came on target, Bolan’s finger took up the slack on the trigger, the entire motion smooth, fluid and fast. The 9 mm slug punched through the pirate’s open mouth and ended his cry before the shout could escape his lungs.
The Executioner wasted no time. He searched the bodies, again finding nothing useful. Then he stripped the bolt from the rifle and left it in a wastebasket in the suite’s bathroom. Finally, he retrieved his knife, cleaned it and sheathed it.
He was back on the hunt, moving from cabin to cabin, listening for movement and carefully, quietly checking each chamber. He could not leave anyone, could not risk discovery. The operation hinged on clearing Deck 4 before he made his run on Deck 5.
He checked his ruggedized PDA once more as he reached the aft third of the deck, the change in décor and the signs warning “crew only” telling him he was once more exploring officers’ quarters. He had checked only two of these, finding them ransacked and devoid of personnel, when he found the first of the canisters.
The waist-high metal cylinder was bright yellow and emblazoned with chemical and biohazard warnings in Cyrillic. The warnings looked as if they had been spray-painted on recently. They were much more clear than the fading paint on the scarred metal tanks themselves. Bolan had enough experience with the language—and what the words on the canisters represented—to know he was dealing with something very dangerous. He found several more canisters in more of the unoccupied cabins. Unlike the first few, however, these had electronic devices of some kind attached to them, blinking green LEDs on each device indicating they were active and possibly armed.
They were detonators.
The engagement had suddenly become something much more than a simple hijacking. Bolan used the built-in camera in his wireless PDA, capturing digital images of the canisters and close-ups of the electronic detonators. He transmitted these to Stony Man Farm immediately, relying on the satellite encryption built into the device to safeguard the intelligence he was providing. He would have to risk the transmission itself. It was unlikely the pirates had the kind of sophisticated gear that could detect outgoing wireless phone signals, satellite or otherwise, but it was not impossible. Given the weapons of mass destruction he was now standing among, they could have anything. He would take the gamble in order to learn precisely what he was dealing with, if possible. Hundreds of lives could depend on it.
Bolan completed his count of the canisters and began to work his way back to the companionway that would take him to the next deck. Until he heard from the Farm he could do nothing but continue. He was about to check his weapons once more before ascending when he heard the faintest noise behind him.
The soldier whirled and ducked as he did so. The machete sang through the air and crashed against the metal bulkhead. Bolan brought the Beretta up and just as quickly lost it; a savage, numbing blow slammed into his wrist and sent the pistol flying onto the deck.
Bolan reacted instantly, pistoning a powerful front kick into his opponent. The blow took his opponent in the stomach, doubling him over and sending him back. Bolan crouched and ripped the knife free from its sheath as the pirate he faced struck a pose with a machete. The chipped and well-used blade glinted in the corridor lights.
“That’s right, bad man,” the pirate said. “I got your ass, just me.”
“You’re American,” Bolan said, genuinely surprised. The man in front of him was easily six foot five and three hundred pounds, a muscled monster of a man. He wore a torn desert camouflage BDU blouse with the sleeves cut off and stained blue jeans tucked into U.S. Army-issue combat boots.
“That’s right, for whatever that shit means,” the man said, his teeth very white in his scarred, dark-skinned face. “I was in Iraq, man.”
“And now you’re a pirate?” Bolan said. Keeping the man talking was the only way to buy time. He could not afford to have the pirate alert the others before he was ready to free the hostages. Strangely, the man facing off against him seemed to have no urge to do so. Quite the contrary, in fact. The pirate looked relaxed, even pleased.
“I been bored a long while,” the American pirate said. When he smiled the scar creasing his forehead and left cheek turned his features feral. “Don’t go in for the rape-and-pillage act. Ain’t no sex offender, man.”
“You’re as much a part of this as the others,” Bolan said. “You’re a traitor to your nation.” He moved slightly, testing the pirate’s reactions. The big man shifted a bit but remained calm, his fingers flexing on the handle of his machete.
“Don’t matter what you think,” the pirate scoffed. “I fought for my country. And what did I get when I got home? A big fat bag of nothing, man. And a nasty letter telling me they could call me back up anytime they felt like, even though I did my tour! I ain’t nobody’s slave, man. First chance I got I was out of there.”
“To take up with murderers and hijackers,” Bolan said.
“Kicked around from place to place a while.” The man began to circle Bolan in the corridor, forcing the Executioner to move to counter. He eyed the Beretta on the floor, beyond reach. The man caught his gaze and shook his head. “Uh-uh, tough guy,” he sneered. “I’m tellin’ my story. Don’t want to interrupt me before I’m finished.”
“All predators have justifications, rationalizations,” Bolan said. He gauged the distance, calculating a strike, knowing that for the best effect he would have to make his move while the other man was talking. Already he was breaking several tactical rules, allowing an enemy to engage him in dialogue, refusing to attack the attacker immediately. But he needed time. If he could resolve this quietly he might still have a chance.
“I ain’t no predator, man,” the pirate said, frowning. “I’m just me. I fight, that’s what I do. There weren’t nobody to fight once we got the crew taken care of. Where you been hidin’? I’d have remembered a big boy like you. We’re gonna have this out, and maybe for a few minutes at least I won’t be bored while they finish their damned game upstairs.”
So it did not occur to the pirates, at least not to this one, Bolan thought, that external forces could or would infiltrate the boat. That was good news—it indicated limited thinking. Bolan continued to circle, his knife held before him, wondering when the pirate would make the assault he was sure to initiate once he was finished with his monologue.
“There anybody else in your crew?” The pirate nodded to Bolan’s Beretta on the deck. “How many more are there? Where they hidin’? You tell me, man, and maybe I won’t cut you up real bad before I kill you. Come on, man, tell a brother how many—”
Bolan struck. He lunged inside the arc of the machete, and drove the point of his knife in a half-circle comma cut toward the man’s throat. To his credit, the American pirate was fast. He snapped his head back and brought the spine of the machete up, trying to parry Bolan’s knife arm with the only tool available to him. Bolan brought his support arm up across his chest, out of the way, as he snapped the blade of the knife diagonally into the pirate’s machete arm. The man howled as his arm was opened up. He stumbled back, dropping the machete and clutching at the terrible wound.
“You son of a—”
Bolan stomped on the man’s ankle, snapping it. As the traitorous pirate drew in a breath to scream, Bolan fell on him, driving the butt of the knife into the man’s temple. He struck again, then a third time, hammering the pirate insensate before he could make enough noise to expose the Executioner’s position.
Bolan scooped up his Beretta, press-checked it and turned back to the fallen American. The big
