Death Metal

by Don Pendleton

  It would be brought here in the early hours of the morning and the transfer of the nuclear weapon made before Arvo took it back to the garage to await the appointed hour. The original plan had been to make the transfer at the garage when the black truck arrived in Oslo, but that had of necessity been changed, adding an extra risk that Stein was uncomfortable with. This, however, was the best compromise, as at least it would be within the cordon formed by his men.

  For his part, he sat with six cell phones on the coffee table in front of him. Each man on watch had the number of a different phone. He could be contacted immediately—and simultaneously—by any of his men.

  Arvo was grabbing some sleep. The Norwegians were secured in their room and were also presumably resting. Nils had returned to his own abode. He had briefed the Norwegians well. The only thing Nils had omitted from his game plan was the matter of the loaded 9 mm Beretta he would keep in the small of his back during the fake raid, which he would use to put them out of the game at the right moment.

  All Stein could do now was sit, wait and hope that he had covered every eventuality as he watched the clock tick past midnight and closer to the first action of the day: the switch.

  That was set for 3:00 a.m.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME they had examined the schematics of the area around the street where their target was located, it was long past midnight. Dostoyevsky suggested that this was the perfect time to recon and attack, as there would be few people about, which would also serve to make any military presence that much more noticeable and avoidable.

  Bolan could only agree. He also felt it incumbent to add that any security placed around the area where their target was located would also be that much easier to spot.

  The two men made their way down the fire escape to the parking lot, so that they would show as little as possible on any in-house CCTV feed. Down in the parking lot there was one camera covering the area of the fire door and where the Russian’s sedan was parked—as close to the door as possible, to cover this eventuality.

  Bolan walked out alone, his head down and hunched over, looking away from the camera until he calculated he had passed its arc. He ducked behind and underneath its view to reach for the camera. He slipped an opaque plastic trash bag—taken from one of the bins in his hotel room—to cover the lens, securing it with an elastic band.

  Satisfied that they would now be unseen, he dropped down and joined the Russian as he exited the stairwell and opened the trunk of his sedan, removing the false floor so that he was able to access the hardware he had stowed beneath.

  For reasons of weight and ease of transport, they had elected to carry nothing heavy. Two AK-47s—always Dostoyevsky’s rifle of choice from his years of military service—and a pair of MP5s each, with enough magazines to take down a platoon; explosive and smoke grenades; nose plugs and full face masks. As with their last raid, fragmentation grenades were too risky at the range they were aiming for. Bolan had his Desert Eagle, and the Russian toted a 9 mm Walther, handguns that were like extensions of their own arms to them, again with enough magazines to wipe out more men than they expected to face.

  Using the fire exit again, they hurried to the roof of the hotel and climbed down the fire escape of the building next door. An earlier recon of the back and front upon arrival for emergency escape routes had furnished them with this option to avoid showing up on the hotel CCTV.

  Down on the streets, they took a direct route to the area of the city where their target was located, deviating from it only when regular patrols came into view, or where there were groups or individuals that they could tell were security. Maybe some of these people were just civilians, but it was better to err on the side of cautious.

  When they were closing in on the target area, Bolan reminded Dostoyevsky that they had no idea how many—or how few—enemy they would face.

  “Then it is better to be frosty—like permafrost, even...” the Russian said with a grin.

  “I swear you’re enjoying this,” Bolan said ruefully.

  “Come on, you’ll be telling me next that you aren’t. Just like you haven’t noticed that this is the second time he’s crossed our path in the last twenty minutes,” he added.

  Bolan had to admit that the Russian was sharp. They were skirting the target area in order to detect potential enemies, and this was the second man that the soldier had seen pass them a second time. On the prior occasion, he couldn’t have been 100 percent sure. Now he knew that his battle senses had been on the money.

  “At least a two-man circuit, clockwise and counter,” he estimated. “I wonder if it’s only those two, or—”

  “Let us just take a little detour, my friend. I suspect a few minutes of recon could yield interesting results.”

  Of course they ran the risk of being spotted and intercepted, but it was worth it to see the lay of the land. Taking a circuitous route around the target area, looking for all the world like two tourists searching for a late-night bar and getting lost, they appeared to wander aimlessly, spotting one other man who was circling in a clockwise and counterclockwise manner.

  “So what do you think?” Dostoyevsky asked after their mutual agreement on the third man. “If they have three on the street now, then I would guess they have at least that number to relieve these guys. It would, however, take them time to mobilize those men. Six, plus the four we know of...”

  “Five to one. Not bad odds if we move now,” Bolan said decisively. “You go counterclockwise, move toward the target and synchronize for ten minutes. Then we go from each side.” They synchronized their watches. “Keep it tight—best to assume at least one of those three guys had a brain, and they’re expecting us.”

  The Russian grinned, nodded and moved off. Bolan, with less distance to cover, stood back in the shadows and counted off the minutes until he could proceed.

  While he did that, a battered white DAF van passed him. He slipped farther into the shadows as the headlights lit the pavement where he had stood a moment before. It might have been nothing, but...

  “A catering truck in this part of town at this time of night?” he mused. “Either some guy’s borrowed the company’s wheels, or...”

  It occurred to him that such a truck would be a perfect blind for the second vehicle the terrorists would need.

  Keeping track of time be damned. He needed to move now, before it was too late. The soldier left the shadows and made his way across the street, heading directly for the target area. He took out his smartphone and hit the speed-dial key for the Russian’s cell phone. They were both switched to silent, but he hoped the vibration would alert Dostoyevsky.

  He cursed as it seemed to take ages for the Russian to answer. Bolan was about to answer his own thoughts when the periphery of his vision caught movement, and instinct made him throw himself down just a fraction of a second before the burst of gunfire ripped the air where his torso had been.

  The silence broken, all bets were off, and stealth was impossible. He rolled, bringing up the AK-47 that had been slung under his loose duster, snapping off a volley that drove his assailant back into the dark shadows. His smartphone squawked at him as he snatched it up and scrambled for cover, answering fire kicking up concrete and tarmac fragments at his heels. He whirled and took out the terrorist with a spray into the darkness that got lucky. He heard the man grunt and fall, and there was no answering fire.

  He turned back to the target and advanced on the double.

  * * *

  ARVO AND STEIN greeted the white van driver and unlocked the back of the black truck. While the DAF driver kept an uneasy watch beside the vehicle, the two terrorists unloaded the squat gray cylinder with Cyrillic markings and placed it carefully in the back of the white van. Arvo hurried again to the black truck and returned with the second part of the weapon, carefully stowing the triggering mechanism beside th
e cylinder before closing the back doors and taking the keys from the driver.

  “The GPS is set for the garage. The key is this one for the garage door,” the DAF driver intoned, showing Arvo the item. “I secured the—”

  He was cut short by the sudden sound of gunfire rending the air. For a fraction of a second all three men were frozen. From inside the house, Stein could hear all his cell phones go off. He pushed Arvo toward the DAF.

  “Go, don’t stop for anything. We’ll deal with this, you just get to the garage,” Stein said sharply before turning to drag the driver into the house to grab a weapon. Thrusting an HK into his hands, Stein told him to stand guard. While the driver did that, Stein took the stairs two at a time. Fumbling, he unlocked the door to the Norwegians’ room.

  “What—” Hades began, but was cut short.

  Stein threw the truck keys at them. “We’re under attack. Take the truck and drive—anywhere, but away from here. We’ll deal with this. You just keep your heads down and meet with Nils as arranged. Now go,” he yelled, nearly pushing them down the stairs.

  Confused and panicked, Hades and Visigoth did as they were told. Hades took the wheel, grinding the transmission as he took the truck—unknowingly—in the opposite direction from Arvo and directly toward Bolan.

  Just a few moments before, Arvo had needed no second bidding. Before the door of the house slammed shut, he was roaring away in the white van. He took the corner with a squeal of rubber, and was almost at the end of the adjacent street when he had to swerve to avoid the tall man who stepped into the road with an AK-47 leveled at him.

  Arvo ducked as the windshield shattered, keeping the gas pedal floored even as the back windows were shattered, the metal pierced by the AK fire. It was pure luck that neither he nor the device had been hit, and he did not breathe until his adversary was no longer in his rearview mirror.

  Far behind him, Dostoyevsky cursed before turning back toward the house. He had failed to halt maybe one terrorist, but at least he could help his partner attend to the remainder.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Bolan ran across the streets, scanning each direction for any sign of movement. A few lights had gone on in upstairs windows, but the citizens of Oslo were wise enough to keep inside while there was gunfire.

  On the corner of the target street, two men with SMGs had taken up defensive positions and peppered the street with spray’n’pray as the soldier approached. He dived behind a parked car for cover, his ears ringing from the sound of metal pounded by bullets as the vehicle’s bodywork took the brunt of the fire. Glass smashed above his head.

  The two gunmen were on either side of the street, and there was no direct line of fire. They had the soldier pinned down unless he could cause some kind of diversion. He was about to launch a smoke grenade to flush them out when his job was done for him by a blast from the far end of the street.

  Bolan grinned mirthlessly. Dostoyevsky had made better time than the soldier had any right to expect and had arrived at an opportune moment.

  Bolan looked up over the trunk of the car. The two gunmen had moved, driven from their defensive positions by the gunfire from behind them. In spinning to return the fire, they had both made themselves target enough for the soldier to take a shot.

  Two short bursts to either side of the street, and they were neutralized. One was taken out immediately, his back stitched by the SMG. The other was only partially immobilized as the gunfire drilled toward him was not as accurate. He spun and fell as the bullets ripped through his side, trying to crawl back to cover.

  Bolan did not give him a second chance. Coming from behind at a run, he finished the man with another tap. That made three men—presumably the moving patrol they had noted. This would leave at least three more in the house. Bolan wanted to take at least one alive, if possible, as he needed information—he could see that the black truck had left, and had heard two vehicles leave moments before he had turned the corner.

  Cursing the changeable luck that had let him down once more, he gestured to the far end of the street; the Russian visible under the streetlight.

  Dostoyevsky understood immediately. Both he and Bolan fired almost simultaneously as they approached the house, taking out the streetlights and plunging the target area into darkness. There had been lights on in the house, but they were now extinguished so that no targets within would be visible.

  Bolan sheltered in a doorway opposite the target. The Russian did likewise, a few houses down on the other side.

  The soldier was breathing hard, wondering how to communicate to his compatriot the method of attack he wanted to adopt. He reached into the pocket where he had slipped his smartphone, hoping that the Russian would still be in possession of his cell phone.

  Before he had a chance to hit the speed-dial digit, he was forestalled by a dull glow that came from within the target house, visible through the ground-floor windows.

  Whoever was inside had set the house on fire. With an enemy outside, that was suicide unless there was a back exit.

  No time for tactics now. The only thing they could do was to get in, see who or what they could salvage before the whole building went up.

  As Bolan moved low across the street, he could see that Dostoyevsky had had the same idea and was a couple paces ahead of him. He could also see a figure moving—dark on dark—behind the upper-story window, and knew by his angle of approach and lack of deviation that the Russian had not seen the movement.

  Bolan changed his own course and dived toward the Russian, cannoning into him as he heard the glass shatter in the window above and the bark of an AK-47. They hit the road hard, driving the air from both their bodies as Bolan carried his momentum into a roll, the AK fire harmlessly hitting the street to one side of where they fell.

  As they separated and both men scrambled to their feet, they were immediately blown back by the force of a blast. The front of the house crumbled before them, the wood catching tongues of flame that flickered briefly before the blast blew them out, dust billowing in a choking cloud that was thick with flying debris. The house appeared to collapse from the roof down, imploding on itself as the floors were decimated by the explosives that had been stored inside.

  The Russian swore loudly in his native language as he sat up and watched the house settle into a pile of rubble, the buildings on either side slowly sagging as the force of the damage spread to them.

  “Fanatics,” he breathed in English. “We deal with madmen, Cooper.”

  “We deal with the police unless we move quickly,” Bolan said, pulling himself to his feet and grabbing at his partner. “Come on—we still have work to do.”

  * * *

  AROUND THE COURTHOUSE security was tight. Armed police and military response units patrolled and made their presence very visible. Everyone passing in and out of the courthouse by any entrance was searched, either by the regular court security or by the military.

  Visigoth guided the truck through the traffic that had built up by diversion and roadblock until he was within half a block of the courthouse building. Taking a left, he drove down a side road that took them past armed guards to the entrance used by police and prison vehicles to drop off and collect prisoners from the secured area beneath the court.

  In the early hours of the morning, Hades had driven furiously until they were on the outer edge of the city and then parked in a rest area where they could position themselves among other larger trucks. In such a place there was little chance of being questioned, as the authorities knew the majority of truckers used their cabs to sleep rather than pay for hotels or risk leaving their rigs.

  Hide in plain sight was a lesson the Norwegians had learned quickly. Once parked, they had taken turns to sleep and watch until it was time to head back for the city and their rendezvous with Nils at the courthouse.

  As Visigoth turned
into the narrow road leading to the security barrier, Hades looked out at the military force gathered around. His heart felt like it was trying to escape through his throat, and he was certain that anyone who looked into the truck would see through them, see through their fear.

  All he got was a blank sea of faces. He and Visigoth were dressed in serge uniforms supplied by the terrorists. With the musicians’ hair cut, their piercings removed and tattoos covered, they looked exactly what those uniforms and the passes they carried proclaimed them to be: laundry delivery men.

  When they reached the checkpoint, Nils was waiting for them with another guard. As Hades wound down the window and presented the credentials that the very same man had given him the day before, Nils took them from them and examined them. He turned to his fellow guard.

  “New boys, Lars. Papers are all in order, though.” He turned to Hades and asked, “You boys want me to go with you? We’ve got it locked down, so if you’re not familiar...”

  Hades nodded. “Maybe that would be good, if this isn’t a bad time...” He felt his voice ring hollow, although no one else seemed to notice.

  “Okay, you boys park up there and bring the hamper. I’ll check out and show you where you need to go.”

  Visigoth parked the truck, and they took a hamper from the back of the vehicle. Ostensibly containing clean laundry for the cells, and ready to pick up the dirty ones, all it contained were a few weapons and explosives. According to the plan they had been fed the previous day, this was the hamper in which they were to hide Ripper.

  Looking at the heavy-duty security presence as they followed Nils into the body of the court building, they could see what a crock this plan was, and how easily it would set them up to be cut down by the military.

  Even so, they played along with the undercover terrorist as he took them directly to the cell where their companion was waiting to be called. His presence, and the easy manner in which he made small talk with them, was enough to deflect any suspicion, even though they were not walking the normal laundry route. It was only when they reached the holding cells, and came up to the two armed guards standing outside, that they were challenged.