Salih was tempted to put the barrel of his pistol against Caul’s head and blast his brains out through the windshield, but Muqbil’s eyes caught the rage in his own. A shake of the head calmed the reaction, though the hatred still smoldered.
Muqbil was a man of long patience, but not one to be crossed. Salih knew full well that when the time was right, the Americans would pay for being a constant pain to them, and the quiet Yemeni would be the first one to pull the trigger.
Silence once again reigned in the car, giving Salih time to ponder the death of Hector Terin’s bodyguard. With his murder, any chance of a leak to their organization was plugged, at least for now. It wouldn’t take long for someone to figure out, though, that Shephard, the bodyguard, wasn’t missing work because of a simple cold. With the theft of the missiles from the SEAL shipment, and further appropriated technology missing from Terintec’s ledgers, a savvy investigator would begin narrowing down leads in no time.
Salih knew those leads pointed directly to Caul, Davison and the Hand of Christ. Shephard was a former United States Army Ranger, like the two Americans, and had been swayed by literature appealing to the disenfranchised American white male. Trained to kill and expected to die for his country, and released from military service, there was a small, yet growing percentage of men who felt that they deserved better. They felt they deserved to live in a nation that didn’t treat them or their religion as a second class.
Some simply were turning against blacks and other ethnicities, but men like Caul and Davison were “above” petty racism. Or so they said. Their war was with a government that had “abandoned” Christianity and replaced it with a kowtowing to the rich and the powerful, preferring to spill Christian American blood in defense of Israel.
For that, Salih could almost put aside his spite for the Americans, but they weren’t forthcoming with their own courtesy. He knew they thought of him and Muqbil as just two more brown-skinned dogs from the Satanic races.
To be honest, Salih felt the same about the pale-skinned bastards. The less of them there were in the world, the better, and he was willing to start burning off the ammunition to do it. It was only the juicy prize of destroying the United States’ government and their lap-dogs in Jordan, Yemen and Saudi Arabia. All that was needed was to push the men in power until they snapped and slammed the lid down on the freedoms these spoiled children didn’t deserve, the lawlessness that condemned them before the eyes of God.
Then the reckoning would come.
“Yo! We’re here.” Caul spoke up, interrupting Salih’s thoughts.
Salih looked at the restaurant and began getting out of the SUV. He paused, halfway out the door, seeing a Honda Accord drive by behind them. He caught only a glimpse of the big shadow behind the wheel, but the driver didn’t pause or make eye contact. Instead, the Honda drove along and turned the corner, disappearing from view.
“You think we’re being followed?” Caul asked, stepping beside him.
No, neither side wanted to end this partnership just yet. There was still work to do.
There’d be plenty of time for them to kill each other once their common, hated foe was destroyed.
MACK BOLAN AVOIDED eye contact except to make a peripheral vision check on the SUV. He felt the attention of the first man out the back of the vehicle, but he focused on the road ahead. The best way to avoid being noticed, he discovered, was not to pay attention to who you were evading. It worked in crowds better than it did in a forest at night, hiding among shrubbery, but the Executioner had learned the tricks of urban stealth as well as jungle fighting.
After five blocks, Bolan couldn’t find a parking space, none that wouldn’t get ticketed or towed. With the car in registry to Colonel Brandon Stone, and a few thousand rounds of spare ammunition, grenades and a small arsenal of automatic weapons in the trunk, the Chicago police would begin asking uncomfortable questions about him should they begin snooping after hauling the car off.
Bolan found a good hideout after making a five-block circuit around the restaurant. It was a street with several cars parked along both curbs, reducing the drivable portion of the avenue to one lane. One house had a couple of lawn chairs and buckets on the street in front. Bolan moved in, clearing aside the chairs from the spot. If anyone was awake, they’d notice him fooling around with their stake on where to park their car in the limited area available, but it’d take a miracle for someone to get a tow truck in to haul him out, and he knew the police frowned on the practice of “staking.”
Bolan edged the Honda to the curb. He spent the next several minutes rummaging through the trunk, deciding what he’d need if the soft probe went hard. He strapped on his Desert Eagle to balance out the silenced Beretta, and backed that up with a modified-for-silence Cobray submachine gun. The Cobray was a modernization of the old MAC-10, a simple, box-shaped autoweapon. With its rate of fire cut down to a controllable 800 rpm, a forward pistol grip, a new shoulder stock, tritium night-sights and a fat, sausage-shaped suppressor on the nose, the submachine gun was as good a choice as any for clearing a room or engaging a gunfight at the distance across a city street. If anything, the Cobray was more accurate than the gunfight-in-a-phone-booth MAC-10 because of the improved stocks, sights and rate of fire.
He slipped the submachine gun and several magazines into a smaller version of his war bag and clipped several smoke and concussion grenades to his harness. He contemplated something more lethal in the form of explosives, but knew that fragmentation grenades and the middle of a city were two things that didn’t go well together. He was already risking innocent bystanders by upping the ante to automatic weapons.
He slipped the strap of the war bag over his shoulder and began heading back to the restaurant, preparations against a bloody conflict tormenting him each step of the way.
It didn’t take Bolan long, and except for the occasional car driving past, its speakers cranked up to maximum, throbbing with an overamplified pulse, Chicago was on hushed tones in this neighborhood. Rustling trains, distant main-street traffic and barking dogs were a muted backdrop to Bolan’s footsteps.
The restaurant itself was unlit, its windows revealing only an empty, hollow blackness like the other storefronts on the street. Painted on the glass were Arabic script that Bolan could make out as Arqad’s Fine Eatery even without the translation in big, balloon-shaped English letters beneath. The menu was taped to the window and covered with similar cuneiform in the margins of an otherwise unremarkable sheet of paper. He made an effort to look as though he was studying the menu while his eyes adjusted to the darkness within the window. Deep in the shadows, a manlike shape was sitting at a table.
Bolan gave a shrug and, like a tourist, snugged his bag tighter over his shoulder and continued on down the street. The Arabic restaurant was surrounded on either side by a Middle Eastern grocery store and a combination storefront church and charity service.
He turned the corner and saw an alley that would provide him with a back entrance. His neck hairs tingled as he made the turn, seeing a dark shadow on the street now. It was in front of the restaurant where he’d been standing a moment earlier, and he cursed himself for acting like a tourist at midnight. He’d hoped the combination of a battered leather jacket, jeans and an old, well-used duffel bag would have labeled him as nothing more than a wanderer, at worst a “cleaned-up” hobo, at best, a student taking a new route through the city after night school.
It didn’t work. Whoever had been in the restaurant was spooked by his presence, spooked enough to leave his guard post. Bolan didn’t know what kind of communications his enemy had, and he wasn’t going to risk getting out his own communicator to hear what was going on. Instead he kept going, heading to the alley. The bag was zipped open, and his hand was around the grip of the Cobray, ready to fire through the tough canvas in case the war started early.
The alley was all shadows and silence as he ducked into it. Out of the glow of the streetlamps it took the Executioner a moment to adjust to t
he new lighting, and once he did, he noticed back lots behind each of the separate storefronts. Rickety-looking old porches crawled up the backs of the brick monoliths, some painted, others left bare, none of them looking as though they could support the weight of a small child, let alone his own mass.
The most important thing was that no snipers were perched to rain a hail of lead down upon him. The SUV was still parked behind the restaurant, where he’d seen it from the street, however the headlights were doused. There wasn’t even a lamp giving the alley a semblance of visibility. Bolan noted one pole with a lamp attached, but the bulb had been shot out.
Bolan took advantage of the low fences surrounding the small back lots, keeping himself in a crouch as he moved along. He glanced back. Nobody was following that he could tell. The SUV loomed ahead, and he reached the rear passenger side. The tracker bug was quickly retrieved and he pocketed it in its harness. Checking the back of the SUV, he noticed that the body was still there. He didn’t disturb the scene, but instead headed up the short flight of steps to the back door of the restaurant. He pulled out the Cobray and tested the door, which was unlocked. There was a small spill of light coming from underneath, enough to give the Executioner a moment’s pause. He wasn’t sure what he was onto, but he didn’t want to spend the next few days following armed murderers around the city of Chicago. They’d already killed once tonight, and they were linked to the RING, if they were involved in the theft of the missiles.
Bolan opened the door with one hand, aiming the Cobray with the other, scanning an empty kitchen. As he closed the door behind him softly, only allowing a muffled click, he heard the soft thumps of footsteps on the ceiling. He could see through the round portal windows that the dining area was still darkened, but light was spilling onto the floor. He stalked farther into the kitchen, looking left and right. The place reeked of garlic and other heavy spices as pots and pans were thrown in disarray in the sink.
Near the double doors was another stairwell, the door removed off its hinges long ago. The light spilled from there, and Bolan pointed the Cobray upward. He paused, remembering a conflict with a combined Iraqi-Korean alliance of terrorists. One cell of Iraqi terrorists had set themselves up with their wives and children in the middle of New York City, in a restaurant. However, that building had been larger than this relatively cramped little eatery. He couldn’t imagine more than four families being packed into the two floors above the main, but then, there was always the potential for even four sets of wives and kids to have been brought on hand to be used as human shields.
Bolan approached the steps slowly, steeling himself for the possibility of having to check his fire while his enemies cut loose. The potential for tragedy had increased tenfold. His crawl up the steps was arduous as he tested each stair to avoid a telltale squeak that would betray his approach.
Stealth was blown to hell, however, when a tall, gaunt man with rusty-red hair stepped onto the landing that Bolan had almost reached. The lanky redhead stopped cold at the sight of an intruder facing him down with a stubby, ugly automatic weapon in his hands. Even though his eyes were wide with fear, his hands moved swiftly with practiced speed toward a weapon tucked into a waist holster.
“Caul!” the man bellowed just as Bolan cut a burst of 9 mm Parabellum rounds through his belly and up into his lungs. The impact sent the gunman smashing against the wall, blood streaming from his mouth and nose. The crash of his body only added to the cacophony that turned the soft probe hard. Bolan rushed to the landing and crouched behind a doorjamb, spotting men dodging left and right from the entrance. They were in a living room of sorts, the center dominated by a circular table bearing assorted beverages and papers. He didn’t have long to study the room as handguns with sound-suppressors attached popped and hissed, bullets chewing at the wall the Executioner had taken for cover. The soldiers squirted out a couple bursts into the melee, then stepped down a couple stairs.
His return fire had given the enemy some pause, and he took the opportunity to pull the pin on a concussion grenade and throw the bomb through the landing opening, letting it bounce once and detonate.
With no deadly shrapnel to slice flesh and cause horrific bleeding, the shock wave in the confined space served to make every man in the living room feel like he’d been swatted in the head with a baseball bat. Immediately after the blast, it took a will of iron to get back onto your feet and actually walk, let alone fight.
Bolan took the opportunity and charged up and out of the stairwell. He spun to the left, away from the living room, and saw a darkened dining room. Down the hall, two men stumbled out of second hallway just before the second floor’s kitchen. They were armed, as well, and hadn’t experienced the body-numbing shock of a stun grenade.
Raising their pistols, they took aim at Bolan, who dropped to the ground, landing on his chest and elbows, firing. Bullets ripped across the distance between him and his adversaries, chunks of flesh and bone blasted from thighs, knees and shins. The terrorists screamed in agony, tumbling to the ground. One still tried to shoot at the Executioner, his bullets tracking high, but getting closer with every squeeze of the trigger. Lining up the Cobray, Bolan ripped a burst into his face, the terrorist’s skull exploding.
His partner screamed in terror at the sight of the decapitating blast, trying to claw himself away from the slaughter, but the Executioner spared another blast to swiftly put the crippled terrorist down and out of his misery. He couldn’t leave an enemy behind him, not when he could recover from his pain and use the gun in his hand to shoot the soldier in the back. Bolan didn’t like being so merciless, but it was a reality of combat.
The three men in the living room hadn’t recovered from their painful encounter with his grenade, and Bolan disarmed each of them, tossing their handguns onto the table. One of the Arabs was holding his bloodied arm and, after close inspection, he realized that even concussion grenades had a piece of shrapnel. The three-ounce cylindrical detonator had been launched by the blast right into the shoulder of the terrorist, smashing bone and pulping flesh. He remembered seeing tests where the detonators would have sufficient boost from their cardboard-bodied grenades to fly three-hundred feet and still dent concrete.
Bolan gave the wounded guy a hard right to the jaw, smashing the bone into the juncture of nerves just under the ear. Neurological overload sent the wounded man into unconsciousness and gave the Executioner one less headache. He got up and turned just in time to see the man he assumed was Caul rise and swat the Executioner’s Cobray into his ribs with jarring force. The breath knocked out of him, Bolan staggered back and found his head grabbed on both sides by clawing hands.
He released the weapon and brought his hands up and around Caul’s wrists, pinning them against the sides of his head. Still, the man’s nails dug hard into Bolan’s scalp, and his powerful, lean body hauled the Executioner’s taller frame off balance. Losing the leverage fight, the soldier was flipped over the Hand of Christ man, landing hard on his back, rolled to all fours.
The Christian Identity soldier also got up quickly. Despite his eardrums being hammered by the concussion grenade, the man maintained an incredible level of balance. That’s when the Executioner noticed the crazed fury in the man’s eyes. He had gone beyond brutal concussive trauma into madness.
Bolan surged forward, lacing both of his hands together into a hammer fist that he swung up under Caul’s jaw. Bone cracked under the mighty swing and spit flew from the terrorist’s mouth, but he stayed upright. A heavy combat boot shot toward the Executioner’s groin and barely missed, striking his thigh and just above his gonads. The blow was enough to slow him, giving Caul a chance to reach out and try to grab Bolan again.
This time, the Executioner was ready.
He grabbed Caul’s right wrist and spun, pulling the man’s arm up tight under Bolan’s armpit. He didn’t stop his pivot, using every ounce of his weight to yank the arm out of its socket and flip the terrorist up and over. Agonized cries finally escaped Caul’s
lips as his shoulder dislocated, but that didn’t last longer than his brutal contact with the floor.
A grunt escaped the man’s throat and Bolan drove his elbow down hard into Caul’s breastbone. He followed the hit with a hard punch to the temple.
His adversary finally went limp, and Bolan rose upright on rubbery legs. He glanced over to the last man in the room, an Arab who was holding his ears, looking up with big frightened eyes at the tall wraith in black.
Someone was stomping up the stairs and Bolan drew his Beretta in a fluid movement. Instinct told him it was the guy who had stepped out onto the street, coming up from his post to help deal with the raging battle.
As soon as he appeared in the doorway, Bolan punched two shots into him, then turned back to the stunned Arab, not even bothering to watch the lifeless guard go tumbling back down the stairs.
“Surrendering?” Bolan asked him, letting the Beretta drop to his side. He locked the man with the coldest gaze in his arsenal.
The Arab nodded emphatically, keeping his hands to his ears and away from his fallen pistol.
“Good,” Bolan sighed with relief, holstering the Beretta. “For both of us.”
THE VAN FULL of U.S. Marshals pulled up in front of the restaurant as the sky was turning gray, swarming into the building with guns drawn and grim resolve painting their faces.
Mack Bolan knew they wouldn’t find resistance in the building. He’d crushed it with swift, violent action. He looked with worry at the information he had copied down.
Present on the table was a road atlas of the Chicagoland area. The document was big enough for there to be extensive views of all the parts of the city, but letting the book fall open, he found himself staring at a map of O’Hare airport. Nothing was marked down on the map itself, but he could see impressions of pen marks. A crumpled, marker-smeared piece of acetate next to it was wiped off too much to be useful as any indicator of what was being jotted down.
Season of Slaughter Page 8