He had completed a preliminary search, firming his first impressions of the layout, seeking any last-minute changes or additions. If Minh's battered troops laid a trap for him, the soldier didn't want to stumble blindly into it.
The warehouse was a long, low, prefabricated structure with a huge sign proclaiming it the property of something called "United Merchandising, Inc." Bolan recognized the name of Minh's ersatz holding company — one of several used as buffers for his Bay Area operations. United Merchandising was designed to launder cash and move selected products — including drugs and weapons, if Brognola was correct in his suspicions.
The plant had facilities along the pier for unloading merchandise from ships, and in the rear there was a loading dock for trucks. Now, instead of eighteen-wheelers, three black crew wagons nosed against the dock; a fourth was parked on the pier, adjacent to a ramp with glass double doors marked: Customer Relations. Bolan marked it as the entrance to a suite of offices, but questioned whether ordinary customers had ever sought service through those doors.
He concentrated on the four crew wagons, sitting dark and silent in the night.
That meant at least a dozen guns, perhaps twice as many if the tanks were fully loaded on arrival.
Too many for a single soldier to battle.
Mack Bolan was no ordinary soldier.
Friend and foe alike dubbed the Executioner "a one-man army." His strength and presence, combined with his fine-honed ability to seize an enemy's mistakes, had allowed him to prevail over vastly larger forces on more than one occasion.
Incredibly, the "elders" hadn't posted any pickets outside the warehouse. Despite their recent mauling in Haight-Ashbury — or perhaps because of it — they were dropping their guard.
A mistake, yeah.
Bolan didn't stop to ponder motives. He planned to take advantage of their carelessness. As he moved, a plan was already forming in his mind.
Reconnaissance had revealed an access door beside the loading dock. Bolan worked around the warehouse, eyes darting behind the Nitefinders, probing at the mist, searching for an enemy who was nowhere to be found.
They would be waiting for him on the inside, certainly, with guns to spare. Bolan was about to swat a hornets' nest, and he ran the risk of being stung.
When the hornets' nest became a problem, there was only one thing to do. You burned them out, and tried your best to make sure none escaped. If they escaped...
Bolan reached the metal door and peered in a high window. He saw a burglar alarm, but gambled that with troops moving in and out, the system would be temporarily turned off.
Beyond the window, a narrow corridor ran for perhaps twenty feet, then turned left. The corridor was empty, lit by a single caged bulb.
Bolan tried the doorknob and found it locked. Fair enough. It would be too much to ask to have the whole thing handed over on a silver platter.
He would have to work for it, right.
Bolan plied his flexible pick, hoping the door wasn't bolted on the inside as well as being locked. Another heartbeat, the knob turned and the door swung slowly, silently inward.
Poised on the threshold, Bolan let the combat feelers go ahead of him, probing for the enemy and catching the sound of voices. Make that one voice, somewhere around the dogleg of the corridor.
He entered, moving catlike along the hallway, Ingram nosing ahead of him to meet all comers. There was an empty glassed-in office to his right, and a men's room to his left. Bolan nudged the door open and quickly scanned the stalls before moving on, satisfied no one was behind him.
Approaching the corner, he made out a gruff male voice engaged in conversation. One of Minh's "elders" was reporting in by telephone, and the long pauses indicated someone on the other end was doing most of the talking. Bolan stopped, tapping in to the short end of the dialogue.
"No, no... she's safe," the guy insisted. "Don't worry about that."
The gunner waited, listening. There was a note of irritation in his voice when he spoke again.
"Jesus, I don't know," he said. "I only saw one guy, but it coulda been a dozen from the way he was kickin' ass."
Bolan smiled. As long as they were off balance, he was points ahead.
"I'm telling you, nobody followed us," the nervous "elder" said. "Your boy's probably dead by now, anyway. That Caddy was a fuckin' sieve when he took it out of there."
Someone was dishing out instructions at the other end, and Bolan's man was saying little.
"Okay," he said at last. "We'll be ready for the boat."
Bolan risked looking around the corner, but quickly ducked back again, images imprinted on his memory.
Six or eight feet along the corridor, a man was standing with his back to Bolan, holding a telephone receiver. Beyond him, the hallway opened into the warehouse. Bolan saw three other hardmen, one seated on a folding chair, cradling his bandaged head in both hands.
There was no sign of Amy Culp, but he knew from the "elder's" conversation she was nearby. Under guard, certainly — the men had said she was safe — but that didn't make her inaccessible. The problem was to find her and get her out of there — alive.
He was down to the wire, and there would only be one chance. If he missed the lady now...
Bolan hated going in blind. It was a wild-ass warrior's tactic, sure, but there were times when no choice remained — times when a soldier had to play the cards as they were dealt, with no real means to improve his hand.
If the stakes were high enough, a gutsy soldier gambled and played it through without a backward glance. With any luck at all, he might find a way to bend the rules and give himself an edge.
The telephone receiver crashed in its cradle, and the gunner cursed under his breath. Bolan knew he had perhaps a heartbeat to map strategy and put it into action.
The man in black poked his head around the corner, intent on the hardman's retreating back. He whistled softly, barely loud enough to bridge the space between them, then swiftly retreated from sight.
He could picture the gunner, hesitating in the corridor, glancing back at his companions and wondering if he could trust his ears or whether he should call a backup to help him check things out.
It could go either way, Bolan knew. The guy could pass it off as nothing and go about his business, or he might fetch a squad to join him in the check. Ideally, he would be curious and confident enough to run the check alone. If he did, there was a chance the Executioner could buy some precious numbers for himself and for Amy.
The alternative — blasting in without an inkling of the odds — would be foolish.
Foolishly fatal. Sure.
He would play the game, and take it to the limit, but his fearlessness did not include a disregard for danger.
Bolan ticked off a dozen numbers in his mind before the gunner made his choice. Another muffled curse, and then footsteps were coming closer, not receding as the Executioner feared.
His fish was taking the bait. It was up to Bolan to reel him in.
He started the countdown, picturing the soldier as he cautiously closed the gap. Any second now...
Bolan braced himself, determined to avoid shooting if possible. He had the advantage of surprise on his side, but the warrior wasn't taking anything for granted.
There was no sure thing in the hellgrounds.
The soldier came around the corner into view, eyes bulging at the sight of the apparition dressed in midnight black. He recovered quickly and reached for a holstered weapon, but he never made it. The Executioner was too fast.
Bolan seized him by the throat with one hand, fingers digging deep, while the other hand struck his adversary's gun arm a numbing blow. He swung the gunner around, slammed his back against the wall and felt his breath rush out on impact.
The guy struggled feebly, gasping for air and clawing at Bolan with his one good arm. The jungle fighter bored in, pivoting to drive a knee against the gunner's solar plexus, feeling bone and muscle collapse under the blow. At the same
time, he released the "elder's" throat, slamming a rigid forearm across his larynx and putting all his weight behind the move.
It was sufficient. The hardman died on his feet, a startled expression frozen on his face.
Bolan lowered the body into a sitting position and turned toward the new killing ground. He bought himself a moment, nothing more, and he would now have to play it through with all his warrior's skill.
He turned the corner, moving briskly down the corridor, one hand clasped around the Ingram's pistol grip. The "elders" were expecting their companion and with any luck, a figure moving in the dimly lit hallway would not arouse suspicion. At least not before the Executioner was well within effective striking range.
His eyes swept rapidly from side to side, his field of vision widening with each stride. A fourth gunner drifted into view, tracking from the left at a casual pace, and the shoulder of a fifth was visible around the corner to his right.
There was still no sign of Amy Culp. And Bolan was going in blind, right, in spite of himself. The lady might be anywhere — even in the line of fire — but there was simply no alternative. Bolan had to forge ahead.
He had come too far to turn around, and it was do-or-die time, with odds of perhaps a dozen guns to one. Potentially killer odds, but not insurmountable. With an edge...
Bolan was perhaps twenty feet from the seated soldier when the guy glanced up and spotted him. There was gauze wrapped around his head, stained with seeping blood, and a compress taped across one eye, but his good eye was staring straight at Bolan, unblinking. The shock of recognition gave his ravaged face a sudden haunted look, the appearance of a man confronting sudden death.
For a moment he was silent, speechless, then panic boiled over in his gut and escaped in a strangled cry of warning.
"Jesus, watch it!"
The gunner threw himself sideways, toppling the chair. Bolan chased him with a short precision burst. The bandaged skull exploded into bloody tatters and his dive became an awkward slide.
Tracking on, Bolan swept the entryway from left to right and back again, finding flesh and bone with his short, measured bursts. The muffled MAC-10 made a sound like canvas ripping in the deadly stillness of the warehouse.
On his left, two hardmen were standing close together, gaping at the bloody mess that landed at their feet. One was turning toward Bolan when he hit both with a blazing figure eight, deadly parabellums ripping in at chin level, blowing them away.
To his right, a solitary soldier had his hands full wrestling a Magnum out of side leather, cursing as the holster fought him. Bolan ripped him open with a burst of steel-jackets, punching him over backward in a floppy somersault.
It was in the fan now. Bolan took the entryway in a rolling dive, below the line of fire, coming up in a crouch with the Ingram out and tracking. He turned toward the sound of running feet and caught three "elders" charging at him; two of them brandished pistols, and the point man was fighting with the stubborn cocking bolt of an Uzi submachine gun.
Bolan held the Ingram's trigger down, sweeping them at waist level with a string of 9mm manglers, dropping them in a thrashing, screaming mass of arms and legs. Another heartbeat and the Ingram emptied out, silencing the screams forever. The thrashing ceased abruptly.
Someone was firing back at Bolan now, bullets chipping the pavement around him. He dropped the MAC-10, spinning to confront the newest threat. The big silver AutoMag found his hand, leaping out and into target acquisition even as he recognized the enemy.
There were two, dressed in carbon-copy suits, blasting at him with their autoloaders, never really taking time to aim. Bolan took them in rapid fire. Downrange, the hollow men danced, leaping with the impact of roaring death.
A door banged open and Bolan swung the Auto-Mag around to find his next target. Another soldier — apparently the last — and he held a trump card of his own.
The guy was clutching Amy Culp in front of him like a living shield, one arm circling her chest while the other aimed a .45 at Bolan. The lady's arms seemed secured somehow behind her back.
The "elder" was grinning at him, a wild demented expression on his florid face.
"It's over, Slick," he said. "Drop the piece and — aaiiyee!"
Bolan took a heartbeat to determine what happened. With her hands behind her, Amy Culp had found her captor's groin, talons digging deep into tender flesh. At the same instant, she stomped on his instep, twisting hard and wrenching clear of his grasp, going down on both knees.
The "elder" wailed, clutching his wounded genitals, the .45 autoloader wavering off target. Bolan sighted on the screaming lips and squeezed off a single round at thirty feet.
There was simply no way to miss, and 240 grains of death punched through the soldier's open maw at 1,500 feet per second. Above the chin, his skull disintegrated. The headless body toppled over backward.
Amy Culp was struggling to rise when Bolan reached her. He helped her up, slicing her bonds with a razor-edged stiletto taken from the pocket of his skinsuit. He noted the cut and swollen lips, discoloration on her cheeks, but there was no time to bandage cuts and bruises.
"Are there any more?" he asked her.
She looked around, counting the dead and finally shook her head in a weak negative.
"That's everyone, I think," she said. "You got them all."
Bolan nodded grimly.
"We're getting out of here," he told her. "Come with me."
He took her by the arm and led her from the killing ground, along the narrow corridor. Passing by the wall-mounted telephone he paused, snaring the receiver.
"I need to make a call," he said.
Bolan dialed the cutout number for Able Team, waited through the rings until he heard the familiar voice of Gadgets Schwarz.
"Able One."
"This is Stony Man," Bolan told his friend.
The Able warrior's voice brightened instantly.
"Hey, buddy... where away?"
"On the move," Bolan answered curtly. "I've picked up a passenger I need to unload."
"Uh, that's affirmative, Stony Man. Where and when?"
Bolan thought it over, seeking a spot on his way.
"Let's keep it public," he instructed. "Palace of the Fine Arts in half an hour."
"Roger that." There was something else though, Bolan could read it in his friend's tone. "Listen, Stony Man, there's a wild card in the game you ought to know about."
"Explain, Able."
"It's her father," Schwarz told him. "He's flying in to meet your person. Like tonight."
Bolan felt an icy chill creep into his gut.
"Understood," he said. "I'm signing off. We'll be looking for you, Able."
"On my way."
Bolan severed the connection, moving toward the exit with the girl in tow, his mind racing into confrontation with the latest twist.
The father, right. Make that the senator. Coming for an unscheduled meeting with Minh.
The timing was significant, even crucial. "Like tonight," Schwarz said. That spelled trouble for the Executioner.
It meant Amy's father wasn't counting on a regular appointment. He was moving for a showdown, arriving at the worst possible time. He might even be in the city now, preparing to barge in at Minh's estate.
At the hardsite, where thirty-odd guns were braced and ready to repel invaders.
The situation was potentially disastrous, explosive, and it was Bolan who had lit the fuse. Now, it was his task to channel the explosion, to direct its destructive force at the selected target, away from innocent bystanders.
And, incidentally, he would also try to survive the night.
15
Nguyen Van Minh sat alone in his private office mulling over reports from his soldiers in the field. He had been advised of Amy Culp's recapture and the bloody firefight in Haight-Ashbury — a grim debacle. On balance, he could not rate the early-morning action as a success.
Minh still didn't know exactly what was happening in the fi
eld, but he reached some conclusions even so. First of all, he doubted the KGB's involvement in his recent trouble despite the evidence supplied by Mitchell Carter.
He knew the Russians well — better than he cared to, in fact. In his experience, their agents rarely worked alone, and never with the sort of clockwork efficiency displayed by his anonymous opponent. KGB agents were plodding, predictable and for the most part unimaginative.
But if not the Soviets, then who?
Minh resisted crediting the Americans. It was prejudice, admittedly, but a bias founded on experience. If the Americans had fought with such imagination and tenacity in Vietnam, they would not have been so easily repelled.
Minh frowned as he wrestled with the problem, concentration carving furrows in his face. Except for his garb, he resembled an Asian warlord.
He was convinced his adversary was one man, although the questions of sponsorship and motive remained glaringly unanswered. Minh reviewed the chain of startling events and found nothing in the time span or circumstances to back his belief that the assailant was one man.
The enemy would have to be an extraordinary man, certainly, a consummate warrior, but nothing was impossible. Minh knew very few such men — two or three in a lifetime — and he could accept the existence of such a warrior.
What he could not accept was the availability of such a man to the KGB in America. An import, perhaps...
His frown deepened, and he shook his head. No, it was not the Soviet style — or the American. That left him face to face with an unknown variable — a highly uncomfortable feeling for a man in his position. Accustomed to controlling and manipulating his environment, Minh didn't like to feel the reins slipping through his fingers.
He left the question open, dismissing it as fruitless, an endless mental exercise. For the moment, he was opting for discretion as the better part of valor — clearing out, as the Americans would say — until he had the situation well in hand.
Minh hoped it would be possible for him to return. In spite of himself and his commitment to the cause of liberation, he had come to enjoy the adulation of his followers and the luxury and status he enjoyed around San Francisco. It would be pleasant, he privately admitted, to maintain the pose a bit longer. But if that was impossible...
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