Your parents died because you ate them. Johnson kept that thought private.
However, something had to have showed on his face as Seville chuckled. “Yes, this is all rather ironic, isn’t it?”
“I’m a businessman, not a philosopher,” Johnson replied, dismissing the topic with a curt hand gesture. “I set you free because I want you to kill a man.”
“Just one?” Seville asked with a laugh in his voice.
“Just one.”
“And you can’t kill him yourself?”
“Not so far,” Johnson growled. “Snipers, bombs, fifty men in armored vehicles...”
“My, my, he sounds like a very special man.”
“The best I’ve ever seen.”
“So I would assume. And if I refuse?”
Johnson gestured toward the door. “You’re free to leave whenever you wish.”
“Yes, I am,” Seville whispered. “And just because of your largesse.”
“Oh, I am sure that you could kill all of my people if you wished,” Johnson said. “But after spending so much time and money to set you free, that would be...rude.”
“Would it?”
“And pointless,” Johnson said with a shrug. “I want to stay alive, and you like to kill. We should work together. I need somebody killed. Why should you not earn a great deal of money?”
“I’m not an assassin,” Seville said. “However, I have been dreaming for a long time about a trip to China. All of those little children slaving away in sweatshops...” His voice took a dark and dangerous tone. “The Communist High Command needs to learn a harsh lesson in humility.”
Johnson smiled. “I could not agree more. Kill this man, and I’ll pay for everything you need.”
“How generous! But all I need is a knife and a map.”
Somehow, Johnson did not doubt that statement, and almost felt a twinge of pity for the leaders of China. Almost, but not quite.
“If you’re not interested in a business proposition,” Johnson said, playing his last card, “would you consider doing it as a personal favor?”
“A favor...” Seville said thoughtfully, resting a foot on top of the dresser to check the seam in his hose. The action made his dress ride high, exposing lacy panties and an old-fashioned straight razor strapped to his thigh.
Clearing his throat, Johnson looked away.
“Oh, my, a gentleman.” Seville laughed, setting both his feet on the floor again. “All right, I accept. It was been many years since anybody has asked me for a favor.” He smiled. “However, I still wished to be paid for this enterprise, and my fee is...a dollar.”
Johnson frowned. “Is that slang for a million dollars?”
“No, one dollar,” Seville said. “A single dollar.” A strange expression crossed his face, his eyes briefly taking on an inhuman aspect. “As I said before, I’m not an assassin. This is a favor for a gentleman.”
“Excellent! Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Torval,” Seville said, and the straight razor was instantly in his hand.
Turning in the overhead lights, the stainless-steel blade was mirror bright, shining like a newborn sin.
“Now, tell us the name of this man,” Seville said, seeming to be speaking to the razor, “and where we may find him....”
Smithfield, Ohio
WITH THE TOTAL destruction of the Belvedere Fertilizer Factory, Bolan and what remained of his people were forced to establish a temporary camp at the Jefferson Airfield.
It was a strain on his war chest, but Bolan had to maintain the illusion that he had all of Ziggy Nine’s millions. So he’d had Stony Man legally purchase the ramshackle airfield, and then sent Grimaldi off with a roll of bills. The pilot returned in a few hours with enough tents, cots, sleeping bags, food and assorted weaponry to hold them through the night. It was mostly just twelve-gauge Remington shotguns and lever-action Winchester .30-06 hunting rifles.
However, Grimaldi promptly left again and returned at dawn with the cargo hold of the Hercules jammed full of a disassembled Quonset hut, AK-101 assault rifles and another APC. However, this time it was a LAV-25 armed with a 7.62 mm chain gun and a rapid-fire 25 mm cannon.
The demoralized crew and remaining guards happily cheered at the arrival of the armored assault vehicle, and now eagerly began to assemble the second Quonset hut. When that was accomplished, everybody, including Bolan, assisted to surround the entire airfield with a defensive perimeter of caltrops, endless coils of razor wire and a score of video cameras.
Every few hours Grimaldi returned with another couple tons of assorted supplies on pallets, along with a forklift to ferry them out of the colossal airplane. Ammunition, grenades, body armor, additional motorcycles... The Stony Man pilot did not seem to require sleep, and in less than a day both Quonset huts were properly fortified. Only then did the man inflate a tent, grab a sleeping bag, crawl inside and zip the doorway shut.
“What do the neighbors think we’re doing here?” asked Glenn, hunched over a new laptop.
Inside the new prefab hut, the man had set up a small command center. Surrounded by a low wall of sandbags, he had a pair of redwood tables holding a dozen flat-screen monitors relaying images from a series of wireless video cameras. The screens displayed a real-time view of the vast empty fields and scrub grasslands surrounding the airfield.
A hundred feet away, a portable generator softly purred. It was connected to a spiderweb of electrical cables. Slightly farther away was a stash of fuel drums, surrounded by a wall of sandbags. At the far end stood the Hercules, fully fueled and ready to fly at a moment’s notice.
“Told them I was making a movie about the end of the world,” Bolan replied, opening a cardboard box.
Nestled inside were dozens of MRE food packs, everything from New England pot roast to rancho huevos. Stacked along the curved wall were a dozen more boxes next to a refrigerator. There was enough food and water to last them a couple weeks.
In spite of the intense work done, Bolan was feeling much more like his old self. A good night’s sleep had put the man back on his feet. “With this much equipment, we could survive anything,” Weinberg said from inside the LAV-25. Standing in the gunner cupola, she was feeding a linked belt of 20 mm shells to the main gun.
“When are we going to get out of here, sir?” a guard asked, flipping over hamburgers on an outdoor grill. “It’s been two days and I hate camping.” The smoke from the grill lazily wafted upward to flow along the curved ceiling and out a small vent.
“You like dying more?” Gonzales asked, loading a huge magazine. Spread across a redwood picnic table was a new M134 minigun.
“No, sir!” another guard stated, strapping on some of the new body armor.
“Besides, we can’t go anywhere until the replacement meth lab is finished,” Bolan lied, going to a gun rack bolted to the aluminum wall. “So we stay low until it’s done.”
“Hope it’s better fortified that the factory,” the guard muttered, adjusting the flames under the grill.
“It used to be a World War I bomb factory. The walls are ten feet thick.”
“Cool. Where is it located?” Glenn asked, glancing up from the glowing laptop. “Still here in Columbus?”
Taking down a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, Bolan worked the bolt to check the cleanliness of the chamber. “No, this one is in Akron,” he said off the top of his head. “Near the sewage plant.”
“To hide the ammonia? Smart.”
“And once we’re back on our feet,” Weinberg said, her voice muffled from inside the APC, “we find those Castle assholes and burn them out of existence.” The rear doors opened with a clang and she stepped into view.
“That’s the plan,” Bolan said. Just then, Grimaldi entered, his hair tousled from sleep.
“Excuse me, Mr.
Giancova?” he asked, displaying a cell phone. “There’s a call for you, sir.”
“Leo?” Bolan asked, starting that way.
“Not even close,” Grimaldi replied, tossing over the device.
With one hand, Bolan made the catch and flipped open the lid. “Giancova,” he growled.
“We have each caused the other a great deal of trouble,” a scrambled voice said. “As well as a great deal of money.”
“Yes, we have...Johnson.”
There came a low chuckle. “Most impressive. We should meet to discuss the matter. Perhaps we can negotiate a treaty of some sort.”
“I’m always more interested in making money than shooting people,” Bolan stated.
“As am I.”
“Okay, where and when?”
“Tomorrow morning at the Buckeye Sports Arena.”
“Unacceptable. Nothing local. I suggest neutral territory,” Bolan said, deciding to take a chance. “Since you’re in New York and I’m in Ohio, how about somewhere in Pennsylvania? Perhaps a farm or a truck stop?”
There followed a very long silence.
Bolan was starting to think that he had overplayed his hand when the scrambled voice returned.
“Acceptable. Just outside of Reading there’s a shopping center. The Eastland Mall.”
“Decent coffee in the food court?”
“Now, how would I know that?” the voice stormed, then broke into a laugh. “Oh, I see, clever. No, I have never been there before. It truly is neutral territory.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow at noon,” Bolan said, and cut the call.
“And...we’re clear,” Glenn announced, typing on the laptop. “They tried to trace us but I blocked them. Then I tried to trace them and got the same result.”
“As expected,” Bolan said, tucking away the phone.
“So what’s the verdict, chief?” Weinberg asked, cleaning her hands on a rag. “Does he really want to cut a deal or is this a trap?”
“There’s no way to know yet,” Bolan said. “If he had suggested any place other than a crowded location, it would have been an ambush. But a shopping mall full of people...”
“Nobody wants a public bloodbath,” Grimaldi stated, smoothing down his hair. “That would only get Homeland Security involved. Cops we can handle, but not the Feds.”
“Okay, we go tonight,” Gonzales said, hefting the M134. “Take out the mall security, have some of our guys put on their uniforms and when Castle arrives...” He pressed the trigger and the minigun hummed as multiple barrels spun around in a blur.
Grimaldi crossed his arms. “There would still be civilian deaths.”
“Not very many.”
“Unless something goes wrong.”
“Stop complaining. It’s good plan. What do you think, chief?”
“I like it,” Glenn stated, leaning back in his chair to lace the fingers of both hands behind his head. “Fights are like writing code. The more complex they get, the bigger the chance of a mistake. Clean and simple gets the job done.”
“Sounds good,” Weinberg added. “We go in, kill everybody and leave. Piece of cake.”
“Maybe we could set fire to the mall to cause a stampede,” Gonzales suggested, removing his finger from the trigger. The spinning barrels slowed to a stop. “Can you kill the fire alarm?”
Glenn smiled. “Consider it done.”
With no expression whatsoever, Grimaldi silently looked at Bolan.
Pretending to consider the suggestion of mass murder, Bolan sauntered to the fridge to grab a beer. “No, we’ll talk first,” he said. “Johnson may not show up in person, but send another representative. I want to know he’s dead, and not have to keep looking over my shoulder for the next ten years.”
“Then what’s our move?” Weinberg asked with a scowl. “We’re not really going to trust this prick, are we?”
“Trust him?” he said with a low chuckle. “Not a chance in hell.”
Chapter 16
Reading, Pennsylvania
Landing at the Reading Regional Airport, Bolan and Glenn took a cab into town to rent a civilian version of a Hummer. It was roomy enough for both men and a couple bulky equipment cases.
As they departed, Grimaldi piloted the Hercules to the far end of the airfield and into a private hangar. A few minutes later, Grimaldi cycled open the rear of the aircraft and Weinberg drove out an oversize bread truck. The vehicle was so big that the roof of the truck scraped along the sides of the exit, so she shifted gears and rocked the huge truck back and forth, inching forward until finally breaking free.
Once on the ground, Weinberg stopped the truck and Grimaldi went back inside the Hercules to run out a pressurized air hose. As he refilled all of the nearly deflated tires, the truck rose several inches.
Shooting the man with a finger, Weinberg shifted gears again and slowly built speed as she also headed for the mall, but on an entirely different route.
* * *
“HOW YOU BOYS doing back there?” Weinberg shouted over the throaty rumble of the powerful diesel engine.
There was no response.
“Gonzales?”
Silence.
Annoyed, Weinberg blasted the air horn one time. Again, nothing happened. Her face darkening into a scowl, the woman downshifted gears until the truck came to a stop on the side of the road.
Throwing open the door to the cab, she climbed down and furiously marched to the rear of the truck. “There had better be something wrong with the LAV,” Weinberg muttered. “Because if you idiots are screwing around...”
Raising the rear door just a few feet, Weinberg climbed into the darkness and closed it tightly behind her. The very last thing the boss would want is for some passing motorist spotting the military vehicle inside a civilian bread truck. The shit would really hit the fan then!
Pulling out a butane lighter, Weinberg flicked it alive. “All right, Gonzales, what’s the matter?”
Her voice trailed away at the sight of something red smeared across the tiny front view ports of the armored LAV-25. Then she caught the unmistakable coppery smell of fresh blood.
“Alert,” Weinberg whispered into her throat mike, and her earbud keened in a deafening squeal. Jammed!
Desperately clawing for the Uzi slung under her windbreaker, she saw something silvery flash in the darkness and unbelievable pain exploded across her throat. Letting go of the lighter, the woman instinctively grabbed her throat with both hands as a hot geyser of life sprayed outward.
Blackness enveloped Weinberg as she struggled to breathe, gasping and choking on the rushing torrent of her own blood.
“Hush now,” whispered a strangely feminine voice. “This will all be over soon.”
Then the terrible pain came again and again, slashing white-hot agony across her stomach, both hands, a breast, her face! Soon it filled the universe, overwhelming every other sensation, and Weinberg descended into a swirling vortex of hellish darkness that stretched beyond infinity....
* * *
REACHING THE EASTLAND MALL, Glenn neatly maneuvered through the streams of traffic to park the Hummer at the far end of the lot. As Bolan got out, he plugged the laptop into the cigarette lighter and opened the lid. “Good luck. I’ll be watching on the security cameras.”
“If I say ‘Piranha,’ send for Gonzales,” Bolan subvocalized, adjusting the turtleneck sweater that hide his throat mike.
“Will do!”
Walking alone through the long rows of cars, Bolan tried to watch everything and everybody. Even though he was hoping this would not end in bloodshed, the soldier was wearing full body armor, and under his windbreaker were both a silenced Beretta and a .50 Desert Eagle. He had also brought along a few M18 grenades this time. Just in case.
Pleasantly neutral music played over hidden speakers, the sound seeming to come from everywhere. The floor was the standard speckled terrazzo, perfect for hiding stains, and there was a large ornate fountain near the escalators. No statues of war heroes, of course. Just a decorative pile of rocks and a small waterfall splashing down into a shallow pool, the bottom covered with an assortment of shiny coins.
On the mezzanine overlooking the food court, several large men in trench coats leaned on the banister, their hands inside their pockets, sunglasses hiding their eyes and the direction they looked.
In the food court, Bolan saw a large man sitting by himself, surrounded by an archipelago of vacant tables. He was wearing expensive clothes, and was bent over a wooden chessboard that completely covered his plastic table. The game was already in play, with several pieces off the board and sitting on the side.
“Piranha,” Bolan subvocalized as he headed that way.
There was no sign of any mall security and numerous video cameras mounted on the ceiling stayed oddly motionless instead of sweeping back and forth. The air smelled of fried foods: a pleasant mix of pierogi, pretzels and pizza.
Walking closer, Bolan marked the locations of the stores lining the food court, especially the two empty stalls undergoing renovations.
As Bolan approached the table, the man used a foot to push out a molded plastic chair as green as Ireland in the spring.
“Johnson?” Bolan asked, keeping a safe distance.
Without looking up from the game, the man nodded. “Torval Johnson. Are you Anthony Giancova?”
“Sorry, pal,” Bolan said, trying to buy some time. “I have no idea who you are, but you’re not Johnson. I saw that colossus in the marsh. It’d take four of you to make him.”
Breakout Page 18