The Annihilators by Donald Hamilton Read Free Book Online Page A

passport photo; and some fuzzy long-range tele shots. However, that was not a real problem now. A killer with a brand-new tin foot to which he was still unaccustomed shouldn’t be too hard to spot. In other respects the record revealed the man: A man who didn’t really favor the face-to-face stuff either bare-handed or with edged implements, who could handle a pistol or rifle okay, but who really excelled with the fully automatic weapons.
    Well, that agreed with his description as a team player; more accurately, as I recalled, a team leader. Mostly you don’t need a regiment—although I’d used Jimenez’s assault group the last time I’d been in Costa Verde—to slip a sniper into position, or sneak a pistolman within range of his target; but if your habit is to blast through the opposition by brute force, a well-trained unit equipped with rata-tat guns can be very useful.
    It wasn’t really my cup of tea, as the British would say, but it was Bultman’s, and I gave him full credit; although he had a reputation for arrogance, he must have something that inspired loyalty or his boys wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of getting him away, disabled and bleeding, after the Cuba fiasco. Of course it was also a weakness of sorts and our rules read differently. We’re not supposed to jeopardize our important missions, or even our valuable government-trained selves, performing heroic rescues of one-footed comrades (or of small girl hostages either, memory said; and I wished it would shut up and leave me alone).
    I asked the important question: “What’s the current word on Bultman, sir?”
    “Immediate where found.”
    Interesting. It doesn’t mean we blast them in the public plaza at high noon, of course; however it does mean that unless the mission upon which we’re engaged has extreme priority, if we stumble across them—the ones with that designation—in the course of it, we take time out to arrange for a discreet removal before proceeding with our regular business. Apparently Bultman had made somebody very angry, or scared, somewhere up the chain of command. Open season.
    “Whose toes did he step on?” I asked; and then I said, “Never mind, sir. I guess I can figure out the answer if I try real hard.”
    “I should hope so,” Mac said.
    “What about the person who spotted him in Guatemala?”
    “Observation personnel only.”
    “Who’s been sent for action—just in case I should fall over him in the dark somewhere down there?”
    “You don’t need to know who was sent. He has been recalled.”
    “I see.”
    And I did. I couldn’t help a rueful grin. I’d thought Mac had yielded a little too easily when I had announced my sentimental pilgrimage to Costa Verde. Hell, I had even asked innocently what homicidal talent might be wandering around that part of Central America. I’d walked right into it. He’d had to make a few arrangements, or rearrangements; but if temperamental superagent Helm insisted on heading down there anyway, why risk another valuable operative in such an uncertain area?
    I said, “My baby, sir?”
    His voice, when he answered, was cool: “Your baby, Eric. You did express interest, you’re visiting the country, with a resonably good cover as a magazine photographer, and it seems likely that Bultman’s presence in that part of the world is related to your current business. What else would President Rael’s dirty-work specialist, Echeverria, have to discuss with a trained and experienced assassin? That makes you the logical man to deal with the problem.” Mac hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully expressionless: “I think you understand the situation, all aspects of the situation. I will leave the final decision to your judgment.”
    I suppose I should have been flattered. He was giving me a free hand; but the trouble with that is that if your judgment turns out not to agree with certain other people’s judgments, you can wind up in serious difficulties.