Mack Bolan paused, straining to catch the smallest whisper of sound. The air was hot, and a trickle of sweat inched its way between the dark fatigues he wore beneath his body armor and the skin on the back of his neck. Insects buzzed softly around him, audible but not visible. The jungle was awash in sound, but it was muted by the close-set foliage that cast shadows over the trail ahead.
Bolan had a lean, rangy shape. He stood so still that if anyone had been present, they might have thought him simply one more shadow among the multitude cast by the trees that rose up around him. Their wide, fleshy leaves formed a green canopy overhead.
There was no sky to be seen above him and no road ahead of him—only a wall of vibrant greens, yellows and browns. The air pressed in on Bolan’s mouth and nose like a wet towel. He was reminded of a Louisiana hothouse he’d once had the bad fortune to spend a night in. He’d been hunting that night, as well—different targets, but for similar reasons.
Wary now, his combat-honed senses tingling, the Executioner sank down and checked his gear. A Heckler & Koch UMP-45 was strapped across his chest and his Ka-Bar knife sat snugly in its sheath on his leg. His Desert Eagle pistol was on his hip and a sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R was holstered at the small of his back. The Beretta was set to fire 3-round bursts—something that had proved handy more than once. It was a .22 TCM conversion, with a 25-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. The Desert Eagle, in contrast, had only eight rounds in the magazine, but it also had a good deal more stopping power.
All three firearms, as well as the quintet of M-18 smoke grenades hanging from his web gear, had been provided by Stony Man Farm’s resident weapons guru, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, and as such could be relied on to perform to battlefield specifications.
Bolan crouched there for long moments, poised on the knife edge of action. An acrid odor filled his nostrils—a raw scent, an animal stink that set cruel hooks into the atavistic portions of his brain. His body screamed at him to freeze, but he had long experience in ignoring such instincts and he lunged forward, rolling away.
A heavy body, tawny and striped black, slammed down on the spot where he’d been crouched. A long shape unwound and turned toward him, tail lashing in frustration as Bolan rose to his feet. He hadn’t expected to see a tiger and the microsecond of surprise that followed nearly cost him his life. The animal leaped again. Bolan jerked aside. His back slammed into a tree and the tiger surged past, vanishing into the foliage with a frustrated snarl.
Adrenaline pumping now, Bolan tracked the flashes of orange as the animal circled him. He hefted the UMP, considering. The soldier rarely killed animals unless absolutely necessary. Then again, he might not get the chance. Tigers were, pound for pound, among the most dangerous animals on the planet, fully capable of killing a man as well-schooled in the ways of war as himself.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, the tiger sprang at him again, jaws wide. Bolan shoved away from the tree and began to run. He hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him. The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between him and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.
Suddenly the greenery of the jungle gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out in front of him.
This close to the window, he could hear the alarms and see a query mark of oily smoke rising from the car he’d set on fire on the street below. The fire had occupied the building’s staff while Bolan had taken the elevator as high as it could go. Unfortunately the elevator required a code and a retina scan to go any higher. It had been simple enough to climb out the hatch in the elevator’s roof and haul himself up the cables to the next floor, insert a pry bar between the elevator doors and make his way into the penthouse apartments of Byron Cloud.
The guards outside Cloud’s apartment had been easy enough to dispatch, and quietly at that. But the ones inside had been a different matter. The firefight had allowed Cloud to make his escape. He had the instincts of a rat and he’d fled the moment Bolan showed his face, running for the stairs that led from the penthouse to this atrium and a helipad.
The indoor jungle was only one of Cloud’s seemingly endless indulgences. The tiger was another, judging by its rhinestone collar. Cloud had likely let the animal loose, hoping it would occupy Bolan. He shook his head slightly, bemused. It wasn’t often that someone threw a vicious animal at him.
Cloud made his tiger money by selling weapons to the weaponless. Guns, bombs and worse were his stock-in-trade; if it could be used to kill, Cloud had it in stock. He’d supplied more than a dozen terrorist organizations and criminal cartels with the tools of their filthy trade, and he had contact with the representatives of a dozen more.
Cloud was a walking Rolodex of operational intelligence, both for American security agencies and those of America’s allies. But he was protected, both politically and otherwise, which meant extradition of any sort was out. He occupied the first three floors of a building he owned through a shell corporation, and he had a security staff big enough to take over a small island nation, which meant any attempt to remove him forcibly would get very ugly very quickly.
None of which bothered the Executioner.
Bolan had come to Hong Kong at the request of the man who, once upon a time, had been in charge of the Federal task force assigned to bring the Executioner to heel. Now they were brothers-in-arms. Brognola was head of the Sensitive Operations Group and he directed the Stony Man Farm counterterrorist teams. When Hal Brognola, asked for help, Bolan gave it gladly. Especially when it involved taking down a creature like Cloud, a man who was no less guilty than the criminals and terrorists he supplied.
Bringing Cloud to heel was too far outside the remit of any organization—even an extralegal group like Stony Man—to accomplish without jeopardizing international relations. But the Executioner could do as he damn well pleased.
Bolan heard the scrape of the tiger’s paws and spun, leveling the UMP. But too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering at once, and then the night air caught him and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass. His stomach gave a lurch and he lost his grip on the UMP. The startled roar of the tiger filled his ears.
The Hong Kong skyline spun crazily around him for a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity, a revolving kaleidoscope of colors and lights. As he twisted, the scope of his vision was abruptly filled by an orange expanse of water.
Bolan crossed his arms over his head as the water rose up to meet him. He hit the surface and the force of his descent slammed him down against the bottom. White and yellow tiles burst at the point of impact and pain shot through him, shocking him into motion.
He’d been hurt worse, and he forced the pain aside as he fought the instinct to struggle. It took him only a few seconds to realize he was in a swimming pool. He’d held his breath just before he hit, but if the water was deep enough to cushion his landing it was deep enough to drown in.
Through chlorine-stung eyes, he saw the rush of bubbles that signaled the tiger joining him in the water. The animal struggled to the surface with great