Death Metal

by Don Pendleton

  “What gives, Nils?” one of the guards asked suspiciously, his hands tightening nervously on his cradled HK.

  “These boys have come to take out the trash,” Nils replied easily.

  “What?” the other guard queried, confusion written on his face. “But they look like laundry men.”

  Under other circumstances, the Norwegians might have found it funny. Not now, not with the adrenaline rush of fear pounding through them. Hades flipped back the lid of the hamper, and reached in, pulling out a mini Uzi that he pointed at the puzzled guard.

  Nils being with the two strangers, and being so relaxed, had done enough to divert suspicion and dull reactions. As the puzzled guard made to raise his own SMG, Nils stepped forward and punched the other guard in the throat. Not expecting that from someone who he thought an ally, he did not react in time and fell, choking. An elbow behind his ear as he stumbled was sufficient to render him unconscious.

  In the moment of confusion this caused the remaining guard, Visigoth stepped in and slammed a punch into the man’s face. His head cracked back against the wall and he teetered, dazed, before a second roundhouse blow finished the job.

  “Quickly, inside,” Nils snapped as he took the key from the guard and opened the cell door, pushing the hamper inside.

  This left the Norwegians to pull the disabled guards into the cell and out of sight. That was exactly what the terrorists had expected. Ripper stood up, unsure of what to do, baffled by the sight before him. Nils pushed the hamper across the cell floor, so that it formed a temporary barrier between Ripper and the door, and was about to step out of the room with the Norwegians occupied and unable to stop him, when Nils realized that Hades had dropped the body he was dragging, and had swiftly turned and reached out. Before Nils had a chance to react, Hades had him in a strangling headlock.

  As Visigoth dropped his own burden and dragged the fallen man in just enough to close the cell door, Hades rammed Nils’s head into the wall, letting him drop so that Hades could take his weapon from him before standing back.

  “Get up, asshole,” he hissed at the fallen terrorist.

  “Hades? Visigoth? What are you—”

  “Later, man,” Hades snapped, cutting off any further questions.

  “Get them to one side and search them,” he said to Visigoth.

  “Ahead of you, dude,” his comrade replied, stripping the two guards of their hardware and throwing it into the hamper. He took their web belts and used them to secure their wrists and ankles, hoping that these would be strong enough to hold the guards.

  Nils was on his feet, though visibly shaken and groggy. “What are...you b-boys doing?” he stammered uncertainly.

  “I don’t know, you double-dealing prick, you tell me,” Hades snarled. “You trap us in here, raise the alarm, then as we try to break out, you kill all three of us, right? We’re not that stupid, Nils. We had all night to check the weapons you gave us. We didn’t trust you guys anyway, but that raid on the safehouse gave us time to confirm that you’re a two-timing asshole. Screwed, just like we would have been.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s—”

  “It’s nothing. I don’t care what excuses you have. They’re all lies. We were supposed to be nothing more than a decoy for whatever Arvo is really doing. Well, fuck that, dude. He can be our decoy.”

  “Guys, what are you playing at?” Ripper interrupted. “Arvo is a trusted—”

  “Arvo is an asswipe, dude. Get real,” Hades yelled over him. “You might like playing at this shit, but we don’t. We’re not playing, not now. They think we’re pussies, and they think that about you, too. They used you, they wanted to use us. We’ve been treated like idiots, and we were. Not now, dude. This asshole—” he waved the 9 mm pistol at its nominal owner “—was supposed to set us up in a rescue bid that went wrong. I got news for you, Nils, it’s you that’s gone wrong. We’re getting out of here, and you’re going to help us. Or die. Whichever you want.”

  The way in which the man was staring at him made Nils realize that there was no bluff in his words. Despair and fear had given him determination. Nils had a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, and it showed on his face.

  “I thought you might see it that way.” Hades nodded. “Now this is what we do...”

  * * *

  BOLAN AND THE RUSSIAN were by the Oslo stock exchange, seated in Dostoyevsky’s sedan. Directly in front of them was the white DAF van.

  On returning to the hotel in the early hours of the morning, effecting entry by the same method they had left in order to avoid detection, the two warriors had cleaned up, dressing the superficial wounds that were thankfully all they had picked up during the night’s action.

  Once that was done, Bolan had called Stony Man, bringing them up to speed on what had happened. Not that he needed to have bothered. As part of their monitoring of the Oslo systems, Stony Man was already aware of the results of Bolan’s attempt to break into the safehouse.

  The CCTV traffic systems around the city had already picked up the black truck and traced it out of town to where it now sat.

  “Let it be for now. The action at the courthouse is a diversion. The real action is in a white van. A damaged white van...”

  Dostoyevsky’s attempts to halt its progress had at least made it conspicuous, as well as confirming for the soldier that his suspicions on first seeing it had been correct. Within half an hour, the Farm had been able to confirm the presence of the vehicle and trace it up to a point where it had vanished off the grid. Somewhere within a two-block radius that was a CCTV blind spot, it had either been parked or stowed away.

  The Russian looked at the rising sun. “We could cover that territory easily but getting there? If we leave now, it may already be out and on the road before we hit the map reference.”

  Bolan agreed. “We stay here. Bear, keep those systems covered, and as soon as it comes back on the radar, let me know. Keep me informed on the black truck, too.”

  “We cannot be in two places at once, unless we separate,” Dostoyevsky mused. “If you want me to keep one angle covered while you chase the other...”

  “We stay together. The attack on the court is likely to be by the musicians, the sacrifices. The military should be able to deal with that. They are expecting it, after all. No one else knows about the white van, and no one else knows what it could contain. I’d rather you covered the angles with me there than be elsewhere when I need backup.”

  “As you wish. We should be ready, then...”

  Coffee for the soldier, a shot of vodka for the Russian, and they made their way down to the sedan like everyday tourists.

  For what seemed like eons, they drove around the detoured traffic system set up to assist the extra security for the courthouse, waiting for the call that would tell them the white van had been spotted.

  “Just a thought, Cooper, but what if they swap vehicles? The van is pretty damaged.”

  “I figure they won’t have the time or the manpower after last night to make that happen. Hell, a temporary windshield would do the job for as long as they need. It’s hardly uncommon enough to get them stopped.”

  “I hope not,” the Russian replied, and was cheered some moments later when a call came through. The traffic monitoring system had picked up a van answering the description of the one they were looking for. Stony Man was tracing its progress through the interlinked cameras and relaying the route to Bolan so that he could intercept.

  The Russian whistled when he realized where they were headed. “Some bunch of fascists—I thought striking at the heart of the capitalist system was the preserve of the left.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Arvo had known that he was on his own from the moment that he had roared away from the safehouse. If the crazy bastard who had tried to mow him down was any indication of
the type of mercenary the Americans were using on this mission, then not only were they more serious than Andrus and Velio could have dreamed, but the odds were that there was no one left at the safehouse to pass that message to. For Arvo’s own part, he had no working cell phone of any kind and was isolated not only from his superiors but also from the Norwegians he was using as a decoy. He could only hope that they would play their part as they had been instructed, and that Nils could still fulfill his end of the deal.

  Arvo had been trembling when he had reached the garage. Unlocking the doors and getting the van inside had been a harder task than it should have been. He would have liked to put that down to adrenaline, but in his heart he knew that it was because the American forces had scared the living crap out of him.

  He had tried to effect a few repairs to the van with what he could find in the garage. That was partly so that the vehicle would look less conspicuous when he took it out later this morning but also—again if he was honest with himself—because it took his mind off what might be waiting for him.

  There had been the makings of tea, a kettle and a small fridge at the back of the garage, and Arvo passed what was left of his downtime watching the minutes tick tortuously by while he occupied himself by drinking cup after cup of tea. It was not how he had seen the glorious revolutionary action unfolding, but he figured, as long as he got the result that he and his superiors wanted, then that would be compensation enough.

  Finally it was time, and he threw open the garage door to a glorious wintry morning. The clean and crisp air hit him after the closed-in atmosphere of the garage, and as he pulled the DAF van out into the open, pausing to close the garage behind him, Arvo felt a new sense of optimism swell within him.

  According to the radio the events of the night before had not happened. He had figured on a news blackout, especially as the focus was very much on the Sundby trial and the security that surrounded it. The authorities would want nothing that could deflect from the sense of security they were trying to build.

  Nonetheless it did amuse him that, if he was concerned about the presence of the American black ops personnel in Oslo, the Norwegians were probably a dozen times more concerned.

  It was a pleasant thought to buoy him as he drove steadily through the city toward his target. He had repaired most of the gunfire damage to the van and had fixed a temporary windshield that made him look like a delivery driver striving after a motor vehicle accident rather than a terrorist on the run. He was contravening some road laws, but he was playing on the fact that the authorities would have greater concerns on this day.

  He was right about that but had not considered the two soldiers-at-arms who were prowling the city, looking for someone who would be doing exactly as Arvo was. He never noticed the dark sedan as it slipped on to his tail and followed him straight to the stock exchange.

  * * *

  “HE’S BEEN VERY LUCKY to get this far without being intercepted,” the Russian growled as he kept two vehicles between his sedan and the white DAF van.

  “That’s lucky for us, too,” Bolan murmured. “I don’t want anyone stopping him who doesn’t understand what he’s carrying.”

  “Well, I hope you do, because unless we take him down soon, he’s going to have a chance to put that thing into action.”

  “He won’t have armed it yet,” Bolan asserted. “No way is he going to trust himself driving an armed warhead. He’ll do it before he walks away.”

  “You are, of course, assuming he wants to walk away. If this is some kind of fascist jihad, then there may be the equivalent of a thousand virgins waiting for him. And us, frankly,” Dostoyevsky added.

  Bolan did not reply. He was sure he had made the right call, but there was no point in arguing the toss. Better that they act as soon as possible and prove it that way.

  The white DAF van had passed any number of armed vehicles and men who could have stopped it. On another day, the looks many of them cast the van said that they would have. Arvo rode that luck and turned down a narrow road at the side of the timber-framed building that housed the stock exchange.

  It was a beautiful example of Norwegian architecture from a golden age, and to the Estonians that only made it all the sweeter that he would strike here. This was a symbol of the good things about the northern culture debased by Jewish and decadent finance. Perhaps people would realize how debased if it took destruction of such purity to cleanse it.

  Dostoyevsky nosed the sedan down the narrow road, pulling up so that he blocked access by his angle of parking. All that he and Bolan could see was some right-wing nutcase who wanted to nuke a load of innocent people for some half-baked theory that belonged in a storybook.

  That wasn’t going to happen on their watch.

  * * *

  ARVO GOT OUT of the van at the far end of the narrow road, where it tapered into a pedestrian exit marked by bright orange cones to prevent through traffic. Down this end of the road was a fire exit door where smokers congregated on their breaks. There were two or three coming in and out as Arvo opened the back doors of the white van. One of them called out something to him, and his reply was greeted with a resigned shrug.

  “What’s that about?” the Russian wondered.

  Bolan’s mouth quirked. “Regular catering run, maybe? If that’s how they got the van, then that could explain why it wasn’t stopped, even with the damage. I wish those smokers would get the hell back inside, though. I don’t want anyone getting in the way.”

  “Collateral damage, my friend. It is never pleasant but sometimes necessary. Look at it this way—two or three lives against thousands,” the Russian said grimly as he slid out of the sedan.

  “Still prefer to make it zero against thousands,” Bolan returned as he, too, left the vehicle and joined the Russian in moving toward the van.

  Looking around them as they strode down the street, they could see that the narrow closed-in walls of the buildings on either side gave them some shelter. There were no windows directly overlooking them, and apart from the three people clustered near the van, there was no one else in the street. Arvo had his back to them and was leaning into the rear of the van.

  The Russian pulled an HK from the back of his belt, where it had rested hidden by his duster. In one smooth motion he had it extended before him.

  “One burst, Cooper, even from here, and I can drop him.”

  “No,” Bolan barked, “not while we can’t see what he’s doing—”

  The risk was that the terrorist would have the triggering mechanism in his grasp and so would be able to effect detonation before they could intervene.

  There was another risk: stock exchange clerks sneaking a quick cigarette might just be scared witless enough to yell at two men striding toward them, one of whom had an SMG seemingly pointed at them.

  It was too late for Bolan to mention that to the Russian, and besides it had never occurred to Dostoyevsky that they would scream and cause the terrorist to spin.

  Arvo had been connecting the trigger and warhead prior to arming it when a piercing scream made his blood freeze. He knew that the idiots who had asked him about sandwiches a moment before could not see what he was doing, and so it had to be something behind him that had terrified them.

  He snatched at his own HK, which was resting on the floor of the van beside the gray cylinder. The box that held the triggering mechanism was on the other side, partly programmed.

  Bolan had caught a glimpse of the weapon before he had to throw himself sideways to avoid the wild burst of SMG fire from the terrorist, who sprayed in an arc as he brought the weapon around.

  The Executioner hit the street hard and rolled along the surface, coming up short against the wooden wall of the building opposite the stock exchange building. Having to maneuver in such a tight space made it hard to get his own weapon into a good position to return fire.
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  On the other side of the street, Dostoyevsky cursed loudly as a bullet from a volley of gunfire took a chunk out of the arm of his leather duster and scuffed at the flesh beneath. It was a superficial wound but enough to prevent him returning fire.

  Arvo took advantage of the lull to scramble around to the front of the van, wrenching open the driver’s door and hauling himself in before either of his adversaries could get a decent shot at him. Before him, the three office workers had been mercifully spared stray fire—two had fled back into the building, and the third was now beyond the cones and into the street beyond. There was no doubt that an alarm would now be raised.

  Arvo threw the van into Reverse, veering crazily across the road as he hit the gas and tried to build up enough speed to take him past his attackers without their having a chance to stop him.

  Both men stood firm, ignoring the wild course Arvo was taking, and aimed at the tires. If they were blown out, they could bring him to a halt before he hit the sedan. A hail of fire shredded the rubber, and sparks flew into the air as metal bit into tarmac. The frame of the van was pitted by SMG fire, but then Bolan paused. The DAF was spun by its own momentum so that the front arced to face him, and Bolan found himself staring into the face of the terrorist.

  Without hesitation the soldier let fly a burst that shattered the temporary windshield and made a bloodied mess of the terrorist, his expression obliterated. The van roared, jerked and then stalled, coming to a harmless stop in front of the soldier.

  Bolan rounded the back of the vehicle, hauling wide open the back doors and checking the hardware. With relief he could see that the trigger had not been fully attached or activated, and he disconnected those parts which were conjoined. As he did this, Dostoyevsky joined him.