The would-be napper had an old .45-caliber pistol in his hand, a 1911-pattern that was coated with rust so bad Bolan could see it from the floor. The gunman shot wild and wide, his rounds whistling past his target a good three feet above the soldier’s position. Bolan, for his part, simply stroked the trigger of the M16 in 3-round-burst mode, squeezing a total of nine shots that he guided in a horizontal arc. The rounds, parallel to the floor, chopped the gunman’s ankles out from under him.
He was screaming when he hit the floor. Bolan put one more round through the top of his adversary’s head, silencing him forever.
Bolan heard the steps behind him just in time to twist his body into a supine position. He was bringing up the muzzle of the M16 when he checked his fire.
“Do not move,” said the man with the snub-nosed .38.
Bolan was half a step ahead of the newcomer. His visitor was wearing a rumpled shirt and slacks under an equally rumpled trench coat. An old felt fedora was perched on his head, and his tie was at half-mast. He could not have been more stereotypically a law enforcement officer if he were trying to invoke the imagery, and Bolan was willing to bet this man deliberately cultivated the look. The identification badge around his neck bore the letters DCRI.
Direction Central du Renseignement Intérieur was French for the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence. Bolan knew the agency. Founded in 2008 by the merger of two other intelligence agencies, the DCRI was a surveillance, counterterror and counterespionage outfit.
“Cooper,” Bolan said, using the cover identity on the identification Brognola had provided him. “Justice Department.”
“Inspector Alfred Bayard,” said the man with the .38. “To say your reputation has preceded you, Agent Cooper, would be an understatement.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A moment, please,” Bayard stated. He stepped aside as several special tactics soldiers in black gear, balaclavas and helmets, wielding FAMAS assault rifles, entered the room. They had been behind the inspector the entire time. Bolan’s estimation of Bayard—who had chosen to take point with a revolver before a squad of men with automatic weapons—rose quite a few notches.
The tactical unit spread out through the flat. One entered the bedroom and began calling out instructions into a radio clipped to his vest. Another checked the man Bolan had knocked unconscious and began to secure his wrists with a pair of plastic cuffs. These were not unlike the ones Bolan carried, but of a heavier gauge.
“I would appreciate it,” said Bayard, whose French accent was thick but not impenetrable, “if you would please stop pointing your gun at me, Agent Cooper.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Bolan replied. He eased himself very carefully to his feet, mindful not to make any sudden moves. Deliberately he rested the M16 in a patrol carry position, the muzzle pointing at the floor in front of his left foot.
Bayard very slowly lowered his pistol and returned it to the holster in his waistband, where it was positioned for a cross draw. Taking a walkie-talkie from the pocket of his trench coat, he keyed it and gave the all clear in French.
“I take it these men are supposed to be members of Les Étrangers Suppriment,” Bayard said. “No doubt you informed them of their rights under the French legal system before you began beating them senseless or shooting them dead. We took into custody at the base of the stairs a dazed young fellow who appears to be among the lucky survivors.”
“Inspector Bayard,” Bolan began, “I’m—”
“I am more than aware of why you are here,” Bayard interrupted. “Your Mr. Brognola has been on the phone with the Central Directorate—and several other levels of the French government and its intelligence community—through the night. Specifically he was paving the way for what I gather is a—what is the English phrase?—a ‘one-man wrecking ball.’ And now I behold that one man.”
Bolan raised an eyebrow. “Do we have a problem?”
Bayard snorted. “I am told, if I do have a problem,” he said, “I am to hold my tongue about it, lest I disturb sleeping giants who rest well above my grade of pay. Does that sound familiar to you?”
“It does at that,” Bolan agreed. “I’m here to get to the root of the ES problem. I have the appropriate authorization to do so and nominal permission from your government to operate independently on French soil.”
“That is a grenade launcher,” Bayard said, jerking his head at the M203 mounted to Bolan’s assault rifle. “It does not get much more independent than hurling explosives through the air. Your Mr. Brognola warned us that your methods are what I would consider extreme. Your President has spoken to our president. I always wonder how tense such conversations must be.”
“Just so we understand each other,” Bolan said.
“Explain to me your purpose here,” Bayard requested. “My men have reported no contraband apart from the weapons these men carry. No explosives. No incriminating documents. No computers containing nefarious terrorist plans.”
“I’m shaking the tree,” Bolan explained.
“You are...what?”
“The ES has a network of safehouses in the city,” Bolan explained. “Any of them could lead to what the terrorists are doing. Some of them won’t. When you don’t know which branch you want, you shake the tree until something falls out.”
“How delightfully imprecise,” Bayard said. “No doubt your approach to problem solving is unique in this way. Tell me, Agent Cooper, if you sought a needle in a haystack, would you burn down the haystack? Or merely find and torture the needle’s comrades until someone gave him up?”
“I don’t torture people,” Bolan said. There was steel in his voice now; he had seen too many good people tortured and mutilated. “I fight for justice, Inspector. My methods are direct. They aren’t immoral.”
“Give me a good reason not to arrest you.”
“I don’t need one,” Bolan replied. “And you know it. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here already. How did you find me?”
“Even in this place—” Bayard spread his arms, obviously referring to the desolate neighborhood in which they stood “—a man with a grenade launcher is noticed and remembered. And as bad as things are here, automatic gunfire is also noticed.”
“Nobody’s response time is that good in a ghetto,” Bolan replied.
“No.” Bayard eyed Bolan as if reevaluating the soldier’s intelligence. “No, they are not. My men and I have been on alert, running a patrol through what we thought were the most likely target areas, knowing you would make your presence known. Mr. Brognola seemed to think a great deal of cleanup would be required wherever you went. I can see he did not underestimate that need.”
“He doesn’t sugarcoat things. Neither do I.”
“What do you mean?” Bayard asked.
“I mean that obviously you wanted to intercept me, because you don’t like the thought of me wandering around alone in your city.”
“Right again,” Bayard said. “I’ve come to offer my...assistance. As liaison.”
“Or babysitter. But that’s all right, Inspector. As it happens, I could use a guide. I want to get the lay of the land around here. Get to know this neighborhood and the others like it. Knowledge such as that could make the difference between success and failure. Are you up for it?”
“It does not matter,” Bayard said, “because I am required by my government to offer you whatever assistance I may. Understand one thing, Cooper. I resent your presence here. I resent your cowboy ways. I resent the violence that I know you will bring to my city.”
“Sometimes violence is the only way,” Bolan told him. “Predators understand little else.”
“Until I have seen differently, Cooper, I will categorize you as one of those predators.”
“Do what you have to do, Inspector.”
“I shall, Agent Cooper
. I shall.”
CHAPTER THREE
Bolan sat in the passenger seat of Bayard’s unmarked Peugeot, watching through the open window as he had done through his own vehicle, while the inspector drove. They had no specific goal. The soldier was marking time until he judged he could mount another safehouse raid. While logistically there was nothing stopping him, politically he needed to let the dust from the bank assault settle. He had received several secure text messages from the Farm already, warning him to go easy for a few hours.
The director of the DCRI in Paris, Jean Vigneau, had been flagged in Stony Man’s systems. He was a person of interest in no less than three corruption investigations. Nothing had stuck, and no hard evidence had been found, but flags like that remained in the system precisely as a forewarning for future missions. The ground on which Bolan stood could indeed become considerably more hostile if Vigneau decided to target Bolan.
So much for hitting them full force and as fast as he could. Still Bolan understood the exigencies of the field. Brognola was, according to Price, once again on the phone with French authorities, smoothing feathers and reassuring them that the heavy-handed tactics of one Agent Matthew Cooper were justified under the circumstances. Once Bolan got the all clear, he would pull out all the stops again.
Complicating matters was the fact that Agent Cooper’s previous exploits in France were a matter of record to the intelligence agencies here. Bolan was starting to wonder about the longevity of his cover identity, given that Cooper was developing a storied history to rival Bolan’s own. It had been that cumulative effect that had prompted him to forego previous aliases, such as the Mike Belasko moniker.
Bayard had been huffing and growling his way through the past several blocks, scowling at the people they saw on the streets while pausing to peer into the darker alleys. He kept up a pretty good running commentary on the players in the neighborhood, but it was obvious he thought little of Bolan and wanted just as little to do with him.
The soldier’s impression was that Bayard was a man of duty, who did as he was told as a point of principle, but who had his own opinions about right and wrong that he was not afraid to express.
“There, that one,” Bayard said, pointing. He was hunched over the wheel of the Peugeot because the car was simply too small for him.
The inspector was a big, rawboned man with thinning gray hair, wire-framed glasses and angular features. His jaw was covered in short white beard stubble. He smelled of cigarette smoke, although he had not indulged while in the car with Bolan.
He was pointing to a dark-skinned man in an oversize leather coat, whose gold chains were so numerous they had to have been weighing him down. The man had shoulder-length dreadlocks and wore louvered white sunglasses.
“That one?” Bolan asked.
“He is Razor Fayini,” Bayard said.
“That’s original.”
“But deserved,” Bayard replied. “Fayini runs prostitutes for a gang leader named Roelle. The gang is called “Suffering” in English. It is a brutal Zulu gang, fighting for dominance with one of our locally grown criminal syndicates, La Mort Rouge.”
“The Red Death,” Bolan said, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”
“They are criminals.” Bayard waved a hand dismissively. “They are not known for their modesty or their good taste. Their territory ranges for several blocks north and west.”
“And Razor?”
“A lieutenant to Roelle. He carries a folding razor blade, what the British call a ‘cut-throat.’ He enjoys using it. It is his primary means of maintaining discipline. If you entertain a whore who has scars on her face, you find yourself with one of Roelle’s women, courtesy of Fayini’s tender ministrations.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bolan stated.
Bayard brought the Peugeot to a stop across from the alley’s mouth. He reached across Bolan and took a pair of field glasses from the glove compartment, which was empty of everything else except—Bolan blinked—an actual pair of gloves. The inspector brought the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus knob.
“Something is going on,” Bayard said finally. “I do not like it. He moves with purpose and speed.”
“And?” Bolan asked.
“And if you knew Razor, you would know this is unusual. Never have I seen him on the street before noon and never in a hurry. He and his blade will catch you when he finds the time, they say on the street. I have never seen him so agitated.”
“Something to do with his gang?”
“It can be little else. He answers to Roelle and to no one else.”
“What do you have on Roelle?” Bolan asked.
“Almost nothing,” Bayard admitted. “Not a country of origin, not a real name. Always he uses others, like Fayini, to shield him. Of course we know he is behind the group’s operations. But we cannot prove it, and he has access to skillful lawyers. Drug profits have their advantages. His gang is powerful, violent and well equipped. I have lost two men in attempts to insert covert operatives within Suffering. The second of these was tortured to death.”
Bolan considered that. “If something odd is going on, let’s get after it.”
Bayard lowered the binoculars and looked at him. “But Roelle is not connected to your terrorists,” he said. “This I can guarantee. I know his group very well. Terrorism is not among their interests. Money is their motivator.”
“But this is unusual,” Bolan replied. “You said so. If it’s not related, it’s not related. But if we stick a wrench in whatever Razor Fayini has going on, it just might help some people. And that’s worth doing.”
Bayard blinked as if looking at Bolan for the first time. “You would do this?”
“Make your play,” Bolan said. “I’ll back you.”
“Very well.” Bayard nodded. He removed his revolver from the holster in his waistband, checked it and replaced it. “Follow me. Bring your many weapons. You may as well bring the assault rifle. We might need it.”
“What about my penchant for heavy-handed tactics?”
Bayard jerked his chin at the assault weapon as Bolan hefted it. “Rarely do I leave my vehicle in the darker alleys of this place. You will find backup is slow to respond here. We may require heavy hands. I am neither stupid nor suicidal.”
“Fair enough,” Bolan said.
The pair exited the vehicle, which Bayard locked, before making their way across the street and taking up positions on either side of the alley’s entrance. Bolan cast a glance back at the vehicle. His own car—which the local kids had, in fact, kept unmolested for him—was now parked at the DCRI satellite branch from which Bayard operated. No doubt the inspector had quietly ordered his lab boys to go over the vehicle for prints and any other clues they could find. Bolan could not fault the man for that. Bolan would have done the same if their roles were reversed.
“You are thinking I should pay some local urchins to watch my car?” Bayard asked.
Bolan shot him a look. “You saw that?”
“I see everything, Agent Cooper,” Bayard said. “At least if it happens around here. And I have agents watching the car from the other block.” He shot a glance down the alley. “Razor is entering a doorway on the left, at the end.”
“Then let’s go knock,” Bolan suggested.
Bayard nodded. The two men entered the alley, the inspector walking slightly behind Bolan.
“I would prefer this not turn into a bloodbath if we can help it,” Bayard said.
“Can we expect your agents watching the car to back us up if we need it?”
Bayard paused. “If they were not imaginary.”
Bolan had suspected as much from Bayard’s tone earlier. Well, it wasn’t his car to worry about. But it did mean, if they encountered resistance, in whatever Fayini and his gang were up to, that resista
nce would need to be dealt with decisively.
“I may not be able to prevent a mess,” Bolan said. He jacked open the M203 grenade launcher and thumbed in an M576 buckshot round.
Bayard nodded, eyeing the launcher warily. As they had at the alley, he took up a position opposite Bolan next to the door Fayini had used. The alley was close and fetid, smelling of urine and rot.
Bolan looked to Bayard. The Frenchman nodded once more. “Go,” he said.
Mack Bolan reached out and rapped on the door with the back of his hand. The hollow-core wood rattled under his knuckles. The door would come down easily under his combat boot.
There was an answering shout in French. Bayard yelled something back. As Bolan opened his mouth to speak, automatic gunfire began spraying them both with splinters. The rounds chewed through the door as if it were paper. The gunman quickly went dry.
Bolan was about to reach into his war bag and remove a stun grenade when Bayard swiveled. Lowering his shoulder, the Frenchman drew his .38. He was crashing through the damaged door before Bolan could tell him otherwise.
Nothing to do now but back the inspector’s play.
Bolan brought his assault rifle to his shoulder and stepped through the opening. The door had come apart in pieces, leaving jagged debris behind. As he took in the room beyond, Bolan had an impression of threadbare, broken-down furniture crammed in a room strewn with garbage and empty liquor bottles.
The inspector was ahead and to Bolan’s left. Bolan swung the barrel of his assault rifle to the right and immediately found targets. Several dark-skinned men, wearing gang colors and tattered jeans, were scrambling for an assortment of automatic weapons on the coffee table in front of them. Bolan saw a MAC-10 and an old Polish submachine gun amid the loose rounds of ammo and other weapons.
The Executioner triggered his grenade launcher.
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