Contagion Option

“Punk kids with enough firepower to make the front end of a Crown Victoria into a screen door,” Marrick corrected.

“Luke?” Cage asked, looking in the back.

A blond police officer lay on a cot. His leg was swathed in bloody bandages, and a saline bag was draining into his arm.

“Hey, Danny,” the wounded cop muttered. Marrick read his badge name. Rand. He looked her over and smiled through his discomfort. “Who’s the cutie?”

“Special Agent Rachel Marrick, FBI,” she introduced herself. Her ears burned under her shoulder-length cape of hair, as she hated being called a “cutie.” She’d have thought that her position as an FBI agent, complete with the business-suit look would have commanded respect. She didn’t mind being hit on as a petite, sweet young thing in her off hours, but this was work. “Danny told me that you got a couple souvenirs from your first contact.”

Rand nodded. “Roy’s got them.”

A dark-haired paramedic handed her a plastic bag. “He told me to save them.”

Marrick nodded and took the bag. “This is evidence.”

“Yeah. Still, maybe I’d like to get ’em back someday,” Rand explained.

Marrick looked at Cage.

“It’s a cop thing,” the black cop replied. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh. Don’t worry, I’ll see what paperwork I can pull,” she stated. She looked at the bullets.

“They look like .22s,” Cage mentioned. “But hell, the gun didn’t sound like any 5.56 mm that I’d ever run into.”

“And it didn’t sound like an AK?” Marrick asked.

“Nope. I heard my share of those,” Cage replied. “More than I’d like.”

Marrick frowned. “The Russians use a 5.45 mm round. Very similar to our 5.56.”

“Yeah,” Cage replied. “When we went head-to-head with Saddam the first time, he was still using good old ComBloc ammo. I heard they still were, our second trip through Baghdad.”

“Doesn’t mean much,” Marrick replied. “The Russian black market is flooded with the newer AK-74s, and ammunition. The Commonwealth of Independent States is hemorrhaging top-of-the-line military equipment as fast as they can build it.”

Cage nodded. “Which is why none of it sounded familiar. So, we’ve got what? Russian Mafia supplying Korean street gangs in Salt Lake?”

“Part of why I’m here,” Marrick replied. “You’re sure they’re Koreans?”

“They sounded Asian,” Rand said. “And called me a few names in some kind of language. It wasn’t Chinese, though.”

“You speak Chinese?” Marrick asked.

“I lived with my dad in Hong Kong,” Rand replied. “My guess, they’d have to be Korean.”

Marrick frowned, then got out her cell phone.

“What’s going on?” Cage asked.

“I’ve got another agent coming in. I want to let him know about the welcoming presents these punks are giving out,” Marrick returned.

“Yeah. I’ll tell you, firsthand, they suck,” Rand replied.

Marrick took the call.

“Graham, here.”

“How soon you gettin’ here?” Marrick asked.

“I’ll be there.”

“Park two blocks back. There are snipers in the upper levels,” Marrick warned.

“Snipers?”

“They’re marking their territory. Any vehicle pulling in gets a bullet through the windshield.”

“How many are there?” Graham asked.

“Can’t tell, but enough to hold the Saturday crowd in a bank lobby and spare enough people to man the upstairs windows. We’re thinking maybe two, three snipers. I nearly caught a slug, but S.L.P.D. is saying that these punks are just playing,” Marrick explained.

“Hope I’m there before playtime’s over and they decide to get serious,” Graham replied.

“I hope so, too,” Marrick answered. “I just can’t see how we’re going to get anywhere with this bunch. The building’s tied up tight, and with the firepower they’ve got, we’re pretty much looking at a long standoff.”

“So, maybe I can get back to the slopes and report in Monday morning?” Graham quipped.

“If my weekend’s going to suck, so is yours. I don’t care who’s in town,” Marrick retorted.

“Yes, ma’am!” Graham responded.

Marrick looked back at the bank as her partner hung up. More vehicles were arriving, including other agents from the local office. She debated whether to give them a warning as they passed the perimeter, but held her tongue.

Since the other agents in town wanted to treat her like a leper, let them squirm as a Korean sniper put a bullet in their windshield. She turned her attention to the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sniper.

The Gulf of Thailand

THE EXECUTIONER descended on the cargo crane from the deck of the smuggler’s ship to the superstructure of the submarine in the water. He held on to the cable, resting his feet against the base of a large iron hook that had gear from Dragon Slayer attached to it. Grimaldi lowered him down to the conning tower.

The gear settled on the deck, and Bolan hopped off to release it from the hook. Grimaldi pulled it back up.

Bolan opened the first of the two duffels and pulled out a strap of grenades, hanging it around his neck and one shoulder. He adjusted the bandolier, making sure the blasters he wanted to use were easily drawn, then took out a Fabrique Nationale P-90 submachine gun. The stubby little chopper was ideal for close quarters work, and held a 50-round magazine. He slung the weapon, then filled his harness with a half-dozen .50-round magazines.

The second duffel had several canvas packaged blocks. Bolan slung the spares over his shoulder, then unwound one of the packages. It looked like a spiderweb, made out of thick putty, with an electronic device in the center. Bolan stuck the putty to the conning tower hatch and activated the center device. He stepped out of range, then pulled out a radio detonator.

The breaching charge, while explosive, wouldn’t disperse its detonation like a regular bomb. Instead, the putty would focus its force against the hull. No shrapnel would fly back toward Bolan, but the concussion could harm him. The detonation cord would explode more slowly than regular plastic explosive, acting more like a cutting torch, and would peel apart steel easily. Bolan thumbed the detonator to life. There was a soft woomp, and metal clattered on the hatch. Bolan plucked a concussion grenade from his harness and swung around to the opened hatch. He dropped the flash-bang through the hole and turned away. There were screams of panic as the men inside the control room recognized what had happened, but they were cut off by a fierce crack.

The Executioner dropped through the hatch, the P-90 in his fist.