Stolen Arrows

“What are you waiting for?” the leader snarled, forcing himself to stand upright. “Kill that motherfucker!”

“Striker, you still there?” Brognola said over the receiver.

Bolan grunted in reply, watching the scene play out. How much authority the leader of the street gang held over his people would decide if blood would be spilled. Did they follow him out of simple fear, or respect?

“Hey, mister, we didn’t mean nothing,” a bald kid said, backing away. “Be cool. No corpse, no crime, right?”

“Wrong,” Bolan said, the one word hanging in the air between them like a rumble of thunder.

“You punk-ass bitches leaving?” the leader snarled. “Then I’ll ace him myself!”

Lurching forward, the teen threw an overhand haymaker at Bolan that would have broken bones if it hit. Dropping the receiver, Bolan went under the swing, then stood again with coiled-steel speed, driving two stiff fingers directly in the teenager’s armpit.

Yowling in pain, the gang lord staggered backward, tears running down his face, the arm dangling impotently at his side like meat in a butcher’s window. Bolan swept back his sports jacket to expose the Beretta 93-R riding in a shoulder holster.

“Go home,” he said in a voice from beyond the grave. “Now.”

The rest of the gang simply turned and ran, one of them scrambling so fast he slipped on some trash and almost went over the edge of the platform onto the abandoned tracks below. Only the leader sneered hatefully in reply and staggered away, cradling his damaged arm.

“Striker?” Brognola’s voice called through the receiver in concern.

“Right here, Hal,” Bolan said, drawing the Beretta. Reaching up with the weapon, he used the sound suppressor to smash the exposed fluorescent lights overhead. As darkness crashed around the man, Bolan stepped farther into the shadows and leveled the weapon in preparation.

“Okay, I just got a report from the President. Goddamn it, how did you know?” Brognola said irritably. “The NSA just relayed a message to the Oval Office that the thermal flash of the blast registered only one Zodiac. Not four, just one. Zalhares and his people nuked an entire cargo ship, plus a full wing of RAF jets just to fool us into thinking they were dead.”

There was a movement behind the iron grating covering the sealed-off stairs; the gray muzzle of a gun stuck out a few inches at about waist level. Bolan did nothing, waiting for the kid to make the choice. In a rush of speed, the teenager stepped into plain view holding a Glock .45 pistol. Bolan fired once, the muzzle-flash of the Beretta brightening the shadows as the 9 mm Parabellum round smashed into the Glock. The damaged pistol went flying onto the train tracks with a loud clatter. Cradling his broken hand, the gang lord staggered away, sobbing and cursing at the same time.

“If there hadn’t been a Keyhole satellite sweeping the area, it might have worked, too,” Brognola continued.

“Not for me,” Bolan said, holstering the Beretta. “The Scion is famous for its traps, and for playing dead. That’s Zalhares’s favorite trick. Whenever possible, he strikes from behind.”

“That’s not mentioned in his personnel file, but I’ll take your word.”

For a brief moment Bolan gave a rare smile. “Smart man. What I need now is a good description of a Zodiac, with as much detail as possible.”

“Better than that. The design was taken from the most popular briefcase sold by an upscale luggage manufacturer. I can tell you the exact number of the model the Pentagon used.”

“Good. Start talking,” Bolan said, brushing some flecks of broken glass off his sleeve. Listening closely, the Executioner filed away the information as the big Fed told him the make and model of the matching briefcase, then how to arm and disarm a Zodiac. The process was slow and complex, but then these weren’t battlefield weapons where speed of operation was considered an imperative.

“Got it,” he said at last. “Thanks, Hal.”

“Stay hard, Striker. These people mean business.”

“I’m depending on it,” Bolan answered. “A merc’s lust for money is what always brings them down.”

Disconnecting, Bolan then lifted the receiver and dialed randomly to scramble the memory on the machine.

Leaving the subway via the main entrance, the Executioner melted into the crowds and walked directly to a major department store downtown. He used cash to make a few purchases, then exited the building, pausing in a nearby alley to open the packages and throw away the wrappings. He then roughened the shiny leather of the new briefcase by rubbing it against a brick wall. When satisfied, Bolan returned to his car and plugged a small soldering iron into the dashboard outlet to quickly assemble an array of electronic components into a maze of wires and circuit boards that wouldn’t fool anybody trained in nuclear ordnance, but might do the job on the Scion.

According to the CIA dossier, most of Zalhares’s people came from farms and had little or no education, aside from military training. They may not know a mock-up from a working nuke. More importantly, the weight should be about the same because of the addition of two blocks of C-4 plastique and a fully functioning radio detonator. Bolan might never have any use for the decoy, but it was always wise to plan for what an enemy could do, not for what they might do.

Grabbing a cup of coffee and a sandwich at a corner deli, the soldier mapped out a battle plan while eating lunch. He was interrupted when a group of businessmen walked by carrying briefcases and, from out of nowhere, a raggedly dressed man darted from the curb to grab one of the cases, wrestle it away from the owner and take off at a run holding the prize. Furious, the owner shouted after the thief.

The incident had just been a simple robbery; nobody was even hurt. But if done to the Scion, a city would be obliterated from the map.

No longer hungry, Bolan left a decent tip for the old waiter and headed across town. New York City was the nerve center of international crime, and he could find out almost anything if he asked the right people, using the right kind of persuasion. The numbers were already falling on this, and it was time for him to start the hunt for Zalhares.

CHAPTER THREE

Central Park, New York City

A gray-haired man was sitting on a park bench tossing bread crumbs to the cooing pigeons. His clothes were clean and well pressed, the crease in the pants sharp, almost as if he were wearing a uniform of some kind. It was a peaceful, secluded section of park, near enough to see the lake, but well off the bike trails. There was nobody around but the old man and the pigeons.

A short, wiry man walked into view along the lake. He was neatly attired in a dark suit that was extremely out of date.

Strolling along, the newcomer detoured widely around the flock of pigeons to finally sit at the other end of the park bench. For a few minutes neither man spoke.

“Okay, Pat, nobody seems to have followed me. So what the hell is going on?” Brian Kessel, the director of the New York branch of the FBI, demanded in a soft, conversational tone. “Why the secret meeting away from our offices?”

“Too many ears,” Police Chief Patrick Donaldson said, tossing another handful of crumbs to the fluttering pigeons. Then he rolled the bag shut and tucked it into a pocket of his coat. “Heard the news lately?”

Spoken that way, the news could only mean something in their line of work, and there was only one topic of conversation these days—the unsolved string of murders.

“Bet your ass I have,” Kessel said, not looking at the other man. “But it’s not us, if that’s what you’re hinting about. I can assure you of that.”

“Thirty-six hours,” Donaldson said, leaning back in the bench. The birds were gobbling up the crumbs and strutting around looking for more. Such a little act of kindness, feeding the hungry birds, it brought a sense of balance into the violent life of the top Manhattan cop. “It has been less than thirty-six hours and nineteen of the top weapons dealers in the world have been whacked in my town. I’m not a happy man, Brian. This smells like a goddamn secret government kill team.”

“No way,” Kessel replied curtly. “Impossible. If the CIA or some black ops group tried that, I’d have their balls for breakfast.”

“I thought that’d be your response.”

“Look. It could be the Yakuza, the Russian Mob, the Chinese Tongs, Rastafarians, Colombians,” he growled softly. “It’s been a fucking feeding frenzy the past few years.”

Watching the pigeons peck for more bread crumbs, the police chief shrugged. No matter how much he gave, they always wanted more. Sort of like his job. There were goals, but they were always replaced with more goals. In police work, the reward for a job well done was always a tougher job.

“Let the creeps blow each other away, that’s fine by me,” Donaldson stated in frank honesty. “I don’t give a shit. Twenty little mobs are a hell of a lot easier to control than one huge invisible empire. Just ask the OCD.”

“The Organized Crime Division can kiss my ass. Vigilante justice undermines the very fabric of society,” Kessel stated with an angry growl.

“So it really isn’t the Bureau?” Donaldson asked.

“No.”

“Damn.”

For a while the two lawmen sat on the concrete bench, listening to music from somewhere nearby and the shrill voices of children at play. Opening the bag again, Donaldson tossed the birds another handful, then offered it to Kessel. After a pause, the FBI director took some and sprinkled it across the pavement. The birds flocked around the cops, utterly ecstatic.

“So, who do you think is next on the list?” Kessel asked.