by Gar Wilson
"You guys don't scare me," Jenson said, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him.
"We don't intend to," Katz told him. "You've got a choice, Jenson. You talk to us now or we hand you over to the FBI. The Feds will simply wait for heroin withdrawal to break you down. Then you'll stand trial for conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder and whatever else they can throw at you. If your comrades get to you, either before you go to prison or while you're locked up, you know what they'll do to you."
"And what can you offer that's any better?" Jenson asked.
"Tell us everything you know about the Black Alchemists, and we'll see to it your cooperation goes on record to the Feds," James told him.
"Big deal," Jenson growled.
"It will be a big deal if you can help us save lives," Encizo snapped.
"We could tell you we'd let you go or set you up with a new identity in the Virgin Islands," Katz added. "But even you aren't stupid enough to believe that."
"How do I know you won't just kill me?"
"Our word is good," Katz replied. "But I'm certain a man who would put cyanide in toothpaste doesn't understand what honor means."
"Jenson," said Calvin James, removing a leather packet from his jacket. "Do you know what scopolamine is?"
"Huh?"
"Scopolamine is the most potent truth serum in the world," James explained, unzipping the pouch to remove a hypodermic syringe. "If I give you this injection, you'll answer any question we ask. The only problem with scopolamine is it causes the heartbeat to accelerate. It could kill you. That's why we don't want to use it. But we'll have no choice if you refuse to talk."
"You're bluffing," Jenson said, attempting to disguise the fear in his voice.
"Okay, fellas." James shrugged. "Dumb ass wants it the hard way."
"Should we hold him down?" Encizo asked.
"Yeah," James answered. "And get my stethoscope and sphygmomanometer. That's the device used for taking blood pressure. Only way we'll be able to judge the effects of the scopolamine."
"Jesus Christ! I'll talk, dammit!"
"Very well," Katz said, placing a tape recorder on the coffee table, within the circle of light. "When I turn on the machine, give us your confession and all the details. Start by saying you're doing this voluntarily. We don't want evidence kicked out of court on a technicality."
"Turn it on."
Katz pressed the start button and Jenson leaned forward to speak into the microphone.
"My name is Howard Jenson. I make this statement of my own free will. I have not been threatened or bribed in any way. Nor have I been denied sleep, food or drink, or subjected to any unreasonable stress."
The three members of Phoenix Force were surprised by Jenson's preamble. James showed Jenson a hand. The thumb and forefinger formed a circle to indicate that the captive was doing okay. He'd obviously had practice at this.
James, Katz and Encizo were silent during Jenson's confession, unwilling to leave voice prints on the tape that might lead to their identification. They listened quietly to Jenson as he recalled how he had been drafted into a conspiracy.
Jenson knew nothing of the Black Alchemists. His heroin supplier in Chicago, a black pusher known only as Joystick, had offered him six ounces of white powder as an advance payment for sabotaging the toothpaste at the Blue Label Corporation.
Jenson was given forged id, $3,000, and enough horse to support his habit for two weeks as initial payment. Then he applied for employment at the Blue Label Corporation. There were four jobs available on the assembly line.
Although the promise of heroin was more than enough to buy Jenson's cooperation, he became curious about the reason for his covert mission. Why did Joystick want him to do this? The dealer was obviously working for someone else.
Jenson began to follow Joystick's activities. He surreptitiously shadowed the pusher every night for nine days. On three occasions, Joystick met with a group of hardcases at a warehouse in the North Shore district. The dope dealer treated the tough guys with considerable respect, not the way he behaved among a group of his junkie customers.
The big boys consisted of blacks, whites and Hispanics, but the leader was a muscle-bound black guy with a shaved head who always wore dark glasses and a short-sleeved blue shirt. Jenson later learned this mystery man was a Haitian refugee who called himself Tigershark.
Word on the street claimed Tigershark had a lot of money and plenty of torpedoes to protect it. Apparently the Haitian had contacts with other drug dealers besides Joystick. He also met with members of certain Hispanic street gangs, black militant groups and assorted anarchists from a variety of ethnic origins.
Unfortunately Jenson could not confirm any of these rumors. Joystick, realizing he was being tailed, sent a trio of junkie hoods to teach Jenson a painful lesson. They gave him a mild beating that left him bruised but not broken.
"This is just a warning, man," a wild-eyed thug told him. "You keep your nose outta Joystick's business or next time we'll cut your ass like a Christmas turkey."
Jenson heeded this advice. He followed orders and put the chemicals in the toothpaste. He claimed he did not know it was poison. A watchful supervisor caught him as he attempted to carry out the sabotage that led to his arrest.
Katzenelenbogen switched off the tape recorder. "What's the address of this warehouse?"
Jenson told him.
"Good boy," James remarked as he pressed the plunger of the syringe to squirt some liquid from the needle. "You want to give yourself this shot or do I have to do it?"
Jenson glared at his captors. "You said I wouldn't have to take that truth-serum shit if I cooperated."
"This isn't scopolamine," James explained. "It's ninety-five millimeters of thorazine. Same stuff that was in the sleep dart. You're just going to take another nap for a while."
"Why drug me again?"
"The hell with this bastard," Encizo growled. "I've got a B-I pistol. Let me shoot another sleep dart into the son of a bitch."
"Give me the damn needle," Jenson said hastily.
"Just pretend it's a fix, Howie."
Jenson injected the drug into his arm. In less than a minute, he was unconscious. James took his pulse, checked his heartbeat, peeled back an eyelid.
"He's out," the black man declared. "But we'd better leave somebody with him in case he wakes up before we can wrap things up at the warehouse."
"Rafael," Katz turned to the Cuban. "You're elected."
"My ankle hasn't slowed me down yet, Yakov," Encizo replied glumly.
"I saw you limping after the firefight," the Israeli told him. "You're staying with Jenson. The little bastard may have lied to us. We may have to use the scopolamine yet."
"I don't think he lied," Calvin James commented.
"We'd better be ready for trouble anyway," the Israeli replied.
James switched off the 150-watt bulb that had blinded their prisoner. "Man," he remarked. "You guys sure know how to have one hell of a wild night on the town."
10
"I thought you knew Chicago," David McCarter complained to Calvin James.
"I was born on the south side," James replied as he drove the Volvo past the Dyche Stadium exit. "Never spent much time in the North Shore area. Besides, I haven't been back here for a while."
"Try to excuse David," Katzenelenbogen apologized. "He tends to get a bit impatient when he knows a battle is looming."
The Israeli sat in the back seat, gazing at the Sears Tower, which rose majestically above dozens of smaller buildings. The Chicago skyline contains three of the tallest buildings on earth: the Sears Tower, the John Hancock Center and the Standard Oil Building. The Israeli was impressed.
"You enjoy combat?" James asked the British warrior.
"I enjoy being alive," McCarter replied. "And a man never feels more alive than in combat."
"It's also a good way to get yourself killed."
"The best," McCarter agreed cheerfully. "Look, mate. None of us ar
e in this for money or glory. Oh, we get a bit of extra pocket cash, but hardly enough to make it worth the risks. Glory? No parades for us. Top secret, hush-hush, tor your eyes only and all that rot. Nobody knows what we're doing."
"I'm on this mission to help stop a bunch of killers," James declared.
"Naturally," the Briton nodded. "But why were you chosen for the job? One of the main reasons is because you're good in combat. A man is seldom good at something he doesn't enjoy."
"Somebody has to do it," James insisted, aware how corny the expression sounded.
"And luckily we qualify. Come now, Calvin. We're all dedicated to fighting terrorism and protecting the interests of the free world. We all believe in what we're doing, but if we didn't love the excitement and adventure, we wouldn't be here."
"How long do you think it'll be before you stop a bullet?" James asked dryly.
"Already did." McCarter shrugged. "Happened a couple times, but so far no bullets have stopped me."
"As a man who likes to think of himself as relatively sane," Katz interjected, "I hate to agree with McCarter, but as an old war-horse myself, I understand him. We fight for a good cause, true, but we fear retirement more than the battlefield. We'd all prefer a quick death in combat to winding up in a nursing home as ancient senile relics who have a thrilling afternoon by playing checkers in the day-room."
"Maybe you've got a point at that," James was forced to admit.
"Foxhound One, this is Foxhound Two," Gary Manning's voice crackled from Katz's radio.
Manning and Keio Ohara followed the Volvo in a Mazda rental. Manning had once spent three months in Chicago while on assignment for North America International, supervising security procedures. Thus, he had volunteered to drive the second vehicle.
"According to the map we should be getting close now," he declared. "After we pass the Baha'i Temple, watch for Wiimette Street. Connor Drive is a side street from there."
"All right," Katz replied. "We'll run a quiet recon past the warehouse and meet about two blocks farther on. Just cruise past the place. We don't want to get anyone suspicious."
"Affirmative," the voice of Gary Manning responded from the speaker in its usual businesslike tone.
Two minutes later, James located Connor Drive. He drove the Volvo along a column of warehouses. Number thirty-four was where Jenson claimed the mysterious Tigershark had set up his headquarters.
A long gold Cadillac was parked in front. Its doors opened and three black men emerged. Two resembled pro football players dressed in street clothes. The third looked like a Hollywood stereotype of a ghetto pimp. He wore a white suit with a wide-brimmed hat and a bright scarlet cape.
James clucked his tongue with disgust as he drove past. "That must be Joystick. Goddamn predator. His type hustles black girls on the street and sells dope to black kids and then brags about how they're getting over on whitey. Christ, I hate them."
"Because of your sister?" McCarter inquired.
James removed his eyes from the road long enough to glare at the Briton. "Leave her out of this.''
"Can you?" Katz asked flatly. "We know your sister died from a heroin overdose."
"Susie was just a kid. A junior in high school. The class pusher got her started on pills. Usual stuff. Susie graduated to cocaine and couldn't afford the habit. A maggot known as Sweet Leroy loaned her a couple hundred dollars to cover expenses. Then she owed him a favor. Before long he had her turning tricks as one of his hookers. Sweet Leroy believed in keeping his girls under control by getting them hooked on heroin. I still think she wanted out and he killed her."
"You wouldn't be thinking of settling any old scores with Leroy, would you?" Katz asked.
"The son of a bitch is still in prison. As long as he stays there, he's safe."
"Nobody can blame you for having a grudge against pimps and dope dealers," said McCarter. "But we can't have it get in the way of the mission."
"It won't."
"And no stunts like that one you pulled in San Francisco a couple years ago," the Israeli warned.
"What stunt?"
"I believe Katz is talking about the time you took a switchblade away from a pimp," McCarter said, "and then stuck it up his arse."
"That was an accident," James replied, unable to suppress a smile. "He sort of sat on it."
"No more accidents," Katz said sternly. "Understood?"
"Don't worry."
"Pull over to the curb," the Israeli instructed. "We'll wait for Gary and Keio and then decide how to handle the warehouse.''
* * *
Two muscular hoods were stationed in front of the warehouse when the Volvo slowly approached. The pair stiffened when the car slowed to a halt. One of the thugs reached inside his Levi jacket, but the other man whispered something to him, probably a warning not to draw his weapon — yet.
"Hi, guys," Calvin James announced casually as he opened the Volvo door. "Man, am I glad to see you dudes."
"You want somethin', fella?" growled a sentry who resembled a fireplug with clothes on.
"We're lost," James told him, stepping from the car with a road map in his hand. "You know how to get to Joliet from here? You know, where they've got the Illinois State Prison?"
"What the...?"
David McCarter poked the barrel of his Bio-Inoculator through an open window and squeezed the trigger. The human fireplug groaned discreetly and slapped a palm to his neck. He touched the feathered end of a hypodart lodged in his flesh.
His eyes rolled upward, his legs buckled. He fell to his knees, dazed by the thorazine. The other hood desperately reached for a gun in his belt. McCarter fired another B-I pistol. The goon cried out when a dart struck his chest.
The muscle boy pulled a Charter Arms .38 revolver from his belt. James lunged forward. His right leg executed a lightning-quick tae-kwondo kick. The edge of his foot struck the guy's wrist, snapping the radius and ulna on contact. The gun fell to the ground.
James slashed a side-of-the-hand stroke to the man's mouth. Blood burst from the hoodlum's upper lip as he fell against the warehouse wall. James rammed an elbow into his opponent's breastbone. The sentry gasped and slumped into a heap.
McCarter emerged from the Volvo, Ingram machine pistol in hand. He calmly approached the first sentry who was on his knees, dazed, clutching his neck. The Briton kicked him in the face.
James and McCarter quickly bound the thugs' wrists and ankles with unbreakable plastic cuffs. Katz joined them with his Uzi in one hand and an M-16 in the other. He handed the assault rifle to James. Then they waited for Gary Manning and Keio Ohara to signal that they were in position to start the raid.
* * *
The Canadian and Japanese members of Phoenix Force, who had approached the rear of the building on foot, found a single sentry armed with a pump shotgun at the back door. Manning fired a hypodart into the side of his neck. Thorazine raced into his jugular and he crumpled to the ground.
Manning lowered his Anschutz air rifle and grunted with satisfaction. Then he put down the air gun and gathered up the nasty H&K MP-5. Ohara stood beside him with a .45-caliber M-10 Ingram.
The pair closed in, two silent shadows in the night. When they reached the door, Manning unslung a black ditty bag from his shoulder and removed a block of gray putty. It was his favorite old British plastic, CV-38; a low-velocity explosive good for rending and tearing. Manning only used the compound when he needed a low-boom explosive.
Ohara bound the unconscious guard and dragged him to shelter in another warehouse. Manning knelt by the door and prepared to fit the explosive putty into the frame.
A shadow suddenly blocked the moonlight. Manning turned to see the silhouette of a man's head and shoulders. The shape wielded a claw hammer in its fist, aimed at the Canadian's head.
Manning ducked. The tool missed his skull by inches. His guts knotted as he felt the rush of air against his left ear.
When his assailant's forearm struck Manning's shoulder, the Canadian quick
ly trapped the limb with his left hand, pinning it to his deltoid. Before his attacker could respond, Manning drove a right uppercut between the man's splayed legs.
With a half moan, half gasp, the attacker wilted to the ground, uttering a choked gurgle of agony. Manning shut him up by delivering a solid punch to the point of his chin.
Quickly setting the explosive in place, Manning inserted a pencil detonator and set the dial for fifteen seconds. Then he carried the unconscious guard to safety behind the next building. Ohara raised his eyebrows with surprise when he saw Manning's burden.
"Cuff this guy, Keio." The Canadian dumped the sentry to the ground. "Make it quick. Show time starts..."
The explosion cut off his words. Under the circumstances, there was no need for him to finish the sentence.
11
The explosion served two functions. First: it was a signal for Katz, McCarter and James. Second: it was one hell of a distraction for the men inside the warehouse. The hoodlums were still gaping at the remnants of the back door when Calvin James kicked in the front.
The black hardcase charged into the building, M-16 held ready for trouble. David McCarter dived in right behind him. They plunged into a storage section filled with wooden crates and startled thugs who scrambled in all directions. James's sharp eye caught a glimpse of Joystick as the flamboyant dope dealer dashed for shelter behind a column of cargo boxes.
James hoped Joystick would stay alive long enough for him to personally take care of the pusher. However, Joystick did not present an immediate threat. Several enemy gunmen did.
A pimple-faced youth with a stringy blond beard grabbed a CAR-15 automatic carbine from a corner. Joystick's two black bodyguards pulled snub-nose Magnums from shoulder leather. Two Hispanic thugs made a desperate dive for a card table where they had left their pistols.