could now be heard from elsewhere on the yacht, along with the thuds of running feet.
“Come on!” The Kirkall brother wrestled with the door, shoving it open and pushing Barrett through. Stepping over him, Stuart pushed the door closed just as a body thumped into it from outside.
“James, help me—I can’t hold this against all of them—”
Barrett, however, couldn’t even help himself, his vision fading to gray as the blood loss started to take its toll on him. He heard a scream from somewhere in the room, then felt footsteps beside him as the door slammed open, Stuart falling over him with a grunt.
The sound of rapid, shouted Chinese filled the room as the hijackers beat Stuart to the floor. Barrett felt himself supported by warm, familiar hands, and looked up to see Rachel’s tear-stained face above him.
“What happened, baby?” She took his hand away from his stomach, stifling a gasp at the growing puddle of blood leaking out of him. “Oh, my God—James, we have to get hel—”
Before she could do anything, her head was jerked backward, and she was dragged away from him by her hair, screaming and grabbing her assailant’s hands. Barrett was left to flop onto the floor, helpless.
“Leave...her alone...” he gasped, trying to muster the strength to crawl after her attacker, but unable to make his arms and legs work. The last sounds he heard were the thuds of fists on flesh and the piercing screams of his girlfriend before darkness overtook him.
CHAPTER ONE
“These chulos better show up tonight. Gettin’ tired of feeling my rear end grow wider sitting all night waitin’ on ’em.”
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, turned from watching the dilapidated warehouse near the docks of the Los Angeles Harbor to shoot a wry look at his partner. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough, Cal.” His grin disappeared as he returned to watching the night. “If they want what we’re selling bad enough, they’ll be here.”
The two men were dressed in expensive, casual clothes: silk shirts, linen pants and tasseled Italian loafers. Bolan checked his appearance in the visor-mounted mirror, smoothing his gelled black hair one last time. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him out of a tanned face.
They sat in a silver Cadillac Escalade, its rear shocks compressed from the heavy load in the rear, peering through tinted windows at their eventual destination. Bolan suppressed his smile as he glanced at Calvin James, a member of Phoenix Force, and his partner for this op. “You ready?”
The lanky African-American snorted. “I was born ready. Just make the call. And remember, these fuckers don’t mess around. They sniff pork, we’re both dead men.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing we don’t mess around, either.” Bolan hit a speed-dial button on his cell phone and lifted it to his ear. “We’re here... Same ride as always... Hell no, we weren’t followed. Yeah, yeah.” He turned to James. “Flash your lights.”
James flicked the headlight switch on and off once, then again while taking one last look around to make sure no one was taking undue interest in what was about to go down.
Next to the warehouse, several large, rusty panel trucks rested in a parking lot, all encircled by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The gate to the lot was closed and secured with a rusty chain. Bolan thought he saw a glint of shiny metal on the chain, but before he could take a second look, the warehouse’s garage door rumbled up, revealing a cavernous, dark interior. A single light flashed on inside, casting a dim glow into the cloudy night.
“Let’s do it.” James put the SUV in gear and rolled forward.
Bolan fixed his partner with a searching gaze. “You followed my advice, right?”
“Yeah, although I still think we’re courting suicide to go in not packing.”
“We’re arms dealers, not users—there’s no reason for us to carry. Besides, the SUV’s armored, so just get to it in case of trouble, remember?”
“Yeah, it’s surviving the short trip in one piece that concerns me.”
“I suggest leaving your door open a crack. That split second to work the handle can make the difference between life and death.”
Now James glanced over at him, meeting Bolan’s calm, steady gaze. “Damn it, I never can tell if you’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
The gleaming SUV pulled up in front of a cluster of eight Latinos, all dressed in variations of the L.A. gangland look: baggy, low-riding jeans, white wife-beater
T-shirts, or flannels with the top button fastened, even in the city’s ninety-five-degree heat, and immaculate ball caps or bandanas tied low, almost covering their eyes. The light from the overhead lamp illuminated only the surrounding area, making Bolan’s threat sense tingle a bit; they had no way of knowing who might be in the darkness, waiting to attack when the time was right.
The garage door descended behind them, cutting off the outside with a slam of metal on concrete. The gang members slowly fanned out in a loose semicircle around the Escalade, no one making a sound.
“Time to get into character.” Slipping on a pair of blue-tinted, wire-rimmed glasses, Bolan took a breath, let it out and popped the door, swinging out and letting his Italian loafers hit the stained warehouse floor with a smack. The still air was redolent of gasoline and oil, making his nose wrinkle. He glanced around, taking in all the members in a quick sweep, and immediately sensing a difference in this gang. Other L.A. street gangs would be more relaxed making a buy on their home turf—smoking blunts, talking shit, posturing, the usual bull. This group was all business. In fact, Bolan was reminded of a pack, each one knowing his place and wholly intent on what he was about to do—whether that be consummate the deal, or beat the shit out of Bolan and James before killing them.
“Hola, amigos!” Bolan casually pushed the door shut, stopping it just short of closing, talking all the while to draw their attention away from what he was doing.
“You guys sure picked an out-of-the-way place— Hey, hey, there’s no need for that.” His protest went unheeded as two of the vatos stepped forward and quickly patted down Bolan and James, paying particular attention to the collars, waistbands, ankles and groins. Bolan glanced at James, his eyebrows narrowing in a silent warning not to make any kind of sarcastic remark.
One of the gang members stepped forward. “Hola, Mr. Sabato. Pleased t’see you kept your end so far.”
“I wouldn’t be much of a salesman if I tried to put one over on my clients now, would I? So what’s with the not-so-warm welcome?”
“None o’yer bus’ness. Let’s see whatcha got.”
“I like a man who gets to the point. Step around here into my office.” Bolan’s cover was a slightly motor-mouthed arms dealer—not his usual mode of operation, but he kept up the pretense as he led the gang leader to the back of the SUV. He hit the remote on his key fob, opening the tailgate to reveal four long olive-green wooden boxes. “Here they are.”
He stood back as the banger motioned two of his men forward to haul one out. As they worked, Bolan and his glasses watched and
