Deadly Command

Next, he needed to carry out a recon exercise. That would be after dark. Bolan needed a base to work from. He had spotted a couple of hotels on his way in, so he backtracked and swung into the parking lot of the first one he came to. It was high end, not cheap, but that didn’t worry Bolan. He was still running on his Stony Man card. He queried the man at the desk, and since there was a room available he checked in. Minutes later he was taking a long, hot shower to wash away the dust of his drive from Chicago. Room service provided a steak and salad dinner, plus fresh coffee. After his meal he stretched out on the bed and allowed himself a few hours’ sleep.

Seven p.m.

BOLAN PULLED ON his blacksuit and geared up for what he hoped would be a soft probe. He took the Beretta 93-R, plus a couple of extra magazines in the pockets of his combat vest. A wire garrote, the Cold Steel Tanto knife and supple black leather gloves all went into a black backpack. He pulled on a pair of dark chinos and a roll-neck sweater. The carry-all containing his additional ordnance went to the back of the room’s closet. Bolan slipped on his jacket, making sure his cell phone was there, along with a wad of cash. All for backup and the unexpected.

He left his room and took the elevator to the lobby, the backpack hanging over one shoulder. He dropped off his key card and made his way out, crossing to his car.

It took him longer to make the return journey to South Auto Salvage. Traffic was still surprisingly heavy and he drove into rain that had blown in quickly. His earlier recon had left him with a mental map of the industrial area, and he used that image to guide him to a secondary road so he could approach his target from the rear. The back strip that ran behind the scrap yard was unlit and in a state of disrepair, with dumped metal trash edging the road. Bolan pulled the rental into the shadows and cut the engine. Rain drummed on the roof. He wasn’t entirely happy about leaving the car where it was, but he had little choice. There was nowhere else to park. He would have to leave it to luck that the car would still be there when he returned, or that it not be discovered at all.

Bolan removed his outer clothing. He removed combat boots from the backpack, and put them on, then donned the loaded vest and the shoulder rig for the Beretta. The Tanto was sheathed on his belt. Lastly, Bolan pulled his black baseball cap from the backpack.

He slipped from the car and locked the vehicle, pulled on his gloves and moved swiftly across the deserted strip, pressing against the corrugated iron fence surrounding the scrap yard.

The darkness worked to his advantage, his black-clad form blending in well. And the persistent rain added another plus.

Bolan walked along the rear fence from one end to the other, looking for a weak spot. He found what he was looking for close to the north corner. The corrugated sheets had been pushed into a generous outward bulge, most likely from wrecked autos being collected and pushed into stacks. He found that the overlap between two sheets had been widened, and when he moved in close he saw that the opening was large enough for him to ease through. He took his time, aware that on the other side of the fence tons of mangled steel would be balanced in close proximity to the fence. He didn’t want to bring all that metal debris down on himself.

As he emerged on the far side of the fence, Bolan found himself in a narrow tunnel. Crushed cars surrounded him. On his knees, hunching his shoulders to reduce his body mass, the soldier crawled forward. The ground under him was wet and spongy, while rain worked its way down through the stacked vehicles. A couple of times Bolan was forced onto his stomach, easing his way through the close-knit formation. The soft creak of metal on metal made him pause. He waited until the creaking ceased before continuing his crawl.

Beyond his spot Bolan picked up the sound of a vehicle engine. Peering through the narrow tunnel, he found he was able to look out across the yard, past the hulks of broken vehicles. To his right was the large workshop, doors open wide and some illumination that showed him the interior. He saw figures moving about. The vehicle he had heard was new, a rain-slicked panel truck. Bolan watched as the side door opened. Two men dragged a third from inside the van. The captive had his hands bound in front of him and a hood over his head. He was hustled into the workshop, where three more figures appeared. The prisoner started to struggle until a hard fist was slammed into his face through the hood. The guy slumped and was half-dragged when his legs gave way. Bolan watched until the group vanished from sight inside the building. Voices were competing in a lively argument, but Bolan was unable to make out any words.