"Different how?"
"Bigger".
"I'm listening."
"Much bigger. All of this has all been hush-hush for the past two weeks, even from me, till the intelligence boys got the clue as to what was going on."
"What the hell's up, Hal? Spit it out."
"Kidnappings. All over Europe."
"Who's been snatched?"
"Well, that's the kooky part."
"Athletes," April said. "Professionals from all different countries. Babette Pavlovski..."
"The gymnast who defected from Czechoslovakia two years ago?" asked Bolan, his voice strong, direct.
"That's the one. She's been touring Europe coach with the American gymnastics team. It's not yet known by the press, but she disappeared one night two weeks ago."
"Retaliation maybe. Those guys don't much care for defectors. Bad public relations".
Brognola negated that. "She's not an isolated case, Stony Man. The Olympic skier Udo Ganz didn't show up last Tuesday at his job with a Munich insurance office. Hasn't been seen since. Mako Samata, a martial arts champion with a chain of studios across France, taught an akido class at his Paris studio two weeks ago, then disappeared without locking up. Clifford Barnes-Fenwick, a top archer from Wales, was supposed to meet last week with his estranged wife to discuss their impending divorce. He never showed up. When she went to his apartment, she found it torn apart."
"Keep spilling," Bolan's voice commanded.
"You're not going to like it," Brognola said.
"We've had two identifications. Witnesses positively identified from photographs a man seen at two of the kidnapping sites. Thomas Morganslicht."
There was three thousand miles of longdistance silence. Then Bolan spoke. Quietly. His mind was already locked onto the problem. "Thomas Morganslicht, number one creep of the Zwilling Horde. The same group coming tonight to buy our army's stolen weapons."
"The same."
"Don't forget his twin sister, Tanya," April cut in. "Zwilling is German for gemini, twins, right? She's as much the leader as he is. And just as deadly. Some say deadlier."
"The assignment has changed," Bolan said simply.
"I guess," confirmed Hal Brognola. "Originally we expected you only to stop the arms sale, thus crippling the Zwilling Horde as much as we were able to at the time. But now the ante has gone up. We have to find out why they, kidnapped those sports people so many days ago, and we must free them if at all possible. But whether that is possible or not, you have to stop whatever the Zwilling Horde is planning. Stop them for good, Striker."
"There's only one way to get that far," he said casually.
"I know."
"Means I'll be out of contact for a while. Don't know how long."
"Am aware," muttered Brognola.
"I'll have to get going," Bolan concluded in a low voice. "Company's coming in a couple hours.
"Anything you need, guy?"
"Just your good wishes, Hal."
"All the way to hell," Brognola growled.
Bolan laughed softly, then broke the connection.
"Good wishes," April Rose whispered into the empty line. Brognola nodded silently. The hellrains were due to fall once more, in Europe, tortured continent of oppression and endless centuries of war. Mack was in the pits of the earth again, back where hell reigned triumphant over failed politics and broken economies and badly divided societies. Back to where hell was real-daily, and endlessly. Back to where fie had to be, if the torrential terrors of our modern times were to be stemmed before the murky tide drowned reason again, as it had over there in the two big ones this century already.
Back to where things were supposedly so civilized.
Like hell.
Sophisticated weapons were being stolen from the U.S. Army in Germany. Some of these weapons were in the hands of terrorists. And now kidnappers. Evil creatures out to make an international reputation for themselves at the expense of thousands of lives, and at the expense of the reputation of the United States Army stationed overseas. Bolan would trace this rampaging wrong to its wretched source. And then there would truly be hell to pay.
In the shape of the Executioner.
3
Mack Bolan sat hunched over the scarred folding table, his eyes closed, his lips puffing loosely in a half-snore. The .44 AutoMag lay flung on the table with its clip empty and removed, the 240-gram bullets scattered across the tabletop like toppled toy soldiers. Next to his resting forehead was a cluster of empty brown bottles of Grolsch Dunkel Bier. A floorboard creaked outside his hotel door.
Bolan's hands, hidden beneath the table, tightened in anticipation. He snored a little louder.
A faint scratching noise at his door.
Come right in, yeah. The water's fine.
In a building this old, it was hard to move silently. The floorboards groaned in protest at every movement. They sagged from the slightest weight.
The thick oak door was probably more than a hundred years old. It would not take long for whoever was outside to pick its single-tumbler lock. Any second now.
Bolan's cold eyes made one final sweep around the room to make sure everything was in order. The table and chairs had been picked up, the window reglazed, the blood scrubbed from the walls and floor, the body hauled away. All disdone secretly, efficiently, by a special squad of General Wilson's men. The General had thought it was the least he could do. Bolan had agreed with him.
The U.S. Army was faced with potentially one of its most embarrassing moments. Bolan felt the hot stale air from the hallway as it rushed in. The air from the hallway smelled like fried haddock, while the air inside the room stank of cheap booze. He'd made sure of that. As the footsteps approached him, Mack Bolan decided he was ready. There were two of them. One set of footsteps belonged to someone who could afford to lose some weight, maybe twenty or thirty pounds. No matter how quiet he tried to be, Bolan could hear him like he was a charging tank. The other set of footsteps belonged to a woman. Of that he was certain. There was a lightness in the sound.
Then a shadow washed across his face and Bolan knew she was circling to face him. He had arranged the old goosenecked lamp in the corner to shine on his face for effect. He continued to snore like a passed-out drunk, waiting for them to make their move.
A large hand with huge stubby fingers grabbed his hair, jerked his head sharply back, and a small knife blade was pressed against his throat. Bolan felt the cool steel's pressure against his windpipe, but still he kept his hands hidden under the table.
"What the goddamn..." Bolan spluttered, his eyes blinking open and shut. His head bent back, he could see the woman standing in front of him, and the 9mm Firebird automatic in her hand. It was pointing directly at his forehead.
She was what the fashion houses called "classically" beautiful, except that she had an unusually deep cleft in her chin. She looked to be barely twenty-five, but stood calmly erect with the confidence of a much older person: someone who was used to controlling any situation and getting her own way. A tough lady. Her hair was long and black, with a sharp widow's peak that dipped low over her forehead. Bolan recognized her immediately from the photographs he had seen at Stony Man Farm. Tanya Morganslicht.
She was beautiful, yeah, but she was also one of the two leaders of West Germany's most notoriously brutal gang of terrorists, the Zwilling Horde. They were responsible for kneecap shootings, bank robberies, and the torture and mutilation of the daughter of a wealthy American film star. Beautiful, sure. Like a coiled cobra.