“Comm check,” he said.
“I hear you,” Delaney said, speaking softly. He waited as she got into position. His transceiver picked up the sound of her knocking.
“Hello?” she said finally.
There was the sound of a chain being rattled. The door creaked open. Bolan pictured a face peering out beyond the barrier of the door chain, eyeing the attractive Delaney with what would probably be both suspicion and interest.
“What do you want?” The voice was low and full of gravel.
“I was wondering if I could borrow your phone,” Delaney said.
“No,” the voice said, low but audible over the transceiver link. “Go away.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” Delaney said.
Uh-oh. That tone could only mean one thing. Delaney had pulled either her badge or her gun.
“Cops! Cops! Cops!” screamed the voice.
It was on.
Bolan wasted no time. He put down his duffel bag, removed the Tavor, and loaded a lock-breaking shotshell round into the 40 mm grenade launcher. Then he triggered the blast, vaporizing the lock and door handle on the rear door of the target house.
Gunfire sounded from within. It was too far away to be directed at him.
Bolan kicked in what was left of the door, his Tavor’s lethal snout leading the way. He was in the kitchen. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when the first of several armed men burst into the room, shotguns in their hands. He burned down first one, then another, with precisely aimed bursts from the Tavor. A third managed to get off a blast that shattered the dirty dishes on top of a round kitchen table in the corner. Bolan punched a single round through his head, dropping him where he stood.
“Delaney!” he said.
“On my way in,” Delaney confirmed. He heard her MP-5 K stutter, heard screams both over the transceiver and a few rooms away in the house.
He left the kitchen and made his way down a hallway facing a set of stairs. A man wearing only a pair of pants ran down the steps, carrying a revolver. Bolan tracked him from the side of the stairs and, when the man finally realized what was happening and swiveled to target the soldier, the soldier shot him down. He tumbled down the steps in an undignified heap.
“Delaney, take the upper floor,” he said. “Be careful. I just shot one coming down.”
“Got it,” she said. “And you?”
“I’ll take the basement.”
“Roger.”
The door leading into the basement was opposite the stairwell, in a fairly conventional configuration for a home of the building’s size. Bolan put one combat boot sole against the wooden door in a brutal kick. The wood splintered, but something beyond would not give. The jarring impact traveled up Bolan’s leg.
He’d thought that might be the case. The door was reinforced with steel. He took another one of Kissinger’s timed C-4 charges from his war bag, planted it on the splintered wood casing of the steel door and pressed the arming stud before ducking up and out of the way.
The explosion didn’t unseat the door, but it blew the lock. Bolan was able to push the door aside. An open staircase led down. He fished out a pair of flash-bang grenades from his canvas war bag, pulled the pins, let the spoons pop free, then bounced the grenades down the stairs.
He covered his ears as the blasts reverberated up the stairway. Then he was rushing down the stairs, taking them two at a time, reloading his Tavor and bringing it on target. The armed men down there covered their eyes or their heads, some of them bleeding from the ears. Bolan took in the scene in one quick flash, searching for active hostiles.
The smell was what hit him first. There were metal garage shelves down here, and each bore several cans and bottles of varying chemicals. Bolan recognized a few of them as being used to cut heroin. A few others were associated with the manufacture of crystal meth, though there was no meth lab here and no indication of one nearby. He’d seen meth labs before. They were a lot messier than this and a lot harder to hide. Inside, the defenses taken against the outside world were more obvious. There was an acetylene torch rig in one corner of the basement. Metal bars had been welded in place over the head-height basement windows. The door reinforcement also appeared to be a homemade welding job. The fumes in the basement were thick enough to make Bolan light-headed, and he wondered just how toxic the atmosphere really was.
Also in the basement were a series of folding tables. On these were plastic bag after plastic bag stuffed full of what looked to be heroin or cocaine, as well as crystal meth. The tables were divided by product, and each one had several wooden crates stacked nearby, which had been labeled with a thick black marker.
They bore the names of cities and towns in Iraq and Afghanistan.
A few also bore domestic locations. Bolan saw several cities across the United States, as well as a few marked for local delivery in Chicago. He had to admit, it was an impressive display. Here, in a single, large basement, a drug distribution ring that serviced a great deal of this country and portions of two others was busily preparing to poison thousands, if not tens of thousands, of American citizens and soldiers. That wasn’t counting anyone else along the way who got mixed up in the vile traffic.
All of this ran through Bolan’s mind in the split second it took him to evaluate the scene. The men here were apparently both bodyguards and manual laborers. They were positioned in a way that indicated they were working at the tables, sorting, measuring out, packaging and stacking individual portions of the drugs. Some of these portions were large enough for resale. Others were small, individual doses, clustered in large groups that would probably be sold and delivered to regional pushers and dealers.
One of the men recovered from the effects of the flash-bang grenade to point a 9 mm automatic pistol in Bolan’s direction. The Executioner shot him through the heart. He died on his feet and fell without a sound.
“Everybody on the floor,” Bolan yelled, louder than normally would be necessary. The workers, or guards, or both, if that was what they were, complied with this order begrudgingly. When the Executioner was satisfied that they were all on the floor and there were no other enemies lurking to take a shot at him, he called to Delaney.
“Delaney,” he said, “what have you got?”
“I shot two on the upper floor,” she said. “Enforcer types. They didn’t take kindly to being interrupted and tried to take me out. One of them had a woman with him. She’s probably a prostitute.”
“Anyone left alive?”
“Just the hooker,” Delaney said.
“See if she knows anything,” Bolan said. “It’s unlikely, but you never know.”
“I might be able to do better than that,” Delaney said. “There are some cardboard cartons up here. If I’m not wrong, they’re full of crystal meth.”
“Got plenty of that down here, too,” Bolan said.
“Have yours got mailing labels on them?” Delaney asked.
“No,” Bolan said. “Why, what do yours say?”
“There are several boxes here,” she said, “that have been reused. They have shipping labels that show an address in Scranton.”
“Pennsylvania?”
“Yeah,” Delaney said. “It’s a mess up here,” she said. “But I’ve got some envelopes that appear to have the same address. They look like coded shipping manifests.”
“Of what?”
“Shipments of meth, I think,” Delaney said. “At least, there are references by number here, and a couple of the cardboard cartons have numbers written on them that match.”
“All right,” Bolan said. “Let the girl go, if she is indeed just local talent. She won’t know anything and we don’t need her.”
“She’s scampering off as we speak.”
Movement in the corner of his eye caught Bolan’s attention. He brought the barrel of the Tavor on target just in time to see one of the men on the floor produce a grenade of his own. The red canister rolled across the floor, the pin pulled a
nd the spoon nowhere in sight.
“Oh, Jesus!” one of the other men on the floor said. “Manny, you didn’t—”
Bolan realized it then. The grenade was an incendiary.
He broke for the stairs, dropping the Tavor as he vaulted the steps, using both hands to claw his way up the staircase.
“Delaney!” he shouted. “Out the nearest window! Go! Go! Now!”
He had just enough time to make the bay window off the living room when the basement erupted and the whole world exploded.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The fire trucks were parked three deep around what had been the target house. Bolan stood against one of them, talking on his secure sat phone. Nearby, Delaney, slightly singed but none the worse for wear, was talking to a pair of uniformed police officers and the fire chief. Things hadn’t gone too badly, all things considered. As it turned out, local law enforcement had been suspicious of the activity in the house, and a drug raid had been discussed if not yet brought to the planning stages. All in all, they could have been a lot less understanding than they were being.
Firemen were spraying down the blazing house as Bolan talked. The fumes were fairly poisonous, and most of the firemen were wearing breathing gear. Some spectators had gathered but were being kept far back behind police barricades. It was the most excitement the neighborhood had seen in some time, apparently, at least as far as those living in the area were aware.
“Hal asked me to pass on the question,” Price said, “and I quote, ‘Was it necessary to blow up an entire house in a suburban neighborhood?’ Unquote.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Bolan said. “Somebody with more guts than sense used the only weapon he had in a room full of volatile chemical fumes. Turns out that weapon was an incendiary grenade.”
“Not the brightest move,” Price acknowledged. “But then, running heroin and meth was never the most brilliant of career choices.”
“These weren’t SCAR troops,” Bolan said. “At least, not most of them. There may have been a few mixed in, but we caught them flat-footed and made quick work of them. Twain’s people are brutal, but not stupid. They wouldn’t have pulled a maneuver like that.”
“But the drug house was specifically mentioned in Twain’s records.”
“Hired help,” Bolan said simply. “Twain was using this site as his distribution point. It’s accessible to O’Hare and Midway, and in a good location geographically for serving most of this part of the country, if not the nation.”
“Have you considered a next step?” Price asked.
“I was going to consult the list of prioritized Trofimov sites again,” Bolan said. “Delaney saw some materials bearing an address in Scranton, Pennsylvania.” He recited the address as Delaney had reported it.
“I’ll have it checked,” Price said. “I can tell you it’s not on the priority list we already produced. I do have a suggestion for you, however, that I think supersedes Pennsylvania.”
“Shoot.”
“The analysis has come back on the metal samples you found,” Price told him. “You remember the political flap over the availability of up-armored Humvees and other trucks in Iraq?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “The enhanced armor is used to protect military vehicles from—” he paused, realizing the significance as he said it “—roadside bombs.”
“The metal you found,” Price said, “turns out to be the same alloy used in the up-armor kits.”
“But those samples came apart like chalk.”
“Exactly,” Price told him. “The armor samples were treated with a chemical the intelligence community has encountered before. It has no name, only a numerical designation. Prolonged exposure to the chemical weakens the molecular bonds in metal, such as steel, turning it into the brittle, useless stuff you found.”
“When and where was this encountered?” Bolan asked.
“The formula was first devised by the Soviets during the Cold War,” Price said. “We know the Communist Chinese picked it up, at some point, and tried to make it work, but we figured they hit the same wall the Soviets did. It wouldn’t have made sense to keep trying, not with this particular formula.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s never seen widespread use,” Price said, “because it’s fairly useless. Oh, sure, it has its applications, but they’re limited, and for good reason. The chemical simply can’t be weaponized, because to do its work, the target metal has to be fairly saturated over a period of hours. If you were to spray this on enemy tanks, for example, the battle would be over long before any damage could be done, and the enemy could dilute the chemical with ordinary water to rob it of its potency.”
“But if the enemy were working within, rather than without…” Bolan speculated.
“Exactly, Striker,” Price said. “One of the targets on the priority list is a Kirillov Motors import parts and servicing plant in Detroit. Some of Kirillov’s manufacturing capacity is devoted to production of parts for the military, as a subcontractor. They make truck parts, some jet-engine components…and they subcontract up-armor kits for Humvees in the field.”
“So Trofimov is arranging for the sabotage of the armor kits,” Bolan said, “leaving our troops more vulnerable in-theater. And he probably got the formula from his friends the Chinese, who have been providing him with special forces operatives and, unless I miss my guess, weapons and equipment, too.”
“There’s more,” Price said. “We’ve traced delivery of the antijam IED transmitters to the same plant in Detroit.”
“Why send the transmitters there?” Bolan asked. “Unless they’re—”
“Unless they’re building roadside bombs or other explosive devices for delivery overseas,” Price supplied. “Incorporating the antijam triggers.”
“All right,” Bolan said. “You’ve sold me. Does Jack have our travel details?”
“He does,” Price said. “I’ve got him warming up the engines as we speak.”
“Then I’ll grab Delaney and we’ll get a move on,” Bolan said. “Tell Cowboy I’m afraid I’ve lost one of his toys. I’ll need to replace that TAR-21.”
“I’ll let him know,” Price promised.
“I don’t suppose Twain has turned up anywhere.”
“No,” Price said. “He’s dropped off the radar. None of his known aliases have popped up on the grid since his flight to New Orleans.”
“I was afraid of that,” Bolan said. “But it makes sense. All right, Barb. We’re on our way to Detroit. Striker out.”
As they drove to the airport, Delaney didn’t ask about Twain, and Bolan didn’t volunteer the bad news. She’d know as well as he did that if he had nothing to tell her, that meant there was nothing to tell. She was doing a better job of hiding her disappointment, but he didn’t blame her. She’d fought hard only to have her quarry slip past her. That was never easy.
The Farm and Jack Grimaldi had some more surprises up their sleeves. Grimaldi taxied the jet to small hangar assigned for the purpose, once they reached Detroit. Then a shuttle truck arrived, taking Bolan, Delaney and Grimaldi to a nearby helipad. There, a Huey bearing Red Cross markings waited for them, the rotors turning and ready to go.
“Haven’t seen one of these in a while, eh, Sarge?” Grimaldi shouted over the rotor noise. “Bring back any memories?”
Bolan smiled grimly.
Grimaldi explained as they flew that the Detroit manufacturing facility was too far out from the airport for a fast drive-by via truck or car. There was no time to waste. Bolan had done enough damage to Twain’s operations, and thus to Trofimov’s plans, that the Russian might feel compelled to accelerate whatever timetable he was working against. That meant the ride from the airport to the Detroit facility would be accomplished by chopper, with the Farm’s own Jack Grimaldi in the pilot’s seat.
“There’s no way,” Bolan said over the intercom headset Grimaldi had given him, “that we’re going to make an unobtrusive insertion in this.”
�
�Don’t have to, Sarge,” Grimaldi said. “Figured it was hit ’em hard time, you know?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we’ve got a door gun!” He laughed, gesturing, and Bolan found, in a crate dogged to the floor at the rear of the chopper, an M-60 machine gun. He dragged it into place in its mount in the open door of the chopper, securing the ammo belt and cocking the weapon.
Delaney’s eyes were wide. No doubt she thought she’d just woken up in a Vietnam War movie.
“All right, Jack,” Bolan said. “Let’s give them something to think about.”
Grimaldi brought the chopper in low and slow over the target facility, an industrial factory-warehouse surrounded by similar properties in a gray, heavily paved, congested suburb of Detroit. Smokestacks in the distance spewed black plumes into the sky. The entire landscape looked and felt bleak. Grimaldi, experienced pilot that he was, skimmed the roof of the target warehouse, the skids nearly touching the corrugated metal.
“Jack,” Bolan said, “do you think this will work?”
“You tell me, Sarge!” Grimaldi smiled. “Looks like we’ve got somebody’s attention already!”
“You never explained why we’re sporting red crosses,” Bolan put in.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Grimaldi said. “If they shoot at us, you know they’re bad guys!”
The chopper made another low pass, buzzing the warehouse again.
A bullet whined off the skin of the chopper, startling Delaney in her seat harness.
“There they are!” Grimaldi pointed.
There were men on the ground. Several of them had emerged from doorways on two sides of the warehouse. They were aiming M-16 rifles at the chopper and firing at will, in some cases on full auto. The shots were going wide. Bolan was thankful that in this industrial district, there would be little in the way of pedestrians or homes. When those bullets came back down, they’d likely fall on yet more industrial property, endangering as few people as possible.
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