Ice Cold Kill
Page 4
Power Strike slugs drilled the Panamera's windshield.
The driver red-blurred and slumped sideways.
The unguided sports sedan slewed and skidded. It rolled to a halt with its engine turning.
I reached the car and wrenched its door. I hauled out the dead driver and draped him on the ground.
I lunged inside the car and got behind its wheel.
The seat was covered in warm blood. It soaked through my garb onto by skin.
I ignored the sensation and stomped the sedan's accelerator. I powered out and hit my hi-beams.
The Panamera's LEDs flared and blazed.
I let momentum slam the open door. I dropped the door window.
I drew my Glock and braced it across the wing mirror. The pistol was fully loaded and primed for action.
I cranked my wheel and veered toward the open main gate. I was chasing Vincent Fong.
It was probably too late. But I would not stop now.
A Triad thug appeared on the driveway. He was dead-ahead with his AK raised.
I hit the Glock's trigger and loosed a Black Talon shelling.
The man screamed and spun like a demented ballroom dancer. He flipped into shadow and did not reappear.
Two more thugs emerged.
One man swung his shotgun in my direction. He was a fraction too late.
A Black Talon salvo struck his chest. The impacts hurled him through a sloppy somersault.
His shotgun crashed onto the gravel. That jarred its trigger and a single cartridge fired.
Buckshot sprayed the man's comrade and he vaulted backward.
I powered on. The gate was fifty yards ahead.
More armed figures blocked my way. I snarled and loosed the Glock in rapid-fire.
Black Talons streaked in at 1,400 feet per-second. They drove the men out of sight.
I gathered speed and focused on the road beyond. Muzzle flashes winked behind me.
Slugs gouged and clawed the Panamera's rump.
One bullet crashed through the car's rear windshield. It drilled the front passenger seat's headrest.
I cursed and hit my accelerator. I blew through the wide-open gate.
Now I was running free and in pursuit of Vincent Fong. I was determined to catch him.
I meant to put the bastard out of business. Forever.
I powered across the blacktop.
I was confronted with a simple choice. Turn left or right?
I turned right and headed north toward an executive airstrip.
According to intel it was owned by Colonel Toom. It was located on the adjacent Starke Island Peninsula.
I reckoned Fong would make a run for the airstrip. Yeah.
He would call ahead. He would ensure a private plane was ready and waiting.
I had to snare him before that happened. I kicked the Panamera's accelerator.
I roared along the winding coastal road. That took me toward the airstrip.
It lay within fifteen minutes of Toom's estate.
I cleared a sloping S-curve. I spotted glowing taillights that looked like evil red eyes.
I recognized Fong's MKZ. All right.
I had a chance to intercept. I tightened my grip on the Panamera's wheel.
Fong punched his accelerator.
That increased his lead by twenty yards.
He cranked his wheel. He was weaving back and forth across the center stripe.
He was trying to stop me from pulling alongside.
A passenger dropped his window. He leaned out of the MKZ with an AK.
He leveled the weapon and fired a hasty burst.
Two slugs drilled my windshield. They hit the Panamera's rear seat and punched fist-sized holes.
Pebbled safety glass blew back against my face and chest.
Something cracked against my helmet. But no bullets struck me.
I lifted the Avenger and braced it across my dashboard. I pointed its muzzle through the Panamera's broken windshield.
I hit my accelerator and surged closer to the MKZ.
Now!
I drew the Avenger's trigger.
Power Strike hardpoints drilled the sedan's glass and metalwork. Fong swerved and lost control.
The sedan skidded on shrieking rubber. It nosed onto a dirt shoulder.
It fishtailed and slowed to a crawl.
I slammed my brake and screeched to a halt. Then I shoved the Panamera's door open and went EVA.
I grasped the Scorpion launcher's pistol grip and took aim.
Fong crushed his accelerator and veered back onto the open road.
He was gunning for escape. Too late.
I slapped the Scorpion's trigger.
An HE can struck the MKZ's right rear fender. It exploded in a fiery thunderclap.
The sedan's rear tires blew in eruptions of black rubber debris. It shuddered and lurched to a halt.
Its driver door snapped open. Fong leaped out and blasted an AK.
His aim was off. Way off.
His slugs hurtled overhead with no chance of hitting.
I rocked forward and pulled the Avenger's trigger.
Bullet strikes whirled Fong like a drunken dervish. He reeled backward and thumped against the MKZ.
A second barrage drilled his screaming face.
His mug dissolved into something inhuman.
Something horrific.
His trigger finger twitched and the AK exploded. Bullets sprayed his feet and ripped them into scarlet pulp.
His ravaged corpse slithered down the sedan's metalwork.
It settled into an awkward sitting position.
I kept the Avenger level and ready. I reconned the MKZ and found a passenger.
He was lying across the rear seat and covered in blood. His eyes were glassy and his face was a pallid mask of pain.
I recognized him at once.
He was Pedro Jesús Alonzo. According to intel he was an Azteca Mob Boss.
The Aztecas were vicious thugs. They were Mexico's most potent drug cartel.
Doubtless Alonzo was doing business with Fong and Toom. Some filthy deal to spread opioids on U.S. soil.
Alonzo groaned and sucked a ragged breath.
He had taken several Power Strike hits. They had drilled his gut and both legs.
He gasped and tried to raise a handgun. But it was futile.
I triggered a Power Strike hardpoint at 3,000 feet per-second.
The bullet cored Alonzo's forehead. His carcass twitched and went stiff.
I reached inside the sedan to retrieve the thug's handgun.
It was a Smith & Wesson revolver. An M-500 with a 6.5-inch barrel.
It was meant to stop pissed-off Grizzly bears.
I searched the car and salvaged a nylon wallet. It held twenty-five spare cartridges.
They were Magnum Research SSTs. They were super-heavy and hit like a giant's raging fists.
I pocketed the cartridge wallet. I wedged the M-500 inside my ALICE belt.
Now the hand-cannon was mine. I was glad to have it.
Doubtless I would need the extra firepower.
I circled the wrecked MKZ and made a final check for hostiles. I found none.
I drew a sharp breath. And another.
I had wasted Fong and Kam and Alonzo. But I had failed to slay Colonel Toom.
I focused on my options. I had another chance to pinpoint the Triad chieftain.
There was another lead I needed to pursue. In fact there was no damn choice.
I had to keep hunting.
If Toom survived he would reorganize his outfit. He would resupply his street dealers.
He would spread grief and death from coast-to-coast. The answer was emergency action.
Search and destroy. Right.
Emphasis on destroy.
I checked my wristwatch. Time was fast running out.
I leaped aboard the Panamera and hauled its shifter into DRIVE. I pulled a U-turn and powered toward my waiting Jeep.
3
Twenty minutes later
I cranked the Panamera hard left onto Rio Vista Parkway. I scanned my mirror for enemy gunships.
There were none. So far.
I gained my turnoff and reached my Jeep.
I found the SUV undisturbed. There was no sign of tampering.
I pulled my Tanto knife and slashed the Panamera's front tires. Each Firestone deflated and flattened with a wallowing hiss.
Now the Panamera was out of action. It could not be used to chase me.
I boarded the Jeep and fired its HEMI. I powered out and backtracked toward Rio Vista.
I was returning to the mission safehouse.
In my mirror there was a rising pall of smoke and gray vapor. It was boiling from Colonel Toom's ravaged estate.
It was seeping from his wrecked drug lab.
I almost grinned. Almost.
I could not relax or claim final victory. Not while Toom still lived.
I needed to find the bastard and put a bullet in his brain. That was the mission objective.
I pressed my accelerator and put the battleground behind. I cruised over the Parkway toward Black Bay Point.
Again I passed San Quentin. I veered along I-560 toward my destination.
Thirty minutes later I reached the safehouse. I parked on the driveway and shifted inside.
All was calm and I found no sign of intrusion.
I strode toward the bathroom. I stripped and showered.
Next I grabbed fresh clothing.
I donned cargo pants and a turtleneck. Also an A-1 bomber jacket.
Under that I wore a lightweight Kevlar vest.
It was designed to stop pistol and shotgun fire. Also knife attacks.
It was extra battlefield protection.
It did not make me invincible. Granted.
Still it beat nothing at all.
I doubled-checked my gear and drew a deep breath. Time was short and I needed to roll.
Minutes later I was behind the Jeep's wheel. I was speeding to my GPS waypoint.
I had a source for Colonel Toom's whereabouts.
There was no guarantee of success. But I meant to try.
I surged along Geronimo Highway and took Exit 17. I nosed east on Wabash Road for six miles.
My GPS squawked and told me I had reached my destination. I pulled into a stand of hemlock trees and parked.
I let my panther eyes adjust and pierce the gloom.
My captured M-500 wheelgun filled my fist. Its SST bullets hit with 3,000 foot-pounds of impact energy.
I was packing the cartridge wallet I had lifted. That gave me twenty-five reload shells.
I also carried an M-67 frag grenade.
I had to prep for lethal action. For sudden disaster.
I kept the M-500 ready. I probed and found no imminent danger.
All right. I quit the Jeep and trod through moonlit woods.
I cleared the trees and reached my goal.
A sign read GRIMDARK CEMETERY. Another sign read SILENCE AND RESPECT.
I stepped ahead. I was surrounded by mossy tombstones and hulking crypts.
I counted a dozen gargoyles.
They were ten feet tall and cut from black granite. They were meant to deter evil spirits.
That was according to local legend.
I drew another deep breath. I had to reach my waiting contact.
Earlier we had exchanged coded texts to set up an emergency meet.
The man had specified this location. It was utterly secluded and doubtless that made him feel safer.
A face-to-face was mandatory.
Sure.
I had to pay the man in cash for his tipoff. MasterCard and Bitcoin were not accepted.
I pressed on.
A full moon gleamed and cast dappled shadows.
Moonlit fog rolled inland from nearby Lazarus Cove. It swirled among the crypts and tombstones.
I was not unnerved. I had no fear of the dead.
It was the living who made me wary. It was the living who caused the real horror and havoc.
I veered toward a gargoyle and spotted a dark figure. He was smoking a cigarette and its tip glowed red in the gloom.
I recognized his bony face and Fu Manchu mustache. His name was Hannibal Chang and he was a paid snitch.
We locked eyes at twenty yards out. I sped my pace and closed in to meet him.
"You've got the information?" I asked without delay.
Chang did not reply. Instead he ditched his cigarette and spat on the ground.
There was an odd gleam in his eye and his mouth went taught.
An icy tremor ran down my spine and warned of imminent danger.
Chang snarled and pulled a bright steel blade. It was a Chinese dagger and it was called a Zi-ha.
Chang lunged at me with the Zi-ha. Its razor edge glinted in the moonlight.
I recoiled and dodged sideways. Too slow.
The knife's tip cut a long gash across my chest. It dug into my belly.
I dodged again and hit Chang with a karate chop.
He stumbled and spun in my direction. His face was taught and his teeth were bared.
He raised the dagger and lunged again.
I drew the M-500 and swung it toward Chang. I pulled its trigger at near skin-touch range.
The revolver bucked like a mule in my gloved fist. It spat piercing muzzle flame and gave a hellish roar.
So much for silence and respect.
Explosive impact wrenched Chang off his feet. He shrieked and tumbled with arms akimbo.
Blood spattered the nearby gargoyle.
Rivulets glistened in the moonlight.
Chang crashed onto the ground. His heels drummed and his corpse went stiff.
I needed cover. I sprang behind the bloody gargoyle and hit a crouch.
Obviously Chang had betrayed me. Which meant he had made a dirty deal with the Triads.
I scowled.
Damn. Another hard fail.
I checked my torso.
My Kevlar vest had blocked Chang's Zi-ha. It had stopped the knife's tip from penetrating my flesh.
Another cold tremor ran down my spine. It warned of brand-new danger.
There was a flash of icy white light. A glare of LEDs.
Auto engines roared.
I risked a glance around my cover and spotted two SUVs.
They were polished black Lambos.
They were surging along the cemetery's gravel access road. They were punching through the fog.
It had to be a Triad strike team. Yeah.
They were piling in to finish the job.
A tight knot formed in my chest. I had overplayed my hand.
I had left myself vulnerable to interception.
My chest grew tighter.
I had no means of swift escape. My Jeep was beyond quick reach.
Meantime the Triad Lambos had slowed to a crawl. They were prowling and hunting.
Their LEDs lit rows of headstones and cast long shadows.
I sank behind my cover. I gripped the M-500 and waited for a target.
The pistol's mighty ammo granted extra penetration.
I would need that extra punch to defeat the hostile SUVs. Damn right.
A Lambo angled into full view.
Its driver had not seen me. Not yet.
He was peering in the wrong direction.
That was a serious blunder. It was a fatal mistake.
I leveled the M-500 and centered the Lambo in my sights.
The SUV rolled closer.
Now!
I crush-gripped the revolver and drew its trigger. An SST bullet bored in at 2,000 feet per-second.
A fist-size hole opened in the Lambo's windshield. The driver lurched and screamed and slumped over his wheel.
I surveyed the devastation.
The ammo was working as designed. Props to Magnum Research.
I kept the M-500 up and sque
ezed off two more SSTs.
The Lambo's grille ruptured and sprayed green coolant. Its hood snapped open on roiling smoke and spurting flame.
The SUV slewed into a grinning gargoyle and shuddered on impact. Both LEDs blew and went dark.
The Lambo's rear passenger-side door flung open.
A thug leaped free and swung a Tokarev pistol in my direction. Too late.
An SST hurled him through a sloppy cartwheel. He sprawled on the dirt and went stiff.
Another gunman vaulted from the ruined Lambo.
I glimpsed his face and recognized Eddie Zû from his mugshot.
He was a Triad loan shark and a hitman for Colonel Toom. He was a merciless cutthroat.
Zû snarled and blasted a compact shotgun. But his aim was off.
Heavy pellets hurtled wide with no chance of hitting. They pummeled a gargoyle's grinning mug.
I rocked forward and drew the M-500's trigger.
An SST whirled Zû like a drunken dervish. He screamed and thumped against the Lambo.
The scattergun exploded in his twitching fingers.
Buckshot mangled his kneecaps. He tipped sideways and did not move again.
A final thug emerged from the SUV on wobbly legs.
He saw me and raised his Tokarev. But again it was too late.
The M-500 spoke and it was a single awesome word.
An SST roared in and hit hard. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings slashed.
I reloaded my silver cannon. I was ready to engage and I clamped the big gun in both hands.
I stayed crouched and kept probing.
There was brand-new motion.
The second Lambo's LEDs flashed and flared. They pierced the swirling fog.
I aimed the M-500 once more and triggered three blazing shots.
Ragged impact holes marched across the SUV's windshield. It slewed left and struck a granite crypt.
The driver's door flew open and the bloody wheelman flopped out.
Other doors burst open and five gunners leaped free. They scattered and fired on the run.
Bullets and buckshot hammered my cover.
I had to reposition. Fast.
If I stayed put my enemies would outflank me and cut me off.
The hostile gunfire faltered.
Had the troops lost me in the dark and fog? It was unclear.
In any case I had to move. I hit a diving roll and that took me behind a nearby tombstone.
Its inscription read HE DID IT THE HARD WAY.
Yeah. That sounded right.
Something glinted on the ground. It was Chang's Zi-ha dagger.