Executioner - Tiger Stalk Part 5

The weapon could be fired one-handed when necessary.

Nine millimeter parabellum bullets hurtled out of the barrel at the rate of six hundred rounds a minute, with a velocity of 1,250 feet per second.

Changing magazines took but seconds.

Bolan was glad he was holding an Uzi now.

It was one of the few weapons he trusted in combat.

The building was dark. He tried to peer through the dirt-streaked windows, but the light inside was too dim to see anything clearly.

The soldier decided to try another tactic.

He banged on the door with the b.u.t.t of his Uzi, then stepped to one side and waited.

The door opened, and three Orientals in fatigues looked outside. In a Cantonese dialect, they shouted a question that Bolan didn't understand.

He kept silent.

Two of the guards left the warehouse and looked around.

The Executioner stepped out of the darkness, the silenced Uzi grasped in his right hand. Unleas.h.i.+ng a sustained burst from the Israeli subgun, he saw the first guard stare at him in shock moment, then crumple in a heap on the ground as life pumped out of his arteries and onto his fatigues.

The second Oriental hardman swung his AK-47 toward Bolan.

In one smooth, fluid move Bolan chopped at his adversary's throat with the hardened edge of his palm. He could hear the small bones in the neck breaking as his palm pushed through them and ruptured the man's carotid blood vessel. The corpse spun, then fell against the side of the warehouse door before sliding slowly into the dirt.

The third guard stepped out to stare at the bodies of his two fallen comrades, then moved into the street to kill the man who had committed this unthinkable act.

He had hesitated too long. The Uzi spit a volley of rounds that destroyed his face before he could lift his AK-47. His lower jaw dissolved as the slugs exploded into fragments inside his mouth.

He fell forward and collapsed at Bolan's feet.

The Executioner stopped and listened for any sounds that might indicate that there were more gunmen waiting in ambush inside the building. There was none. Instead the area was filled with an eerie silence. He risked a peek inside.

Except for the tall stacks of crates lined up in rows, there was nothing and no one in the building.

The Executioner wasn't fooled. Attempts to lull him into similar traps had been tried before.

The piles of cartons were adequate hiding places for a.s.sa.s.sins. Any number of armed killers could be waiting for him to pa.s.s by.

He moved cautiously as he entered the building, trying to make as little sound as possible. But, even as softly as he moved, he could hear the slight sounds made by the soles of his combat boots.

Bolan stopped short when he heard a shuffling noise above him. Glancing up, he saw two fatigue-clad Orientals, gripping their 7.62 mm Type 85 submachine guns as they climbed over the top of a stack from the other side.

Before the soldier could respond, the men had dropped on their stomachs and prepared to fire.

There was no time to aim. Bolan swung up his Uzi and squeezed off six rounds. The shots found their targets, coring the brains of the two would-be snipers.

At the sound of booted feet heading his way, Bolan unclipped a frag grenade from his combat vest, pulled the pin and threw the multigrooved bomb in a slow, loping spin over the tops of the tall stacks.

Flattening against the stone floor, he covered his head with his hands as the grenade exploded into thousands of deadly metal fragments across the room.

A series of explosions rocked the stacks of crates, destroying many.

The explosions finally became fewer and fewer, then stopped.

Crouching behind the heavy wood cases, the soldier waited to see how many men would attack.

Nine fatigue-clad men charged him, but the Executioner was ready. He weaved the Uzi back and forth in a tight figure-eight pattern that punched the attackers to the floor.

Only one showed signs of life, moaning as Bolan leaned over him.

"Where is the Indian negotiator being held?" the soldier asked in Cantonese.

In response the hardman made a move toward his autopistol. Bolan ended his adversary's desperate attempt to continue with the battle with a pair of slugs that tore through the man's chest and out his back.

Now that the enemy guns had been silenced, there was one more thing Bolan had to do. Digging into his vest pockets, he withdrew slices of C-4 plastique, as well as detonators and timers.

Setting them for five minutes, he plastered the bombs on cases of ammunition and rockets around the large warehouse, then ran out of the building and jumped into the Land Rover.

As he sped around the corner and down another street, he could hear the first of the explosions shatter windows in the area. Pausing momentarily, he looked back.

The sky was filled with flames, bits of wood, sandstone and metal. The impressive display brightened the entire area momentarily, then a cloud of dust began to settle on the streets as the last explosion consumed what was left of the warehouse and the bodies in it.

Bolan sat on the edge of the bed in the Colombo studio apartment that was serving as a safehouse. He had tended a minor wound on his upper arm, which he had sustained during the firefight.

He started to let his eyes close, then forced them open.

There was still Madi Kirbal to contend with. He had phoned her several times, but the calls went unanswered.

She had a lot of explaining to do. If she could.

Bolan picked up the list of people who might not want John Vu to succeed.

The minister of internal security was at the top of the page.

There was nothing Madi Kirbal had written that he didn't already know from Brognola's reports.

More than a million dollars American had been transferred to the government official's numbered Swiss account.

At Bolan's suggestion, Brognola had gone through Contacts to locate the Swiss bank where the minister kept his payoffs. A little judicious investigation by Aaron Kurtzman's cybernetics team had turned up a wealth of usually confidential information.

The rest of the list was what Bolan had expected a"business and minor government officials who provided a.s.sistance and confidential information to the various fringe groups trying to stop the Tamils from gaining political power. There were a lot of people on the list who would soon have their day of reckoning.

But there was a glaring omission in the list.

Thamby's name was missing.

Only the names of his two co-conspirators, Neelan and Konamalai, were listed.

Bolan suspected Kirbal was involved with the Tiger chieftain. The woman was obviously more than she pretended to be.

Allan Bandaran's Rolls-Royce waited outside the Lanka Oberoi Hotel on Gaile Road, in Colombo, a huge man sitting behind the steering wheel on the right side. Formerly a member of the highly professional Keenie Meenie Services, Archie Macdougall had worked as personal aide and bodyguard for the Sri Lankan minister for several years.

The hard-featured blond Englishman kept searching the faces of pedestrians, looking for the person he was supposed to meet. Despite the hot sun and oppressive humidity, the driver wore a starched white s.h.i.+rt, black tie and gray woolen suit.

A smartly dressed Indian woman stepped through the front door of the hotel. Looking around, she saw the limousine and walked to it.

"In the back," the driver said coldly. He wasn't used to driving the woman.

"Why, Archie, you sound so formal," she said mockingly.

"d.a.m.n it, Madi," the Englishman behind the wheel growled, "I had to sneak out to meet you. What was so important?" She got in and closed the door. "I was just in the mood for one of our get-togethers," she purred.

Thamby had ordered her to find out what the minister of internal security knew about the American diplomat.

Macdougall rubbed the scar on his neck.

Pointing to it, he growled, "But no more scratches I'll have to explain." Kirbal said nothing in reply as the long black vehicle sped through the city to her apartment.

She wondered if the American agent had survived last night's waterfront battle, as no one had informed her yet. She was certain that her call had given the men enough warning to set traps for him. Somehow she knew there would be a coded message waiting for her, reporting Belasko's death.

Right now she had something else in mind, such as information the Englishman would carry back to the minister.

"I just heard something I think would please your employer," she commented, leaning on the part.i.tion between the front and rear seats of the limousine. Or cause him to do something in panic, she added silently.

"Even if the American diplomat is killed," she continued, "his government is prepared to send the secretary of state to replace him." She watched Macdougall try to hide his surprise.

"Is that a fact or rumor?" She forced herself to smile. "A fact." She knew the message would be pa.s.sed along to Allan Bandaran, and the search-and-destroy missions by his storm troopers would end up as headline-stealing victories for Thamby and the Tamil Tigers.

Macdougall had reported that Kirbal wanted to meet him before he'd left to pick her up at the hotel.

"Another painful romantic interlude, Archie?" Bandaran asked.

"I don't think Madi Kirbal does anything without some deep motive." "According to my communications people, Miss Kirbal has been placing and receiving calls from the north of the country. The caller never identifies himself but it is always the same man. I suspect she plans to continue pa.s.sing information to him." "And you want me to make sure she can't." "Exactly." "Consider it done, Minister," the blond man promised.

The Tamil chieftain barged into John Vu's dismal cell.

"Still no word from your government," he shouted. "We feed you and give you shelter while your President makes us wait like slaves for his decision." The diplomat was stoic. "It isn't my government's decision to make.

Dividing Sri Lanka into semiautonomous regions is up to the government and citizens of your country." "Like everything else, the American government owns Sri Lanka," Thamby snapped angrily. "I have seen-was The door to the cell suddenly opened, and two heavyset men in fatigues entered.

Thamby looked surprised.

Neelan, the stouter of the two, wore rimless gla.s.ses. A purple birthmark covered most of the left half of his face. He controlled the guerrilla bases south and east of the city.

Konamalai was tall and thin. His nose seemed more eagle-like than human. His eyes seemed fixed in a permanent steely glare. Konamalai was responsible for the Tiger camps north and west of Jaffna.

Thamby tried to remain stoic, but finally he couldn't contain his curiosity. "Neelan.

Konamalai. Why are you here?" Konamalai signaled Thamby to step outside.

Shutting the door to the barred cell, Konamalai stared at the Tamil chieftain. "You haven't been told?" "No, what?" "The s.h.i.+p carrying our supplies has been destroyed." "An accident in the gulf?" "An American mercenary planted explosives in the s.h.i.+p," the man replied, cold anger showing in his face.

"At least the Chinese's warehouse has some supplies," Thamby reminded them.

Neelan shook his head. "That, too, was destroyed. By the same American, we believe." Now Thamby understood the message Madi had left with Lalith, his personal aide, about the American mercenary being more dangerous than she had expected.

He had tried to call her back, to tell her he wouldn't be able to make it into Colombo as arranged.

But she hadn't answered her phone.

"Our warehouses are running low on weapons and supplies. If we are going to join in an offensive during the monsoon season, we will need some of what you have in your warehouses," Konamalai said bluntly.

Thamby knew the man wasn't making a request. It was a demand, and Thamby was bothered.

It was true that his warehouse was filled. But at the rate of recruiting, it would be empty in a month.

"Can the Chinese rush us more supplies?" "I contacted him," Neelan replied. "He said it would be at least a month before his government could duplicate our order." Thamby remembered At.w.a.ter. "The English mercenary, Clay At.w.a.ter, has been calling about a s.h.i.+pment of weapons and ammunition to which he has access." Neelan shook his head. "At.w.a.ter works for the Sinhalese. Murderers from the special task force would be waiting for our men." Thamby wasn't convinced. If indeed STF killers were waiting, then At.w.a.ter would die. Besides, the problem of getting arms was Neelan's and Konamalai's, not his.

"Perhaps there is another way for you to get weapons and supplies," he suggested.

He led the other two back into the cell.

Thamby pointed to Vu. "This is the man the Americans sent to convince us that they wanted us to be at peace with the government," he said sarcastically.

The negotiator held out his hand.

"John Vu, gentlemen." Neelan ignored the outstretched hand and pointed to the chair. "Sit down, Mr. Vu," he ordered.

Thamby took over from his co-leader. "How much are you worth to your government?" Vu was puzzled by the question. "I don't understand." "A representative of your government destroyed vital weapons and supplies last night. We hold your government responsible for replacing them." Neelan took over. "How many carbines, how much ammunition, how many grenades, rocket launchers, rockets and military vehicles will your government send to get you back?" He paused, then added, "Alive." Thamby could sense Konamalai's disapproving glare. The eagle-beaked man was still filled with some moralistic notions about the purity of the Tiger movement. n.o.ble but unrealistic, the tall Tamil leader knew.

"I wish to talk to this man," Konamalai said coldly, "alone." Thamby couldn't stop Konamalai without losing face.

"Talk all you want in this man's cell," he said.

The lanky man waited until the other two Tamils left the cell, then asked, "Why are you here?" Vu was startled by the man's icy tone. "I thought you knew," the diplomat replied.

"You tell me." "The President of the United States sent me to try to work out a truce between you and the government so the killing would stop." Konamalai still looked skeptical. "Why?" Vu recognized a kindred soul. Even he hadn't believed the Chief Executive until he'd completely leveled with him.

"The British used to have a naval base on the northeast coast of Sri Lanka," Vu stated.

"We've been talking about leasing it. But the President doesn't want to put a military installation in a country where internal revolt is going on." The gray-haired Tamil stared at the American as he weighed the answer, then nodded. "That makes sense," he said finally.

"But I don't think the President is going to give you one round of ammunition to get me back.

He doesn't operate that way." Konamalai made no comment. He studied the American intently, then stood.