by Jake Striker
That done I stowed the Android and found a door marked EXIT.
I shoved the door open and burst outside. No one tried to stop me as I sped downrange.
I reached the Jeep and thrust inside. Moments later I was rolling west on Powhattan.
After six blocks I braked and parked.
I palmed my Android. I selected my photos and typed several paragraphs of notes.
Next I transmitted the info to my contact that SFPD. I dialed her office number and waited.
After four rings she answered. "Jackson, Major Crimes Unit."
"Check your email."
I hung up. There was nothing more to say.
I had already briefed the LEO on tonight's op. She knew I was going in hard.
My notes and photos would show the result. Yeah.
In graphic detail.
Jackson would send in a SWAT team. They would secure the warehouse.
They would mop up any lingering resistance.
ATF would deal with the subguns. CSI would bag the wasted thugs.
Jackson understood the score and she was fully on board. She was sick of filing reports and sitting on her hands.
She was sick of watching the blackhats win big.
I stowed the Android and drew a sharp breath.
Noonan was out of business. Forever.
That meant one less gunrunner on the streets. One less cannibal profiting from misery and death.
He would be replaced of course. But that did not matter.
What mattered was taking action. What mattered was striking back.
I veered onto Powhattan. I was planning my next move.
I had a lead on Toom. The Sierra Nevadas.
Mount Diablo.
I used voice control to query my GPS. It told me Diablo was east of San Francisco.
A distance of two hundred miles.
It was a thin lead. Granted.
Toom's exact location was still a mystery.
He was an elusive target. Damn right.
But I refused to quit. I would pursue my quarry to the bitter end.
I had to find the bastard and send him on a one-way ride. Going down.
Straight into the blackest pit of hell.
7
Approaching the Sierra Nevada mountain range
Twenty-four hours later
I powered northeast on Interstate 60. I scoured the Jeep's rearview for signs of hostile action.
I found none. But that did not guarantee safety.
My enemies could be lurking under cover and ready to strike.
Likewise a sniper could be in position. He could be primed to put a bullet through my brain.
I cut off the negative thoughts. I could not control the unknown.
There was no profit in grim speculation. Instead I had to focus on the mission.
I hit the Jeep's accelerator and surged toward my target.
I had to pinpoint Colonel Toom. And kill him.
My GPS squawked and told me I had reached my exit.
I cranked the Jeep's wheel and turned off the interstate. I rolled north on Hammerhead Road.
Dark mountains loomed ahead.
The Sierra Nevadas.
Their icy peaks glowed in the moonlight.
I angled off Hammerhead onto a narrow trail. I had to stay focused and stay on course.
A deep gorge ran along one side of the trail. There was no hazard warning and no safety barrier.
Loose rocks broke free under my tires. They tumbled into the gorge and vanished into blackness.
My GPS squawked again. "Turn left in fifty feet."
I drove onto another rugged trail and kept rolling. After six miles I steered left again.
I nosed the Jeep through a copse of firs. My LEDs lit flying bugs and swooping bats along the way.
My GPS told me I had reached my destination.
I braked to a halt next to a winding river. Its dark water reflected a full moon and countless stars.
Its name was El Capitan. It flowed south to join the awesome Rio Grande.
My panther eyes adjusted and pierced the gloom. I scanned the silent trees that surrounded my Jeep.
They should provide decent camouflage until I returned. If I returned.
I slid from the SUV and readied my gear.
I pulled a Marauder dinghy from the Jeep's roof rack. I gripped it tight and hauled it overhead.
The Marauder's ultralight hull granted easy handling.
I lowered the sleek black boat onto the river's surface.
I snagged its mooring line and tethered it to the bank. Next I locked the Jeep and set its theft alarm.
I could not imagine car thieves roaming these lonely woods. But I refused to take chances.
I boarded the Marauder. I crouched and grabbed its oars.
The paddles were specially designed to minimize splashing noise.
I cast off and rowed toward my target. I kept my oar strokes quiet.
I hunched low to hide my profile. Still I was vulnerable to detection.
Death was only a trigger pull away. Like always.
I entered a flooded canyon and kept rowing. I scanned the canyon walls and spotted ghostly figures.
They were painted on the rocks. They had been made by ancient hunters.
One faded painting showed a fallen man. A spear pierced his torso.
I scowled and hoped that was not a bad omen.
I rowed on. After sixty minutes my GPS told me I had gained my waypoint.
I narrowed my eyes and scanned ahead.
The river widened toward a dim shore. It was flat and made for a decent landing.
I glanced beyond the shore and spied dark firs. The foliage and shadows should offer good cover.
I was grateful. I would need every advantage as I closed on my target.
I wore MARPAT woodland camouflage to aid with concealment. Warpaint masked my face in alternating bands of green and gray.
Meantime I had to be alert for enemy patrols. I had to be ready for all types of tricks and traps.
I tightened my grip on my oars and thrust ahead. I reached the shallows.
No troops challenged me and no guns exploded. I quit the Marauder and dragged it with me as I raced ashore.
I covered fifty paces and hauled the boat under a rock ledge. It should stay hidden there until I needed to retrieve it.
I crouched and probed again for danger. There was none.
I pushed up and kicked off running.
I kept my weapon up and ready for action. It was an FN SCAR assault rifle.
It was equipped with an AimPoint optical sight.
I gritted my teeth and sped my pace.
I was vulnerable to enemy guns while I moved across open ground. That meant I had to get to cover ASAP.
I leaped a rotting deer carcass and kept going. I reached the treeline and plunged inside.
I rechecked my GPS to confirm my bearings. Next I shifted upslope.
Dead leaves crunched under my boots and foliage rustled.
I cursed at the noise. But I could not advance in complete silence.
I pressed on with the SCAR primed for action. The slope steepened and my hike became a climb.
I breathed heavily. My leg muscles ached and burned.
I took another step and detected sudden motion. I peered up and spotted a nighthawk in a treetop.
The hawk swooped and spread its talons. It snagged a mouse from the ground.
It soared into the moonlit sky with its supper.
I kept low and sensed brand-new motion.
Two man-shapes emerged fifty paces ahead. They hefted autorifles and trod fast in my direction.
I shifted sideways behind a stout fir. The tree's thick trunk and branches masked my outline.
The troops edged closer. I leveled the SCAR and braced for action.
The men halted and lit cigarettes. The cigarette tips glowed red and blue smoke coiled in the moonlight.
A stink of herbal toba
cco flared my nostrils. I lowered the SCAR and drew my sidearm.
It was an HK Mark-23 autopistol and I called it Black Thunder. I fitted its sound can and pointed it at my opposition.
I aimed at the nearest guard.
As if on cue the man spun toward me. He dropped his cigarette and clawed for his weapon.
Too late.
I loosed Black Thunder.
The pistol coughed and a .45 FMJ bullet hurtled downrange. The FMJ struck the man and he vaulted backward.
The other guard gasped in shock and grabbed his AK. Again it was too late.
I pulled Black Thunder's trigger.
The FMJ hit at 990 feet per-second.
The man staggered and wobbled. But he stayed upright.
I loosed another FMJ.
The man lost his rifle and dropped to his knees. He spat blood and toppled facedown.
I scanned for more danger and discovered none. I stepped toward a fallen man and bent to examine him.
His features were Asian and his wrist bore a Triad tattoo. That was no surprise.
I retrieved his weapon.
It was a Russian-made ZOM rocket gun. It fired from a 10-shot box magazine.
It was a brand-new design from Moscow's Izmosh Arsenal.
I checked the ZOM's load and found red-tip rockets. I knew from training that each rocket contained twenty-four steel darts.
The ZOM was a powerful weapon and I was grateful to have it. Doubtless I would need the extra firepower.
I slung the ZOM across my back and pushed upright. I scanned the dead men.
How long before they were discovered? How long before shifts changed and fresh guards appeared?
I had to speed my pace. I left the corpses and trod upslope.
I stayed alert for more patrols. No enemy troops crossed my path.
A rocky peak loomed above me. It was jagged and foreboding.
It was Mount Diablo. It was home to a man-eating monster called the Sierra Devil.
Of course it was a legend. But some monsters were real.
Like Colonel Toom.
The forest tightened around me. Darkness swirled and hid unknown danger.
As I moved a quote flashed into my head. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
It was strange to recall a Bible verse now.
I was not a praying man. Still the words gave me comfort and lent me strength.
I slogged onward and upward. I kept probing for hostile troops.
I was also wary of timber wolves and rattlesnakes.
At last I found my waypoint. I took a few more paces and gained a stony mountain trail.
I rescanned my GPS and forged on.
The moon shone high overhead and lit my way. Even with my panther vision I was grateful for the extra light.
I reached a spot where the trail widened.
Strange shapes thrust from the ground. They were bathed in moonlight and cast long shadows.
They were toadstool boulders. They were common in this part of the Sierras.
They had been carved by eons of erosion.
I trod onward and sensed danger. I registered a sound of splattering fluid and a stink of urine.
Damn!
I pivoted toward the sound and odor. I kept Black Thunder up and ready.
A figure stepped from behind the nearest boulder. It was another guard and he was pulling on his pants zipper.
He saw me and his eyes flared in shock.
He grasped his rifle. But he never got the chance to aim or fire.
I triggered Black Thunder three times into his chest.
He lurched backward off the trail. He tumbled steeply downslope and plunged into freefall.
He was diving into a dark trench.
It was Dead Man's Gorge and it was two hundred feet deep. It was filled with thorny brush and jagged rocks.
The man kept falling and vanished into murky shadow. There was a dull thud and dead silence.
I stepped away from the gorge. I sensed brand-new motion.
Two more figures appeared along the trail. Both carried AKs.
I sank backward and crouched behind a boulder.
The troops marched ahead with guns raised.
I stayed put and leveled Black Thunder.
The guards trod past my position. They did not see me.
They were moving toward the spot where their comrade had fallen. They reached the gorge and peered down.
I had to make a move. I made a silent countdown.
Now!
I aimed at the nearest man and triggered three rapid shots.
The guard shuddered and toppled sideways into the gorge.
Black Thunder's slide locked back on empty. There was no time to reload.
I drew my Tanto knife and surged toward my target.
The man spotted his danger and swung to evade. Too late.
I slashed and stabbed with the Tanto.
The man dropped his AK and collapsed onto the trail. He thrashed and went stiff.
Blood gleamed on the Tanto's blade. I wiped it off on the dead man's tunic.
I stowed the knife and reloaded Black Thunder. Next I rolled the carcass off the trail and into the gorge.
Five enemies down so far. How many left?
How many hostiles prowling in the dark? How long before new troops appeared?
I rechecked my GPS and stalked ahead. I stayed alert for brand-new danger with Black Thunder raised.
I reached another curve in the trail and found more dark shapes. I peered closer.
The shapes were mining shacks built from fir logs and pine clapboard. They were dilapidated and partially collapsed.
They had housed miners who dug uranium ore here in the 1940s.
The ore had been shipped to Los Alamos in New Mexico. There it was refined for use in the first atomic bombs.
Several hundred pounds of uranium-235 had decimated Hiroshima.
The mine shafts were long-closed. No men had worked here for decades.
I edged past the shacks. After fifty paces I reached the end of the trail.
Again I checked my GPS. I veered left and found a rugged bluff.
I dropped behind a boulder and set down my gear bag. I peered downslope and spotted my target.
It was a paramilitary camp inside a shallow canyon. It was not marked on any printed map nor listed on Google Earth.
It had been pinned by a satellite based on my tipoff.
I scanned the camp and picked out a guard tower. It loomed over the camp's only entrance.
The camp itself was oblong and covered roughly two acres. It was bordered by razor wire and chain-link fence.
I spotted five prefab Quonset huts. One sprouted VHF antennae and a SATCOM dish.
Doubtless the SATCOM could communicate with Beijing. Or anywhere else across the globe.
The other commo gear was also high-powered.
Doubtless it could link with Toom's criminal network.
That included Triad soldiers and commanders.
I reckoned the hut was also the camp's command post—or CP. Was Colonel Toom inside the CP?
I hoped so. I was counting on it.
I tracked on and spotted a vehicle shelter. Five carbon-copy SUVs were parked there.
They were black Lambos. Yeah.
Like the ones I had battled in San Francisco.
I scanned uprange and found a helipad with an Aero Skyhawk. It had the same markings as Toom's getaway bird.
It was draped with camouflage netting.
That hid it from most surveillance. But not all surveillance.
As if on cue four men stepped from the nearest hut.
Two were dressed in flight suits and helmets. They reached the Skyhawk and climbed aboard.
The other men released the Skyhawk's rotor mooring lines.
They peeled its camo net.
Five more men emerged from the hut. They strode toward the helo and carried bulky duffel bags
.
I reckoned the bags were stuffed with opioids.
A payload of misery and death. Damn right.
I palmed my Nikon binoculars and zoomed on the men. I recognized the group's leader.
According to intel his name was Oleg Vorshin. He was a trained chemist with a PhD in virology.
He had worked on Russia's germ warfare program.
But the pay was meager. So he made tracks for the USA.
He duped ICE with a fake ID and false paperwork. Now he worked for Colonel Toom cooking opioids.
Vorshin and his men sped their pace. They reached the helo and loaded their stash inside its cargo bay.
The pilots fired the Skyhawk's engine. Its rotors spun and its turbine whined.
It was about to gain lift-off power.
I had to take action. Massive action.
I would not let the helo leave with its poison freight.
I unzipped my gear bag and pulled my special weapon. It was an M-148 Javelin rocket launcher.
It spat 66-millimeter FLASH warheads. Each FLASH contained a mix of napalm and HE.
It was hideous hardware for hideous work.
I leveled the Javelin and aimed at the Skyhawk.
The bird thrust off its pad and lunged into the dark sky.
I steeled myself and hit the Javelin's trigger.
A FLASH roared downrange. Like a streak of orange lightning.
A heartbeat later it slammed the helo's tail boom.
It was not a perfect hit. But it was good enough.
The Skyhawk shuddered and twisted. It ruptured on tongues of flame.
Blackened debris spun and walloped the ground.
Shrapnel pummeled the camp's prefabs and shattered windows.
The Skyhawk's burning hulk plunged and struck the helipad. Broken rotor blades sliced the air.
One fragment hit Oleg Vorshin's screaming face. His skull blew apart as if smashed by a giant ax.
Bloody slivers pumped in the firelight.
He staggered like a zombie and toppled. His carcass went stiff and his menace was banished.
Other shards hacked Vorshin's nearby cohorts.
One man was disemboweled. He dropped into a scarlet heap.
Another man bolted for cover with an opioid bag. Too late.
A whirling blade severed his arm at the shoulder. The poison sack was released and tumbled onto the dirt.
The howling man staggered and crashed onto his knees. He clawed at his gushing wound and collapsed.
Another man was dancing a frantic jig. He was burning alive.