or military group would stage an attack on the ship in an attempt to save the hostages. He had counted, as had the Russian, on the presence of the American government man’s family to discourage such an attempt.
The West was notoriously weak when it came to hostages. As long as they thought there was a chance those held would be released unharmed, they would not use force to resolve the situation. It was one of the things that made the West easy to defeat. For all their superior military might, they were helpless in the face of basic guerilla tactics. Put a gun to a single woman’s head and an entire army could be held in check by weak-kneed politicians. Tranh did not pretend to understand this particular failing on the part of such rich, strong countries. He knew only that it worked in his favor.
Wu had finished his recitation and Noor was beginning to pack up the satellite transmission equipment. The hostages were starting to cry and sob anew as what they had heard began to reach them beyond their fear. Tranh eyed them, finger hovering over the trigger guard of his Kalashnikov, wondering who among them might decide to surge forward.
Then he heard what sounded like gunshots from the lower deck.
Tranh’s first thought was that his men had gotten carried way and started firing at each other. Or, he thought, it was possible they had found some passengers hiding somewhere and were eliminating them. When the gunfire continued, however, he became concerned.
Word of the transmission would reach around the world quickly enough, and those whom the Russian sought as customers would seek him out. But the Western powers would be alerted, as well. The Russian had stressed as much; Tranh was well aware that now, with their true plan out in the open, forces might well convene on the ship. An hour’s time was supposed to be enough for Tranh to finish his business, make the example and get out, while preventing those who wished to free the hostages from mounting an effective assault.
Merpati was circling the ship in a long, slow patrol of the area, and had detected no approaching vessels. The speedboat had a crude fish-finder electronics package that would, Tranh hoped, alert them to the approach of something large like a submarine. Therefore there was no way they could be taken by surprise unless, somehow, the enemy had risked sending men before the message.
They would have to be on board already.
Tranh turned, Kalashnikov in hand, to face the nearest lounge doorway leading to the companionway to the deck below. Some fleeting forewarning of danger, some dread sensation, made him duck his head and cradle it in his arm.
The deafening blast and sudden burst of brightness sent flashes of white fire dancing through his closed eyes. Tranh was knocked onto his back, the world disappearing in a burst of light and sound.
4
Some pirates streamed past the Executioner as he stood pressed against the bulkhead opposite the corridor where they ran. They had descended from Deck 5, and moved with a haste that could mean only one thing. Time was up. There was no more need for stealth. The pirates knew there was a problem aboard.
Bolan drew the Desert Eagle from its holster with his right hand, filling his left with the Beretta. As one of the pirates approached, Bolan stepped out into the corridor. He leveled both guns at arm’s length, drew in a breath, let it out halfway and chose his targets. Then he took up slack on both triggers.
The weapons fired.
The Desert Eagle sounded like the hammer of some angry war god in the enclosed space of the corridor. The pirates were taken completely by surprise as the slugs ripped into them. Bolan made several head shots on the closest targets, his keen marksman’s instincts kicking in as he knocked down the enemy like bowling pins. One of the pirates, armed with a sawed-off shotgun, triggered a blast. The pellets went wide and shattered a decorative planter affixed to the bulkhead, blowing the plastic plant to shreds.
The Executioner tracked the man and triggered a single round from the Desert Eagle. The .44 Magnum slug blew a channel between the man’s eyes. He crumpled in a twisted heap, dead before he reached the deck.
Two more pirates who had ducked into nearby cabins emerged with Kalashnikovs in their hands. They blazed away down the corridor, their aim wild, fear evident in their faces as the orange muzzle blasts from their rifles lit their faces. Bolan stood his ground, crouching slightly, and pumped a triple burst from the Beretta into one pirate while triggering a .44 Magnum blast into the other.
Sudden silence followed the gunfire.
Bolan quickly assessed his targets visually, verifying that they were dead or out of action. Then he ran back the way he’d come, toward the companionway, holstering the Beretta and charging up to Deck 5 as he unclipped a flash-bang charge from his combat harness.
A pirate with a Kalashnikov somehow saw him and covered his face as Bolan planted one foot against the lounge door. As he shoved the door open, he tossed the primed flash-bang, ducking backward and shielding his ears while squeezing his eyes shut. The grenade burst, a miniature sun filling the lounge with merciless noise.
Bolan waited just long enough for the effects to reach tolerable levels. He stormed the lounge, both guns in his hands, scanning the writhing crowd of hostages and pirates in order to discern hostiles from innocents. The first pirate, the one he’d seen through the door, had crawled off somewhere in the blast. Bolan instead focused on those pirates he could see among the crowd, moving through the lounge with his guns leveled. A pirate clutched at a submachine gun and tried to rise. Bolan shot him. Another attempted to find the door, moving among the screaming, sobbing hostages. Bolan ended his struggles with a single round to the head. The Executioner made several circuits through the large, cluttered lounge space, ending the lives of the pirates before they could harm the hostages. Gunfire echoed and the smell of fired cartridges filled the space, competing with the sounds and smell of fear.
The Executioner knew this world only too well.
Stepping deftly over struggling passengers, who appeared to be recovering from the blast, Bolan found the nearest exit doors, leading forward. He burst through, knowing he could trigger a trap, but knowing, too, that he had no time to spare waiting out his enemies. As he threw himself through, low and fast, the unmistakable burst of Kalashnikov fire ripped through the air above his head. The hollow metallic sound of the AK-pattern receiver was burned indelibly in Bolan’s brain, something he would not forget for as long as he lived. From the deck, Bolan brought up both the Desert Eagle and the Beretta, punching snap-fired rounds into the pirate’s belly and knocking him down.
Something beeped.
Bolan hurried over, his guns trained on the fallen pirate. The small man, who looked Vietnamese to Bolan’s practiced eye, looked up at him, his eyes glazing, as blood pumped from the wounds in his stomach. He made no attempt to reach for the fallen rifle he’d held. On the deck next to him was an electronic device Bolan did not recognize, and an open wireless satellite phone.
“Too…” the pirate said.
Bolan leaned closer, mindful of a sneak attack.
“Too…late…” the pirate whispered.
“What is too late?” Bolan asked urgently. “Who are you?”
“Tranh…” the pirate said, his voice failing. “You…killed…me…” His words turned into a death rattle. “But…you…die.”
The pirate stared up in death, eyes empty. The Executioner grabbed the phone. Whatever call the man had made had been disconnected. He tried reestablishing
