Killing Trade

by Don Pendleton

  “My, you’re a determined one, aren’t you?” a voice said from the speaker.

  “Stevens?” Bolan said.

  “I am Donald Stevens,” the voice said with resignation. “I suppose you’re here to tell me that it’s over, that I should surrender and that no one else has to die.”

  “Not really, no,” Bolan said frankly. “Someone else does have to die. That someone is you.”

  There was a pause as Stevens digested that. “You can’t mean simply to murder me.”

  “It’s not murder,” Bolan said. “It’s simple justice. A lot of people have died because of you. They weren’t just gang members, or operatives from Blackjack or your own goons. They were innocent civilians in New York. There were also police officers doing their jobs. Then there are the people who weren’t killed, but who have had to live in fear because of the war you helped unleash on their city. You have a lot to answer for, Stevens. Too much, in fact, for any penalty but death to be just.”

  “Why would you tell me this?” asked the voice from the speaker.

  “We both know it’s true,” Bolan told him. “I could try to negotiate with you. I could try to lie to you, tell you we can cut some sort of deal if you’ll come quietly. But I’m not a police officer, Stevens. I’m a soldier fighting a war. You’re an enemy combatant. You have to die.”

  “I could kill you. I could kill you before you get me,” Stevens said.

  “You could try,” Bolan said. “You won’t, though. You said it yourself. It is over. You just don’t want to see it.”

  “I’ll give you one chance to leave now, with your life,” Stevens said. “I’ll give you safe passage out of the building.”

  “You’ll give me nothing,” Bolan replied. He made certain the AR-15 had a full load and then stepped back from the door. “I’m coming through. Your own ammunition, the death you’ve been spreading around New York City, is going to help me do it. Your only option, Stevens, is to take your own life before I do it for you.”

  There was a pause. Bolan snapped the AR-15 up against his shoulder and prepared to fire.

  “Wait,” Stevens said.

  The door opened, sliding aside on a track in the floor. It was extremely heavy steel and moved on well-maintained hydraulics. Bolan moved cautiously inside, the rifle aimed at the man within the office.

  Donald Stevens sat backlit by the window, the view of the waterfront district contrasting sharply with the grim, sparsely furnished room. He was seated at his cluttered desk, a .45 automatic pistol held in his right hand. The barrel was placed against his own temple.

  “Don’t shoot,” Stevens said. “You need to know something.”

  “No explanations you have to offer will change what I’m here to do,” Bolan informed him.

  “Not an explanation,” Stevens said. As he spoke, his voice grew stronger, more determined. “I don’t think you realize who you’re dealing with, soldier,” Stevens said mockingly. “I just might take my life, all right. But if I do, you and everyone within a half-mile radius are going to be having a very, very bad day.”

  Bolan said nothing. His finger tightened on the trigger of the AR-15.

  “I said don’t!” Stevens shrieked. He used his free hand to tear at the button-down white shirt he wore. As the shirt opened, it revealed a circular white bandage taped to his chest.

  “What is that?” Bolan asked.

  “Underneath this bandage is a small heart monitor,” Stevens said. “My final insurance, let’s say. The monitor is connected to a computer located somewhere in this building, hidden so a casual search will not turn it up. It is running software that I wrote, software that monitors my heart rate.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m wired to a bomb, essentially,” Stevens said, licking his lips. He was starting to sweat. “If you kill me, or if I kill myself, my heartbeat will stop. That will trigger the software to send a command to a remote device. That device is a bomb.”

  “I was planning to blow up this place anyway,” Bolan shrugged.

  “You don’t understand,” Stevens said. “It’s not a conventional bomb. It’s a dirty bomb—a single rod of combat-60 and just enough explosives to get the job done. Within a half mile, everyone lingering in the neighborhood can expect to get an acute dose of radiation. Go ahead and shoot, if you want to risk it.”

  “You’re lying,” Bolan said.

  “Am I?” Stevens shot back. “Are you willing to risk the consequences of finding out?”

  “There’s nothing particularly elegant or sophisticated about a dirty bomb,” Bolan said. “That’s not your style. That’s not the type of device employed by a man who designs his own special land mines. That’s not the work of someone who’s devoted his life to advancing arms development. The dirty bomb is the poor man’s option, the terrorist’s expedient leverage. I don’t buy it.”

  “I’m warning you!” Stevens said shrilly. “I’ll give you one chance to get away, but if you won’t take it, I’ll shoot myself and we’ll all go up. This blighted city will be laid waste, a cancer growing at its center! Just say the word, soldier, and I’ll pull this trigger and let the bomb explode!”

  “That’s quite a promise,” Bolan said. “I wonder if you’re the type of man who’s actually capable of taking his own life? I’ve met men who were willing to do just that, in the last few days. They were brought into this specifically to take you out. Even hired guns like those people were better than you. At least they knew that a line existed, even if they were too willing to cross it.”

  “Shut up!” Stevens shrieked. “It’s not fair!”

  “Fair?” Bolan asked. “Who said anything about fair?”

  “All I wanted to do was continue my work, make some money,” Stevens said, staring through Bolan. “That’s all. Was that so much?”

  “Was it worth the deaths of all those people?” Bolan countered.

  Stevens sat as if thinking about the question. Then he blinked. He looked at Bolan and something like resolve filtered past his blue eyes.

  The .45 swung from his head to point at Bolan.

  Bolan fired.

  The single round from the AR-15 took Donald Stevens between the eyes, burning through him and ripping him open. He collapsed in a broken heap half in and half out of his chair. What was left of his last expression was one of shock. At the end, his type never could believe that death had come for them. Bolan had seen such expressions before.

  Bolan walked across the office, bent over Stevens and ripped the bandage from the dead man’s chest.

  There was nothing beneath it. Stevens had been bluffing, as Bolan suspected.

  The soldier phoned Burnett as he was exiting the building. The detective simply rammed the Crown Victoria through the fence and drove up to where Bolan stood surveying the building.

  “Cleaned house already?” he asked. “What did you find?”

  “Donald Stevens and a warehouse full of munitions,” Bolan told him. “Plus plenty of the materials necessary to make the stuff.”

  “Knowing you, I’d have thought this place would be a mushroom cloud by now,” Burnett cracked.

  “You don’t know how close you are,” Bolan said, “and originally I had intended to level this place. On second thought, however, it’s quite possible there’s evidence here that Stevens missed when he was busy destroying his research. The equipment itself may be traceable to some source that is in turn traceable farther up the chain. It may be possible to find a link to Norris Labs. We’re going to need heavy police presence to cordon off this area and secure the building.”

  “Don’t you have any federal friends who can help?” Burnett asked.

  “I can call in backup,” Bolan told him, “but it will take time to get enough people here. In the meantime I need a wall of uniforms to keep this place locked down until we can start going through it piece by piece.”

  “I’ll get on the horn and see what I can arrange,” Burnett said. “I’ll start with—”

&nb
sp; Bolan peered at the detective, who had stopped speaking suddenly. “What is it?”

  “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Bolan’s ears were ringing slightly from the firefight in the warehouse.

  “Oh, shit, Cooper.” Burnett looked up at him. “Get in!”

  Two armored trucks rammed through the sealed overhead doors on the side of the warehouse, their engines snarling loudly in the late-morning air. The doors were split and shoved aside like scrap metal as the trucks roared free, tearing across the crumbling parking lot until the drivers spotted the Crown Victoria. Then they turned, their ugly metal snouts pointed directly at Bolan and Burnett.

  “Get in! Get in!” Burnett screamed. Bolan ripped open the passenger door behind the cop and threw himself into the backseat. The detective was already burning rubber from the rear wheels as Bolan yanked the door shut behind him.

  The powerful police cruiser surged forward, initially gaining ground against the trucks.

  “Keep us in this area,” Bolan said. “The more deserted, the better. We can’t afford to draw them to a more populated area.”

  “Who do you suppose they are?”

  “No idea,” Bolan said, looking back. “Doesn’t matter. Obviously Stevens had some security people in reserve. They either don’t know he’s dead, or he had some kind of arrangement with them in case he checked out. They’re gunning for us now, and they’ve got more than enough power to do it.”

  Each truck was about the size of a Chevy Suburban, but with a body composed entirely of heavy angle plate. Slits in the windshield armor and on the sides provided gun ports and visibility, limited though the latter would be. On top of each truck was a turret that appeared to Bolan to house a PKT 7.62 mm machine gun. There was little doubt what sort of ammo the guns would be using.

  “If we get tagged,” Bolan told the detective, “we’re going to burn in here.”

  “No pressure, though,” Burnett said grimly. He gripped the wheel with both hands, flooring the accelerator and watching the road intently. As they reached the far end of the parking lot, both men braced themselves for the impact as the Crown Victoria smashed through the chain-link fence. A piece of barbed wire caught on the rear bumper and dragged behind the car, trailing sparks.

  Bolan watched through the rearview mirror, the AR-15 on the floor next to him, his Desert Eagle in his fist. One of the armored trucks slowed slightly and swiveled its turret. Bolan watched as a stream of 7.62 mm ammunition poured into the warehouse. The truck kept moving as it fired, and the lead truck was closing on the Crown Victoria. Bolan was transfixed as the second truck emptied round after round into the wall of the warehouse at ground level.

  The shock wave, when it came, slapped against the rear window of the Crown Victoria hard enough to make the car vibrate. Bolan covered his face with his arm, just in case, but not before he saw the incredible explosion. It was not a single blast, in fact, but a layered series of smaller explosions building to a crescendo of destruction, an orgy of heat and light and debris. The warehouse was crippled, broken, shattered and then reduced to cinders by the force of the blast, which raised a plume of dark smoke that enveloped everything for half a mile.

  Burnett struggled on through the gloom, doing his best to keep the vehicle moving despite the sudden darkness. When they finally drove out of the worst of the smoke and debris cloud, Burnett rolled down his window. He stopped and both men listened for the sound of the trucks over the idling of the car.

  “Back to Plan A, huh?” Burnett said to Bolan, grinning his lopsided grin. He turned away suddenly. “There! I hear them again.” He stomped the accelerator and the car lurched forward, the tires squealing briefly.

  Whatever the heavy, armored trucks had for engines, they were more than up to the task of pushing the large vehicles after their quarry. Burnett drove and Bolan watched as the security forces started to close the gap between the vehicles.

  “Burnett,” Bolan said, reaching for the AR-15, “I need you to get us far enough ahead so I can get in position. Can you do that?”

  “Watch me,” Burnett said. He began driving like a madman, his foot on the floor, the Crown Victoria howling and fishtailing through turns around the abandoned and boarded-up buildings of the decrepit waterfront district. The trucks pressed but could not match Burnett’s aggressive maneuvering, allowing him and Bolan to gain the extra combat stretch they needed.

  “Okay,” Bolan told the detective. “Now.”

  The Crown Victoria shuddered to a rolling stop on abused brakes as Burnett stomped the pedal. Bolan, holding the AR-15 by the front guard, threw himself out of the car, banging the hood twice with his right fist. Burnett stomped on the gas again and peeled away, as Bolan ran into position at the side of the road. The armored trucks were already bearing down.

  Gunfire split the morning air and echoed off the decaying buildings of the deserted section of Camden. Bolan poured on the fire from his captured AR-15, focusing on the engine compartment of the lead truck. The DU rounds hit the truck grille and burned through, shredding the engine compartment and igniting a series of explosions within the motor. Bolan kept firing and clipped the front tires for good measure.

  The entire front of the truck burst into flame. The front tires burst. The truck suddenly lost velocity, only to lurch as the speeding truck behind it slammed into the rear of the lead vehicle. The burning truck was slammed over on its side, where it skidded across the asphalt in a shower of sparks and burning metal.

  Bolan charged around the wreck and flanked the rear truck as both vehicles came to a stop. The turret on the rear truck began to swivel in his direction. Swapping magazines on the run, he hosed the turret with more DU rounds, destroying the machinegun and the metal mount to which it was attached. He thought he heard a scream from within the turret itself, but he couldn’t be sure over the rattle of the AR-15. With the turret out of commission, he began shooting the cab of the truck. The DU rounds entered the armored cab effortlessly, pulping the men inside.

  The AR-15 clicked on an empty chamber. Bolan was out of reloads for it, so he let it drop and drew the Desert Eagle from the tactical holster on his right thigh. He advanced on the burning lead truck. Two men were climbing from the cab, using the passenger-side door to scramble out onto the top of the wreck. Bolan covered them with his pistol. They were shaken from the crash and one was bleeding from a head wound. Both had pistols in holsters on their belts.

  “Hands behind your heads!” Bolan ordered. “Move away from the vehicle slowly. Come to me and stop at the curb.”

  The two hired guns, both wearing urban camouflage fatigues, both white males in their late twenties, staggered over as Bolan had ordered. “Don’t shoot,” the one with the bleeding forehead said. “Don’t shoot. We won’t resist.”

  “On your knees,” Bolan told them. Both men sank to their knees with their hands clasped behind their heads.

  The Crown Victoria cruised up, the smell of hot rubber clinging to the hard-driven vehicle like a cloud. The engine ticked furiously when Burnett got out of the car. “Hey, Cooper. I thought you might need help,” Burnett said, “but then I thought, well, hell, it’s only you against two armored trucks with heavy machine guns firing explosive bullets that can pierce armor and buildings and set fire to everything in sight. Sounds like a fair fight to me.”

  Bolan scowled. “Get their guns,” he said. “Carefully.”

  “Sure,” Burnett said. He was careful to stay out of Bolan’s line of fire, moving to one man and then behind him to the next, taking each of the sidearms the men carried.

  “You want them?” He brought Bolan the two weapons, both Glock 17s.

  “Identify yourselves,” Bolan ordered his prisoners.

  “Simmons,” said the one with the head wound. “He’s Appleton.”

  “Thanks for identifying me to the enemy, asshole,” Appleton said.

  “Oh, shut up,” Simmons shot back. “You’re not in Afghanistan, Joey. You never were, man.”r />
  “Enough,” Bolan barked. He pointed the Desert Eagle’s snout at first one, then the other mercenary. “So. What’s your story? Simmons?”

  “We work for Hills Protective,” Simmons told him. “You killed Rawl. We were looking for some payback.”

  “What do you know about the operation in that warehouse?”

  “We were told to destroy the place if security was breached,” Simmons said grudgingly. “Stevens insisted on that. He said he didn’t want anyone to benefit from his work, if he couldn’t.”

  “Figures,” Burnett put in.

  Bolan spent a few more minutes interrogating Simmons and Appleton, but it was clear they didn’t know anything useful. Their hearts weren’t in the game, either. Both men seemed defeated. At Bolan’s suggestion, Burnett contacted the local authorities, who sent a car to pick up the prisoners. Many more police and fire vehicles arrived, as well. Bolan imagined representatives from every conceivable state agency would be on hand by nightfall, combing over the cinders of the warehouse under the watchful eyes of the government agents sent by Brognola.

  The soldier and the detective milled about with the other personnel on scene until Bolan was satisfied that the situation was sufficiently contained. Then they returned to the Crown Victoria.

  “You know what I could use?” Burnett said.

  “What?”

  “Lunch.”

  17

  The upscale luxury apartment building on the Delaware River sat in the midst of an affluent waterfront neighborhood in Philadelphia. Burnett pulled the Crown Victoria into the building’s private multilevel parking garage, flashed his badge at the attendant and conferred briefly with the man. They found the parking spot reserved for Emilie Taveras, where a gleaming Hummer H3 was parked. Burnett gleefully parked the Crown Victoria to block in the Hummer.