Near the door was a row of pegs covered with bright yellow work jackets and hard hats. Bolan slipped on one of each, easily taking on the persona of a worker. Most people ignored city workers, as if the daily job of maintaining the city was beneath them. Bolan had only the highest regard for the men and women who toiled to keep the great cities functional.
On the corner, a bicycle rack offered transportation. Bolan regretted the theft, but he couldn’t pay for another cab ride and couldn’t spare the time it would take to walk back to the Naval Base. Once outside the base, he ditched the bike in the bushes, then cut a hole in the hurricane fence and slipped through. The action was all taking place at the far end of the base, and no one was around to spot a ragged construction worker step through the chain-link fence.
* * *
BOLAN SNIFFED THE air for the smell of coffee and followed it to the base kitchen. He skirted around the building and eased in through a side door. The galley was empty, piles of clean pots and pans stacked neatly for the next meal. Everything was spotless. And there, in a far corner, was the helicopter captain, carefully packing dry rice around the water-logged cell phone of the dead pirate.
As the captain opened the door to a microwave, Bolan moved in fast and expertly clipped the officer across the base of the skull with the cushioned grip of the Taurus. With a sigh, the captain fell. Bolan caught him before he hit the bare cement floor.
Briefly checking to make sure the captain was still breathing, Bolan took the man’s wallet, car keys and weapons and extracted the cell phone from the mound of rice. Shaking it clean, he tucked it into a pocket then rolled the captain out of sight under a table. Glancing about, Bolan located the captain’s briefcase, biting back a curse when he discovered it was firmly locked. He needed power tools if he wanted to get inside the thing without risking damage to its contents. Well, if he couldn’t retrieve the key, the cell phone should hopefully be enough for a trace.
I certainly hid enough GPS dots and dust among the cargo, Bolan noted. Time and range were the prime considerations now. He had a rough direction, due east, but every moment Narmada got further and further away. Strolling off the base, Bolan threw a casual salute to the very guards who had been firing warning shots at him earlier. The distance was too great to chat, so they simply nodded in acknowledgment.
Bolan continued down to the beach, pausing in a lush patch of bushes to dispose of his jacket and hard hat.
He waited as a police car raced past, the siren wailing loudly. Languidly, as if he had all of the time in the world, Bolan ambled along the shore. He needed kitchen facilities, power tools, money, weapons and, most importantly, privacy. Those were all easy to obtain in any big city, if you knew how. Time to disappear again.
Chapter 7
SS The Ocean Queen, formerly Dingo Bob
Working the wheel lock, Narmada threw open the hatchway. Inside the compartment wall racks stood filled with artillery shells from a dozen different nations.
“By god, it’s a warship,” chuckled Lieutenant Fields, running her fingertips along the rows of high-explosive ordnance. “Guns and torpedoes, depth charges and whatever that thing is on the foredeck.”
“A Howitzer,” said Chung with a frown.
Narmada cocked an eyebrow. “Does it work?”
“I’d hate to be the one to find out,” Chung confided, brushing back his mullet. “The recoil alone might punch a hole in the deck.”
“Sounds like foot soldiers lashing everything they could get their hands on,” muttered Lieutenant Fields, tapping the red-tipped warhead of an armor-piercing shell. “Ships are a balancing act. You can’t just add anything you like and hope for the best.”
“Accepted. Get rid of it,” directed Narmada. “How much cargo can this monster hold?”
“Haven’t checked the inventory yet, sir,” said Fields over her shoulder. “Maybe a hundred tons, possibly more.”
“Plus enough fuel and arms to keep us at sea for months,” Chung added eagerly, his eyes bright.
Crossing his massive arms, Narmada gave a thin smile. “Now, have you found the captain yet?”
“She escaped.”
“She?”
“She.”
“Impressive. Were they hunting us, or was this merely a happy confluence of events?”
“Lots of charts gone, ashes in the toilet, so...”
“They were hunting us,” said Narmada, leaving the compartment slowly. “Or, to be more specific, they were after me. That is also interesting.”
“Is it, sir?” snorted Chung, hitching up his garrison belt. “What did these idiots think we were going to attack them with—the Fifth Fleet?”
“According to the papers and books we’ve found in the library, they seem to have been from Uruguay,” said Lieutenant Fields, struggling to keep up with her much larger employer.
“Uruguay?” Narmada asked, ducking under a light fixture. “I’ve had nothing to do that with the nation.” He paused. “Not even really sure where it is. South America?”
“Yes, Sir.
He shrugged. “But our intel about the cargo was correct?”
“Yes, Sir! Hundreds of missiles down in storage, and enough ammunition to keep us supplied for months,” Fields confirmed.
“Check for traps. Trust nothing.”
“Already have our people doing so.”
“Excellent. Most excellent, indeed.”
“Guns, food, missiles...” Chung opened a door to scowl at the neat rows of heavy Navy peacoats stashed inside. None of them appeared to have been used, and the boots on the floor gleamed with polish. “Are we sure these people were actually hunting us or just working as mercs? Trying to raise enough cash to fix this piece of crap for resale?”
“Crap?” chuckled Narmada. “This ship is old, yes, but also strong and well built.” He slammed a fist into the wall. The impact echoed slightly down the long metal passageway. “It will make a fine addition to our little fleet.”
“Sir, anybody seeing fishing trawlers and an ore freighter...” Lieutenant Fields stopped and smiled “...will think one is attacking the other. But which is which, eh?”
Narmada smiled coldly. “Exactly. We’ll pretend to attack ourselves to get in close, then disable the other ship and take everything we want. No more complex plans, sleep gas or those damn expensive Martins.”
“They’ve done a good job so far, Sir.”
Heading up a steel stairwell, the captain nodded. “They have. But now they are no longer needed. Sell them off.... No, keep them for emergencies. I don’t want them turned against us during a fight.”
“Are we finally going after those bastards at Eagle’s Nest?” Chung asked, stepping onto the main deck. The breeze ruffled his hair into a wild corona.
“Sir...” said Fields in a warning tone.
“Yes, lieutenant, I know,” said Narmada, chewing on his bottom lip. “But not with our new modified missiles. All we have to do is—”
Suddenly, a door crashed open across the deck and out rushed a pair of huge jungle cats. The animals were massive, their fur a dark mixture of gray and white, making them appear ghostly.
Laughing in contempt, a pirate drew a pistol and fired twice at the beasts. Both rounds missed, and the first cat slashed open his belly, while the second did the same thing to his throat. Neither animal stopped to feed. Instead, they spread out like hunting dogs, growling and advancing, their hard bodies kept low to the deck, tails swishing back and forth.
More weapons fire erupted across the deck, tracer rounds flashing brightly. But the big cats seemed untouchable. More pirates fell, their guts ripped out, their assault rifles chattering impotently into the air.
Dropping into a kneeling position, Lieutenant Fields swung around her G11 caseless rifle and cut loose with an entire clip of 4.7
3 mm rounds. The bullets caught one of the cats on the shoulder, and the other got a hole in an ear.
As they turned to charge at her, Fields struggled to reload her weapon and Narmada stepped directly between them. Balanced on the balls of his feet, the huge man assumed a martial arts stance, waiting like a statue until the first cat sprang for his throat, claws fully extended. In a blur of motion, Narmada slammed the edge of a hand directly between the animal’s eyes. After an audible crack of shattering bone, the jaguar dropped lifeless to the deck, twitching uncontrollably.
Pivoting to the side, the second cat tried to get around the captain, its claws skittering on the metal deck. Chung drew his Norinco pistol and emptied the entire 18-round magazine into the jaguar. The hammering barrage tore away chunks of fur and meat, stitching a path of death across the muscular cat’s torso.
Still breathing, the jaguar hit the deck. It crawled forward, growling, blood flowing from a dozen wounds.
Narmada grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and chopped downward with the edge of his hand again. This time, the crack of breaking bones was muffled, but the cat went limp, shuddered, then stopped breathing.
Lifting the two-hundred pound animal as if it were a stuffed toy, Narmada flipped it over the gunwale.
“Damn, you’re fast,” a pirate said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve heard the other guys talking, but...wow.”
“Move along, Charleston,” Narmada said, flexing his hands. “I want this entire vessel checked for any more cats, dogs, stowaways.... Check everything!”
“Yes, Sir!”
“That was tolerant of you,” Lieutenant Fields muttered.
“He’s new,” Narmada said with a shrug. “And the best techie we’ve got.”
“I know computers,” Fields replied curtly, flipping her hair back over a shoulder. She wore a battered Navy watch cap tilted to the side, and a white streak in her hair covered an old bullet wound.
“Yes, you do.” Narmada laughed, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the sticky blood from his fingers. “But not lasers...”
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
AS MORE AND more police cars started streaming along the coastal road, Bolan made a fast change of plans. Lying down in the warm sand, he buried the briefcase, feeling secure that a man lounging in the sun wouldn’t attract attention.
Bolan waited until the day had faded into twilight. The sirens had become few and far between, and when he hadn’t heard one for over an hour, he stood and merged into the flow of Rio’s busy streets, looking for a target. Rio had nightclubs of every possible description, from quiet little jazz cafés to techno-thumping monstrosities full of strobe lights, and ultra-hipsters. Most of them were legitimate clubs or small time operations selling nickel bags and fake meth to the tourists. But some were fronts for large-scale organized crime.
Going through his mental file of known criminal organizations in Brazil, Bolan called to mind a Marco SanMarco. Supposedly, SanMarco was the top heroin dealer in Rio. A perfect target for Bolan. His nightclub was called Thunder Alley and was a known hardsite, armed and armored, with a full laboratory hidden on the premises. Probably the rooftop. Not even the secret police had been able to put the squeeze on SanMarco, which was saying a lot. But the more untouchable a crime lord thought he was, the more Bolan wanted to bust down his house of cards.
Thunder Alley was surrounded by expensive automobiles, and Bolan could easily tell that both bouncers controlling the front door were armed. Taking that as a good sign, he circled around to the back of the building and slipped into a dark alley. Pungent steam hissed from wall vents, and he could hear the constant clatter of pots and pans from inside the club.
Bolan picked up an empty beer bottle and dipped it into a scummy rain barrel. Leaning against the wall, he assumed the posture of a drunk man relieving himself and patiently waited to be discovered. It took about an hour, but eventually the rear doors were thrown open, and a harried young man staggered outside carrying a huge bag of garbage.
“Hey, you! Stop pissing on our wall!” the man snarled, brandishing a fist.
Moving lightning fast, Bolan buried his thumbs into the fellow’s throat, cutting off the blood and oxygen supply. Struggling wildly, the man dropped the garbage and tried to get free, but Bolan pressed even harder, and soon the man’s struggles weakened. Bolan carried the unconscious man to a nearby Dumpster and hid him in the shadows. A quick search of the man yielded an S&W .357 Magnum hidden under his floral shirt, along with two speed-loaders. Excellent. From the tattoos on his arms, Bolan’s best guess would be that the man was a courier for Marco. But a brief glance showed that the Magnum had not been fired for a long time. Possibly never. It was also quite possible the man had joined the gang merely to put food on the table for his family and worked at any dirty job he was asked—like taking out the garbage.
Stepping into the building, Bolan found himself in a steamy, noisy kitchen, people scurrying about, and flames rising from pans. Bolan grabbed a plastic tray of dirty dishes and walked down a corridor toward the sound of a sloshing dishwasher.
Dropping off the stack, Bolan continued down a hallway, turning left and right, until the sounds of the nightclub faded. Soundproofing in the walls meant that he was approaching the owner’s head office. A fire exit led to a locked stairwell, so Bolan used his switchblade to trick the lock. He used the moment of privacy inside the stairwell to check over his new weapon. He had been right—the gun did not appear to have ever been fired. Some of the brass cartridges had actual dust on them.
Using the switchblade, Bolan cut off a piece of his shirt and expertly cleaned the weapon, unloading and reloading the cylinder, then dry firing the gun until he was satisfied it would perform as needed.
He had just finished when the stairwell door opened and a short bald man strode into view. Dressed in an expensive Italian silk suit, the newcomer had two pistols tucked into his belt and was carrying a brown leather satchel.
As the fat man demanded something in Portuguese, Bolan shoved the Magnum into his throat and pulled back the hammer.
“Where’s SanMarco?” he growled.
The fat man went pale and immediately stopped talking. But his eyes flicked upward.
Nudging the fellow further into the stairwell, Bolan took away his weapons and forced him to open the satchel. Inside were neat stacks of clear plastic baggies filled with a crystalline white powder. Stabbing one with the switchblade, Bolan briefly touched the powder to the tip of his tongue, then quickly spat it out. Heroin. High-quality grade..
As the fat man started to speak again, Bolan clubbed him hard across the temple with the barrel of the revolver. He staggered, but then spun around, a hand clawing for a Glock 9 mm hidden on his hip.
Blocking the pistol with his own gun, Bolan rammed the switchblade into the man’s temple. His eyes went wide at the shock, and he started trembling all over, then Bolan turned the blade, and the man dropped to the floor.
Slinging the corpse over a shoulder, Bolan proceeded up the stairs to the top floor. He entered an office of a sort. Books on shelves, mahogany desk edged in shiny brass, deep pile carpeting, offset lighting. At the far end of the room was a roaring fireplace, and lounging before it on a bearskin rug were two naked woman enjoying each other’s intimate company.
Lounging obscenely in a large leather chair was a skinny man wearing only a silk robe, his legs splayed wide.
“Now roll her over,” he commanded with a guttural laugh.
As the women heeded him, he toasted them with a frosted highball glass, the ice cubes tinkling musically.
Without comment, Bolan heaved the dead man forward.
He landed on the rug, and the women reared backward, then started screaming.
The skinny man spun toward Bolan, then jerked to a full stop as Bolan pressed the barrel of the stolen Magnum to his right eye.
“We need to talk,” he whispered in a low voice.
Breathing heavily, SanMarco nodded slowly, then said something to the women in Portuguese. They grabbed their clothing and started for the door.
“No, into the bathroom,” Bolan corrected, clicking back the hammer on the revolver.
Nodding assent, the women scooted inside and closed the door.
Keeping the Magnum trained on SanMarco, Bolan pushed a sofa across the doorway and sat down. “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “I have your drugs, and—”
“Drugs?”
“Shut up, or I kill you here and now,” Bolan said calmly.
“What is it you want, Yankee?”
“We’ll discuss that on the way there.”
“On the way where?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, SanMarco. If you want to live, give me what I want.”
A long minute passed. “You want the Sea King,” he muttered at last. “But how did you know?”
“Get dressed, and I’ll tell you all about it on the way there.”
The Sea King—that sounded like a boat. Bolan would have preferred a plane, but any transportation was good enough for a start.
“You have a name, Yankee?”
“No.”
“I see...” Suddenly, SanMarco jerked a hand forward. Bolan ducked under the flying highball glass and kicked the coffee table forward. It skittered across the highly polished floor and rammed into SanMarco’s shins with a resounding crack.
The man doubled over, and Bolan stepped in fast to grab his hair. Twisting the man around, he looked straight into his blue eyes.
“That was the only one you get,” said Bolan. “Try it again, and I find another drug dealer.”
“Yes, yes, sure, no problem,” SanMarco babbled, sweat appearing on his brow. “Anything you want!”
“Get dressed.”
“I suppose the safe in my office is next,” muttered the man, hitching his belt closed. “Look, you’re good. Very good. I hire you away. Double what they pay to kill me.” He paused. “Is it the Colombians? The Bolivians?”
Pirate Offensive Page 7