Sabotage

by Don Pendleton

“Yes, I have those right here,” Heller said. On the screen, he held up a small leather portfolio, which he handed to Wu.

  “I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or cynical, Cooper,” Delaney said, watching all of this unfold.

  “What do you mean?” Bolan asked from his seat.

  “Relieved that the government was already investigating Heller, who is apparently not just corrupt, but also a traitor, or cynical that this is true but the man is still active in the Congress, still walking around free.”

  “Justice takes time, sometimes,” Bolan said.

  “Yes.” Delaney smiled. “You strike me as the real ‘wait around and see’ type.”

  They watched intently as the meeting between Heller and Wu Lok concluded. Wu signaled his security personnel, all of them heavily armed under diplomatic immunity. The man typically traveled, Price had warned Bolan over his secure phone, with a couple of vans’ worth of security guards. No one man needed quite that much security, but the Chinese did it to play up Wu’s importance. Having so many guards implied that everything Wu did was so weighty, he might be assassinated at any moment by any of a legion of enemies.

  Bolan wasn’t sure how much was symbolism and how much was just plain force. From their vantage point in the NSA surveillance van, they’d had a couple of different views of Wu and his security contingent arriving at Heller’s office. Wu’s people were no honor guard, no exhibition. They appeared to be hardened, trained soldiers. That was likely to be a problem.

  Still, that was no reason to turn back now.

  “All right,” Bolan said. “I think I’ve heard enough. Time to go acquaint Congressman Heller with the facts.”

  Heller’s office was on the third floor of a stately brick building in downtown Richmond. The structure housed a number of other government offices, as well as some municipal services. Bolan made sure his weapons were properly concealed and climbed down out of the van.

  “You sure about this?” Delaney asked.

  “He’s a representative of the people,” Bolan said. “I would think he’d be glad to hear from a constituent.” He shut the van door and made his way across the street.

  There were metal detectors at ground level. Bolan flashed his Justice Department credentials, bypassing these, though the act earned him an angry glare from the armed security guard stationed there. He was from a private company Bolan didn’t immediately recognize, but it wasn’t SCAR. Chances were good it was a perfectly legitimate service. He just hoped the man would have the good sense to keep his head down and stay out of the way when the fireworks started.

  He took the nearest stairwell, avoiding the elevators. At the third floor, he checked the hallway. The corridors were long and wide, with expensive marble floors. A quick glance at the directory revealed that Heller’s local offices were the only ones on this floor. That was good; it meant there would be few, if any, extraneous personnel to wander into the cross fire.

  The soldier stalked down the hallway. The door to Heller’s office opened, and Wu’s security personnel began to file out. When the first man caught sight of Bolan, his features hardened. He pointed and said something in Chinese. The Executioner didn’t understand the language, but the intent was clear. He was being ordered off.

  Bolan spread his hands, feigning a lack of understanding.

  “He said,” one of the Chinese security guards translated in accented English, “to leave this floor.” The man’s hand disappeared into his black suit jacket.

  “I don’t know about you,” Bolan said, “but the last I knew, I was an American citizen in the hallway of a building in an American city on an American street. I don’t think I’ll be leaving.”

  The closest guard pulled a Glock from a shoulder holster, pointing it at Bolan’s face from a distance of only inches.

  “Now do you feel like moving, American?” the guard who had already spoken said arrogantly.

  “That,” Bolan said, “was a mistake.”

  “I will kill you where you stand!” the guard with the gun threatened. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Bolan had seen enough. Wu’s diplomatic immunity didn’t extend to death threats to private citizens, as far as the Executioner was concerned.

  He moved like a rattlesnake, whipping his head to the side, snapping his hand up and shooting the web of his free hand into the guard’s throat. As the Chinese guard went down, Bolan peeled the Glock from his grip, reversed it and aimed it at the other security operatives.

  “All of you,” he said, “get on the floor.”

  “You cannot do that!” one of the guards said. “We have diplomatic—”

  Bolan clubbed him in the head with the Glock. He dropped like a sack of wet cement.

  All hell broke loose.

  The guards pulled submachine guns and pistols of their own. Bolan threw himself back against the side of the corridor, his appropriated Glock barking. He brought down first one, then a second, then a third security guard, shooting into the target-rich environment with carefully placed shots. Then, because they wouldn’t expect it, he threw himself toward the knot of enemy, into their midst.

  There were shouts of confusion. One guard managed to shoot another, trying and failing to track Bolan. The soldier pistoned a kick into a knee here, a vicious edge-of-hand blow into a throat there, smashing first one and then another man in the head with the Glock. He scattered the guards, leaped over the last of them, and then rolled into Heller’s office, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Congressman Heller and Ambassador Wu stood there, both frozen in panic.

  “Congressman,” Bolan said. “Ambassador. Get on the floor. Now.” He leveled the Glock.

  The two men did as they were told, and none too soon. Wu’s security people began firing through the doorway. The fusillade of bullets struck the wall opposite where the two men had been standing only moments previously. Bolan flattened himself against the wall, covering the two men and waiting for the security guards to realize the blind fire wasn’t helping them.

  There was a lull in the firing. The door was kicked in. Bolan simply waited patiently for the first of the security guards to come rushing in. As he did so, Bolan shot him from behind.

  The next man blundered in after the first, and Bolan put a bullet in him, too. Considerations of fairness never entered into it; these men were trying to kill him, and Bolan would take every advantage available to him until they were neutralized.

  A third man followed the first two. Some combat instinct alerted him, and he twisted his body at the last moment, trying to bring his gun up and into play. Bolan shot him through the neck, the only angle available to him. The man went down gurgling.

  The remainder of the security guards were now hanging back, firing through the open doorway. Heller and Wu had managed to move themselves out of the direct line of fire and were crouched at the opposite side of the room, trying to avoid the bullets that pocked the walls and ricocheted around the space. Bolan, wondering how many times in one operation he could expect the same tactic to work, popped the pin on a flash-bang grenade from his war bag. He let the spoon fly, counted and tossed the bomb through the doorway, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears.

  The grenade detonated. There were afterimages still dancing in his vision, the glare having penetrated through his eyelids, as he broke cover and brought the Beretta up and in line with the enemy. The Chinese guards were stunned, but still struggling and still very much able to fight. They fired their guns at him, missing him by wide margins, struggling to overcome the disorientation of the grenade.

  Bolan methodically worked his way from left to right, firing single shots, the 124-grain jacketed hollowpoint rounds taking each man in the head.

  Then it was quiet.

  He stepped over the dead security operatives. Grabbing Ambassador Wu by the shirt, he pulled the man upright and put him against the wall.

  “Stay there,” he said. He took a plastic riot cuff from a pocket of his blacksuit and s
ecured Wu’s hands.

  “You cannot do this to me!” Wu said. “I am a duly appointed ambassador of the People’s Republic of China! I will have your head for this!”

  “Get in line,” Bolan said evenly. When he was satisfied Wu was secure, he pushed him into a sitting position in the corner. Already, he could hear sirens in the distance. The gunfire had prompted someone to call the police, and they were responding with all the speed they could manage.

  Bolan grabbed Heller, pulled him upright and secured his wrists behind his back. Then he pushed the man against the wall, placing the Beretta under the man’s chin.

  “Congressman Heller,” Bolan said, “you don’t know me. I’m with the Justice Department.”

  “Justice?” Heller was very pale.

  “The ride is over, Congressman,” Bolan said. “I suggest you cooperate fully.”

  Heller looked down at the gun, then back to Bolan’s eyes. “You…you wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” Bolan said. He jerked his chin toward the pile of dead Chinese security guards.

  “Tell him nothing!” Wu spat from his position on the floor.

  “You,” Bolan said, not turning, “shut up. Or I’ll club you until you lose consciousness.” That was a bluff, but Wu didn’t know that, and Bolan was counting on the showdown with the guards to buy him some instant credibility in the ambassador’s eyes.

  “Please,” Heller said. “I’ll cut a deal. Just give me immunity and I’ll testify.”

  “Testify to what?” Bolan said.

  “Trofimov,” Heller blurted. “Yuri Trofimov. Head of TBT! He’s running a terrorist operation.”

  “A terrorist operation with which you helped him,” Bolan said.

  “He tricked me!” Heller said lamely. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. Please, you’ve got to believe me. I’m a good American! I serve the people!”

  Bolan motioned as if he would pistol-whip the congressman. Heller flinched and was quiet for a moment. “As it happens,” he told Heller, “I’m conducting an investigation, of sorts, into Trofimov’s activities.” That wasn’t true, technically. Bolan was no detective, and his blitz of Trofimov’s holdings wasn’t an investigation so much as it was a search-and-destroy mission. But Heller wouldn’t understand that. All Bolan needed was whatever information Heller might hold.

  “I’ll cooperate!” Heller said.

  “You fool,” Wu said. “Can you not see he will kill you when he is finished with you? Look at him! Look at his eyes! He is a killer!”

  Bolan cast a hard look at Wu. “One more outburst,” he said, “and I’ll gag you.”

  The police sirens were growing louder. Someone on a bullhorn was broadcasting orders at the front of the building.

  “We’re almost out of time,” he told Heller. “Give me what I need, and I’ll dump you somewhere to work out whatever deal you can.”

  “SCFI!” Heller said. “SCFI!”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s…it’s, uh, Shanghai Corporate,” Heller said. “Shanghai Corporate Financing International. They’re in bed with the Chinese. All of Trofimov’s funds go through them. He admitted as much to me, and said the entire operation was a laundering front for the Chinese operating in this country. Warned me not to invest, if you can believe it!” Heller was on the fine edge of hysteria now.

  “Fool!” Wu snapped.

  Bolan planted a combat boot in the ambassador’s midsection, knocking the air from him but not hurting him seriously. “Quiet,” he said.

  “All my payments through Trofimov came from SCFI,” Heller said. “If anyone has the goods, the money trail, it would be them.”

  “Now that,” Bolan said, “is actually helpful. Do you know anything else?”

  Heller actually appeared to consider that. Finally, reluctantly, he shook his head. “I’m just a public servant.”

  “If you’re a public servant,” Bolan said, indicating Wu with a jerk of his head, “then he’s a humanitarian.”

  The local police began flooding the building. Delaney was with them, waving her FBI credentials and making sure everyone present knew Bolan was on the right side. When the cops in the lead realized who was being held prisoner, they stopped and stared.

  “Is there a problem, Officers?” Bolan asked. He began herding Wu and Heller down the corridor.

  “Uh, wait,” one of the cops said. “Uh, Agent…”

  “Cooper,” Bolan said. “Justice Department.”

  “Look, Agent Cooper,” the officer said, “We can’t… I mean, we can’t just let you… Well, look, that’s Congressman Heller, and he’s the Chinese ambassador!”

  “That is an accurate assessment,” Bolan told him. He continued herding the two men toward the exit.

  “Holy God,” one of the other cops said. He had found the carnage farther up the corridor. “There’s…there’s a pile of bodies here!”

  “You’ll find them all armed,” Bolan advised the cop who was trailing him. “Self-defense. Contact the Justice Department if you need clarification.” He breathed a silent apology to Hal Brognola, hoping the big Fed’s stress level wouldn’t rise to stratospheric levels before this was all over.

  “But, sir,” the cop said. “This is highly unusual.…”

  Bolan stopped. He eyed the cop, meeting his gaze man to man. “Officer,” he said, “Congressman Heller is wanted on charges of corruption, conspiracy and treason.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes.” Bolan nodded. “Ambassador Wu here has his own problems. Now, please, move out of my way.”

  “I’ll need to see some identification, sir,” the cop insisted. “She vouched for you—” he indicated Agent Delaney “—but that’s not enough.”

  “All right,” Bolan said. He showed the officer his Justice Department ID. “Now, step aside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once outside the building, Bolan headed for the NSA van, the only vehicle they had handy. He opened his secure phone and speed-dialed the Farm. Barbara Price answered on the first ring.

  “Barb,” Bolan said, “I’ve got a real mess here. Hal’s going to be up late dealing with it.”

  “Let me guess,” Price ventured.

  Bolan explained to her what had happened. “I need you to put a bag over Wu and Heller,” he said, “until someone can figure out what to do with them.”

  “All right,” Price said. “I’ll have our friends at the NSA take them into custody.”

  “Get me everything you can on Shanghai Corporate Financing International,” Bolan said. “Heller indicated that’s where Trofimov does all his extralegal banking.”

  Delaney caught up with him, helping him maneuver the two prisoners to the van. Heller looked shell-shocked. Wu was openly hostile, but seemed content to be led, for the time being.

  “What now, Cooper?” Delaney asked.

  “Now,” Bolan said, “I’ve got to look into my investment portfolio.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bolan ran his finger along the edge of the small electronic device that had been brought by fast courier from one of the Farm’s local assets. He was talking on his phone to Barbara Price yet again. Delaney was driving the rented SUV that carried them through the streets of Charlotte, North Carolina, toward downtown and the gleaming One Wachovia Center. At forty-two stories, the building was the tallest in the city, and was their landmark. The SCFI building sat in the shadow of that taller edifice, and had until now escaped real scrutiny.

  “Aaron says you just have to find network access,” Price was telling him, “and that little gadget will do the rest. It’s something Akira whipped up originally.”

  “What does it do?”

  “It will crawl the SCFI network,” Price said, “looking for profiles that fit what we’ve programmed into it. In this case, it will turn up anything linked to Trofimov, Heller or the Chinese government as it relates to those two. It will also keep an eye out for any major scandals it thinks we might find of int
erest.”

  “Sounds almost alive.”

  “No,” Price said, “just very, very clever. Aaron and Akira have been practically giddy over it. Well, Akira has been giddy. Aaron has been mildly enthusiastic, which for him is almost mad with glee.”

  “Understood,” Bolan said. “What am I up against in there?”

  “That’s the bad news,” Price said. “We’ve done some checking. On the surface, the operation is entirely legitimate, just another Chinese banking operation. Their network couldn’t stand up to our cyberteam, however.”

  “If we hacked their network,” Bolan asked, “why do I need to connect Akira’s gadget to their computers directly?”

  “The truly sensitive data will be partitioned on-site there, available to local access only,” Price said. “It’s a firewall measure taken for utmost data security. It makes sense. They’re hiding a lot of skeletons that they don’t want to see the light of day, if what we’ve uncovered thus far is any indication.”

  “Like what?”

  “It looks like SCFI is, in fact, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Chinese government. We’ve also got some data on personnel disposition in and around the SCFI headquarters.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re going to face a sizable security force on-site,” Price warned him. “SCAR is contracted to provide security, specifically. If what you’ve faced till now is any indication, they’ll probably be armed to the teeth, too.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Bolan warned her. “I’m going in.”

  “I know,” Price said. “Be careful, Striker.”

  “Striker out.” Bolan closed the connection.

  “Going to leave me behind again?” Delaney asked.

  “You’re welcome to tag along,” Bolan told her. “Just don’t get shot.”

  “You’re all heart, Cooper.”

  Bolan parked the SUV in a paid lot not far from One Wachovia Center. He had a new rifle, also couriered by way of the Farm, to replace his lost Tavor. The M-16/M-203 over-and-under combination was an old standby, capable of launching 40 mm grenades and using the same magazines and ammunition that his Tavor had used. This particular specimen had the marks of Cowboy Kissinger’s action tuning.