting us down who would like nothing better than to gut me like a fish and leave me to watch whatever they’re going to do to you.”

Honey nodded. “Let ’em try something. I’ll make it cost them. Though, I am curious at how well the kidnappers treated me.”

“Not due to honor. Just smart business on the part of the Yakuza. However, Hogan’s going to show you off, roughed up, probably even tape any beating or other abuse they inflict on you,” Bolan said.

“I’m not going back to my father.”

Bolan sighed. “I don’t care what you do. I just want to make sure you’re away and safe. If you do what I say, things will be all right.”

Bolan tightened the strip of cloth around Honey’s foot and she gasped again, wincing in pain. Her foot was wrapped from the ball to near the ankle, a single restraining strap up around her ankle providing her with some security for her injured foot. Bolan pressed his thumb along her other foot, but only received a faint hiss as he touched one particularly deep cut.

“I’m trying to give the worst, most painful cuts as much protection as I can. I wish there was a better way, but at least your injuries will be wrapped up until I can get you some footwear,” Bolan said. “If we’re lucky, the next Yakuza guy I fight will have boots you can manage in.”

Honey smirked. “Great. You’re not only a shining knight, you’re an eternal optomist.”

“Planning ahead for possibilities and probabilities. I’m hoping to avoid conflict the rest of the way back to Tokyo, but in case we can’t, I’m going to make the most of the fights,” Bolan answered. “Even if that means looting a few dead bodies.”

Honey’s lip quivered, then she shrugged. “I don’t mind. They kidnapped me, and they want to kidnap me again.”

Bolan took a moment to withdraw the Walther and replace its partially spent magazine with a fresh one. He set the weapon in the grass and Honey reached for it. Bolan froze, looking at her as she held the weapon in her lap.

“I don’t want to leave it behind,” she said. “It’s the only gun you have, right?”

Bolan regretted ditching the hunting rifle, but he had no spare ammunition for it, and he’d needed his arms free to carry Honey. “Yeah.”

Bolan removed the Yakuza gun belt and unhooked the pouches and holster from it. They were all connected to the belt, by J-hooks, so he didn’t have to take off his own belt and run it through the loops. He clipped them on firmly, then stashed the partially spent magazine in its pouch. He held out his hand for the Walther.

Honey seemed reluctant to turn it over, though she wasn’t aiming it at him.

“Honey, we don’t have time for this. What’s wrong?”

“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked. “You don’t look like an FBI agent.”

“What makes you think that?” Bolan asked.

Honey pointed to the scars across his body, visible through the open front of his torn shirt. “An FBI agent with that much scar tissue would have had a desk job by now. Knifed and shot that many times? Plus you have another gun,” she said, pointing at his shoulder.

Bolan gingerly slid out of the Glock’s holster, the leather scraping his injury.

“Hogan, your father’s mercenary, gave me a dead pistol. Took the firing pin out so it wouldn’t shoot. I had to ditch it.”

He took the shoulder holster and began digging briefly. When he had a hole big enough, he shoved the useless belt, holster and Glock ammunition into it then pushed and smoothed leaves and dirt back over it.

Honey moved closer to Bolan, her eyes wide. She handed over the Walther, and Bolan took it, instinctively knowing that their pursuers were close. He made a count of the enemy. There were nine visible across the section of woods that he could see.

“That way,” Bolan said, pointing. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yeah. Let me go first into any traps?” Honey asked. “Who knows what kind of shit that creepy skinny guy left all over this valley.”