LITMIR.BIZ

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suspicion of hiring themselves out to local gangsters as muscle. Going into hiding, the former Marines simply expanded their moonlighting activities for the Filipino mobsters to become full-fledged mercenaries. As hired guns, they were among the best, well-trained marksmen, and a disciplined fire team. The renegades’ escape had squashed the Marines’ and Navy’s efforts to make an example of them.

      Waylon heard Garrett Victor’s gruff voice as the squad leader picked up. “What?”

      “It’s Waylon. I’ve got work for you,” the businessman said. “Where are you?”

      “Kickin’ back in Sydney,” Victor replied. “Having fun. Wade need help?”

      “He needs avenging,” Waylon corrected.

      “What the fuck?” Victor growled.

      “Someone killed him, and he’s now going on an operation in Darwin,” Waylon explained. “I need this bastard taken down, preferably without the Black Rose finding out.”

      “Why not get the triad to take this mook down?” Victor asked.

      Waylon sighed. “And let them know that their number-one foreign asset has been compromised?”

      “He’s still going to be dead. They give you another job…”

      “How’d you like some fat triad money, Gar?” Waylon asked. “You and the boys living higher on the hog, and you won’t have to pull grunt work like sitting on a cargo freighter, chasing off pirates.”

      Waylon could hear the gears turning in the greedy mercenary’s brain.

      “This guy took out Wade, though,” Victor stated. “He’s obviously bad news.”

      “That’s why I’m calling you and the boys,” Waylon explained. “The four of you could outfight anyone.”

      “It’ll take us a while to get a flight to Darwin.”

      “I’ll arrange it all for you. You can pick up the tickets at the counter,” Waylon informed him. “Do I have you on board, or do I have to look elsewhere for someone with balls?”

      “Nobody tells me I ain’t got balls, Eugene,” Victor snarled. “I’ll rouse the boys and we’ll bring this fucker’s head to you.”

      Waylon smiled, and told them at which airline they could pick up their tickets.

      With a group of easily goaded, overly macho thugs like these four, Eugene Waylon could not only recover from the loss of Augustyn, but continue living in the style he was accustomed to.

      But first things first. The tall man in black was going to have to die.

      4

      Bolan’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he plucked it out.

      “We’ve got a sighting on the girl,” Bobby Yeung said. “I’ve got a man on her tail, but he’s holding back, as per your instructions.”

      “Good,” Bolan replied. He pushed away his dinner plate and snapped his fingers for the waitress to bring his check. The efficiency of the Chinese gangsters was excellent, and Bolan knew he’d only needed to wait until they had spotted Arana Wangara. “No contact until I arrive.”

      “You’ve got it,” Yeung answered. “The address is in text format.”

      Bolan looked at it. He’d picked a small diner in the general neighborhood of the Darwin bus station, and Wangara’s location was only a few blocks away, according to the tiny GPS map screen on his phone. The waitress arrived and Bolan paid her, leaving twice as much for her tip than his meal cost.

      “Keep the change,” Bolan told her and he left the restaurant, his jacket hanging loosely over his broad shoulders. Its billowing folds hid the Walther P-99 hanging in its shoulder holster. No bulge was visible, despite the fact that the weapon’s blunt suppressor was still attached.

      Having memorized Wangara’s last reported position on the GPS screen, he made a beeline, altering his course to get ahead of the Aboriginal woman. Bolan didn’t want to spook her, and he knew if he took custody of her, with the Chinese gunmen alongside him, he would never be able to win her trust. The Executioner figured he needed at least a minute of privacy to explain his ruse to her, otherwise there was a good possibility that he’d be forced into a gunfight with the gangsters.

      A shootout would blow Bolan’s cover with the Black Rose Triad, and potentially draw the attention of the law. Kurtzman had been able to finesse new background information for the gun dealer in order to provide Red with some cushion, and to keep tighter observation on him. The cyber expert had given Bolan a heads-up that Waylon was making calls over a heavily encrypted line. Augustyn’s paranoia had been such that he had tight security on his cell phone and Waylon’s. With a constantly morphing encryption key, it took even the Farm’s awesome computer resources more than a minute to break each phone call, and Waylon’s phone discipline was strict, hanging up before Kurtzman could determine the contents or the recipients of the call.

      It was one of the reasons the Executioner had stopped off at a grocery store and bought some duct tape and a heavy-spined butcher’s knife as soon as he left the airport. Tucked under his shirt in a duct tape and cardboard sheath, the butcher’s knife was invisible under his waistband, but the foot-long blade had the power to punch through bone and heavy muscle. Two paring knives strapped to his forearms were backups, their blunt, triangular points making them good throwing weapons once he popped off their handles, turning them into front-heavy darts. With the tape-fashioned forearm sheaths, he could have whipped out the improvised throwing knives and planted them in the throats of whatever gunmen were backing Red’s play.

      The fact that Red hadn’t sprung a trap on him was the only reason the Executioner hadn’t exploded into a flash of bloody action and taken his head off with the butcher’s knife. Restraint had saved the Australian black marketeer’s life, as well as those of his henchmen. Of course, Red’s honesty had only confirmed Bolan’s suspicions. He would have to return to Hong Kong to deal with the lying, traitorous Waylon.

      Since visiting Red, Bolan’s improvised combat knives were supplanted. He’d put the butcher’s knife away and had replaced it with a Gerber LMF Bowie to back up his 9 mm handgun.

      Bolan moved at a steady pace, mindful of appearing too aggressive. Wangara, having been stalked halfway across the continent, would be on edge, and if he approached her like a bull, she’d turn and run like hell. He didn’t need that, either. A six-foot-plus white man chasing a young Aboriginal woman through the streets would also attract unneeded attention.

      He spotted Wangara, her head tucked down, white earbuds dangling around her neck. Her knapsack looked lumpy and heavy, as if it were packed with rocks rather than clothes. The Executioner realized she wasn’t going to be a pushover if anyone stepped up to her and tried anything rough. Picking up his pace, he caught up with her and slowed to match her stride. It took a few moments for her to notice him, but he was too close for her to pull down her bag and swing it to crack his head.

      “Don’t make a scene, Arana,” Bolan said softly, almost soothingly. “I know you’re being chased. The people after you think I’m working for them.”

      She looked up at him, brown eyes wide and fearful. The young woman took a sidestep, and only ended up bouncing against a storefront. Bolan rested his hand on her shoulder, pinning her shoulder strap in place to defang her. “I’m not looking for a fight. In fact, I don’t want you hurt at all,” he said.

      Wangara looked at the hand on her shoulder, then longingly at her knapsack. She pursed her lips and sighed. “I came here looking for help. Those Chinese destroyed my home.”

      “I figured as much,” Bolan answered. “I want you alive and safe. That means you have to pretend that you’re frightened of me.”

      Wangara glanced up at him. “That won’t be difficult.”

      The Executioner nodded. They stopped walking and Bolan

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