Книга - Killing Trade

Killing Trade
Don Pendleton


A shell-shocked cityA new type of ammunition has Mack Bolan fighting a deadly war. But this time the battleground is New York City. Bolan has to uncover the source of the devastating new ammunition. The explosive, high-penetration bullets not only slice through armored vehicles with ease, but are the hottest item on the small-arms market.Not everyone wants these bullets destroyed. Having had a taste of their destructive power, those involved are willing to kill to keep their supply moving. With the Big Apple at stake and the city's toughest thugs and paid assassins wanting him dead, the Executioner must destroy the source–before he becomes the target.









Killing Trade


The Executioner




Don Pendleton






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Phil Elmore for his contribution to this work.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20




1


Mack Bolan surged to his feet from the folding chair, knocking it backward as he overturned the circular alloy table. Someone nearby screamed. As the Executioner crouched behind the dubious cover of the dented table, a steady stream of 62-grain steel-core ammunition punched merciless holes through it. Bolan swept aside his windbreaker and drew the Beretta 92-F from the holster inside his waistband. Rolling away from the table, he brought the weapon up in two hands as he crouched on one knee. He shot the gunman between the eyes, the 9 mm hollowpoint round coring through the man’s head. The gunman staggered and dropped, his heavily accessorized AR-15 clattering to the pavement. Bolan pushed to his feet, knees bent, scanning left to right with the Beretta before him, searching for more targets. Around him, panicked citizens and tourists ran for their lives, overturning the outdoor furniture as they went.

Bolan took stock. This was New York City, not Baghdad, but the scene had gone to hell faster than most. He was likely outnumbered and, because he’d tried to keep a low profile, outgunned. The Beretta in his hands was a fine weapon, but offered nowhere near the firepower of the select-fire Beretta 93-R or .44 Magnum Desert Eagle that were his normal field kit.

The instructions from Stony Man Farm had been clear enough, the scenario straightforward. Several high-profile shootings in New York City had raised flags at the Farm because of their technical details. Someone was using new small-arms ordnance on the streets, explosive high-penetration rounds that could chop through vehicles and body armor with startling ease. Aaron Kurtzman and the Farm’s team of computer jockeys had traced the ammunition to a dealer trying to broker a large sale in Manhattan. The Executioner, posing as a buyer, was to meet this man. The time and place were set in advance.

It was crucial not to spook the dealer. The arms network in the city could extend to any number of people. To find and destroy the source of the dangerous rounds, Bolan had to track it through this contact. He had loaded down accordingly, going armed but not heavily so, balancing preparation with the image he was trying to project to the arms dealer.

Now, that lack of firepower might prove fatal. Hal Brognola, director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group, had stressed to him the delicate nature of the situation, the political sensitivities in a city only too recently the target of the world’s worst terrorist attacks. It was a calculated risk, but it had seemed reasonable enough. Bolan was to meet the dealer, find out what he knew and trace him back to his sources.

The contact failed to show. Whether he was dead, missing or had simply been scared off didn’t matter. In the man’s place had come an assassin.

Bolan spared the fallen gunman a glance. The dead man’s weapon had all the bells and whistles—tactical light, vertical foregrip, red-dot scope. Going only on the hardware and the man’s clothing, it was possible the would-be murderer was a mercenary, of the type that Brognola and the Farm had warned Bolan to expect at some point.

The arms dealer, a man named West, was formerly employed by a large munitions developer called Norris Labs International. NLI, among other activities, kept a security contractor on retainer—the type of private paramilitary force a company, if just corrupt enough, might field to cover its bloody tracks with more bodies. If the intel and the Farm’s theories were correct, NLI was eager to prevent its involvement with the explosive ammunition from becoming known. They were therefore highly motivated to stop West and kill anyone connected with him.

Their death list now seemed to include Bolan.

The second shooter was not far behind the first. He engaged as he moved, firing a Heckler & Koch .45 as he ran, too eager to acquire his target. The man was clearly pushing the envelope of his own skills. Bolan held his ground. Heavy slugs scraped the pavement at his boots. The Executioner aimed calmly and dropped the second man with another clean shot to the head.

Bryant Park had become a killing ground. The Executioner, no stranger to the Big Apple, was equally familiar with the fog of war. As more armed professionals closed in from two sides, Bolan sought the only cover he could find—the Josephine Shaw Lowell Memorial Fountain. Putting the fountain’s pink granite between himself and the gunmen approaching from the north, he targeted the contingent closing from the east and opened fire. It was a delaying tactic, aiming a suppressing field of fire at the enemy.

The Beretta barked a dozen times and locked open, but Bolan was already up and reloading on the move, running through the short pause created by his bullets. There were crowds of pedestrians nearby, and the Executioner knew he could not afford to put them in danger. It was no small feat in such a crowded city, but Bolan managed to plot a route away from the killzone that did not put anyone else in the line of fire. He paralleled traffic on Forty-Second Street as he ran, careful to stay as far from both people and vehicles as he could.

Horns blared as spectators, watching him go, voiced outrage or encouragement—Bolan could not tell which. Behind him, the swarming groups of shooters converged but held their fire. Clearly they were not willing, just yet, to ignite a war in full view of witnesses, but Bolan didn’t trust his luck or their restraint to hold forever. In his head he heard the numbers falling. The NYPD and maybe even a task force of Emergency Service Unit personnel could arrive at any time. New York City was a lot of things, tough among them, but a full-blown gun battle in Manhattan would draw an overwhelming law-enforcement response.

Brognola wasn’t going to be happy.

The soldier’s black-clad pursuers, all bearing Colt assault rifles and an assortment of handguns, overcame their reluctance and began to chase the Executioner with their fire. Bullets chewed the sidewalk behind him and narrowly missed clipping his feet. Out of immediate danger but bearing wide-eyed witness to the coming carnage, the closer drivers leaned on their horns.

As the Executioner moved, the OD canvas messenger bag slung over his shoulder slapping against his left hip, he whipped shots behind him. He took one gunman in the thigh, toppling him, before punching a trio of 9 mm bullets through another. The shooter went down, but there were more to take his place.

Bolan weighed his choices as he ran. He could not bull his way through the dense New York pedestrian traffic, nor could he endanger the vehicle traffic on the street. He wouldn’t use innocent people as shields. It was bad enough that there were plenty of people, far too many, to see just what was happening. This low-profile meeting had turned into a high-profile disaster. The hostile team was hot on his heels, moving up both sides of the street. With no other options and with no choice but to get the innocents out of harm’s way, the Executioner ran for the twin stone lions guarding the New York Public Library.

There were crowds of people everywhere. There was only a moment to get them moving before his pursuers would be in range. His face grim, he did the only thing he could. Aiming the Beretta down and at the angle least likely to send ricochets spraying the area, he started shooting.

“This is a terrorist attack!” Bolan shouted. “Everybody get out of here!” He punctuated the order with another pair of gunshots. “Move! Move!”

There was more screaming, but not much, as those within range hustled to put space between themselves and the big, dark-haired gunman in their midst. New York, a city hardened to terrorist attacks and near-misses since September 11, was still standing and still vibrant, despite the best efforts of countless enemies, foreign and domestic. New Yorkers, even many of the tourists, were a hardy breed, inured to violence and to its threat, proud of their city. They weren’t stupid, but neither were they cowed. Bolan saw more than a few hard looks as people ran from him. One man, a twentysomething with a shoulder bag and wearing a 5.11 tactical vest, almost looked as if he might go for a weapon under his clothing. Bolan eyed him hard and the young man backed off, looking through what he thought was his enemy, unblinking. The Executioner watched until the man rounded the corner, his hand still fingering the edge of his vest.

Bolan counted himself lucky. In a city where mere mortals couldn’t get permits to carry guns without a great deal of wealth and political influence, more than a few who valued their lives over petty politicking had made the choice to go armed illegally. The Executioner would not have been surprised if one of the locals had taken a shot at him. Bolan changed magazines and took cover behind one of the stone lions, covering the street as the hired shooters closed on him. The timing was going to be tight.

As they moved up on either side, Bolan crouched low. Gunfire pocked the pedestal of the stone lion. Then a group of four men made their move, trying to flank the Executioner and get a clear shot at him as he engaged the others. Bolan, again on one knee, took a careful two-hand grip on the Beretta, sighted and fired.

He took the point man in the head, the hollowpoint round doing its deadly work as it punched through the gunman. Bolan fired several more times, taking the second man in the chest and driving the others back. The remaining two began to backpedal, moving smoothly on bent knees. They fired as they went, almost gliding. They were well-trained. Bolan’s bullets chased after them, but when he was certain they were backing off, he returned his attention to the main group. Above him, the statue took several high shots, spraying him with stinging debris.

Reloading again, Bolan drew a bead on another enemy as the man crouched behind a suddenly abandoned pickup truck. The gunman, tucked behind the protection of the engine block, nevertheless exposed too much of his bent arm and gun hand. Bolan’s bullets shattered the man’s elbow.

The Executioner had time to watch a pair of men advance to back up their fallen comrade. Each one carried a slightly longer AR-15, the heavy match barrels of the stainless-steel weapons gleaming in the afternoon light. Bolan ducked back behind the lion’s pedestal as they opened fire.

The Executioner flinched as a quartet of shots punched through the stone of the pedestal. His eyes wide, Bolan watched as tiny fires flared up in gaping exit holes in the stone. He barely had time to throw himself from behind the pedestal as a fusillade of heavy slugs split the pedestal and broke large pieces from the lion above. Several bullets dug into the stone of the library steps, sparking more small fires that burned with unnatural intensity. Bolan rolled, feeling the heat, squinting against the grit and debris that coated him. He shoved the Beretta forward, slightly canted in one fist, burning through the magazine as fast as he could. The angle was bad, but the shots forced the gunners back behind the pickup truck.

The slide of Bolan’s pistol locked open again. Bolan’s support hand slapped the ejected magazine away from his body where it couldn’t end up under his feet. He brought the last of his spare magazines from the holder at his belt, slapped it home and racked the slide briskly as he advanced smoothly, knees bent, in an aggressive isosceles crouch. As he pushed the gun to full extension again, ready to engage his attackers with his last fifteen rounds, he finally heard the sirens through the ringing in his ears.

The first of the NYPD cars roared up, tires squealing as they cut through the chaos of Manhattan’s traffic. Bolan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the gunmen, already backing off and buttoning up, their weapons disappearing under long coats or simply held behind their bodies as they faded back in the noise and confusion. Bolan hit the magazine release on his Beretta and racked the slide as he stood, moving out into the middle of the library steps. As police officers with Glocks and shotguns drew down on him, screaming commands at him, Bolan let the Beretta swivel out of his grip, dangling from his finger by the trigger guard. He held it high over his head as he settled to his knees, his free hand behind his neck.

No, Hal Brognola was not going to be happy—but Bolan wasn’t finished yet.

He was only getting started.




2


Bolan sat at the small table in the corner of the coffeehouse, an insulated cup of overpriced coffee untouched before him. Checking the heavy stainless-steel watch on his wrist, he sat back in the wooden chair. Brognola had managed to straighten things out, more or less, and much more quickly than Bolan would have thought. The local authorities hadn’t detained Bolan long before cutting him loose, though it was clear they were not happy about it.

After conferring with the Farm following the shootout at the library, the big Fed had started pulling strings and pushing buttons, hard. The Farm had identified the person most likely to be of use to Bolan in his search through the city—Detective Len Burnett. Burnett was head of a multijurisdictional drug-trafficking task force operating in the greater New York City area, with the authority and the connections Bolan would need. He was on record concerning investigations into several of the shootings that had flagged the Farm’s interest. He was also a veteran officer with a good record, by all accounts. Brognola had arranged to have Burnett assigned as liaison to Bolan. He knew that wasn’t likely to go over well with Burnett or his bosses, but it couldn’t be helped.

The Executioner couldn’t blame NYPD for resenting his presence. He hadn’t started the war—it was raging long before Bolan had arrived for his most recent tour of the Big Apple—but he’d brought it boiling over onto their front steps within view of countless civilians. Fortunately, despite waging a running firefight in midtown Manhattan, Bolan’s attackers hadn’t killed anyone. The property damage was extensive, but the cost in lives was zero.

So far.

The bad news was that Bolan could see no way this wasn’t simply the opening salvo of a much bloodier battle.

The soldier watched the entrance to the coffeehouse. He did not wait long before a man matching the description he’d been given pushed open the door and let it slam none too gently behind him. The newcomer was male, late thirties to early forties, with an unruly mop of curly, receding brown hair, three days’ worth of beard stubble and a paisley tie at half mast. He was a large man, standing a couple of inches over six feet, with a slight paunch and a lanky, big-boned frame. He wore an off-the-rack suit that actually fit him quite well, the jacket of which didn’t quite conceal the bulge of the gun on his right hip. He quickly surveyed the coffeehouse and zeroed in on Bolan without hesitation. The soldier’s corner was secluded enough, the ambient noise loud enough, that the men could speak in reasonable confidence on what was, Bolan calculated, neutral ground. He did not intend to antagonize Burnett if he could help it, given that he needed the man’s assistance.

“Matt Cooper?”

“That’s me,” Bolan nodded, standing to offer his hand. Burnett took it and returned a firm handshake.

“Burnett,” the man said pleasantly. As he sat, his expression hardened, his smile bearing all the joy of an undertaker. “Would you mind telling me,” he asked with feigned mildness before his voice went completely cold, “just what the fuck you think you’re doing in New York?” He spoke quietly, but the menace in his tone was real enough.

Bolan looked at him blandly. “That’s need to know.”

“Well,” Burnett said, leaning forward, “I damn well need to know.”

The Executioner regarded him for a moment, saying nothing.

Burnett wiped one hand down his face, shaking his head. “Look, Cooper,” he said, using the cover Brognola had supplied and that Bolan’s Justice credentials listed, “I want to believe we’re on the same side. Chief Vaughn told me he’s been getting calls from high-powered types in Washington all morning. That’s the only reason you’re not up on every charge in the book and a few off the books, as far as I’m concerned. You’ve got connections. Okay. I can live with that. But I won’t have you burning down this city around my ears!”

“You’re right,” Bolan said simply.

“What?” Burnett asked.

“We’re on the same side,” Bolan offered. “At least, we ought to be, depending on what your stake in all this is.”

“Drug interdiction’s my stake,” Burnett said. “If your people knew to ask for me, you know what I do. My task force is focused primarily on violent crime related to cocaine trafficking.”

“Crack?” Bolan asked.

“The crack dealers are the small-timers, these days,” Burnett admitted. “It’s the big gangs and the organized-crime families moving hundreds of kilograms of cocaine that concern me.” He turned and stared into space for a moment, looking out the picture window at the busy city street beyond. He sighed. “Cooper, I’ve lived in New York all my life. I’ve watched crime come and go. I’ve seen how bad it can get. As a rookie, I watched the city nearly eat itself alive in the late seventies. Then there was the backlash. Remember those movies, all the vigilante flicks about cleaning up the Big Apple? There was that subway shooter…and that didn’t stem the tide. Things got worse until the last bunch of cronies in city hall decided to clamp down, clean up the joint. We started to turn a corner.”

“It’s never that easy,” Bolan commented.

“No,” Burnett said, turning to face him, “it isn’t and it wasn’t. Now we’re seeing the worst of the violent crime surge again. I’ve got Colombian and Dominican gangs, with a few minor Mexican players for flavor, pushing into Manhattan, of all places. Midtown Manhattan, Cooper! All it takes is one good massacre on Broadway, a hit on the street in front of the United Nations, or, God help us, a frigging war in front the New York Public Library, and we’ll be lucky to see so much as another nickel in tourism. They’ll be rolling up the bloodstained sidewalks by the time we’re done. This city will be the wasteland they were all predicting it would become, back in the bad old days. I want to stop that before it can happen, Cooper.”

“It’s more than drug interdiction and drive-bys,” Bolan told him.

Burnett paused. “That’s right,” he said. “A few months ago, we had an officer shot in the line of duty. Tragic as the death of a good cop is, that wasn’t so surprising. What had us up nights worrying was that the patrolman was shot after taking cover behind the engine block of his Crown Vic.”

“Shot through cover, you mean,” Bolan guessed.

“Exactly,” Burnett nodded. “The rounds—9 mm, forensics tells us—went through the heaviest part of the car like it wasn’t even there. Maybe a .50-caliber rifle could do that. But 9 frigging mm? Show me small-arms ammunition that can do that!”

“That’s why I’m here,” Bolan admitted. “That wasn’t the first such case.”

Burnett’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right,” he said. “There have been almost a dozen shootings, some large-scale, some minor drive-bys. In each one, witness accounts or the evidence and the bodies we found afterward point to something nobody’s ever seen before. The lab couldn’t make much of it, other than to say it was like a miniature depleted uranium round. We sent some samples to the FBI, what we could find, but we haven’t got anything yet.”

“You have,” Bolan told him. “You got me.”

“You’re FBI?” Burnett asked. “I thought you were with the Justice Department.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Bolan told him. “Let’s say for now that the samples you sent raised the right flags in the right departments. Word of what you’re facing made its way to the right people. They’re working on it right now. That’s also why I’m here. That’s what I’m after. Depleted uranium ammo in the hands of violent drug gangs in New York City? That’s volatile business. The fire’s got to be stopped before it spreads.”

“Fine,” Burnett said, growing impatient. “But you weren’t shooting it out with any coke-runners yesterday. My men on the scene tell me they saw paramilitary commandos of some kind.”

“Did your people intercept any of them?” Bolan asked.

“No,” Burnett said, his face reddening. “We pursued several of them but lost them. They shot up a SWAT van, among other things, making their escape.”

“Some of them,” Bolan said, “were using the ammunition we’re looking for. Not all, but at least two.”

“What’s the connection?” Burnett asked. “How did it go down? Why were they shooting at you?”

“We’ll get to that eventually,” Bolan said, putting him off. “Tell me about the gangs you’re working,” Bolan said.

“Why?” Burnett demanded. “How do you fit into this?”

“Trust me,” Bolan told him.

“I guess I don’t have much choice,” Burnett said. He thought about it for a moment and then continued. “We’ve got two gangs at war right now, both of them moving into Manhattan to prove something to the others—and to city hall, if you ask me. One’s the Caqueta Cartel, headed by Luis Caqueta. They’re the Colombians. The other is El Cráneo, the Skull, a Dominican gang fronted by a charming character named Pierre Taveras.”

“How does the trade play out?” Bolan asked.

“Caqueta moves large quantities of cocaine through Atlanta, using a variety of small-time Mexican groups to move the coke from the southwest. The Mexicans completely control the West Coast and the Midwestern markets, but here on the East Coast, El Cráneo and Caqueta are fighting for control. It’s been getting bloodier and bloodier as they try to outdo each other. A lot of the coke originates in Colombia, where your people in Washington have been cutting aid to drug interdiction for years now. The pipeline is getting wider and the distributors on this end are getting more brutal as they fight over rights to distribute their poison in the Northeast.”

“Bloodier and bloodier,” Bolan repeated, “meaning, the street wars are escalating and the hardware is, too.”

“You know it as well as I do,” the cop said.

“Yes, I do,” Bolan confirmed. “Initially, my involvement was supposed to be low profile,” he confided. “Our people—”

“Which people are those?” Burnett interrupted.

“Our people,” Bolan said again, ignoring him, “put me on the trail of one Jonathan West, thirty-four, a technician formerly employed by a company called Norris Labs. Have you heard of it?”

“Norris Labs International.” Burnett nodded. “They do all that contract work in places like Iraq, right?”

“Yes,” Bolan said. “There are only a few corporations larger. NLI has its hands in everything from pharmaceuticals and arms development to contracted military services ranging from catering to armed security. They retain a privately owned firm called Blackjack Group, whose contractors guard convoys and even sign on for field operations in Iraq, Afghanistan and other hot spots.”

“And that’s relevant because…”

“We believe NLI developed the depleted uranium small-arms ammunition,” Bolan stated. “My people are analyzing it, but initial examination of the recovered fragments you originally sent to Washington correlated with some patents and weapons trials linked to NLI. They’ve been working, apparently, to miniaturize the depleted uranium ammunition currently in use in heavy weaponry, while increasing its antipersonnel potential.”

“Where does this West guy fit in?” Burnett asked.

“West tried and failed to broker a deal for a large quantity of DU small-arms ammunition six months ago. His contact, he thought, represented a drug gang based in West Virginia. The gang’s inquiries were part of an FBI sting.

“Domestic chatter had it that the ammunition was available. Several months of Internet chats and e-mails established that this fictitious group was looking for heavy armament, at which point they were contacted by Jonathan West. West quit or was fired from NLI several months prior to that—he says one thing, while they officially say another—which makes him a disgruntled employee with access to either the ammunition or plans for it.”

“If you were trailing him here,” Burnett said, “I gather the sting didn’t go as planned.”

“It fell through,” Bolan admitted. “The FBI and a few associated agencies have been tracking West since, recently placing him here. He was using an Internet service to transfer money electronically from a credit account to what he thought was a safe drop, a post-office box here in the city. Once we knew where to look, we found more Internet traffic pointing to West trying to move the DU cartridges locally.”

“And?”

“We created another fictional group looking for heavy firepower,” Bolan said. “A white supremacist group based here in the greater New York area. A meet was arranged with West to discuss terms and prices. I was here to keep that meeting.”

“Let me guess,” Burnett said. “In Bryant Park.”

“Exactly,” Bolan said. “The rest you know.”

Burnett shook his head again. “I don’t know jack,” he complained. “How does meeting West become a full-blown war?”

“There was no attempt to make contact before I was attacked in force,” Bolan said. “That tells me either West sent them to intercept me and eliminate me—which wouldn’t make much sense, unless he had reason to suspect me—or there’s something much more complicated going on.”

“Meaning what?” Burnett asked.

“Meaning, that I suspect those men were operatives for Blackjack Group—paid mercenaries, judging from their equipment and tactics.”

“Why would NLI and their security firm risk open war in an American city?” Burnett asked.

“Think about it.” Bolan nodded at the street beyond the window, at the people passing by. “You’re a controversial corporation with ties to the military-industrial complex, as they say. Not the best public relations already. Now your experimental and very deadly ammunition is finding its way onto the streets of a city that’s had its nose bloodied one time too many in recent memory. This goes way beyond the usual political posturing, cries for gun control, that kind of thing. If you were NLI’s management, would you want your company linked to endangering the lives of innocent civilians on American streets? If it comes out that NLI is or did produce the munitions used, we’re likely to see congressional action. To some people, that would be worth killing for to avoid.”

“Do you have any proof of this?”

“No,” Bolan said. “That’s what I’m looking to find. West may or may not still be out there. If NLI and Blackjack sent those shooters to silence me, chances are good they’re looking for West, too, if they haven’t gotten to him already. If I run him down, I’ll either get what he knows, or find a link to who took him out. Either way, it gets me closer to the source of the DU.”

“I don’t know exactly what connections you have, Cooper,” Burnett said reluctantly, “but word has come down from the highest authority. I’ve been instructed to offer you every assistance in the pursuit of your objectives. Until you’re through in New York, I’m your shadow.”

“Which means you’ll help me,” Bolan said.

“It means,” Burnett informed him, “that I’ll drive.”




3


Burnett piloted the unmarked Crown Victoria through canyons of glass and steel, flooring it whenever a clear straightaway offered itself in the congested mess that was Manhattan traffic. Several times he came so close to surrounding vehicles that Bolan thought one of the mirrors would be sheared off, but the car remained intact. At each stoplight, pedestrians flowed around the car like a river raging against worn rocks. All around them, the city throbbed with noise and activity, as millions of people went about their business.

Somewhere among those millions were people Bolan sought.

The Executioner’s secure satellite camera-phone began to vibrate in his pocket. “Cooper,” he answered, so whoever was listening at Stony Man Farm would know he was not alone and could not speak completely freely.

“Striker.” Barbara Price’s familiar voice spoke in Bolan’s ear. “How are you holding up? We got an earful from Hal yesterday. He was fit to be tied.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bolan said. “When you get a chance, explain to him that there was no other way.”

“I will, if he ever gets off the phone with the local, state and federal authorities in New York,” Stony Man’s honey-blond, model-beautiful mission controller said over the scrambled line. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“I won’t,” Bolan acknowledged. “What have you got?”

“Some of the information you requested—technical specs and some dossiers per this morning’s request.”

“Go ahead,” Bolan told her.

“All right,” she said. “First, the DU rounds. Samples recovered from crime scenes in New York correspond to 9 mm, .45 and 5.56 mm small arms.”

“You spoke with Cowboy?”

“Yes,” Price said, knowing Bolan meant John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man’s armorer. “Per your request last night, he’s got a care package on its way to you. He also left me some specifications. He says the rounds are, as near as we can tell, depleted uranium cores sandwiched in tungsten shells and tipped in an accelerant that makes them explosive. They’re incredible penetrators but also mildly radioactive and plenty poisonous. Get hit, and if the bullet doesn’t kill you, the toxic shock might. Cowboy tells me the rounds are pyrophoric.”

“Meaning they’ll start fires where they hit?” Bolan asked.

“Very probably, because of the DU, the accelerant or both.”

“What will it take to stop them?” Bolan asked.

“Nothing short of heavy vehicle armor will make a difference,” Price informed him. “And we’re not talking light protection like on an up-armored Humvee or even most armored personnel carriers. In heavier calibers, this would be an antitank round at the very least. It would take a tank to stop the small stuff. Stay out of the way of them, Striker.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bolan said. “What have you pulled up concerning personnel?”

“I’ve got a possible address for Jonathan West, linked to a credit card that was recently used to purchase a variety of computer equipment. It’s on the Upper West Side.”

“Shoot,” Bolan said.

Price gave him the address and the soldier passed it on to Burnett, who adjusted course accordingly. “We’re rolling now. What else have you pulled up?”

“I’ve got photos and bios for Luis Caqueta, head of the Caqueta Cartel. Also for his half brother, Carlos ‘Eye’ Almarone, and one of his lieutenants, known only as ‘Razor’ Ruiz. Their opposite number includes Pierre Taveras, leader of El Cráneo in New York, and two operatives whom we believe are in his inner circle—Julian ‘July’ de la Rocha and Jesus Molina.”

“It’s coming through now,” Bolan confirmed, glancing at the color screen of his satellite phone and noting the data-transmission icons.

“Anything else?” Price asked.

“Just tell Bear and his team to keep working on that NLI data,” Bolan said. “I need to know what and who I’m up against there. I’ll have follow-ups as needed.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll be in touch once we find West, if he’s there,” Bolan said.

“Be careful, Striker.”

“Always,” Bolan said. He closed the connection.

“Your mother?” Burnett said, eyes on the road.

“Something like that,” Bolan replied.

“Yeah.” Burnett almost chuckled. “Assuming that was your boss, or your people or whomever, we can cross-reference what you have with the task force’s files.” When Bolan said nothing, Burnett finally pressed, “Cooper, what is your story? How are you so connected in Washington? Just what are you after?”

“I want the same thing you want,” Bolan told him. “I want those DU rounds off the streets. I want to stop the escalating war between El Cráneo and the Caquetas. And I want to find the men responsible for setting it all in motion.”

Burnett regarded him for a moment before dodging a taxi and cutting off a panel truck to take position in a slightly less congested lane. He tromped the accelerator as soon as he had the shot. The Crown Victoria roared forward.

“Who are you, Cooper?” Burnett asked.

“Just a man,” Bolan told him. “Just one man. Like you.”

“Yeah,” Burnett scoffed, “just an ordinary guy who runs around in a black commando suit under his jacket, hoping nobody will notice his odd fashion sense.”

Bolan said nothing. The formfitting blacksuit he wore beneath his windbreaker was subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice it, but Burnett wasn’t stupid. They both knew Bolan, whatever relationship he had to the Justice Department, was no ordinary government functionary. Bolan hoped the cop’s respect for authority would keep the lid on his curiosity. It didn’t hurt at all to have a local professional, somebody familiar with the battleground that was New York, to help Bolan with his search. If Burnett became a liability, however, Bolan would have to go it alone.

The two rode in silence for the remainder of the trip. Burnett parked in front of a fire hydrant when they reached their destination. They exited the vehicle and paused to look up at the five-story brownstone.

“What floor?” Burnett asked.

“Fifth,” Bolan told him, patting himself down and checking the Beretta in its holster. “We’ll have to search, once we get up there. Do you carry anything heavy in the trunk of this?” He gestured back to the unmarked car with his thumb.

“I’ve got an 870,” Burnett told him.

Bolan nodded to the car. Burnett took the hint, unlocked the trunk and freed the Remington shotgun from its rack. He checked its loads and then scooped a handful of double-aught buckshot shells from a cardboard box in the trunk, dropping the shells into the left-hand pocket of his suit jacket.

“You expecting trouble?” Burnett asked.

“I always expect trouble,” Bolan told him.

A woman in a frayed housecoat watched them from the steps of the brownstone, where she sat knitting something and drinking from a bottle in a paper bag. Bolan nodded as he passed her on the steps.

“Ma’am,” Burnett said, carrying the shotgun close to his body and tipping an imaginary hat with his free hand.

Inside, the lighting was dim compared to the sunny autumn day outside. Bolan squinted and paused in the small entryway, letting his eyes adjust. Outside, the brownstone looked almost charming. Inside, the wallpaper was peeling and the interior was obviously divided into a warren of studio apartments. Burnett scanned the mailboxes mounted flush with one interior wall. Only a few had names, none on the fifth floor.

“I guess it wouldn’t be that easy,” Burnett said. The shotgun in both fists, he made for the stairs. Bolan followed. The rickety stairs creaked under their weight. As they climbed, Bolan drew the Beretta, his thumb swiping up the slide safety out of long habit. The stairwells smelled of urine. As they passed the third floor, they could hear someone screaming. Bolan paused only momentarily. It sounded like a domestic squabble. Shaking his head, Burnett looked upward and Bolan nodded. The two men finally made the fifth floor without incident.

“Now what?” Burnett asked quietly.

“Try these apartments nearest the stairs,” Bolan told him. “I’ll start at the other end. Stay sharp. If I flush him to you, try not to kill him.”

“Right,” Burnett said dubiously. “Because I was planning on shooting the suspect as soon as I saw him.”

Bolan looked at Burnett hard. “Don’t get yourself killed, either.”

“I’ll do my best,” Burnett said. Bolan marched off. The two men started rapping on doors, both of them staying well clear of the doors themselves. Bolan had been on the receiving end of more than a little gunfire through locked doors before. Burnett either had experienced some of the same, or he was just good at his job. Either way, Bolan was glad not to have to hold his hand; the man was a veteran officer and knew his way around.

Bolan was on his third door, having received no answer and hearing no movement at the first two, when the hollow-core door flew open.

“What the hell is it?” The woman who answered was slim and not unattractive, despite the heavy black eye makeup she wore. Her bottom lip pierced by several silver rings. She wore shorts and a halter top, her bare midriff covered in Celtic tattoos. Bolan, his gun held low behind his right leg, nodded to her.

“Miss,” he said. “I’m looking for someone.”

She smiled up at the Executioner. “What a coincidence,” she said, one hand sliding idly up and down the door frame as she leaned in the doorway and eyed Bolan up and down. “So am I.”

Bolan produced a small photo from the inside pocket of his windbreaker. “I’m looking for this man,” he said, letting her get a good look at the photo of Jonathan West. “He might not look like this. He may have changed his hair color, or grown a beard or done something else to disguise himself.”

The woman frowned through a lip full of metal. “You a cop?”

“No,” Bolan said truthfully. “It’s very important—”

Several shots rang out two doors down, as bullets peppered the thin wood of the apartment door on which Burnett had been knocking.

Burnett jacked the pump on his Remington 870, pressing himself against the wall beside the door. “Police!” he bellowed into the corridor. “This is a lawful entry!”

The door practically disintegrated under a withering full-auto blast, peppering the plaster of the opposite wall. Bolan tackled the woman before him, throwing her down through the doorway onto the scarred hardwood floor of her apartment. He stayed on top of her until the shooting stopped. Burnett’s shotgun sounded like a cannon in the narrow corridor outside as the lawman fired back.

Bolan checked the woman beneath him, who looked at him with a mixture of fear and excitement. The Executioner nodded to the large windows at the end of the small studio, beyond which he could see a fire escape.

“Does that go all the way across the front of the building?” Bolan asked sharply.

She thought about it for a second. “Yes,” she said, as Bolan got to his feet, his Beretta in a low two-hand grip. “It connects all the apartments on this side.”

“Stay low,” Bolan told her. “Don’t go out until the shooting stops. And call 9-1-1!” He was moving before she could say more, throwing open the window and stepping outside. Wind tugged at his hair as he crept along the rusted metal fire escape. From the apartment two doors down, more gunfire erupted. It was the unmistakable chatter of an Uzi, punctuated by more of Burnett’s shotgun blasts.

Wincing as his combat boots rang on the metal fire escape, Bolan slowed and dropped to his knees as he neared the window he wanted. Then he threw himself on his back, using his legs to shove himself forward as he stared skyward, concealing himself between the window ledge and the floor of the fire escape. Below him, New York City continued to bustle, temporarily oblivious to the slaughterhouse within the unassuming fifth-floor walk-up on the Upper West Side.

There was another lull in the automatic gunfire. Bolan popped up, his pistol held compressed against his chest in both hands. He fired twice, punching spidery holes in the window glass, then lowered his shoulder and dived through. He came up, still targeting the shadow he’d seen through the glass—a single, relatively small man with a submachine gun in his fists. The gunman was shoving another stick magazine into the grip of the weapon.

“West!” Burnett called from the hallway. “Stop!” The small man charged the door. Bolan dived aside as a shotgun blast from the doorway peppered the rear wall of the apartment. Then Burnett was down, tackled as the Uzi fell to the floor. The two rolled into the corridor. Bolan closed on the doorway, his Beretta leading, unable to get a clear shot.

“Cooper!” Burnett called, wrestling for his shotgun.

As Bolan approached he could see blood soaking the khaki shirt the small man wore. Burnett’s blast hadn’t been a complete miss. The cop used his size advantage to muscle his way to his feet, shaking the smaller man back and forth as the pair fought each with both hands on the Remington.

Bolan aimed the Beretta two-handed, trying and failing to acquire his target. He lowered the weapon, then raised it again as first Burnett, then the small man moved into his line of fire. “Down!” he shouted.

Burnett took the cue and dropped onto his rear, falling back and slapping his arms. The small man, who had been pushing against Burnett’s resistance, flew forward with the shotgun in his hands. Bolan fired once, low, catching the gunman in the thigh. The man grunted and stumbled over Burnett down the corridor, out of Bolan’s view. The shotgun fell from his fingers.

“Stop!” Burnett called. From the floor he clawed for the gun holstered on his hip. Bolan reached the doorway as the wounded gunman rammed the door of the woman’s apartment two doors down. It opened and the woman screamed.

“Shit,” Burnett cursed, pushing to his feet with a .40-caliber Glock in his fists.

“Back! Get back!” the gunman shouted. He reappeared in the corridor, one arm around the young woman’s neck. He held a folding knife to her face, the serrated S-curved blade just barely below her right eye. His face was ashen. A pool of blood was forming where he stood.

Bolan advanced, the Beretta high in his line of sight. Burnett backed him as the two men crept forward.

“I said stop, damn your eyes,” the small man said. He spoke in a clipped, British accent. “Come any closer and, I swear, I’ll carve this bird’s eye out.”

The woman’s eyes widened at that, but to her credit she remained still. Bolan’s gaze found hers and her expression hardened with resolve.

“You’re going into shock,” the Executioner said. “You won’t be on your feet for long.”

“Get back, I said!” the wounded man shrieked. “I’m walking out of here, you lot, and little missy here is coming with me. If I start to go, I’ll cut her throat as I do. Now, drop the hardware!”

Bolan nodded, almost imperceptibly.

The woman jerked her head to the side, away from the knife. It was just enough. Bolan’s shot drilled through the man’s eye. The body collapsed, a puppet with its strings cut, the folding knife still clutched in one dead hand.

The woman screamed.

“Easy,” Burnett said, holstering his Glock. He went to her and put one arm around her shoulders as she started shaking. “Easy,” he said again. “It’s okay. We got him. We got him.”

Bolan stepped around them and leaned over the corpse. There was a lot of gore, but most of the face was still visible. He took his phone from the inside pocket of his windbreaker and checked the photo viewer, examining the small image on the color screen.

Burnett, still calming the distraught woman, caught Bolan’s frown. “Is it him?” he asked.

“No,” Bolan said, steadying himself on one knee. He activated his phone’s built-in digital camera, snapping a couple of shots of the dead man. “I’ll transmit these—”

“To where?” Burnett queried.

“I’ll send these,” Bolan said evenly, “for analysis.” He nodded to the woman. “Get her back to her apartment and call in before we’re buried in units responding to the gunfire. I’m going to check West’s apartment.”

Burnett nodded and ushered the crying woman past the body and through her doorway. Bolan backtracked, unclipping the SureFire combat light from his pocket. With the Beretta and the light together in a Harries hold, he swept the cluttered and dim studio, wary for West or someone else hiding in ambush.

The studio was a wreck. Apart from the bullet holes just added to it, and the litter of empty pizza boxes, soda cans and other bags of garbage, what little furnishings it held had been torn apart. The sofa cushions had been cut open, as had the mattress sitting without a box spring in one corner. A set of bookshelves had been knocked over and many of the books torn up as whoever had tossed the place—probably the dead man in the hallway outside—searched for hiding places. A rolling computer desk bearing a state-of-the-art desktop unit was relatively unscathed, but the computer itself had been gutted.

Bolan checked near the desk and found the hard drive on the floor. It was badly damaged. No computer technician himself, Bolan was not sure if its data was retrievable or not, but he placed the drive in a pouch of his blacksuit nonetheless.

Behind the desk, on the floor in the far corner of the studio, Bolan found Jonathan West.

The image in his phone’s data file confirmed it. It was Jonathan West and he was quite dead. The smell hit the Executioner as he examined the body, finding nothing in the man’s pockets and discovering a small-caliber wound behind the dead man’s left ear. Judging from the condition of the corpse, West had been murdered at least a few days previously.

The Executioner frowned again. The gunman he and Burnett had intercepted hadn’t been here to kill West, at least not that day. That meant he’d had some other purpose in mind. Bolan’s eyes fell on the gutted computer again. He would have the hard drive couriered to a mail drop for the Farm, where Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman and his team could take a crack at it. Stony Man’s wheelchair-bound computer expert and his assistants had worked similar miracles in the past. If anyone could manage it, they could. It might be nothing, of course. But it might just be the case that the dead man in the corridor had come to destroy the computer, which meant the information on it might be valuable.

Bolan was no cop and he had no interest in playing detective. He did, however, need to find the source of the DU ammunition. Without West, there was no telling where it might be, where it was coming from, or how much more of it could be waiting to hit the streets and turn them red. If West could not tell the Executioner his secrets, perhaps West’s computer could.

“Cooper!” Burnett’s voice was agitated as he called from the doorway to West’s apartment. He held a wireless phone to his ear. “We may have a break.”

Bolan holstered his Beretta. “What have you got?”

“The department called. It’s Caqueta. The cartel wants to deal.”




4


Burnett parked the Crown Victoria illegally, checking his Glock unnecessarily as he and Bolan exited the vehicle. As they crossed the street, a horse-drawn carriage clopped past, the tourists inside staring about happily. Both men paused for a hurtling yellow cab before taking the asphalt-covered path into Central Park.

“I hate leaving the shotgun in the car,” Burnett said as they walked.

Bolan said nothing. He had his messenger bag slung over his shoulder across his body, his windbreaker covering the Beretta and his spare magazine pouches. Behind his left hip he wore a SOG Pentagon dagger in a custom Kydex Sheath inside his waistband. The guardless, double-edged, serrated dagger had a five-inch blade. There’d been no need for the weapon before now, but he’d worn it since arriving in New York and recovering the Beretta and his other personal items from the courier drop at the airport.

“That was good shooting back there,” Burnett offered.

“You didn’t do too badly yourself,” Bolan said.

“Yeah, whatever.” He looked back at the car as they left it behind. “Cooper, I’m bringing you in on this because I don’t figure I can keep you out of it if I want to.”

Bolan looked at him as joggers, power walkers and various people on bicycles passed the two men. He was uncomfortably aware of the number of innocents who might be caught in the line of fire. “If the Caquetas are part of the street war in New York, the one West or someone else has been using as a market for the DU ammo, he’s a legitimate target. He’s also a potential source of information.”

“Exactly,” Burnett said. “Though I don’t know as I would have listed them in that order.” When Bolan said nothing, Burnett forced a chuckle. “I guess I still wouldn’t mind having a little more firepower.”

“Neither would I, but then, I said as much already.”

“Don’t go there.” Burnett laughed genuinely this time.

Back in Jonathan West’s apartment, Bolan had briefly considered taking the Uzi from the dead intruder in Jonathan West’s apartment, but the idea had made Burnett too nervous. The weapon was evidence in the shooting, as was the knife the intruder had used. Burnett had assured Bolan that he’d be able to borrow suitable hardware from the department, given his pull with the powers that were. Bolan had in turn given Burnett an address to which they had driven before coming to the Caqueta meet in Central Park. There, at what was a government agency safehouse, they had shipped the hard drive to the secure mail drop that would, though Burnett didn’t know it, get the data to Stony Man Farm in a matter of hours.

“Listen, Cooper,” Burnett said soberly, “Caqueta is an animal. He’s the elder statesman of the cartel now, but he used to get his hands plenty dirty, especially when he was clawing his way up the chain. We couldn’t nail him on it, but early on in his stewardship of the Caqueta Cartel he killed an undercover narcotics agent with his bare hands. Beat him to death. His greatest hits, if you’ll pardon the pun, include garroting a woman he suspected of cheating on him, using what used to be his favorite piece of piano wire stretched between two pieces of broomstick. He is also widely believed to have personally pulled the trigger on the family of the Colombian prosecutor who took him on in the late 1990s, trying to pin the Caquetas down at home. Shot the man’s kids in front of the mother, then kneecapped her. Had his lieutenant, Razor Ruiz, cut the eyes right out her head, so the death of her children would be the last thing she ever saw. She couldn’t testify against him because she killed herself before the trial. Drank oven cleaner. It was ugly.”

Bolan didn’t comment. Caqueta and his people were no different than countless other thugs he’d battled in his War Everlasting. Luis Caqueta was a means to an end. He was also a predator whose people had shed gallons of innocent blood. He would not get any more chances to prey on New York or any other city, when the Executioner finished with him.

The two men followed the trail to the designated spot. There, on a park bench, sat Luis Caqueta. Bolan recognized him from the file photos.

Caqueta was a bit thick around the middle, with curly white hair cut close to his head. He was in good shape for a man his age, though, with strong, muscled forearms crossed over a silver-tipped walking stick. He wore a linen suit that was completely unnecessary in New York in autumn, but which would have looked right at home in Colombia. His face was smooth, almost peaceful, with subtle features that belied the monster staring out from his large, brown eyes.

The man standing behind the bench to Caqueta’s right was also someone Bolan and Burnett recognized. Tall, painfully thin, with gaunt features and hollow, sunken eyes, Razor Ruiz stood almost at attention by his employer. He wore a lightweight dark trench coat over a black T-shirt and slacks. Bolan didn’t like that at all; Ruiz could be hiding anything under that long coat.

There were no other men in sight. Bolan took in the landscape with one sweeping glance. There were several park buildings nearby, not to mention more than a few civilians going about their business. Some were sitting and reading. Others were playing with dogs or simply walking. Any of them could be plants to back up Caqueta. He could have troops stationed nearby, too.

It would not be the first time the Executioner had walked into an ambush to trigger it before rolling right over the top of it.

Ruiz had his hands in the pockets of his trench coat as Bolan and Burnett approached. They stopped a few feet from the park bench. Caqueta leaned forward on his cane but made no move to rise.

“So, Detective Burnett,” Caqueta said, smiling like a shark. “You have come.” His voice was a rich baritone, slightly accented. “And you bring a friend. Who is this large fellow?”

“That’s really not—” Burnett began.

“You were instructed to come alone,” Caqueta said sharply. “Yet you bring another. Explain to me why I do not simply leave now and let you take your chances.”

“Cooper,” Bolan told him. “Justice Department.”

“Justice?” Caqueta’s eyes widened. “And what would you know about justice, Mr. Cooper? Is it justice that my people are gunned down in broad daylight in the most prosperous part of this, the crown jewel of the East Coast? Is it justice that I must take ever more drastic means to protect them, to protect my family, to protect myself?”

“Spare me the tale of woe,” Burnett said scornfully. “You and El Cráneo have been trying to take each other out for years. Now you’ve found a way to do it while endangering even more people. It’s not enough for you that innocent men, women and children get caught in the line of fire while your family and Taveras’s people gun for each other. Now you’ve got weapons guaranteed to cut up anyone within sight of your murders.”

“Ah,” Caqueta said thoughtfully. “You speak of the special bullets.”

“No shit, Caqueta,” Burnett said. “I speak of the special bullets. I know your organization isn’t faring well in your war with El Cráneo, either. That’s why you’re not going to do anything but sit right here and tell me what you wanted to tell me. You wouldn’t have called if you weren’t desperate.”

Caqueta shifted uneasily on the edge of the bench. Behind him, Ruiz bristled, his dark eyes flitting angrily from Burnett to Bolan and back again. Bolan watched as the detective worked Caqueta verbally. The man was good. Bolan’s already high estimation of Burnett rose accordingly.

“It is true,” Caqueta said reluctantly, staring at his feet, “that my enemies conspire against me and use El Cráneo to do this terrible thing.”

“Meaning, they’re beating you,” Burnett interpreted.

Caqueta looked up at him sharply. “No, they are not,” he said. “They have, however, successfully convinced the supplier of the bullets to sell the lion’s share to them, those sons of pigs.”

“So you’re outgunned,” Burnett said.

Caqueta shrugged. Behind him, Ruiz continued to glare. It was obvious he did not approve of the meeting.

“What do you want, Caqueta?” Burnett asked bluntly. “You called and said you wanted to deal. Well, deal. What have you got that I want?” Bolan looked from the tall detective to Caqueta. The answer was obvious.

“I can tell you how and where I purchased my supply of the bullets,” Caqueta said. “Of course, this is all hypothetical. I would admit to nothing. I know of no bullets, none at all, when it comes to…to the record, you see?”

“I see,” Burnett said grimly. “We look the other way and you help us put the supplier away.”

“More or less.” Caqueta nodded. “I can lead you to a certain fellow who brokered the sales with me and with Taveras, and he will lead you to your precious bullets.”

“What assurances do we have that your information is legitimate?” Burnett asked.

“I have little choice,” Caqueta said frankly. “To compete with El Cráneo my people must have weaponry to rival their own. Our supply—the supply we do not have, of course—of the ammunition is dwindling. Taveras has increased his own stockpiles. El Cráneo is planning something, something very big. It is the way they think, the way they operate. They plan to show me, to teach me—me!—a lesson. They will also show you and your people that you are powerless to stop them.”

“Give me a name,” Burnett demanded.

Ruiz turned to his boss. “Jefe, no! Give them that, and—”

“Silence!” Caqueta roared.

He turned back to Burnett. “The man’s name is West.”

“Too late,” Burnett told him. “We’re ahead of you. West is dead.”

“Is he, now?” Caqueta said, unimpressed. “Not much of a surprise. A man like that, a man meddling in so many different affairs of life and death. Such a man must have many enemies, no?”

“You have nothing for me, then,” Burnett said.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss me,” Caqueta said, his voice hard again. “Either your people are not as thorough as mine, or NLI is not as forthcoming with the law as it might be.”

“What do you know about Norris Labs?” Bolan put in. Caqueta eyed the big soldier, his expression stern.

“I know that this West quit some time ago, some months before my people made the first purchases of his very useful, very powerful bullets for our weapons. And I know that he quit after another man, a much more significant man, was fired. This fellow was a researcher, a developer of arms. It would seem, my sources tell me, that this man was full of great and useful ideas. He was unappreciated by his employers, and when he complained of as much, they deemed him too troublesome and sent him away. West was his assistant at NLI. It would seem he was loyal to the man, not the company. Or perhaps he was loyal only to money, and was offered more than his former employers would give. That is often the way, is it not?”

“Why do you know all this?” Burnett asked.

“Would you not look into the men on whom you staked the fate of your family, your business, your honor?” Caqueta shrugged. “West contacted us after the first sales were made to El Cráneo. He arranged for a demonstration. He asked that I send one of my bulletproof limousines—and a driver of whom I was not terribly fond. He found some piece of street trash, gave him a magazine full of bullets for his pistol. When my driver arrived at the meet, he was killed immediately. The bullets passed through the armored car and through a fire hydrant nearby.”

“So you had no choice but to escalate the war,” Burnett said skeptically.

“None,” Caqueta said. “West told me in no uncertain terms just how much ammunition my enemies had purchased. It was only a matter of time. We—hypothetically, of course—armed ourselves accordingly. But a few months later, he stopped answering our messages. El Cráneo grew bolder, more vicious. I lost more men even as I took down theirs. We are running out of the special bullets. El Cráneo had obviously cut a deal with West, offered him more than I could.”

“They’re winning the war,” Burnett said.

Caqueta shrugged again. “They do not have to. You can stop this. Things can be…shall we say, much more calm. More like they used to be.”

“While you continue shipping your poison,” Burnett said.

“I do not force it up anyone’s nose or into anyone’s veins,” Caqueta said. “I am interested in business, not war.”

Burnett sighed. “Like you,” he said, “I don’t know what choice I have. Let’s get this straight, though. I’m not making any promises, Caqueta. If I could nail you to the wall, I would do it.”

Caqueta laughed. “But of course you would, Detective Burnett. That is what makes you safe. You are predictable. As long as I am not stupid enough to give you evidence you can use against me in court, you are no threat to me. And as long as you have no such evidence, I am no threat to you.”

“All right,” Burnett nodded. “We understand each other. Give me the name.”

“The man you seek,” Caqueta said, “is—”

Something caught Bolan’s attention. Reflexes honed over years of battle kicked in. Whether it was a simple shift in the wind, or some other subconscious cue, something was wrong.

“Down!” Bolan yelled. He tackled Burnett, just as Luis Caqueta’s head exploded.

They heard the gunshot as Caqueta’s nearly headless body fell forward onto the ground before the bench. There was a single, still moment in which Razor Ruiz, splattered with his boss’s blood, looked up with wide eyes. He glanced down at Caqueta’s body and to the ground behind the bench, where a tiny blade smoldered.

“Treachery!” he shouted. From within his trench coat he brought up a pistol-gripped Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun.

“Go!” Bolan told Burnett, drawing his Beretta.

All hell broke loose.

The unseen sniper cut loose with a rapid string of shots. Bolan spotted the gunman firing a scoped, match-barreled AR-15. He was on the roof of a nearby building. The Executioner pushed Burnett as the two men scrambled to the cover of a nearby tree. They threw themselves aside when several shots punched through the bark of the tree and into the asphalt path beyond. Burnett shouted a warning as they ran, the tree behind them catching fire from the inside out. Nearby civilians screamed and either dropped flat or ran. With no real way to counter the DU projectiles, Bolan and the detective could do only one thing. They fled.

Razor Ruiz ran after them, firing his shotgun blindly in the direction of the shooter. It was enough to foul the sniper’s aim until the Caqueta Cartel man and his quarry were out of the sniper’s line of sight.

Burnett was on his phone as they moved, calling in backup. It was unlikely they’d arrive in time to take down the sniper. The shooter would undoubtedly be extracting by now. Still, Burnett had to try. When he was sure they were safely out of the gunner’s killzone, Bolan put a hand on Burnett’s shoulder and gestured to a recently tilled-over flower garden near the asphalt path. It had two-foot brick walls surrounding it. Bolan and Burnett crouched behind the bricks and waited.

“We need him alive, if we can get him,” Bolan told the detective.

“No problem,” Burnett said. “He’s a law-abiding citizen. I’ll just arrest him.”

In a moment, Ruiz came running down the path, still carrying the shotgun.

“Ruiz!” Burnett shouted. “Stop right there!”

Ruiz yelled something incoherent, jacked a shell into his shotgun’s chamber and punched a 12-gauge slug into the brick near Burnett’s face. The cop jerked his head back, his fingers clawing at his eyes, screaming.

Bolan rolled away and surged to his feet, coming around the low wall and diving at Ruiz. He tackled the gaunt man and took him down roughly. The two rolled into the muddy grass near the path.

Ruiz was stronger than he looked. The two men grappled furiously, Ruiz screaming curses in Spanish the entire time. The cartel thug managed to get on top of Bolan as the soldier put his legs up in guard. Bolan did not want to shoot Ruiz, but the thug spotted the holstered weapon in his adversary’s waistband and grabbed for it.

Slapping his right hand deep onto the tang of the Beretta in its holster, Bolan caught Ruiz’s hand and forearm in the crook of his own arm. He tightened his arm, trapping Ruiz before the wiry man could pull the weapon free. Shoving with all his might, Bolan got his knees up in front of Ruiz, levering the man up. Then he fired a savage kick into his stomach. The cartel man rolled off Bolan, gagging and retching.

Bolan scrambled to his feet and he kicked Ruiz hard in the head. The man dropped to his belly on the ground and was still.

The Executioner drew his Beretta, glancing left and right—

And found himself staring into the barrel of a Glock.

Burnett was silent. Bolan glanced in the detective’s direction and found him prone near the flower garden, unmoving.

“Move an inch in my direction and I’ll shoot you in the head,” the man with the Glock told him. He had Bolan covered from behind. From what he could see, looking over his shoulder, the Executioner couldn’t identify the newcomer.

“Who are you?” Bolan asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” the man said. “Place the gun on the ground very slowly.” He was just under six feet tall, solidly built, wearing cargo pants and a denim shirt under a tan photographer’s vest. Bolan noted his footwear, which weren’t work boots at all, but tan combat boots with tanker straps. On his face the man wore wraparound smoked shooting glasses. His prematurely gray hair was cropped close to his skull in military fashion.

Bolan glanced to Burnett again as he placed the Beretta carefully on the walking trail. There was no one close by; it was unlikely anyone would see what was happening and call for help. The gunman gestured Bolan back and then picked up the Beretta, his Glock never wavering. He tucked the Beretta into his waistband behind his back.

“He’ll live,” the man told him, jerking his head at Burnett. “Answer my questions and you might, too.”

Bolan just looked at him.

“I want your name and the agency you’re working for,” the man said. He stood carefully out of Bolan’s reach.

“You seem to have misplaced your rifle,” Bolan said. He didn’t know for a fact that this man was the sniper, but the look on the gunman’s face told him he’d guessed correctly.

“This weapon,” he said, his eyes flickering to the Glock, “will punch through a dozen of you single-file. The caliber’s different, but the ammo’s the same. Now, answer my question.”

Bolan eyed him hard. He was considering the lunge needed to reach the man when Razor Ruiz suddenly pushed up and attacked, screaming, a knife blade flashing in his fist.

The Glock went off. The gunman yelled in pain as Ruiz slashed deeply into the wrist of his gun hand, kicked him low in the shin and followed him down with the blade, stabbing again and again with sewing-machine strokes.

Bolan grabbed Ruiz by the head and peeled him off, twisting and hurling him sideways. Ruiz shook it off and wheeled on the soldier, his bloody knife held before him.

“Now, you bastard,” Ruiz hissed, “now I carve off a piece of you!”

Bolan drew his SOG Pentagon knife left-handed. Ruiz narrowed his eyes as he took in the double serrated blade. The soldier crouched low, the knife reversed in his hand. “You don’t have to do this,” he told Ruiz. “That man—” he nodded to the fallen gunman “—is the shooter who killed your boss.”

“I know!” Ruiz spit. “And I have taken revenge for him!”

“You have,” Bolan said evenly. “You’ve even done me a favor.”

“And now,” Ruiz said, advancing with his blade before him, “I shall kill you and then the policeman, for luring us into this ambush.”

“I don’t know how they knew to take out Caqueta,” Bolan said, slowly circling as Ruiz rounded on him, “or who they were protecting to do it. You can help.”

“Help?” Ruiz laughed. In the distance, the first sirens wailed. “Why would I help you?”

“Your boss was going to help us find the source of the DU rounds,” Bolan told him. “He knew it was in his best interests.”

“He was wrong!” Ruiz lunged with the knife. Bolan sidestepped and slashed, scoring Ruiz lightly on the arm. The cartel killer snarled and backed off a couple of paces. “He never should have trusted the police. You see where it got him!”

Bolan could see the first uniformed officers closing on them through the park. He was running out of time. Ruiz glanced back and then to Bolan again. “They will take me,” he said, “but not before I take you!”

When the thrust came, Bolan was ready. He slapped Ruiz’s wrist with his right hand while drawing the Pentagon’s blade over the top of the man’s forearm, slicing deeply through the arm. Ruiz howled as Bolan followed up, slapping and trapping to the outside, moving to his opponent’s right outside his weapon. With a stomp he broke the killer’s ankle under the heel of his combat boot. Ruiz folded, wailing.

“Don’t move! Drop the knife!” The uniformed officers were closing in, guns drawn.

For the second time in as many days, Bolan slowly raised his hands and did as he was instructed.




5


Mack Bolan sat on the bed in his hotel room, lacing up his combat boots. He wore his combat blacksuit, which to the casual observer would look like a black mock turtleneck and black pants tucked into his boots. The slit pockets of the blacksuit bore some of his gear, leaving room for much more. On the floor before him was a large shipping crate, delivered by special courier from Stony Man Farm early that morning. The Executioner was in the process of unpacking the crate when his secure phone vibrated.

“Striker,” he said.

“Good morning, big guy,” Barbara Price said brightly. “I take it you got Cowboy’s special delivery?”

“Unwrapping it now,” Bolan told her. “Did Bear and his crew have any luck with the photos I sent?”

“Transmitting now,” Price confirmed. “The shooter in West’s apartment was Basil Price, forty-eight. British, with a sheet that goes back a ways. A veteran merc with two years in Rhodesia, SAS, to his credit.”

“Just the sort of person a private security firm might employ?” Bolan said.

“Possibly,” Price said. We’ve queried NLI and their contractor, Blackjack Group. If they’ve got anything in their files, it’s squirreled away where Bear can’t crack it. Officially, Blackjack never heard of the man.”

“Not surprising,” Bolan said.

“It gets more interesting,” Price said. “Your other body is John Paul Reynolds, thirty-six. Gulf War veteran, Marines, with some contract security work after that.”

“And?”

“The work was with Blackjack Group,” Price told him, “and it was while he was in Blackjack’s employ that he died on the job, supposedly, a year ago in Baghdad.”

“So he’s been off the books for a year, playing dead, most likely doing black ops for Blackjack.”

“Seems so,” Price said.

“Then NLI is involved up to its board members’ necks,” Bolan concluded. “They’re actively trying to sever links leading back to them, using Blackjack as muscle.”

“Striker, if they took out West and sent someone else to destroy his records, then somehow keyed into your meet with Caqueta, they’ve got the city wired or they’ve got someone inside, maybe both.”

“The thought occurred to me,” Bolan said grimly. “Any luck with the hard drive I got from West’s apartment?”

“Not much yet,” Price said. “Bear has Akira working on it, but he says it’s in pretty sorry shape.”

“Have him keep at it,” Bolan said. “It’s the only lead I’ve got after Ruiz, who isn’t going to talk on his own. Listen, Barb, I need you to contact Hal for me and let him know it’s going to get heavier. I’ll need him to run interference for me so I can do this my way. I’m done playing it subtle. I’ve got to put a stop to this. It’s going to get a lot bloodier before it gets better.”

“I’ll tell him. And, Striker?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your back.”

“I will.” He closed the connection.

From the closet where he’d left his windbreaker the previous evening, Bolan took his long, charcoal-colored canvas duster. The lightweight overcoat was perfect for the autumn temperatures, so he wouldn’t be too conspicuous. More importantly, the long coat would hide a multitude of sins, as the saying went. Draping the coat over the hotel-room chair, he turned back to the crate Stony Man’s couriers had dropped off.

The Farm’s armorer had outdone himself. Cowboy Kissinger had sent Bolan’s usual equipment with a few added bonuses. Bolan first removed the big Desert Eagle .44 Magnum pistol from the box. Kissinger had sent a tactical thigh holster, which Bolan strapped to his right leg. It bore pouches for several spare magazines. He loaded them from the boxes provided and tucked it into place.

In addition to his Beretta 92-F Bolan now had his familiar Beretta 93-R machine pistol. Kissinger had included a custom leather pistol rig that would accommodate the 93-R with its attached suppressor vertically under his left arm. The 92-F he placed inside his waistband in its holster, which he repositioned for a reverse left-hand draw behind his left hip. He moved the SOG Pentagon knife closer to the midpoint of his back, where the knife could be drawn with either hand. He also distributed several loaded magazines for the Berettas in the pockets of his blacksuit. Finally, he clipped the SureFire tactical light in place in a left-hand pocket and clipped the Cold Steel Gunsite Folding Knife to the right. The sturdy, chisel-ground, Tanto blade combat folder had been sent at Bolan’s specific request.

From the crate Bolan took Kissinger’s final gift. Unfolding the stock, he admired the businesslike lines of the chopped and tuned Ultimax 100 MK4 as he brought it to his shoulder.

A machine gun made in Singapore, the Ultimax was a lightweight, gas-operated, select-fire weapon with a standard cyclic rate of 600 rounds per minute. A simple, robust design firing the 5.56 mm cartridge, easily fieldstripped with all pins captive, the Ultimax had a forward pistol grip mounted under a thirteen-inch barrel. A red-dot scope had been mounted on top of the receiver. Kissinger had included a shoulder strap compatible with Bolan’s 93-R rig, so he could sling the weapon under his right arm. The Ultimax was fitted with an adapter that made it compatible with standard AR-15/M-16 magazines. The armorer had also sent several impressive 100-round drum magazines, the rears of the magazines made of clear Lexan to allow for instant assessment of the rounds remaining.

Bolan packed spare M-16 magazines and Ultimax drums in his canvas messenger bag, hanging the war bag across his body on his left side. Then he put on the duster, checking the concealment of his weapons in the full-size hotel mirror on the closet door. Satisfied, he left the room, stalking down the hotel corridors and making his way through the lobby and out the front door.

New York foot traffic bustled past him in both directions. Joining the stream, he allowed himself to be carried along by it. He had gone perhaps two blocks when, in the reflection of the glass front of an office building, he caught sight of the tail.

He had expected to be followed. Everything that had gone down so far indicated that NLI and Blackjack—if those were indeed the forces pulling the strings and triggers—were monitoring him and knew he was a threat. That was why they’d tried to take him out in Bryant Park. Bolan was through reacting, letting the other side dictate the terms. It was time to take the initiative and take the war to the enemy.

The Executioner walked until he found a suitable dark alley. He ducked into it quickly, as if trying to dodge the tail, but not so quickly that he was in danger of actually losing his pursuer. Once out of sight in the shadowy, trash-filled alleyway, he ran heavily to the midpoint of the alley and threw himself to the side, taking cover in the lee of an overfilled garbage bin. Seconds later, he heard footsteps at the mouth of the alley. There were at least two people following Bolan.

To their credit, they didn’t waste time conferring with each other or calling out to him, telling him to give it up. They just moved down the alley, presumably with guns drawn. The Executioner waited until they encroached on his position. Then he struck.

There were three men, not two, all big, buzz-cut paramilitary types in casual civilian clothes. Bolan unclipped the combat light from his pocket as he rose, clenching the little aluminum flashlight, beam-down, in his fist. The first man had time to turn and claw for a weapon as Bolan hammer-fisted the light into the man’s temple. As he dropped, Bolan snapped a soccer kick into the ankle of the second pursuer, then drove the flashlight up under the man’s jaw.

The third man had drawn a silenced Glock. Bolan sidestepped, playing the bright beam of the light across the gunner’s eyes to little effect. A pair of shots slapped at the concrete face of the building behind Bolan. He was already drawing the Beretta 93-R as he let the combat light fall from his grasp. A 3-shot burst spit from the custom suppressor, taking the gunner in the throat. He fell back, his head cracking on the filthy asphalt.

Bolan snatched up his fallen light and swiveled to cover the other two pursuers. In the stark beam of the light he could see the first man was still out, his head cocked at an odd angle. The second man was holding his broken ankle with one shaking hand, while groping for something under his jacket. Bolan put the beam of light on the man’s face and covered him with his machine pistol.

“I need you alive,” Bolan told him, “but to be honest, I only need one of you.”

The man, his face twisted with pain, looked up at the Executioner.

“Take your hand out of your jacket very slowly,” Bolan ordered.

The shots, when they came, echoed in the alleyway.

Bolan threw himself aside, seeking the shelter of the garbage bin. Full-auto fire came from a Ruger MP-9 in the hands of the first downed man, who sprayed the alleyway. His target was not Bolan, but the second man. The rounds burned through the victim and chewed into the opposite wall of the alley, igniting small, hungry fires directly in the brick and mortar.

Bolan turned his machine pistol on the first man.

The gunman brought the Ruger MP-9 up under his own chin and pulled the trigger. The blast sprayed the top of his head across the alleyway in a rain of DU ammunition that broke up the wall behind him.

Bolan, 93-R in hand, scanned the alleyway behind him. When he saw no other threats, he bent quickly to search the corpses. He found nothing but spare magazines for the firearms used. There was no identification on any of the bodies.

“Down here!” someone called out. Bolan glanced toward the mouth of the alley. The gunfire had been heard by someone, and curious onlookers were milling about. He moved quickly in the opposite direction, putting distance between himself and the carnage. He had too much to do and could not afford to get embroiled in yet another analysis of his actions. The New York authorities were already strained to the breaking point where it came to the mysterious government operative, Matt Cooper. He couldn’t take the chance that they’d let him go on about his business after finding yet more bodies in his wake.

As he walked briskly out of the alley and joined the stream of foot traffic moving down the block, Bolan considered the situation. He knew that hired guns, most likely NLI Blackjack operatives, were tailing him personally. The hit on Luis Caqueta could have been a coincidence and still could be; clearly Caqueta had information that the DU ammunition’s suppliers had wanted concealed at any cost. It was unlikely that Bolan and Burnett had been specifically targeted at Jonathan West’s apartment, but the timing of Basil Price’s break-in was suspect. West had been killed some time previously, apparently to keep him silent. He either talked before he died, or he left behind equivalent information, but the men who’d murdered him had deemed Bolan a sufficient threat to them that they’d bothered to come after him in force.

Bolan briefly wondered if perhaps more than one group was in play, but that didn’t feel right. Reynolds and Price—one a much younger American former soldier, the other a hard-bitten British career mercenary—had nothing in common, at first glance, except for their skills. Both men were precisely the sort of employees likely to be hired by a security contractor like Blackjack Group. The Executioner would continue to assume that Blackjack and NLI were behind the scores of professional boots on the ground in New York. There was no overt legal action Brognola or his Justice Department could take in the meantime—not without proof. The Executioner didn’t need to meet the same standards of evidence before he could take action, but a direct assault on NLI’s assets, or on Blackjack Group, would have to wait.

If those working to cover up the DU ammunition source had decided to move on Bolan directly, he figured it was likely they’d target Burnett, as well.

The Executioner flagged down the first available taxi. The cabdriver nodded when Bolan gave him the hospital name, pulling smoothly into the never-ending stream of Manhattan traffic. Bolan leaned to the side until, through his window, he could see the taxi’s passenger-side mirror. He watched for a time until he was satisfied that he was not being followed.

Fifteen minutes later, Bolan was walking down the corridor to Burnett’s room. He had almost reached the detective when he heard loud voices. Then he heard a man scream.

The soldier broke into a sprint. His combat boots left black streaks on the waxed floor as he rounded the corner, the Beretta 93-R in his hand.

A body lay half in and half out of the doorway to Burnett’s room. Bolan noted the expensive tactical boots on the prone form’s feet. As he neared the doorway, a shot rang out. Bolan threw himself to the side of the door.

“Burnett!” he called.

“Cooper?”

“Cooper. Hold your fire!” Bolan shouted.

He waited for a moment before chancing a one-eyed look around the edge of the doorway. Burnett, wearing only a hospital gown, sat up in his bed, one foot on the floor. He held a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson .38 snubnose revolver in one hand, aimed at the door.

“Don’t shoot, I’m coming in,” Bolan warned.

“Please do,” Burnett said.

Bolan stepped over the fallen man in the doorway, who looked to be dead. He was wearing a white medical smock and lying in a spreading pool of blood. The handle of what could only be a fork protruded from his neck.

“Hospital food,” Burnett said as Bolan shot him a quizzical look. “You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

Bolan took in the tableau before him. On the floor near the bed, a tray and a broken plate were overturned in a puddle of soup. The wall and floor were sprayed with blood. Burnett had hit the artery. Near the corpse was a syringe, still loaded with an unknown liquid.

“What tipped you off?” Bolan asked, checking the corridor with a backward glance.

“The boots,” Burnett said. “That, and the fact that he was too polite. They don’t waste any time on bedside manner around here. He brought my dinner and then fumbled the needle. I didn’t give him another chance to stick me.”

“How’s the eye?” Bolan asked.

“Going to be okay.” Burnett gestured to his right eye, which was covered by a circular bandage and some gauze. “I won’t be using it for several days, though. The brick fragments scratched the cornea.” Burnett’s other eye was very red but apparently not injured as badly. The detective paused to snap open the cylinder of his .38, extract the spent round by hand and load a replacement from a speed strip on the bed next to him. “I’m going to stop keeping my gun under my pillow and start sleeping with it on me.”

“You’d better get dressed,” Bolan warned. “There may be more of them waiting to see if this one makes it out of the hospital to report.” He bent over the corpse and took a shot with his phone camera. He’d transmit it to the Farm later. His guess was that little useful information would be turned up. NLI and Blackjack seemed to have deep pockets when it came to personnel—personnel with plausible deniability, at that.

“I have a car in the parking garage below the hospital,” Burnett told him as they left the room and made for the stairs. Burnett had tried first to head for the elevators, but Bolan had stopped him. There was no need to trap themselves; Blackjack’s operatives, assuming that’s who they were, had no need of gift-wrapped targets. They were dangerous enough operating on an even playing field.

They made the garage without incident and took Burnett’s Crown Victoria to the detention center. There, they were stopped in the screening area, where a uniformed officer checked Burnett’s revolver and the Glock he’d retrieved from a lockbox in the trunk of his unmarked car. Bolan flashed the Justice credentials Brognola had provided him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper,” the blond officer told him, gesturing to the tray connecting the foyer of the screening room to her booth, “but you’re going to have to check your weapons. Firearms are not permitted past this point.” Bolan hesitated. There were plenty of times he had relinquished his weapons when the need arose, but given the bold and ruthless tactics Blackjack had employed to this point, he didn’t think it wise to give up his guns.

Burnett sensed the soldier’s hesitation, though Bolan didn’t know just how much hardware the detective realized Bolan was carrying. “Listen,” he told the Executioner, his uncovered eye blinking rapidly as he squinted in the bright lighting of the foyer, “let me go in and speak to Ruiz. Maybe I can get something. Maybe I won’t. You said yourself on the way here you didn’t think he’d cooperate. Hang out for a bit and if I think you can get more, or if I need help, I’ll call for you.”

Bolan nodded. He’d seen the cop work and knew he was no amateur. It was a reasonable proposition. “You feel up to it?” he asked.

“I don’t need both eyes to talk to this joker.” Burnett smiled. “Though I think I’ll keep my fingers away from his mouth. He’s got a real rabid dog look to him.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Burnett said. He waited while the young female officer buzzed him through, stepped through the security doors and disappeared down the hallway.

Waiting in the foyer, Bolan took a seat on one of the benches provided, his duster spilling over it and concealing the Ultimax and his other gear. His messenger bag thumped heavily on the wooden bench, but there was no one to notice. Except for the officer in her booth, Bolan was alone, save perhaps for the surveillance cameras that would be monitoring anyone sitting in the little room.

The soldier took a moment to key on his secure phone and transmit the photo of the hospital killer. Almost immediately, the phone began to vibrate with an incoming call.

“Cooper,” he said, holding the phone to his ear.

“It’s me,” Barbara Price said.

The Executioner could picture the Farm’s stunning mission controller seated at her desk. “What have you got?” he asked.

“Akira’s turned up a lead on that hard drive,” Price told him. “He’s still working on it to see what else we can mine. Indications are that there’s a lot of data someone tried to delete. That would be easy to recover if not for the damage to the drive itself.”

“I figured,” Bolan said, nodding, even though she could not see him.

“What we’ve got may help, though. Akira turned up a fragment of a spreadsheet program that includes payments made through a private mailbox at one of those shipping storefronts. We traced the shipper’s records—Bear tells me their security wasn’t terribly impressive—and the box is owned by a nonexistent limited liability corporation registered out of state. Some more digging turned up an address for the corporation, tied to yet another drop box, tied in turn to an address in Swedesboro, New Jersey.”

“That’s pretty thin,” Bolan commented.

“It’s all we’ve got so far,” Price said.

“Send me the file. I’ll visit as time allows. How far is Swedesboro from here?”

“You should be able to make it in a couple of hours, give or take. Why don’t you let us send a team of blacksuits to check it? It will save you time.”

“All right,” Bolan said. He paused. “You gave my message to Hal?”

“Yes, and he’s still buried, doing damage control. What the hell is going on there, Striker?”

“Things have gotten hotter than even I thought they would,” Bolan said. “I came expecting drug gangs and I’ve spent most of my time fighting trained paramilitary troops. They don’t care who gets in the way and they’re highly motivated to stay out of our hands. They’re audacious, ruthless and armed with the DU ammunition.”

“We’re untangling the bulletins and the complaints on this end, routing through and back to Hal’s office,” Price informed him. “Striker, if it gets much worse the governor’s going to call out the National Guard. The mayor is burning up the phone lines between New York and Washington. Hal even got a phone call from the vice president about half an hour ago.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Bolan said grimly. “I’m not going to have much fighting room left. What about Justice intervention?”

“Hal is working the NLI front,” Price said, “but they’re stonewalling. Blackjack’s reps won’t speak with anyone. They’ve pulled up the drawbridges. Unless we can get some leverage on them, there’s little to be done.”

“I’ll deal with them in turn, then,” Bolan promised.

“Good hunting, Striker.”

“Thanks, Barb.” Bolan hung up.

As he secured his phone in a pocket of his blacksuit under his duster, three men entered the detention-center foyer. One, a slight man with thinning hair and round-framed spectacles, wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase, was obviously a lawyer. The second was a thickset Hispanic man wearing wraparound shades and a sport jacket that didn’t hide the bulge of the gun under his left arm. He was obviously hired muscle, probably a bodyguard. Between the lawyer and the larger man was someone Bolan recognized from the intelligence files the Farm had transmitted.





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