Читать книгу Patriot Acts - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

JoAnn Wolfe looked up from the microscope as she examined a sample from the stack of bills. The Los Angeles Crime Lab night shift was no less busy than any other time of the day, but Wolfe had been given a pass on new cases and assigned to examine the evidence sample brought in by Matt Cooper on behalf of the Justice Department.

Wolfe’s dark, red tinted hair was tied back and her smooth brow furrowed with a tiny cleft of a wrinkle between her eyes.

“What?” the Executioner asked.

“I’ve got fingerprints from two sources. Both are in our database. Einhard and Admussen. They’re arms dealers. Heard of them?” Wolfe asked.

Bolan nodded. “No fingerprints from anyone else?”

“Not even on the wrapper for the stack. Normally you get impressions, and while I have fingertip shapes, there are no whorls,” Wolfe said. “Unless this guy regularly trims his fingerprints, he should have left something, but I’ve got nothing.”

Bolan frowned. “Regular use of solvents would smooth out the ridges.”

Wolfe let him look through the microscope. There were round, featureless pads left by skin-based oils on the bill that hadn’t developed fingerprint patterns.

“What about the results on the serial numbers?” Bolan asked.

“That’s something else,” Wolfe replied. “They’re discontinued currency, bills originally scheduled for incineration because they were old and tattered.”

Bolan looked at the pristine, nearly perfect bill. “Old and tattered?”

“That’s according to treasury records,” Wolfe stated. “Of course, the look of this money doesn’t match the records. Granted, the date range on the bills are correct, but they’re so clean they could have been printed yesterday.”

“Maybe they were,” Bolan said.

“If they were counterfeit, they’d have to have access to the right paper and ink stocks, and the plate patterns are perfect,” Wolfe stated.

Bolan nodded. “The right paper style for the date range on these bills?”

“Perfect. But they’ve never been used,” Wolfe said.

“And they were scheduled for destruction?” Bolan asked.

“You think the originals might have been destroyed?” Wolfe asked.

“It’s not impossible. The retired printing machinery might have been acquired by someone else to make these bills,” Bolan stated. “And they could have printed up this cash using the discard list.”

“That’s an awful lot of work for ten thousand dollars,” Wolfe mused.

“Ten thousand in this stack, for this deal,” Bolan noted. “How out of date are those bills?”

“Twenty years old,” Wolfe told him. She chewed her lower lip. “So you’re saying the machinery that printed these notes has been used for at least twenty years?”

“What cheaper way to finance a black-bag operation than to print your own cash?” Bolan asked. “Especially if you’re using the money overseas. Ten thousand a mission, give it about eighteen missions a year,” he said.

“Three point six million, minimum,” Wolfe said. “Not counting local bribes, tickets, accommodations…”

“Paying for backup,” Bolan added. “Let’s call it five million in funny money. Officially printed on retired U.S. Treasury machinery. For a black-bag operation, it’d be obscenely cost-effective.”

“That’s just one operative,” Wolfe noted. “How many organizations have only one top spook?”

Bolan nodded. “They’d be given similar budgets.”

His cell phone warbled and he plucked it from his pocket. “Cooper.”

“Striker,” Hal Brognola’s voice greeted him on the other side. “We have a possible incident in Phoenix involving our quarry.”

“So he did get on a flight at LAX,” Bolan noted.

“It’s likely. We have an unknown body at the airport food court,” Brognola said. “I’ve got local FBI agents running his fingerprints, but they couldn’t get any.”

“Just like our shooter,” Bolan told the man from Justice. “The guy removed his fingerprints. We got tip impressions, but no identifiable markings on the bills or the wrapper.”

“So we’re talking about a serious covert operation,” Brognola said.

“That’s what Wolfe’s thinking. They’re using authentic printing machinery and supplies to cook up their own cash for their operations,” Bolan said.

“Damn,” Brognola grumbled. Bolan could hear his friend gnawing at the end of his cigar on the other end of the line.

“Can you get me to Phoenix?” Bolan asked.

“Chances are that our killer’s flown the coop,” Brognola stated.

“It’d get me closer to him,” Bolan said. “I might be able to figure something out.”

“Jack’s just landed at LAX. With the Gulfstream, you could fly to Moscow if you wanted,” Brognola said. “Granted, I hope you don’t have to.”

Bolan glanced through the window of Wolfe’s lab, seeing four men in dark suits and sunglasses get off an elevator. They had visitor badges, and U.S. Treasury IDs hanging from their suit lapels.

“Jo, did the Treasury Department say anything about sending someone over to pick up the cash you ran through their listing?” Bolan asked.

Wolfe looked up from the money. “No. In fact they only wanted me to keep a couple bills for them. The rest I was told to break down for chemical composition testing. As long as I gave them the results—”

“Get down!” Bolan snapped.

The four men spotted the Executioner and his crime lab compatriot, and pulled submachine guns out from under their jackets. The only T-men Bolan knew who carried compact subguns were the Secret Service agents assigned to presidential protection details. Four counterfeiting investigators wouldn’t require that kind of firepower, especially when paying a visit to the LAPD.

Bolan lunged across the table and knocked Wolfe to the floor an instant before the safety glass of the lab blew into translucent chunks. Wolfe grimaced, Bolan’s weight crushing down on her for only an instant before he rolled off. The Desert Eagle filled his hand and he snapped off the safety with practiced skill.

Wolfe pulled her sidearm from her own holster, a .45-caliber Glock 30.

“Stay down,” Bolan snarled. Whoever the gunmen were, they were disciplined. The streams of autofire were relentless, meaning that they were staggering their bursts, allowing their partners to reload.

Bolan guessed the position of the elevator through the low aluminum wall. At least one hose of 9 mm autofire came from that direction and the Executioner triggered his Desert Eagle, burning off the massive handgun’s .44 Magnum payload. A scream of agony and a stutter in the constant cacophony of automatic weapon fire rewarded Bolan as the 240-grain slugs punched through the slim metal skin of the lab.

“Bastards toasted my microscope,” Wolfe snarled. “I want a piece of them.”

“I get first crack. If they somehow get past me, they’re all yours,” Bolan replied. He dumped the partially spent magazine and fed it a fresh stick.

“Hand over the cash and no one gets hurt!” came a bellow. Bolan grabbed a stool and swung it up through the shattered window. Uzi fire rattled, perforating the vinyl-clad seat. The angle betrayed the shooter’s position and Bolan popped up. The front sight of the Desert Eagle locked on the Uzi-packing fake Fed. A single .44-caliber round slammed the gunman in the chest, hurling him to the floor. Bolan swiveled and saw a third gunman line up on him.

More thunderbolts ripped from the Desert Eagle, but the raider dived back into the elevator.

Wolfe lunged and shouldered Bolan to the floor as another rattling snarl of gunfire swept through the window. She grunted, spinning and clutching her shattered shoulder.

“He’s still kicking,” the scientist rasped as she tried to control the bleeding.

“Body armor,” Bolan mused.

“Head shot,” she suggested.

Bolan didn’t waste the breath to let her know how obvious the advice was. He sighted on the perforated low wall and saw the flicker of movement through the bullet holes torn by the fake T-man. The Desert Eagle hammered out a rumbling thunderstorm of heavy slugs. Four rounds smashed through the sievelike wall panel, blowing it over. On the other side, the Uzi-packing man slumped lifeless, half of his face ripped off by a wide-mouthed hollowpoint round. The gun lay silenced between splayed legs.

A cabinet shuddered as more submachine gun fire rattled from the direction of the elevator.

“My paperwork,” Wolfe groaned. Her face was screwed up in pain. “Dammit, stop shooting my files!”

Bolan rose to his feet and aimed at the gunman he’d nailed in the legs. The man swung his Uzi and pulled the trigger, but the weapon was empty. The Executioner vaulted over the cabinet and the low wall, spearing through the window. The third and fourth shooters were nowhere to be seen. He saw the wounded gunman struggling to reload his Uzi, but Bolan kicked the weapon from his hands and smashed his heel against the man’s jaw on the swing back. Lab staff members came running.

“Officers! Secure this man!” Bolan snapped. “Get a medic for CSI Wolfe!”

“They moved out that way,” a technician said. She held the side of her face, a shredded strip of skin livid from where she’d been pistol-whipped with an Uzi. “There’s a controlled access stairwell, but they shot the lock to shit.”

“I’m on it. Someone get on the radio and tell everyone to keep out of these guys’ way,” Bolan ordered. “They don’t care who they kill.”

“And you?” the hurt tech asked.

“I keep them from killing,” Bolan said, racing off toward the stairwell.