Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  Dimitri shook his head. “Then we have learned nothing from all the years spent waving nuclear weapons at each other.”

  “The cold war was a different time,” Seminov said. “Now we are into blackmail by zealots. Crazy men who have nothing but utter hatred in their hearts.”

  “Criminals I can handle,” Dimitri said. “But this madness could kill us all.”

  “So we stand up and face it,” Bolan said. “If we stand back and let it go on we deserve the results.”

  “So, my friend, what do we do?”

  “Lubinski. DeJong. We take the war to them.”

  Dimitri handed over a file.

  “Photographs,” he said. “Lubinski and his local employees. Just so you will recognize them.”

  “Okay,” Bolan said.

  * * *

  SEMINOV NODDED.

  “Then first we get you dressed for a visit to Babushka.”

  As well as clothing, Seminov provided Bolan and Mitchell with side arms, aware they would not have been able to carry on the flight. The OCD armory held a wide selection of ordnance. Knowing Bolan’s preference for Berettas, the Russian cop handed him a 92FS pistol. The weapon was in excellent condition and came with walnut grips. The pistol had a 15-round magazine, and Seminov handed over an additional magazine.

  “Fires true,” Seminov said. “Every weapon in here has been checked and test fired.”

  “Pleased to hear that.”

  “For the lady, a Glock,” Seminov said.

  Mitchell took the Glock 26 he passed to her. She ejected the magazine, lost the 9 mm round in the breech and dry fired the weapon a couple of times.

  “It feels good, Valentine.”

  Seminov smiled as she reloaded the Glock. “It will not let you down.”

  He handed them both holsters for the guns, a shoulder rig for Bolan and a belt holster for Mitchell. His final gift to them was a pair of compact comm sets.

  “Tuned to my frequency. If you need help you just call.”

  “We may do that,” Bolan said.

  “Now,” Seminov said, “you are ready for Babushka.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The afternoon rain had gone, leaving a cool, clear night. Seminov’s SUV was parked on the far side of the broad street. Dimitri had pulled it into a gap in the line of cars.

  “We’ll wait here,” Seminov had said. “Across from the club. My face is known to Lubinski and his crew. You make the play inside. However you want. But I will be on the end of the comm set. Close. I can bring OCD in force if you discover anything. Cooper, don’t hesitate. I would hate to have to attend your funeral.”

  They had no problem getting inside the club. There were two guys on the door who seemed more interested in the young women making their entrance. They paid no attention to Bolan and Mitchell as they sauntered through. It may have been that Bolan’s clothing—the casual but quality suit, handmade shirt and gold wristwatch—marked him as a potential big spender. The loose cut of the suit jacket concealed the Beretta in the shoulder rig. If the door guy was there to stall any unwanted guests, he failed miserably to spot Mack Bolan as anything but another customer. He paid more attention to Mitchell as she smiled at him. Babushka, as Seminov had explained was a popular venue with the tourist crowd, a place that attracted not just Russians, but an international clientele.

  Once Bolan was through the door, Mitchell left him to drop off her coat at the coat-check booth. Bolan made his way to the long chrome-and-black bar that occupied one wall of the club, slid onto a stool that allowed him an unrestricted view of the interior, and ordered a drink. The drink came with a price that was more than double its actual value, which the soldier knew was normal for a club like this. He paid for his drink and took a long look around.

  The mingling languages ran through English, French, Italian and Russian. Babushka had an international clientele. It offered good music and plentiful drink and food. Watching from the bar Bolan thought, welcome to the new Russia. He could have been in a club in New York, or London, a dozen places where money broke all the barriers.

  On a small raised stage a combo played some solid jazz. Bolan didn’t have a lot of spare time to indulge in listening to music, but he could appreciate the excellent music from the four musicians.

  At the far end of the club, to one side of the stage, was a plain door that showed private directly beneath Cyrillic lettering on a metal plate. Bolan was still sipping his first drink when he saw three guys go through the door, one after the other.

  He recognized two of them from the photos Seminov had shown him: they were a pair of Lubinski’s enforcers, Krigor and Baba.

  The third guy, tall and lean with dark skin and wearing a trimmed beard, was a stranger to Bolan. Middle East? Someone from Fikri’s camp? The client come to arrange delivery details?

  The voice in Bolan’s ear was not from a stranger. Mitchell kept it low and intimate as she eased onto the stool just behind Bolan.

  “Hope I haven’t kept you waiting, love,” she said.

  Bolan turned to face her and had to control his expression when he took in her strictly non-FBI dress for the evening. He hadn’t seen what Seminov had provided her with before they left the OCD building as it had been covered by the coat.

  She had on a simple, classic black dress. It accentuated her supple curves and the hem, ending well above her knees, showed a pair of toned and shapely legs. As Bolan ordered her a drink, he found himself trying to work out where she might be concealing her ordnance as she was not wearing her holster. As if reading his mind, Mitchell placed the plain black shoulder bag she carried on the bar and tapped it with a long finger.

  “Concealed weapon. For special occasions.”

  “Works for me,” Bolan said.

  “Valentine has good contacts. And good taste.”

  “Yes he has.”

  “So?”

  Bolan waited until the bartender placed Mitchell’s glass in front of her.

  “Check out the door just beyond the band. Marked private.”

  “I see it.”

  “Two of Lubinski’s guys, Krigor and Baba, went through just before you showed. A third guy I haven’t seen before, too. Appeared Middle Eastern.”

  “Mossad’s intel is panning out.”

  Mitchell tasted her drink, nodding in appreciation.

  “We need to find out what Lubinski and company are up to,” Bolan said.

  He had been checking out the dimensions of the club. The private door had to lead into the depths of the building. He guessed there would be offices. Storage areas. And there had to be other means of access.

  Mitchell had plainly been thinking along the same lines as she swiveled her stool to scope out the rear of the club.

  “You have your transceiver switched on?” she asked. Bolan nodded and she said, “We should split up and work our way outside and circle the place. See if we can find an alternate way in.”

  “Going our separate ways already? It’s going to be a early night.”

  Mitchell smiled at him. “The night isn’t over yet....”

  She slid off the stool and smoothed down the risen hem of her skirt. A warm hand touched Bolan’s cheek as she turned away. He noted that she was wearing low-heeled shoes that would allow her to move quickly if the occasion arose. No spiky high heels that might let her down in an emergency.

  “I’ll take the left side of the building,” she said.

  Bolan watched her merge with the crowd, making her way to the exit and slipping between the customers just entering. He stayed where he was, taking his time finishing his drink before easing away from the bar and crossing the dance floor until he walked by the coat-check booth and exited the building.

  Clear of the crowd heading for the entrance, Bolan m
oved across the parking lot. By now his presence had been forgotten by the doormen. He moved and paused, moved again, easing around to his left so that he eventually found himself at the corner of the building.

  The light had not faded enough to hide him completely. Bolan couldn’t worry about that. The surveillance he and Mitchell were hoping to carry out needed to be carried out sooner, rather than later. The meeting taking place at the rear of the club might break up at any time.

  The soldier turned quickly, moving along the bare wall, away from the busy entrance to the club.

  Bolan spotted a couple of security lights attached to the side of the building. They were high up and angled to cover the area away from the wall, not up close to the building. If he stayed close in to the wall, he would be able to move in the shadows. He came to a chain-link fence that prevented further access to the rear of the building. There was a section formed into a gate that ran on a wheeled track. It was locked.

  Pausing at the fence, Bolan saw a couple of cars parked in the delivery area behind the club. He checked out the fence. There were no indications of alarms or cameras. Close inspection told him the fence was not electrified, or fitted with sensors. He stood close to the wall, in a shadow, and ran through his options. If he wanted to get over the fence, the only viable way was to climb.

  Bolan made his choice and acted on it without further thought. He buttoned his suit jacket to prevent it flapping open. Reaching up, he curled his fingers through the links and clambered up the fence, reaching the top and pulling himself over the links, letting his body swing clear. He hung for seconds before letting himself drop. He flexed his knees as he landed, taking the impact. Bolan flattened himself against the wall. He moved his fingers to ease the ache left behind from gripping the wire links.

  The comm set in his jacket inside pocket buzzed gently. Bolan took it out and activated the button.

  “Cooper? Can you hear me?”

  “Got you, Mitchell.”

  “What’s your position?”

  “Inside the perimeter fence. Going to check the layout. You?”

  “The same.” She paused. “And don’t even ask how I managed it wearing a dress.”

  “Now that you mention it...”

  “Let’s just accept it didn’t do a thing for my dignity.”

  “For the job, Mitchell, for the job.”

  “I have a couple of vehicles back here. They look like delivery vans.”

  “I spotted them, as well.”

  “No movement. I can see the back wall of the building from my position,” Mitchell said. “There’s a small loading dock with a roller door.”

  “I’ll be in position in a few seconds.”

  Bolan traversed the length of the building and peered around the corner. He saw exactly what Mitchell had described: the empty rear area and the two parked vans with the Babushka logo painted on the sides. To his left was the loading dock and the entry points.

  “I’m in place,” he said into his transceiver.

  The FBI agent’s dark head rose from behind the loading dock. Bolan made his way to her side.

  He dropped the comm set into his pocket and took out the Beretta 92FS. He ran a quick check.

  Mitchell had discarded her bag after removing her weapon. The Glock 26, a smaller model, with a reduced butt, held ten 9 mm rounds in its double-stack magazine. The FBI agent’s comm set was now suspended from her neck by a thin nylon cord.

  “Let’s do this,” she said.

  They stepped up onto the loading dock and Bolan checked the door to one side of the loading dock. It opened without a sound. Mitchell checked the interior then slipped inside. Bolan followed, closing the door behind him.

  The freight area was no more than twenty feet square and empty save for a few stacks of cardboard boxes and crates holding empty bottles. Scuff marks on the concrete floor showed where goods had been moved around. On the wall across from them was a set of double doors. The faint sound of music filtered through from the club area.

  Bolan led the way to the set of doors. They were mounted on two-way hinges that allowed the doors to swing either way. Bolan eased open one of the doors and checked the other side. Now he could hear the murmur of voices. He edged through the door, Mitchell close behind.

  A group of people was gathered around a long metal trestle table in a small storage area. A couple of attaché cases sat on the trestle table, and a thick stack of banded currency was in view.

  Bolan saw Krigor and Baba standing back a few feet. Both armed now, with H&K MP-5 KAs hanging from their shoulders by black straps.

  Sergei Lubinski was transferring the cash to one of the attaché cases.

  DeJong was in deep conversation with the Middle Eastern contact. DeJong had a file in his hands, passing it to the man.

  As silently as Bolan and Mitchell had entered, some fragment of movement had registered in Baba’s peripheral vision. His shaved head snapped around, and he locked in on the newcomers. His warning yell alerted everyone, including his partner, Krigor. They both reached for the SMGs hanging at waist height.

  Bolan sensed Mitchell moving to one side, away from him, and he knew he didn’t need to give her any instructions.

  Baba had gripped his MP-5, starting to raise it. As Krigor moved he had to step back to clear DeJong and his contact.

  The moment Baba made his offensive move, Bolan brought the Beretta on line, easing the muzzle into target acquisition. Baba’s stocky body offered a good target. Bolan eased back on the trigger and felt the 92FS recoil as it fired. He triggered a second and third shot, the cracks echoing in the building. Baba took a step back, eyes widening in shock as the trio of 9 mm slugs punched in through his chest and lodged in his heart. He buckled at the knees and fell facedown on the concrete floor.

  The last of Bolan’s shell casings had barely hit the floor before Krigor ran off a long burst from his MP-5. The volley was high as the muzzle rose, tearing through the door behind Bolan and Mitchell. Mitchell, crouched, pushed forward her weapon in a two-handed grip. It cracked twice. Krigor was half turned as her shots ripped into his left shoulder, one exiting through his back in a bloody spurt. The Russian attempted to steady his sagging SMG with his right hand. Mitchell’s pistol rose, held, then fired, putting a third shot through his left eye. Krigor gave a shrill cry, dropping to the floor.

  In the scant seconds the shooting took, Lubinski and DeJong broke away from the table, ignoring what lay on its surface. Their contact followed on DeJong’s heels, clutching the file he had snatched from the South African’s hand. All three were heading for the far door that would take them back into the club and the crowd of customers.

  Bolan clicked his transceiver.

  “Valentine, we have three hostiles heading through to the club. Likely to be coming out through the main entrance. Lubinski, DeJong and an unknown man of Middle Eastern appearance.”

  “I hear you.”

  Mitchell was moving after the escaping three.

  “Hold it,” she yelled.

  It was a waste of breath.

  Bolan and Mitchell converged on the men.

  Lubinski, in the rear, hauled himself to a stop, his right hand producing a handgun from under his coat. He turned, mouthing something in Russian as he raised the pistol. Bolan fired on the move, the Beretta dispatching a pair of 9 mm slugs that tore into Lubinski’s gun arm; the rounds ripped flesh from the limb and shattered bone. The Russian lost his grip on his weapon, stumbled and slumped back against the wall, gripping his limb and moaning loudly. Blood was spurting from the torn material of his shirt.

  DeJong and his companion disappeared through the door and merged with the crowd in the main part of the club. Bolan and Mitchell saw them swallowed by the mass of customers, quickly losing sight as the pair kept moving.

  An arm appear
ed above the crowd clutching a handgun. A number of shots rang out, directed at the ceiling.

  Panic followed. The crowd turned toward the exit en masse and tried to get out at the same time, a throng of alarmed people pushing and shoving. There were casualties as self-preservation took over. People stumbled and fell and were stepped on by those around them.

  Bolan spoke into his comm set again.

  “Lubinski is down, Valentine. DeJong and the third guy are in the crowd somewhere. On their way out.”

  “So we can see. You stay where you are in case they try to double back.”

  “Go and secure that rear door,” Bolan said to Mitchell.

  She acknowledged and headed to the door they had entered by, leaving Bolan to cross to where Lubinski lay semiconscious. He picked up the pistol the Russian had dropped, ejected the magazine and the round in the breech.

  Lubinski stared at Bolan. His face was fish-belly white, glistening with sweat. The fingers wrapped around his arm were dripping blood. White bone gleamed through the lacerated flesh under his hand. He was curled up at the base of the wall, showing no interest in moving.

  “You understand English?”

  The Russian nodded. “I understand. Who are you? Ah, American? Yes, American. You are the one Delaware is looking for. I have heard about you.”

  “Word gets around. How much am I worth to her?”

  “For anyone who gives her what she wants—a half million dollars.”

  “Only half?” Mitchell said as she came across the storage area. “Obviously she doesn’t like you as much as I imagined.”

  “Delaware must be running out of ready cash.”

  “Diamonds are not her best friend at the moment,” Mitchell said.

  Bolan turned and checked out the table where the abandoned attaché cases and the money sat. One had some of the stacked money in it. The other was empty except for a cell phone. Bolan checked it out. The text on screen showed as Arabic script. He showed it to Mitchell.

  “The Iranian contact’s phone? Makes me wish I’d taken those language courses at college.”