Silent Threat

by Don Pendleton

  Damn that Dumar!

  Schucker stood again and began pacing. It would be necessary to form contingency plans, and to draft more manpower from other Consortium operations throughout Germany. He would also need to perform a great deal of damage control, and throw around a great deal of money. The security personnel would be identified, and their employment to the Consortium was traceable. Plausible deniability might be found in one or two cases, perhaps half a dozen, but so many dead bodies above and beyond that would raise too many questions.

  He began to tick off his mental list of police and government officials, men and women known to be receptive to bribes. It would be expensive, but as long as he kept them fat and happy, the public officials on his payroll would find some excuse in each case. They would shelve any ongoing investigations and dismiss the deaths with something the news media could repeat with breathless credulity. Perhaps a drug war. Yes, that would be simple enough. Drug wars were always popular. The drugs involved didn't even matter, really. People were always willing to believe that purveyors of unnamed drugs were always shooting one another over deals gone bad. It didn't matter that such behavior was no way to conduct business, and flew in the face of the best interests of all involved. The public would believe it, and that was all that mattered to the politicians and the police. With their consciences clean, their records intact and their wallets full, they would dance to whatever tune Schucker played for them.

  The Interpol investigation upset him very much. Now, especially now, with the Syrians on their way and the first of many profitable deals about to be brokered, the Consortium couldn't afford official scrutiny. Had Dumar Eon not behaved so rashly, Schucker could have kept the investigators busy for weeks. He could have kept them trapped in a morass of red tape and false leads, thinking they were accomplishing something, while the Consortium went about its business unmolested. But no, as soon as Eon learned of this Rieck's identity, he'd had the man followed, and fully intended to kill him. In a public place, no less! Eon and his stupid statements, Schucker thought. He wouldn't be satisfied until the entire world collapsed around his head and took him with it. And of course, that was the problem.

  Schucker had been Eon's most trusted operative within the Consortium since its inception. The Leader of Iron Thunder trusted him to run the day-to-day operations of the company, to take care of the details, to keep the money flowing, and to see to the fine points of the Consortium's various acquisitions. That was why the security personnel on whom Schucker relied — mercenaries, former military men, a few former government agents and other trained soldiers — had been cultivated, their ranks expanded over the years to form a private army of sorts. Yes, they made it possible for the Consortium to do what it did, as had Iron Thunder's cultists. Both were "muscle" in the most primitive sense, and both had helped, at various times and to varying degrees of subtlety — or its lack — to clear the way for important Consortium acquisitions. But Iron Thunder's aberrant mental cases were most certainly not the professionals Schucker had hired. He'd seen to their training, organized them and put them in place where they afforded him the most strategic value. They were the mechanism whereby he would free the Consortium of Eon's poisonous and unstable influence. The Consortium's security personnel were Schucker's men, and they answered to him alone. They were not Eon's cultists. The difference was like night and day.

  The company had grown beyond the man calling himself "Dumar Eon." Schucker thought this had been a long time coming, and in truth, had he been as confident a year ago as he was now, he'd have made his move then. The change was long overdue. The Consortium was a business, had become a business precisely because Schucker, hired and left to run its operations by Eon, had proved more than equal to the task. Eon didn't appreciate what the Consortium could be, or didn't care. No, in his mind, everything came down to that bizarre near-religion of his, and damn the consequences.

  Eon wasn't stupid; Schucker knew that only too well. But he was overconfident. He believed Schucker and the other high-level members of the Consortium's management were pawns, tools who were willing to see to the company's expansion and funnel the profits to Iron Thunder as long as their own pockets were well lined.

  It hadn't taken long for Schucker to realize just how insane Eon was. He had lived with that knowledge for some time. For the most part, it hadn't mattered — except Eon was becoming increasingly haphazard, his people increasingly sloppy and reckless in their methods. The cult's beliefs were becoming more and more immediate to Dumar, who until recently had seemed content to watch the operation grow, and to keep his followers busy with his various electronic pronouncements and inspirational speeches. It was, Schucker knew, only a matter of time before Eon managed to crash the entire company. He would probably stage some major spectacle for Iron Thunder's benefit, and quite possibly get himself killed along the way.

  Schucker couldn't allow that.

  There was tremendous potential for profit within the Consortium, provided it was run carefully. Eon had his own reasons for the accomplishments the company had seen to date, and until recently those had coincided with Schucker's ambitions. At least, they hadn't interfered with his ambitions. But Schucker was a forward-thinking man, and he had foreseen this day, had anticipated the point at which Eon's devotion to his sad death cult and Schucker's desire to maintain the Consortium's profitability would become increasingly opposed. It was entirely possible that Eon didn't see it that way, at least not yet. This was irrelevant. Schucker knew the situation was untenable, would be irreparable in a few more years or even less. Thus, some six months ago, he had finally begun taking concrete, irreversible steps. He had crossed the point of no return. He had implemented a plan the wheels of which, once turning, couldn't be stopped without exposing himself and his people to Eon's wrath.

  So be it.

  It had been easy to assign his security personnel to follow Eon's people. The cultists were in no way professionals and had no reason to believe they were suspect. It had, similarly, been easy enough to infiltrate Iron Thunder itself. Eon had released enough videos that any reasonably flexible operatives could memorize and parrot these back to him, playing the roles of true believers, who were welcomed into the Iron Thunder fold. It was from these men and women that Schucker always learned of Eon's plans... eventually.

  That was the frustrating part. Eon was a fairly insular man, for all his charisma, and word of his plans took time to trickle down to the lesser members of Iron Thunder. Trickle down it did, for Eon wasn't nearly as adept at keeping secrets as he liked to believe. But the time involved meant that Schucker was always a step behind Eon, always playing cleanup and catch-up, always mopping up the crazed cult leader's messes. The potential disasters that Schucker and his personnel were required to cover up were becoming more and more difficult to hide, as evidenced by this latest set of massacres. The thought galled Schucker intensely.

  David Schucker knew that he was the future of the Consortium. Eon wanted to stage some fantastic götterdämmerung, some spectacular destructive culmination of his cult's work. He wasn't so secretive in his desires that Schucker didn't know that. The conflagration Eon envisioned would of course consume the Consortium and all those associated with it. Schucker was careful not to reveal that to other executives within the Consortium, for it wouldn't pay to make them nervous. He had enough to deal with.

  He had been planning his takeover of the Consortium almost since his first days with it. He had hoped to maneuver Eon and Iron Thunder out of the picture quietly and gradually. It might still be possible, though he would have to examine his timetable and see to the forcible removal of some of the more rogue elements among the cultists. And that would eventually include their leader. Schucker could see to that. And once it was done, he could continue providing weapons to the West's enemies at considerable financial gain to himself and the Consortium's stakeholders.

  He had no illusions. He knew full well that many would suffer because of what he would broker to the world's t
errorist states. He saw it as only just. Born of German Jews, Schucker lived with the knowledge that both his parents had died at the hands of a government the hypocritical West had refused to stop until it was too late. It mattered little to Schucker what had happened subsequently, or how the war had ended. He knew only that he had grown up an orphan because those in power had not cared to intervene until their own interests were endangered. This was a powerful lesson for him, perhaps the first he remembered internalizing. It, as much as anything, was his religion, his philosophy. Schucker intended to become wealthier each day. He would do so knowing that men, women and children suffered and died at the hands of those he empowered.

  And he didn't care.

  The world was a cruel place. Schucker lived with that knowledge. It was a dull ache in the back of his brain, always. He saw no reason, therefore, not to enrich himself by trading on that truth. What was truth, after all, but an asset, a commodity? He who was aware of it could use it to his own ends, and to hell with anyone who got in the way.

  Schucker frowned. There was much work to be done. It wasn't personal. It was never personal. It was always business.

  But a few people would have to die, anyway.

  7

  "Nice ride," Rieck commented when he observed Bolan's silver-gray BMW 7 series sedan. He stepped from the curb in front of his hotel, where, by phone, Bolan had requested they meet that morning. Both men had taken the opportunity to grab a few hours of sleep. Now it was time to follow the next thread in this doomsday patchwork.

  "It's a rental," Bolan said.

  "Mine is a rental." He climbed into the passenger seat.

  "Well, so is mine," Bolan said simply.

  "You have friends in high places."

  Bolan said nothing.

  They pulled away from the curb, the BMW accelerating smoothly. A throaty rumble hummed from deep within its power plant. Rieck took the opportunity to remove the Heckler & Koch MP-5 K from under his trench coat, checking it to verify that the magazine was full but there was no round in the chamber. Bolan raised an eyebrow.

  "There was a lot of paperwork to fill out," Rieck said sheepishly.

  "Feeling outgunned?" Bolan asked.

  "Not anymore." Rieck grinned. Bolan allowed himself a smile at that.

  They drove across town, Bolan making his way through the traffic with little difficulty. While Berlin wasn't one of his usual haunts, the Executioner had visited the city enough times to know its layout.

  "I confirmed the address you gave me this morning," Rieck said, returning the MP-5 K to the folds of his coat. He had it riding in a shoulder strap. It was a common enough method for toting the tiny submachine gun. The weapon, while small for its type, was still quite bulky for on-body concealment purposes.

  "You did it yourself?" Bolan asked.

  "Yes." Rieck nodded. "I made sure no one saw me access the computer. If we have a leak, I didn't want to take any chances. Whoever put those killers on my trail doesn't need to know what we're up to this morning. Uh, by the way, Cooper, what are we up to this morning?"

  "That magnetic key card I had you process through channels," Bolan said, "is from a secure storage area."

  "Yes, that much I confirmed," Rieck stated. "It's an industrial locker, the sort of place construction companies and chemical houses store items they don't want to leave lying around."

  "Which begs the question," Bolan said. "Why was a professional shooter, presumably trying to murder Becker on the heels of the terrorist assault on his home, carrying this card? That's what I intend to find out." He produced the card from a pocket of the combat blacksuit he wore under his drover coat. "It was couriered back to me early this morning. The storage locker is unit 226."

  "What do you expect to find?"

  "If I knew that, we wouldn't need to check it," Bolan said. "We need more intel. Following a priority list of likely targets isn't going to put us ahead of Iron Thunder. It'll leave us a step behind in every case. We need some insight, something that can give us an inside track."

  "Fair enough."

  They found the storage facility without incident. There were no guards. The lockers were grouped in neat rows, with alleyways in between. Bolan drove directly to unit 226. If the door spacing was any indication, this was a very large enclosure, though from the outside it was no different from any of the other units. Bolan guided the vehicle in a circle around the storage unit, checking the adjacent alleyways, making sure there were no nasty surprises. Then he parked, slinging his canvas war bag over his shoulder as he climbed out. His drover coat covered his other weapons. The bag, on its broad shoulder strap, contained a variety of little surprises courtesy of Stony Man Farm's armorer, John "Cowboy" Kissinger.

  Rieck stood guard as Bolan swiped the key card in the electronic lock. When the LEDs on the lock began to flash green, he raised the overhead door, one hand on the butt of his Beretta 93-R.

  "Well," Rieck said.

  "Yeah." Bolan nodded.

  The storage locker was empty. Bolan eyed the space warily. He took his CombatLight from its position clipped to his pocket and played the powerful beam around the empty unit.

  "Making sure?" Rieck asked.

  "Checking for booby traps," Bolan said. "Lasers, trip wires, that sort of thing." Rieck paled a bit at that.

  Bolan shrugged, put the light away and walked into the storage locker. He checked each wall by feel. Rieck glanced inside, looked up and paused.

  "Hey, Cooper," he said, pointing. "Up there."

  Bolan followed his gesture and found the small slip of paper, where it had become lodged in the metal accordion folds of the roll-up security door. He reached up and plucked it free. It was handwritten in German, in cramped script, but appeared to be a bulleted list. He handed the paper to Rieck.

  The Interpol agent scanned the list. "Cooper, if I'm not wrong, this is a manifest. This last item?" He pointed to one of the bullets. "That's a nerve agent."

  Bolan frowned, then he reached for his secure satellite phone. "Repeat that for me, so I get the pronunciation just right," he began. "If we can..."

  The sound of engines interrupted him. Sliding van doors were opening, and there were shouts of alarm.

  "Oh, shit," Rieck said.

  Bolan drew the Beretta. He peered out from behind the door opening, careful to expose only one eye.

  Three cargo vans had parked behind and next to the BMW, blocking it in. Men and women, all of them relatively young and dressed in street clothes, were climbing out, pointing and shouting in German.

  "The stuff, the stuff,'" Rieck translated. "'It is gone. They have taken it.'"

  Bolan raised an eyebrow. The nearest man suddenly shouted, "Eίsen-Donner! Eίsen-Donner!" Bolan knew that tone. It was a battle cry.

  "Iron Thunder," Rieck said unnecessarily.

  Bolan flicked the Beretta's fire selector switch to 3-round burst. Rieck pulled the MP-5 K to full extension on its shoulder sling, slapping the charging handle to chamber the first round.

  The Iron Thunder cultists cut loose.

  Bolan and Rieck ducked back to either side of the open doorway. The metal storage building wasn't up to the onslaught; rays of sunlight punched through behind a hail of bullets from the cultists' weapons. Both men hit the ground, and bullets tore the air above them as the Iron Thunder gunners opened up at waist level, hosing the storage locker without much thought to targeting. There was no subtlety in the attack, and no attempt to conceal their actions. There was only viciousness and brutality.

  This, Bolan could deal with.

  The soldier reached into his war bag with his left hand, producing a small fragmentation grenade. He popped the pin with his thumb, let the spoon spring free, and rolled the small bomb through the open doorway.

  "Brace yourself!" he told Rieck.

  The explosion reverberated through the storage unit, beating it like a steel drum. The closest of the vans was slapped aside a few feet, bouncing on its springs. The Iron Thunder shooters scat
tered. The initiative was now Bolan's. He gestured to Rieck, drew the Desert Eagle with his left hand and charged forward with both guns leading.

  The first of the cultists was caught flat-footed. Bolan's 9 mm burst punched him in the chest and left him upright against one of the cargo vans, a look of numb shock on his face. He folded. Bolan skirted the vehicle, both guns shooting flame. The suppressed coughs of the Beretta contrasted with the booming thunder of the Desert Eagle, but both weapons dealt deadly justice as the Executioner worked his way through the disorganized cult members.

  Rieck took the opposite side of the van Bolan had approached, his MP-5 K gripped firmly in his hands. Bolan caught him in his peripheral vision, again applying his textbook submachine-gun stance, pumping out perfectly timed bursts into the running Iron Thunder gunners. A few shots were starting to peg the asphalt near the Interpol agent's feet, but he ignored them. The enemy didn't yet have his range, and he seemed to know it.

  Bolan put thoughts of his ally out of his mind, confident that Rieck could take care of himself. A cultist broke cover in front of them, rolling out of an alleyway between two storage buildings. He managed to off a shot from the large revolver he wielded before Bolan put a .44 slug through his head. The body crumpled, dead long before it stopped falling.

  The cultists who remained — armed with a motley collection of handguns, sawed-off shotguns and a couple of cut-down rifles — broke and ran. Rieck shouted something that Bolan couldn't hear, but the meaning was clear enough: he was pursuing. The big American tracked his own targets and went after the group running opposite to Rieck's. A third knot of cultists were fleeing through the storage complex alleys in yet another direction, but there was no way to get them all. Bolan knew better than to waste time trying, focusing instead on attainable goals. As he ran, however, one of the stragglers in the third group moved into the open space between buildings, silhouetting himself. Bolan snapped off a right-angle shot from the Desert Eagle as he raced after the other cultists. He didn't break stride to watch the body fall, a .44 Magnum hole between the dead cultist's shoulder blades.