Renegade Agent by Don Pendleton Read Free Book Online Page B

mission forced him to go hard again.
    "Any bullet wound is serious," the doctor said, looping the sling over Bolan's right shoulder. "You were lucky, sir. Although both the trapezius and pectoral muscles are torn to some extent, there is no organ damage or bone fracture. As a unit, your left arm is entire and operative, but the muscle trauma will decrease your control over the arm and your general mobility as well." The doctor rummaged in a cabinet, came out with a vial of pills. "This is oral Keflex. Take them until they are gone. I'll also prescribe some painkillers."
    "No thanks." It had nothing to do with being stoic; Bolan could simply never afford to dull his senses with any drug.
    "I see," the doctor said, in tone that indicated he did not.
    Bolan slid off the examining table and got his shirt a spare one of his own over his shoulders. "Thanks, Doc."
    Dr. Goldstein flashed him a brisk salute.
    Voorhis was waiting outside the infirmary. He led Bolan down a long white corridor, around a corner, and to an unmarked door. Bolan could hear the faint whirr of the ventilation that aired this underground London complex.
    "Drummond?" Bolan said, palming the doorknob.
    "Safe in the hands of MI5," Voorhis said.
    "At least safer than he'd be with his Russki pals." Bolan nodded and went into the interrogation room.
    Charon was composed, almost relaxed. He listened to what Bolan had to say, and offered neither objection nor defense. He seemed to view his defeat as simply another scientific phenomenon, a curiosity of life. Of course he would cooperate, if it meant the possibility of leniency, he told Bolan. It would be illogical to do otherwise.
    Outside in the corridor, Bolan found himself shaking with anger. The bloodless detachment with which both Charon and Drummond seemed to view their treachery was awesome, and at the same time sad. The man who cannot understand treason, Bolan thought, neither can he understand patriotism. And the man without patriotism, without allegiance to the country of which he himself is an important part, is a lonely man indeed. According to the technicality of law, neither man was guilty of a capital crime. According to Mack Bolan's worldview — a worldview forged in contemplation and tempered in terrorist blood — both men were as good as murderers. The mercenary sale of a military or intelligence secret in times of peace can have only one result: to push a precariously balanced world that much closer to war and holocaust.
    It was a direct subversion of a carefully created and mutually acceptable system of checks and balances, a subversion that could turn tension into violence.
    Bolan had learned again and again that too often the right weapon in the wrong hand added up to bloodshed.
    It was the terrorists who pulled the triggers. But it was the Frederick Charons and the Sir Philip Drummonds of the world who put the guns in the jackals hands.
    Bolan got out a cigarette and lit a match one-handed. He hoped the smoke would clear the sour taste from his mouth.
    Voorhis appeared at the corner of the hallway. "Communication from Washington, Colonel. Follow me, please." The room into which Voorhis led him contained a wooden desk with a chair and nothing else. In the exact center of the desk was a telephone.
    Voorhis nodded in its direction and went out, shutting the door behind him.
    Bolan picked up the handset. For several seconds there was a hash of electronic squeals and bursts of static, indicating that a scrambler was interfacing with the line. Then a deep familiar voice said, "Striker."
    "Go ahead, Hal."
    The satellite-transmitted voice of head fed Harold Brognola was thin and tinny, but the anxiety in its tone came through five-by. "What happened?"
    "You've already checked that out, Hal," Bolan said patiently.
    "Sure. An accident, they said."
    "That's what it was. It happens that way in real life sometimes, Hal, no matter how clean you lay it out. I'll be all right. Give it time."
    "Sure, Striker,"