He was about almost there when he saw the dozen armed men break through the exterior doors and onto the warehouse floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY
These men weren’t dressed in the black swathe mode of those who had attacked Bolan and Grimaldi. This group was composed of Asians and they wore black battle fatigues and toted full-profile assault rifles. Moreover, they moved like practiced commandos.
One of the men let out a high-pitched, sustained shout and then leveled his AR at the nearest group of workers and triggered his weapon. The unwary workforce had been caught completely off guard by the sudden appearance of the new arrivals and they scattered like frightened sheep, running in any direction that would take them away from the murderous assault. It didn’t do them a whole lot of good.
The weapon chattered with the distinctive report of an AK-47 and it bucked in the Chinese gunner’s hand as he swept the flashing muzzle in a wild pattern. Bolan watched as the other commandos followed suit and turned their weapons on select groups spread throughout the warehouse. The one place they didn’t look was up at the glass walls through which Bolan overlooked them.
The Executioner’s icy blue eyes drifted up and he noted the thick, metal cables that ran in parallel strands across the roof. They were greased, and a quick look at the far side of the warehouse revealed a fully integrated pulley system that was probably used to move large crates from one end of the massive warehouse to the other so they could be staged easily in appropriate sections.
Bolan whipped out his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle and triggered two bursts that shattered the window in front of him. After holstering the pistol, he reached to the military web belt and withdrew a grappler and high-tension climbing safety cable. In a single toss he managed to get the fifteen-hundred-pound tensile strength cable wrapped around the much thicker freight-hauling cable and then stepped over the jagged glass and into open air. He pushed off and the momentum carried him to a point where he was just above the heavily armed group of Asian terrorists.
Bolan withdrew an M-67 grenade. He primed the pin and then dropped the bomb, watching with interest as it plummeted to the floor below. It landed in the midst of the gunners. Most were so busy firing on unarmed civilians that only one actually noticed the bomb fall seemingly out of nowhere. The leader stopped firing, looked up with complete surprise, and then looked down just a moment before a look of shock spread across his face.
The grenade went up and even as the thunderous boom from the explosion reverberated through the factory—threatening to deafen half the occupants, including Bolan—the Executioner descended slowly via the cable as he swung the MP5 into target acquisition and opened with a full salvo on his enemies. Bolan had no idea who these killers were, but they had murdered at least a half-dozen innocent bystanders and the soldier couldn’t stand by and watch that happen. His sense of justice simply wouldn’t permit it.
Bolan wondered about the timeliness of these hardmen showing up with Kalashnikov AK-47 variants. In Kirklareli, someone supposedly kills an agent high up in the MSS and more than halfway across the country less than twenty-fours later, this crew shows up and begins to kill the workers in Amocacci’s warehouse. That was not a coincidence.
By the time Bolan reached ground zero, three-quarters of the terrorists were either dead or dying. One pair tried to maneuver toward some sort of cover, but they never quite got there. Bolan cut them down with several short bursts that cut the legs from under one of his targets and perforated the chest of his partner. The last one managed to get off a single shot before his weapon jammed, although he made the shot count. The bullet winged Bolan and tore a furrow in his blacksuit, taking some skin from the top of his shoulder.
Bolan landed on his feet, rolled out of the impact and came to a stop on one knee. He leveled his MP5 and triggered a short burst from nearly point-blank range. The rounds drove the Chinese gunman backward, his useless weapon flying from numbed fingers as he jerked under the gut-shredding effect. Blood and flesh exploded from his bowels before he toppled to the rough material of the safety floor face-first.
The Executioner climbed wearily to his feet and raced for the door. The few unarmed civilians still in the immediate vicinity gave him a wide berth as he kicked one of the access doors open and sprinted through the doorway onto the dock. Bolan found a set of concrete steps, descended them and raced for the Citroën. Grimaldi apparently saw him coming because Bolan heard the engine come suddenly to life and then saw the headlights wink on and off twice to give him bearing.
Bolan made it in the nick of time and Grimaldi floored the accelerator and maneuvered out of the adjoining lot even as the flashing lights of the police squads winked into view. Fortunately they were out of view just as quickly as Grimaldi got clear of the dock and onto a main thoroughfare packed with enough cars that they could blend in and disappear quickly enough.
Nobody spoke for about a minute as Bolan and Grimaldi kept vigil on every mirror in the car. Finally the Executioner laid his head back and sighed deeply. He reached out to massage the pain in his shoulder. Based on the small amount of blood, he knew it had been a minor hit.
“You okay?” Serif asked with concern.
“I will be,” Bolan said. When Grimaldi fired a look of concern in his direction, he added quickly, “Just a nick.”
“What the hell happened?” Serif said.
“That was going to be my question,” Grimaldi interjected. “We saw those guys come out of that truck, but we had no idea who they were. Not that we could have done anything about it.”
“What truck?” Bolan asked. “You mean the one—”
“That you rode into the hot zone,” Grimaldi finished. “Yeah, that would be the one.”
Bolan shook his head with the irony of it. Here he’d been riding on the very vehicle that had brought the gunners into the factory and he hadn’t even known it. “They were Asian, wearing combat gear and toting AK-style assault rifles. I’m betting they were Chinese.”
“Quon Ma?” Serif asked.
“Possibly,” Bolan replied.
“Looks like maybe you were spot-on about that guy and his involvement with the Council,” Grimaldi remarked.
“I don’t know about that,” Bolan countered. “I’m not sure they were even his. I think they were meant to look that way. But whether he sent them is another story entirely.”
“What makes you think they weren’t sent by Ma?” Serif asked.
Bolan shook his head as he reached into a pouch on his belt and withdrew a wound pad. He slapped it on his shoulder before saying, “Well, think about it. First, they’re showing up at Amocacci’s warehouse. Why? What evidence does Ma have that it was Amocacci who ordered the hit? Second, they were killing innocent workers. How does that hurt Amocacci? The hit on Ma was up close and personal, so to speak. A guy like Ma wouldn’t respond to that by killing bystanders—he’s too much of a pro.”
Serif blinked. “I hadn’t really considered it that way before. But you’re absolutely right. It wouldn’t make sense for Ma to be involved at all.”
“Right. But it would make sense if someone wanted Amocacci to think that it was Ma behind it.”
Grimaldi nodded. “And they would have left plenty of witnesses to tell his people the guys were Asian.”
“And let’s assume Ma’s actually dead,” Bolan replied. “How would his people have learned so quickly who attempted the hit? We still don’t have any answer as it relates to motive. There’s no defensible reason for Amocacci to want Quon Ma dead, especially not if Ma plays a vital role in the success of the Council.”
“This is getting crazier by the minute, Sarge,” Grimaldi said.
“Actually this little incident has brought it all together for me. Someone’s manipulating this entire group, and they’re using Amocacci to do it.”
“What makes you think so?” Serif asked.
“When I went to Amocacci and offered my services, he immediately turned me down. But what was more interesting was what he said to me just before I left. He said before he could take me up on my offer he’d have to discuss it with his colleagues.”
“So?” Serif said with a laugh. “Maybe he was just putting you off.”
Bolan shook his head emphatically. “Not likely. Because it was right after he’d denied working with anyone or knowing anything about the Council. Those aren’t the words of a guy who’s careful. That’s why I decided to bait the hook by saying he was next on the hit list. I wanted him to think that whoever he was working with had betrayed him.”
“So this attack will only help to reinforce your position,” Grimaldi said.
Bolan nodded. “Right. And there’s no doubt word will get back to him that I foiled the little plan to destroy his holdings and murder a bunch of his innocent workers. That ought to put me in real good with the guy. Especially when I show him I was wounded doing it.”
“To say the least,” Serif agreed.
“So, what next?” Grimaldi asked.
“Let’s get back to the apartment so I can get this wound cleaned out. Then I’m going to see Amocacci while you take Alara back to the consulate.”
“Where are you going to find him?” Serif asked. “He’s probably gone into hiding.”
“I’m going to knock right on his front door,” the Executioner said.
Kirklareli, Turkey
JIAO PEI STEPPED from the rear of the cab and inspected her surroundings with just the barest hint of apprehension. This wasn’t the best neighborhood in the city by any measure, and Pei wasn’t accustomed to such surroundings—although she perfectly understood why Quon Ma would choose such a location in which to wait while the news died down of his alleged death.
As the British agent had explained to her, this was a peace offering, so Pei knew she had no reason to be concerned. It hadn’t taken her long to reach out to her contacts in the highest echelon of the MSS to discover two truths: that Ma was very much alive and the location of his hiding place. It was then just a matter of getting word to him to let him know she would be coming. Better to be straightforward about it than to just show up and have his men kill her on spec.
This wasn’t the first time Pei had served as a courier to one of her own countrymen. Normally she did this kind of work for lower-level agents and most of them she didn’t know. But she was familiar with Ma, if only by reputation, and he had a notorious reputation for not trusting outsiders. Only Pei’s own good reputation had probably been the reason he’d agreed to meet with her. That and the message she said she brought from a man she’d been told to identify only as “a friend with the Lion.”
Pei didn’t let on she knew the identity of the message sender but of course she did. Anyone who had been in the intelligence game long enough knew Hurley Willham quite well, if not personally then by his reputed connections. The guy was a weasel, of course—that’s how Pei viewed him, anyway. But he paid well, and he supposedly knew how to show the proper deference to Pei’s very stringent requirements, so she’d allowed him to use her services now and again. This was the first time he’d asked her to reach out to Quon Ma who, according to very reliable resources, had allegedly been reported dead less than twenty-four hours earlier.
As Pei descended the concrete steps outside the dilapidated building that led to basement level and was shown inside, men in black suits and bulges in their jackets fanned out to check the perimeter to ensure nobody had followed her. The same activity would doubtless hold true upon her departure.
Pei sat on the crimson settee and crossed her legs. She tugged the white gloves from her hands—the neutral signature and trademark of her particular business—before tucking them into the folds of the expensive silk blouse she wore. An odd, swirling pattern of shiny jade thread ran throughout the blouse, a pattern that looked random until one stood far enough back to realize it was actually a dragon’s profile. The red gemstone she wore above her left breast actually served as the dragon’s eye.
Quon Ma entered the living area less than a minute later. He wore dark gray slacks and a short-sleeved casual shirt with a polo-style collar. The MSS lead agent sat and stared Pei in the eye a long moment.
She met his gaze, refusing to lower her eyes as most any other woman would do in a show of subservience. It was after this long period of silence between them, one that was apparently making Ma’s bodyguards very uncomfortable, that she rose and bowed formally to him. Ma followed suit and then they sat and he waved at a servant to bring tea.
“It’s very agreeable to see you alive, Quon,” Pei said.
“Thank you,” Ma said. “And it’s good to see you, as well. Actually, I was expecting you to contact me sooner or later.”
“That’s very interesting,” she said. “Since I only learned that you were still alive a short time ago.”
“The individuals you contacted within the ministry are all close allies,” Ma replied. “It shouldn’t surprise you in the least.”
“And here I thought maybe I had a proprietary access unknown to the rest of the ministry,” Pei said.
Ma shrugged. “I would say that for the most part you do. In fact, your ability to maintain both your anonymity and autonomy in such a business as yours is legendary. But you can probably forgive some old men an indiscretion or two under the present circumstances.”
Pei seemed a little frosty. “Not likely forgivable. But I suppose I have no choice but to tolerate it.”
“Quite.” Ma paused as the servant brought in the tea. They waited while he performed the familiar ritual of pouring and then Ma resumed the discussion. “So on to your message. I found it...interesting.”
“As did I,” Pei replied. “The fact of the matter is I don’t know whether you can trust Willham. His loyalty is up for you to decide. What he did tell me was that he knew you were alive, and he knew who had made the attempt on your life. He also said that he’s willing to offer any assistance you might request if only you will trust him.”
“Did he identify the person by name who ordered my death?”
She shook her head. “He was insistent that he would reveal that name only to you, and under only the most secure conditions.”
“Did he give any reason?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t say specifically, but from his reply when I asked, he seemed concerned about his own security.”
“So he thinks he might also be a target.”
Pei took a sip of tea before returning the cup to the saucer and nodding. “Yes.”
Ma said nothing, instead choosing to ponder her statement. It didn’t make much sense to him, that much seemed certain. Pei didn’t really know what else to tell him. She could have made some assumptions based on her conversation with Willham, but that would have far and away exceeded her mandate. She delivered messages, and other than that she kept her nose out of the affairs of men like Quon Ma. It was how she’d stayed alive and how she’d profited. Her business was a very lucrative one, much more lucrative than most might have thought. Delivering cryptic messages between intelligence agents in the MSS was a valued enough skill, but when able to deliver them between entire agencies, whether allies or enemies, it was profitable by a hundredfold.
“There’s very little reason I have to trust Willham,” Ma said. “For all I know, he’s the one who ordered my death.”
“Again, it’s not my place to determine the loyalty of your associates to you, or yours to them. Frankly, I’ve found this entire situation most interesting.”
“What do mean?”
“Let’s not be coy with each other, Quon. We’ve been acquainted too long for that. I know you have many enemies, as do you, but it seems rather bold for someone to make such an attempt. The individual in question is either very angry with you, which wouldn�
�t be unlikely if the hand of someone from another agency, or someone within the ministry wants you out of the way. As I see it, those are the only likely candidates in this given scenario.”
“For someone who does not presume to judge loyalty, you seem quite opinionated on this subject,” Ma replied.
“It’s not opinion, it’s only logic,” Pei said. “Logic puzzles intrigue me. But that’s not to say that I don’t feel a certain amount of empathy for you.”
“The Dragon Lady? Feeling empathy?”
“Now you’re just attempting to be hurtful,” Pei said with a knowing smile. “I respect you, Quon Ma—nothing more and nothing less. But I do not like the thought of those with whom I do business going around and killing each other at a whim. First, it cuts into my own profits. Second, it makes the survivors much less trustworthy, and I feel the urge to go somewhere else and start again. I really don’t wish to do that as it’s very difficult to find good clients and can be, given this line of work, even more difficult to keep them.”
“Your point is well taken, madam,” Ma replied.
“My point is merely that I wish no harm to come to you unless it is deserved. And I can’t be sure, but I would guess that Willham may probably be trusted. After all, he did pay my fee without question in order to reach out to you.”
“How much?”
Pei shook her head. “I never discuss money. But you have used my services before, and you know my fee schedule. Let us merely say it was a considerable sum.”
“What disturbs me most is that he reached out to you at all.”
Pei cocked her head. “And why should it?”
“Because for all he knew I was dead,” Ma said. “Why would he even think that I was alive?”
“I did ask him that, and his answer seemed quite valid. Would you like to know what he said?”
Ma set down his teacup, sat back on the couch and draped his arm over the back of it. “Of course.”
“Well, he pointed out the fact that this city wasn’t immediately crawling with a dozen agents from the ministry. He also noted that he’d not heard from any other of your associates regarding your death. In fact, the information came to him by some other mechanism, although he adamantly refused to tell me the source. This concerned him greatly on a number of levels, particularly that he’d not been contacted by the aforementioned associates. I frankly didn’t understand much of it, since I wasn’t aware you had many mutual friends.”
Critical Exposure Page 21
