Silent Threat

by Don Pendleton

  The soldier was tracking a total of three Iron Thunder members — two young men and one woman. The trailing cultist, a man, triggered a shotgun blast at Bolan, losing his balance as he did so. The Executioner snapped a single shot from the Beretta into the faltering man's head, then vaulted the dead man and kept running, never slowing his pace.

  The woman began to yell in German to the man just ahead of her. Her words had an effect; both cultists suddenly dropped their guns and jogged to a standstill. They put their hands in the air and turned slowly to face their pursuer. Bolan slowed, checking left and right in the alleyway, scanning the metal rooflines of the storage units. If this was a trick or some other kind of trap, he couldn't see it.

  The woman began to speak in German, between great, racking inhalations as she tried to catch her breath. The man wasn't much better off. They were a nondescript pair, both blond, wearing college sweatshirts and stained, ripped blue jeans. The woman started to drop her hands, and Bolan extended the Desert Eagle toward her.

  "Don't," he said simply.

  "Bitte," the woman rasped, still breathing heavily.

  "English," Bolan said. "If you have something to say, do it fast."

  "Please..." she glanced at her counterpart and then back to the soldier "...we... we will not resist."

  "If you move, you die," Bolan said. Even as he warned them, he was unsure how much good it would do. The group's sole purpose seemed to be for its members to die, preferably after or as they took others with them.

  Bolan flipped the Desert Eagle's safety and holstered the big pistol in its Kydex waistband holster, bringing the Beretta 93-R up to cover the two runners. He was fully prepared to put a 3-round burst in each of them if need be. It had become only too clear just how dangerously vicious these Iron Thunder people could be.

  "Lie down," he said, gesturing with his chin to the pavement. "Hands behind your heads, fingers laced together. Slowly."

  The two cultists complied. Only then did Bolan move closer, kicking their weapons farther away. He stood behind them, his Beretta at the ready. There was no point in trying to search them by himself. The chances that one or both would try something were too great, and he didn't intend to lose any more prisoners.

  "Hey!" Rieck called from down the alleyway. Bolan silently gave him credit for not shouting the soldier's cover identity. While Rieck was probably aware it was likely not Bolan's real name, or that at the very least it was possibly a cover, he wasn't broadcasting it to whomever might be in earshot.

  "Here," Bolan called back.

  "Don't shoot," Rieck said. "I'm coming in."

  Moments later, he appeared, with one hand on the MP-5 K under his shoulder. He was a little flushed but otherwise looked unharmed.

  "You okay?" Bolan asked.

  "A little winded," Rieck admitted. "It's been too long since I used to run track." He extended the MP-5 K to cover the prisoners, when he realized they were alive. "I see you caught two."

  "You?" Bolan asked.

  "No." Rieck shook his head. "I shot two. One got away. We lost a few others in between."

  "Can't be helped," Bolan said.

  "Where have you taken it?" demanded the young man on the pavement, speaking up in accented English.

  "Taken who?" Rieck asked. Bolan looked at him, then back at the prisoner.

  "Not who," the young man spit. Bolan watched him closely; he was working himself up to make a move.

  "All right," Rieck said. "Taken what? We haven't taken anything."

  "It was ours," the woman said. "You had no right!"

  "What was yours?" Rieck asked. When there was no response, he repeated the query in German — or so Bolan assumed — and then asked a few follow-up questions. The two prisoners started answering, rapidly, the woman sobbing and the man barking his responses angrily. Twice Bolan caught the name "Dumar."

  "This is very strange," Rieck said, glancing at Bolan, the barrel of his MP-5 K still angled at the two Iron Thunder members. "They seem to think we've stolen the contents of the storage unit. They're intentionally vague about the goods, but it seems like nerve agent or something worse is just the start. It might have been explosives, or a mixture, but it was obviously big and probably quite deadly. They keep saying they need it for 'the moment,' whatever that is, and they're upset that Dumar Eon will be very angry with them for failing. I believe they were sent to take the contents of the storage unit in the vans to some other location."

  "What location?" Bolan asked. He waited as Rieck and the prisoners spoke back and forth rapidly. The woman was still in tears.

  "They don't know," Rieck announced finally. "The location was either known to the drivers, who've been killed or run off, or was to be phoned in to them. Neither of our friends here is aware of it."

  Bolan said nothing at first. Finally, he stepped forward and knelt, placing the barrel of the Beretta against the woman's head. He locked eyes with the male, his gaze hard.

  "Make sure he understands that I want to know, and if he doesn't tell me, I'm going to kill her." Bolan, of course, would do nothing of the kind, but his enemies had no way to know that.

  Rieck translated the man's reply. "He said go ahead," the Interpol agent said. "He says he does not know her well and would not care if he did. He says the 'final release' awaits them all, and he hopes we will kill him, too."

  The words were tough, but Bolan could read the fear in the young man's eyes.

  "He doesn't know," the soldier finally agreed. "I'll keep an eye on these two. You make the necessary calls. We'll get this cleaned up and move out."

  "I'm becoming very popular around here." Rieck sighed as he flipped open his wireless phone. Then he paused and looked at Bolan. "Cooper, if the weapons in that locker have been stolen, who's got them?"

  "When we figure that out," Bolan said, "we'll know whose door to kick in."

  8

  "Understood," Rieck said. He closed the phone and put it back in his jacket. The BMW hummed as Bolan guided it through the streets of Berlin. He looked over at Rieck expectantly. The German rattled off an address and gave him directions, explaining that the location was a small pub some distance away. "What's there?"

  "We have an agent in Iron Thunder," Rieck said proudly.

  "I wasn't told," Bolan said.

  "Neither was I," Rieck explained. "Deep cover. Need to know only. I guess someone finally decided that I needed to know, and now I am telling you." He shook his head. "I have no idea how long he has been with the group, but my superiors tell me he has information for us. It is too important to be trusted to electronic communications, the agent says, and so we have to meet him in person. The meet was his choice, as is the location."

  "Do you trust this?" Bolan asked.

  "Before I met you, I would have." Rieck laughed bitterly. "But no, I do not think it's a trap. At least, I hope not."

  Bolan looked at him and then returned his eyes to the road.

  It took them ten minutes to reach the location. Bolan parked the BMW and the two men got out.

  "Will you know him when you see him?" Bolan asked.

  "No," Rieck admitted. "But he knows me, apparently. He'll have to let us know when he sees me."

  Bolan frowned. He didn't like this. His Beretta and Desert Eagle were reloaded and ready; he didn't need to check them. He opened his three-quarter-length drover coat a bit more to allow for a smooth, uninterrupted draw.

  The pub was reasonably lighted, but not overly bright. It was neither too close nor too open. Of this, at least, Bolan could approve; the contact had chosen well. He scanned the place as he and Rieck entered, assessing exits and examining, as casually as he could, the patrons within the bar. One man, sitting at a table in the corner with his back to the wall, was eyeing them intently. Bolan caught an almost imperceptible nod as Rieck and the seated man made eye contact. The two arrivals made their way to the man's table and sat down without introduction.

  "Ziegler," the agent said by way of introduction.

>   "Rieck," he answered.

  "I know." Ziegler nodded. "You had no trouble getting here?"

  "None," Rieck said.

  "You have not been told of my information?"

  "No." Rieck stared at him. "Perhaps you should tell us what it is you want to tell us."

  Ziegler nodded again. He was a gaunt man with a prominent Adam's apple and thinning black hair. He had pinched, almost pained features and small, close-set eyes. He wore a windbreaker over rumpled street clothes. If he carried a weapon, it wasn't apparent. There was a small wireless phone on the table in front of him, an advanced-looking model the soldier had never seen before. Ziegler nervously poked at it as he sat, sliding it around the surface of the table and moving it in circles.

  Almost immediately Bolan didn't like the vibe he got from the Interpol contact. He'd been in the game long enough to know, however, that intelligence operatives quite often gave those around them the creeps. Staying in role camouflage for so long was bound to warp anyone's head and alter their mannerisms. There was no telling how long Ziegler had been in deep with Iron Thunder; no doubt he had to be half-mad to play along with Dumar Eon's vicious death cultists and not get caught.

  "You need to understand," Ziegler said in low tones, "that Iron Thunder has been working toward a crescendo, of sorts." He looked left, then right, as if afraid someone might overhear. He lowered his voice even further. "This peak in their activities is coming very soon. Dumar Eon, their leader, is holding a rally today."

  "In public?" Rieck asked.

  "No," Ziegler shook his head furiously. "No, never. It is a secret location. A warehouse. I have the address here." He produced a folded slip of paper and passed it under the table. Bolan took it, glanced at it below the edge of the tabletop, and passed it over to Rieck. The Interpol operative read the address and then put the paper in his pocket.

  "When?" Bolan asked.

  "This afternoon, early this afternoon," Ziegler said. "If you hurry you can get there before it starts."

  Bolan looked at his watch. They had burned through the morning with the shootout at the storage locker, not to mention its bureaucratic aftermath.

  "No real time to set up a raid," Rieck said. "Not a properly organized one, anyway."

  "No, no," Ziegler whispered. "You must not do that. If you raid them they will scatter, go underground. There will be no telling what they may do. But the rally... Iron Thunder's members must be led, must be directed. Dumar Eon will do this. I have been unable to learn their plans. These may be revealed at today's gathering."

  "I wouldn't want to tell you how to do your job," Rieck said quietly, "but why would you not simply attend the rally in order to learn this, if it is revealed?"

  "I cannot," Ziegler said. "I have other orders, standing orders. If I disobey, I risk exposure. But you, you could infiltrate. The rally will be very large. Iron Thunder chapters from all over the world will be represented. Such a large crowd, it will be easy to sneak in unnoticed. You could go and learn what they plan."

  "It can't be that easy," Rieck said. "Just knowing the address won't get us in."

  "No," Ziegler said. "It will not. You will need these. The black spot." He reached inside his windbreaker and removed two small index cards, each with a black circle inscribed on it. He passed these to Bolan and Rieck, again under the table, and the two men examined them. What at first looked like a solid black circle was in fact an elaborately and painstakingly drawn gothic design. The lines and whorls chased one after another in a seemingly endless series.

  "This is a pass?" Bolan asked.

  "Yes," Ziegler said. "Very difficult to forge. All of Iron Thunder's members have them. These were sent out through commercial courier to each chapter two weeks previously, with instructions on how to reach the rally. I have only just learned about it myself. Secrecy was very great. I was given one, which of course I cannot use. The other I stole from the jacket of another member, after one of the usual drinking bouts late last night." He waved his hand. "It is unimportant. But knowing you were assigned, and knowing he was here..." Ziegler indicated Bolan with a nod "...I took steps."

  Bolan looked at Rieck.

  "It would seem my activities within Interpol are public knowledge," the agent said grimly.

  "The assassination attempt." Ziegler nodded. "I learned of this too late or I would have sent a warning. It is not known who might have betrayed you. I am pleased they did not get to you. I heard of the destruction at the coffee shop."

  "To put it mildly," Rieck said.

  "What do you know of the professional fighters in the Consortium's employ?" Bolan interjected. "We've faced Iron Thunder's members more than once, but also well-equipped, well-trained shooters, obviously professionals. These aren't Iron Thunder's rank and file, and they're not on the same page as the cultists. What's going on? What can you tell us?"

  "I know no details," Ziegler said. "But there are rumors. The Consortium maintains a standing army, of sorts. Mercenaries, men who are paid to fight and to kill. They are not members of Iron Thunder. They are not under Dumar Eon's control, or so it is said, though they work for the company he has built. There is little interaction between the two. I do not think Iron Thunder's members trust them. They believe such men must be part of the Establishment, part of the old order of things. It is this order they believe they fight."

  "So the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing," Bolan said.

  Ziegler blinked at him.

  "You're certain these passes are all we'll need to infiltrate the rally?" Rieck asked.

  "Yes," he replied. "There will be so many members there, so many visitors from abroad. You will go unnoticed. Just two more invited representatives of Iron Thunder among the maddening crowd."

  Bolan and Rieck exchanged glances.

  "Well, I guess we're done here, then," Rieck said. He looked at Bolan again and the two men rose. Ziegler made no move to join them. Rieck nodded once, and they made their way from the pub. When the outside air hit them, Rieck breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Don't get ahead of yourself," Bolan said.

  "True." Rieck laughed. "I guess the real work is just starting."

  Bolan drove the BMW as Rieck gave directions. "How much time have you spent undercover?" he asked the Interpol agent.

  "Not much," Rieck admitted. "A few stings. Drug and weapons interdiction, that sort of thing. Nothing long-term."

  "Move like you belong there. Fix your eyes on a point in front of you, beyond those nearest to you, and walk purposefully toward it as you move. Show no fear and no hesitation." Rieck nodded.

  They stopped at a shopping center and found an appropriate clothing store. When they had stowed their coats and Rieck's shoes in the trunk, they donned the items they'd purchased. Bolan's combat boots fit the role, and the large hooded sweatshirt he had found would cover his weapons adequately. Rieck had bought a pair of sneakers to replace his loafers, and had covered his button-down shirt with a gray sweatshirt. The sweatshirt bore a silk-screened quote that Bolan assumed was either funny or ironic. Rieck hadn't offered to translate it. Both men also bought hats and sunglasses. Rieck had a baseball cap and a pair of cheap shades, while Bolan's mirrored aviator lenses helped obscure his face. He wore a dark blue woolen watch cap.

  It took some time to reach their destination, but the trip passed without incident. Bolan surveyed the area as he drove. He took a few passes around the block surrounding the address Ziegler had given them, satisfying himself as to the layout.

  "There's one way in," he said, careful not to point in case someone was watching them. "That access road leads to the gate. No other exits, nothing on the opposite side. Once we're in, we're in until we leave their way. Keep that in mind."

  "Understood," Rieck said.

  The warehouse was deep in one of the city's industrial areas. There was a perimeter fence topped with straight rows of barbed wire strung between angled posts. The gate was open, but a pair of shaved-headed men in black flight j
ackets and combat boots loitered there, checking each car as it passed through. Bolan guided the BMW into the short queue of vehicles and waited patiently, all the while placing himself in the right frame of mind for the role he was about to play. Bolan was a master at role camouflage.

  When it was their turn, he and Rieck both leaned toward the open driver's window. The larger of the two skinheads bent over, looking the BMW up and down before favoring Bolan with a gap-toothed smile. He said something in German.

  Rieck replied for Bolan, saying something quickly and then following it with a lengthy monologue. The skinhead listened intently. Finally, his brow furrowed, and then he laughed. His friend joined in. Rieck reached into his coat and produced the paper pass Ziegler had provided. Bolan took the cue and did the same. The skinhead glanced at their cards, then waved them on.

  "Drive in," Rieck whispered.

  Bolan put his foot on the gas and let the BMW glide through the gate. "What was that all about?" he asked when they were clear.

  "They wanted to know where we stole the car," the agent said. "I told them that it was, in fact, stolen, and told them an elaborate story about the lovely young lady we took it from.

  "Are these... costumes going to be enough?" Rieck asked.

  "If the crowd is big enough, they should be," Bolan said. "There may be some Iron Thunder members who know to look for you, or for both of us, but the ones who've seen us up close never came back. Those runners at the storage complex couldn't have studied us in too much detail. More importantly, they'll be focused on the rally."

  The warehouse was surrounded by cars, parked two and three deep in concentric rings. Bolan picked a spot as close to the gate as possible and took the time to back in the BMW. This drew some honking horns from other drivers lining up around the building, but Bolan ignored them. His and Rieck's survival might well depend on being able to bull their way out of this mess of an impromptu parking lot.