Bolan watched as the big cat lowered its head to peer at him under the ledge. The Executioner moved farther back under the overhang, pressing his back against the cold rock for every inch, every split second he could buy before the inevitable happened.

  Suddenly the big cat leaped from the ledge, twisting in midair to face its prey, five feet away. Bolan raised the Beretta. The cougar sprang, the powerful muscles of his hind legs contracting, then jetting him forward with the force of a jackhammer.

  Bolan acted from instinct, his trigger finger snapshooting a 3-round burst into the snarling cat's mouth. The silenced 9 mm rounds entered the cougar's soft upper palate, then bored up into the brain as the eight-foot mammoth collapsed at the warrior's feet.

  The cougar lay paralyzed, his eyes staring blankly up at the stars overhead. Bolan leaned forward and pressed the muzzle of the Beretta against the animal's head and squeezed the trigger, ending its pain.

  He moved from under the overhang and took a last look at the valiant animal he had been forced to kill.

  Then the man in black disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  In downtown Bogotá's Plaza Bolivar, Bolan passed book stands and street vendors hawking leatherware, blankets and ruanas — the heavy, square ponchos of the northern region. Though it was Colombia's dry season, cloud formations hovering around the mountain peaks that framed the city meant rain wasn't out of the question.

  Rested and alert, Bolan had arrived in time to shower, shave and catch a short nap at the Hotel Regina.

  A short walk from the center of town, the Regina afforded ample opportunity for Bolan to scout the streets, acquaint himself with the layout of the city and devise escape routes that he hoped would never be needed.

  Old colonial buildings appeared between the steel and glass of modern skyscrapers as the soldier checked out the neighborhood. The temperature had dropped to the mid-fifties, giving Bolan good reason for wearing the thin leather jacket that hid his weapons.

  He crossed the street to the statue of Simon Bolivar and took a seat on an empty bench. Four brightly lighted water fountains surrounded the statue, their jetting streams flaunting a vivid spectrum of colors as they arched through the air. The soldier watched nonchalantly as a policeman, stomach bouncing over his black Sam Browne belt, passed in front of the bench. The officer gave him a quick once-over, then disappeared into a pastry shop down the street.

  Bolan saw Janie a block away, her fiery red hair blowing down and around her face as she approached the plaza. He had mixed feelings about the encounter about to take place. The Executioner needed to know the time and location of the meeting of high-ranking cartel members in order to cut a deep swath through the hierarchy of the organization, but if his assumption that Janie was falling in love with him was true, then he'd have no choice but to set the record straight.

  Janie had changed. She had learned to respect herself, and Bolan had no desire to do anything that might reverse that transformation. But he couldn't in good conscience lead her on. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was hurt the woman. But so far no one had invented a method of telling someone that their love wasn't reciprocated without shattering their dreams.

  Janie looked up as he approached, the smile on her face erasing all hope that he'd been wrong in his perception of her feelings.

  "Hello, Rance," she said. Her voice held no trace of the cheap seductress he'd first met in Yuma.

  Bolan smiled. "You hungry?"

  "Famished," she replied, smiling in turn.

  He led her to a street vendor and bought four tamales, handing her two. "Come on," he said. "We'll eat while we walk. That'll attract less attention."

  They had started down the street when they heard a scream behind them. Bolan turned in time to see a tall, gangly man in his late teens rip a handbag from the grip of an elderly woman.

  The Executioner resisted the impulse to race after the kid. The last thing he needed at this point was the attention of the local police.

  But as the thief backhanded his victim to the pavement, Bolan knew he couldn't stand idly by.

  The purse snatcher turned from the old woman and sprinted down the sidewalk, directly toward the Executioner.

  The overweight cop who'd eyed Bolan earlier exited the pastry shop as the purse snatcher ran past. Dropping the cardboard box he carried, he thrust a whistle into his mouth and gave chase, losing ground with every step.

  Bolan waited until the man with the purse was two yards away, then stepped in front of him and lifted a knee.

  The thief s momentum carried him forward before he could stop. He let out a high-pitched scream as he impacted on Bolan's knee, then fell to the ground on his side, both hands clasping his groin.

  Bolan waited as the fat cop puffed his way to the man on the sidewalk and pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt.

  "Norteamericano?" he asked, looking up quizzically.

  Bolan nodded.

  "You must…" the cop fumbled for the word"…you must wait." The officer rolled the moaning thief onto his stomach and dropped to both knees in the center of the man's back, eliciting an even sharper scream than Bolan's knee had produced.

  A small crowd had gathered, and while the policeman struggled to get the handcuffs on his prisoner, Bolan seized Janie's arm and led her to the corner. Crossing quickly against the light, they cut four blocks over to the corner of Calle Catorce and the busy Avenida Jiminez before flagging down a cab.

  "Monserrate," Bolan told the driver as he and Janie slid into the back seat.

  They remained silent during the short ride to the summit of the mountain. Bolan tipped the cabbie and he and Janie walked to the train of cable cars. He watched the attendant help Janie on board, then took the seat across from her in the small cabin. The car jerked erratically as the motor kicked into gear, then slowed to a steady swing, adjusting itself to the difference in Bolan's and Janie's weight.

  The warrior looked at the young woman seated across from him as they rose into the air. "You've found out where and when?" he asked.

  Janie nodded. She opened her purse, withdrew a folded sheet of paper and extended it across the cable car.

  Bolan unfolded the paper. Janie had drawn a map of the layout of a small cafe and lodging area. His eyes fell to the bottom of the page: Casa Tarragona, La Boquilla.

  "It's a little country inn a few miles east of Cartagena," Janie said. "Just before you get to La Boquilla."

  "Who and when?" Bolan asked.

  "Tomorrow. It sounds like they're coming from all over. All the bigwigs from Bogotá, Medellín, Cali." Janie let a short laugh escape her lips. "It seems they're concerned about some Americans who ripped off a plane that had been loaded with cocaine, and some other American who raised hell at the same ranch. Then came back and did it again."

  "He's not finished yet."

  "Well, you've confused them royally. They can't figure out if you and the Vampire Bats are working together or if they're getting hit by two separate groups at the same time. The Bats, they figure they can handle. It's this tall, dark stranger who has them worried."

  "I've been wondering myself whether Taylor and I are really working together," Bolan confided. "I don't trust your friend."

  Janie's face colored, and she stared at the floor of the cable car. "He's not my friend. Not anymore."

  Bolan nodded, wishing he'd phrased the statement differently. He refolded the map and dropped it into his jacket pocket. "What time?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "What time is the meeting tomorrow?"

  Janie raised her eyes slightly. "Montoya is leaving at noon for Cartagena. Casa Tarragona is only about fifteen minutes from the airport. I'm going with him."

  Bolan frowned. "Any way for you to get out of it? There's bound to be a lot of gunfire."

  Janie shook her head. "Not without just coming out and saying no, and that's liable to make him wonder what's going on." She stared at the wall of the cable car, still avoiding Bolan's eyes. "It would be really out of character for the role I've been playing."

  Bolan glanced out the window at the red-roofed city of Bogotá and the plains that stretched beyond. The cable car ground to a halt as they reached the top, and he helped Janie out of the vehicle.

  They passed the convent and the reconstruction of a Bogotá street of 1887 before finding an empty table at the picnic grounds behind the church.

  "There's something else we need to discuss," Bolan said as they sat down. "Janie, I…"

  She reached across the table and pressed a finger against his lips. "Let me talk for just a minute. Then we'll see if you still need to say what you were going to. Okay?"

  Bolan nodded.

  She smiled up at him. "I know you're afraid I've fallen in love with you. I have, I guess. But don't worry, I'm not asking for anything from you. Not even for you to return that love."

  "It's not…"

  "Shh," Janie whispered. "You promised." She crossed her arms across her chest. "I don't expect you to love me, Rance. It's enough that I can love you. Do you see? It's proved to me that I'm still capable of love, and that's something I was beginning to be afraid I'd lost somewhere down the line. Thanks for treating me so well. It's been a long time since a man looked at me and saw anything I had to offer except the obvious."

  Bolan started to speak, then waited.

  "Anyway, I don't expect to see you again after today. So it's important to me that you know what I've decided to do." She paused, then continued. "When this is over, I'll go back to the States, of course. I've got a sister in New York City who's offered to let me move in, and I plan to find a university in the area where I can finish my teaching degree."

  "No more show business?" Bolan asked.

  Janie grinned mischievously. "I don't plan to give up acting — that's why I decided on New York. But I've got to face reality. The fact is that I may never make it. And from now on I want something better to fall back on other than my back."

  They rode down the mountain in silence. When they reached the bottom, Bolan said, "Find some way to get out of going tomorrow. There's no point in it. I've got everything I need to know."

  Janie shook her head. "It'll look too strange. Don't worry. He won't want me at the meeting, anyway. This is a macho bunch of guys, you know. They'll send us 'girls' off to buy panty hose or something."

  Bolan reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. Peeling several from the top, he pressed them into Janie's hand. "When they do, you take the first flight from Cartagena. The first one to anywhere."

  "I will."

  The warrior walked her to a row of cabs. He opened the door, then closed it behind her.

  Janie smiled up at him through the open window.

  "I'm serious," Bolan told her. "You get out of there at the first opportunity. There's no point in taking chances — I don't need you anymore."

  Janie's smile faded slightly. "You never did," she said sadly. Then her eyes twinkled with new hope. "But somebody will. Sooner or later. Somebody will need me."

  Bolan nodded as he watched the cab round a curve and disappear. Then he glanced at his watch. Time to prepare for battle.

  * * *

  A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of scattered palm trees as the Executioner made his way over tangled roots in the mangrove swamp. The faint sounds of dancing drifted to his position from the streets of the small fishing village a half mile in the distance.

  The warrior peered through the gnarled branches at the country inn that stood in the clearing fifty yards away. Cars had been arriving since dusk, and the cocktail hour would soon be over. Then the meeting of the most powerful drug lords in the Western Hemisphere would commence.

  Bolan ran a final check of his equipment. Six fragmentation grenades hung from his battle harness; the .44 Desert Eagle rode leather on his right thigh, a row of magazines for the weapon flanking it front and back on his web belt; the Beretta 93-R silencer-equipped and ready to perform its quiet duties, was sheathed in the shoulder holster under Bolan's left arm. Extra magazines for the Beretta hung from the same rig on the other, balancing out the weight of the heavy automatic.

  The backpack held extra reloads for the subgun and various other items that the soldier might or might not need. With the Uzi gripped in both hands, Bolan knelt, then leaned forward onto his stomach and slid on his elbows to the edge of the trees.

  He pulled an infrared night vision scope from his pack and began a systematic scan of the grounds, counting fourteen vehicles parked in front of the inn. Six were Rolls-Royces, the rest Cadillacs and Lincolns. One lone army jeep with a .50-caliber machine gun mounted between the seats sat conspicuously among the luxury cars.

  A sentry was posted at each end of the four corners of the grounds, two more at the front door and another pair at the inn's back.

  The Executioner moved silently through the mangroves to the edge of the swamp farthest from the front door. He watched the sentry light a cigarette and gaze overhead at the stars. Bolan moved slowly, tugging the Beretta from his shoulder rig and setting the safety on semiauto, then sighted down the barrel. A soft tug on the trigger sent both the guard and his Heckler & Koch G-3 tumbling quietly to the ground.

  Bolan maneuvered through the trees, circling the house and taking out another of the perimeter guards. He moved on to the edge of the clearing where the third guard paced nervously up and down the narrow drive to the road. The warrior waited until the man's steps brought him within two feet of his position, then sent a hushed 9 mm hollowpoint through the guy's temple.

  Bolan doubled back through the trees to where the last guard paced his beat. As though alerted by some sixth sense, the man turned suddenly and squinted into the darkness as he brought a pump action shotgun up to his shoulder.

  The Beretta spit two rounds into the man's chest, the sound of their impact on human flesh far louder than the noise-suppressed weapon itself.

  Four down. Four to go.

  Then the real battle could begin.

  Bolan crawled his way out of the clearing to the cover provided by a stilt-mounted gazebo behind the inn. He watched through the night scope as one of the guards on the back porch glanced around nervously, pulled a flask from his back pocket and took a drink. He could see the anticipation on the other guard's face as he waited for his turn.

  As the second guard tipped the flask upward, the Executioner sank a round between his eyes, then dropped the guy's partner with a double tap to the throat and chest.

  Bolan moved swiftly now, sprinting the short distance that remained between him and the inn. On the back porch he crouched in the shadows, surveying his position to the rear.

  No guards were left behind the inn. At least none who were in any shape to sound the alarm.

  Bolan stepped over the bodies on the porch and raised his eyes to the window in the back door. Easing the door open as quietly as possible, he slid through the opening and into what appeared to be a storage room. Taking temporary refuge behind a stack of boxes, he took advantage of the moment to load a fresh clip into the 93-R.

  From somewhere in the front of the building came the low hum of voices.

  Bolan slid noiselessly to one of two doors leading from the room and pressed his ear against its hollow core. He could hear the clinking of dishes being stacked and the splash of what must have been dishwater. The kitchen.

  The sound of voices at the second door was markedly louder, and the Executioner dropped to the floor to look into the narrow strip of light that flowed through the crack at the bottom of the door.

  At the end of a deserted hall another door was cracked open a few inches. Uzi gripped in his right hand, Bolan opened the door and inched down the hallway. His backpack made a soft swoosh against the rough wood paneling as he crept toward the opening.

  Through the door he heard a weathered voice addressing the assembly in Spanish.

  "…so the overall damage is minimal," the voice said. "But it must be stopped. What concerns us most is the identity of the man who appears to have been working independently of the group known as the Vampire Bats. They, by the way, are being located and dealt with even as we speak."

  Bolan paused to listen. He might as well gather whatever information he could. The members of the cartel wouldn't be able to provide much when he finished here tonight.

  He drew the Beretta and held it at his side. The meeting was underway, and there was little chance he'd be discovered in the hall. But if someone did find him, a 9 mm slug would go a long way in silencing the guy.

  "As you are aware," the voice continued, "recent internal developments in Panama have caused us concern over Noriega's reliability. He's faced with problems that occupy his time… and concentration, a commodity I'm afraid is in limited supply."

  Bolan heard polite laughter ripple through the room.

  "He'll fall, one way or another, sooner or later," the voice continued, "and we don't intend to fall with him. Therefore, we can no longer depend on the Panamanians to protect our shipments. I've arranged for other escort… by a gentleman who has proved his reliability over the years and has his own reasons for desiring to see us import cocaine into the United States. It's a name with which you are all familiar." The speaker paused. "Fidel Castro."

  There were murmurs, and then a new voice broke in. "General, there's a phone call."

  "I left orders that I wasn't to be interrupted," came the angry reply.

  "I'm sorry, but it's an emergency."

  Whispers came from the dining room as the rest of the cartel honchos awaited Montoya's return. Bolan shifted the Uzi into forward carry position on the sling.

  He'd heard enough. As soon as Montoya returned, the Executioner would strike.

  He was about to reholster the Beretta when the door to the dining hall swung open and a heavyset man with a light pencil mustache froze in midstride. As a hand moved under his coat, he screamed, "General!"

  Bolan fired a 3-round burst into the man's open mouth then shoved him back into the room and out of the way. He jammed the gun into the shoulder rig as he crossed the threshold.

 

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