Splinter Cell

Again, he checked both the chamber and magazine in the Desert Eagle. Then the pair of extra magazines. Satisfied, he stood and slid the holster through his belt, letting it come to rest on his right hip. He clipped the magazine carrier on his opposite side, just behind where the Beretta’s sound suppressor hung. He watched Paxton slide into his double .45 rig, then reach down into his bag and pull out a short dagger. The blade was invisible inside a brown Kydex sheath, but the handle had been made from some strange material that was an off-white—almost yellow—color with darker brown slots running from pommel to hilt.

Bolan slipped back into his coat, covering his guns and knife.

“Your knife handle,” Bolan said, his eyes on the strange-looking blade now clipped to Paxton’s belt on the side. “The grip. Cactus?”

The Army Ranger nodded. He drew the knife in a reverse grip and extended it cactus-end first.

“The light cactus keeps the weight down,” Paxton said. “Besides that, it has another special meaning to me.”

Bolan looked up from the dagger, curious.

“It was a birthday gift from Phil. He had it made for me from some guy in Texas.”

Bolan nodded his understanding as he examined the double-edged weapon, noting the deep Damascus whorl patterns on both sides. The blade was approximately four inches long, and the whole thing couldn’t have weighed more than a few ounces. He handed it back.

“What have we got as far as bigger stuff goes?” Paxton asked as he, too, now stood to put his jacket back on.

Bolan took a step away from the love seat and lifted a larger, heavier bag. Carrying it to the coffee table in the middle of the living room, he set it on top and unzipped it. Reaching inside, he pulled out a long, odd-looking pistol with a huge tubular drum magazine attached to the top.

“A Calico?” Paxton said, recognizing the weapon immediately.

Bolan nodded. “Two of them. One 50-round drum for each, and a 100-round backup.”

“Good weapons,” Paxton said. “But how are we supposed to carry them?”

The Executioner dug deeper into the bag and came out with another set of ballistic nylon straps.

“Ah,” Paxton said, nodding. “DeSantis rigs?”

The Executioner nodded again. “You’ve used this setup before?”

“Once,” Paxton came back. “You mount the 50-rounder on the gun. The 100-round drum balances it out on your other side. Both are secured to the straps with Velcro but the gun itself hangs on your strong side instead of in a cross-draw position. You can fire with it still on the strap.”

“You’ve got the picture,” said the Executioner. “And these rigs will fit right over the other shoulder holsters if we need them to. The only problem is we’ll need longer and heavier coats to conceal them. So for now, we’ll repack them and stick them under the bed.”

Paxton nodded his understanding. “Okay,” he said. “What’s on the paper that bureaucratic burnout Young gave you?” he asked.

Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled scrap of paper. “The name of a snitch,” he said. “And how to contact him.”

“He can lead us to my brother?” Paxton said, his voice suddenly tight.

“Maybe,” Bolan said. “Although I’ve never found things to work out quite that easily.”

“But he can get us started?”

“He can get us started,” Bolan agreed.

3

A rental BMW, arranged by Barbara Price, was waiting downstairs for Bolan and Paxton when they got off the elevator. The concierge handed them the keys and gave them directions to the parking lot. For his trouble, he got yet another tip from Bolan.

“You ever think we might be in the wrong business?” Paxton asked as they left the hotel and crossed the parking lot where the vehicle waited.

“How do you mean?”

“These guys,” Paxton said, glancing back over his shoulder in the direction from which they’d come. “Every time you turn around, they’ve got their hands out and somebody’s shoving money in them.”

Bolan chuckled. “If we were after money,” he said, “we’d have chosen different paths a long time ago.”

By now they had spotted the BMW. Bolan thumbed the button on the remote control to unlock the driver’s door, opened it, then pushed the button again to give Paxton access to the passenger’s seat.

As both men slid inside the vehicle, Paxton said, “Ever wonder why we do it?”

“You’re doing it to find your brother,” Bolan said as he started the engine. “What better reason do you need than that?”

“I mean, the rest of the time,” said Paxton. “Ever wonder why we risk our lives to help people we don’t even know?”

“We help them because we can,” Bolan said. “And because not very many other men have the abilities we do.”

Slowly Brick Paxton nodded his understanding. But an introspective frown stayed on his face. And a trancelike look remained in his eyes.

Bolan pulled the BMW out of the parking lot and drove just below the posted speed limit through the city. Soon, they were on a highway leading out of Amsterdam. It was not until then that Paxton spoke again. “I didn’t like you at first,” he suddenly said.

The Executioner didn’t answer.

Paxton turned slightly toward Bolan in his seat. “I’m more used to giving orders than taking them,” he said. “Except from officers, of course. And I didn’t have you pegged as an officer.”

“Then you had me pegged right,” Bolan said as multicolored fields of flowers, windmills and other sights flashed by.

“But you served, didn’t you.” It was a statement rather than a question.

Bolan answered anyway. “I served,” he said. “NCO.”

“Rangers?” This time Paxton’s tone did invite an answer.

“Special Forces,” Bolan said.

“Ah.” Paxton nodded. “The Green Beanies.” He paused. “Okay. You guys were all right, I guess.” The last sentence was said with the feigned condescension all special squads exhibit toward one another.

Such rivalry between Rangers, Green Berets, Navy SEAL, and other such units was expected and both men chuckled now. Bolan looked up to see a sign that read Marken 10K.

“Anyway,” Paxton went on, “I thought you were just another damn bureaucrat afraid to bend the rules. You see, I don’t care what I have to do to get my brother back safely.”

“I bend the rules when I have to in order to get the job done,” Bolan replied. “Other times, I shatter them.” He saw an egg-shaped lump form in Paxton’s throat as the man swallowed.

“Well,” the Ranger said. “Just in case I get killed before I get a chance to say this, thanks. I appreciate your help in finding my brother.

“Both of our parents were killed in a car accident my senior year in high school,” Paxton went on. “I was seventeen at the time. Phil was sixteen. We didn’t have any other relatives.”