Killing Trade

“It gets more interesting,” Price said. “Your other body is John Paul Reynolds, thirty-six. Gulf War veteran, Marines, with some contract security work after that.”

“And?”

“The work was with Blackjack Group,” Price told him, “and it was while he was in Blackjack’s employ that he died on the job, supposedly, a year ago in Baghdad.”

“So he’s been off the books for a year, playing dead, most likely doing black ops for Blackjack.”

“Seems so,” Price said.

“Then NLI is involved up to its board members’ necks,” Bolan concluded. “They’re actively trying to sever links leading back to them, using Blackjack as muscle.”

“Striker, if they took out West and sent someone else to destroy his records, then somehow keyed into your meet with Caqueta, they’ve got the city wired or they’ve got someone inside, maybe both.”

“The thought occurred to me,” Bolan said grimly. “Any luck with the hard drive I got from West’s apartment?”

“Not much yet,” Price said. “Bear has Akira working on it, but he says it’s in pretty sorry shape.”

“Have him keep at it,” Bolan said. “It’s the only lead I’ve got after Ruiz, who isn’t going to talk on his own. Listen, Barb, I need you to contact Hal for me and let him know it’s going to get heavier. I’ll need him to run interference for me so I can do this my way. I’m done playing it subtle. I’ve got to put a stop to this. It’s going to get a lot bloodier before it gets better.”

“I’ll tell him. And, Striker?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your back.”

“I will.” He closed the connection.

From the closet where he’d left his windbreaker the previous evening, Bolan took his long, charcoal-colored canvas duster. The lightweight overcoat was perfect for the autumn temperatures, so he wouldn’t be too conspicuous. More importantly, the long coat would hide a multitude of sins, as the saying went. Draping the coat over the hotel-room chair, he turned back to the crate Stony Man’s couriers had dropped off.

The Farm’s armorer had outdone himself. Cowboy Kissinger had sent Bolan’s usual equipment with a few added bonuses. Bolan first removed the big Desert Eagle .44 Magnum pistol from the box. Kissinger had sent a tactical thigh holster, which Bolan strapped to his right leg. It bore pouches for several spare magazines. He loaded them from the boxes provided and tucked it into place.

In addition to his Beretta 92-F Bolan now had his familiar Beretta 93-R machine pistol. Kissinger had included a custom leather pistol rig that would accommodate the 93-R with its attached suppressor vertically under his left arm. The 92-F he placed inside his waistband in its holster, which he repositioned for a reverse left-hand draw behind his left hip. He moved the SOG Pentagon knife closer to the midpoint of his back, where the knife could be drawn with either hand. He also distributed several loaded magazines for the Berettas in the pockets of his blacksuit. Finally, he clipped the SureFire tactical light in place in a left-hand pocket and clipped the Cold Steel Gunsite Folding Knife to the right. The sturdy, chisel-ground, Tanto blade combat folder had been sent at Bolan’s specific request.

From the crate Bolan took Kissinger’s final gift. Unfolding the stock, he admired the businesslike lines of the chopped and tuned Ultimax 100 MK4 as he brought it to his shoulder.

A machine gun made in Singapore, the Ultimax was a lightweight, gas-operated, select-fire weapon with a standard cyclic rate of 600 rounds per minute. A simple, robust design firing the 5.56 mm cartridge, easily fieldstripped with all pins captive, the Ultimax had a forward pistol grip mounted under a thirteen-inch barrel. A red-dot scope had been mounted on top of the receiver. Kissinger had included a shoulder strap compatible with Bolan’s 93-R rig, so he could sling the weapon under his right arm. The Ultimax was fitted with an adapter that made it compatible with standard AR-15/M-16 magazines. The armorer had also sent several impressive 100-round drum magazines, the rears of the magazines made of clear Lexan to allow for instant assessment of the rounds remaining.

Bolan packed spare M-16 magazines and Ultimax drums in his canvas messenger bag, hanging the war bag across his body on his left side. Then he put on the duster, checking the concealment of his weapons in the full-size hotel mirror on the closet door. Satisfied, he left the room, stalking down the hotel corridors and making his way through the lobby and out the front door.

New York foot traffic bustled past him in both directions. Joining the stream, he allowed himself to be carried along by it. He had gone perhaps two blocks when, in the reflection of the glass front of an office building, he caught sight of the tail.

He had expected to be followed. Everything that had gone down so far indicated that NLI and Blackjack—if those were indeed the forces pulling the strings and triggers—were monitoring him and knew he was a threat. That was why they’d tried to take him out in Bryant Park. Bolan was through reacting, letting the other side dictate the terms. It was time to take the initiative and take the war to the enemy.

The Executioner walked until he found a suitable dark alley. He ducked into it quickly, as if trying to dodge the tail, but not so quickly that he was in danger of actually losing his pursuer. Once out of sight in the shadowy, trash-filled alleyway, he ran heavily to the midpoint of the alley and threw himself to the side, taking cover in the lee of an overfilled garbage bin. Seconds later, he heard footsteps at the mouth of the alley. There were at least two people following Bolan.

To their credit, they didn’t waste time conferring with each other or calling out to him, telling him to give it up. They just moved down the alley, presumably with guns drawn. The Executioner waited until they encroached on his position. Then he struck.

There were three men, not two, all big, buzz-cut paramilitary types in casual civilian clothes. Bolan unclipped the combat light from his pocket as he rose, clenching the little aluminum flashlight, beam-down, in his fist. The first man had time to turn and claw for a weapon as Bolan hammer-fisted the light into the man’s temple. As he dropped, Bolan snapped a soccer kick into the ankle of the second pursuer, then drove the flashlight up under the man’s jaw.

The third man had drawn a silenced Glock. Bolan sidestepped, playing the bright beam of the light across the gunner’s eyes to little effect. A pair of shots slapped at the concrete face of the building behind Bolan. He was already drawing the Beretta 93-R as he let the combat light fall from his grasp. A 3-shot burst spit from the custom suppressor, taking the gunner in the throat. He fell back, his head cracking on the filthy asphalt.

Bolan snatched up his fallen light and swiveled to cover the other two pursuers. In the stark beam of the light he could see the first man was still out, his head cocked at an odd angle. The second man was holding his broken ankle with one shaking hand, while groping for something under his jacket. Bolan put the beam of light on the man’s face and covered him with his machine pistol.

“I need you alive,” Bolan told him, “but to be honest, I only need one of you.”

The man, his face twisted with pain, looked up at the Executioner.

“Take your hand out of your jacket very slowly,” Bolan ordered.

The shots, when they came, echoed in the alleyway.

Bolan threw himself aside, seeking the shelter of the garbage bin. Full-auto fire came from a Ruger MP-9 in the hands of the first downed man, who sprayed the alleyway. His target was not Bolan, but the second man. The rounds burned through the victim and chewed into the opposite wall of the alley, igniting small, hungry fires directly in the brick and mortar.

Bolan turned his machine pistol on the first man.

The gunman brought the Ruger MP-9 up under his own chin and pulled the trigger. The blast sprayed the top of his head across the alleyway in a rain of DU ammunition that broke up the wall behind him.

Bolan, 93-R in hand, scanned the alleyway behind him. When he saw no other threats, he bent quickly to search the corpses. He found nothing but spare magazines for the firearms used. There was no identification on any of the bodies.

“Down here!” someone called out. Bolan glanced toward the mouth of the alley. The gunfire had been heard by someone, and curious onlookers were milling about. He moved quickly in the opposite direction, putting distance between himself and the carnage. He had too much to do and could not afford to get embroiled in yet another analysis of his actions. The New York authorities were already strained to the breaking point where it came to the mysterious government operative, Matt Cooper. He couldn’t take the chance that they’d let him go on about his business after finding yet more bodies in his wake.

As he walked briskly out of the alley and joined the stream of foot traffic moving down the block, Bolan considered the situation. He knew that hired guns, most likely NLI Blackjack operatives, were tailing him personally. The hit on Luis Caqueta could have been a coincidence and still could be; clearly Caqueta had information that the DU ammunition’s suppliers had wanted concealed at any cost. It was unlikely that Bolan and Burnett had been specifically targeted at Jonathan West’s apartment, but the timing of Basil Price’s break-in was suspect. West had been killed some time previously, apparently to keep him silent. He either talked before he died, or he left behind equivalent information, but the men who’d murdered him had deemed Bolan a sufficient threat to them that they’d bothered to come after him in force.

Bolan briefly wondered if perhaps more than one group was in play, but that didn’t feel right. Reynolds and Price—one a much younger American former soldier, the other a hard-bitten British career mercenary—had nothing in common, at first glance, except for their skills. Both men were precisely the sort of employees likely to be hired by a security contractor like Blackjack Group. The Executioner would continue to assume that Blackjack and NLI were behind the scores of professional boots on the ground in New York. There was no overt legal action Brognola or his Justice Department could take in the meantime—not without proof. The Executioner didn’t need to meet the same standards of evidence before he could take action, but a direct assault on NLI’s assets, or on Blackjack Group, would have to wait.

If those working to cover up the DU ammunition source had decided to move on Bolan directly, he figured it was likely they’d target Burnett, as well.

The Executioner flagged down the first available taxi. The cabdriver nodded when Bolan gave him the hospital name, pulling smoothly into the never-ending stream of Manhattan traffic. Bolan leaned to the side until, through his window, he could see the taxi’s passenger-side mirror. He watched for a time until he was satisfied that he was not being followed.

Fifteen minutes later, Bolan was walking down the corridor to Burnett’s room. He had almost reached the detective when he heard loud voices. Then he heard a man scream.

The soldier broke into a sprint. His combat boots left black streaks on the waxed floor as he rounded the corner, the Beretta 93-R in his hand.

A body lay half in and half out of the doorway to Burnett’s room. Bolan noted the expensive tactical boots on the prone form’s feet. As he neared the doorway, a shot rang out. Bolan threw himself to the side of the door.

“Burnett!” he called.

“Cooper?”

“Cooper. Hold your fire!” Bolan shouted.

He waited for a moment before chancing a one-eyed look around the edge of the doorway. Burnett, wearing only a hospital gown, sat up in his bed, one foot on the floor. He held a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson .38 snubnose revolver in one hand, aimed at the door.

“Don’t shoot, I’m coming in,” Bolan warned.

“Please do,” Burnett said.

Bolan stepped over the fallen man in the doorway, who looked to be dead. He was wearing a white medical smock and lying in a spreading pool of blood. The handle of what could only be a fork protruded from his neck.