That was their relationship in a nutshell. Meltzer had read his share of four-color funnies as a kid and he’d seen enough movies to know what happened to henchmen. Well, it wasn’t going to happen to him.
“I said I needed to think,” he repeated softly. His fingers brushed against the Mauser’s grips. He didn’t want to kill them—any of them—but he would if he had to. For now, he needed them. They were his muscle, and good muscle was hard to find in the current economic climate. Russian oligarchs and Saudi royalty paid more, and the private security companies offered better benefits. All Cloud offered was access to hardware and a blind eye in regard to repeat indiscretions.
“And I said—” Horowitz began, obviously looking to start something.
Meltzer was almost tempted to let him land the first punch. Instead he jerked to his feet and aimed his pistol at the other man’s crotch. He caught hold of Horowitz’s collar.
“I don’t care what you said,” Meltzer replied calmly. “Cloud didn’t hire you for your skills as a raconteur. He hired you because you’re a murderous thug.” He let his eyes roam across the faces of the others. “That’s why he hired you all. But don’t forget that I’m the biggest, most murderous thug here, right? And I need to think.” He dug the barrel of his pistol into Horowitz’s crotch. “You feel me, chum?” he asked, letting his gaze settle on Horowitz. When the man nodded, he stepped back and holstered his pistol. “Good, glad we got that cleared up.”
Horowitz backed away. “We still don’t know what we’re doing. The locals are going to be all over this place before we know it,” he said sourly.
“And we won’t be here when that happens.” Meltzer had made plans for just such an eventuality. There’d been no predicting when Cloud would wear out his welcome in Hong Kong, so he’d thought it best to be prepared. He let out a slow breath.
“Right, here’s what we do. Horowitz, Vasily, check out that airfield. Whoever was set up there has probably bugged out, but they might have left something behind. I’m betting that plane was heading to Tokyo, but I doubt that’s the final destination. Cloud hasn’t pissed off the Yakuza, to my knowledge.”
He clapped his hands together. “The rest of you know the drill. Start burning files—hell, burn the sheets. Burn everything. This place is going to be as busy as Grand Central Station at rush hour when people figure out what’s happened, and we don’t want anybody getting their hands on anything. We’re already in enough trouble. I’ll take care of Cloud’s office.” He paused. “Oh, and somebody get the tiger out of the kitchen, huh? We’ll drop it off at an animal sanctuary or the bus station or something. And get my phone while you’re in there. I have a few calls to make.”
Sham Shui Po District, Kowloon Peninsula
The Executioner’s Hong Kong safehouse wasn’t very big, but then, Bolan had never required much space. He rented the apartment under an assumed identity provided for him by Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s burly computer expert. Kurtzman had found the space in the gray market and rented it out through local brokers. The top-floor apartment had been made into Bolan’s safehouse. It contained only a military cot, a fridge full of cheap food bought from the large market on the corner of Ki Lung Street and, of course, an armory.
The latter wasn’t as well-stocked as Bolan ordinarily liked. It was built into the apartment’s closet and hidden behind a wealth of knock-off clothing bought from street vendors on Cheung Sha Wan Road. Bolan had constructed it himself, using the materials he’d had at hand to create a false back. Behind a section of loose paneling, he kept a spare set of gear—another set of fatigues, body armor and web gear, a UMP and ammunition and a backup pistol.
He’d left the airfield as soon as possible. Once Spence and Cloud were in the air, Bolan had figured that his part in the operation was done. He’d taken the truck and left it several blocks from the safehouse. Spence’s ground crew would take care of the bodies left behind and the helicopter, and then split, if the Agency was still following standard protocol. Someone in the chain of authority would smother any reports of gunfire, and the whole event would be buried under Bullshit Mountain, along with every other screwup.
And it had been a screwup. As he stripped out of his shredded body armor and damp fatigues, Bolan wondered whose mistake it was. Had Cloud’s helicopter been tracked to the airfield? Or had there been a leak somewhere further up the line? The truck must have been in transit not long after he’d caught Cloud, which meant that whoever had sent it was efficient, or they had reason to suspect where it was going. If it was the latter, then Spence’s operation was compromised and had been since the beginning.
In Bolan’s experience, that was true of most such operations. It was one of the many reasons he preferred to work alone; fewer moving parts meant fewer mistakes. Dressed now in his street clothes, he sat on the cot, swiftly dismantled both pistols and then dried and oiled them. They could survive a dunking, but proper weapon maintenance was paramount in the Executioner’s view.
Once he was finished, he would arrange for his departure. When Brognola’s call had come, Bolan was preparing for another mission—one of his own, rather than one for Stony Man. The target was a man named Gapon, an ex-KGB operative. Bolan had never come face-to-face with Gapon, but he’d seen the killer’s handiwork more than once. He had photos, a mug shot and files spread across the cot, and he flipped through them as he worked.
Gapon, like a lot of former KGB agents, had found new employment with the Russian mafia. He’d put his skills to use, doing terrible things for terrible people, and he was currently in Melbourne. It was possible that Gapon had contracted out to one of the many organized crime cartels based in Melbourne, such as the Carlton Crew or the Honoured Society, but for what reason, Bolan couldn’t tell.
He’d been happy enough to put that particular job on the back burner, for Brognola. Whatever Gapon was up to, he hadn’t looked as if he was going anywhere anytime soon. But now that Cloud was safely in Spence’s custody, Bolan could deal with Gapon.
Spence’s offer of a lift had been tempting, but Bolan preferred making his own way, where possible. Fewer screwups were likely if he handled his own transportation. Besides, Bolan wasn’t sure if he could have taken any more time in close confines with Cloud. With Gapon, he could kill the man and be done with it, rather than have to play nice. A smile spread across his face as he considered what the future held. At the very least, Gapon wouldn’t throw a tiger at him.
As he worked he listened to the noise drifting down from above. The roof of the tenement was home to a claustrophobic mass of concrete huts and shanties of wood and tin. The residents were mostly Nepalese, with a few Pakistani families in the mix. The tenement was noisy, even at night, but he didn’t mind. Though he was a solitary man by nature, Bolan liked the rush of life and the noise and the smells of food cooking. Occasionally he needed to remind himself why he fought.
Someone knocked on the door. Bolan tensed. He went to the closet and retrieved his spare Beretta, clipping the holster to his belt. He went to the door and opened it slightly. A young woman stood outside in the hall, looking nervous and fearful. She said something in rapid-fire Nepali but switched to English when Bolan shook his head.
“Come quick,” she said. “Mr. Regmi
