Fatal Combat

1

The morning air held a tang of moisture that beaded on the windshield as the sun hit it, chasing the crisp October dawn as a pollution-laden haze took its place. Three truant high school kids paused on the sidewalk not far from the parked car, craning their necks for a better look. A uniformed Detroit police officer shooed them away, muttering something about getting to school, and the teens shot back cheerful profanities as they made themselves scarce. The cop, shaking his head, turned back to the chalk outline visible among the milling crime scene team.

There was blood everywhere.

The dried blood, thicker and darker than most civilians would or could imagine, had washed across the crags of the asphalt in an impossibly wide bloom that partially obscured the chalk outline. Solemn figures were loading the zippered body bag in the back of the medical examiner’s van. They had seen many corpses; they would be hardened to all but the most brutal of deaths.

Their grim expressions confirmed what the crimson lake of human blood had already told the man behind the wheel.

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, dropped the window on the driver’s side of the rented Dodge Charger. He put his left hand on the steering wheel and leaned forward for a better look. In his right hand, resting on his leg, was a custom-tuned Beretta 93-R machine pistol.

Satisfied with what he could see from his vantage point, Bolan turned his attention to the weapon. He ejected the well-traveled pistol’s 20-round magazine and racked the slide, catching the loose round in his palm. Then he reloaded the round, seated it and racked the slide again, nudging the weapon’s selector switch and replacing it in the leather shoulder holster he wore under his three-quarter-length black leather coat. The coat concealed both the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle he wore inside his waistband in a Kydex holster and the double-edged Sting knife he carried in a matching sheath, also in his waistband, behind his left hip, angled for a draw with either hand.

On the seat next to Bolan was an olive-drab canvas war bag. The bag contained a variety of items and gear, including spare magazines and ammunition, grenades, other explosives, and various sundry combat essentials. The Executioner had spent too many years fighting his war, often with very little backup, to walk into the field underprepared. He had pared down his standard mission load-out over that time to make sure he had anticipated every need that could be foreseen. In combat, of course, not all scenarios could be predicted. Still, he was as prepared before fact as was realistic for a soldier to be. The rest was adaptability, flexibility and will.

Even as his mind turned these thoughts over in his head, the Executioner examined the problem before him. The clinical part of his brain filed the data of his senses—the inordinate quantity of blood, the bodily damage needed to produce it, and the public location of the body. These were indicators of the predator who had taken this kill. Another man might call them clues. Bolan was no detective, but he was an expert in predators. He was a soldier and a hunter.

One of the locals, who wore an ill-fitting blazer rather than a uniform, detached himself from the crowd working the crime scene. He jogged across the blocked street with a manila folder in one hand. Bolan resisted the urge to shake his head. His contact at Stony Man Farm had told him the locals would, on orders through channels, assign to him a liaison within the Detroit PD. That liaison turned out to be one Adam Davis, newly minted detective. The young man wasn’t a rookie, but according to his files he hadn’t had the time to put much distance between himself and that tag before earning his way out of his uniform.

Davis got into the passenger seat at Bolan’s gesture, closing the door behind him and thrusting a file folder at Bolan.

“Agent Cooper,” he said. “This is everything so far. They’re still working up some of the details.”

Matt Cooper was the name on Bolan’s Justice Department credentials. He had used the alias often enough that the Cooper cover identity had an impressive history and dossier of its own. Any curious local poking through law-enforcement files would find sufficient detail to compel cooperation with the mysterious agent, whose precise responsibilities in this matter had purposely been left vague.

Bolan took the folder from Davis’s hand, watching the man flinch as if he expected the agent to take a few fingers with him. Bolan quashed the urge to shake his head and chuckle. It wouldn’t do to antagonize Davis, whose only crime so far was being intimidated by implied authority. Davis was the most junior detective in a department known for its graft and corruption. Faced with a mysterious governmental operative to whom Davis’s own superiors were required to give cooperation, what else could he think? He’d find his way readily enough. He had that eager, adaptable air to him. Bolan had encountered the type enough times to recognize it.

The folder contained a preliminary field report. It also held a series of slightly smudged color photos, obviously printed on a portable ink-jet unit and handled with haste. Bolan was accustomed to meeting with resistance from local law enforcement, if only because the usual petty jurisdictional squabbles annoyed those through whose territory the Executioner marched. It was refreshing actually to get some cooperation. He wondered for a moment if Hal Brognola had rattled cages on this end of the situation perhaps a bit more loudly than usual.

Certainly the big Fed had sounded more stressed than was normal even for him, when he placed the scrambled phone call to Bolan’s secure satellite phone from Brognola’s Justice Department office near the Potomac. The soldier could picture the man chewing an unlit cigar and sitting in front of the window in his chair deep in Wonderland, a fighting bureaucrat waging wars of intrigue, intimidation and political manipulation that even Bolan could not win alone. Brognola was the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, a counterterrorist unit based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, and on the other end of his phone was the Man himself, the President of the United States.

“Striker,” Brognola had said, using the soldier’s code name. “Somebody’s cutting up civilians in Detroit.”

Bolan had said nothing for a moment. “I’m listening,” he finally answered.

The big Fed wasted no time. “It’s been going on for a while, now. So far the press has been kept out of it, but that hasn’t been easy, nor can the powers that be contain it any longer. The murders are increasing in frequency and in their public nature. Whoever’s doing it has stopped being careful—it’s as if he or she wants the bodies found.”

“A serial killer?”

“Possibly,” Brognola said. “Officially there are no leads. Unofficially, and very strictly off the record at this point, the Man is concerned that this isn’t a domestic crime at all, but rather a new kind of terrorism.”

“Low budget,” Bolan said. “Low-tech. Inspire fear by making the populace believe no one is safe.”

“Exactly,” Brognola said. “If it is a terrorist group, they’re destabilizing the greater Detroit area by making its citizens believe the general public, individually, is being targeted. It wouldn’t be the first time an international terror ring has used knives to make its bloody business known. The Detroit PD and the FBI have been working to keep this from going off the rails, but they’re out of their depth. There are too many rules, too many bureaucratic hurdles, and no way to find or target the enemy. They simply aren’t equipped to fight this kind of war.”

“But I am,” Bolan said. It was not a question.

“The Man wants you to do what you do, Striker,” Brognola said. “If Detroit is a test case for some new, insidious campaign, you will root it out and destroy it before it goes any further. You’re also working against the clock.”

“How so?”

“The Detroit papers are ready to break the story,” Brognola said, frustration clear in his voice. “The locals, the FBI, and even Justice have been sitting on them over the last two days…but they’re screaming freedom of the press, and honestly, Striker, I can’t blame them. We have it on good authority that they’re breaking the story the night of October 31, in prime time, which means you’re going to have a full-blown panic on your hands before nightfall.”

“Which will make it harder to bring my targets to ground,” Bolan said.

“Yes,” Brognola said. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Bolan said.

“Hell of a way to kick off Halloween,” Brognola said. “You’ll have backup among the Detroit PD. I’ll lean on the Feds that way, too, and pull as many strings as I have to if you ruffle any feathers.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors, Hal.”

“Whatever,” Brognola said. “Striker, I know every mission is important. But this is…different. These are innocent people. Ordinary American citizens. They’re being killed for no reason.”

A muscle in Bolan’s jaw worked. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said. “I’ll get them, Hal.”

“Good hunting, Striker.”

“On it. Striker out.”

With those words, Bolan had stowed his phone and made arrangements to travel to Detroit, where his customary gear had already been prepared and was waiting for him with a Stony Man courier. Now, only a few hours after that conversation, he was here, and he was ready.

It was time to begin.

He was no stranger to Detroit, but he did not know the city like a local. He had been assured that Detective Davis was born and bred here. The Farm had transmitted the man’s full dossier to Bolan’s phone while he was in transit. He had reviewed it early that morning.

Bolan turned to give the detective a long, hard look. Davis looked up from the manila folder. He reddened. “Uh…sir? Mister, I mean, Agent Cooper, sir? Is there a problem?”

“There might be,” Bolan said. “Time for a decision, kid.”

“Sir?”

“The department has been instructed to cooperate with me,” Bolan said. “There’s going to come a moment, not very long from now, when you’ll be tempted not to do that.”

“I don’t understand, Agent Cooper.”

Bolan didn’t have time for a lengthy argument. He drew the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder holster and placed it in his lap. Davis glanced at it and then did an almost comical double-take. What he had taken for a simple Beretta 92-F pistol was instead a select-fire automatic weapon, and he recognized it as such.

Bolan gave Davis mental points for that.

Next he produced the Desert Eagle, watched Davis’s eyes widen at the massive weapon and replaced it. He reholstered the Beretta.

“Sir?”

“Many officers, especially those in smaller cities, go their entire lives without firing their weapons,” Bolan said. “In a big, violent city like Detroit, those chances are lower, but still good. Before we’re through, there’s a very good chance you’ll see me fire both of these. And you will fire your own weapon. Show me.”

Davis hesitated only the barest fraction of a second. He reached into his jacket and then, carefully, withdrew his pistol. He ejected the magazine of the Glock 19 and racked the slide, dropping the ejected round. He hit his head on the dash diving for it, but he got it.