Читать книгу Radical Edge - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

Outside Alamogordo, New Mexico

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, put a single 9 mm bullet through the left eye of the tattooed, skinhead terrorist, stepping over the body just as it collapsed onto the dusty ground. Shifting the FN P90 he wore on a sling across his chest, he let the silenced snout of his Beretta lead the way.

Neo-Nazis, Bolan thought with distaste. A dime a dozen. The domestic terrorists were like roaches, forever scuttling about no matter how many you crushed under your boot.

The soldier continued his slow crawl along the fence line surrounding the ramshackle, clapboard safe house. The structure was a mess; it appeared, at first glance, to be a mass of sun-bleached plywood and faded plastic tarps held together with hope and weighed down with cinder blocks.

A second skinhead sentry risked a look around the corner of the building, probably thinking he had heard something. He had, and it was the second-to-last thing he ever would hear. The very last thing was the muffled clap of Bolan’s Beretta as a 147-grain hollowpoint bullet dug a channel through the sentry’s brain.

Bolan moved quickly, crouched low, staying beneath the sight lines of the open windows. They were covered with heavy plastic over sheets of what was probably Plexiglas. The interior of the safe house buzzed with activity. Heavy-metal music blared from a stereo. Shouts and jeers could be heard. There was a party going on inside. Bolan had to hand it to the terrorists; they were remarkably true to type. When neo-Nazis weren’t preying on those they hated, they spent their free time mired in teenage-mentality hedonism. The fact that they had posted sentries at all surprised Bolan, at least mildly.

Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm, Virginia, had placed the secure satellite call to Bolan in the middle of the night, waking the Executioner.

“They’re animals, Striker,” Brognola had said, using Bolan’s code name. “Latter-day race cultists, worse than every skinhead and white supremacist gang you’ve taken down in years past. The group calls itself Twelfth Reich.”

“That’s imaginative,” Bolan had commented.

Brognola ignored that. “Their leader is one Shane Hyde. His file and psych profile are long and complicated. ‘Delusional nut job’ is the short version, but with caveats. He’s not so unbalanced that he isn’t also extremely dangerous, nor so wide-eyed that he’ll tip his hand before he’s ready. He has military experience, too. He was discharged from the Army on medical grounds just after Desert Storm. Seems his commanding officer considered him unstable and, after a series of altercations with several black and Hispanic soldiers, Hyde was shuffled around until the Army could be rid of him. He disappeared for a few years after his discharge, only to reappear on the Mexico border at the center of several high-profile immigration disputes.”

“I take it he’s not a fan of illegal aliens.”

“Who is?” Brognola sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth. Which meant he was chewing an unlit cigar, something he did under stress. Bolan could hear the edge in his old friend’s voice. “Hyde is an avowed racist, but he’s not just that. He’s got charisma, Striker. He’s smart and he knows how to network. He’s got a real knack for locating, and absorbing into his plans, people who share his outrage over the plight of the white middle class in America. That’s his rallying cry, incidentally. He sees himself as champion of what he calls ‘the only group it’s socially acceptable to oppress.’”

“He hasn’t just talked about it.”

“No. We believe he’s personally or indirectly responsible for at least a score of racially motivated bombings and murders,” Brognola said. “The pace of the crimes tenuously linked to Hyde and Twelfth Reich is increasing, too. They’re getting stronger and growing more bold. Until now they’ve done their best to keep secret, for the most part. The FBI has been on to them, or to parts of several cells, for a while now, trying to build a case that would take the investigation to the top. Hyde’s cagey, though. He’s managed to stay far enough from his handiwork that most of the ‘legitimate’ government agencies don’t have enough on him.”

“That sounds thin, Hal.”

“That’s because that’s not all there is to it,” Brognola said. “The Bureau had a special team on this, not long after the intelligence community started getting wind of Twelfth Reich as a cohesive organization. They put an undercover group on it, three trained operatives. But something went wrong. Two of them never came back. The third lived but, like his fellow agents, he lost his family. Hyde’s people are believed to be behind the arson deaths of seven civilians, all told. They staged simultaneous raids on the agents’ homes, duct-taped whoever they found inside and burned them alive.”

Bolan said nothing for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. “The survivor?”

“Beaten, maimed and left for dead,” Brognola said. “At last word, he was living in an assisted-care facility in San Diego. We believe one of the three agents was tortured badly enough to give up the other two. The corpse’s fingernails and teeth had been removed.”

“Yeah,” Bolan said. He had seen it done, seen the aftermath of such barbarity, more than once.

“After the disaster,” Brognola explained, “the investigation stalled. Any information the agents might have gathered undercover was lost with them. The survivor, Agent Russell Troy, couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about it. I’m told he was catatonic for a while. Whatever the reasons, nothing solid on Hyde or his fellow race cultists was produced. Various agencies here and abroad have tried since. Interpol would love to get their hands on Hyde, too, because we’ve traced him to several trips abroad. He is believed to be spearheading a push for renewed racist violence in Europe, and may well be the man behind three different separatist cells. We know he’s been linked to the terrorist group Ausländer Toten, half a dozen of whom were caught with the components of a Russian military surplus nuke in Berlin three weeks ago.”

“So Hyde has his claws in a lot of pies,” Bolan said. “How do we know? If we can’t get anything on him officially, where’s this intel coming from?”

“Largely through the efforts of Bear and his people,” Brognola said, referring to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of Stony Man Farm’s computer team. “He’s tweaked the internet chatter algorithms we use to screen sensitive and secure or encrypted data traffic. In its infancy it was part of the old Carnivore program that most of the public has heard about. In reality, it’s worlds more advanced.”

“But what it gives you isn’t legally actionable,” Bolan said.

“No,” Brognola admitted. “Not even a little. Which is where you come in, Striker.”

“You had my attention at ‘animals.’”

“Twelfth Reich hasn’t yet publicly claimed responsibility for what is now a series of increasingly deadly terrorist attacks. Most of these have been covered up, described as gang killings or the results of failed drug deals, that sort of thing. The hope was to prevent a national panic should the extent of Twelfth Reich’s involvement at the national level—and its body count—come to light. But Bear and his team have intercepted communications from Twelfth Reich cells that tell us something big is coming. We think they’re getting ready to announce themselves publicly. There’ll be no ignoring them when they do.”

“Which means you’ll have a domestically produced al Qaeda on your hands,” Bolan surmised.

“Exactly,” Brognola said. “Imagine the damage it would do to public confidence in the government, and in Homeland Security, if we can’t stop this before it reaches that point. Twelfth Reich strikes conducted multiple times per month, even per week, with sympathetic media outlets serving as mouthpieces for the terrorists. We’ll lose control of the playing field, Striker. We’ll be on the defensive, reacting instead of intercepting. Once we start down that slope we’ve got nowhere to go but utter failure.”

“You really think it will get that bad?”

“I do. Hyde is laying the groundwork with certain talk show figures and journalists he believes are receptive to his message,” Brognola said. “Bear brought us the raw feeds, tied to his keyword sweeps across the web, but to their credit, most of the media figures contacted thus far have since reported the solicitations to the authorities. We’re sitting on them, for now. We don’t want Hyde to know that we know.”

“What do you want me to do?” Bolan asked.

“The Farm has compiled, leveraging the Bureau’s past intelligence, a priority list of targets for you. Some of them are places we think Hyde may go to ground. Others are potential targets. We’ve isolated two of the former, a pair of safe houses located very close to each other in New Mexico, as Priority Alpha. One of these is Shane Hyde’s most likely base of operations. We want you to hit them both, and we want you to find Hyde.”

“Find and eliminate?”

“No,” Brognola said. “That’s the problem. He has intelligence that could put us ahead of the terrorist networks in Europe. We need to know what’s inside his brain. We need you to take him alive.”

Bolan considered that for a moment. “That’s not going to be easy.”

“I know, Striker,” Brognola said. “There are few men I would ask even to try. But we need him breathing and able to tell us what he knows. The Man is getting a lot of pressure from agencies here and abroad. Strings were pulled to make sure we’re on point in this, which means we’re running interference with the National Security Agency, Department of Homeland Security and the FBI to keep them out of the mix.”

“They don’t like not knowing who’s handling it,” Bolan offered.

“Yes,” Brognola said. “It’s our job now, but there are plenty of people who’d like to take it from us. The Man himself was very clear about this. The President needs this problem resolved before it starts to seriously hinder his credibility with the international law-enforcement community.”

“The logical thing to do,” Bolan said, “would be to send blacksuits to each target. Simultaneously.”

“I can’t give the order not to fire on Shane Hyde to that many men,” Brognola said. “They’ll be walking in there with their hands tied behind their backs. They’ll either hold off too long and get shot up, or they’ll be too quick to fire, and a stray bullet or a miscalculated shot will take Hyde out for good. There’s also the fact that we need to do this more or less discreetly because we’re doing it extralegally. We don’t have enough hard evidence on Hyde and Twelfth Reich, not to justify an operation as decisive as this. We’ve been ordered to cut out a cancer. I need a surgeon. I need you, Striker.”

“Understood,” Bolan said. “What about support?”

“We may be able to draw a certain amount of backup from DHS or the Bureau,” Brognola said. “It will mean admitting that Justice is in charge, which will get my phone ringing. That’s nothing I’m not used to doing whenever you’re in the field. But again, discretion is called for…if not simply because the Man needs this done quickly and quietly.”

“Or he looks as if he’s not in control of the situation,” Bolan said.

“Exactly.”

“And if I don’t find Hyde at this Priority Alpha? Follow-up is going to have to be fast, Hal, if I can’t count on simultaneous containment. Frontal, hard assault will get Hyde’s attention. When word gets out that I’m rattling cages, he and his men will hunt for cover and dig in. I’ll have to run them down site to site.”

“I know,” Brognola said. “I’m transmitting files to your phone now. Jack has orders to report to your location. He’ll bring suitable transportation, something fast with decent range.”

Bolan nodded, though Brognola could not see him. Jack was Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi, a man whose war against society’s predators dated back almost as far as Bolan’s own. “Have him bring me something that goes bang.”

“I’ll make sure the armory sends along a care package.”

“Then I’d better go,” Bolan said, as his phone vibrated under his hand, signaling receipt of Brognola’s data files. “I’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on.”

“You do, at that,” Brognola had said. “Good hunting, Striker. I realize I’m dropping you into a meat grinder. I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option.”

“Yeah,” Bolan said.

“And…Striker?”

“Yeah?”

“You could say no. You always have that option.”

“I know that. Do you?”

“I do,” Brognola had admitted. “You’ve made it very clear that what you do occurs on your own terms.”

“Then you also know why I won’t refuse,” Bolan said. “Striker, out.”

That had been mere hours ago. Now Bolan’s boots were on the ground in New Mexico, his familiar Beretta was in his hand and dead terrorists were already assuming ambient temperature in his wake. A double-edged Sting combat knife rode in a custom Kydex scabbard inside his waistband behind his left hip; a massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle rode in a similar Kydex holster behind his right. Over the shoulder of his formfitting combat blacksuit he wore an olive-drab canvas war bag, which carried the other munitions and tools he might need. He had not yet deployed his subgun, but he would need it only too soon.

The promised care package had turned out to be the FN P-90, Belgium’s contribution to the world’s most innovative submachine guns. The lightweight bullpup weapon, no longer than the width of Bolan’s shoulder blades, fired 900 rounds per minute of 5.7 mm cartridges to an effective range of 200 meters. Equipped with a tritium-illuminated reflex sight, the weapon fired from a closed bolt for maximum accuracy. It was one of the quietest weapons of its type Bolan had ever fired, with superb ergonomics. Its horizontal magazines were loaded with fifty rounds each.

It was time to knock on the door.

Bolan made sure his Beretta was set to 3-round-burst mode. He reached into his war bag, grabbed a flash-bang grenade and popped the pin with his thumb. Counting silently, he pushed the grenade through the corner of one of the windows, where the Plexiglas didn’t completely cover the gap. Then he quickly made his way across the front of the building to the opposite side of the front door, opened his mouth wide and shut his eyes.

His quick surveillance of the building prior to making his run had told him there was only one entrance. Unless they threw themselves from the windows, the skinheads would have to flee through the—

The flash-bang detonated. The explosion, even contained within the house, was almost loud enough to hurt. The flash left afterimages in Bolan’s vision through his eyelids. The screams and cries from within were immediate and not surprising. The warped wooden door at the entrance was thrown open, and it banged against the front of the building.

The skinhead who stumbled out carried a .45 automatic pistol in one hand. His eyes were clenched shut and streaming tears. He was moaning, producing no words but making a lot of noise. He had probably been near the door when the flash-bang went off. He had obviously taken some of the worst of it. Bolan raised the Beretta and squeezed off a 3-round burst into the center of the man’s chest. He fell, hard, and did not move.

Moving smoothly, with deliberate, gliding strides, the Executioner made for the doorway. He held the Beretta 93R in a firm, two-hand grip as he crossed the threshold. Within the main area of the house, thin plywood walls had been erected to create a warren of tight, mazelike rooms beyond the central party area in which he now stood. Thermal imaging from Stony Man Farm’s satellite photos had told Bolan everything he needed to know about the layout.

There were two skinheads, writhing on the floor, a revolver and a sawed-off shotgun nearby. When the pair heard Bolan’s footfalls, they clawed along the floor for their lost weapons.

The Executioner walked through a kick to the head of the closer target, which snapped the skinhead’s skull to the side. He couldn’t reach both men in time; the second had his hand wrapped around the cracked wooden grips of the oldest and rustiest revolver Bolan had seen in a long time. A single burst from the Beretta put a stop to that.

He heard the scream then. Of course. There would be women here. Wherever there was human trash, there were dissolute paramours. Whatever their sins, if the women weren’t skinhead terrorists themselves, they were innocents.

But there was no way to tell, quickly, which they would be.

He heard the shuffle of feet on the other side of the plywood wall he faced, almost felt the clack of a shotgun pump being racked. He threw himself to the floor as the blast punched first one, then another, then a third quarter-size hole through the crumbling wood. The shooter was loading deer slugs.

From his sight angle on the floor, Bolan could see movement behind the slug holes. He waited until the gunman—who was tall and wide enough, from what Bolan could see, that he must be male—blocked the light over all three holes. Bolan heard the sound of the shotgun pump being hauled back again. He lined up his target at the center of the three-hole group and squeezed the Beretta’s trigger.

The Executioner’s 3-round burst provoked a grunt; the body blocking the holes fell away. Bolan could feel the vibration of the gunman as he dropped to the floorboards.

The soldier pushed himself back to his feet, staying low. The doorway leading beyond was really just a ragged opening in the plywood walls. It offered no true cover, only concealment. He would have to stay mobile to clear the rest of the house. A spray from an automatic weapon could rip through the entire structure with ease, ending his life while mowing down anyone else who happened to get in the way. That option wasn’t open to Bolan.

He heard the scream again, followed by an angry retort. That was a male’s voice.

“Shut up! Stand there! He’s coming!”

That was all Bolan needed. He had the man’s position fixed and, diving through the doorway, he punched the Beretta up and out from the floor, flicking the selector to single shot as he did so.

The skinhead, crouched behind a three-legged wooden table, had a naked, bleached-blond, heavily tattooed woman in a headlock. She wriggled and squirmed, trying to escape the line of fire in which her captor had put her. When she screamed again, the would-be domestic terrorist tightened his arm, choking off her cries. The skinhead glared at Bolan. He held a huge Bowie knife in his hand.

“You just back off, man, or I’ll—”

Bolan fired.