Death Run by Don Pendleton Read Free Book Online Page B

created Cooper's identity had been good, and every attempt by bin Osman to discredit the Cooper's credentials had proved fruitless.
    Cooper certainly looked the part. He dressed well enough so that he would fit in at a restaurant like Masa's, but not so well that anyone would wonder why he worked for a living. His clothes were expensive, but off-the-rack and not bespoke, though his broad shoulders obviously required some tailoring. Everything was perfect, from his sport jacket — which likely disguised at least one firearm, and perhaps two, judging by the nearly undetectable square-edged bulges beneath his armpits and at his waistline — to his shoes. Cooper didn't just dress like a sales representative; he dressed like a very successful sales representative.
    Bin Osman hadn't been able to learn anything about Cooper through proper channels, but he'd had better luck going through unofficial channels. CCP Oil had many ties with the Islamic world, including groups that bin Osman counted among his own acquaintances. Through his connections with such groups in Asia and the Middle East, he'd learned that no one within the CCP organization seemed to personally know this Cooper. This wasn't unheard of when it came to an outside sales representative, but bin Osman already knew that Cooper was no peddler of racing fuel.
    Who he really was presented another question entirely. It was as if Matt Cooper had emerged from some chrysalis as a fully formed warrior. He seemingly had no past. This was, of course, impossible, and throughout the evening bin Osman studied the American as if through a microscope. Only one thing was certain; Cooper was dangerous.
    Whatever his name, the man seated across the table from him wasn't sizing him up. Cooper knew for certain what he was dealing with when it came to his adversary; of this bin Osman had no doubt. He knew that this secretive warrior would have no trouble killing him. Rather the big man sized up the situation. Bin Osman admired the man's certitude and his efficiency. He would welcome the chance to practice the art of torture on such a specimen, but he realized that this man was not to be taken lightly. Although bin Osman ached to know how much the man would take before he snapped, he had a mission and this man posed a serious threat to the completion of that mission. No, he would have to deny himself that pleasure and dispatch of this man as efficiently as possible.
    After Cooper left the table, bin Osman produced a cell phone from the vest pocket of his linen suit. "He's left the building," he said into the phone. "Get ready."
* * *
    Bolan didn't have to wait long before bin Osman made his move. While he stood beside his motorcycle parked outside the restaurant and put on his riding gear, a black Hummer H2 with dark tinted windows rolled by at too slow a pace for the occupants not to be checking him out. With one eye on the slow-moving SUV, the soldier folded his sport jacket and put it in the top box over the bike's rear fender. Then he put on his two-piece riding suit, prepared to draw his weapon and take cover should the Hummer occupants start shooting at him. After the SUV rolled around the corner, Bolan changed from his dress shoes into his riding boots, then put on his helmet and riding gloves. He took his time, watching to see if the Hummer reappeared. Sure enough, minutes later the Hummer rolled by again.
    Bolan waited until it once again rounded the corner, then rode away from the curb. He made a left turn onto Stockton Street and watched his mirrors until he saw the Hummer turn onto the street about three cars behind him. The Executioner made a left turn onto Pine Street without signaling his turn. Traffic was relatively light on the big four-lane street and when the Hummer came around the corner there were no cars between the soldier and the big, black SUV.
    The Hummer accelerated hard, but Bolan jammed on the throttle, hoisting the front wheel of the motorcycle as if gravity had