Killing Trade

by Don Pendleton

  “We can discuss that,” Taveras said. “But I have another motive, amigo. I have recently been visited by an enemy of yours. Someone who wants very much to find you. Someone who thought he could trick me and insult me, get me to help him find you and kill you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Taveras said, “that is so. But you do not have to worry. I gave this man a message. He was not quick to take my meaning, and now I owe him all the more. But I will see to it he learns.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “We have enemies in common, amigo. The better prepared I am to deal with them, the better able I am to show them what it means to trifle with El Cráneo.”

  “I see,” Stevens said. “You want a discount.”

  “Surely you can see the benefit to both of us?”

  “Tell me,” Stevens said, suddenly putting it together. “Your visitor, the man who insulted you and whom you wish to teach a lesson—was he British?”

  “Yes,” Taveras said through clenched teeth. “Yes, he was.”

  “I see,” Stevens said again. “Mr. Taveras, I believe we can indeed help each other. Tell me, would it be terribly useful to you to know exactly where you could find this man?”

  There was a pause. “Yes,” Taveras said, sounding surprised and pleased. “Yes, I would very much like to know that.”

  “Then consider your next shipment half off, to cover the expense of the favor you are about to do me,” Stevens suggested.

  “I am listening.”

  “The man you want,” Stevens began, “can be found in a motel in Swedesboro, New Jersey.”

  13

  Bolan stood in the small shower stall in his hotel room, letting the hot water sluice away the aches and pains he’d accumulated in the previous days’ combat. He’d been awake before dawn, only to be greeted by another text message briefing from the Farm. While Stony Man had no new intelligence to offer, Brognola had briefed Price on the political situation in New York. The jaws had snapped shut.

  Martial law had been declared and the National Guard was on the streets, called out by the governor at the request of New York’s near-hysterical mayor. A dawn-to-dusk curfew was in effect, temporarily. Armed soldiers roamed the streets. The various authorities involved, embarrassed and even shamed by their inability to contain the threat offered by New York’s warring gangs and the mercenary operatives, were hoping a show of force would put things right. Bolan had no particular faith in barring the gate after the horse had left, but he suspected the situation in Manhattan would indeed improve.

  It was a simple matter of attrition coupled with the pressure exerted by the National Guard. Taveras had suffered heavy losses in his ongoing war with Caqueta. He had taken a real bloody nose in Times Square, too. The fact that he’d felt it necessary to send a very public message about who ruled the streets told the Executioner a lot. It told him that the raid on Busty’s had made Taveras feel weak and at a disadvantage—so much so that he was willing to engage in public terrorism to put El Cráneo back on top.

  Given his losses and the difficulty he would have staging any operations or pursuing his usual drug trade with martial law in effect, Taveras was essentially neutralized. Bolan did not know what El Cráneo’s next move would be. He could not see what that move could be. He was unsure what his own next step should be, for that matter, but that did not worry him. The Executioner was an old hand at playing the operation by ear to see what would shake loose. He would either hit the streets on his own, doing his best to stay out of the National Guard’s way while trying to ferret out a new lead on Taveras or Blackjack, or Burnett would come up with something.

  As resourceful as the detective had proved to be, Bolan was not terribly surprised when he showed up at the hotel, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “It’s a good morning to visit the Garden State,” he said without preamble.

  “What?” Bolan said, closing the door behind the lanky detective.

  Burnett folded his large frame into one of the hotel chairs, steepling his fingers as he looked up at Bolan. “I told you, I’m connected—and being the task force leader has real advantages. I’ve got us another tip.”

  “How definite?”

  “Oh, pretty definite,” Burnett said. “Only the precise location of Percival Leister.”

  Bolan raised an eyebrow. “How did you get that?”

  “Another of my very useful taps.” Burnett smiled. “At this moment, Leister and his Blackjack boys are holed up in the less-than-two-diamonds Starbrite Motel, a Triple-A unapproved establishment just outside Swedesboro, New Jersey.”

  “Swedesboro,” Bolan repeated.

  “Yes,” Burnett said. “Why, ring a bell?” He grinned again.

  AFTER TAKING TIME to gear up, Bolan drove and Burnett rode shotgun as they traveled to Swedesboro. It was late afternoon by the time Bolan pulled the Crown Victoria to the side of the road, off the exit ramp and well down the street from the Starbrite Motel. The soldier checked his magazines and the function of his Ultimax before nodding to Burnett.

  “Ready?”

  “Absolutely,” the big cop said, jacking a shell into the chamber of his Remington 870.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Bolan asked. “There won’t be any backup.”

  “Hell, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Burnett said. “I doubt we could convince the locals of the need to lend us manpower for a lead generated by an illegal wiretap. And you’d have quite a job getting anyone released from my department with New York practically under razor-wire and occupation.”

  “Just making sure,” Bolan said.

  “Yeah, I know.” Burnett grinned. “You don’t want my messy corpse on your conscience. Trust me, I know what I’m getting into. And I’ve seen you work.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “According to my source,” Burnett said, “our boys are in units 17, 18, 19 and 20. I’m guessing those black Suburbans parked at the end of the row belong to the Blackjack boys.”

  Bolan and Burnett approached the motel parking lot, careful to stay at an extreme angle to avoid being seen from the front windows. They took cover behind the boarded-up facade of a defunct gas station next to the motel. “Let’s keep this simple,” Bolan said. “Circle around the back of the building. Don’t get spotted. Cover the structure from the opposite side, but stay parallel to the front for as long as possible. You don’t want to tip them off or catch a bullet.”

  “Sure thing,” Burnett said. He started to go.

  “Burnett,” Bolan called quietly after him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay away from the trucks.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Bolan waited patiently for Burnett to get into position. He did his best to stay out of sight, lurking behind some low and neglected shrubs in the adjacent lot. Once he was certain the detective was out of his direct line of fire, he brought up the Ultimax and braced its folding stock against his shoulder. With a magazine of captured DU ammunition in place, he put the red-dot scope over the first SUV in the row.

  The weapon rumbled in his hands.

  The explosive penetrators ripped through the gas tank of the first SUV. The rear of the vehicle exploded in a fireball that rocked the front of the motel. With the Ultimax at his shoulder, Bolan moved forward, sweeping the killzone in front of him. As he closed in, he tracked the second and third SUVs, sweeping them with DU rounds and watching in satisfaction as they, too, burst into flame.

  The Executioner was careful to position himself at an angle that kept his rounds punching into and past the rooms at the end of the row, away from the adjacent units and thus not in the direction of any innocents who might be staying in the motel. With any luck, they’d keep their heads down and resist the urge to run outside to see what was happening in the parking lot.

  Circling clockwise, the soldier cut wide around the burning vehicles, covering the target doorways of the motel. He dug into his canvas messenger bag and changed magazin
es as he went, replacing the DU rounds with conventional 62-grain steel-tipped cartridges in his last 100-round drum. When no one emerged, he triggered several short bursts into the doors.

  The sound of a shotgun blast to his left brought him up short. Burnett was running his way, triggering another round behind him as he cradled his shotgun. “Move, move, move!” he shouted. “They’re right on my tail!”

  Bolan realized what was happening and turned away from Burnett, aiming for the far right corner of the building. The first of Leister’s mercenaries rounded the motel, match-barreled AR-15s braced against their shoulders, and opened fire. Bolan had time to throw himself backward, the Ultimax still held before him.

  A DU round burned through the receiver of the weapon and cored past his chest.

  He rolled, his duster suddenly aflame where the round had passed across his chest. He shed the coat, rolling out of it and pulling the quick-release strap for the Ultimax harness, leaving the shattered light machine gun on the ground behind him. Then he was up, drawing the Beretta 92-F with his left hand and the 93-R machine pistol with his right. As bullets streaked past him, he gunned down the nearest mercenaries with precisely placed 9 mm hollowpoint rounds.

  To get out of the line of fire, Bolan lowered his shoulder and crashed into the nearest motel-room door. He briefly noted debris consistent with Leister’s men—take-out food containers on a table, black paramilitary clothing piled on one of the two beds, a nylon war bag open on the floor full of cleaning supplies and boxes of cartridges. He plowed past this to the bathroom. As he’d suspected, a large, translucent window in the bathroom was open. Leister’s men had gone out the back and circled around, rather than charge stupidly from the front to certain death.

  The soldier kept going, climbing out the window and landing heavily on his feet on the littered ground behind the motel. Mercenaries at either end of the building, watching around the corners, realized he was there as he extended both pistols in their directions. Firing to the left and to the right, Bolan ran up the small hill leading away from the back of the motel, seeking higher ground and a tactical advantage. He tagged two more of Leister’s surviving team as he went.

  The shooting stopped.

  Bolan paused, both weapons still extended before him, covering the rear of the building. He saw a face in a window to his right, a civilian peering out from behind the curtains. Bolan shook his head sternly at the face and it disappeared. He waited a moment, but the gunfire did not resume.

  A car door slammed, and a vehicle tore out of the parking lot at the front of the motel.

  Bolan ran. He charged down the hill and around the corner, rolling as he did so to avoid any ambush fire that might be intended for him. None came. He saw a small car with Delaware plates fleeing the lot. When he drew down on the retreating vehicle and triggered a 9 mm round through its rear window, the little car swerved before fishtailing around toward him.

  The Executioner could see Leister behind the wheel. Face twisted with determination and anger, the British mercenary abandoned any hope of escape and came straight for Bolan, pushing the car’s feeble four-cylinder engine for every horsepower he could squeeze from it. Bolan stood his ground, emptying the magazines in both Berettas, hammering at the engine before placing one of his shots in the windshield directly in front of Leister.

  The car slowed, but only slightly, before it clipped the rear of one of the burning SUVs and smashed to a halt. It hit one of the rooms vacated by Leister’s men. Bolan quickly changed magazines in both Berettas, holstered the 92-F and closed on Leister with the 93-R before him.

  Cursing, the mercenary struggled to kick open the bent and damaged driver’s door.

  “Leister!” Bolan shouted. “Put your hands behind your head! It’s over!”

  “Dear boy,” Leister said weakly, climbing painfully out of the vehicle, “you can take that hands-behind-the-head rot and shove it up your arse. I’m too old to play that game.” He swayed on his feet as he faced the Executioner, his Browning Hi-Power held loosely in his hand. Blood streamed down the side of his head and stained his abdomen. He’d taken a round to the left shoulder. Blood soaked his left arm, which hung limply at his side.

  “Drop the gun,” Bolan ordered.

  “No,” Leister said. He made no move to bring the weapon up, however.

  “I said, do it!” Bolan barked.

  “Would you calm yourself, damn you?” Leister shook his head. “We both know how the game is played, don’t we?” He staggered away from the car, put his back to the motel wall and allowed himself to slide to the sidewalk in front of the building. The Hi-Power fell from numbed fingers and scraped on the paving. Leister sighed heavily and reached inside his black fatigue jacket.

  “Don’t!” Bolan took a step forward, the 93-R covering the man’s movements.

  “Jesus and Mary, you’re spun up tightly.” Leister almost laughed. He took his hand slowly from inside the jacket. It was holding a pack of cigarettes. “If I promise these don’t contain poisoned darts or sleep gas, will you allow me one last fag?”

  Bolan said nothing. Leister took that as assent, fished a disposable butane lighter from the pack and lit a cigarette. He coughed badly as he drew the smoke into his lungs, but took a second drag as soon as he’d recovered.

  “You seem to be having trouble,” Leister told him, “accepting the fact that you’ve won.”

  As Bolan watched the mercenary, mindful that the cagey and experienced operative might try some last-ditch means to kill Bolan or simply escape, he checked his peripheral vision for any sign of Burnett. The detective’s handiwork was evident not far from where Leister sat. Three men, all with fatal shotgun wounds, were strewed about the lot. Burnett himself had disappeared.

  There wasn’t much time before he’d have to leave or face another tie-up with the authorities. Bolan knew he’d have only a few more moments before the local police arrived.

  “This,” Leister said, gesturing to the Hi-Power on the sidewalk nearby, “is the part where I bravely take my own life, to prevent you from interrogating me. You magnificent bastard.” He chuckled around his cigarette. “I should have known from the first, from that day at the park. With whom have you served? Don’t try to tell me you don’t have a list of campaigns under your belt that would put Patton to shame.”

  Bolan said nothing.

  “Of course.” Leister nodded. “Of course you can’t tell me. But dead men tell no tales, eh? What will it matter?”

  “There’s not much time,” Bolan told him.

  “Oh, don’t I know it,” Leister said, “but perhaps more than you think. We took the time to grease the local wheels. I think you’ll find local response time inhibited, somewhat. We have a moment, purchased at a steep price in a seller’s market.”

  “Tell me what you know about Stevens.”

  “There’s not much to tell, old chap.” Leister sucked at his cigarette. “The tale gets a bit sordid, however. My employers—”

  “Blackjack Group, contracted by NLI.”

  “Yes,” Leister confirmed. “I don’t suppose they’ll be able to hide behind their lawyers and their damned plausible deniability much longer. Damned murderous bastards.”

  “Murderous?”

  “You don’t think hired fighting men are exactly eager to shoot themselves, do you?” Leister said. “I’ve had to be ruthless at the helm, Colonel.” He laughed. “Or is it General? Don’t tell me you were rank and file.”

  Bolan said nothing.

  “You’ve got to understand how Norris Labs works. They have more money than God. They made it very clear that there was no end to how much they would throw at me—for a price. For a heavy price, indeed.”

  “Go on.”

  “All I had to do to earn my extravagant pay,” Leister said, “was ensure the absolute, total loyalty of my men. They had to be willing to die before they’d reveal any secrets. I had to run a very tight ship indeed. Of course I made it my habit to employ only those men on whom
I could get the proper leverage. Families, lovers, relatives of some sort—all cataloged, all easily located. Kill a few to set an example, make it clear you’re not above raping a man’s wife and children and showing him the videotape before you put a bullet in his brain, and the others learn quickly. Our cohesion was what made Blackjack so formidable. Norris Labs’ damned board of directors could certainly appreciate that. Ours has been a long and profitable relationship.” Leister coughed again. He stared down at the blood in his palm. “Shit. I feared as much. Something inside me is very much broken.”

  “Why tell me now?” Bolan asked.

  “Because I’m damned tired,” Leister said. “Tired of them. Tired of owing my soul to the company store, as they say. Just tired.”

  “Stevens,” Bolan prompted.

  “If I knew where to find him,” Leister said, “I’d tell you. The damned board has had us killing left and right to stop the bastard from manufacturing and selling more of those depleted uranium rounds, but it’s worse than that. He was working on another design before he was let go, or quit or however it worked out. You’ve heard of dirty bombs, I imagine?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Stevens was designing a sort of uranium microshell based on the same technology. Fire a magazine of his little devils at a target, and you’d leave behind measurable, harmful radiation. It’s a vile weapon, Colonel. Something that can take any place at any time and turn it into a radioactive hot zone. Knowing Stevens and how in love he is with his own designs, it’s only a matter of time before he finds a ready market for the evil stuff. Can you imagine? My employers were, of course, terrified that he’d get that far before he and his bullets were finally traced back to them. It was bigger than a public-relations disaster. They were looking at multiple lifetimes behind bars if it got out just how many illegal pies they were shoving their filthy fingers into.”

  “You don’t have any idea where I can find Stevens?” Bolan asked.

  “Well, hell, old boy.” Leister coughed again, weakly. “He’s here somewhere. I don’t think he’ll be far. Somewhere in this godforsaken state. The Garden State, for pity’s sake! What a joke.”