Читать книгу Lethal Diversion - Don Pendleton - Страница 15

5

Bolan drove from Grosse Point back to 8 Mile, parking half a block down the street from the address in his files. Mr. Tarin Kowt was five feet, ten inches and 180 pounds of pure trouble. He glanced through the man’s rap sheet one more time. He’d done a brief stint for theft, but whenever he’d been charged with anything more serious, the witnesses had all somehow magically disappeared. So in spite of three murder charges and five smuggling charges, every single case had been dropped for lack of evidence.

Bolan let his eyes scan the street once more. Even though it was only 8:30 p.m. and a Saturday night, anyone who wasn’t part of the problems plaguing this area was already safely tucked inside. The 8 Mile region was a haven for criminals, drugs, prostitutes and numerous types of gangs. The police entered the area only when absolutely necessary, and according to what he’d heard, it was actually better these days than it used to be. It was sort of amazing that this kind of place could exist in an American city, but he’d seen it time and again, in places like Chicago, New York, Boston and even Phoenix.

The rules here were the same as in all those places—keep to yourself and your own crew, don’t ask questions, never give answers to the cops, and maybe you and your family will get to live another day. Maybe. No matter what, he suspected that dealing with Kowt would be no simple task.

From where he was parked, the Executioner had a good visual on the house and the street. There was only one vehicle in the driveway—a black Lexus sedan that was probably stolen. Reaching into the gear bag in the passenger seat, he pulled out a RAZ-IR NANO Thermal Camera. This was a handheld model, and he took his time working across the visual field. There were three people inside, and it was likely that at least a couple of them were armed. People like Kowt didn’t spend much time without a weapon close at hand. He waited and watched, but the luck of having any of them leave was not on his side and for a reason he would be hard-pressed to name, there was a growing sense of urgency in his gut that told him he needed to move quickly.

Checking his Desert Eagle, Bolan dug around in his gear bag until he found what he wanted, then stepped out and locked the car, activating the alarm system. He was already wearing black clothing, jeans and a wool sweater, with a canvas coat over the top. For the moment, the street was empty. He crossed over, his long strides carrying him from shadow to shadow along the cracked and broken sidewalk. It took him less than three minutes to reach the house, and he opted for a more direct approach.

Pulling the pin, but not releasing the lever from the smoke grenade in his pocket, Bolan walked up to the door and rang the bell. When he didn’t hear a tone, he used his left hand to rap sharply on the door. Inside, there was the sound of people scrambling about, and finally, a voice snapping, “Answer the door, you idiot! Cops don’t knock!”

The sound of the door being unlocked followed and it opened, revealing the face of a young black man, maybe twenty-five. “What you want, homey?” he asked.

“I have a delivery here for you,” Bolan said. “Mr. Jones, right?”

The man’s eyes peered about the small porch. “What delivery? Ain’t no Mr. Jones here!”

“This one,” Bolan replied, pulling the grenade out of his pocket and releasing the lever. “Here.” He shoved it into the man’s hands, then pushed him backward and yanked the door closed.

The yelling started almost immediately as the man juggled the unwelcome surprise, bobbled it then dropped it on the floor before realizing that it was a grenade and kicking it away.

A voice screamed, “Are you crazy?” even as someone tried to open the door, which Bolan held shut. Through the narrow pane of glass in the door, he could see the room filling with smoke, and hear the chaos as the three men tried to figure out what was going on while simultaneously trying to escape.

The pressure from the person on the other side of the door increased, and Bolan finally let go, allowing it to fly open. It struck the surprised man on the other side with significant force, cracking him in the forehead and splitting the skin. Blood poured freely from the wound and he stumbled back, blinded and stunned. Bolan finished him with a solid right hook to the jaw that dropped him to the floor.

His sudden appearance was enough to get the other two men turned in his direction, but not nearly fast enough. He kicked the door shut behind him, and had his Desert Eagle out in a flash. The two men started to go for their own weapons, but he snapped, “Don’t do it. You’re dead men if you do.”

They both stopped and slowly raised their hands.

“Good,” he said. “A wise choice. We’ll just wait a minute for the smoke to settle down, then we’ll have ourselves a talk.” He looked them over. Both men were of Middle Eastern descent, but the one on the right was Tarin Kowt.

“You,” he said, gesturing to the man on the left. “What’s your name?”

“Aamil,” he said.

“So, are you Kowt’s workman then?” he asked, knowing the meaning of the name.

“Just a friend.”

“Friends are nice,” Bolan said. “Come over here. And Kowt, don’t even think about going for your piece on the table.”

Aamil moved closer, keeping his hands raised. When he was a few feet away, he stopped. “Good,” Bolan said. “Now turn around and face your friend.”

He complied.

“Do you know much about your friend, Kowt?” he asked.

Aamil shrugged. “Not so much,” he answered.

“He’s a drug dealer, Aamil,” he replied, his voice low and threatening. “More of a mid-level guy these days. His supplier imports directly from Afghanistan, and the question I have for you is, how good a friend are you with him?”

“I...”

“Shut up, Aamil,” Kowt said. “I do not know who you are, my friend, but all this violence is unnecessary. Aamil is simply one of my...couriers. I am sure we can come to some arrangement that will satisfy you.”