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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.