Silent Threat

by Don Pendleton

  "You're getting pretty handy with that," Bolan said.

  "I was always pretty good with the weapon," Rieck admitted. "I even participated in some practical shooting competitions with it. It's not the same. Even the targets that move. It's not the same at all."

  "No," Bolan agreed. "It never is."

  The chime of the elevator doors opening seemed loud to Bolan, but no one challenged their arrival. Bolan and Rieck crouched and made their way along the upper level, using the railing as cover. When they had gotten as close as they dared, the soldier peered into the atrium area. He could see the angles of the escalators converging as level topped level. The mall itself was impressive. Unfortunately, this relatively happy scene had turned into a horror, and Dumar Eon was the star of the show.

  Bolan removed a small pair of binoculars from his war bag. With these, he carefully examine the tableau below.

  The man behind Iron Thunder was standing on a stage, which, judging from the signs around it, had been erected for some sort of televised singing competition in the mall. He had appropriated the sound system for his own use and was speaking in rambling German. Feedback squealed. He had the volume all the way up and didn't seem to care. He paced the stage, gesticulating wildly, his long hair flying around his head like a lion's mane. He wore sunglasses and gloves, which looked out of place with his dark, tailored suit.

  Strapped to his chest was what looked to be a bomb.

  Specifically, it looked like the very same bomb the Iron Thunder cultists had affixed to Hans Becker, right down to the canvas rigging that held it in place.

  A dozen other cultists circulated around the stage. They, too, wore bombs strapped to their chest. All were armed. A few had shotguns, a few had assault rifles and many had submachine guns. Most of them were skinheads, and all were young males. Dumar Eon had apparently brought out the last of his shock troops for this mission. From their appearance, at least, they were hardened street toughs. Looks could be deceptive, but Eon wasn't playing around. He would have chosen his people for their ability to pull off the mission, and as Bolan and Rieck had seen, in most cases these were people who had no fear of death.

  The hostages were at the foot of the stage. Bolan counted half a dozen of them. Each had a cylinder of some kind duct-taped to his or her chest. Duct tape had been used to bind the wrists and ankles of the prisoners, and to gag them as well. Some of them struggled weakly, but most knelt stock-still, as if any movement might make the canisters go off. There was no doubt in Bolan's mind that these were nerve gas units. If not nerve gas, it would be some other deadly chemical agent, something that would make a terrible and undeniable statement if it were released in the shopping center. There was no way to know how deadly the chemicals could be, or whether anyone outside the mall might be endangered. The only option was to make sure those canisters never disgorged their lethal contents.

  Each of the canisters, Bolan could see through his binoculars, had a radio transmitter connected to it. He tracked the cult leader again. Dumar Eon carried what looked like the remote control to a DVD player in his left hand.

  Eon began speaking in English, and he held a wireless phone to his ear. The soldier paused. The cult leader was talking to some media outlet, most likely, and every word out of his mouth reeked of falsehood.

  "I guarantee the safety of your camera crew," he said. "Of course I do. There will be no need for violence, if only I can reach the right ears. For what is decisive action like mine geared to produce, if not results in the face of the powerful? How am I, who am essentially powerless, to reach the media unless I do something bold? No, of course I will not harm any of your people. They will be guaranteed safe passage both into and out of the building. I will see to it. It may be necessary for me to threaten the lives of my hostages, but that is only to secure the cooperation of the authorities. No, no, of course I would not kill a hostage on television. Unless you think it would be good for your ratings? Hmm? You do not wish to say? Do not worry. Just come."

  Bolan handed the binoculars to Rieck so the Interpol agent could assess the scene below for himself.

  "Well," Rieck said finally, "that looks complicated."

  "We have to do two things at once," Bolan said. "We have to stop them from detonating the bombs strapped to their chests, and we have to stop Dumar from using that remote."

  "How do we do that?" Rieck asked. "I don't think we have time for you to disarm each one."

  "Yeah, well," Bolan said, "it's easier when you're not trying to save the man attached."

  Rieck considered that. "Then what you need is a distraction."

  "Exactly right."

  "Okay," Rieck said, "but if they beat me up again, I hold you responsible." He nodded and was gone.

  Bolan turned back to the scene below and waited. Counting off the seconds, he figured the Interpol agent had had just enough time to work his way around again when Rieck appeared on the lower level. The cultists didn't notice him at first. When he spoke, his voice carried perfectly to where Bolan watched.

  "Dumar Eon!" Rieck shouted, his voice surprisingly strong. "I have come because I believe in you!"

  The cultists spun and brought their guns to bear. One of them might well have triggered a barrage had Eon himself not run forward, placing himself between Rieck and his people's weapons. The larger man stopped and looked down at Rieck, who held his hands out and away from his body.

  "You come to me wearing a gun," Eon said.

  "Yes," Rieck said, "but then, all of your people are armed. What does that matter?"

  "Indeed," Eon admitted. "Tell me, little Interpol man, what do you want?"

  "I've come because I believe in you," Rieck said again. Bolan was surprised; as he watched through the binoculars, he was tempted to believe the performance. Rieck had the look of devotion, the wide-eyed fascination, down perfectly. Bolan supposed the two of them had seen it more than often enough in the past couple of days.

  "You believe in me?" Eon asked. "I find that difficult to accept."

  "Why?" Rieck said. "You turned Ziegler. You've turned others. Is it so hard to comprehend that I would come to believe you, too? To accept your message? To desire the peace you offer?"

  "If it is the peace of Iron Thunder you desire," Eon said, drawing a heavy revolver from inside his jacket, "let me give it to you."

  "You don't wish to have a witness?" Rieck asked.

  "What?" Eon said, confused.

  "A witness," Rieck repeated. "There is no one here but your people and these hostages. You have no one to spread your message."

  "That is unimportant," Eon said slickly. "The entire city, and soon the entire world, will know why we are doing what we are doing. I have seen to it. The message of Iron Thunder will be spread far and wide. And when I release the nerve gas into Berlin, the toxic cloud will kill thousands. Then I will destroy this place, and my people will know the final bliss. And forever after, our actions will stand as testimony to what we believe."

  "Are you so sure?" Rieck asked. "Many great men have trusted history to write their epitaphs, and have been sorely disappointed with the outcome. Do you dare risk that?"

  "So I am to believe you, suddenly, wish both peace and to ensure my legacy?" The revolver, which had drifted off target, snapped up again, pointed at Rieck's face. "Tell me, Interpol, where is your big American friend?"

  "I killed him," Rieck lied.

  "What?"

  "I killed him, of course," Rieck said. "He was suffering. I wanted to bring him oblivion, as you preach. I did so. It felt wonderful. I want to know more before I join him and all the others. And I want to do justice to you."

  "I don't believe you," Eon said.

  "Well," Rieck said, "that's probably because I'm completely full of shit."

  Eon cocked his head in confusion. In that split second of hesitation, Rieck sprang. He threw himself at the cult leader, grabbing the cylinder of the revolver with a death grip that kept it from turning, and stopped the gun from firing. At
the same time, he snatched the remote control from the startled cult leader's hand.

  They went down, wrestling for control of the weapon, while Eon clutched at the remote. The other cultists gathered around, unsure of what to do. They couldn't fire, for fear of hitting Eon. They were smart enough not to jump in or interfere otherwise, for the gun could go off in any direction. Paralyzed with indecision, they simply watched, fingers on triggers, waiting for an opening.

  Above them, Mack Bolan drew the Desert Eagle.

  The .44 Magnum pistol wasn't a sniper weapon, of course, but at this distance an expert and experienced marksman could hardly miss. The Executioner lined up the hand cannon's sights on the first of the cultists. He fired.

  The .44 Magnum slug screamed through the air. It struck the cultist in the back, punching completely through his body and destroying the bomb mechanism as it exited through the front. The perfectly aligned shot wasn't really an attempt to shoot the cultist at all, but to destroy the bomb he carried. The fact that the man was in the way of the bullet was only incidental.

  The body hit the heavily waxed floor.

  The cultists turned and opened fire.

  They unleashed hell from their weapons. Bullets tore through the atrium. Glass shattered, metal sparked and lights were destroyed. Bolan calmly lined up the next shot with his pistol.

  "Eίsen-Donner!" they began to shout. "Eίsen-Donner! EisenDonner!"

  Bolan fired again, and a second cultist fell dead, the bomb on his chest a smoking ruin.

  The cultists began pointing and shouting at one another in German. They started running for the escalators, intent on flanking Bolan or at least just reaching him. The soldier rolled, dodging a string of shots that ricocheted from the railing inches from his face. Then he was up and running for the nearest escalator.

  He met the first of the oncoming cultists at the middle level, as the skinhead climbed the escalator two steps at a time to meet him. The man fired again and again, but his shots went wide. Bolan calmly closed the distance, targeted the cultist and put a .44 Magnum slug through his chest and the attached explosive unit. He kicked the body over the side of the escalator.

  The other cultists rushed him, foolishly getting in one another's way as they funneled themselves into the killing chute of the rising escalator. Bolan leveled the heavy gas-operated pistol.

  He triggered another round, and yet another member of Iron Thunder met his final reward with a broken explosive device strapped to his chest.

  The gunfire began to converge on Bolan's location, but he couldn't let up. Tracking and firing, tracking again and firing again, he methodically worked his way through the cultists' ranks, aiming for the centers of the bombs and killing the men wearing them. The entire time, Dumar Eon struggled with Rieck on the floor below.

  Bolan emptied the Desert Eagle. He reloaded on the move and continued firing. The noise was deafening as the shots echoed through the shopping center.

  Suddenly, he realized the answering gunfire had stopped. The Iron Thunder members lay scattered and crumpled before him, their bombs deactivated, each of Bolan's shots having been as precise and deadly as the previous one.

  He vaulted the escalator and used that to jump to the next, making his way to the ground level as fast as he could.

  As Bolan raced to Rieck's rescue, Dumar Eon finally got the upper hand.

  His body strength was greater, and once he managed to regain his balance, he found the leverage he needed, pinning Rieck beneath him. To do so he had to let go of the revolver. Rieck still had the gun by the cylinder, which did him no good; he would have to release it in order to change his grip. Rather than risk Eon getting it, he tossed it aside. Eon, however, was already grabbing for the MP-5 K strapped under Rieck's arm.

  Rieck managed to fire a punch to Eon's jaw, but the cult leader barely noticed. He gave up on the subgun and simply wrapped both hands around Rieck's throat, ready to crush the smaller man's neck and end his life. Rieck, choking, threw the remote as far from them both as he could. Eon screamed in rage and tightened his grip.

  Bolan walked up behind the cult leader and smashed the butt of the heavy Desert Eagle into his skull. Eon jerked and rolled off Rieck, dazed. Bolan planted a boot in his chest and stomped hard, knocking the breath from him.

  "You okay?" he asked Rieck.

  "Yes." The agent coughed, massaging his throat. "I will be. Did you get them all?"

  Eon started to sob.

  Bolan, careful to keep the man covered, holstered the Desert Eagle and drew the Beretta 93-R, which still had a full 20-round magazine. The fallen cult leader was holding his head and shaking.

  No, Bolan realized. He's not sobbing. He's laughing.

  "You fools!" Eon said, sitting up, on the verge of hysterics. "I've won, don't you see? I've won!" He looked across the atrium and spotted the remote control where Rieck had tossed it. "Eisen-donner!" he shouted.

  The remote beeped.

  Something on Eon's chest harness beeped.

  The wireless detonators on the nerve gas canisters beeped.

  The hostages screamed.

  "Cooper!" Rieck shouted. "Voice recognition!"

  Time compressed. For Mack Bolan, the entire universe slowed to a stop. His combat veteran's brain processed the variables involved and ticked down the numbers accordingly. There was only one thing he could do.

  The Executioner fired a 3-round burst from the Beretta into the center of Eon's chest. Flicking the fire selector switch to single shot as he brought the gun around, Bolan, one of the most skilled snipers who had ever lived, put his reflexes and his abilities to the ultimate test. As if he could see the relays within the detonators closing, as if he could hear the imperceptible timing devices that were even now beginning their brief countdowns to release of the deadly chemicals, Mack Bolan lined up the first detonator in the Beretta's sights. He fired.

  And he fired.

  He kept firing, snapping off single shots. The Parabellum rounds shattered each and every detonating device.

  For Bolan, time started again. He drew in a breath.

  The canisters sat there, inert. The stunned hostages looked at Bolan, their eyes fearful.

  "Remind me," Rieck said, exhaling, "never, ever to make you angry, Cooper."

  Bolan looked at him sharply. "Where's Eon?" he asked.

  Rieck followed his gaze. Dumar Eon was nowhere to be seen.

  The cult leader was gone.

  18

  Bolan ran after the cult leader. Rieck had remained with the hostages, to free them and to call in the authorities. Right now, he would be making sure the police knew that the hostage crisis had ended and that the ringleader was making a break for freedom. They would tighten their cordon and make sure Eon couldn't escape.

  Bolan didn't intend to let the man get that far. There was a score to settle, and Dumar Eon had a lot of innocent blood on his hands. The Executioner was going to collect on that debt.

  He caught sight of Eon ahead at the end of the wide, brightly colored hallway and quickened his pace. As he neared the spot where he'd last seen the other man, Bolan was rocked by a man-size projectile: Eon himself, who had doubled back, climbed a cell phone kiosk and thrown himself down from above. The two men rolled across the floor. Eon's sunglasses were crushed beneath them as they tumbled.

  Eon ripped the canvas war bag from Bolan's shoulder and threw it away. He wasted no time wrapping his gloved hands around his adversary's neck. It was a strangely familiar sensation, but this man wasn't Bashir's bodyguard. That man had been heavy, tough and brutal, but he didn't have the animal cruelty that flashed in Eon's dangerous eyes behind the snarled locks of his long hair. Bolan looked into Eon's eyes and saw the depth of the other man's evil. "You will die," Eon gritted. He was pale and sweating. The rounds from the Beretta had smashed the bomb on his chest and evidently failed to penetrate much farther, but they had probably done him a considerable amount of injury nonetheless. He appeared to be in some kind of shock. Of course
, it was possible he was just in pain, and insane as well.

  The man's physical strength was unbelievable. The tendons in his arms stood out as he gripped Bolan's neck with viselike power. The soldier's vision began to go dark around the edges and he saw flashes of light.

  He brought up the Beretta. Eon roared and trapped the suppressor-equipped barrel with his neck, pinning the weapon between his chin and his clavicle. Bolan pulled the trigger, burning Eon's neck with the hot barrel, the rounds pounding into a light fixture in the ceiling. Eon screamed from the pain but kept the weapon trapped. As Bolan struggled to shift out from under the cult leader, Eon wrapped his legs around the Executioner's body, pinning him expertly.

  "You cannot win, American," Eon gloated, his voice thick through the pain. "I have spent hours building my body. I have used the finest chemicals to augment my physique. I have studied the fine points of grappling from experts in the art. Jujitsu, wrestling, mixed martial arts... I am a weapon. I will be the instrument of your death."

  The Desert Eagle in its inside-the-waistband holster was trapped beneath Bolan's body. The only movement left to him was in his left arm, pinned to the elbow by Eon's hold. He had only moments before he lost consciousness, but it would be just enough. Drawing the Sting dagger from his waistband, Bolan drove the knife up into Eon's right forearm.

  The cult leader shrieked. Bolan drew the blade of the knife up and around the other man's arm as Eon's grip slackened. A blood-chilling scream escaped his lips. The cult leader rolled away from Bolan, still screaming, holding his maimed arm and swearing in German. Bolan looked down. The knife had been torn from his grasp. Eon wrenched it from his arm and threw it down.

  "You fool," he managed to gasp. He clenched his own forearm in a death grip. Blood streamed through his fingers and he was turning pale from its rapid loss. "Did you think I would not have a backup plan? Where did you think I was running to?"