Bolan shot the judge.
It was easy, leaning into the M-110, drawing in his breath and letting half of it out. He’d held the rest and pressed the trigger, his touch light, his grip firm. The gun went off and a single 7.62 mm round had screamed from his location and into Markham.
The man dropped.
Bolan fired several more shots into the podium, splintering it, tearing it apart. As nobody was actually standing behind it, there was no one to be harmed by the rounds. The gunfire had the desired effect, however. The crowd either began screaming and running, or hit the deck, terrified of follow-up shots.
Which left the men Bolan had tagged.
They ran toward the stage. The Executioner was pleased to see he had missed none of them in his sweep of the crowd. He had picked out a total of four shooters. Four men were now making their way through the crowd and toward the stage. Markham was on his stomach. They wouldn’t even be able to see him, much less shoot him, until they got right on top of the stage.
One, Bolan thought, taking a bead on the first man, going through his breathing ritual and then squeezing the trigger. It was a perfectly executed head shot. The shooter—who had a 1911 pistol in his hand as he made for the stage—stumbled and fell, a bloody crater where his head had been.
Bolan had no time to waste. He tracked right for the second shot. The second man had picked up speed, moving at a diagonal toward the stage. When he saw his comrade go down, he tried to change his course, to make himself a more unpredictable target. The dirty little secret on every battlefield in the world was that it honestly didn’t matter in what direction you ran. A man with a rifle in an elevated position was going to take out his target.
Bolan killed him.
“Two,” he said quietly.
The second man had not finished dropping before Bolan tracked the third. Both man number three and man number four were getting uncomfortably close to the stage. He had to give them credit. They knew their team was being sniped, and they were still committed to fulfilling the mission. These mercenaries working for Harmon were brave and committed. He could respect that.
It wouldn’t keep them alive a minute longer, though.
Three, he thought, shooting the next man through the heart from behind. The fourth man dropped to the ground, perhaps thinking to camouflage himself among the cowering people who hadn’t run at the first shots. But Bolan already had the man ranged and was—
Movement near the stage caught his eye. There was a fifth man, running for the steps leading to the platform. He was wearing a cop’s uniform and had some kind of submachine gun in his hand. A long magazine, twenty or twenty-five rounds, protruded from the pistol grip. It looked like a MAC-11.
It was no police officer. The MAC-11 was a rough, open-bolt piece of stamped metal that was not in any way subtle. It was a full-auto squirt gun, useful only for clearing a room and making a mess. It was, in short, the very tool a hired gun would wield in a crowded situation like this.
Bolan had sworn never to take the life of a law-enforcement officer. He had a split second to make a decision. He swung the rifle and made one of the riskiest shots he had ever managed at distance.
The round tore through the “police officer’s” thigh, dropping him. When the MAC-11 hit the asphalt, Bolan put a round through it, smashing the receiver. A stationary target, even a small one, was not a problem at this distance. He swung the scope of his rifle back to target number four, who was now up and running for the stage.
Bolan snapped off the shot more quickly than he would have liked. The round went slightly low, blowing a tunnel through the man’s neck. He hit the pavement, his head at a bizarre angle.
Four.
The “police officer” was up again. He had drawn a long, double-edged dagger from inside his shirt and was limping across the stage. Markham hadn’t moved, but the ersatz officer was determined to finish the job.
Bolan had missed the man because he was disguised and waiting near the police cordon. That was smart; it was wise to have a backup man stationed somewhere less obvious. But Bolan didn’t have to call Price to confirm that all police officers were behind the cordon. Real cops didn’t lurch toward shooting victims with double-edged commando knives.
“Five,” Bolan said, punching a bullet through the fake cop’s face.
* * *
“MARKHAM’S GOING TO be fine,” Barbara Price said over the secure sat phone. “Although you ruffled more than a few feathers by getting out of there as fast as you did. The locals tend to get nervous when they’ve got a lot of bodies and nobody to pin them on.”
“They’ll get over it.” Bolan was talking to Price from the Osprey. Grimaldi was already taking them both to Virginia for the next item on the death list. “Time is the only asset I’ve got. If I can get into position before Harmon or the men working for him, I stand a chance of neutralizing each hit.”
“Understood, Striker. The judge is in a safehouse right now, and we’ll keep him there until your mission is over. He’s smart. The moment your bullet nicked his shoulder without doing any real damage, he knew to hit the deck and stay down. Apparently he needed a few stitches, but he’s otherwise fine. And he’ll have a scar to show off when he tells people the story of his harrowing escape.”
14
Charlottesville, VA
The E. J. Thomas Brewery in Charlottesville had started small. It had patiently built a following. In a few years it had become one of the more popular domestic beer labels in the country. Now the brewery had become the focus of political efforts as a test case for a new state law regarding unions.
Efforts were being made to unionize the plant, but for a complicated set of reasons Bolan didn’t pretend to understand, there was some legal wrangling over whether that could happen under the circumstances the union wanted it to happen. The specifics weren’t important. What mattered was that Bobby Helman, famed union organizer and politician, was scheduled to speak today in front of a packed crowd in a makeshift demonstration area set up in the brewery’s parking lot.
It wasn’t hard to picture how a union boss got on the Corinos’ death list. Whether Helman had once been in bed with the Mob, and had done something to get on their bad sides, or he had refused their overtures and thus had to be removed, he was next to be scratched off. The death list specified that Helman was to be killed at this rally, in front of his supporters.
Bolan made his way through the crowd at the brewery. There was no way to do this one from an overwatch position. The brewery offered no good shooting positions from its side of the lot, as it was a low-slung building with few external windows on the lot side. The only cover, the only real concealment for a group of shooters, was in the crowd itself.
He had considered and discarded the option of having Grimaldi fly support from a gunship. They could have arranged for one, although the timing was tight. He could have armed aircraft waiting at the other destination cities easily enough, but the problem was the same: each of the locations was public enough that striking targets from the air risked too many innocent dead. As a result, Bolan had to do things the hard way, while Grimaldi was relegated to ferrying him quickly from site to site. Well, that was how it had to be, then. Bolan was not about to endanger innocent people if he could help it.
The soldier milled around with the other brewery workers, reporters, political spectators and security personnel. He wished he could evacuate them preemptively, but that would alert whoever was gunning for Helman. For the same reasons they couldn’t simply have federal agents take all the targets into protective custody, Bolan couldn’t trip the trap early. He had to wait. When the shooters presented themselves, and only then, could he neutralize them and end the threat to this particular death list entry.
The brewery had paid for crowd control, employing an unarmed security agency whose personnel carried flashlights, handcuf
fs and not much else. They wore gray polyester uniforms and large hats that Bolan considered a little embarrassing. The outfit was the sort of group that guarded shopping malls. They would not be at all prepared for whatever surprise Harmon and his people had to offer.
He hoped he didn’t look too out of place in his three-quarter-length leather coat and carrying a war bag. There had been no real security in terms of screening of the attendees. That meant no metal detectors and not even a cursory bag search. That was just as well, for Bolan’s sake, as it meant his bag full of ammo and explosives could pass easily through. But if Bolan and his gear could get through, then so could Harmon and any number of his people.
As he worked his way among the people gathering to see Helman speak, Bolan was forming a plan in his mind. It was an audacious plan, a bold plan, the kind of plan that was going to result in more phone calls to Brognola’s office when word got out that an agent of the Justice Department was responsible. The funny thing about Hal Brognola, though, was that he still clung to the old-fashioned idea that getting the job done in the name of justice meant you were doing the right thing. Let the complainers complain. Brognola would back Bolan’s plan every time.
The makeshift podium where Helman was going to speak was simply a pile of crates at the edge of the lot. There were a couple of loading docks for trucks at the rear of the building. The podium was lined up with one of them, and a plywood ramp from the loading dock to the parking lot had been set up. Bolan positioned himself as close as possible to the podium. Helman would likely exit the brewery to address the crowd. The only other entrance Bolan could foresee would be if the man came into the parking lot in a vehicle, like an SUV or a limousine. He didn’t think that would be the play, though. Every politician wanted to be seen as a man of the people, and rolling up in a fancy limousine wouldn’t look the part. No, Helman would opt for walking up to his podium. It was, Bolan suspected, the reason he had allowed the folks at the brewery to make one and hadn’t brought in a nice podium of his own.
Over the years Bolan had worked with many politicians, both for and against. They were a very specific kind of animal, neither good nor bad at their cores. Only their motivations turned them good or evil in the final analysis. One man became a crusader for a noble cause; the next man became a would-be dictator. Bolan had seen them all. He didn’t know anything about Helman’s politics beyond what was in the intelligence file, and he had no opinions about the speech one way or another. He knew only that Helman was a target and Helman’s life must be saved. The rest he would leave up to Hal Brognola and the bureaucrats the big Fed faced every day.
There was a commotion at the rear of the parking lot. People were making way for an approaching vehicle. No, it wasn’t one vehicle; it was more than one. Bolan couldn’t quite make out how many, given the distance and the throng between him and the cars, but he assumed it must be Helman. The union organizer didn’t seem the type to roll up in a motorcade, but then, you just never knew.
The brewery doors opened. A man Bolan recognized as Bobby Helman started to walk out, throwing dual peace signs Nixon-style at the crowd. Two big guys in ill-fitting, off-the-rack suits walked with Helman. Those would be his bodyguards. But if Helman had been waiting inside the brewery, as Bolan suspected—
The approaching vehicles were silver Land Rovers.
There was no way for Bolan to stop several SUVs loaded with men. Not here in a crowd. Not with Helman standing out in the open. He had seconds to prevent the gunmen from taking out the union leader.
So he would have to grab Helman.
In one fluid move, Bolan face-palmed the nearest gray-uniformed security guy, shoving him out of the way. He threw himself at Helman’s bodyguards, shoving a brutal push-kick into the thigh of the closer one. The man’s thigh muscle spasmed and his leg buckled. He went down, squalling. The other thick-necked bodyguard started to reach into his jacket, but Bolan was faster. He slapped one hand over the bodyguard’s wrist and held it, vise-like, stopping the draw of whatever weapon was under the man’s coat. Then he stomped the man’s foot, kicked him as hard as he could in the shin and kneed the man in the face as he started to bend forward. The big man toppled.
Helman punched Mack Bolan in the face.
The union organizer was a big, florid-faced man with a receding mop of gray hair. He was a couple of inches shorter than the soldier and had to weigh at least 250 pounds. While he was flabby, there was a lot of muscle moving around that big frame. This was a guy who had seen his share of barroom brawls on his way up in the union hierarchy. He looked like the sort of man who’d be perfectly comfortable taking an opponent apart with a baseball bat or an iron pipe.
The punch stung, but Bolan shrugged it off. He grabbed Helman by the open collar of his shirt. The man had opted for the white-dress-shirt, sleeves-rolled-up look that many men in power adopted when they wanted to look like hardworking common-man types. Bolan jerked the union leader off balance and started dragging him back toward the brewery.
“Help!” Helman shouted.
Bolan’s Desert Eagle came out and he put the triangular muzzle to the politician’s head. “Nobody take a step or Helman gets it!” he shouted. The security guards, helpless without weapons, froze in their tracks. Helman’s bodyguards looked on in anguish. The silver Land Rovers were now working their way slowly through the parting crowd.
“You can’t take me hostage!”
“I just did.” In Helman’s ear, he said more quietly, “I’m trying to protect you, you moron! Come with me or those men in the Rovers are going to kill you!”
That got Helman’s attention. Bolan led him away, making a show of keeping the gun to Helman’s head, and entered the brewery. He slammed the door shut behind them and threw the bolt screwed into the heavy sliding door. That wasn’t going to hold them for long.
“My name is Cooper,” Bolan said. “I’m a federal agent with the Justice Department. There is a team of armed men coming to kill you. We need to get to someplace with a lot of cover. Do you know this building?”
“A...a little,” Helman replied. “You’re not...you’re not taking me hostage?”
“No. I said that so I could get you out of the line of fire. I told you, Helman. I’m here to prevent your assassination.”
“Who wants me dead?”
“The Mob.” When Helman remained silent, he added, “You don’t seem very surprised.”
“Would you be?” Helman asked. “The brewery offices. They’re on the top floor. We can hide up there. Lots of desks. Heavy, metal desks and filing cabinets. Good for stopping bullets.”
“You’re smarter than I thought,” Bolan said as the pair hurried through the brewery to a stairwell.
“I’ve seen TV. I’m not a moron.”
“Fair enough.” As they climbed the stairs and found the offices, Bolan nodded his approval. There were a lot of nooks and crannies, plenty of places for them to take cover. Bolan saw bookshelves filled with paper records of some kind. That was good, too, as layer on layer of stacked paper and documents also helped absorb rounds. The offices were deserted because everyone in the brewery had been outside for the big event. Now Bolan just had to make arrangements. He took out his sat phone and dialed Grimaldi’s number, which would connect him with the Osprey.
“G-Force,” came the reply.
“Jack,” Bolan said, “I need you to violate a few dozen air regulations.”
“You need what now, Sarge?”
“Come get me. Me and Harmon. Right here on the roof of the brewery.”
“You got it. G-Force out.”
“Over there, in the office. Looks like the nicest one here,” Bolan said. “Must belong to the boss. Get yourself behind that great big steel desk in there and stay down.”
“Where will you be?”
“Office across the way.” Bolan instructed, “Don’t talk
, don’t move and don’t make any noise. And whatever you do, don’t punch anybody.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. I’d have done the same thing. Now get down there and shut up.”
Bolan crossed the small hallway between the offices and settled in, not behind the desk, but behind the door. The hollow-core wooden door wouldn’t do much more than conceal him. It would not stop even a small-caliber bullet. But Bolan was counting on the element of surprise working for him.
He heard the hardmen before he saw them—heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. Several sets of them. Given that there were multiple Rovers, it would be a sizable team. And of course they’d be gunning for him.
The footsteps stopped just outside the office area. Bolan heard muffled conversation, whispered hastily among the attackers. He remained where he was.
“Cooper?” came a voice. “Are you in there, Cooper, or am I talking to myself? If you’re there, I don’t believe we’ve met formally...although last I knew, you were wearing my custom pistols, you son of a—”
“Sir!” a voice said. “Lower floors cleared. We’ve got to move if we want to beat the law enforcement response. They’ll have this place cordoned off.”
“What?” Bolan heard Harmon say. “Why?”
“Hostage situation, sir!” said the man reporting. “I heard some of them shouting about it. Apparently our target was abducted at gunpoint before entering the building.”
Bolan quietly began removing items from his war bag. Taking a length of paracord from one of his pockets, he cut it to size with Harmon’s fancy OTF switchblade. Then he began to tie off the paracord.
“Oh, you’re good, Cooper,” Harmon stated. “You’re good. Once the cops get here and pen us in, there’ll be no way for us to escape, is that it?”
To the men with him, the assassin said, “Keep him pinned in there. He’s got to leave the office area to go anywhere, whether that’s to the ground floor or to the roof. If the cops get here, show them your credentials and tell them you were hired by Helman as extra security, but you were too late to save him from some madman. I’ve got a schedule to keep. Just remember—whatever you do, keep him in there.”
Death List Page 12