Sabotage

Twain frowned, but wisely said nothing.

“This is an unfortunate complication,” Mak Wei put in, sucking the last of his unfiltered cigarette down to his stained fingers. “It could indicate that we—that you, Trofimov—have finally raised the attention of some governmental or legal entity. The operation could be in danger.”

“Not buyin’ it,” Twain said. “You know who I think it is? I think it’s the Mob. Some competing ‘interest,’ and the kinds of folks who don’t mind plugging a few of the other side’s boys to make a point.”

“That makes no sense,” Mak said disdainfully. “Why would a criminal concern care about political protests or political murders?”

“An investment in the status quo, perhaps,” Trofimov offered. “The Mafia and the CIA once worked together in an attempt to kill Castro, perhaps more than once. There are criminals, and there are patriots. They aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.”

“Perhaps,” Mak conceded. “But you forget, I have knowledge of operations, of actions against United States interests, that you do not. The methods employed are brutal, yes. They are not consistent with the usual manner in which the Americans do things officially. Unofficially, my government is quite certain that elements at least affiliated with the United States government are quite prepared to use violence, and to use it preemptively and overwhelmingly to protect American interests.”

“What can you tell us about this?” Trofimov asked.

“Only what I have said just now. There are few specifics.”

“Well, that hardly helps us, does it?” Twain snapped. “And in the meantime now I’ve got to watch my back, and yours, and wonder where this trigger-happy goon is going to show next. The entire operation could be compromised.”

“Is that a problem, Twain?” Trofimov asked directly. “Are you saying you aren’t up to the challenge?”

“Not hardly.” Twain grinned wolfishly. “I’m just warning you. It’s going to get bloody.”

“Then let it get bloody,” Trofimov said. “Now go, and do what I pay you to do.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The neighborhood around the assembly plant outside Cedar Rapids was fairly sparse and largely industrial. Mack Bolan was grateful for that; it reduced the chances of innocents wandering into the cross fire. He parked his rental truck a block away, scanning the area for threats and spectators. He saw no one.

The care package he had requested from the Farm was in a hard-shell case in the back of the truck. It was a Tavor TAR-21 assault rifle fitted with a 40 mm M-203 grenade launcher. The 5.56 mm modular Israeli bullpup-style rifle, which looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. This gas-operated select-fire rifle had a cyclic rate approaching fifteen rounds per second on full automatic. The compact weapon, coupled with the power of the grenade launcher, was just the thing for the mission on which Bolan was embarking.

The soldier made sure his movements were concealed within the rear of the truck, checked his weapons and slung the Tavor along the side of his body. The weapon wasn’t truly concealed, but it didn’t need to be. Bolan intended to make a significant first impression, and fast. He slung his OD canvas war bag across his chest on its broad shoulder strap, making sure his extra magazines, explosives and other weapons were in place in the bag and in the pockets of his combat blacksuit. He didn’t bother to don his field jacket.

A parking lot fronted the assembly plant. Three or four cars were parked here; none of them was remarkable. Bolan gave them a casual glance as he passed, stopping at the double doors to the plant itself. He pushed one open and quietly stuck his head inside, looking left and then right.

Nothing.

The foyer was empty, the floors a dusty and ancient linoleum that hadn’t seen a good waxing in years. Bolan walked through the first set of doors and paused, peering through the gap between the inner doors. Beyond, he could see a fairly typical light industrial area. Workbenches were arrayed across the plant floor, which had a high ceiling and walls dotted with dusty, multipaned windows. Many of the windows were painted over. Fluorescent lights suspended from the high ceiling buzzed and cast a greenish-yellow hue over the interior. At the rear of the floor space, which was at the far end of the building, Bolan saw a sign that read, simply, Office.

The benches held many cardboard boxes, plastic racks and rows of what, from this distance, appeared to be circuit boards. Men in casual street clothes—Bolan looked carefully, but saw no women—were standing among the benches, half-crouched as they bent over their work. Some of them wore magnifying lenses on straps around their heads, presumably for seeing the fine details of complicated work.

In short, the plant looked like exactly what it was supposed to be.

Bolan was mildly surprised by that. He had expected to see something far more nefarious. He started to back out the way he came in, careful to keep the Tavor out of sight behind his leg.

A shadow moved on the other side of the door, and Bolan’s combat instinct prompted him to hit the floor. A bullet burned past him. The gunner on the other side of the double doors continued to shoot through the barrier, apparently sighting through the gap between them.

Bolan rolled out of the path of the bullets, bringing up the Tavor, surging to his feet. He angled his fire down, careful to avoid indiscriminately spraying the room beyond the doors, instead triggering a withering blast at knee level. The gunner on the other side of the doors screamed.

The soldier kicked the doors in, stepping over the writhing gunman as he did so. The workers beyond scrambled for cover. Pausing over the wounded man, Bolan kicked his handgun away.

“No one move!” he ordered. “Lay down your weapons and place your hands behind your head!”

Movement from two directions caught his eye. A stream of full-auto fire, the unmistakable, hollow metallic clatter of Kalashnikov rifles, ripped through the space, shredding the components on top of several benches between the shooters and Mack Bolan. The soldier dived and rolled to the side, angling toward a heavy metal rolling toolbox. The toolbox rang like a bell as 7.62 mm fire from the assault rifles ripped into it.

The Executioner fished a flash-bang grenade out of his war bag, considered it and grabbed a second. He yanked the pins from each bomb in succession, then whipped the grenades in opposite directions, toward the points of fire converging on his location. Curling his chin into his chest, he squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth and covered his ears.

The searing flashes were accompanied by a deafening wallop. Even though he was prepared for it, Bolan’s ears were ringing in the wake of the powerful light-and-sound explosions. He surged to his feet, breaking cover with the Tavor’s integrated red-dot sight seeking targets. The first AK gunner had dropped his rifle and was holding his eyes, staggering back and forth in place. Bolan put a 5.56 mm round through his head and made a quarter turn, bringing the second man into line. That man was starting to recover, and clawed for a handgun in his waistband. Bolan burned him down with a short burst.

The soldier checked his six, then each point of the compass, assessing his surroundings. Somewhere, a worker whimpered. Bolan tracked the noise and found a twentysomething man with lanky blond hair, dressed in a flannel shirt and ripped jeans. He was cowering under one of the workbenches. He still wore a wrist strap connected to a ground wire, a precaution against electrostatic discharge.

Bolan gestured with his rifle. “You.”

The young man’s eyes went wide. He looked left, then right, crouched on his back in a near fetal position. “M-m-me?” he stammered.

“You.” Bolan nodded. “How many armed guards?”

“What?”

“Armed guards. Men with firearms. How many in this facility?”

“J-ju…just those two,” the young man managed to tell him. “Plus the guy at the door. Jesus, you killed them. You killed them both.”

“Stay with me,” Bolan said, kicking one of the man’s feet with his own combat boot. He didn’t bother to point out that he hadn’t, in fact, killed the door guard. “Focus, kid. Why were they here? Why attack me?”

“I don’t know,” the young man admitted. “We…we just work here, man. We just work here.”

“Work here doing what? What are you building?”

“How should I know?” the man said, indignant. “They give us the specs and we build the boards. I don’t ask. I get paid by the board. I just do my job.”

“Get up,” Bolan said. “Get the rest of the workers together. Get out of here.”

“Why?” the kid asked, pulling himself up, using the workbench for support. He was rapidly regaining his composure; it was dawning on him that Bolan didn’t intend to kill him.

“You’re out of a job, kid,” Bolan told him. “Get the others and get gone. Don’t make me tell you again.”

The young man did not need any further urging. He ran among the benches, grabbing each of his fellow assemblers, urging them on and even shouting at them when they hesitated. Under Bolan’s watchful eye, the workers hit the bullet-pocked double doors and ran for it.

The numbers were ticking down in the soldier’s head. One of those workers was bound to call the police, if a silent alarm hadn’t already been triggered. He thought it unlikely, though, that there was such an alarm, at least not one connected to local law enforcement. Those whose facilities were guarded by gunmen wielding presumably illegal, full-auto Kalashnikovs probably didn’t welcome police involvement in their affairs.

Still, one of the assemblers was probably on a wireless phone to the cops right now. Bolan would have only a little time before the place was overrun.

The wounded gunman was still rolling around on the floor, holding his legs and groaning. Bolan walked up and stood over him, the Tavor held loosely in one hand, the barrel of the rifle pointed at the man’s forehead.

“I want to know everything you know about your employers and this facility,” Bolan said. “I don’t have a lot of time. If you can’t tell me anything, your usefulness to me is limited. If I have to hurt you to make you talk, I will.” This was a bluff, of course; Bolan, the man once known as Sergeant Mercy, would never torture a helpless, unarmed and wounded man. The Executioner had seen far too many victims of torture and interrogation in the course of his personal war. He would never join the ranks of the butchers who did such things to prisoners. This particular prisoner, however, couldn’t know that.

“Don’t, man, don’t,” the gunner said, clenching his teeth through the pain. “I got nothin’ here.… Let me—”

The revolver appeared in the man’s hand as if by magic, pulled from a holster in his waistband, behind his hip. Bolan triggered a single round from the Tavor into the man’s head, the shot echoing across the assembly plant floor.