Executioner 180 Force Down by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE STREETS OF MANAUS were crowded with fast-moving traffic that wound through a maze of old European-style architecture built in the early 1900s when capitalist dreamers first carved the city out of the jungle and made their millions from the great rubber plantations.

In recent years modern office complexes sprouted up side by side with the ornate palatial facades. In some districts the steel towers dominated the skyline of Amazonas's capital city, casting spire like shadows on the streets.

As a duty-free port city the streets were full of buyers and sellers of all stripes who came from all over Brazil to buy goods in mass quantities.

State-of-the-art computers, stereos, TVs, VCRs, bicycles and motorcycles were assembled from tax-free parts flown in by international companies.

One again Manaus was a boomtown, full of factories and service industries, hotels and luxury shops, produce stands and fish markets, and world-class restaurants to cater to the expensive whims of the elite.

It was a chaotic capital, a burgeoning Big Apple that attracted wealthy riverboat wanderers who journeyed a thousand miles up the Amazon River for a relatively safe taste of the wilderness. From there they could book cruises or safaris or settle in for the exotic pleasures of some of the high-rise luxury hotels.

It was a fairy-tale city on the edge of the jungle.

But, as the two men in the white Mercedes knew, every fairy tale had its share of monsters. For them the modern city was just as dangerous as the jungle surrounding it.

Several vehicles tailed the Mercedes like a wolf pack homing in on a single target in the herd, mimicking their motions as the vehicle traveled deeper into Manaus.

Jacques had forced them to give away the game by running stoplights and making last-minute turns onto narrow streets that he'd scouted beforehand.

"We got a four-car posse on our ass," Jacques said, looking unconcerned as he wheeled the Mercedes around a sharp corner, braking for a woman in a bright red dress with a string of small kids tagging along behind her.

"Four that we know of," Bolan replied. "This group goes in for overkill."

The black man nodded, then gestured at the glove compartment. "Just in case it gets heavy," he said, "there's your ticket out of here."

Bolan opened the compartment.

Inside was a compact 9 mm automatic, a Heckler & Koch P7 M-8 with a squeeze grip cocking mechanism. Along with the automatic pistol there were several magazines and a cutaway holster that clipped to the inside of his belt. The small but powerful weapon was only six and a half inches long and easily concealable.

The Executioner adjusted the rig under his suit jacket, making sure the metal bulk wouldn't be too obvious in public.

"Thanks," Bolan said, briefly glancing back through the rear window at their nearest tail. "Now I feel dressed for the occasion."

"In case you need a softer touch," Jacques said, "there's a hush puppy under the seat."

Bolan reached under the front seat, knowing what he would find. The weapon was a 9 mm stainless steel Navy Model 22 with a sound suppressor threaded onto the barrel.

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