Killing Trade

by Don Pendleton

  Two shotgun blasts echoed through the opening, punctuated by the sound of the weapon’s action being pumped. Bolan shoved the Ultimax around the corner, pushing its shoulder sling to full extension, and sprayed the room. He heard the shotgunner cry out and drop the weapon to the floor. Before he moved from cover, he triggered another long burst to cover his entry into the room.

  An El Cráneo gunner was spread limply across the floor, which was pocked with bullet holes. The Mossberg pump shotgun had taken a few rounds, too, one of which had left a deep gouge across the receiver. Bolan bent to check the shotgun, found it empty and tossed it aside. The little room was empty. Another wooden door bearing graffiti waited at the opposite end of the small space.

  That was when Bolan heard the breaking glass.

  The soldier whirled as, behind him, the broad and darkly tinted windows at the front of the club were smashed inward. Black-clad commandos bearing assault rifles and wearing load-bearing vests began streaming through the opening.

  Blackjack Group had come calling.

  The Executioner wasted no time. As the first of the mercenaries entered the club, he lowered his shoulder and rammed his way through the door leading in the opposite direction. No shots met him and no opposition presented itself as he swept the air before him with the muzzle of the Ultimax. He took for granted that more men would be entering through the rear of the building, in order to contain their targets. Bolan’s first priority was to get out of the immediate line of fire. His only option, facing numbers so overwhelming, was to stage an immediate and brutal counterassault. He wondered if Burnett had been taken down by the Blackjack operatives, but if so, there was nothing he could do for the detective.

  The soldier found himself in a hallway dotted with dressing-room doors and what were apparently storage closets. He saw no one. It was possible there were dancers hiding under tables or behind the doors, but they were not the immediate threat, nor were they in immediate danger. Gunfire from the front and back of the club was growing louder as the mercenaries closed in. The screams of the club’s customers and staff were growing fewer, too.

  Bolan found what he needed at the end of the hallway. The fire door was clearly marked with the silhouette of a stick figure walking on a stairway. He slammed into the crash bar and bounded up the concrete steps two at a time, his combat boots echoing in the stairwell.

  As Bolan made the top of the stairwell, the fire door was pushed open again. He leaned over the railing from his landing and triggered a short burst from the Ultimax, forcing the pursuing mercenary to duck for cover. Then the Executioner was through the doorway on the second floor.

  The soldier quickly surveyed the area as he glide-walked laterally away from the stair doors, the Ultimax trained on the door and ready to intercept any attackers. He was in an access corridor that most likely led to some sort of VIP or party room above the club. Burnett had told him as they drove to Busty’s that Taveras maintained offices above the club. Those would not be far. If Taveras was there at all, it was likely he’d be holed up, armed to the teeth and ready to wait out the largest of the invasion forces.

  The stairway door slammed open. As the first mercenaries pushed through, their assault weapons leading, Bolan cut them down with a withering hail of fire from the Ultimax. The Executioner watched with grim satisfaction as three of the Blackjack operatives fell on top of one another in the doorway, dead before they knew what hit them. Bolan risked exposing himself only briefly as he pushed the bodies back one at a time with his booted foot. When the doorway was clear, he let the metal fire door slam shut. Then he took a small pocket roll of duct tape from a pocket of his blacksuit. From his war bag, he produced a fragmentation grenade.

  Bolan left the grenade taped to the doorway with the pin pulled, the tape holding the spoon in place. He’d have to leave the door unguarded to continue his assault. The numbers were falling. With luck, his booby trap would give the next batch of hired guns something to think about if they decided to try another assault through the stairwell.

  The soldier made his way through the VIP room, which was empty except for a low stage and a trio of stripper poles. The floor around the poles was dotted with a few threadbare easy chairs, but there was no other furniture to use for cover or concealment. Bolan moved cautiously past these, checking the shadows, and kicked open a hollow-core wooden door in the far wall.

  The Executioner’s kick was punctuated by the loud thump of his grenade exploding. He thought he heard a scream, close enough to be a victim of the blast. Strobe lights set in the ceiling of the office corridor in which he stood began to pulse as a deafening fire alarm started to bleat from small speakers next to the lights. He was running out of time.

  There were three doors in the office corridor—left, right and dead ahead. The hallway was so narrow he could not extend his arms fully on either side. Allowing the Ultimax to fall to the end of its sling under his duster, Bolan drew the 93-R from its custom leather shoulder holster and flipped the selector switch to 3-round burst. He unclipped his combat light with his left hand and held it under the pistol, his thumb on the tailcap switch. Then he planted his foot just below the doorknob, firing a vicious front kick into the wood.

  The room was empty. There were no lights on inside and only the nausea-inducing strobes of the fire lights in the hallway. Bolan used his light to sweep the space, making sure no one lurked there. The little room was a storage closet filled with boxes of file records. Several plastic trash cans of recyclable bottles and cans were stacked in one corner.

  Bolan turned and stopped before the left-hand door. He checked the VIP room briefly from the hallway and could still hear gunfire downstairs. No more Blackjack operatives had ascended, however. He could only guess that Taveras’s security on-site was keeping them busy, while his booby trap had made them leery of hurrying upstairs without sufficient backup. The Executioner had seen the mercenaries operate all too many times, however. They would not hesitate for long.

  Beretta and flashlight at the ready, Bolan kicked open the left-hand door.

  He was thrown back into the corridor wall as the wooden door rebounded with impossible force. He cracked his head painfully on the cracked plaster as he went down, losing the Beretta in the fall.

  Jesus Molina loomed over him.

  The hulking El Cráneo enforcer grabbed the Executioner by his coat lapels and lifted him bodily, slamming him into the wall with all the energy his swollen biceps could generate. Bolan cracked the back of his head again, an electric shock traveling down his spine. As the soldier reached for his weapons, Molina slammed his ham-size left fist into Bolan’s gut. The punch was followed by an immediate right hook to Bolan’s jaw that snapped his head painfully back. The Executioner hit the floor heavily, blackness crawling over his vision as he started to lose consciousness. Molina bent over him, his huge frame crushing the soldier beneath him as he wrapped his fingers around Bolan’s throat.

  It was not the first time Bolan had been on the receiving end of a beating, nor would it be the last. The Executioner was a ruthless, trained and combat-experienced operative, but he had learned long ago that he would never be the strongest, the fastest or the most skilled fighter. The numbers were simply against him.

  But there would never be an enemy more motivated than Mack Bolan.

  Fighting through the haze, knowing his life depended on his next act, the Executioner clawed for a weapon. His right arm was pinned. Molina, on top of him, held a knee over Bolan’s right flank, pinning the Ultimax and blocking the soldier’s access to the Desert Eagle. There was no way the soldier could draw a breath with Molina choking him. He had no options. Then he realized his left hand still gripped the combat light.

  The aluminum body of the light came up in Bolan’s fist as he drove the head of the flashlight into Molina’s temple. The giant man’s eyes went wide with the first blow. His grip on Bolan’s throat slackened.

  The Executioner struck him again, harder.

  The little alu
minum tube concentrated the force of Bolan’s blow. Something in Molina’s skull broke with a sickening crunch. The huge man’s eyes rolled up into his head. Bolan pulled himself free, lashing out with a kick that felt as if he was stomping a boulder. He managed to put some distance between himself and Molina, though, drawing the Desert Eagle as he scrambled across the corridor floor on his back.

  His vision still blurred, the Executioner was lining up a shot on the staggering Molina when a bullet tore through the giant’s forehead and dug into the wooden door at the far end of the hallway. Molina fell forward and was still. Bolan had time to note the gaping exit wound above his face.

  “A simple thank-you will do,” Percival Leister said. He was dressed in black combat fatigues, though he didn’t wear the load-bearing vest or other harnesses sported by his men. In his right fist was the Browning Hi-Power he’d used to end Molina’s life.

  “Can’t leave anyone behind, don’t you know,” Leister said, sounding almost apologetic. “I don’t pretend to know who you are, you cagey bastard, but I can guess. I suspect you’d like very much to speak with Taveras’s crew. I can’t allow that. My employers can’t allow that.”

  “Your employers,” Bolan started to say as he brought up the Desert Eagle.

  “Stop!” Leister ordered. “Put it down. You can’t make it, lad. Just put it down.” The Hi-Power in Leister’s hand was aimed at Bolan’s chest. “I’ll kill you.”

  “You’ll kill me anyway,” Bolan said.

  “That may not be necessary,” Leister said. Bolan still held the Desert Eagle, but he wasn’t trying to aim it at the British mercenary. Leister, in turn, sounded almost conciliatory. “Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed over this miserable business?” he asked.

  “Your men didn’t seem too concerned with bloodshed in Bryant Park,” Bolan said.

  “That was excessive.” Leister nodded. The walkie-talkie on his belt chirped. Leister brought it to his mouth with his left hand, his Browning steady, his gaze never leaving Bolan. “Leister,” he said.

  “We’ve got the ground floor contained,” the voice said. “The last of Taveras’s men on-site are neutralized. Orders?”

  “Stay where you are, for the moment.”

  “The cops are gonna be here any minute,” the voice protested.

  “Just do your bloody job,” Leister said impatiently. “Get the teams mobilized, verify the floor is clear and get the hell gone.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I just have a loose end or two to tie up,” Leister said. “Move!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, then,” Leister said to Bolan. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we can come to some sort of agreement? I’d rather not make enemies of more government agencies than I must.”

  “I didn’t say I worked for the government,” Bolan said.

  “Please.” Leister grinned. “You obviously work for the Justice Department or some other federal agency. I’d rather not murder you if it is not necessary. Can’t we deal?”

  “The way you cut a deal with Taveras?” Bolan said. “Why proposition him if you were just going to take him down?”

  Leister paused at that, obviously unsure how Bolan knew as much as he did. The feeling was mutual, as far as Bolan was concerned.

  “Very well.” Leister shrugged. “Yes, I did offer to cut a deal with Mr. Taveras, for reasons I’m certain you can guess.”

  “Then why raid his club and kill his men?” Bolan asked.

  “What else could be done?” Leister said grimly. “I made an attempt to deal with Taveras in terms I thought his kind could understand. My employers are not mass murderers, after all. We’re trying to prevent more problems.”

  “This is how you prevent problems?” Bolan asked.

  “You know their type,” Leister said. “One cannot afford to show weakness. Not long after I made Taveras my generous offer, El Cráneo hit the hotel from which we were operating. I lost good men.”

  Bolan digested that. “So Taveras has been busy, but not all the targets were surviving Caquetas.”

  “Indeed,” Leister said. “What I’d truly like to know is how they knew where to find us. I suppose Taveras has his own informants. I tell you, this town is rotten. It’s like a great tree that’s been eaten inside by every bug imaginable. It will please me to leave it.”

  “What do you want?” Bolan asked him.

  “Ever direct,” Leister said. “That’s what I like about you Yanks. It’s this simple. Look the other way. Let my men do what we came here to do. The end result will be…well, let’s say it will get the job done. You and I both know about the DU ammunition. Stay out of my way and I’ll see to it the problem disappears.”

  “No matter who gets killed?” Bolan asked. “How many will die when you start supplying Taveras with arms in return for his cooperation?”

  “I’d say that’s not likely to happen now,” Leister said. “We’re going to have to eliminate him. Wouldn’t you like to see that happen? Think of the time and effort we’d save you. Why, you’re not even footing the bill. Your government pays well to have people like mine fight their wars, guard their convoys, safeguard their very important persons. Would it really be such a stretch?”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Bolan said. “You’re not doing anything noble. You’re being paid to erase a problem that will make your employers look bad—a problem so big they don’t care how many people have to die to ensure the cover-up happens.”

  “True enough,” Leister admitted. “But is there really such a big difference? The U.S. government does the same thing. It does it on even larger scales.”

  “But you’re willing to wage open war on the streets of an American city,” Bolan said.

  “Now you’re being hypocritical, don’t you think?” Leister said. “Open war is not so rare on the streets of other cities through the world—cities about which the U.S.A. isn’t exactly so timid when it comes to waging its wars.”

  “Innocent people are dying,” Bolan said. “More will die for the sake of your cover-up.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Leister frowned. “Listen, I’m quite willing to be reasonable about this.” The mercenary began to back away. “But don’t push your luck. Cheerio.” He backed out hastily the way he’d come, disappearing into the VIP room.

  Bolan surged to his feet, fighting the wave of nausea caused by the sudden movement. His head throbbing, he charged after Leister. With the Desert Eagle in both hands, he cut the doorway wide and plunged into the VIP room.

  Leister was already gone. Somewhere downstairs and just outside the club, police and fire sirens were wailing. The strobe lights of the fire-alarm system continued to blink as the alarm wailed on.

  Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle. He went back for his Beretta, found the weapon and checked it before stowing it. Then he made a cursory check of the strip club’s office. There was no one hiding there and nothing to find. Bolan was ready with the explanations he would have to offer when the first of the police officers reached the second floor of Busty’s. Fortunately for Bolan, Burnett was with them. He had a first-aid kit cold pack on the back of his head.

  “Cooper,” he said. “No luck?”

  “I had an interesting chat with our friend Leister.” Bolan nodded.

  “He got away?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Burnett looked grim. “That’s too bad. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help here, myself.”

  “You forget to duck for a low doorway?” Bolan asked.

  Burnett shook his head. “Somebody clubbed me from behind. Probably one of Leister’s men as they mounted their attack. I never would have figured they’d strike so soon.”

  “Leister told me he was hitting Taveras for attacking his men. Seems El Cráneo’s official position on deals with Blackjack is an emphatic no.”

  “So it would seem,” Burnett said. “Now what?”

  “Sir!” One of the uniformed officers came running into the room with a c
ell phone open in his hand. “Sir, urgent call for you!” He handed it to the detective.

  “Burnett,” the big man said. He listened. His face grew pale as the voice on the other end spoke.

  “What is it?” Bolan asked.

  Burnett closed the phone without saying anything. He looked at Bolan. “El Cráneo is making its move. I’ve got a standoff in the middle of Times Square, for God’s sake!”

  11

  Bolan made his way on foot up Forty-third Street, past throngs of curious New Yorkers, threading his way through the crowd until he reached the police barricades. The lights of Times Square mixed with the lights of passing automobiles and the blue-and-red bubbles atop the police vehicles. Manhattan was having a hard week, it seemed, and there was no doubt in the Executioner’s mind that things were going to get a lot harder before the sun came up. He was stopped at the barricade but flashed his Justice credentials, which got him through and face-to-face with the officer in charge on-site.

  “Cooper,” he informed the man. “I radioed ahead.”

  “Pendergast,” answered the big, bullet-headed officer in navy SWAT fatigues. He carried an AR-15 slung over one shoulder. “I confirmed with the department. You’re cleared to go in, for all the good it will do.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “El Cráneo,” he said. “They’re looking to make a statement in a big way, we guess. They’ve got six vehicles, all big SUVs, forming a blockade of their own at the center of Times Square. Just drove in, circled the wagons and started shooting up the place. I’ve got civilians down, plus four officers. Shot through their vests and through their car. It isn’t pretty.”

  Bolan’s face darkened. “I’m heading in.”

  “The perimeter is a block up,” Pendergast told him. “Halfway there you’ll see the APC. We’re gearing up, so if you think you’re going to do anything, you’ll have to be fast.”