Out in the hall, shouts echoed up the stairs. As Bolan kicked in the fourth and last door, two men ran into the hall from the stairwell. Both were armed.
Bolan stepped through the doorway just ahead of a burst of gunfire. Several slugs tore into the wooden doorframe, sending splinters in every direction.
"Cover me," one of them shouted. Bolan could hear footsteps pounding toward him. The guy bounced through the doorway. Like an idiot, he had put himself between his quarry and his companion. Bolan squeezed off a burst from the Ingram. The .45 caliber slugs ripped into the commando, knocking him back into the hall again. Stitched by the hellfire from collar to belt, his spine had been severed in three places.
A rain of slugs poured through the doorway. Bolan slid along the wall, making certain he was out of the line of fire.
When the gunner paused to change magazines, Bolan burst through, squeezing off a short burst to keep the guy's head down. He raced toward the stairs and dived headfirst past the opening. Spraying fire down the steps as he sailed by, Bolan caught his adversary by surprise. He waited long enough to be certain that the guy was out of action, and then slipped back to the stairwell. The second gunner lay sprawled on the stairs. His eyes were rolled back, as if trying to look through the ugly, round red hole in the middle of his forehead.
Grabbing the guy's gun, Bolan jammed a new clip into place, then reloaded his own weapon and slung it over his shoulder. Stepping over the dead man, he worked his way down to the second floor.
This one, too, had been gutted; the rooms had been dismembered to make way for a dormitory. Three rows of bunks, all empty, filled the space.
Bolan heard a shout as he crossed toward the stairs to the first floor. Another gunner bounded up the steps and burst into the sleeping quarters. Bolan sprayed lead in his direction and dived for the floor.
One of the .45 caliber Ingram rounds shattered the newcomer's right hand. His gun clattered to the floor. Before he could retrieve it with his left, Bolan was on him. Grabbing the man by the collar, he hauled him to his feet.
"Don't shoot me, please," he screamed. Reaching for Bolan's hands, he tried to free himself from Bolan's grip, more in desperation than rage. "Please, don't shoot me."
"I'm looking for somebody," Bolan snarled. "I can see she's not here. But somebody knows where she is. I want that somebody to get a message. Do you understand?"
The young man nodded. "What message?"
"You tell him I'm coming. You tell him I'm going to find him. Tell him that if anything happens to Rachel Peres, he'll wish he'd never been born. Understand?"
"Who... who am I supposed to tell? Who's the message for?" The young man's eyes were rolling. His voice was barely intelligible through the blubbering.
"You just tell everybody you know. He'll get the message. Understand? Because if he doesn't get it, I'll be back." Bolan tossed the injured man to the floor and returned to ground level, unopposed. If anyone else had been there, he was long gone. Rousting punks was something Bolan had been doing forever. Or so it seemed. Ever since the Mafia wars, it had been necessary. But the punks had never learned, and this new breed was no different. Just harder to understand. The mob had wanted money, and it did whatever it could to get it. But terrorists were either true believers, or cynics.
The true believers never saw the contradictions. They preached the sanctity of personal freedom and made a living by violating it, or denying it to those who opposed them.
Worst of all were the cynics. They would say or do anything to advance their aims. And when you sloughed off all the rhetoric, ripped the curtain of bullshit aside, it was all about power. Power over people who had precious little of their own. Not over their lives, their futures, not even over the time of their own deaths. The terrorist slime that was spreading over the planet, like mold on a piece of exposed cheese, had to be stopped. But first somebody had to get their attention.
Hell, it wasn't Bolan's choice for a hobby, but somebody had to do it. And with Rachel's life hanging in the balance, he had all the reason he needed. The armory in the East Village would never be the same. But it had seemed like an empty exercise. For all Bolan knew, those guys at the crash pad were blameless. But when somebody comes after you with an SMG, Bolan knew you had better assume he was up to no good. There was another stop he wanted to make, and this visit would be quick. The whole point was to make it clear that the houses weren't as safe as their residents thought. They had no secrets. Not from the Executioner. The thing they never seemed to understand about a rat hole was that there was only one way in. And sometimes no way out.
Bolan drove across town to the docks. South of Fourteenth Street, New York's West Side was a nightmare after dark. The area consisted of winding streets and row after row of abandoned warehouses. It was so gloomy and oppressive that even the hookers preferred to ply their trade farther north under the lights. It was a place where anything was possible.
And where anything could hide.
Hal Brognola knew a great deal about Parsons's little game. And it was becoming increasingly evident that Parsons was little more than the mouth that roared.
Someone else was calling the shots. Bolan's lead on Glinkov looked promising. They didn't have everything yet, but they would shortly. And what they already had told them they were playing with people who operated in the big leagues. It meant Parsons couldn't be in control. He was small time.
Parsons had never been involved in the kind of thing they were turning up. Public disturbance was his ball game, not murder. True, there were links to Parsons, but some of them were merely circumstantial. And some of them looked manufactured. It was as if someone wanted Parsons on the hook. Or already had him there.
Weapons were being stockpiled all over the place.
But that wasn't a secret. Bolan knew the best way to get a line on the bastards was to smoke them out. If they ran, they would lead him somewhere. If they stayed put, it could take days, even weeks, to find them. Bolan didn't have days. Neither did Rachel.
The target was a munitions dump just off the river.
The West Side Highway was lined with dozens of places just like it. Tiers of broken windows in rotten frames. Rusted doors on rustier hinges.
Broken asphalt parking lots. And behind it all, the murk of the midnight Hudson. The river had no glamour in this part of town. In the distance, the dim lights of New Jersey flashed halfheartedly, now and then highlighting a piece of garbage bobbing in the oily water. When Bolan was done, there'd be even more trash in the river.
The place looked like all the others — a monument to urban decay. Single storied, its few remaining windows had been unwashed for years. Leaving his vehicle on a side street, the warrior swiftly made his way through the deserted streets. At the last corner, he slipped into an alley as a police cruiser slid down the off ramp from the highway above. It turned a corner and made its way down one of the winding side streets.
When the cruiser was gone, Bolan sprinted across Twelfth Avenue. At the back there was a loading bay that opened onto a door of corrugated sheet metal. The water lapped at rotten pilings behind and below it. Bolan took a small jimmy from his pocket and wedged it under the ring mount of the door's padlock. The old screws groaned, then squealed as the ring came loose. The chain dangled uselessly, slowly banging against the door. The hollow echo from inside the warehouse sounded like a death knell. Mack Bolan slid the door open and entered the building. The scurry of rats stayed just ahead of the beam of his torch as he walked among the assorted crates and cartons. Opening a few, he confirmed Brognola's latest intel. There were enough weapons here to equip a small army. Most of them were packed in cartons that belied their contents.
Tractor parts had been replaced with automatic rifles, submachine guns and handguns. They were of every make and model, a collection of black market arms worth thousands of dollars. A large crate labeled Generator actually contained smaller boxes of ammunition.
Near the rear door, Bolan's flashlight picked out
a small panel truck. His search of the vehicle uncovered two five-gallon gasoline containers, one full, one half empty. Quickly Bolan poured the volatile fuel over the stacks of crates. With the jimmy, he punctured the truck's gas tank, adding its contents to the pyre.
Selecting a LAWS rocket from one of the crates, he slipped back through the door, leaving it open to let the wind inside.
Back across the highway, Bolan took careful aim. With a whoosh like the opening of hell's gates, the rocket streaked across the deserted highway, piercing one of the few intact panes of glass. The elevation was perfect. The LAWS rocket blew with a sound like thunder, igniting the gasoline. In seconds the place was a roaring inferno.
Bolan ran up the block toward his car, reaching it just as the first munitions detonated. In minutes the place would be leveled. Bolan regretted that he didn't have time to stay and watch. But as his Camaro roared to life, he smiled grimly. It wasn't only money, he thought, that could burn a hole in your pocket. And when the pocket belonged to the KGB, you could stand and watch or you could fan the flames.
Either way you upped the ante in the game with the highest stakes in town.
15
"That was quite a fireworks display you put on last night. What the hell was in that warehouse, anyway?" Hal Brognola asked the man seated before him.
"You name it," Mack Bolan answered. "If it could kill somebody, it was there."
"I'm catching some heat about it, you know."
"Why? There's no reason to connect you with what happened. You know that as well as I do."
"You're forgetting something, Mack. I told you the President was taking a personal interest in this matter. You've also been around long enough to know that people like Malcolm Parsons get away with as much as they do because they have connections."
"Look, Hal, you brought me in on this, and I've been working closely with you. It's sensitive, I know that. I also think we're onto something. I'd bet you Parsons didn't even know that stuff was there. Time's running out, and I've got to find Rachel."
"I know you feel responsible for the position she's in, but you can't. She knew what she was letting herself in for, and besides, she's okay," Brognola countered.
"For how long, and how do you know she's okay?"
"Because she's not the only one we have on the inside. Look, our information has been right on the money, hasn't it?"
"So far, yeah, it has."
"So trust me on this. She's the ace up their sleeve. If they feel safe, she's safe. But the minute they get the idea that having Rachel isn't going to help them any, they'll kill her. Nobody pays for insurance that's lapsed, Mack."
Bolan knew Brognola was right. Hell, he could ride around the country for a year, blowing warehouses and wasting punks. He'd wanted to send a message. All right, he'd sent it. And they'd gotten it. He was sure of that. The question was, what to do next?
If he lost sight of his primary goal, he wouldn't help Rachel at all. If he lost his cool and got himself killed, it wouldn't matter what his intentions had been. The best way to help her was to put Parsons, and whoever controlled him, out of commission. That had to be first.
"What do you want me to do?"
"First, I want you to tell me everything you learned last night. All of it. What kind of weapons, their place of origin, the works."
Bolan sketched out the broad outlines for the big Fed, stopping occasionally for a question or two. The debriefing took nearly half an hour. When he had finished, Brognola nodded again.
"It all fits. We got a make on your Mr. Glinkov, and there's no question this is KGB. But it's a lot heavier than we thought. Glinkov is one of the big boys. He's got a free hand in operations. His budget is pretty sizable, and he's got a pipeline to the top. We think Peter Achison may be the KGB point man on this."
"What's Glinkov after? Why do I get the feeling that I'm sitting on a nuke, just waiting for someone to set it off?"
"Because that's just where you are. We got a little intel on Glinkov's next move. If we play it right, we can kill two birds with one stone — get Rachel out and shut the KOB bastard down. Glinkov is going for the long ball. You hurt him last night, and I think you gave him a push."
"How deep is your other man?"
"V."
"When do I get to meet him?"
"You already have."
"Not Eli Cohen?" Bolan stared at the big Fed. Brognola stood up, reaching for his cigar.
"You got it."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"It didn't matter before."
"Does it matter now?"
"It sure does. Eli's the one who knows where Rachel is. And he's the one who knows what's on tap. We need him on the inside. I can't take a chance. But trust me, he's a good man, one of the best."
"Mossad?"
Brognola nodded.
"What's their interest in this? And don't tell me it's the same as ours. They spy on us just like we spy on them."
"Nature of the beast. Look, I'll tell you what Eli's been able to get to us so far. That's the best I can do. You already got a leg up. You know what he looks like, and he knows what you look like. When the shooting starts, and believe me it will, at least you'll know not to blow each other away."
"That's cold comfort, Hal."
Brognola spoke quietly for nearly an hour. He had chewed the better part of four cigars before he'd finished. He yanked the fourth out of his mouth, shook his head and tossed it into a wastebasket. What he said had scared Bolan.
It was obvious now that Glinkov, and not Parsons, was pulling the strings. Parsons might dance better than most, but he was still a puppet. Glinkov's puppet. And there was no longer a mystery as to why Mossad was in on the hunt. The stability of the Middle East hung in the balance. It had been that way for so long that no one, not even Bolan, could imagine it getting any worse. Until now.
Glinkov's plan was brilliant. And economical. Its outlines were simple.
Terrorists would seize Thunder Mountain, a large nuclear reactor in the Hudson River Valley about fifty miles north of New York City.
An ultimatum would be issued, demanding that the United States deactivate all of its nuclear power plants.
Public outcry would be deafening. Those who were already opposed to nuclear power would join the chorus. Even those who weren't would be stunned by the boldness and the ease of the seizure. If the power plants couldn't be defended, then every one of them was a potential powder keg. No one wanted a source of energy, no matter how useful, that had to be defended by military troops.
The kicker was even worse. Unknown to Parsons, another of Glinkov's stooges was going to engineer an "accident" during the seizure that would irreversibly damage the reactor. The result would be a nuclear nightmare that would make the disaster at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in Russia seem like a high school picnic. Millions of gallons of radioactive waste would pour into the Hudson River, killing everything in its path downstream.
Clouds of radioactive steam would billow into the sky and contaminate hundreds of square miles for decades. The immediate vicinity would be uninhabitable for centuries.
The reactor meltdown that would result when the coolant was siphoned off had consequences that would far exceed the Soviet nuclear accident. The reactor's fuel would get hotter and hotter until it passed the melting point, a temperature high enough to melt through the steel and concrete that usually contained the radiation in a safe area. It had a name, China Syndrome, taken from the ultimate destination of the ball of hellfire an uncooled reactor would become. It would take scientists years to determine the extent of damage caused by the incident at Chernobyl. But scientists might not have the same luxury of time if the KGB plot in the U.s. succeeded.
That was Glinkov's plan. The Israelis, obviously, had to defend themselves against the rising Soviet influence in the Middle East. That explained Eli Cohen's presence. It might even, Bolan thought, explain Rachel's. Former Mossad indeed. No wonder she was good. This mission was
top priority. World wars had started with less provocation. And Mack Bolan was in the middle. He even had the advantage of knowing what was going to happen. What he didn't know was when.
Brognola waited patiently while Bolan considered what he'd just been told. When Bolan looked up, the big Fed said, "So that's the story." He chomped on a new cigar, glanced angrily at it, then threw it into the large glass ashtray on the desk.
"Do I get any help on this?" Bolan already knew the answer, but he had to ask.
"This is as far off the record as it can get, Mack. Anything happens to you, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, you were in on it. You were one of them. You don't exist, pal."
Bolan nodded. It had been that way for a long time. Why should he expect it to be any different this time? He stood up and turned to go.
"Mack." Brognola was looking out the window, his back to Bolan. "Good luck."
Bolan nodded to the big Fed's broad shoulders.
Luck was such an inadequate word to describe what he was going to need to pull this one off.
Outside it was getting cold again. The sky was dark, the stars hard points of light, twinkling nervously. They seemed so small that it was difficult to imagine their hellish fire threatening anything so placid and serene as the Hudson River Valley. And yet a tiny spark, kin to the huge and distant stars, was already lit just fifty miles away.
Ready, willing and, worst of all, able to bore its way through to the bottom of the world. Mack Bolan didn't even try to imagine how many innocent people it would take with it.
Not having an exact timetable posed problems.
Knowing that Glinkov and his followers were planning something big meant they had to be watched. But watching someone closely, looking for something, anything, to fit in with what you knew, was hard on the nerves.
Mack Bolan didn't like doing nothing. This time, though, he had no choice. His choice would have been to go in hard, tear the place apart and turn his back on the smoking wreckage. It might make him feel better, but it wouldn't help Rachel. And it wouldn't get him Glinkov. The Russian hadn't been seen, and no one even knew what he looked like. Brognola's people had a few intelligence photos, but they were six years old. And grainy.
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