Bolan agreed, but declined to inform them of how he was so certain of Sable’s survival. So far, the police knew nothing about the names and identities of the missing pair, which was good news for the Executioner. Nobody had placed Grimaldi’s aircraft, which gave him the opportunity to raid the lockers aboard the Learjet.
Bolan slipped unseen aboard the Bombardier Aerojet Learjet 60. The equipment lockers opened to his fingerprint ID and he took a few moments to evaluate the combat kit he needed to go to war with Adonis and Dark. So far, he’d seen them wearing body armor. The description of Grimaldi emptying his pistol into Adonis was proof that they weren’t going to be taken off guard, which meant Bolan would need some deep-penetrating firepower for them. Armor-piercing ammo would work, but it was like an ice pick on human flesh, having a minimum of stopping power.
That left the Olympic Arms OA-93 machine pistol. The OA-93 was essentially just an M-16, its barrel chopped from 20 to 6.5 inches, its rear stock removed and its carrying handle replaced by a sight rail. It still fired the high-velocity, hard-hitting .223 Remington rounds of the M-16, capable of punching through layers of Kevlar body armor as if they were foam.
The Olympic Arms had been customized by John Kissinger of Stony Man Farm only by the addition of a forward T-grip. Bolan wouldn’t be using a stock on the short-framed M-16 variant, instead using the British Special Air Service method of resistance against the sling and a firm hold on the weapon to control it in full-auto. Bolan had worked with the little chopper and was satisfied with its control and accuracy in combat.
Bolan snatched up the trio of magazines already loaded with M-955 armor-piercing ammunition. He took several empties and filled them up with the hardhitting AP rounds, then loaded all the magazines into his war bag. The OA-93 went in, too.
Spare magazines for the Desert Eagle and the Beretta also dropped inside, and Bolan grabbed the tiny Beretta 9000 in case Grimaldi needed something.
He was sure that Adonis or Dark wouldn’t torture the pilot. It was a hostage situation, not an interrogation.
He got on the phone to Stony Man Farm.
“Am I clean?” Bolan asked.
“Signal’s coming through strong. Nobody’s got a tap on it,” Price answered. “What’s wrong, Striker?”
“They took Jack and Professor Burton,” Bolan told her.
“Do you need assistance?” Price asked.
“There’s really nobody in the area.”
“We have Buck and a team of blacksuits at O’Hare. They moved in just after you took off for Sparta,” Price replied. “Hal thought it would be a good idea to have a ready-reaction force on the site.”
“Good plan. David and Phoenix?”
“Still in the Philippines.”
Bolan chewed on the information for a moment. Hal Brognola had to have gotten some bad vibes from the discovery of the maps in Chicago. Without a solid lead, however, all Brognola could do was to station Buck Greene and some of the Stony Man security force on hand. Just in case. With the losses in the blacksuit force at Dulles, the Farm would be spreading themselves thin in this instance.
“Any joy from Able?” Bolan asked.
“They’re still working in Northern California. The new kid is in with the AHC.”
“So one of their leads worked out,” Bolan mused.
“Striker, we can pull everybody back…”
“Just how much do we have at O’Hare?”
“Ten. And Buck. And Charlie Moss.”
“Charlie? Did he happen to bring along Dragon Slayer?”
“Hal didn’t want another Dulles incident. We got caught asleep at the wheel with that one, and even with some of our best people…”
“Considering the opposition, you’re not going for overkill,” Bolan explained. “I hope if my plan works, you won’t run into any trouble.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Price asked.
The Executioner took a deep breath.
“Stay hard, Barb.”
Bolan hung up the phone.
BY 0100, KOWALSKI HAD a stomach full of coffee and the better part of a roast-beef-and-cheddar sandwich on a torpedo roll. Sahleen and Logan made the whole scene much more amenable.
“Thanks. I missed dinner thanks to the drive over,” Kowalski stated. He dabbed his lips with a napkin, then sailed it into a wastebasket. “Now do we retire to the library for brandy and cigars?”
Sahleen laughed at the joke, though Logan stiffened, a little more discomfitted than usual. “I noticed one thing…”
Kowalski raised an eyebrow.
“You eat with your left hand,” Sahleen mentioned.
“It’s my dominant hand,” Kowalski answered. “It was hard when I was stationed overseas. I just forgot myself now.”
Logan looked between the two. “What?”
“The left hand is the unclean hand,” Kowalski explained. “It’s the hand which people ‘wipe themselves with’ and it is also referred to as the sinister hand.”
“You’ve learned well from your time in the Mediterranean,” Sahleen answered.
“Frankly, I never concentrated on what hand I wiped my crack with until you guys brought it up. And it’s called soap and water.”
“A rare commodity in the desert, Lieutenant,” Sahleen returned.
Kowalski took a breath, then put his fingers to his forehead and bowed. “My apologies, Colonel.”
“Enough meeting of minds,” Logan rumbled. “We’re here to tell you about the job that Watson was trying to recruit you for.”
“What is it?” Kowalski asked.
“We need you to work security for us,” Logan answered. “Someone’s been shadowing our operations, and they’re just getting way too close.”
“Defensive posture or something more proactive?” Kowalski asked.
“Like making a hit on the men coming after us?” Sahleen clarified.
Kowalski nodded. “Like that.”
“Once we get some information, maybe,” Logan explained. “But for now, I want to look for possible holes in our own setup.”
“This base seems more secure than I expected after Watson.”
“Our men are dedicated,” Logan stated. “I just want to have one particular area secured, and didn’t like the idea of drawing too much attention with too many men on hand.”
“So you decided to recruit someone with special operations skills,” Kowalski spoke, to let Logan know he was on the same page. “Though I suspect you and a good portion of your men are former Special Forces.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong in that,” Logan admitted. “But we don’t have that many people to go around. Not when we’re under full operational mode.”
Kowalski nodded. “Where’s this place I’m supposed to stake out?”
“San Francisco.”
“Narrow it down for me a smidge.”
Sahleen chuckled. “We’ll take you there. It’s just off the Bay. The most important problem is that it’s a storefront location.”
“And you’re hanging your people out in the middle of San Francisco for what reason?”
“Well, the locals might be a little perturbed by Logan’s good old boys. But we have a hidden edge,” Sahleen answered.
“Arabs?” Kowalski asked.
“Even better than that,” someone said from behind Kowalski. He turned in his chair and spotted a newcomer, his face round and dark-skinned, straight black hair combed neatly on his skull. Almond-shaped eyes looked him over. “Who’d notice Asians in Frisco?”
“Good English accent,” Kowalski said. “Filipino?”
The man looked surprised. “How’d you guess?”
“The Abu Sayyaf group. They had ties to al-Qaeda, but they also received demolitions training from American Christian Identity group members Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols,” Kowalski answered. “I bone up on my history.”
“I’m Suarez,” the man introduced himself. “Not a bad guesstimate. Abu Sayyaf is old news, however.”
“Rea
lly?”
“Why else do you think the three of us are able to coexist so easily, son?” Logan asked the question.
Kowalski shrugged.
“There is going to be a war, Lieutenant,” Sahleen began. “A war where purity and virtue will once again rule the planet. Too long have the forces of corruption soiled the governments of the world.”
“Secular governments have, for too long, dictated what the good and righteous people can do,” Suarez continued. “And all that has happened is for the world to slip further into anarchy. Have you ever spent time in the Philippines?”
“No, sir,” Kowalski answered.
Suarez shook his head. “Have you at least heard of the scandal of American servicemen avoiding prosecution for engaging in sex with child prostitutes, immoral even by the most radical of religious beliefs?”
“I heard that. They avoided prosecution by authorities in Manila,” Kowalski replied. “Frankly, they also managed to avoid prosecution at home.”
He didn’t have to act to disguise his disgust at that. Given a shotgun, a crowbar and a blowtorch, he’d easily plow through the ranks of cold-blooded bastards who’d helped propagate the raping of innocent children. There was no excuse for a man to touch a child sexually, and be allowed to continue life with his arms, legs and genitals.
“Simmer down, son,” Logan said. “No need to get riled up.”
“I thought you were for cleaning up the government,” Kowalski asked.
Logan nodded. “We’ll take care of all of them. The pedophiles, the drug dealers, the abortionists, the homosexuals…”
Kowalski was glad that his anger was already being recognized in conjunction with the pedophiles. As soon as Logan began his bigoted diatribe, it was everything the young blacksuit could do to keep the fibers of his being from exploding with rage against the three soulless terrorists surrounding him.
But he needed to find out about the San Francisco HQ first.
Once he found out about that, then he could come back with Able Team and start laying these animals to waste. He swallowed his fury, saving it for the long stretch he knew was ahead.
THE EXECUTIONER SWEPT the mill with the 85 mm Zeiss Diascope. The spotting scope was a poor substitute for a map, but because Sable Burton hadn’t had the opportunity to draw a map for Bolan, he had to make do with old-fashioned scouting. Even in the darkness, however, the Diascope showed details of the facility. The snap-on night-vision lens cast the area in a fuzzy green glow, but the Zeiss eyepiece was still powerful enough to give the soldier sufficient detail to plan an assault.
Bolan returned the Diascope to its place in the war bag. It was bigger than most binoculars, but its capacity to use a night-vision filter and the raw power of the spotting scope enabled him to keep distance from his enemies while learning about them. Even at one-thousand meters, it was as though he was watching right over their shoulders.
Something was missing from this scenario, Bolan could tell right away. The Black Hawk was still sitting, covered by a tarpaulin, and there were men patrolling the grounds. They were alert and intense. No cigarettes, no stopping to chat, no leaning against a wall.
Body armor was worn over their torsos, too, and they had probably emptied their armory, because the full-auto firepower was both state-of-the-art and in abundance.
It could have been the late hour, but Adonis had sounded plenty awake, and he didn’t strike Bolan as the kind to snooze while an enemy was out stalking. No, the absence of the two RING members put the Executioner on the knife edge as he glided through the darkened woods. The OA-93 was leading the way, ready to rip the night apart in violent action, but if he could avoid a firefight, then so much the better.
He reached the edge of the mill, chain-link fence surrounding it. Bolan didn’t touch it. Burton had told him security around the facility was tight, including an electrified fence. No signs were up to warn people strolling through the forest, but after Terintec left, it wouldn’t be much of a problem to occasionally sweep up the remains of a body fried by thousands of volts and bury it, never to be found again.
Bolan planned to avoid such a fate. He plucked a canister from his war bag and held it up to the fence. Spraying in an arc, the links of the fence snapped almost musically, metal popping and twanging apart as freon froze it until it was too brittle to maintain its own weight. With a jingle, the fence began to topple, but the Executioner grabbed the section, now free from the rest of the fence, no longer holding current, and lowered it stealthily to the ground. The empty freon canister was stuffed back into his satchel, and Bolan tossed it through the opening.
One bag handle brushed against the chain links, a metal button raising a brilliant spark as it went through and the Executioner stayed still for several long, nerve-racking moments.
Nobody was reacting to the little flash.
Bolan hunched his shoulders tight together and slipped through the hole, snaking along. Once he was past the fence, he pulled himself up into a crouch and scooped the war bag, surveying the mill compound. Guards were still on patrol, in pairs.
No voices were carrying to him, which meant that they were keeping alert. Bolan wondered why they hadn’t heard even the modicum of noise he’d produced, when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Two shadows were barely perceptible, but moving, behind a stack of fifty-five-gallon drums.
Bolan didn’t look directly at them. He kept going forward. If he continued in a straight line, he’d be in the shadow of a warehouse. Finally, ears straining, he heard the faint crackle of a communicator. The Executioner whirled, bringing up the OA-93 with one hand, the other plunging into his war bag for a stun-shock grenade.
The men behind the oil drum rose as one. The guy with the radio was still calling out, leveling his autoweapon single-handedly while his partner had two hands on his.
The Executioner dived to the ground, squeezing the trigger, letting the Olympic Arms machine pistol rip apart the night.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The AHC gunners were still aiming at where the Executioner’s position of a heartbeat earlier, filling the air at waist-level with a scythe of blistering lead. The warehouse’s aluminum walls clanged as bullets peppered its side. The OA-93 in Bolan’s right fist bucked and kicked, his salvo of .223 Remington flesh-rippers meeting his enemy at close range.
The M-955 armor-piercing ammunition, with its nondeforming hard core, punched right through the Kevlar the two militiamen wore, before striking fluid mass and tumbling like a series of buzz saws through lung and heart tissue. Bone fragments from violent breeches by some of the tungsten-cored slugs created further shrapnel, which left the industrious ambushers laying in a heap of twisted, mangled flesh.
Bolan’s grenade sailed back toward the warehouse, pin and spoon flying free as it arced with the force of his throw. As two guards appeared from the other side of the warehouse, weapons leading the way, the XM84 stun grenade bounced off the ground in front of them and detonated. A wave of pressure slammed the duo, knocking them off their feet. They wouldn’t be getting up any time soon, not deafened and blinded by the 4.5 grams of magnesium and ammonium in the grenade’s payload.
More gunners were coming now and Bolan got to his feet, swinging the OA-93 around, ripping off bursts from the 6.5 inch barrel. If it hadn’t been for the flash hider, the subgun would have produced a basketball size muzzle-flash that would have made him an easy target, not to mention that the heat would have seared off his eyebrows. The OA-93 swept a gunman from groin to throat, armor-piercing slugs shredding him like so much coleslaw.
Bolan reached the warehouse as gunfire chased him. The two stunned gunners were fumbling for weaponry, one clearly giving up and holding both ears as glistening blood poured down his neck. The Executioner targeted the one with more fight in him and nailed him to the earth with a crucifying burst of gunfire.
The soldier dumped his almost-empty magazine and reloaded.
Five down, and by Bolan’s count, nine more to go on
the grounds. He’d faced worse odds before, though he still worried about the absence of Dark and Adonis. Those two might be stalking him, waiting for his action to move in. Judging by Dark’s battle with Carl Lyons, the man preferred a close-up battle. Adonis’s pure skill at hand-to-hand combat also weighed against the likelihood of the blond giant trying a sniper kill.
The rattle of a submachine gun threw Bolan into a crouch. Bullets chewed their way at head and chest height, and the soldier’s sudden duck saved him from a face full of shrapnel and splinters. He coaxed a burst of autofire from the muzzle of the OA-93, ripping apart the gunner who was pumping out the fire.
A quartet of men broke from cover, moving laterally toward a building that resembled a log cabin on short stilts. The quartet was sidestepping and firing on the move, keeping low and in motion to make themselves harder to hit. The ground near the Executioner exploded in clouds of dust as sweeps of 5.56 mm and 9 mm slugs punched divots of dirt into the sky. Bolan stepped back behind the cover of the warehouse to avoid catching anything larger than a grain of soil.
He reached into his war bag and plucked another XM-84 grenade and tossed it hard, sidearm style, and ducked back after his thunderbolt-quick throw. More bullets chased his sudden movement, but they collided only with empty air or quiet ground. Bolan’s grenade detonated with sky-shattering force and he swept back around, OA-93 tracking for targets.
The four men were strewed about, stunned, but to varying degrees. The man closest to the door of the cabin was already shaking off the effects of the grenade. He clawed at the doorknob, struggling to get it open, when Bolan ripped into him with a burst of 5.56 mm, tungsten-cored manstoppers. Slammed against the door, he clawed desperately to stay on his feet, as if realizing that the moment his knees touched the ground the life would pour out of him. His strength wasn’t enough, though, not with his internal organs whipped into an organic mess of pulped flesh and blood. Gore burst from his lips and he shuddered, collapsing in a boneless heap.
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