Executioner 89 Defenders and Believers by Don Pendleton

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

13

The sentries were surprised and shaken by the bullet holes in Bolan's rented Saab. The taller one checked out the damage, while his partner strolled toward the tommy guns stashed inside the gate. His eyes were furtive, anxious, darting back and forth along the highway in search of enemies.

"It seems ye had some trouble, sir."

"You ought to see the other guy."

"I'll need to do jus' that."

Mack Bolan shrugged.

"You'll find them two clicks north, before you get to Cashel, if a wrecker hasn't hauled the mess away."

The sentry's eyebrow briefly climbed in the direction of his hairline, finally settled back in place.

"Survivors?"

"Not on their side, guy."

"An' did you recognize them, sir, by any chance?" "No chance at all. I'd say they were recruited for a job they couldn't handle, and they blew it."

Bolan heard the static crackle of a radio, and glancing past the nearest IRA commando, spied his partner with a walkie-talkie, Thompson submachine gun tucked beneath his arm.

They were reporting, and Bolan had expected that. They would be checking out the wreckage he had left behind, to learn—or cover up—identities before police arrived.

He kept an eye on the commando with the Thompson, ready if the guy should make a hostile move, but there was nothing going down. Not here. Not now.

"I'd say that you were very lucky, sir."

"You make your own luck, fella. Don't forget it."

"Yessir. Mr. Scalish will be wantin' a word, when you've had time to freshen up a bit."

"That's good. I've got a word or two for him, about his hot security arrangements on this deal."

His words hit home, and the commando stiffened, color rising in his cheeks. He was about to answer, but he reconsidered, and stepped back from the Saab.

"Take care now, sir."

"I'm always careful," Bolan told him as he gunned the Saab along the driveway.

He stashed the ventilated rental in the parking lot and didn't bother locking it. There were no valuables inside, and anyone who wanted to could reach in through the shattered windshield, anyway. The car was a mess, but it would roll, and that was all he needed in a set of wheels.

To Bolan, the IRA commandos on the gate had registered sincere surprise at the attempt upon his life. They didn't measure up as Oscar candidates, by any means, and if they were forewarned of the attack, they hid it very well. The gunner with the walkie-talkie had been nervous—really nervous—when he made his call, and Bolan wondered just how much security there really was at Cashel House. If nothing else was clear, he realized that someone planned to guide the meeting, guarantee that everything turned out as planned.

Joe Scalish? Possibly.

Alexei Gladnikov? Another heavy possible.

Or someone else entirely?

Damn.

It was the unknown quantity that made Mack Bolan edgy now, his combat senses on alert as he walked back to the hotel. He checked in through the front this time, expecting Scalish to be waiting for him, primed for the interrogation like a vulture for the kill, but no one stopped

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