Читать книгу Treason Play - Don Pendleton - Страница 16

Binoculars pressed to his eyes, Bolan studied the warehouse. He was on the roof of a neighboring building, crouched next to a large chiller unit, his body enveloped by shadows.

He’d been situated there for hours, studying the number of guards, their patterns of movement, their weaponry, making note of it all in his mind.

Thus far, he’d logged two trucks within the past hour rolling into the warehouse. Both were nondescript, large tractor-trailer rigs, engines growling, pipes belching smoke into the air. He’d been unable to get a good look at the drivers, though that mattered little to him, either.

He was more concerned with what lay inside the warehouse than anything else.

According to intelligence gathered by Stony Man Farm, Khan owned the warehouse through a web of shell companies, and it was believed to be a transit point for some of the weapons the Pakistani shipped to conflict zones worldwide.

Hitting the facility would accomplish two goals as far as Bolan was concerned. One, he could hobble Khan’s weapons-smuggling ring and—at least temporarily—prevent deadly weapons from getting into the hands of killers. Second, since Khan had submerged out of sight, Bolan figured his best tack was to drop some depth charges and bring the guy back to the surface. Sort of like fishing with hand grenades.

But first he wanted to make sure he had the right spot.

The intel he had was good, but he wanted to make sure it was right. The only way to do that was to check out the place himself.

He had changed into his combat blacksuit and smeared black camo paint on his cheeks, nose and forehead. The sun had fallen hours ago, taking down the heat considerably, making the surveillance gig more tolerable.

Grabbing his gear, the soldier got to his feet. He carried with him the usual handguns and also had brought along a Heckler & Koch MP-5 K. He looped the SMG’s strap over his head and right shoulder, then pulled on a lightweight black trench coat to hide his weapons and other gear.

Walking up to the edge of the roof, he set both palms on the ledge, swung first one leg, then the other over the side and lowered himself slowly until he hung from his fingertips. Releasing his grip, he dropped to the top landing of the fire escape below, folding into a crouch. He scrambled down the stairs until he reached the final landing and, releasing the ladder, dropped to the alley below. Light in the alley was limited. Bolan glided along the wall of the building he’d just left. He stopped at the corner, flattened his back against the wall and stole a glance around the edge and saw that the target warehouse remained busy. A tractor-trailer idled outside the building.

The soldier surged across the street to the outer perimeter of the warehouse, using the big truck for cover.

From his surveillance, he’d gathered that one or two guards patrolled the exterior at any given time. They didn’t wear uniforms, but instead dressed in khakis and royal-blue polo shirts. They looked as much like insurance salesmen as anything else, except for the pistols clipped to their belts. They appeared to communicate via mobile telephone rather than with radios. Both guards had deep brown skin and jet-black hair, and Bolan guessed they were of south Asian extraction.

One of the men was tall, wide and thick, built like a weightlifter. He wore his hair cut close to the scalp and rested the palm of his right hand on the butt of his pistol. The second guard was big, too, but soft, dumpy. A lit cigarette dangled from his lower lip.