Книга - Stolen Arrows

Stolen Arrows
Don Pendleton


CRASH INTERCEPTA major CIA sting operation goes disastrously wrong, putting four miniature nukes from an American Cold War project on the free market. The bloody snatch-and-grab work done, all that remains for double agent Cirello Zalhares and his rogue cadre is to sell the weapons, collect their millions and get off U.S. soil before the mushroom clouds rewrite history.Turning over rocks in the nation's major crime organizations, Mack Bolan's hard probe targets the buyer's market for the weapons and the bidding war for disaster. When the laws of supply and demand clash with the law of the jungle, the only way to avert the unthinkable is head-on.No deals. No mercy.









Bolan closed the cell phone with a click


The man had wished him luck. The Executioner shook his head at the sentiment. Right now civilization needed more than that. Balls and brains could only take a soldier so far; after that it was the draw of the cards. So far, his luck was holding, but for how much longer? Just one slip on his part and the bombs would disappear, until atomic fire burned a city to the ground.

A nuclear fireball bearing the technological signature of America and possibly starting a war that might never end.

The soldier hoped that Lady Luck would stick with him. He had to find the Zodiac in twenty-four hours.




Other titles available in this series:


Hardline

Firepower

Storm Burst

Intercept

Lethal Impact

Deadfall

Onslaught

Battle Force

Rampage

Takedown

Death’s Head

Hellground

Inferno

Ambush

Blood Strike

Killpoint

Vendetta

Stalk Line

Omega Game

Shock Tactic

Showdown

Precision Kill

Jungle Law

Dead Center

Tooth and Claw

Thermal Strike

Day of the Vulture

Flames of Wrath

High Aggression

Code of Bushido

Terror Spin

Judgment in Stone

Rage for Justice

Rebels and Hostiles

Ultimate Game

Blood Feud

Renegade Force

Retribution

Initiation

Cloud of Death

Termination Point

Hellfire Strike

Code of Conflict

Vengeance

Executive Action

Killsport

Conflagration

Storm Front

War Season

Evil Alliance

Scorched Earth

Deception

Destiny’s Hour

Power of the Lance

A Dying Evil

Deep Treachery

War Load

Sworn Enemies

Dark Truth

Breakaway

Blood and Sand

Caged

Sleepers

Strike and Retrieve

Age of War

Line of Control

Breached

Retaliation

Pressure Point

Silent Running


Stolen Arrows

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton







In doing what we ought, we deserve no praise, because it is our duty.

—St. Augustine, 354–430

It’s a soldier’s duty to stand guard against the forces of evil and to shout that none shall pass. In this I will not falter.

—Mack Bolan


As always, for Melissa.

And a special thanks to Lucia Read. She knows why.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE (#u51d7a656-5815-5010-9f78-90289c1e67f8)

CHAPTER ONE (#u8e88ea82-6495-5689-9157-b5784f5577a1)

CHAPTER TWO (#u7b88b120-e481-5b74-9bbe-e86bb28114f4)

CHAPTER THREE (#u4cc6ddfd-b81e-5c0f-88e9-21805d7a5748)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ued677ef9-3746-5e49-8f89-c53f602e7cf3)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ud87084c1-2b63-58fa-950b-81fe83656f14)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE


Archbishop Park, London

Distant thunder rumbled softly in the cloudy London sky, warning of a coming storm. Soon now, very soon.

Trying to act casually, heavily armed CIA operatives strolled through the budding greenery of the south bank parkland. No two were dressed alike, but each had a telltale flesh-colored wire trailing from his earplug to the compact transponder clipped to his gunbelt. A few smoked, one was eating an ice-cream cone, but all were razorsharp and braced for the oncoming action.

Stopping to tie a shoelace, a man checked the digital readout of the Geiger counter strapped to his wrist as if he were comparing its time against the distant chimes of Big Ben. Satisfied for the moment that the combat zone was clear, he coughed twice into his hidden throat mike to relay the information, then moved onward to take a sip of water from a nearby fountain.

Scattered across Archbishop’s Park, several families had spread checkered blankets on the freshly cut lawns while excited children ran along the footpaths darting in and out of the trimmed hedges and among the strolling pedestrians. Rising like a glass cathedral above the lush trees was the new Archbishop’s Hospital and past the footbridge was the old baroque-style library, the once-clean Scottish granite blocks now stained a dull uniform gray with the passage of the long centuries.

Sitting on the steps of the library, a large man was reading a book in Portuguese, the volume positioned to hold down his loose windbreaker and to hide the gun in his shoulder holster.

“Falcon, we have a contact,” whispered a voice from the radio in his ear. “Sector five, a Zodiac is approaching the park. Repeat, a Zodiac is near. All agents, full combat protocol at all times. Stay sharp and wait for my command.”

Grunting in confirmation, Cirello Zalhares continued reading his novel, waiting for target identification. The voice on the radio was David Osbourne, the CIA operative who had hired his team of mercenaries for this dirty job. But then, black ops were what his group did best and the CIA always paid top dollar.

Just then a teenage girl walked by, her yellow print dress rising high in the river breeze to expose a lot of tanned leg and a hint of lace panties. Nice. Raising his sight, Zalhares admired the fullness of her young body and finally her face, loose, golden blond hair framing elfin features. Noticing his attention, the girl paused for a moment and pursed her lips in a controlled smile at the stranger, but as he smiled back she paled slightly and hurried away, fearfully glancing backward to make sure he wasn’t following.

Unconcerned by her reaction, Zalhares returned to his reading. Although only in his early thirties, it had been many years since Zalhares could have been called handsome, the network of scars on his face and neck from his line of work reducing his looks to merely striking. Although the black hair and dark skin proclaimed a Spanish ancestry, his sharp eyes were swirls of different subdued colors. Egyptian, the effect was called, although he knew of no such Arab relative in the family tree. Just a genetic fluke, an abstraction that caught the attention of many beautiful women, until they saw the savage mind behind the beautiful eyes and their ardor cooled just as quickly as it had flared to life.

A small boy walked over to the man and stopped directly in front of him. Hoping the boy would go away, Zalhares did nothing for a minute, but then when it was obvious he had to respond. The big man slowly raised his eyes from the book and looked at the child without any emotion.

“That’s a funny kind of writing, mister,” the boy said curiously. “Is it Latin?”

“Portuguese,” Zalhares answered, closing the book on a finger to hold his place. In spite of the summer warmth, he was wearing expensive gloves on both hands. The leather was so pale that it resembled human skin.

The boy tilted his head. “You Portugeese?” he mispronounced.

Controlling his impatience, Zalhares started to answer but then paused as a well-dressed businessman in a Gucci suit walked into view, holding a briefcase. The killer relaxed at the sight of the alligator-leather trim. That wasn’t a Zodiac. Those were plain brown leather, as ordinary and plain as humanly possible, virtually invisible in a crowd.

“Mister?” the boy repeated.

“I’m from Brazil,” Zalhares said, giving an empty laugh. Stay loose, do not attract attention from the crowd. Bore the child with details. “The Archbishop library has the largest collection of books in Portuguese in all of Britain. I come here often for a taste of home.”

“Don’t they speak Brazilian in Brazil?” the boy asked, and then added, “I know I would.”

Now annoyed, Zalhares controlled his temper and started to open his mouth to speak.

“Red alert,” a new voice said in his earpiece. “We have a Zodiac in the park. Repeat, we have a Zodiac coming home from sector two.”

That wasn’t Osbourne, but a member of his Zalhares’s team, Artero Mariano, also known as Dog by his many enemies because of his tendency to bite people in the throat during fights. An expert in Kodokan judo and high explosives, he was one of the most feared assassins in the S2, the dreaded secret police of Brazil. That was, until Cirello Zalhares had recruited the man from the government and into the Scion, his mercenary unit.

As surreptitiously as possible, Zalhares gestured behind the book toward the child standing directly in front of him.

“Better get rid of the kid, my friend,” Mariano said urgently. “The Libyans will be here at any second and we’ll have to move.”

Keeping his expression neutral, Zalhares leaned forward slightly so that his windbreaker fell open, exposing the silenced Imbel .22 pistol in the holster to his team hidden in the nearby trees.

“No, just chase him away,” Mariano suggested. “There are too many people around. Killing the brat would only start a riot if somebody found the body. The English are very sentimental about their children.”

“Well, I must be going now,” Zalhares said, rising to his full height and closing the book. The adult towered over the child like a giant from a fairy tale. When the physical intimidation didn’t frighten the boy away, Zalhares impatiently tried another tactic.

“Would you do me a favor and return this inside?” he asked, pushing the volume into the boy’s grasp. “Thank you.”

“Not late, is it?” the boy asked suspiciously, looking over the thick book. “Billy once asked me to return a book, and it was late and I had to pay the fine.”

“No, it is not late,” Zalhares stated, starting to walk away. “But I am. My…daughter is having a birthday and I’m late for her party. Thank you again.”

The boy scowled in disgust. “Yuck, girls,” he said, turning to charge up the flight of stairs into the library. “Goodbye, mister!”

Once safely in the crowd, Zalhares walked until two more people slipped into position nearby, never coming close, but now each of them was able to cover the other with gunfire if the need arose. Dressed in slacks and a turtleneck, Minas Pedrosa was a bald giant who sported a drooping red mustache. His companion was a muscular woman who wore gray pleated slacks and a matching vest over a loose black shirt to try to mask her ample chest. In their line of work her curvaceous figure was often a source of consternation for the team, but Jorgina Mizne was one of the best knife fighters in the world, along with being a superb interrogator, which more than made up for the minor inconvenience of her beauty.

Upon reaching a footpath, Zalhares turned into the trees and paused in a pool of shadow. The fourth member of the team, craggy-faced with a short ponytail, stepped out of the greenery. Once an escaping prisoner had foolishly grabbed that hair to try to subdue Artero Mariano, but the razor blades hidden inside had neatly sliced off his fingers. The prisoner had howled at the pain, but when Mariano got hold of him, the screaming really began.

Making sure they were alone, the four exchanged pointed glances, then nodded in readiness and checked their weapons.

“We’re in the clear, Eagle One.” Zalhares sub-vocalized into his throat mike, thumbing the control in the pocket of his windbreaker to change to the CIA channel. The unit automatically scrambled the broadcast, then shifted to another frequency and code so that even if MI-5 or the local police were listening in, they would never be able to decipher the transmission soon enough to stop what was happening in the peaceful London park.

“Our goat has arrived, Falcon,” Osbourne said brusquely, his voice tense with controlled excitement. “Caucasian male, denim pants and shirt, portly, mustache, steel-rim glasses.”

“Confirm, Eagle,” Zalhares said, starting along the footpath. “We will engage. Want anybody alive for questioning, sir?”

There was a buzz of static in the earphone for a moment, masking the reply. “Hello, Eagle? Repeat, please, 10-2.”

“Falcon, I said not this time,” Osbourne said tersely. “Our psych department says that it will scare the hell out of the others in their group to have a team simply vanish off the face of the earth. No bodies, no news coverage, just gone. It makes the next batch of killers move a little slower, and thus easier to stop. Terminate with extreme prejudice.”

The word is “kill,” Zalhares thought snidely to himself. How can the CIA order something done if they’re too cowardly to even speak the word? Americans were rich, but foolishly sentimental. A combination he found to be highly conducive for business.

“Confirmed,” he said out loud. “Falcon out.”

The rest of the Scion dispersed into the greenery as Zalhares turned toward the street. Reaching the corner, he saw a double-decker bus pull to a halt at the curb with a hiss of air brakes, the oversize vehicle gently rocking for a few seconds as the shocks rode out the inertia.

A short, fat man with metal glasses and tightly carrying a plain leather briefcase stepped quickly from the bus. As he started toward the park, several men rose from parked cars and headed after the plump courier. They were dressed in ridiculously loud sports coats with noticeable lumps under their arms from holstered weapons. Zalhares tried not to frown at the sight of the rank amateurs. These Libyan fools were a threat to America?

Hurrying down a footpath, the fat man darted into a break in the bushes and disappeared from sight. Only seconds behind, his pursuers quickly followed.

“Now,” Zalhares said, entering the bushes from another direction.

“Confirm,” Mariano replied.

Moving with silent grace, Zalhares slipped through the manicured hedges and entered a small clearing in the heart of the park. There he saw the four Libyans converge on the fat man, each of them carrying a stun gun or pepper spray. As they tried to cut off his escape, the courier simply dived to the ground, hugging the briefcase.

Zalhares and his people charged the circle of Libyans from behind. At the sound of their footsteps, the men turned from the cringing courier and the members of the Scion moved like lightning, each choosing a target and ramming a knife upward into the bottom of the jaw to pin the mouth shut.

As the startled Libyans began to choke on the blood filling their throats, they dropped the stun guns and spray cans and tried to pull real weapons, but it was too late.

Zalhares grabbed an arm of the biggest man and broke it with a twisting gesture, making him drop the 9 mm Glock pistol. Mariano did the same. Pedrosa crushed another man’s neck in his bare grip, the bones audibly cracking. Mizne stabbed her target with another knife, leaving the blade buried deep in his chest to stem any possible gush of blood from the ruptured heart.

Only yards away from cheerful families having a picnic on the village green, the Libyan terrorists died, drowning in their own blood, not so much as a whisper escaping their lips. Rising from the ground, the fat courier nodded at the members of Scion in frank appreciation, then calmly walked away and out of sight. The moment he was gone, the mercs shifted the bodies behind some bushes instead of lugging them to the open sewer grating deeper in the parkland as they had the other corpses. Then they pulled their weapons and carefully checked the sleek sound suppressors attached to their Brazilian-made Imbel .22 pistols. The mercs clicked off the safeties and racked the slides to chamber a round for immediate use.

“Eagle, this is Falcon,” Zalhares said, touching his throat mike. “All clear.”

“Confirm, Falcon. Another good job,” Osbourne said. “And so ends the British cell of the Libyan National Front. Hell of a day, people. Forty-five terrorists killed and no breakage. Not an agent lost.”

“Well, sir, a live Zodiac is a hell of a bait,” another CIA agent added on the encrypted channel, a trace of a Southern accent in his voice. “Too good for those sons of bitches to pass up.”

“Damn straight it is,” Osbourne chuckled. “Good job, Falcon. You handle the bodies, and we’ll cover the Zodiac to the truck. We’ll meet you back at the Savoy Hotel for a debriefing.”

Holstering his piece, Cirello Zalhares looked at his people and they nodded.

“Confirm, Eagle,” he replied, giving a rare smile. “See you real soon.”

But as the mercs began to leave, the bushes rustled near the stacked corpses and a London constable pushed his way into the clearing.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded firmly.

Without pause, the Scion pulled their guns and fired, the silenced weapons whispering death. Grunting at each impact, the patrolman folded over and tumbled to the grass, bleeding from a dozen small wounds.

“Sorry, I was once a police officer myself,” Mariano said, advancing close to press his weapon directly to the temple of the dying man. “But business is business.”

Struggling to breathe, the unarmed constable clawed for the radio microphone hanging over his shoulder. Mariano fired the pistol. Jerking backward, the patrolman trembled for a moment, then lay still.

“Quickly! Get him into the bushes,” Mizne directed, removing the partially used clip from the Imbel .22 and quickly inserting a fresh one. “We must not deviate from the plan!”

“Wait,” Zalhares said slowly, glancing at the park beyond the thick hedges. “Maybe we can use this dead man to our advantage.”

AS THE PLUMP COURIER reached the footbridge near the bank of the Thames, six other men moved smoothly from the surrounding crowd to form a protective ring. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the CIA agents kept everybody away from the man and his battered old briefcase.

From on the footbridge, Osbourne keenly watched the milling civilians for any suspicious movements. But nobody seemed to be following the group or paying them any undue attention. Good. Everything seemed to be under control. Although Osbourne grudgingly admitted a faint unease at his inability to locate the constable who patrolled the riverbank. But since neither Scotland Yard nor the local bulls were privy to the covert actions here today, the fellow could just be having lunch, or was otherwise occupied.

Reaching into a pocket, Osbourne switched channels on his radio. “Nest, this is Eagle, all clear, we’re on the way with the egg.”

“We’re ready, Eagle,” a woman replied. “Hawks are live and ready for anything.”

“Good. Stay alert, see you in five.”

“Roger that, Eagle. Nest, out.”

Passing a fish-and-chips vendor, one of the CIA agents scowled as an elderly woman liberally doused her chips with vinegar and salt.

“What the hell is a ‘toad in the hole’?” he muttered. “Sounds like something you get from a Hong Kong hooker for fifty bucks.”

“God, I want a hamburger so bad my dick hurts,” another man answered curtly.

One of the other agents snorted a laugh. Everybody was starting to relax. This was the last Zodiac, they were in the clear now and it was smooth sailing. The project was completed and a total success.

“So after this, we’ll hit the McDonald’s in Piccadilly Square,” the first agent said, scratching his chest to keep a hand near his gun. “Burgers and fries sounds good to me.”

“Amen, brother.”

“Please, I have not eaten American food in thirty years,” the courier said, shifting his grip on the briefcase. “I would kill for a hot dog right about now.”

“Then lunch is on the Agency. You guys did a hell of a job and deserve a bucket of medals. The least we can do is buy lunch.”

“Yes, it is almost over,” the courier said, sighing deeply. “Only a few more minutes and I shall be free.”

At the base of the footbridge Osbourne joined the others and all conversation stopped. Staying in tight formation, the group swung around the library, to find an unmarked armored truck in the parking lot, the engine idling softly.

The two uniformed guards in the front nodded at Osbourne. One raised a mike from the dashboard to speak a single word, then tucked it away again. A few seconds later, heavy bolts could be heard disengaging before the thick rear door of the truck swung ponderously aside. Inside the vehicle there was a squat lead safe bolted to the floor and surrounded by six more CIA agents wearing flak jackets and armed with M-16 carbines. More weapons hung on the metal walls, along with medical kits, metal netting and ABC breathing masks. No chances were being taken this day.

As Osbourne and his team approached, the six guards assumed a firing stance.

“Blue skies,” Osbourne said. “You can stand down.”

At the all-clear signal, the guards moved away from the safe as the courier climbed into the truck. Kneeling on the floor, the plump man nervously wiped a sweaty palm on a leg to dry it first before pressing it to a security pad on top of the box. The indicator lights blinked twice, then the door loudly unlocked to swing aside, revealing several identical briefcases. Placing the item into a numbered slot, the courier closed the safe with a satisfied expression.

“Done,” he whispered. “It’s finally over.”

A crackle of static sounded over everybody’s earphones, followed by muffled gunfire.

“Red alert!” Zalhares shouted. “We have a situation in the drop zone. A police officer is down…shit, Dog is hit! We’re under attack by an Iraqi backup team. We need immediate assistance Eagle! Now, goddammit, right now!”

Drawing his piece, Osbourne now realized why the constable had been missing. Poor bastard. “We’re on the way, Falcon,” Osbourne said, jumping out of the armored truck. “Let’s move with a purpose, people!”

Pulling their weapons, the CIA agents poured onto the parking lot, then impatiently waited for the guards to close and lock the armored door. As the agents raced around the library, the strolling civilians started to scream at the sight of armed men running through the park.

Seconds later the Scion came charging around the other side of the library, their weapons drawn and Zalhares adjusting the preburner on a U.S. Army M-1 flamethrower. Halfway to the armored truck, he crouched against the recoil and pressed the lever on the insulated wand to send out a stream of napalm. The burning lance hit the rear grille of the thick door and sprayed through to fill the vehicle. Covered in flames, the guards and the courier shrieked wildly and dashed around, slamming into the walls and one another in a blind panic to escape. A few moments later the ammunition in the rifles began to cook off from the mounting heat, the hardball ammo ricocheting off the walls in a hellish clamor, cutting short the agonized wails.

Seated in the front cab, the driver and uniformed guard couldn’t see what was happening on the other side of the steel wall in the rear of the truck, but they could clearly hear the hideous screaming. Grabbing a Remington shotgun from a ceiling mount the uniformed guard racked the slide to chamber a shell as the driver pulled a .357 Magnum pistol and threw open the sliding panel covering the conversation grille. Broiling waves of flame poured instantly into his face, searing his skin and setting his hair on fire. Recoiling in a wordless scream, the driver accidentally discharged his pistol, blowing a hole in the seat. He threw away the weapon to wave his hands at the flames engulfing his head.

“Jesus Christ!” the other guard cried, jerking backward against the door and raising the shotgun for protection.

Moving without conscious thought, the burning driver clawed at the handle of the cab door and shoved it open to throw himself outside to try to escape the flames. Tumbling to the cool pavement, the driver beat at the fire with his blistered hands and only vaguely noticed some people coming his way. There was a metallic cough, a flash of pressure, and his pain ended forever.

BURSTING THROUGH the hedges, Osbourne and his people found the dead Libyans and the constable. But there was no sign of the Scion or anybody else.

“Son of a bitch, we’ve been tricked!” Osbourne cursed angrily, grabbing his throat mike. “Nest, this is Eagle. Evac, now! Scion may be compromised! Repeat, Zalhares may have turned! Acknowledge!” There was only the soft hiss of background static as a reply.

“Nest, do you copy!” Osbourne demanded, pushing through the foliage and starting back toward the distant library. He could see a plume of dark smoke rising from behind the building and doubled his speed.

Police and fire department sirens were growing louder as the CIA operatives circled the library. Tendrils of smoke sailed through the air, which carried an aroma oddly reminiscent of roasted pork. The older agents scowled as they identified the stench of burned human flesh mixed with the telltale reek of napalm.

The hot wand and pressurized tanks of a flamethrower lay discarded on the pavement. Sprawled nearby were two bodies; the uniformed guard, obviously shot in the head, and what appeared to be the driver, although the face was burned beyond recognition. There was no sign of the armored truck.

“The bastards got them,” an agent whispered. “Zalhares and his crew stole the entire shipment of Zodiacs!”

“Kissel, take two men and sweep the neighborhood for that truck or any more bodies,” Osbourne growled, slowly holstering his gun. “I’ll handle Scotland Yard. Wallace, grab a cab and get your ass to the American Embassy and call the White House.”

“We’ll need top authorization before we can brief the Brits on what’s loose in their city,” the agent replied, buttoning his jacket closed. “If then.”

“Yeah, I know,” Osbourne said woodenly as squads of police cars raced into the parking lot. “How can we tell anybody that the world just lost a battle in the war on terrorism?”




CHAPTER ONE


Aberystywyth, Wales

An old, dilapidated truck bearing two members of Scion trundled along the cliff road, the vast gray expanse of the Atlantic Ocean spreading in front of them to the distant horizon. No ships were in sight and no commercial jet planes flew overhead. Zalhares hadn’t even seen another car for the past hour, but he still kept a sharp watch on the sky for any sign of a Harrier jump jet. That’s what the British would send, the merc realized, something that could strike from the sky, then land to check the debris. He knew that the CIA would prefer a shoot-on-sight order, but with the Zodiacs in the possession of the Scion that would be far too dangerous. No, the orders would be to contain the merc unit and to call for reinforcements. But Zalhares had already taken steps to counter the event should it occur. Everything was under control, or rather, it would be in just a little while.

Hours passed as the two people in the battered vehicle bounced along the rough roadway, accompanied by the rattling of chains from the rear of the truck. A squat wooden box roughly the size of an office safe was securely chained in place on top of a thick bed mattress, the price tag still attached.

“Is this the best you could steal?” Jorgina Mizne muttered from the passenger seat, adjusting the baby blanket covering the 9 mm Uru submachine gun cradled in her arms.

“It will suffice,” Zalhares said, braking in the middle of the road to check the hand-drawn map. Ah, the turn was over there. Aberystywyth Avenue. Good.

“Welsh, ha! And I thought English was spelled oddly.” Mizne snorted in amusement.

“The English think of the Welsh the same way we do Bolivians,” Zalhares said, tucking away the map. “Idiot cousins who should not be allowed to play with sharp things.”

She flashed a predator smile. “Then they will not work well together to find us? Excellent.”

“It is why I chose here,” he said, shifting gears and starting forward.

Maneuvering past a pair of wooden markers that bracketed the gravel road, Zalhares shifted gears again to the accompaniment of loud grinding noises as the truck started along the steep incline that wound down the face of the cliff. He had heard that the locals often referred to the road as Dead Man’s Curve, but compared to the impossible mountain roads of western Brazil, it was a wide highway.

Reaching the rocky ground, a side road extended to the sleepy hamlet of Aberystywyth, which was so reminiscent of his home village of Botcaku it made Zalhares momentarily homesick. The bitter memories of wearing dirty rags for clothes and going to bed hungry for countless years killed the gentle recollections of playing with his brothers and sisters. His mind returned to the task at hand. Making money.

Soon the gravel became dirt, which abruptly turned into smooth pavement again as the truck rolled along the prehistoric-looking granite dock. Wooden jetties reached out to sea, the thick planks shiny from the constant spray of the waves crashing on the pillions underneath. A motor launch was moored at the farthest slip, guarded by several large men in raincoats. Two were smoking pipes, one was eating an apple, all were carrying Uzi submachine guns slung beneath yellow slickers.

More guards occupied the launch. A lone figure stood on the foredeck armed with an American surface-to-air Stinger missile, while another watched the skies through compact Russian military binoculars. American weapons, Russian equipment, Australian-registered cargo ship, the smugglers were the UN of crime operating in these waters, a covert cartel that dealt in the oldest currency in history—human misery.

Parking the truck a safe distance away, Zalhares got out as Mizne removed the blanket and leveled the Uru out the open window. The men on the dock reacted, then relaxed slightly as Zalhares stepped between them and the unusual weapon.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the smokers demanded, resting a hand on the checkered grip of the Uzi. The bolt was already pulled, the weapon primed and ready to fire.

“I hear this town used to mine tin for a living,” Zalhares said loudly to be heard over the endlessly crashing waves.

The man with the apple tossed it away and stepped forward, wiping his hands on his pants. “Now we sell trinkets to the tourists,” he said carefully. “But it’s a living.”

Code phrases exchanged properly, Zalhares touched a gloved finger to his ear to let Mizne know to stand down.

The leader of the sailors pulled out a military radio and hit the transmit button. “They’re here,” he announced, then turned it off.

Not a phone, but a radio. Zalhares approved. With so many high-orbit satellites scanning the transmissions of cell phones, it was safer to use a short-range radio for local communications. The signal was too weak to be intercepted by the military satellites and their damn code-breaking computers.

“The cargo is in the truck,” Zalhares said, nodding in that direction. “You’ll need a forklift.”

“Jones, Smitty,” the man shouted over a shoulder. “Get humping, boys.”

The two men walked off, the third staying near the launch, puffing steadily on a briarwood pipe that looked older than the granite dock.

“So where is the Tullamarine anchored?” Zalhares asked, glancing at the rough sea. There was nothing visible to the horizon.

“Just past the ten-kilometer mark,” the man replied gruffly. “That puts her in international waters and will be hard for the Brits to get on board without a bloody good reason.”

“Then do not give them one,” Zalhares said, locking eyes with the sailor for a moment.

The other man tried to match the gaze and had to turn away. His crew were professional smugglers, hardcases and killers from a dozen countries, but this dark foreigner had the look of a buttonman, a stone-cold assassin, and the boson knew that he was out of his league here.

Standing on the dock, the two men watched as the crew of the Tullamarine removed canvas sheeting from a forklift parked at the base of the cliff, far away from the corrosive salt spray of the surf. With the Uru in hand, Mizne stood guard as they dragged out the heavy wooden crate and hauled it over to the waiting launch. Everybody stayed alert until it was firmly lashed into place again with ropes and more chains.

Checking the lashings himself, the boson grunted in satisfaction, then climbed back onto the wet jetty and pulled out the radio. “Clear,” he said before turning it off and tucking the transmitter into a pocket.

On the launch, the sailors started to release the mooring lines. The craft’s big gasoline motor purred to life.

“Anything else?” the boson asked, pulling out another apple and polishing it on the front of his shirt before taking a bite.

“Yes,” Zalhares said unexpectedly, pulling his flesh-colored gloves on tighter. “If there’s any trouble, destroy the cargo. Just firing a few rounds into the wood should do the trick. The crate is packed with thermite charges so it will burn even if you toss it overboard.”

“Fair enough,” the boson replied, taking a juicy bite. “Not going to get a refund though.”

The armed sailors laughed at that as they stored the lines in preparation to leave. Only the guard with the Stinger didn’t join in, his hard eyes never leaving the clear blue sky.

“Don’t worry about it,” Zalhares replied, turning to walk back to the waiting truck. “We have already gotten our full money’s worth from you.”

Still chewing, the boson frowned at that and glanced nervously at the packing crate in the launch. Just what the hell kind of contraband were they smuggling out of England this time?

Washington, D.C.

HAL BROGNOLA SAT hunched over his desk, looking at a picture of his family, then at the clock, and back to the telephone, silently willing Mack Bolan to call. As he stared at the photograph of his wife and two children, he felt a momentary pang of remorse over spending too much time on the job and not enough with his loved ones. But such were the demands of his career. He had no choice, really. So here he was again, behind his desk at the Justice Department on the weekend. The big Fed sighed loudly. No rest for the wicked.

The phone rang. Darting out a hand to grab the receiver, Brognola forced himself to wait until the trace circuits finished their work. It only took a few seconds before the small plasma indent screen showed the phone call was coming from a delicatessen in Brooklyn, then switched to a motel in Staten Island, a synagogue in Long Island, gas station in Harlem, Queens, Empire State Building, 42nd Street subway station, and so on, the location steadily changing every two seconds. Good, that meant it was Bolan and the Farm had tracked him down. Any phone call could be traced in time, but Aaron “The Bear” and Kurtzman the electronic wizards at Stony Man Farm had cooked up a device about the size of a pack of cigarettes that gave a hundred false identifications along with the legitimate location. It was classified as President Eyes Only and very few people in the entire world even knew of its existence, much less possessed the scrambler. Mack Bolan had the very first model released.

“Brognola,” he answered, lifting the receiver.

“It’s me,” Bolan said.

“Thank God, Striker,” Brognola exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Do you know what Project Zodiac is?” he asked without preamble.

There was a brief pause. “I have heard rumors,” Bolan replied. “Some sort of doomsday plan from the cold war.”

“Damn close. President Kennedy wanted something to put the fear of God into the Soviets, and the CIA cooked up Project Zodiac. Twelve deep-cover agents scattered across Europe, with wives, jobs, children. They lived undercover for years before receiving their Zodiac.”

“Twelve agents, each with a code name after a sign of the Zodiac,” Bolan said. “Capricorn, Virgo, and such. Cute. Sounds like the kind of nonsense the CIA thinks is clever.”

“Yeah, you hit the nail on the head. Only these sleeper agents weren’t saboteurs sent to blow up certain targets, they were equipped with a compact nuclear device that fit into a standard-size briefcase.”

“Can it be that small and achieve threshold?”

“Different configuration,” Brognola stated, “and they work just fine. I’ve seen the films from the White Sands bomb range. Each of these has a full one-quarter kiloton yield, just about enough to vaporize six city blocks and destroy six more with the concussion and heat flash. Very nasty stuff, and as dirty as hell.”

“So if America fell to an enemy sneak attack, these sleeper agents walk their Zodiac to some military target and blow it up,” Bolan said, clearly thinking out loud. “How did they handle the blast? With a timer or by radio detonator?”

“A Zodiac detonates by hand,” Brognola said without emotion. “It’s a suicide device. After you set the internal trigger and close the lid, the agent only has to grab the handle tight and the next time he releases it, the bomb detonates.”

“The handle is the trigger. So shooting the agent would only set off the Zodiac when he let go. Just like shooting a man holding a primed grenade,” Bolan said, the disgust strong in his voice. “America strikes back from the grave. So what went wrong? Somebody find a list of the agents? Or did one of them turn and sell a Zodiac to some terrorist group?”

In reply, the big Fed inhaled, then let it out slowly.

“Or is it worse than that, Hal?” Bolan demanded.

“It’s worse,” the man admitted. “Last month the President canceled Project Zodiac. But when the CIA recalled the Zodiacs, they deliberately let the information slip out.”

There came a soft rustle of cloth as if the man on the other end of the line was shaking his head. “They used the nukes as bait, a damn stalking horse,” Bolan stated, not needing to hear any more. “Okay, what went wrong?”

“At first, nothing. The CIA was blowing away terrorist groups from across the globe, and then…the perimeter guards stole the truck of bombs right from under their noses.”

That only took Bolan a second to translate. “So the cheap bastards were using mercs again,” he growled.

“You got it. Save a buck and lose the war. Those guys spend too much time playing politics and trying to look good to Congress than they do getting the job done.”

“Preaching to the choir here, Hal.”

Softly in the background, Brognola could hear people chatting and machinery moving. Was it a recording, or was Striker actually calling from an airport or bus terminal?

“So the mercs now have twelve atomic bombs.”

“No, only four,” Brognola corrected. “The CIA may screw up big sometimes, but they’re not complete fools. Nobody but the mission chief knew that identical armored trucks were going to carry away every third collection. The mercs probably thought they were stealing all twelve, but they only got four.”

“Only four,” Bolan said in a graveyard voice.

“Yeah, I know. And that’s about the only goddamn good thing about this whole mess.”

“So why call me? Can’t find them?”

The man’s mind moved like lightning. “That’s about the size of it. The rendezvous point was in London somewhere and the Brits are having a fit over this going down in their backyard without their okay. MI-5 has every agent on the hunt, with the city sealed tighter than a virgin on prom night. The SAS and the CIA are tearing the countryside apart trying to find the mercs, but so far nothing. Meanwhile, the PM is screaming bloody murder at the White House.”

“Can’t blame him,” Bolan said calmly. “If another country had tried that here, we’d tear them a new one.”

“At least one, maybe two.”

“Got an ID on the mercs?”

“Yeah.” Brognola sighed, leaning forward in his chair and lifting a Top Secret file from the clutter on his desk. “I’m holding their Agency dossier in my hand. The Scion. Know them?”

There was a short pause. “Never heard of them before. Give me the basics and have the full dossier sent to a drop site at Grand Central Train Station.”

“No problem,” he said, opening the file. “Okay, their leader is a guy named Cirello Zalhares—”

Interrupting, Bolan grunted at that. “Wait, big Brazilian guy, used to work for the S2,” he said. “Works with Dog Mariano, Minas Pedrosa, and a woman, Jorgina something. A real looker, loves knives.”

“Jorgina Mizne, that’s them.”

“So Zalhares now calls his group of mercenaries the Scion? Yeah, that sounds like right. He always did enjoy grandstanding.”

“Christ, Striker,” Brognola said with a dry chuckle. “Have you got every freelance killer in the entire world locked in that mental file of yours?”

“Only the live ones,” Bolan said humorously. And yeah, he knew them. An elite group of mercs who were all former S2 agents cashiered out of the service for various crimes against their fellow police officers: murder, rape, blackmail, torture and worse. During the communications blackout, Phoenix Force had had a brief encounter with the S2 when they tried to flee Brazil. They were serious hardcases, tougher than any of the street soldiers from the Mafia or the defunct KGB.

“Is this intel hard?” Bolan demanded.

“Confirmed and double-checked,” Brognola replied. “Now we have the Middle East sealed tight, and the leader of every known terrorist group under surveillance, along with the arms dealers and top smugglers.”

“Now you want the unknown groups covered,” Bolan said slowly. “Then I’m in the right town. If anything big like this is coming into America, I have contacts in New York who will know.”

“Just one more thing, Striker. You should know that these are kamikaze models. Shoot one, and even if its not already armed, the bomb detonates automatically. The Zodiacs have to be recovered intact and undamaged.”

“Then the sooner I move, the better the chances they won’t be damaged,” Bolan said unruffled. “Talk to you later, Hal.”

“Hold the line, Striker,” Brognola said as the encrypted fax machine whined into life on his desk. “I have a report coming in from the Oval Office…. Well, I’ll be a son of bitch. We found them! The Brits got an anonymous tip from a reliable source that an Australian cargo ship, Tullamarine, is ferrying the Zodiacs out of England. The captain has refused to turn around for an inspection and now they’re pretending the radio and cell phone are all dead. RAF fighters are on the way to do a recon.”

For a moment Bolan said nothing.

“Looks like this was a lot of excitement over nothing, old friend. We have them cornered.”

“Hal, recall those planes,” Bolan stated firmly. “I’m betting that anonymous tip came from Zalhares.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Trust me, Hal. It’s some sort of trick. Recall those planes.”

Just then, the fax whined once more, extruding another encrypted report. “Too late,” Brognola said out loud, reading fast. “The RAF has already engaged the Scion.”




CHAPTER TWO


Norwegian Sea

Dropping out of the clouds at 990 mph, the five RAF jetfighters streaked toward the Atlantic Ocean until they were skimming along the water barely above the waves. At these speeds, a single twitch of a hand on the joystick or an unexpected thermal, and the multimillion dollar fighters would go straight into the drink. However, the risk was worth it. At this height, the jets would be practically invisible to any ship’s radar until it was far too late and they were in camera range.

“Wing Commander Lovejoy, this is Vivatar,” a nasally voice said into the earphones of the pilots. The RAF controller was using the code name for the local UK air base. “Permission to fire has been granted by the PM. Repeat, you may arm all weapon systems.”

The Prime minister? Bloody hell. “Roger, Vivatar, confirm,” Captain Adrian “Lovejoy” Scott said into his helmet microphone. “Will recon first for friendlies, then proceed to disable engines. Over.”

“Roger and confirmed, Lovejoy. Good hunting, chaps!”

“Disable their engines, my arse,” Shadowboxer said on the pilot-to-pilot channel. “We should blow the bastards out of the water. Miniature nukes, just how crazy are those damn Yanks?” From the rear seat of the two-man Tornado G1-B, his navigator wholeheartedly agreed.

“Cut the chatter, Shadow,” Lovejoy ordered as the radar beeped and a tiny image appeared on the horizon. Preset, the video screen on the dashboard did a zoom to show a cargo ship bearing Australian markings. “Okay, there it is. I’m going in for an ident, Merlin and Red Cat stay on my wings. Shadowboxer, Crippen, maintain position.”

Dropping out of Mach, the front three delta-shaped Jaguars slowed their speed as the two sleek Tornados folded back their wings to peel away at full throttle, soon reaching Mach 2.5, and began to widely arch around the target zone.

With the cool air whispering past the bubble canopies of the Jaguars, the choppy Norwegian Sea below was sable in color, the dull gray cargo ship almost lost in the sheer vastness of the ocean. Which was probably the whole idea, Lovejoy thought.

Still slowing their approach, the three Jaguars flew past the Tullamarine with their video cameras on automatic. The wide cargo ship was probably moving at its top speed, but compared to the British jetfighters it might as well have been nailed in place.

On the dashboard of his jet fighter, Commander Lovejoy studied the relayed pictures from the belly cameras. The infrared scanners had focused on every human-size thermal and showed only sharp images of armed men on the decks. No women, or children, and nobody who appeared to be held as a hostage. Nothing but a room-by-room search would ever truly show if the vessel was completely clear of innocent people, but this was the best the RAF pilots could do at the moment. With any luck, the crew would surrender and the question of civilians would never arise.

“It’s the Tullamarine, all right,” Red Cat said, slowing even more. “I can read the bow.”

Just then there was a fast series of flashes from all over the cargo ship and a flurry of Stinger missiles rose quickly on smoky contrails.

“Incoming,” Lovejoy reported calmly, dropping chaff and flares in his wake. The other Jaguars duplicated the tactic and the Stingers detonated harmlessly in the open air, the expanding halo of shrapnel never even coming close to the speeding jets.

“Target is hostile. Repeat, target is hostile,” Lovejoy announced grimly, banking into a turn. “Shadow, take out their radar.”

“My pleasure, Lovejoy!”

An ALARM missile streaked inward from out of the distance, locking on the signal of the ship’s radar and striking the rotating dish dead center. The explosion blew it apart and damaged a good section of the bridge, windows shattering for yards in every direction

“Good shooting, Shadow.”

“Roger, Commander!”

The crew was running madly around, firing more Stingers and what the RAF computers soon identified to the pilots as LAW and SRAW rockets. The smugglers seemed to be throwing anything they had into the sky and hoping for a lucky hit.

“Shadow and Crippen, keep those Stingers busy while we hit the engine,” Lovejoy directed, dropping into an attack profile and checking the readouts on his console. Fuel good, weapons hot, no damage.

In tight formation, the five jets streaked toward the cargo ship and cut loose with their cannons, the 27 mm rounds of the two Tornados raking the vessel from bow to stern, the fusillade sending a score of men diving for cover as the fat rounds deeply dented the deck and chewed several lifeboats to pieces.

Meanwhile the Jaguars concentrated on the flat stern of the wide ship, their larger 30 mm rounds stitching lines of holes across the steel achieving full penetration. Soon, smoke was pouring from the portholes and the turbulent wake of the vessel went still, the great props rotating to a slow stop.

“She’s dead in the water, boys,” Lovejoy said, then banked sharply as yet another flight of Stingers rose from the disabled ship. “But we don’t yet have their full cooperation.”

“Let’s give them two deadheads in the north,” Crippen suggested, spreading his wings to match speed with the slower Jaguars. “That’ll put the fear of God into them.”

“Sounds good. Splash two hot pickles,” Love joy stated. “But this is their last chance. Afterward, we start them hard. Dover, take the bow, Red Cat, take the stern. Shadow and I will fly the midship to draw fire. And keep it tight! We want them scared, not dead.”

“Shitless, not spitless,” Red Cat said. “Will comply.”

Flying in a staggered line, the fighters raced past the cargo ship, Crippen and Red Cat cutting loose a pair of Sidewinder missiles. With the guidance systems of the missiles turned off, the deadly heat-seekers simply flew straight past the cargo ship, knifing down into the ocean where they violently exploded. Twin plumes rose to throw a spray of hot salt water across the ship, knocking several of the crew overboard.

“Damn good shooting, boys!” Lovejoy stated, but then, incredibly, saw the stuttering fireflies of small-arms weapons being fired from around the open cargo hatch.

Oh surrender already, blokes.

“What is the ETA for the Harriers, Commander?” Merlin asked, slipping sideways in preparation for another attack run.

“Harriers from the HMS Edward III should be here in five minutes,” Lovejoy replied. “RAN helicopters in fifteen, and a Yank Los-Angeles-class submarine will arrive in about half an hour.”

“Thirty minutes? Too slow, chicken marango!” Red Cat quoted with a laugh. “It’ll be all over by…. Wait, what the hell are they doing? They’re dumping something overboard.”

Once again, fireflies danced along the starboard railing of the ship, but this time the crew pointed their weapons low, as if shooting at the water.

“Did they toss something overboard?” Lovejoy asked, dropping lower for a closer inspection when a blinding white light rose from the cold Norwegian Sea to fill the universe.

The expanding fireball caught Merlin and Shadowboxer, vaporizing the jet fighters instantly. Just far enough away from the blast to survive, it took Crippen and Red Cat a full second to realize what had happened. The pilots shoved their joysticks to the stop as they desperately punched for the sky. Their ships were shielded from the EMP blast of a nuke, so if they could just get outside the thermal flash and…

The physical shock wave of air compressed to the density of stone slammed into the RAF fighters, ripping off their wings, the fuselages crumpling around the men and trapping them inside the smashed jets. The damage activated the ejector seats, crushing the pilots into bloody jelly as the charges hurtled the seats directly into the wadded canopies. A split second later, the ruptured fuel tanks detonated, igniting every missile.

In a strident series of explosions, flaming debris rained from the clear azure sky to vanish below the radioactive waves, where soon there was nothing remaining but the empty, boiling ocean.

42nd Street Subway Station, New York

IT WAS QUIET and dark at Mack Bolan’s end of the old subway platform where graffiti covered the walls. The stairs were closed off with a folding iron grating padlocked into place and the door to the access tunnel was equally protected. Aside from the bank of old pay phones, half of them missing all together, there was nothing and no reason for anybody to go to that section of the subterranean platform so far away from the bright lights and busy crowds. Which made it just about perfect for Bolan’s needs.

“Hold on, Striker,” Brognola said over the receiver. “Another fax is coming. Be right back.”

“I’ll wait,” Bolan said, leaning against the dirty tiled wall. In the Executioner’s opinion, there was no way the Scion would have been caught in that stupid a move.

Bolan’s combat sense flared, and he felt that he was the center of someone’s attention long before hearing the approach of boots on the dirty concrete.

“Hey, you!”

Turning slowly, Mack studied the group of six teenagers coming his way. They were shabbily dressed in torn clothing, but the damage seemed to be more deliberate than natural wear and tear. That assessment was compounded by the fact that they were wearing hundred-dollar sneakers and ten-dollar pants. Two were smoking, one was chewing gum with his mouth open and a third was an acne-scarred kid moving to the beat of the music thumping coming from his stereo headphones, a fancy CD player hanging from a wide leather garrison belt. However, despite their youth, each was smiling at the easy mark standing in front of them, a lone man in a secluded section of the subway without a cop in sight.

Stopping a short distance away, the tallest of the group flicked his wrist and a switchblade snapped into existence at the end of a fist.

“Give us your fucking wallet,” he said, sneering. “That fancy watch, too!”

Still holding the phone receiver, Bolan turned sideways and lashed out with a shoe, the tip stabbing the boy hard in the stomach. The air left his lungs in an explosive grunt and the teen dropped his blade to stagger away, clutching his stomach and looking as if he was about to vomit.

As the rest of the gang stared hard at their intended victim, the Executioner gave them a look from the pits of Hell. The would-be predators shifted uneasily under his stern gaze, and most began to back away, splaying their hands in a sign of surrender.

“What are you waiting for?” the leader snarled, forcing himself to stand upright. “Kill that motherfucker!”

“Striker, you still there?” Brognola said over the receiver.

Bolan grunted in reply, watching the scene play out. How much authority the leader of the street gang held over his people would decide if blood would be spilled. Did they follow him out of simple fear, or respect?

“Hey, mister, we didn’t mean nothing,” a bald kid said, backing away. “Be cool. No corpse, no crime, right?”

“Wrong,” Bolan said, the one word hanging in the air between them like a rumble of thunder.

“You punk-ass bitches leaving?” the leader snarled. “Then I’ll ace him myself!”

Lurching forward, the teen threw an overhand haymaker at Bolan that would have broken bones if it hit. Dropping the receiver, Bolan went under the swing, then stood again with coiled-steel speed, driving two stiff fingers directly in the teenager’s armpit.

Yowling in pain, the gang lord staggered backward, tears running down his face, the arm dangling impotently at his side like meat in a butcher’s window. Bolan swept back his sports jacket to expose the Beretta 93-R riding in a shoulder holster.

“Go home,” he said in a voice from beyond the grave. “Now.”

The rest of the gang simply turned and ran, one of them scrambling so fast he slipped on some trash and almost went over the edge of the platform onto the abandoned tracks below. Only the leader sneered hatefully in reply and staggered away, cradling his damaged arm.

“Striker?” Brognola’s voice called through the receiver in concern.

“Right here, Hal,” Bolan said, drawing the Beretta. Reaching up with the weapon, he used the sound suppressor to smash the exposed fluorescent lights overhead. As darkness crashed around the man, Bolan stepped farther into the shadows and leveled the weapon in preparation.

“Okay, I just got a report from the President. Goddamn it, how did you know?” Brognola said irritably. “The NSA just relayed a message to the Oval Office that the thermal flash of the blast registered only one Zodiac. Not four, just one. Zalhares and his people nuked an entire cargo ship, plus a full wing of RAF jets just to fool us into thinking they were dead.”

There was a movement behind the iron grating covering the sealed-off stairs; the gray muzzle of a gun stuck out a few inches at about waist level. Bolan did nothing, waiting for the kid to make the choice. In a rush of speed, the teenager stepped into plain view holding a Glock .45 pistol. Bolan fired once, the muzzle-flash of the Beretta brightening the shadows as the 9 mm Parabellum round smashed into the Glock. The damaged pistol went flying onto the train tracks with a loud clatter. Cradling his broken hand, the gang lord staggered away, sobbing and cursing at the same time.

“If there hadn’t been a Keyhole satellite sweeping the area, it might have worked, too,” Brognola continued.

“Not for me,” Bolan said, holstering the Beretta. “The Scion is famous for its traps, and for playing dead. That’s Zalhares’s favorite trick. Whenever possible, he strikes from behind.”

“That’s not mentioned in his personnel file, but I’ll take your word.”

For a brief moment Bolan gave a rare smile. “Smart man. What I need now is a good description of a Zodiac, with as much detail as possible.”

“Better than that. The design was taken from the most popular briefcase sold by an upscale luggage manufacturer. I can tell you the exact number of the model the Pentagon used.”

“Good. Start talking,” Bolan said, brushing some flecks of broken glass off his sleeve. Listening closely, the Executioner filed away the information as the big Fed told him the make and model of the matching briefcase, then how to arm and disarm a Zodiac. The process was slow and complex, but then these weren’t battlefield weapons where speed of operation was considered an imperative.

“Got it,” he said at last. “Thanks, Hal.”

“Stay hard, Striker. These people mean business.”

“I’m depending on it,” Bolan answered. “A merc’s lust for money is what always brings them down.”

Disconnecting, Bolan then lifted the receiver and dialed randomly to scramble the memory on the machine.

Leaving the subway via the main entrance, the Executioner melted into the crowds and walked directly to a major department store downtown. He used cash to make a few purchases, then exited the building, pausing in a nearby alley to open the packages and throw away the wrappings. He then roughened the shiny leather of the new briefcase by rubbing it against a brick wall. When satisfied, Bolan returned to his car and plugged a small soldering iron into the dashboard outlet to quickly assemble an array of electronic components into a maze of wires and circuit boards that wouldn’t fool anybody trained in nuclear ordnance, but might do the job on the Scion.

According to the CIA dossier, most of Zalhares’s people came from farms and had little or no education, aside from military training. They may not know a mock-up from a working nuke. More importantly, the weight should be about the same because of the addition of two blocks of C-4 plastique and a fully functioning radio detonator. Bolan might never have any use for the decoy, but it was always wise to plan for what an enemy could do, not for what they might do.

Grabbing a cup of coffee and a sandwich at a corner deli, the soldier mapped out a battle plan while eating lunch. He was interrupted when a group of businessmen walked by carrying briefcases and, from out of nowhere, a raggedly dressed man darted from the curb to grab one of the cases, wrestle it away from the owner and take off at a run holding the prize. Furious, the owner shouted after the thief.

The incident had just been a simple robbery; nobody was even hurt. But if done to the Scion, a city would be obliterated from the map.

No longer hungry, Bolan left a decent tip for the old waiter and headed across town. New York City was the nerve center of international crime, and he could find out almost anything if he asked the right people, using the right kind of persuasion. The numbers were already falling on this, and it was time for him to start the hunt for Zalhares.




CHAPTER THREE


Central Park, New York City

A gray-haired man was sitting on a park bench tossing bread crumbs to the cooing pigeons. His clothes were clean and well pressed, the crease in the pants sharp, almost as if he were wearing a uniform of some kind. It was a peaceful, secluded section of park, near enough to see the lake, but well off the bike trails. There was nobody around but the old man and the pigeons.

A short, wiry man walked into view along the lake. He was neatly attired in a dark suit that was extremely out of date.

Strolling along, the newcomer detoured widely around the flock of pigeons to finally sit at the other end of the park bench. For a few minutes neither man spoke.

“Okay, Pat, nobody seems to have followed me. So what the hell is going on?” Brian Kessel, the director of the New York branch of the FBI, demanded in a soft, conversational tone. “Why the secret meeting away from our offices?”

“Too many ears,” Police Chief Patrick Donaldson said, tossing another handful of crumbs to the fluttering pigeons. Then he rolled the bag shut and tucked it into a pocket of his coat. “Heard the news lately?”

Spoken that way, the news could only mean something in their line of work, and there was only one topic of conversation these days—the unsolved string of murders.

“Bet your ass I have,” Kessel said, not looking at the other man. “But it’s not us, if that’s what you’re hinting about. I can assure you of that.”

“Thirty-six hours,” Donaldson said, leaning back in the bench. The birds were gobbling up the crumbs and strutting around looking for more. Such a little act of kindness, feeding the hungry birds, it brought a sense of balance into the violent life of the top Manhattan cop. “It has been less than thirty-six hours and nineteen of the top weapons dealers in the world have been whacked in my town. I’m not a happy man, Brian. This smells like a goddamn secret government kill team.”

“No way,” Kessel replied curtly. “Impossible. If the CIA or some black ops group tried that, I’d have their balls for breakfast.”

“I thought that’d be your response.”

“Look. It could be the Yakuza, the Russian Mob, the Chinese Tongs, Rastafarians, Colombians,” he growled softly. “It’s been a fucking feeding frenzy the past few years.”

Watching the pigeons peck for more bread crumbs, the police chief shrugged. No matter how much he gave, they always wanted more. Sort of like his job. There were goals, but they were always replaced with more goals. In police work, the reward for a job well done was always a tougher job.

“Let the creeps blow each other away, that’s fine by me,” Donaldson stated in frank honesty. “I don’t give a shit. Twenty little mobs are a hell of a lot easier to control than one huge invisible empire. Just ask the OCD.”

“The Organized Crime Division can kiss my ass. Vigilante justice undermines the very fabric of society,” Kessel stated with an angry growl.

“So it really isn’t the Bureau?” Donaldson asked.

“No.”

“Damn.”

For a while the two lawmen sat on the concrete bench, listening to music from somewhere nearby and the shrill voices of children at play. Opening the bag again, Donaldson tossed the birds another handful, then offered it to Kessel. After a pause, the FBI director took some and sprinkled it across the pavement. The birds flocked around the cops, utterly ecstatic.

“So, who do you think is next on the list?” Kessel asked.

“What the hell,” the cop replied wearily. “I don’t know of anybody left.”

Tyree Building, Staten Island

THROWING BACK his head, Alexander Tyree inhaled sharply and then relaxed. Crawling out from under the conference table, the naked blond woman padded over to the mirrored bar set into the wall and poured herself a short Scotch whiskey. Draining the tumbler, she gargled first, then swallowed the rest of the drink.

“You’re the best, baby,” Tyree said, closing his zipper. “See you tomorrow. Same time, eh?”

“No problem, sir,” she said woodenly, rinsing out the glass before placing it in the sink. Stepping into black high heels, the hooker slipped on a full-length mink coat and walked out of the penthouse office, closing the door tightly behind her.

Rubbing his face for a moment, Tyree reached into a pocket and withdrew a small vial of white powder. Thumbing off the cap, the man poured the cocaine onto the polished mahogany table. Taking out a pocketknife, he was about to neatly cut the pile into lines when he heard a wet smack on the window. What the hell? Damn birds had to have flown into the glass again.

Glancing over a shoulder, Tyree blinked in confusion at the sight of a small gray lump of claylike material stuck to the bulletproof glass. There was a nylon rope attached, as if it had been lowered from the roof. Then he spotted the flashing red light of the remote detonator set into the wad of C-4 plastique.

Throwing himself out of the chair, Tyree hit the carpet a split second before the high-explosive wad cut loose and the window stridently imploded across the office, flipping over the conference table and sending the line of wheeled chairs spinning crazily in every direction.

The concussion brutally shoved Tyree hard against the marble wall. He was fighting to regain his breath when a dark figure lowered into view from above and swung in through the smoking ruin of the window.

LANDING ON HIS crepe-soled shoes, Mack Bolan slapped the release buckle of the safety harness around his waist and anchored the line to the splintered ruin of the thirty-foot-long conference table. Dressed for full urban combat, the Executioner was in a black combat suit. A web belt of ordnance and ammo circled his waist, a Beretta 93-R rode in a shoulder holster and a big-bore .357 Magnum Desert Eagle claimed the opposite hip.

A muffled pounding came from the other side of the door to the office, but Bolan ignored it. This was Tyree’s private retreat, his secret bolthole, and the only place in New York where the international arms dealer could relax completely safe. The entire building was a fortress, and this particular floor his personal bunker, the floor, walls and ceiling each composed of two full yards of steel-reinforced concrete. According to the engineering blueprints, the foot-thick titanium door would stop a 60 mm shell, and the magnetic locks could be turned off only from this side. Bolan estimated that Tyree’s bodyguards wouldn’t be able to get through in under an hour. More than sufficient. It had taken Bolan an entire day to track down the hidden location of the retreat, and less than an hour to crack its five-million-dollar security system.

Hauling the crime boss off the ripped carpeting, Bolan slammed him against the Italian-marble wall and pressed the cold pit of the Beretta’s sound suppressor into the man’s stomach.

“What the hell,” Tyree mumbled, clearly still disorganized from the explosion.

Keeping the Beretta in place, Bolan slapped the man across the face. “Get it together, Tyree. This is judgment day.”

Rubbing his stinging cheek, the man sneered at that. “So this is a raid,” he said. “Well, go ahead, cop, read me my rights. Arrest me. My lawyers will have me on the street in an hour!”

Shifting the aim of the weapon, Bolan fired and blood erupted from the man’s shoulder as the 9 mm slug grazed the skin and ricocheted off the cracked marble.

“Stop! You can’t do that!” Tyree shouted, grabbing the shallow flesh wound. “Cops can’t shoot prisoners!”

“I’m not a cop,” Bolan said bluntly, shifting the Beretta to center on the man’s heaving chest.

The implication was clear and Tyree went pale. “It’s a hit? B-but I got connections! I pay protection!”

“Not against me.”

Starting to understand the gravity of the situation, Tyree nervously licked dry lips. “Look, I’m just a businessman. We can cut a deal here,” Tyree said, keeping a palm pressed to his bleeding shirt. “There’s money in the wall safe behind the mirror in the bar. A hundred grand in cash. It’s yours. Take it and go.”

“Wrong answer,” Bolan stated coldly.

“Look, I know the Dragon missiles were shit, but the buyers were al-Qaeda,” he said, the words gushing out in a torrent, “and this is New York, for Christ’s sake! Whack me if ya want, but screw those Afghan dirtbags and the hairy-ass camels they rode in on.”

For one of the very few times in his turbulent life, Mack Bolan found himself caught absolutely by surprise. Then he looked hard into the man’s sweaty face and saw it was the truth. Incredible.

“You sold fake missiles to terrorists,” Bolan repeated slowly.

Filled with the bravado that comes in the face of inevitable death, Tyree gave a snort. “Yeah, fuck him, and fuck you, too!” he retorted, rubbing his aching shoulder. “Go ahead, shoot me! Get it the fuck over with!”

“Not today,” the Executioner said. “Maybe we can cut a deal.”

Hope flared in his eyes and Tyree glanced at the bar.

“Not for cash,” Bolan countered, keeping the weapon level but shifting it off center. “But I’ll trade information in exchange for your life.”

“Done,” Tyree agreed quickly. “What do ya want to know?”

Smart fellow. No wonder he seized control of the East Coast weapons traffic from the Jewish mob. “Some Brazilian muscle is smuggling weapons into the country,” Bolan said, deliberately being as vague as possible. He’d give more details if necessary, but only what was necessary. “Big stuff, small package. Who would they approach to broker a sale? I want a name.”

Gingerly massaging his upper arm, Tyree listened to the thumping on the armored door for a while, but said nothing, deep in thought.

Was he cooking a lie or digging for a name? Bolan wondered. He sincerely hoped the man was going to play it straight, because there was nobody else to ask. This was the end of the line, which was why he had opted for a stunt like swinging in through the window instead of ambushing the man in the elevator.

“Brazilian,” Tyree said slowly. “So it’s the Commies, the rebels, or the S2? Right?”

Bolan nodded.

“The Communists and the rebels ain’t got shit to sell. They’re buyers, but so broke they can’t afford anything important, so that means it’s the S2,” Tyree said at last. “Okay, there’s a guy, lives out in Belmore, Long Island. Deals a lot with those assholes. Name is Michael Prince. Fat guy, silk suits, uses a cigarette holder.”

Yeah, Bolan knew the name, but not much more. Michael Prince, the self-proclaimed Prince of the City. So he was handling weapons now. The rope suddenly had some extra length.

“Call anybody, and I’ll come back,” Bolan said, tucking the Beretta into its holster. “Only next time, we don’t talk.”

“Hey no problem.” The man smiled weakly. “Time for me to retire anyway.”

Attaching the safety belt as a prelude to rapelling down the side of the building, Mack Bolan paused at the window to glance over a shoulder.

“Dummy missiles?” he said, giving a brief hard smile.

“What the hell.” Tyree sighed, looking past the Executioner at the distant Manhattan skyline with a noticeable gap in the line of towering skyscrapers. “It’s a new world.”

Richmond, Virginia

EVENING WAS starting to fall across the lush Virginia countryside as the dark gray sedan rolled off the highway and into the suburbs of Richmond. The streets were astonishingly clean and lined with old trees, the front lawn of each house wide and immaculately maintained, with dogwood flowers sweetly scenting the air. Every car was in a garage or parked on the driveway; nobody was using the street.

“Jeez, it’s like something out of a Disney movie,” Cliff Maynard complained from behind the wheel. “I keep waiting for the music to swell and credits to roll.”

“Got to be a tough commute to D.C. every day,” Eliza Linderholm replied, checking the power-pack in her Taser. Tucking the electric stun gun away, the CIA agent pulled out a Glock 21 pistol and carefully threaded on a sound suppressor. Mr. Osbourne wanted the woman alive, undamaged if possible, but that wasn’t carved in stone.

“Maybe Dupont likes the peace of the countryside,” Cliff continued, reaching under his jacket and snapping off the strap of his shoulder holster. “It’d drive me crazy.”

“Amen to that, brother.” Linderholm smiled. “I’m a big-city girl and plan to stay that way.”

Back in Langley, the Agency was at its most busy when the place was quiet. Casual conversations and laughter meant that nothing important was happening in the world, an uncommon event. To any CIA agent, peace and quiet always meant trouble.

“This must be it,” Maynard said, checking the map on the dashboard display. He turned off his navigational computer and it folded back out of sight.

“You sure this is the right address?” Linderholm asked, sliding a medical pack into her skirt pocket. The boss had sent her along in case Helen Dupont was found in the shower or the agents had to strip search for weapons. After the debacle in London, the Agency was toeing the line on every government regulation. At least, for the present conflict.

“Got it out of her personnel file,” Maynard said, parking the sedan on the street a few houses away. Down the block, a old man watering his lawn studied the strange car in frank disapproval, then turned his back on them to concentrate on the weeding and fertilizing.

Pulling out a monocular scope, Linderholm swept the vicinity for anybody standing guard. The house was a modest two-story. Fake wooden shutters sat alongside the windows for purely artistic effect, which was ruined by the addition of a plastic gnome in the flower garden. Returning the scope to her pocket, the black woman shrugged at the sight. At least it was better than those racist Civil War lawn jockeys.

“Looks clean,” she reported.

“Good enough,” Maynard said. “Then let’s go catch a traitor.”

A low-level G4 clerk in the records department of the Agency, Helen Dupont was rather plain-looking, but known for getting overly friendly on the weekends. Fair enough. Nobody cared about sexual peccadilloes, as long as they were discreet. Consenting adults, and all that. However, a routine security check revealed that Dupont seemed to only be going to bed with people in the technical repair department. And the technicians had been among the very first people told about the plan to recover the Zodiacs so that they would be ready to safely disassemble the bombs.

However, in the opinion of Special Team Leader David Osbourne, that sounded suspiciously like sexual backpay. A crude spy would offer sex in exchange for secret information. Sometimes that worked, mostly it didn’t. On the other hand, a good spy would have sex with the target several times, hundreds of times over many years if possible, to build a good rapport and then have emotional leverage on the victim. Now the requested intel seemed more like a favor, with the implied threat of ending the affair if denied. The Agency did that themselves, and the ploy worked more often than not. To discover it was being done to them was extremely disturbing.

New rules for sexual conduct were already being drafted, but that wasn’t the pressing problem at the moment. Plain, sweet, sexually repressed until the weekend, Helen Dupont had left the office complaining of a migraine headache exactly when the Scion had stolen the truckload of Zodiac bombs.

It could just be a coincidence, those did happen. But the team was taking Dupont to the section chief for questioning. Just routine. Unless she cracked, and then the traitor would be hauled down to the Tank, the soundproofed room in the basement where enemies of the nation could be strenuously interrogated without undue interruptions.

Getting out of the car, the agents started for the house, but froze at the sight of the slightly ajar front door.

Returning to the car, Linderholm pulled out a radio and called for more agents as Maynard moved along the driveway and to the side of the door. Openly pulling his piece, the man waited, holding his breath to try to hear any noises from inside. But the house was silent. A few moments later Linderholm was at the other side of the door, weapon drawn. The agents nodded three times in unison counting down before she kicked open the door as Maynard rushed inside.

The living room was immaculate, not a speck of dust in sight or a book out of place on the shelves. Linderholm eased beside him and jerked her Glock at the hallway when they both caught a familiar smell. Oh, hell.

Rushing into the kitchen, they found nothing out of order. They moved fast down the corridor and into the bedroom. Dupont was tied spread-eagled on the bed, a soup bowl on the nightstand containing her fingernails, teeth and ears. The woman was almost naked, her clothing slashed off her to expose the bare skin, then left there to partially drape the mutilated corpse. Both of her breasts were covered with the circular burn marks of a cigar, the left leg covered with round bruises where the bones had been broken by some sort of blunt instrument, a hammer, or perhaps a baseball bat. As per regulations, Maynard checked her pulse, but there really was no need. The woman was dead, and had been for hours.

“It’s Dupont,” Linderholm said. “But this doesn’t make any sense. There is no way Zalhares could have gotten here yet to do this.”

“And why torture her?” Maynard demanded, making to holster his pistol, then moving to the closet to check. It was empty. “If she was working for them, and it now certainly seems that way, they might kill her to plug the leak. But why torture their own contact?”

Even as he said the words, the truth hit them both.

“Zalhares was a double agent,” Linderholm said, pulling out her radio again.

“Playing us and some other group against each other so that he could steal the bombs? Damn, sounds solid.”

“Hello, base? This a priority two report,” Linderholm said quickly. “Inform Internal Affairs and the chief that our contact has been neutralized, and we now have gate-crashers at the party. We’ll be back in an hour to report.”

Closing and locking every door, the CIA agents returned to their car and raced for the highway. Helen Dupont had only been a pawn and Cirello Zalhares was a double agent. Yeah, made sense. Unfortunately, it didn’t require any great leap of logic to guess who his employers were. Or rather, who they had been, since it seemed he had also cut them out of the deal. The Agency was finally going to go directly against the Brazilian S2. And there was no doubt that the breakage in innocent human life would be very high before this mess was finally settled.




CHAPTER FOUR


Atlantic Ocean

A steady thumping pervaded the small metal room and the air smelled strongly of machine grease. A rack of beds covered the far wall, a folding table stood in the corner, and in the middle of the room was a lead-lined safe draped with a fine wire mesh netting attached to an array of car batteries.

Kneeling by the apparatus, Zalhares carefully checked a voltage meter to make sure the Faraday Cage was working properly. Driving the armored truck into a private garage, there had been plenty of time to burn open the armor and then breech the safe. However, he suspected the CIA of having planted a tracer or even a repeater circuit in the Zodiacs, and thus had taken the precaution of having a Faraday Cage ready. With a steady current moving through the fine mesh, no radio signal could possibly penetrate.

Satisfied for the moment, Zalhares took a seat on the lower bunk and leaned back against the steel wall. The regular beat was oddly soothing, like the rhythm of a living heart.

Sitting at the table, Jorgina Mizne was sharpening a knife, her strokes unconsciously matching the pulse in the walls. Minas Pedrosa was drinking from a bottle of beer, while Dog Mariano groaned softly, holding a bucket between his shaky knees.

“Feeling any better, my friend?” Zalhares asked, crossing his arms behind his neck for a cushion. The thumping eased into a gentle background vibration.

Breathing for a moment, Mariano finally shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “How…soon….”

“Until we disembark? Quite some time.”

“Why couldn’t we take a plane?” the man muttered, closing his eyes. “I like planes.”

“Every airport was covered ten minutes after we left the park. No, my friend, this was the only way.”

“I hate the sea,” Mariano groaned.

“And yet you love the beach,” Mizne said, inspecting the edge on the blade. “One of God’s little jokes, eh?”

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the hatch that served as a door for the small water-tight compartment.

“Fine,” Mariano corrected weakly, placing the bucket aside. “I hate submarines. Better?”

“Of course.” She smiled, sliding the blade into a sheath behind her back.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. Still drinking his warm beer, Pedrosa walked to the hatch and pulled it open on squealing hinges. The air tasted greasy, yet the metal was rusty. And this was considered a reliable transport?

In the corridor stood an unshaven slim man in rumpled coveralls, the tarnished insignia of a Taiwanese naval lieutenant pinned to his limp collar. Nodding to the passengers, the officer stepped through and tossed a casual salute to Zalhares. It wasn’t returned.

“Sir, there is a problem,” the lieutenant said, smiling widely.

Pushing away from the wall, Zalhares sat upright but said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.

“The captain has learned of your identity.” He glanced at the safe. “If not that of your cargo, and believes that our deal needs to be—how shall I say it?—adjusted properly.” The man grinned again, pretending to be embarrassed. “You are very wanted men by a great many people. Rich, powerful people.”

“A deal is a deal,” Zalhares said flatly. “We paid enough to buy this craft, and he wants more?”

With a sigh, the lieutenant shrugged, displaying both palms upward. “What can I say? My captain disagrees.”

For a few minutes the members of the Scion exchanged glances.

“Fine. You leave us no choice then,” Zalhares said. “Dog, pay the man.”

Pulling out a wallet, Mariano removed a wad of cash and offered it to the lieutenant. His eyes bright with greed, the man eagerly reached for the cash. Mariano Dog extended his arm past the hand, a stiletto snapping out from his sleeve to ram into the officer’s stomach. As the lieutenant’s mouth flew open wide to scream, Zalhares stuffed in a bunched glove, careful to not be bitten.

Still sipping the beer, Pedrosa stepped to the hatchway, a silenced Imbel .22 pistol in his other hand. Meanwhile, Mizne grabbed the bleeding sailor by the shoulders to hold him steady as Mariano slowly sawed the razor-sharp blade back and forth straight up the middle of the torso. Thrashing against the grip of the muscular woman, the officer was helpless, his eyes rolling back into their sockets from the incredible pain. Blood poured from the yawning wound as his intestines began to slither out, most of them plopping into the waiting bucket.

With professional detachment, Zalhares watched as the life faded from the man’s eyes and the body went limp, twitching a few times before finally succumbing to death. They all died so easily; it wasn’t even interesting anymore.

“Still feeling seasick, old friend?” Zalhares asked, retrieving the saliva-streaked glove.

“Not any more,” Mariano said excitedly, easing the gory blade out of the corpse and wiping it clean on the coveralls.

“Good,” Zalhares said, sliding the glove back on his hand to cover a curved scar of teeth marks. “Get the guns. We’re taking over the ship. Minas, you stay with the safe.”

“And if the crew resists?” Mizne asked, opening a metal locker and removing an Uru caseless rifle from the collection inside.

“Kill them,” Zalhares ordered, accepting one of the weapons. “But save the captain for me. Understood?”

“Make it quick,” Mariano suggested, catching an Uru in one hand. “He’s a fellow Brazilian.”

Flicking off the safety, former Sergeant Cirello Zalhares looked at the mercenary with eyes as dead and empty of life as a child’s grave.

“Then he should have known better than to cross me,” the S2 operative rumbled deep in his throat.

“Leave the damn hatch open when you go,” Pedrosa finally spoke, sitting in the corner and resting an Uru on his lap. “It stinks in here.”

Staying low and fast, the Scion moved out of the storage compartment and soon the sound of gunfire filled the submarine, but not for very long. Then the screaming started and it lasted all through the long night.

Belmore, Long Island

THE TRAFFIC in Belmore was heavy, with stop lights at every intersection, taxi cabs, delivery trucks and station wagons fighting for every inch of space. Every street was lined with crowded stores and full parking lots, with cars hunting for any available spot. Long Island seemed to carry the impression that everybody was in a big hurry to get somewhere else, and you were personally in their way.

Mack Bolan turned down a side street, the traffic immediately thinning to a more conventional level. Bolan increased his speed. The Jaguar hummed around the man as if every piece of the luxury car was directly involved in generating speed. Bolan had chosen the X-series because the vehicle blended well into the wealthy suburbs of Long Island and because the four-wheel drive gave it amazing traction at high speeds. A good soldier always planned a retreat route in case the enemy had unexpected reserves of strength. Michael J. Prince was a twenty-first-century monster, and those always had a cadre of devils around to hold back the just. The question was how many devils did he have. Honestly, Bolan didn’t know. This was a crap shoot, the worst kind of a fight to go into, but there was no other way.

Unfortunately, while all of the downtown arms dealers had been mere facilitators and brokers, merchants in the selling of destruction, Prince was a dealer. A hands-on kind of guy who actually moved the physical weaponry, storing a lot of his stock in a warehouse strategically set between an elementary school and a shopping mall. Any kind of an armed assault by the feds or the police, would almost definitely result in civilian casualties. Unless the area was sealed off first, which would give Prince all the time he needed to escape and burn his records. No, this had to be a blitzkrieg, a lightning strike directly into the heart of the enemy.

Parking the Jaguar directly in front of Pierson Importers, Bolan fed the meter some quarters to show that he was planning to be here for a while, then, whistling tunelessly, strolled to the front door of the warehouse and rang the bell.

Bolan knew that he had been under video surveillance ever since he’d turned the corner onto this street. So he wasn’t surprised when the door was instantly opened by a large man in work clothes, two more gorillas standing close behind.

“Private property,” the first man growled, already starting to close the door.

Moving with lightning speed, Bolan drew and fired, the Beretta coughing tribursts of death to the three men. The bodies were still tumbling to the concrete floor when he slipped inside and bolted the door tightly behind.

Pulling out a second Beretta, Bolan moved down the corridor firing at anyone carrying a gun. There could be civilians here—accountants, secretaries—so he had to stay razor sharp. A man stood holding a cardboard box; Bolan shot him in the leg. But as he fell the box went flying, revealing a .38 Walther PPK in a fancy shoulder rig. The Beretta whispered once more and the man no longer felt the pain in his leg.

A big guy swinging an ax charged out of a bathroom, and Bolan ducked fast, feeling the breeze of the blade swish above his head. Still crouching he stroked both Berettas and sent the man tumbling backward to the floor. A shotgun roared and the desk near Bolan exploded into splinters. He dived out of the way, firing both guns, tracking for the target. Across the room, a woman in a crimson-stained business suit collapsed, her shotgun discharging wildly into the ceiling.

Reloading quickly, Bolan swept into the corridor again, catching two more men running his way. They died without even seeing him. Moving deeper into the warehouse, Bolan broached a cross corridor, finding only a spilled cup of coffee steaming on the floor. Listening hard for sounds of movement, Bolan proceeded to the nearest office and found a set of steel doors marked with No Smoking signs in several languages. This was it.

Glancing through the plastic window, he could see that nobody moved among the stacks of crates and endless boxes filling the cavernous room. A billion dollars’ worth of armament sat neatly packed in cushioned crates, waiting to be shipped out. A single loose bullet could start a chain reaction of explosions that would level the elementary school next door. Only a chain-link fence separated the buildings and would do as much as a wall of tissue paper to stop the hellstorm of shrapnel. Even as the dire assessment was made, Bolan accepted the onus. He’d take some lead himself before letting the warehouse explode.

Just then, a scuffling noise from the corridor caught his attention and Bolan turned to fire both Berettas at the left wall. Plaster puffed as the 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched through the drywall and then a bloody man staggered into view dropping an Ithaca shotgun.

“Shit, he got Tony!” another man shouted, swinging around the corner and firing an Uzi machine pistol.

The 9 mm rounds stitched Bolan across the chest and he grunted in pain as his NATO body armor stopped the slugs from penetrating. Then Bolan returned the favor, his own 9 mm rounds smacking the other man backward, but yielding no blood, as the enemy gunner also wore a Kevlar vest. The Uzi fired again as Bolan tracked for the head. The machine pistol dropped from lifeless hands as a third eye appeared in the gunrunner’s forehead.

Dropping the spare Beretta, Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle and headed for the stairs. As he neared, the Executioner fired the Beretta into the dark shadows under the steps and a man grunted in pain, staggering into view and still holding an M-16 assault rifle. Without hesitation, Bolan fired once more. The Magnum rounds smashed the rifle out of the little man’s grasp and he crumpled to the floor.

“Please,” he sobbed, raising his hands for pity, “I only w-work here. I don’t sell the stuff. I’m not one of them!”

Right, just a clerk who carried an M-16 in an easy hold exactly like a pro.

“Where’s Prince?” Bolan demanded.

“B-back room, second floor,” he stammered, jerking his head. “Just take the stairs.”

“You lead the way.”

The gunner looked at the stairs in fear. “No, please, my leg…I can’t walk.”

“Get up,” Bolan ordered, “or die where you are. It makes no difference to me.”

“Okay, okay,” the gunner said, standing easily.

“Up the stairs,” Bolan ordered.

“Please. I only—”

“Move!”

“Jesus, okay already, they’re a trap! Rigged to blow!”

Bolan stepped closer. “Yes, I know.”

He did? Shit. “There’s another set of stairs,” the man said, looking around nervously. “The one the staff uses, ya know.”

“You’re still leading the way,” Bolan said, both weapons held in rock-steady hands. “Get moving.”




CHAPTER FIVE


Pierson Importers

Running footsteps echoed along the corridor on the second floor of the warehouse and an office door was thrown open as an armed man rushed inside.

“Boss, we got trouble,” Oswaldo Fontecchio said, quickly closing and locking the door. “There’s some lunatic running around shooting everybody. He’s got Tony, Leo, Ira and—”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Michael Prince growled in a strained tone.

Whirling, Fontecchio reacted at the sight of a big guy in a dark suit holding a huge silver Desert Eagle to the side of his boss’s head. Prince’s shirt was torn open, exposing the shoulder holster he always keep hidden, the little Remington .22 automatic pistol missing. Slumped over in a chair at the computer was Little Bill from the loading dock. The guy had a lump on his head, but was still breathing.

Fontecchio scowled at the sight. So, Bill had shown this guy the back stairs. Fucking coward. He would be praying for death after Prince was finished with him. Lousy bastard!

“Drop the piece,” the stranger demanded.

Shifting his gaze, Fontecchio weighed his options and finally did as he was ordered.

“So what’s the deal?” he demanded. “You an unhappy customer come for a refund? Tough.”

“Who is he?” Bolan demanded, shoving the gun harder against Prince.

The fat arms dealer grunted. “My second in command,” he muttered, incensed at the treatment. “Handles all of my security matters.”

“Not very good at your job, Os,” Bolan said.

“Fuck you, cop!” he snarled, then stopped. “You know my name, then why…” Shit, it was a test to see if he would tell the truth!

“And now I know that your boss will cooperate,” Bolan said. “How about you?”

“I don’t know anything!” Fontecchio snarled. “So there’s nothing I can tell you, even if I fucking wanted to, punk!

“Then who needs you?” Mack asked, raising his other gun.

As the Beretta fired, Michael Prince recoiled as his bodyguard’s shoulder gushed blood from the front and back, the man clutching the wound with both hands trying to staunch the flow of his life. Swearing loudly, Fontecchio staggered around slowly bleeding to death.

“You just going to let him bleed like that?” Prince demanded, removing the cigarette holder.

“And how much is mercy worth today?” Bolan asked.

The guy was cutting a deal? “So what do ya want?”

“Information.”

“Done. Help him, please.”

Weapon trained on Prince, Bolan carefully removed two field bandages and tended to the now unconscious Fontecchio as best he could.

Walking around the desk, Bolan stood with his back to the file cabinet and looked hard at the fat man in the expensive chair.

“That will have to be good enough. So, the S2,” he said. “Start talking.”

“Who are they?” Prince asked, trying to sound confused.

But his eyes betrayed the truth and Bolan fired the Beretta, flame stabbing across the desk, and the cigarette holder exploding into a million pieces.

“Okay, okay, I do business with them,” Prince cried, holding his bleeding hand. “What do you want? I can give you names. All you want. I’ll rat them all out.”

“More.”

Taking on a crafty expression, the arms dealer inhaled sharply and let the breath out even slower, buying time to think.

“It’s that goddamn submarine,” Prince said at last. “Right? Sure, no problem. Always knew the damn thing would be trouble. Now I didn’t make the sale, but I know who did. Just come back tomorrow and I can—”

The Executioner stroked the trigger and the Desert Eagle roared, the desk in front of the fat man shifting as it kicked out a spray of splinters. Crying out, Prince grabbed his face to find slivers of wood sticking out of his cheeks.

“You crazy son of a bitch!” he started, grabbing a pocket handkerchief and holding it to the wounds.

Without comment, Bolan fired again and the headrest of the chair was blown off. Then the Beretta coughed and the collar of the silk suit was tugged hard, making the man jump.

“Okay, okay!” Prince cried, raising both hands in surrender. “Enough already, I get the message. I’ve got to make some phones calls.”

“I’ll wait,” Bolan said. “And this is your only chance at life. Don’t waste it.”

Sweating profusely, Prince hauled the telephone closer and started making calls.

Bolivia

RISING ABOVE the teeming city of La Paz was a low hill of manicured grass, land mines and razor wire, the granite-block wall patrolled by armed guards and dogs. Safe behind a protective cover of thick trees, far from the stink of the open sewers in the village below, a mansion sprawled luxuriously through landscaped hedges and perfect green lawns decorated with imported Italian statues.

The president of Bolivia, a former general, was lying on a table on the eastern terrace, two women massaging scented oils into his muscular frame. He had seized the country in a military junta and planned never to relinquish control. He refused to become a victim of those he subjugated on a daily basis.

The French-style double doors swung open and a butler approached the man, waiting to be recognized before daring to speak.

“Yes, what is it, Jose?” the president said, his face buried in his arms.

Not having been told to stop, the women continued to rub the older man’s body, never slowing nor increasing their speed. Both actions were punished severely. Soft music played from somewhere in the mansion, along with the occasional crack of a bullwhip followed by a muffled scream of pain.

“Sir, we have a message from the Scion,” Jose whispered, glancing briefly at the nearly naked women. One was wearing only the bottom half of a bikini, while the other was dressed in the matching top. He found the combined effect to be quite stimulating.

“We have no work for them,” the president murmured peacefully. “Tell them to call back in a few months when the big push starts into the mountains.”

“If I may, sir,” Jose said. “This is about some other matter.”

“They’re not looking for work? Then why are they calling?”

“Apparently, sir, Mr. Zalhares has an item to sell.” Jose scowled. “Although I do not understand why we should want to buy some broken arrows. Yet he seemed quite serious in the matter.”

The president jerked his head up at that and the girls retreated quickly to get out of his way. “Repeat that,” he growled, swinging his legs around to sit upright on the table.

“The Scion has some broken arrows for sale.”

That was the code term used by the Americans for a lost or stolen nuclear device. The Scion had a nuke for sale?

“How much did he say?” the president demanded urgently. “What was the price? Do they have more than one? Speak to me, man!”

Trying not to glance at the man’s exposed genitalia, Jose stared him directly in the face. “Sir, Zalhares said he would call again soon with the details about an auction.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/don-pendleton/stolen-arrows/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.