Fireburst

However, Bolan noted that the security cameras in the ceiling tracked his every step through the concourse, so he stayed rigidly in character until renting a car and driving away.

To throw off any possible tail, Bolan drove to an expensive hotel and switched to a different car from another rental agency. Then he did it again, exchanging the luxury car for an inconspicuous van.

Now far less noticeable, Bolan traveled to a storage-locker facility outside town, and paid for three adjoining units. As he unlocked the doors, he noticed a group of men playing a game of soccer in the grassy field across the street. They seemed a little old not to be working at this time of day, so Bolan watched them for a while. Located in remote locations, storage units were a favorite target for street gangs. However, the men played hard, and when they broke for beer, Bolan continued unloading the van.

In the first and third units, he installed a proximity sensor rigged to call his cell phone if the units were activated by an intruder. In the middle unit, he stashed the steamer bags, arming himself with a shoulder holster and Beretta. He left the body armor behind, but did don a thick undershirt of ballistic cloth. The resilient material would stop most shrapnel and small-caliber bullets. The impact would still break his bones, but he wouldn’t die immediately. That wasn’t much, but where he was going next it was all that he could risk wearing.

Driving back toward town, Bolan got a text message from Brognola about the lightning strikes in Bern. Temporarily, the ten largest banks in the world had no way to record a money transfer. The soldier knew that could have only a single purpose. The terrorists were preparing to sell the weapon. He scowled at that. First, they killed every expert in the field, then they made it impossible for the banks to reveal any details about a purchase.

Bolan noted sourly, maneuvering through heavy traffic, that these were Swiss banks, financial institutions world famous for never telling anybody anything at all.

Reaching the outskirts of the city, Bolan was immediately snared in rush-hour traffic. Exercising extreme patience, he spent the next two hours crawling along, dodging taxicabs, pedestrians, trucks and work crews, while listening to the radio for any news about recent attacks until he finally reached the Grand Imperial Casino and Resort.

Dominating the downtown area, the Grand Imperial rose from the surrounding office buildings and apartment blocks like a queen standing among hobos. The entire twenty stories glittered with neon lights in every possible color of the spectrum.

Music played from hidden speakers in the neatly trimmed hedges; a water fountain that looked suspiciously similar to the famous one in the Bellagio Casino in Las Vegas sprayed high columns of water in perfect time to the music. But then, William “The Gorgon” Kirkland wasn’t known for being low-key, or overly concerned with the niceties of the law. His redeeming feature was a fanatical devotion to justice. Kirkland and Bolan went back a long way.

Stopping at the front portico, Bolan tossed the van’s keys to a hesitant valet, whose demeanor changed instantly when the soldier flashed him a U.S. one-hundred bill for a tip, and strolled inside.

“Welcome to Grand Imperial, sir!” a showgirl said, flashing perfect teeth. She was dressed in nylons and sequins, feathers and a headdress, but her breasts were completely bare, aside from a light dusting of gold.

Smiling politely, Bolan shook her hand and went inside. The lobby was filled with slot machines, both the old-fashioned mechanical ones with an actual lever, the classic “one-armed bandit,” plus the new computerized versions with a swipe for your credit card, and a cushioned seat where you could relax and comfortably lose every penny you had in the world.

The main room was enormous and overly decorated with oil paintings, mirrors, ferns, chandeliers and velvet ropes. Just as in every other casino in existence, the crowd was excited but quiet, the general murmur of the patrons barely discernable over the chiming of the slot machines, ringing bells and the calls of the dealers. Most of it was in Portuguese, the language of Brazil. However, Bolan understood some of the more familiar phrases.

“Twenty-one, a winner!”

“Craps, sir, you lose.”

“New player!”

“Fresh deck!”

“Next!”

An endless parade of feathered showgirls in outrageous outfits strolled along, offering free drinks to everybody. Lubricant for the opening of hesitant wallets. Along one wall were several small auditoriums with glass windows in front, soundproof, of course. Customers could see the show, but not hear what was being said, which lured them inside like sheep to the shearing. On one stage, a magician was sawing a topless woman in two, while in the next, fifty topless women were dancing in some bizarre version of the French cancan, and a third stage held a stand-up comic talking into a mike, the audience silently throwing back their heads with laughter.

Just then, a casino guard started to walk his way. The man held a radio in his hand to call for help in case of trouble, but his belt held a stun gun, pepper spray, handcuffs and a police baton. All of which weren’t necessary, since he looked more than capable of benchpressing a fully loaded Cadillac Eldorado.

“I’m sorry, sir, but weapons are not permitted on the casino floor,” the guard said in perfect English.

“Good to know,” Bolan replied, impressed that the guard could tell he was armed. Most guards wouldn’t have been able to do that. Clearly, he had been trained by an expert. “Now, please call the Gorgon, and tell him to haul ass down here, pronto.”

The guard scowled. “Who was that again, sir?”

“Just ask Security, and tell them somebody has a message for the Gorgon.”

“We have nobody here by that name, sir,” the guard said, as four more guards come out of the crowd. Their faces were smiling, but their body language told an entirely different story.

“Just do it. Bill Kirkland and I are old friends,” Bolan said calmly, keeping his hands by his side. A gunfight with unarmed men in the middle of a crowd was absolutely the very last thing he wanted here.

As the guards formed a tight wall around Bolan, the first one made the call. Almost instantly, there was a response.

“The Gorgon?” a voice crackled over the radio. “Nobody has ever had the balls to call me that except for… Mack, is that you?”

“None other, Bill,” Bolan said toward the radio. “Nice to see you’re doing so well.”

“What was that?” William Kirkland crackled over the radio. “Sergeant Padestro! Please give Mr… .Smith the radio and return to your usual duties.”

The cadre of guards visibly relaxed as the first passed over the radio. Then they departed without a backward glance.

“Your staff is well-trained,” Bolan said, thumbing the transmit button, while turning toward the video camera in the ceiling.

“Damn well should be. Did it myself,” Kirkland told him. “Man, I never thought to see you again, old buddy. Head for the private elevator near that statue of Pegasus and come on up! I’ll have the chef slap a couple of T-bones on the grill, and we’ll start toasting the fact that we’re not dead yet.”

“Sounds good, but I’m here to collect on a debt.”

There was a brief silence.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Be right down.” Kirkland sighed, and the radio went dead.

Going over to the marble statue of the famous winged horse, Bolan gave the radio to a passing security guard. He had to wait only a few minutes before the gold-tinted doors to a private elevator opened and a large man walked out wearing an expensive three-piece suit.

Born and raised in the Scottish Highlands, former NATO Special Agent William “The Gorgon” Kirkland stood over six feet tall and appeared more than ready to repel Roman legionaries from his beloved homeland.

Painfully clean-shaven, with a dimple in his lantern jaw, Kirkland had a suit of military body armor slung over a shoulder and was carrying a black nylon equipment bag that clanked with every step.

“Bill,” Bolan said in greeting.

“Prick,” Kirkland muttered in reply, then broke into a broad smile. “Damn, it’s good to you again. Even under these circumstances.”

“Same here.” Bolan chuckled. This close, he could catch glimpses of military tattoos under the other man’s silk collar, and hidden up both sleeves. Having patched bulletholes in his friend, Bolan knew that Kirkland was covered with enough tattoos, some of them extremely unsuitable for public display, that he could have been an exhibit in one of his casino’s sideshows.

“Okay, who do we kill?” Kirkland asked, shifting the body armor to a more comfortable position.

“As ever, the soul of tact.” Bolan laughed, offering a hand.

“Why change perfection?” Kirkland grinned as they shook.

A passing waitress paused for a moment to smile openly at the two huge men, then sighed and walked away, but put a little more motion into her hind quarters than was normal.

“I think she likes you,” Kirkland noted.

“I think she knows you own the place.”