Contagion Option

Bolan looked around at the rest of the bridge crew. There had only been two left in the cabin beside Tinopoulos, and they slumped across their consoles, slaughtered by the Executioner’s autofire. Blood dripped to the deck in a drumlike patter.

“You planned on meeting the North Koreans?” Bolan asked in Italian, hoping the wounded captain could recall that language.

“Bastard…” Tinopoulos snarled, blood frothing on his lips.

“You don’t have much time left,” Bolan told him. “But if you want, I can make those last moments hell.”

Tinopoulos spit a glob of blood at the Executioner. It stained his blacksuit. “We can talk in hell, when my allies bring you down.”

Bolan shook his head. “The submarine’s crippled. Listen…”

Tinopoulos lifted his head, and in the quiet cabin, the rip-roar of Dragon Slayer’s automated Gatling guns rolled through the open hatch. Tinopoulos nodded and looked at the Executioner. “The Koreans are dying…”

“You don’t owe them anything,” Bolan told him. “Who were they?”

“They had money to spare. We’ve been sending them bodies, human and cattle, for the past five years,” the Greek captain rasped. “We’d officially rendezvous east of the Son Islands, but they told me that they’d shadow us in the Gulf of Thailand.”

“Why there?” Bolan asked.

“To inspect the cargo. Take what was priority,” the captain answered. His speech was slurring. “Then we went the rest of the way…to the Yellow Sea…”

“And was there anything priority on this trip?” Bolan asked.

Tinopoulos sneered. “No…just women and cattle…”

Bolan racked the shotgun’s slide, but the Greek smuggler had already spoken his last words. One last gush of blood drooled from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes stared blankly into oblivion.

“Jack?” Bolan asked.

“They tried to unload amphibious troops,” Grimaldi answered. “But the lady and I took care of things.”

“I heard,” Bolan stated. “Give me a quick sweep of the ship. See if there are any hostiles still moving.”

“Just the cargo in the hold,” Grimaldi stated. “Want me to call in the carrier?”

“Not until I’ve had a good look at the sub. But land on deck. Save your fuel,” Bolan suggested.

“Gotcha, Sarge,” Grimaldi answered. “You’ll need more than what you’ve got for a submarine penetration.”

CHAPTER THREE

Salt Lake City, Utah

Special Agent Rachel Marrick pulled her car to a halt and took out her cell phone again. She brushed aside her silken brown hair and put the phone to her ear. Her soft, hazel eyes scanned the street under a furrowed brow as she tried to reach her partner. “Kirby, you bastard. Where are—”

“Is that any way to talk to your partner?” Kirby Graham said over the other end of the phone.

“So, you finally decided to pick up?” Marrick asked.

“I was halfway down the side of the mountain when I got your first call. What’s up?”

“A Korean street gang just hit a bank and took hostages,” Marrick told him. “Where are you now?”

“On the road from Park City. SLC SWAT in place?” Graham asked.

“Yeah,” Marrick answered. “But it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to move for a while yet.”

“I can be there in a half hour,” Graham responded.

“I keep forgetting your trunk is loaded with SWAT gear,” Marrick responded. “Be careful.”

“You want me to be careful, or do you want me to get there in time for the festivities?” Graham asked.

Marrick rolled her eyes. “Just don’t kill any other drivers.”

Graham chuckled. “On my way.”

Marrick sighed and checked the .40-caliber Glock in her hip holster, and was about to double check the backup .38 she wore underneath her armpit when the windshield starred violently. The woman crouched deeper into the driver’s seat and stared at a fist-size hole in the glass. The driver’s door opened, and she nearly drew and fired when she saw a policeman in full uniform.

“They’re shooting at everyone who drives up,” the big, brawny black cop said. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to warn you.”

Marrick looked up the side of the building.

“We tried to spot the sniper, but there’s either more than one, or he moves quickly,” the cop explained. Marrick noted that his name was Cage. “They’re playing with us until the hostage negotiator gets here.”

Marrick grimaced. “Sounds like a fun party. We got all the entrances sealed?”

“Alleys and the rooftops are covered. No way they can escape,” Cage said.

Marrick crawled out of her seat and slammed the door, joining the cop behind cover. “Anyone hurt?”

“Security guard’s corpse was dumped outside. They left his .38 in its holster. They didn’t need it,” the police officer replied. “Tore the shit out of my car and my partner’s got two bullets in his legs.”

Marrick took a deep breath as she saw the carnage wrought on the Salt Lake City squad car. It was perforated hundreds of times, and both front tires were flat. The hubcaps had been torn off by the brutal salvo that had crippled the vehicle. Smoke poured from dozens of holes. “What the hell weapons do they have?”

“I didn’t have much time to see what they were cutting loose with,” Cage answered. “But it didn’t sound like anything American.”

Marrick tilted her head.

“I was a SAW gunner in the Gulf war,” Cage replied. “I know what an M-249 sounds like, and an M-60, too. This wasn’t either of those, and it sure wasn’t an M-16.”

“Russian?” Marrick asked.

Cage shrugged. “We’ve got the two bullets from my partner’s leg. Maybe you could make it out better.”

Cage guided Marrick across the street to an ambulance that had parked out of view of the five-story bank. The windshield of the vehicle had been pockmarked with several slugs, but the paramedics had pulled it out of the line of fire.

“No respect for medics,” Cage mentioned. “These are just punk kids.”