* * *
The carpet smelled of urine, urging Bolan to his feet once he'd sidestepped the initial rounds of hostile fire. He triggered two quick bursts in answer, anything to keep their heads down as he gained his balance, closing in to strike the locking mechanism with a well-placed kick.
The door flew open, splinters trailing from the jamb, and Bolan entered in a combat crouch. He had a brief impression of a body scrambling through the window, shoe soles rattling on the fire escape, and then his full attention was commanded by the rearguard sentry.
Bolan knew the face, but there was no time for a conscious recognition as he saw the automatic pistol rising in his adversary's hand. They fired simultaneously, the Executioner sideways to present a smaller target, but it didn't matter in the last analysis. His enemy had jerked the trigger, panic taking over in the crunch, and Bolan heard the bullet strike the wall. His own Beretta stuttered, scoring three for three, and then his man was down, a stunned expression on his face, the light of life already winking out behind his eyes.
Silvestri. First name, Anthony, an underboss in charge of moving drugs for Don Patrice Grisanti. Flashing through his mind, the information raised a question mark that Bolan had no time to cope with at the moment. He'd come for the Iranians, and they were slipping away.
He rushed to the window, stepping across Silvestri's corpse. A glance had been enough to show him that the room was empty, and if one of his intended targets had escaped by crawling through the window, it was safe to bet the other had been out before him. Precious seconds had already slipped away. He might not have another chance to make the tag.
He hesitated on the sill, then risked a glance outside. Ten feet below him, crouching on the fire escape, Abdel Bazargan was leveling a snub-nosed.38 at Bolan's face. The Executioner recoiled as splinters blasted from the window frame and stung his cheek. A second round drilled glass above his head and set in motion a jagged, tinkling waterfall.
Bolan poked his hand around the corner, squeezing off a burst that had no realistic hope of striking flesh. One bullet struck the fire escape and whined away, the others lost in empty space.
Another glance, and this time there was only frenzied motion on the metal stairs. He followed, scrambling across the windowsill and craning far across the rail. One of the terrorists had reached the pavement, sprinting north, and Bolan was about to try a shot when number two cranked off another round from somewhere just below his feet.
The rusty grating saved his life, but the warrior felt the bite of shattered fragments on his ankles. The fire escape was lurching as his adversary made a break, and Bolan followed, skipping two or three steps at a time to reach the landing just below him. Someone must have heard the shots by now, and even in the apathetic heart of New York City, neighbors could be dialing 911. Patrol cars might be swinging off their normal beats and turning toward the scene of the disturbance even now, surrounding Bolan and his prey.
He gained a flight when the Iranian got careless, slipping on the rusty stairs and nearly going down. The effort cost him time, and Bolan's target compensated by reversing his direction, thrusting out the snubby.38 and triggering a round that passed within an inch of Bolan's ear.
Precision work wasn't an option in the circumstances. Bolan fired a 3-round burst from twenty feet and saw one slug rip through the gunman's thigh, another tunneling his shoulder as the third broke wide. His target staggered, reeling with the impact, and he stroked the trigger one more time with greater accuracy, stitching three neat holes along the Iranian hitman's spinal column.
The 93-R's slide locked open on an empty chamber, pale smoke curling from the breech. The warrior pulled the magazine and snapped a fresh one home, released the slide to chamber up a live round as he shouldered past the sagging corpse, continuing pursuit.
His quarry was within a few short strides of disappearing, merging with the flow of afternoon pedestrians, and Bolan knew he had no time to waste. He holstered the Beretta, vaulted easily across the rail, and saw the pavement rushing up to meet him from a range of twenty feet.
* * *
According to tour guides, there are no such things as alleys in Manhattan. There are only streets, among which some — like Orwell's thinking animals — are clearly more equal than others.
The «street» that waited for Saddam Kassim below the hotel fire escape was narrow, lined with trash receptacles and heaped with refuse that had never made it into cans or Dumpsters. Homeless alcoholics might be found there, sleeping after dark, but it was vacant at the moment. He had ample room to run.
Gunshots echoed on the fire escape behind him. He recognized the crack of Abdel's.38 revolver, answered by the whisper of a silenced automatic. From the sounds of ricochets on metal, he deduced that Bazargan was still alive, a guess confirmed in seconds as the.38 went off again. This time, when the silenced weapon answered, he imagined that he heard the bullets striking home, a dying gasp from Abdel as his spirit separated from the flesh.
Still running, he was conscious of a heavy impact on the pavement. Abdel falling? Someone leaping from the fire escape in close pursuit? He wasted no time glancing backward, knowing that the enemy wouldn't be far behind. If he could reach the street in time, he had a chance.
Emerging from the alleyway, Kassim took time to tuck his.38 inside the waistband of his slacks. He turned left, an easterly direction, shoulders hunched to minimize his height and change the general outline of his silhouette. He didn't run, but moved with swift, determined strides, bypassing several dawdlers, putting them behind him and his pursuers. If he was forced to break away or stand and fight, his adversaries might think twice about the danger to their fellow men before they opened fire.
Kassim, for his part, wouldn't hesitate.
The terrorist had covered half a block before his ears picked up an angry murmur in the crowd behind him. Glancing back, he saw a tall man jostling past pedestrians, ignoring glares and bleats of protest from the sluggards. Kassim didn't recognize the man, but he knew the face of danger well enough. He palmed the.38 revolver, thumbed the hammer back and whirled to greet the stranger with a bullet, quickly aimed from forty feet away.
A youngish black man saved the runner's life, selecting just that moment for a change of course that brought him into Kassim's line of fire. The bullet drilled a clean hole in his nylon jacket, the surprise of impact mirrored on his face as he began to fall. Approaching from the rear, Kassim's opponent made the catch and knelt to ease his burden to the sidewalk, both hands momentarily occupied.
Kassim took off and left him to it, racing through the crowd, his.38 in hand. The weapon was a magic scepter, parting the impenetrable ranks in front of him as he ran. A woman screamed, and someone cursed him as he passed, but no one tried to stop him.
Spinning in midstride, he saw the stranger gaining, long legs eating up the sidewalk in his wake. Another running spin and he squeezed off a second shot, aware that it would take a miracle for the slug to find his target. He was dizzy now and veered off course, across the curb, colliding with a vendor who was selling pretzels on the street.
"You stupid…"
Slashing with the.38, Kassim cut off his words and drove them down his throat, along with broken teeth. At that he nearly stumbled on the falling body, almost lost his balance, gasping out a prayer for strength. He kept his footing somehow, weaving through the traffic which, at this point, had been slowed to a crawl. He ducked behind a sports car, slipped between two taxis and across the concrete island toward the eastbound lanes.
The blue-and-white patrol car seemed to come from nowhere, looming up to block his path with all its chrome and mounted lights. Two faces, black and white, regarded him with shocked expressions through the windshield. In a city where the police had seen it all, Kassim's abrupt appearance, gun in hand, apparently still came as a surprise.
Before they could recover or react, he got a running start and leaped up on their hood, the polished metal slippery beneath his feet. One of them had a m
icrophone in hand, but he hadn't begun to speak, and the Iranian wasn't about to let him start. Kassim fired two shots through the windshield at point-blank range, one at each stunned face, before he sprang away and lurched in the direction of the nearest sidewalk.
Screams were all around him now, but he could lose them if he was fast enough. The tall man on his heels would be another matter, but his luck was bound to change. He'd survived a confrontation with American police, and he would kill the tall American as soon as possible.
But he must plan the move precisely, making no mistakes.
He only had two bullets left.
* * *
Bolan cursed bitterly and plunged after his quarry, scuffing the hood of a shiny Mercedes as he took the path of least resistance. Passing the patrol car, he saw two bluesuits slumped inside, their bloody faces slack and unresponsive. The warrior passed them by, aware that there was nothing he could do to help them now, and reached the sidewalk after narrowly avoiding a collision with a Cadillac.
His prey was eastbound once again, and Bolan wondered if he had some destination in mind, or if panic was directing him. In either case the Executioner was bound to follow, and he took off in the gunner's wake, shouldering the idle gawkers aside with deliberate roughness, contact stoking up his need to win the race.
A hard right on MacDougal Street, and Bolan thought he might be gaining when the shooter changed his tack and ducked inside a small boutique. Ignoring the potential for an ambush, the warrior followed, palming the Beretta as he entered in a combat crouch. A tiny blonde with eyes the size of saucers pointed toward the rear of the establishment, and Bolan edged in that direction, past the dressing cubicles.
The back door stood ajar, presenting Bolan with a view of yet another alley. Clutching the Beretta in a firm, two-handed grip, he kicked the door wide open, waiting for a bullet that would spring the trap, proceeding in a rush when none was fired.
His prey was halfway down the alley, running as if his life depended on it. Bolan thought of shouting at him, but he knew that it would be a waste of breath. He couldn't even fire a warning shot, because the silencer would render it a futile gesture. He could drop the runner, with a little luck, but there would be no guarantee of merely wounding him at such a range.
And so he ran.
The Iranian's in-and-out at the boutique had added to his lead, and he was taking full advantage of it now. Instead of glancing left or right as he exploded from the alley, the man dashed straight across the intersecting street.
Or rather, tried to.
Bolan heard the screech of tires on asphalt, watched the taxi clip his target like a blade of grass before a mower, dragging him beneath its wheels. The chase was over, and he holstered the Beretta, slowing to a walk as he prepared to join the crowd of rubberneckers flocking to the accident.
He would remain until the ambulance arrived. No hurry there, judging by the appearance of the runner's crumpled form, the blood slick spreading out from underneath the cab. And while he waited, he would try to solve a riddle lacking any decent clues.
Chapter Three
When Bolan made it back to Bleecker Street, there was a parking ticket on the windshield of his rented car. He stuffed the paper in a pocket, slid behind the wheel and waited for a slot to open up in traffic, engine idling at the curb. In motion, the warrior let his instincts do the driving, rolling north through Greenwich Village into Chelsea, as his military mind sought different angles on a new and unexpected problem.
Bolan had been asked to take the two Iranians before they had a chance to find themselves a target. He had done the job, or seen it done, but now there was a wild card in the game, and simply taking down the gunners didn't put his mind at ease.
Silvestri was the problem, and his death at Bolan's hands did nothing to resolve the issue. Why were two Iranian assassins meeting in a cheap hotel off Bleecker Street with an underboss of the Grisanti family? And why Silvestri, who was known to handle drugs exclusively? By all accounts, the gunmen had been hard-core terrorists, not dealers. Logically — if there was any logic to be found — they should have met with someone else in the Grisanti hierarchy. Joe Tattaglia, perhaps, in charge of weapons for the family. Or Mickey Andriola, consigliere to the clan.
Silvestri's involvement made no sense at all, and while irrational behavior might have been expected from the members of a Shiite hit team, New York's mafiosi were a different breed of cat. They looked at every option, sized up all the angles prior to making any move, and when they made connections, it was always with a concrete goal in mind.
The puzzle had too many missing pieces. He'd have to look for answers elsewhere, and while Don Grisanti doubtless could have filled him in, the Executioner suspected he might have a problem wangling the necessary invitation to a sit-down. If he dropped in to see the don, unexpectedly, he'd run the risk of touching off a major brushfire war, and this time Bolan hadn't come prepared for full-scale military operations in Manhattan.
He'd have to find another way, and that meant calling Hal Brognola.
Cruising north along Ninth Street, he found a shopping mall near Chelsea Park and left his car a short walk from the outdoor pay phones. One was in use, two others out of order thanks to vandals, but his luck improved on number four. He fed a handful of assorted coins into the slot and punched out Hal Brognola's office number, with the prefix for the District of Columbia.
It was a private line, and Brognola picked up before the phone could ring a second time.
"Hello?"
"I've got a number for you," Bolan told him.
"I'm listening."
He read the pay phone's number off and waited as it was repeated in the gruff, familiar voice.
"Affirmative."
"Three minutes."
Bolan cradled the receiver, waiting, and the call came through with seconds left to spare. Brognola would be scrambling and recording all at once, the tapes erased before the day was out, unless they seemed to have some evidentiary value.
"How's the weather?" the big Fed inquired when Bolan answered.
"Heating up."
"It has a tendency to do that. Have you had a chance to meet our friends?"
"Just now. They didn't have a lot to say."
"I guess they're tired from all that traveling."
"You'd be surprised. When I dropped in, they were already entertaining company."
A note of caution crept into Brognola's voice. "That's interesting. Anyone I know?"
"A local Family man by the name of Silvestri."
"He's the one who deals in pharmaceuticals?"
"He used to. Last I heard he was retired."
"That makes it sticky. I'd prefer to have this conversation in the flesh. What kind of schedule are you working on? Do you have any time to spare?"
"Could be. I've got some questions of my own."
"Let's hope I have the answers."
"Are we talking Stony Man?"
"Where else?"
"I'll drive," the soldier said on impulse. "Look for me tomorrow, close to lunchtime."
"Fair enough. That gives me time to check some odds and ends."
"It's gotten odd enough already."
"Yeah. We'll have to see if we can fix that. See you."
Driving back to his hotel in midtown, Bolan tried to read between the lines of Hal Brognola's conversation. Was the man from Justice holding out, or had he truly been surprised by the news about Silvestri? The warrior flipped a mental coin and factored in his knowledge of the big Fed's personality, deciding Brognola's expression of surprise was genuine.
And in its own way, that made matters worse.
A relatively simple game of tag was turning complicated, and he didn't like the sudden twist. It made him nervous when the savages began to work in concert, laying ego baggage and petty jealousies aside. A common interest was implied, and Bolan didn't even want to think about the cause that would unite a team of Shiite terrorists with New York's Mob.
H
e didn't want to think about it, but he had no choice.
His enemies had served the problem up before him on a platter, and he couldn't turn away. Tomorrow at Stony Man Farm there might be answers to the questions that were nagging at his mind.
If not, the Executioner would have to seek them somewhere else.
* * *
"Silvestri?" Leo Turrin's frown seemed carved in granite. "Anthony Silvestri?"
"As I live and breathe," Brognola said. "He doesn't, though, anymore."
"It couldn't happen to a nicer guy."
"Agreed, but that's beside the point. Our question of the moment is, what was the Brooklyn smack king doing with a pair of triggers from Teheran?"
"Converting?"
"That's a scream. I'll laugh next time I get a chance."
Brognola's sour tone wiped Turrin's smile away. "All right then, if Silvestri was involved, I'd say the boys were talking drugs. We know the Families are shopping in the Golden Crescent nowadays. The China White's too pricey for a lower class of clientele."
"Agreed, but when did participants of the Islamic Revolution start dealing? These guys won't touch pork, for God's sake. You think they're moving smack and hash now?"
Leo shrugged and spread his hands. "Right now," he said, "I don't think anything. Silvestri was the mover for Grisanti's Family. That's solid. If he's started branching out to other lines, I haven't heard about it."
"No," Brognola agreed. "Me, neither."
"Well?"
"I've got a date with Striker at the Farm, lunchtime tomorrow. Can you make it?"
"Absolutely."
"Fine. Reach out for Jack Grimaldi, will you? Make it top priority."
"Will do." The frown was still in place. "What's going on?"
"It's just a hunch," Brognola said.
"That bad?"
"The worst. I've got some calls to make, loose ends to wrap up before I lay it out. If nothing proves me wrong, I'll fill you in tomorrow, along with Striker."
Assault Page 3