Terrorist Dispatch

“This way, he rubs our nose in it, knowing the NYPD can’t do squat. They won’t find any CSI crap on the paper, bet your life on that. He skates on this for sure, unless we hold him to account for it.”

“So, that’s a war, then.”

“Five of our guys dead? You’re goddamn right it’s war. We gotta—” Melnyk’s other line distracted him, a little cricket chirping in his ear. “Hold on a sec. I got another call.”

He didn’t recognize the number on his cell phone’s LED display. Melnyk answered, a curt “Who’s this?”

“Me, Boss.” It was Arkady Cisyk, from the Flame club.

“Where you calling from?”

“The phone in the pawn shop, down the street.”

“The hell?”

“We got hit, Boss. Some guy comes in the back, drops Taras and Dimal, then grabs up some cash off the crap tables and splits.”

Melnyk’s mind focused on the money first. “How much did he get?”

“I don’t know,” Arkady said. “The place was pretty full. This time of night it could be ten, twelve, maybe fifteen grand.”

“Son of a bitch!” Another thought struck Melnyk. “Did he leave a note?”

“A what?”

“A note. You know, a piece a paper. Writing on it? Like a freaking note?”

“No. Was he supposed to?”

Melnyk bit his tongue. Dealing with idiots was like Chinese water torture. “Are the cops there?” he inquired.

“Just rolling up. I better get back.”

“Play it smart, eh?”

“Sure, Boss. I went out for smokes and didn’t see anything. Don’t worry. I have it covered, Boss.”

Cisyk broke the link and Melnyk switched back to his other line. “Dimo?”

“Right here.”

“Some prick just took down the Flame club.”

“Holy shit! Another sniper?”

“This one walked in, smoked a couple of the boys and robbed the tables.”

“Son of a bitch! That Brusilov. What are we going to do?”

“Chill out, right now,” Melnyk replied. “And then start planning for a trip to Brighton Beach.”

* * *

BOLAN’S HAUL WAS thirteen thousand dollars and some change. Not bad for six or seven minutes’ work, plus something like two dollars’ worth of shotgun shells. So far, he had reduced Stepan Melnyk’s reserve of troops by seven men, subtracted from an estimate of fifty. Bolan thought it was a decent start, and he was far from finished for the evening.

The Melnyk outfit would be going hard soon, locking down while Stepan mounted an offensive of his own, but Bolan thought he still had time for one more decent strike, at least, before he shifted to the second phase of his New York campaign. He had already chosen from the list of targets Brognola had provided, picking a whorehouse Melnyk operated on East Ninth Street.

It was a short drive—everything in the East Village was close to everything else—and he parked a half block from the target, between a deli and a Mexican taquería.

The sky was drizzling when he stepped out of the Mazda, perfect cover for the raincoat he was wearing, which in turn concealed his Colt AR-15. The carbine was a semiautomatic version of the classic M16, identical in every way except for the omission of selective fire. The one he’d purchased was the “Sporter” model, with an adjustable stock and twenty-inch barrel, loaded with a STANAG magazine containing thirty 5.56 mm NATO rounds. It couldn’t match the parent rifle’s full-auto cyclic rate of eight hundred rounds per minute, but the Executioner didn’t plan on tackling an army division.

He walked back to the brothel, suitably disguised as an apartment building, and rang the doorbell, waiting until a well-appointed woman of a certain age appeared to greet him with a practiced smile, asking the stranger on her doorstep, “May I help you?”

Brognola had furnished Bolan with the phrase that opened doors. “I’d like a bowl of borscht, please,” he replied.

“Of course,” the madam replied, beaming at him. “We have a full menu of delicacies. Please, come in, sir.”

Bolan waited for the door to close behind him, then showed her the carbine. “No alarms,” he told her. “Your life depends on it. Play straight with me and nobody gets hurt.”

“I would be happy to cooperate, of course, but—”

When her eyes flicked to the left, he swung in that direction, just in time to meet a charging buffalo head-on. The carbine’s barrel cracked a solid skull and the man dropped. Bolan stooped, relieved the heavy of a .45 and tucked it in a pocket of his raincoat.

“Anybody else?” he asked the lady of the house.

“Only the girls and customers,” she said.

“Okay, then. Where’s your fire alarm?”

Confused, then frightened, she led Bolan to the main salon, showed him the red pull station mounted on a wall between two reproductions of Van Gogh’s Flowering Orchards and Picasso’s Guernica.

“And where’s the kitchen?”

“Through that archway,” she directed.

“Okay. Get the place cleared out,” Bolan ordered.

“But—”

He triggered three quick rounds into the floor. “No dawdling,” he advised her. “You’re about to have a fire.”

He left her to it, found the kitchen on his own and yanked the range’s gas line from the wall. It hissed and sputtered in his hand like an unhappy viper, until he laid it on the marble countertop, secured beneath a heavy skillet near the microwave. Next, Bolan shoved a small soup pot and two handfuls of silverware into the microwave, set it to cook for ten minutes and headed back for the salon.

An exodus was underway, including sleek women in lingerie and filmy robes, accompanied by men in sundry stages of undress whose forms and features weren’t the type to normally attract young beauties. Not, that was, unless they paid up front and very well for the attention they received.

This night, the johns were not going to get their money’s worth.

Approximately half the crowd had cleared the brothel’s doorway when the microwave exploded, touching off the broken gas line. Thunder rocked the place, a ball of flame erupting from the kitchen entryway lighting up the door frame, spreading quickly to the wallpaper and carpet. Newly motivated stragglers sprinted for the street, trailed by their host, with Bolan bringing up the rear.