“All of you, on the floor!” he ordered.
No one complied. It never hurt to try. There were several other bikers falling over themselves to run from him, stumbling through the confines of the trailer and realizing that, unless they wanted to throw themselves out the windows, there was nowhere to go. Bolan shot one man just as he attempted to do just that. He shot a second wielding an Uzi. The subgun chattered and stitched the wall to Bolan’s left, but the soldier avoided the enemy fire and put the subgunner down.
At the end of the corridor the soldier found the largest bedroom in the trailer. He stepped into the doorway, gun ready, and triggered two rounds into the chest of a man who came at him with a machete. The machete-wielding biker went down, but Bolan was tackled from behind by another man. The two of them rolled and wrestled for control of the Executioner’s gun, which was lost in the melee.
Bolan kneed his opponent in the stomach, hard. The biker gasped but managed to pull free and stumble to his feet. The switchblade appeared in his hand as if by magic.
“You bastard,” he wheezed. “I’m going to cut you so bad your family won’t know you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You got a knife there.” The biker nodded to Bolan’s belt line. “Come on, dude. We’ll blade it out, man to man. You look like a tough bastard. What do you say?”
Bolan said nothing. He drew the Beretta 93-R and pulled the trigger.
The man with the switchblade toppled forward, a shocked look on his face.
The Executioner’s fingers brushed the hilt of the Boker combat dagger sheathed inside his waistband. He could have gone for the knife, certainly, but this was not meant to be a fair fight. He bent to retrieve the Desert Eagle when something exploded from the bedroom closet.
The biker was small, but incredibly densely muscled, built like a fire hydrant. He rammed into Bolan’s midsection, driving the air from the Executioner’s lungs, tearing the Beretta from his grasp. Then the man had his huge arms around the soldier’s middle and was squeezing for all he was worth.
Bolan felt his vision begin to gray out around the edges. Spots swam before his eyes. He thought he could feel his ribs cracking; the pain was incredible. The biker laughed as he literally tried to squeeze the life from his opponent.
The soldier managed to drop his hand to the knife he had refused to draw a moment before. The keen, wide, double-edged blade came free as his fingers tightened around the weapon’s handle. Then the blade was slicing into one of the biker’s arms, causing the man to shriek in pain and horror.
Bolan kicked off the wounded biker and stumbled backward, gasping for breath. Still clutching the knife in his right hand, he found the butt of the Beretta with his left, leveled it and fired a 3-round burst into his attacker. The biker fell and died, the look on his face one of complete astonishment.
It always seemed to be a shock to them when they died violently, Bolan reflected, despite their willingness to do violence to others.
“Cooper?” Delaney’s voice sounded in his ear. “Are you all right? You sound like you’re breathing funny.”
“I’ll live,” Bolan said. “Just a slight…disagreement…with one of the paid goons.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “Stay put. Just a few loose ends to tie up.”
He swept the trailer again after finding and holstering his Desert Eagle. There were no more bikers to be found. Then he emerged from the trailer and checked the tents. There was nothing in those except for a lot of dirty clothes, empty beer bottles and other debris.
The cookhouse was next. Bolan, weapons ready, made his way to the doorway of the metal shed. It was padlocked. He stepped back, aimed the Desert Eagle and shattered the lock with a single .44 slug. Then he ripped open the plywood door.
The meth lab was empty.
Pulling an incendiary grenade from his war bag, Bolan moved well back, armed the grenade and tossed it into the open door of the metal outbuilding. Just to be on the safe side, he put the trailer between himself and the meth lab. The explosion shattered the windows of the trailer and rattled the entire building in its frame. The cloud of black smoke that erupted would probably be visible for miles once it spread.
“Goddamn, Cooper,” Delaney said. “What was that?”
“A loose end being tied up,” Bolan replied. “Come on in.”
With Delaney’s help, Bolan searched the trailer. The larger bedroom was apparently the room Winston had used. They found several notebooks with hand-drawn designs and painfully small, incredibly detailed commentary filling page after page. Each was signed by Winston himself, so there was no doubt as to the origin of the material. They threw all of these into a large trash bag to be taken with them. The notebooks would eventually make their way to the Farm to be used as evidence. Winston himself had been dropped into the system and was probably still being processed by whatever federal agency eventually laid the strongest claim to him. He may have been on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List, but he was also a wanted by half a dozen other agencies and municipalities.
Bolan didn’t care, as long as the man was off the streets, unable to help people like Trofimov. If it were up to Bolan, he would see all of Winston’s work burned, to prevent even the possibility of its use by others.
They were packing the Yukon when first Delaney, then Bolan heard the sound of motorcycle engines coming up the dirt road.
“Looks like there were a few unaccounted for,” Bolan said. He drew the Desert Eagle and used the engine block of the truck for cover. Delaney skirted the truck and took up a position around the side of the trailer, which afforded her a better angle.
The bikers roared in and stopped when they saw Bolan behind the truck. They cut their engines. There were five in all, riding four machines, one of which had a sidecar.
“Who the hell are you,” the lead biker said, “and why are you pointing a gun at us?”
“Drop to your knees,” Bolan ordered. “Lace your hands behind your head. You are all being taken into government custody.”
“Like hell,” the biker said. He grabbed for the butt of a MAC-11 shoved in his waistband. The illegal full-auto weapon blazed away as he held the trigger down, spraying the area.
Bolan shot him.
The other bikers went for their guns, but Bolan put .44 slugs into two of them, while Delaney triggered a burst from the MP-5 K that dropped the rest.
Suddenly it was quiet again, except for the crackle of the flames coming from the wreckage of the cookhouse.
“That’s that,” Bolan said. “Let’s get moving.”
“Uh-oh,” Delaney said. “Problem.”
Bolan followed her gaze. The wild full-auto fire had left a trail down the flank of the Yukon, flattening both tires on the driver’s side.
“Not the first time that’s happened,” Bolan said.
“Now what?” Delaney asked.
“You ride at all?”
“No,” Delaney said.
Bolan looked at the motorcycle with the sidecar, then back at her.
“I think I see a solution.”
“Oh, hell,” Delaney said.
THE RIDE BACK to the airport and Grimaldi, with the materials recovered from the trailer stuffed in the sidecar with Delaney, was rough, but they managed. Grimaldi laughed when he saw them roll up but didn’t comment. He waited for Bolan to give him the story, then got on his cell phone to start making arrangements with the rental company.
“So much for the security deposit,” Bolan said to Delaney.
She laughed, then groaned as she tried to stretch out the soreness in her muscles.
Bolan next contacted the Farm, checking in with Barbara Price.
“Striker,” Price said, “we have more developments.”
“Give me what you’ve got,” Bolan said.
“We’ve traced the orders for your phony Army unit,” Price said. “Hal’s keeping it very hush-hush for now, to give you time to deal with the situation in your own wa
y.”
“Who is it?”
“A Congressman David Heller,” Price said. “He has an office in Richmond, and our sources tell us he’s there now. You’re finished in Pennsylvania?”
“At least for now,” Bolan said. “The meth lab Trofimov’s people were running is history. We found confirmation of the bomb-designing activities. I’ve got quite a bit of material to ship back to you for use as evidence or in analyzing any IE devices we might uncover.”
“All right,” Price said. “I think the good congressman should be your next visit, then,” she said. “At least, Hal strongly suggests it. As it turns out, we’re not the first government agency to take an interest in Heller. He’s been under scrutiny for a while, and it seems he’s due for a talking-to.”
“I can think of two people I’d like to talk to more,” Bolan said, “and their names are Twain and Trofimov. I think Heller should make a good stop along the way.”
“I’ve got a complete dossier on him,” Price said. “It includes surveillance data gathered to date. There’s nothing remarkable so far, other than suspicious undertones, but it will set the table for your arrival. I’ll upload it to your phone.”
“Thanks, Barb. Any news on the ‘massacre’ video?”
“It’s getting worse, Striker,” Price said. “Several of our allies, or at least nations that permit us to operate military bases on their soil, are screaming that we can’t be trusted. There’s talk of pulling permission for several strategically important bases. We can’t afford that. This goes beyond the nation’s image. Some of those sites are vital to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and others have critical strategic importance for different reasons.”
“There’s still no ID on the soldiers involved?”
“None at all,” Price said. “It’s turned into a real media circus, too. Trofimov has been on his cable news network half a dozen times in recent memory. Now he’s promoting a phone ‘tip line’ that he hopes will ‘bring these heinous murderers to justice,’ if I remember the phrasing exactly. He’s actively soliciting informers to provide the names of the soldiers, and he keeps publicly running the names he receives even if they’re from obvious cranks.”
“How’s that legal?” Bolan said. “He can’t just accuse specific soldiers of participating in the massacre without evidence.”
“There are some loopholes,” Price said. “He’s claiming not that they’ve actually done the crime, but that he’s simply reporting, unedited, what comes in on the tip line, in case one of those tipsters stumbles onto something. The intent is clear, but the legal dodge protects him. Plus, most of our people serving in the military don’t have the money to hire lawyers that could compete with Trofimov’s crew of relentless, highly paid sharks. Wealth has its privileges, and among them is insulation from lawsuits.”
“There must be something we can do,” Bolan said. “I’m convinced that the video is fake. That’s the only reason I can see that we can’t seem to identify the men in it.”
“You’re not keeping up on your conspiracy theories,” Price told him. “The buzz on the Web is that the men in the video were spirited away by the U.S. government, either for quick deaths or for covert lives in the lap of luxury. I guess it depends on how cynical you are, in terms of which you’re more likely to believe.”
“We can’t continue to let this go unchecked.”
“I can’t see that we can do anything about it, Striker,” Price said, sounding frustrated. “I wish we could.”
“But we know Trofimov is dirty. I know that doesn’t mean anything in a court of law at the moment, but we can fight him at his own game. Put Bear and his people on producing some kind of counterpropaganda relevant to this.”
“You’d be surprised just how many pro-American bloggers and other Internet pundits are willing to spend their time doing just that,” Price said, “including analyzing the tape from every conceivable angle, cataloging its appearances and those who received money for sharing it, etc. In the end, though, it doesn’t really change the minds of those who think this nation is hurting its allies. We are all suffering as a result.”
“All right, Barb,” Bolan said. “We’re headed to Richmond. I’ll go have a word with the congressman.”
“Good luck, Striker.”
“He’s a politician. I’m going to need it. Striker out.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mak Wei sat sphinxlike in his customary chair, smoking and saying nothing, while Trofimov paced.
“I cannot believe this!” Trofimov exclaimed. “The entire operation is falling around our ears! Have you seen these reports?” He waved a handful of faxed sheets under Mak’s nose. The man looked up him disdainfully.
“I have seen them,” he said simply. “I am not impressed by your operation thus far.”
“My operation?” Trofimov said indignantly. “It’s your operation, too!”
“I think you miscalculate,” Mak Wei said. “The People’s Republic of China has no direct involvement in your schemes. And I have no official standing with my government.”
“We both know that’s a lie!” Trofimov said.
“Need I remind you,” Mak said, smiling faintly, “that it was you who first approached us?”
“But you’ve lost men, too!” Trofimov said.
“We have lost no one.” Mak Wei shook his head. “No one who is not already dead, or whose ties to our government cannot be substantiated. There are many individuals who turn to lives of crime. We cannot keep track of all of them, but we certainly do not bear responsibility for their continued misdeeds.”
Trofimov stopped, wiped his face with his hand and looked at Mak Wei. “Mak, I need your help. You must do something! The operation, one in which you have said you believe, is in danger!”
“I? Why must I do something?” Mak said. “You would shame me, force me to take responsibility for that which I bear no blame? I do not think so.”
“Be reasonable. We need each other. Your nation needs my help. My plan can work. But I need the support of your resources. I need more troops.”
“You have many troops,” Mak said. “A substantial number of which guard this very building, and your person. You tell me now these are not enough?”
“Enough to protect our hides,” Trofimov said. Mak noticed he was careful to say “our” and not “my.”
“But not enough for the remainder of your plan,” Mak offered.
“No,” Trofimov admitted. “Not now. Not with the loss of the unit in Houston, and Gareth Twain’s training center and headquarters. And just this morning I’ve had word that the meth laboratory in Pennsylvania’s been hit, as well as my bomb plant in Detroit. All of these were cornerstones of the plan!”
“It was an ambitious plan,” Mak said. “Perhaps too ambitious. Perhaps you sought to fight your war on too many fronts at once. Sun Tzu teaches us—”
“To hell with Sun Tzu!” Trofimov interrupted. “Can’t you see we’re past that?”
“I think it is time you stopped shrieking at me like a spoiled child,” Mak said evenly, “and assess your resources. It is time to cut your losses, evaluate the situation and formulate a new plan, one that adapts to the reality of your situation now. Stop whining over what might have been. I have seen enough undertakings by my government fail in this way. I do not need to hear you wail about your own.”
Trofimov took a deep breath. Mak regarded him for a moment. The man was very obviously vain, and overmuch concerned with symbolism rather than substance, but he wasn’t stupid. And though Mak wouldn’t now admit it to the man, Trofimov’s ambitious plan had showed every sign of working. Portions of it still worked; portions of it still could work. First, however, the Russian would have to get over his temper tantrum and deal with reality, rather than cry over it. Mak detested the man when he behaved in this way. He had seen it a few times before, though not often, for Trofimov was usually on the winning side of things. Faced with a defeat, even a salvageable one, he was truly insufferable.<
br />
Trofimov had phoned him urgently that morning, screaming for help, and Mak had decided he had best leave his hotel and visit Trofimov in his office, lest the frantic Russian do something inadvisable that they would all regret. Mak’s handlers had warned him that this was one aspect of the job he couldn’t overlook. He was to manage Trofimov as much as he was to attempt to profit from the scheme his government chose to support, however indirectly.
The irony was, of course, that Trofimov thought he was using Mak and the People’s Republic of China. The fool actually believed he could outsmart Mak, that Mak and those working with him were nothing more than tools Trofimov could use, break and throw away. That was the sort of arrogance that would eventually earn Trofimov a bullet in the brain. The Chinese agent allowed himself few illusions and fewer fantasies, but that was one fantasy he entertained: he hoped he would be the one to put that bullet in Trofimov, shutting up the loud-mouthed Russian forever. The blessed silence that resulted would be a gift to humankind.
“What do you want me to do?” Trofimov asked. It was a mystery to Mak that this man who considered himself a titan of industry would allow himself to appear so vulnerable. Clearly he felt entitled to his position, so much so that he dared appear vulnerable to an ally. Either that, or he truly was unstable. His obsession with harming the military forces of his own adopted nation certainly pointed to a fair amount of irrationality. While intellectually Mak could understand why the Russian hated the West and hoped to harm it from within, the pragmatic Mak simply could not grasp the need for that type of revenge. The past was the past; the world was the world; there was no point fretting over political regimes come and gone, or nation-states that had collapsed under their own weight. Even anger over a war since resolved struck Mak as pointless. When hostilities ceased, there was only who gained and who lost.
“Assess your losses,” Mak instructed. “Dispassionately. Realistically.”
“We’ve lost a large portion of Gareth Twain’s SCAR personnel,” Trofimov said. “We’ve lost most of the drug distribution operation, including the Chicago hub and the meth laboratory in Pennsylvania. We’ve lost the services of Winston, and we’ve lost the bomb assembly plant, as well as the components used to make the special transmitters. We’ve lost the disguised unit that was to travel abroad and impersonate U.S. soldiers, and we’ve lost all the resources staged to support them.”
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