Sabotage

by Don Pendleton

  His hand crabbed its way into the war bag, and his fist closed around the butt of the Beretta 93-R.

  His first triggered blast was a 3-round burst that took the man directly in front of him. The 9 mm Parabellum rounds ripped through the man’s stomach. He grabbed at his abdomen, shock registering on his face, then fell.

  Bolan flicked the Beretta’s selector to single-shot and began to pull the trigger.

  His rounds found their mark, again and again. The men holding him jerked and roared and howled and died, falling on top of him or to the side as he shot them at point-blank range. Finally, with the last of his strength, Bolan reached up and back, grateful for the custom suppressor installed on the Beretta. The muzzle of the machine pistol was only inches from his ear as he triggered the weapon, shooting backward, catching his would-be strangler under the chin and blowing off the top of his head.

  The pressure on his neck was suddenly gone.

  Bolan forced himself to roll free, crawling out of the pile of corpses in which he had managed to bury himself.

  He drew in first one ragged breath, then another. Holding the Beretta tightly, he waited, lying prone in the middle of the group of dead men, waiting to see if another enemy would present himself. When there were no more threats, he struggled to his knees.

  The wound in his thigh screamed as he put his weight on it. Grunting, Bolan dragged his canvas war bag out from under the dead. The shoulder strap had been cut by something sharp, most likely the blade of the very knife that had stabbed him. He took his first-aid kit from the bag.

  Sitting heavily on a reasonably clean section of floor in the middle of the slaughter, Bolan ripped open his pant leg. He cleaned the wound with a tube of alcohol from the kit, then sealed it with “liquid skin” and bandaged it. The knife had been very sharp. The wound was deep, but not ragged. It hurt like hell but wouldn’t stop him.

  He examined the Beretta 93-R. It held only two more rounds, and he had burned through the rest of his spare magazines. The war bag did have several more magazines for the Desert Eagles, however. He placed the 93-R in the bag, silently thanking the trusty weapon for once again saving his life. Then he loaded the Desert Eagles, thrust them both in his waistband front and back and walked stiffly to the double doors.

  He tried them, but the scarred, bullet-dented doors were locked.

  His phone began to vibrate in the pocket of his blacksuit.

  “Striker,” he said, answering it.

  “Striker, it’s Hal,” Brognola said on the other end. “What’s your status?”

  “Hello, Hal,” Bolan said. He was feeling a little light-headed from blood loss, but knew that would stabilize in a moment. He dug an energy bar from the pocket of his blacksuit, tore it open and bit off a piece. It was the best way to counteract the effects of the wound in his leg.

  “The calls have made their way back to me,” Brognola said. “I’m looking at a relayed, live satellite feed from the news trucks on-site.”

  “News trucks? Where?”

  “Right outside your door,” Brognola said. “The local police have the building surrounded, and there are several federal agencies on their way to you, including a very, very pissed off detachment from the FBI.”

  “What do they know?”

  “They know what I’ve told them,” Brognola said. “That the building is occupied by an agent of the Justice Department, detailed to take into custody one Yuri Trofimov, who is wanted for complicity in the death of FBI Agent Jennifer Delaney.”

  “Thanks, Hal,” Bolan said. He knew the big Fed had spun the story in precisely the way that would afford Bolan the most support on-scene.

  “What’s your status?” Brognola repeated.

  “Wounded, but functional,” Bolan said. “At the moment I’m outside what I believe to be the private office of Yuri Trofimov. He’s got himself barricaded in there. I’m going to knock on the door.”

  “And if he doesn’t let you in?”

  “I’m going to knock real hard.”

  “Understood,” Brognola said. “What do you need from me?”

  “Just what you’re doing,” Bolan said. “There are armed men still in the building,” he said. “Quite a few of them. Let the locals know. If they send a detachment of SWAT into the building, it’s going to get really bloody. I would recommend tear-gassing the intermediate floors and keeping the perimeter closed tight. Flush the remaining SCAR personnel into the open and take them down when they’re feeling a bit more ready to cooperate.”

  “I will pass that along,” Brognola promised. “Can you handle Trofimov?”

  “You know I can.”

  “I talked with the Man before I called you,” Brognola said. “I’ve apprised him of the situation to date, and of the evidence we’ve managed to accumulate in support of our troops. We have damned Trofimov conclusively. But there’s a problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “The scope of the conspiracy,” Brognola said. He paused. “Are you all right? You’re breathing hard.”

  “Yeah, I’m as well as can be considering I had about five inches of steel in my leg a little while ago. You were saying?”

  “You’ve done your job well,” Brognola said, “and along the way you’ve managed to uncover enough of Trofimov’s master plan to bring down portions of our government, if word of this gets out.”

  “You’re worried about public reaction.”

  “Yes,” Brognola said. “And so is the Man. Between Heller and everything Trofimov managed to do, or was planning to do… If this becomes public knowledge, it will shake the public’s faith in almost every aspect of our military and government operations, to some degree.”

  “I understand, Hal,” Bolan said wearily. “It certainly won’t be the first time we’ve had to sweep something under the rug for the common good. What do you need from me?”

  “Trofimov is officially wanted for trial,” Brognola said.

  “Officially,” Bolan repeated. “Which means that unofficially, it might be a little more convenient if he didn’t get there?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Brognola said, “and neither did the Man.”

  “No,” Bolan said, “and I’m no assassin. I’m going to bring him in if I can. I’ll kill him if I can’t. Either way, he meets justice.”

  “I know, Striker,” Brognola said. “I’d be disappointed if you said anything different.”

  “Then what are you trying to tell me?”

  “We’ve made arrangements to deal with Heller and all those who may have been working with him, once we conclude our investigation,” Brognola said. “Trofimov, if you do bring him in, will be joining Heller and company. Just make sure he doesn’t talk to the media.”

  “I think that can be arranged,” Bolan said. “I wasn’t planning on calling a press conference.” Brognola actually laughed at that, as Bolan paraphrased himself. “If he doesn’t survive? He’s a public figure.”

  “If he doesn’t survive,” Brognola said, “we’ll write it off to a tragic accident. The entire downtown area is aware that something is happening in the TBT building. You don’t exactly work discreetly.”

  “Guilty,” Bolan said.

  “It will be leaked to the press that TBT was housing certain flammable chemicals used in, let’s say, developing film.”

  “Everything’s digital these days, Hal.”

  “We’ll come up with something plausible. But what will be significant is that a fire, a very tragic, very public fire, raged through the TBT building, taking with it the life of the face of TBT News. Actually, that’s probably the easier way for Trofimov, given that we’ll have to spin the massacre video as the act of a deranged, ratings-hungry nut.”

  “I feel real sorry about that.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Brognola said.

  The distant echo of gunfire reached Bolan’s ears. It was coming from the floors below.

  “I’m hearing gunfire, Hal.”

  “That would be the SWAT team,” Br
ognola said. “Don’t worry. I sent a text message from my terminal, and Barb passed on your warning. I guess they decided to be proactive.”

  “What about the rest of what’s left of Twain’s organization?”

  “Being rounded up as we speak,” Brognola said. “There were plenty of virtual paper trails to trace, and I’m going to owe Aaron and his people a lot of overtime pay. But the mess is very nearly swept up.”

  “Good,” Bolan said. “Then it looks like I’ve just got one loose end left.” He flexed his knees a bit, making sure he felt steady on his wounded leg. His fingers brushed the butts of the Desert Eagles in his waistband.

  “Striker?”

  “Yeah, Hal?”

  “Call me when it’s over. I’d appreciate knowing how it turns out.”

  “One way or another,” Bolan told him, “you know it can end only one way. Trofimov is over. Striker out.”

  “Good luck, Striker.”

  Bolan closed the phone and put it away.

  He went to the damaged war bag and removed the last of his C-4 charges. Planting the C-4 and a detonator, he activated the delay timer and moved down the wall, pressing himself against it.

  The charge blew. Bolan shook off the ringing in his ears, his hand on the butt of the forward Desert Eagle.

  “Come in,” Yuri Trofimov called from inside. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Bolan stood at the door to the office. Yuri Trofimov sat behind his desk with his back to a large window.

  The soldier stepped cautiously into the room.

  The blow to the head staggered him.

  He fell forward, rolling and coming up on one knee. The person who had struck him was a very large Chinese man, apparently one of Mak Wei’s people held in reserve by the anxious Trofimov. A second Chinese operative, nearly as big as the first, stood beside him. They tackled Bolan, one of them immediately punching the soldier in the thigh, over the bandage. Starbursts of pain blossomed in Bolan’s vision as the first operative punched him in the face with a closed fist. The two special forces men began to kick and punch him furiously, overwhelming him.

  He fought the blackness for as long as he could, but in the end, it overwhelmed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bolan woke slowly. His eyes opened, and he focused on the man seated at the desk in front of him. Trofimov offered him a smile. Somewhere, in the distance, Bolan could hear voices speaking through bullhorns.

  “Do you hear that?” Trofimov said. “That is the police. They are downstairs. The last of my Chinese helpers are down there, keeping them at bay. I do not think they will last very long. But I thought we should be uninterrupted for as long as it takes to make you die, screaming in pain.”

  Bolan could see his weapons on the desk in front of Trofimov. Both guns were there, as were a few other items from the pockets of his blacksuit. Trofimov held a knife that wasn’t one of Bolan’s. It looked expensive and very sharp. There was a small stand sitting empty on the desktop. The blade was apparently a letter opener.

  “This is Chinese,” Trofimov said. “It was a gift from my friend Mak Wei. Have you met Mak Wei? As he is nowhere to be found, I imagine you have.”

  Bolan said nothing. He assessed his situation. He was strapped to a chair. The bonds securing him were phone cords, apparently ripped from the expensive-looking office phone on Trofimov’s desk. His wrists and his ankles were tied. He worked his wrists, slowly, and there was a slight amount of give. Okay, he could work with that. The trick was to survive, to keep Trofimov talking.

  “You realize,” Bolan said, “that you sent those men to their deaths.”

  “What do I care?” Trofimov said.

  “True,” Bolan said. “What do you care about anything?”

  “I care deeply,” Trofimov said, indignant. “I have always cared. That is why I have worked so hard.”

  “Worked so hard at what?” Bolan asked. “To be a terrorist? A murderer?” He was playing a dangerous game, the Executioner knew. The trick was to give Trofimov just enough reason to talk, without pushing him to actual violence. There was no telling what the man might do if he became enraged enough, and that would end the whole game then and there. But Bolan had a great deal of experience with Trofimov’s type. Egomaniacs like Yuri Trofimov, deep down, wanted to talk. They wanted the people they believed they had beaten to know it, to understand it. They derived a great deal of satisfaction from that. Bolan saw no reason to deny Trofimov that satisfaction if it gave him the time he needed. Now he was going to have to put to the test what he had told Delaney. He was going to have to see if he really could get into Trofimov’s mind. His life depended on it.

  Trofimov sat back in his chair. He put his feet up on the desk. Playing with the dagger, he looked at Bolan almost cheerfully.

  “I am going to carve you up,” he said. “I would like to know your name first, however. It seems only right.”

  “Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “Justice Department.”

  Trofimov examined the identification wallet on the desk in front of him. It was Bolan’s and had evidently been taken from the soldier’s pocket when he was searched while unconscious. “That is what it says here.” Trofimov nodded. “What does the Justice Department want with me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Bolan asked. “You’re wanted for conspiracy to commit murder, and for treason, including crimes against the United States military and its personnel.”

  “Crimes against the military?” Trofimov said. “Do not make me laugh. The United States military is the greatest single source of evil in the world today! Why, in fighting the U.S. military, in hurting it, I strike a blow for true freedom, for everyone your imperialist nation has bullied and invaded over the years. All those civilians you bomb and slaughter, all those nations you believe you can tell how to run their affairs. I have helped them all, in fighting the military! History will remember me as a hero!”

  “History will remember you as a fraud,” Bolan said, dancing closer to the metaphorical fire.

  “A fraud? You speak nonsense.”

  “Do I?” Bolan said. “Why did you shoot your secretary?”

  “It is of no consequence,” Trofimov said, looking unsettled.

  “No?” Bolan pushed. “Were you a little upset about something, perhaps? Decided to lash out at the closest target?”

  Trofimov leaped up, bringing the blade of the Chinese knife close to Bolan’s eyes. “I will lash out against you, perhaps, Matt Cooper,” he stormed.

  “You could do that,” Bolan said. “Then again, you might stop and ask yourself what I found when I knocked over your Vault.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You remember the Vault, Yuri,” Bolan said. “You know, where you were keeping all your money? What else was there?”

  “You… What…”

  “We found your little television studio, Yuri,” Bolan said. “We found the clever little set you erected. We know you created the massacre video.”

  “It does not matter now,” Trofimov said, backing up and sitting on the edge of the desk. “The damage is done. The entire world believes your people are capable of committing such crimes.”

  “But we didn’t commit them, Yuri.”

  “Didn’t you?” Trofimov seemed to warm to the subject a bit, which also seemed to calm him. “Tell me, Matt Cooper, just how many high-profile massacres have your soldiers committed through the years? We both know they have. There did not exist any conveniently taped massacres for me to show the world, no, so yes, I created one—but I did not make anything that could not have existed! Why do you think the world was so ready to believe it, Cooper? Why do you think the enemies of your nation swallowed the news so readily?”

  “They wanted to believe it,” Bolan said. “The enemies of the West need to believe it is evil. It justifies and rationalizes their hatred.”

  “They believed it because it has happened before!” Trofimov said gleefully. “Is that not truly the way of it? Do
you think it would really be so hard to compile a long list of people and nations you and your miserable military have wronged, have hurt, have killed? You invade at whim! You make everyone else do as you say, and you do it because secretly you wish to control the world!”

  “What do you think your friends the Chinese want to do?” Bolan countered. He could feel the phone cord around his right wrist giving way.

  “The Chinese,” Trofimov scoffed. “I am using them to get what I need. Of course they wish to benefit from harm to the United States. They and many others like them! They are simply the ones in position to render the most help and support to me. They have the deepest pockets!”

  “You’re a wealthy man, Trofimov,” Bolan said. “You could have used your wealth to help people. You could have done some good in the world. Instead you used your fortune to finance your hatred.”

  “I did what I had to do.”

  “You murdered men and women whose only crime was serving in a military you hate,” Bolan said. “And you murdered, or tried to murder, their families, and others whose only misdeed was to attend the funerals of those service people.”

  “It was easy, too.” Trofimov was gloating. “How wretched is your nation, that there exists within it people who are only too happy to hurt it? American citizens, Cooper, who were willing to work with me to kill other Americans, because they, too, know their country to be evil!”

  “This nation isn’t evil,” Bolan said evenly. It was time to make his move. The phone cord around his wrist was as loose as it was going to get.

  “Of course it is,” Trofimov said. “And I am going to prove it. You, or whoever you work for, you and all your soldiers, may have interfered with my operation,” he went on, “but I can rebuild. I have offshore accounts. I have resources I have not tapped. I can find a way. My dream will not end.”

  “Your dream,” Bolan said, “is a nightmare. And I’m not going to let you walk out of here.”

  “You?” Trofimov turned and faced him, holding up the knife. “What makes you think you have any choice in the matter?”