Читать книгу Deadly Command - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Bolan found Bertolli’s building and parked in the alley, then walked back to the front and entered the lobby. It was an old building, with few modern electronics. He paused at the indicator board and read off the list of offices and companies. Bertolli—Financial Adviser was on the third floor. Bolan climbed the stairs. He could hear business being conducted behind the closed doors of the offices he passed—the occasional sound of telephones, people chattering.

He reached the third floor and walked the corridor until he came to the door he wanted. The carpet underfoot was worn and dusty. It was obvious that Bertolli had maintained a low profile, conducting his dealings for Bella in seclusion. His financial advice business concealed his involvement in more lucrative operations.

The door, with its frosted glass upper panel, was in keeping with the rest of the building. Bolan grasped the handle and put his hip against the wooden frame, feeling the inner lock give after the third solid thrust. He held the door, glancing round. The corridor was empty. The soldier eased the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind him.

The office decor was impersonal and drab: one desk with a leather swivel seat, shelves holding box files, a row of filing cabinets, a couple of wooden chairs lined up against a wall. Bolan crossed to the desk, which held only a few office items—a phone, a desk pad.

Bolan checked the desk drawers. In the second one down he found an expensive laptop. He slid it out, then closed the drawer and straightened.

And looked at the muzzle of a pistol aimed at him.

There were two men, young and hard-faced. The one by the door had the look of the leader, and he had a hefty pistol in one hand. The other guy, who was holding the pistol on Bolan, had a faint smirk on his angular face.

“Naughty, naughty,” he crowed. “It’s illegal to break into someone’s office and steal things.”

“I’ll try not to lose sleep over it,” Bolan said.

“Should I rap him in the mouth?”

The guy at the door said, “No, Rick, but you should check him for a weapon.”

“Yeah,” the gunner said, and proceeded to feel under Bolan’s coat. He withdrew the Beretta. “You got a license to carry this?”

Bolan resisted the urge to make another smart reply. There was a gleam in the guy’s eyes that told him this one was less in control than his partner.

“You think he’s a cop?”

“No.”

“Fed of some kind. I don’t like Feds.”

“Only their mothers like Feds.”

The gunner dropped the Beretta into a side pocket of his jacket and flicked his head at Bolan.

“Let’s go,” he said before scooping up the laptop and stepping up close behind Bolan.

The guy by the door opened it and checked the corridor.

“Out,” he said. “Turn left and make for the fire exit at the end of the hall.”

The exit door was unlocked and Bolan was escorted through and down the iron fire escape fixed to the outer wall. It took them to a small parking lot, at the rear of the building.

Bolan watched as the laptop was placed inside a late-model Ford. He was considering his options, trying to place himself ahead of the game.

“We taking a ride?” he asked, directing his question at the lead guy.

“We’ve got what we came for, plus you,” the man said. He was looking pleased with himself. “You’re a bonus. The boss is going to be happy seeing you. Maybe you can tell him where Bertolli is.”

“Why should I know? He’s the guy I was looking for myself.”

“Rick, check him over again in case he has a backup.”

Bolan let the guy frisk him. They had his 93-R. It was his only weapon, but the pair was smart enough to make sure for themselves.

“He’s clean,” Rick said, disappointment in his tone.

“Hand me his pistol,” the lead guy said.

Rick passed it over.

“Thought I recognized it.” He inspected the Beretta, balancing it in his hand. “Nice piece,” he said with genuine appreciation.

Rick glanced at it. “It’s just a fuckin’ gun, Jerry. Don’t go getting a hard-on for it.”

“You think? This is a Beretta 93-R, an Italian masterpiece. There’s a setting on the selector that let’s you fire three-round bursts. How many other semiautos can do that?”

Jerry’s partner waggled his head. “Big whoop.”

“Rick, being a moron isn’t enough for you. You prove it every time you open your mouth.”

“Hey! There’s no call for that. I ain’t that dumb. Who got the blonde piece everyone was after the other night? Huh? Go on, tell me. Well, it wasn’t you, Beretta man.”

Jerry shook his head. “Just like I said, Rick, dumb as ever. Stop thinking with your dick and use your brain for a change.”

Rick stared at his partner for long seconds, concentration screwing up his face. Then he decided Jerry was belittling him, and he leaned forward to swipe at Jerry’s arm. “Cut that out…”

He didn’t finish. In fact those three words were the last he ever spoke.

Bolan moved, using the thin window of opportunity, and caught hold of Rick’s extended arm. He propelled the guy forward into Jerry, following through to slam his right elbow down into the back of Rick’s neck. The blow was hard, driving the guy to his knees. Before Rick hit the concrete Bolan had moved on, gripping Jerry’s gun arm and forcing it down. Jerry’s finger jerked the trigger and the pistol fired with a hard bang. The slug cored into the back of Rick’s skull, exiting through his face and blowing bloody gore onto the ground. Bolan drove the palm of his right hand up into Jerry’s face, crushing his nose. Blood squirted in bright streams. The sudden pain drained Jerry’s resistance, and he uttered a strangled moan. The Executioner hit him again, going for the man’s throat, knuckles driving into soft flesh and crushing everything in its path. Jerry gagged, dropping both guns he was holding, and clawed at his ruined throat, desperately trying to suck in air that wasn’t coming. He fell back against the side of the car as Bolan picked up the dropped Beretta. He stepped back and fired a single shot into Jerry’s skull, silencing him completely.

The soldier slid the Beretta into its shoulder holster, then went through the dead men’s pockets. They were carrying very little—some loose cash and a cell phone from Jerry’s leather jacket.

Bolan crossed to the car and slid inside. The laptop lay where Rick had placed it. Noticing a GPS unit mounted on the dash, he turned on the ignition and powered up the unit, checking on the current setting. The small screen illustrated a route that had been entered recently, according to the time readout. It might offer Bolan a destination. He detached the GPS unit from the dash, unplugged it from the power source and took it, along with the laptop, with him.

Back in his own car Bolan set the GPS unit on the dash panel and turned it on. The recent settings still showed. He took the cell phone he’d found and checked it out. No voice calls, but there were a couple of text messages. Bolan opened them. The first was a text from the cell phone provider, offering Jerry free credits. The soldier went to the second, most recent message. It had been received no more than a half hour ago. The text advised Jerry to enter the coordinates that followed into his GPS and to drive the route. They were expected within the next hour. At the end of the message was a single name— Bella. When Bolan checked the coordinates from the text they matched the ones entered into the GPS unit.

He started the car and drove out of the lot, following the screen directions and the female voice backup. He had no idea where he was going to end up, but if it brought him to Fredo Bella it was going to be worth the trip.

The journey lasted almost forty-five minutes. Though the dark and the rain made it difficult for Bolan to know where this trip was taking him, he was aware of the less than pleasant landscape as he drove down poorly illuminated streets, with rundown buildings on either side. There were abandoned cars. Shuttered windows. Then he was entering what would have been a busy industrial section of the city at one time, but urban decay had taken hold, leaving only blackened, abandoned buildings.

Bolan recalled what Jerry had said about Bertolli. It was plain the man had gone missing, and his disappearance was a mystery to Bella’s people. Maybe Bolan could figure it out later.

The soldier followed the GPS as it led him deeper into the industrial wasteland. The voice told him he was within a few hundred yards of his journey’s end. He swung the car into the deep shadows of an open-ended structure that had rusted, overgrown steel rails leading inside. He killed the engine and sat, hearing only the heavy rain on the corrugated roof above him.

Jerry and Rick had been ordered to meet with Bella at this location. Bolan was certain it wasn’t an invitation to a wine tasting.

Something was happening.

Imminently.

Bolan decided to crash the party.

Exiting the car, he raised the trunk and slipped off his outer clothing, revealing his blacksuit underneath. A black baseball cap completed his uniform. From his war bag he chose his weapons and checked their loads. He slipped a compact, powerful monocular into a pocket, closed the trunk and locked the car, placing the key in one of his blacksuit’s secure pockets. The GPS had shown that his destination lay directly to his right. Bolan followed the route, working his way silently through the gloom and the steady downpour. The falling rain would cover his movements and any peripheral sound he might make.

He spotted his destination through the downpour—a haze of light at first, then as he closed in, he made out the dark bulk of the building. Open doors showed him movement inside. Bolan edged closer, using the scatterings of industrial debris as cover as he moved in.

Bolan took out the monocular and focused in on the open doors of the building. He spotted vehicles, men moving back and forth, lifting wooden crates from the largest truck and distributing them between the smaller vehicles. There was enough illumination for him to be able to identify the size and shape of the boxes, even down to the military markings on them.

He saw a number of the men carrying weapons as they kept an eye on the proceedings.

A single, armed sentry covered the exterior, and overseeing the operation was the man himself.

Fredo Bella, in his expensive clothing, dominated the scene as he issued orders.

The darkness cloaked Bolan, the persistent rain matching his mood. He crouched close to his target, a chill wind tugging at his blacksuit. The sprawl of industrial buildings, long abandoned, served the predators who had no idea the Executioner was about to descend upon them and reduce their business to ashes. Inside the derelict structure they handled their illegal merchandise, preparing to ship out the weapons for the deals they had already made, none of them realizing the fury already making his move to close them down.

As he eased up behind the lone sentry by the entrance, Bolan wiped cold rain from his eyes with his sleeve, ignoring the keen slice of the wind scything across the compound. He adjusted the M-16 A-2 across his back where it hung alongside his regular 9 mm Uzi, reaching down to free the Cold Steel Tanto knife from its sheath at his waist. The black blade offered no reflection as Bolan rose to his full height behind the sentry.

The Executioner was a black-clad wraith fully armed for what lay ahead.

The sentry felt the strong fingers that pushed the cap from his head and curled into his hair, yanking his head back, then drew breath as the keen edge of the knife etched across his taut throat. It bit deeply, severing everything in its path, releasing a surge of warm blood that spilled down over his waterproof jacket. He struggled in wordless agony, held upright by Bolan’s powerful grip until his strength dissipated along with his spilled blood. Only when the sentry ceased to struggle did Bolan allow him to slump to his knees, then onto his face. The man was still in spasm as the soldier stepped over him and paused briefly at the entrance. He loosened the M-16, peering inside the opening before he stepped through into the dimly lit interior. Crouching against the wall, lost in the deep shadows there, Bolan surveyed the scene, spotting a ragged line of heavy steel containers. He eased along the wall until the containers provided him with a wall of protection.

From there he was able to view the operation at close quarters.

Two dilapidated panel trucks were parked beneath a bank of pallid fluorescent lights. A number of men were busy checking and loading cases from a third, larger vehicle, distributing them between the panel trucks. Bolan located an expensive late-model BMW nearby, the gleaming paintwork speckled with raindrops.

Even as he looked over the situation, Bolan’s hands were checking his handguns, the 9 mm Beretta 93-R in his shoulder rig, the big Magnum Desert Eagle resting snugly in the high ride holster on his right hip. He carried extra magazines for each handgun, as well as for the M-16 and Uzi, in the combat harness over the blacksuit. In addition he carried a number of flash-bang grenades and M-34 phosphorous grenades.

Satisfied his intel was sound, Bolan eased off the M-16’s safety, selecting the triburst setting. He freed one of the flash-bang grenades, pulled the pin, then threw the canister so hard that it landed in between the parked panel trucks. Bolan opened his mouth, shielded his ears and turned his head away from the harsh burst of sound and white light as the grenade detonated. Men yelled in surprise and pain as they staggered back from the blast. Someone, perhaps shielded from the effects of the grenade, opened fire and Bolan heard slugs clanging off the metalwork around him. Angry shouts erupted.

Still crouching, the Executioner shouldered the M-16 and picked his targets. The tribursts from his rifle set up echoing noise. A man cried out as 5.56 mm slugs found his vulnerable flesh. Bolan swept the M-16’s muzzle back and forth, following targets and dropping a couple more before the main group found cover behind the parked vehicles and began to fire back.

“Spread,” a voice commanded. “Don’t give him easy targets.”

Figures fanned out across the floor, seeking shelter so makeshift firing positions could be established. Return fire was concentrated on Bolan’s position, the steel wall rejecting the hard slam of autofire. The soldier edged along the line of containers until he was clear of his original spot, then raised himself and opened fire again. He heard someone cursing, followed by the clatter of a dropped weapon. More voices called out. Bolan detected traces of panic in some of the words and allowed a thin smile to edge his lips.

He freed one of the M-34 phosphorous grenades, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb in the direction of one of the panel trucks. His aim turned out to be better than he might have imagined. The grenade landed inside the open rear doors, rolling to rest against the stacked cargo. One of the men saw it and made the mistake of scrambling inside the truck to retrieve the grenade. It detonated in the moment his fingers grasped it. The guy let out a harsh scream as the phosphorous burned its way into his flesh, gnawing deep into the bone. Howling in agony, the man was consumed as the phosphorous expanded, filling the truck interior with a blinding surge of incandescent heat that would reach 5,000º F. At the point where the stored ammunition began to ignite, the panel truck was blown apart, the stripped metal panels adding to misery being heaped upon the armed group, slivers of razor-sharp steel scything in all directions. Some of those fragments caught vulnerable flesh and men went to their knees in pain.

Bolan used the distraction to add his own brand of justice, the autorifle pumping out tribursts that took more of the men down. He replaced his empty magazine with a fresh one and kept up his steady fire, punching the shooters down as they attempted to take him out. It turned into an uneven contest. Bolan, despite the shots fired in his direction, continued to mop up.

Out the corner of his eye he saw a bulky, suited figure break free from cover, clearing the drifting smoke from the blown truck, and running in the direction of the BMW. Someone was leaving the party. Even in that brief moment, Bolan recognized Fredo Bella from the mug shot Kurtzman had sent him. The soldier swung the M-16 around, working the lever for single shots. He tracked his target and fired, the 5.56 mm slug impacting against the Bella’s right thigh, shattering bones. The Executioner followed with a second shot that cored into the man’s left leg and toppled him facedown on the grimy floor.

As the sound of the final shots faded, the silence broken only by the moans coming from Bella, Bolan checked out the area. Only when he was convinced the battle was over did he move from cover and inspect the other parked vehicles and their contents. He discovered a generous selection of weapons that included automatic rifles and automatic pistols, as well as a plentiful supply of ammunition for the various pieces. In one van he located a case of military Light Anti-Tank Weapons—LAWs. Bolan’s concern rose at the sight of the shoulder-launched missiles. The ordnance was destined for street gangs—urban crime. Automatic weapons were bad enough, but the inclusion of LAWs took the concept of street violence to a new level. It convinced Bolan that his intel had not been exaggerated. His foray here in Chicago was more than justified.

Bolan broke open one of the LAW boxes and lifted out three of the launchers, slinging them from his shoulder. Additional ordnance was always welcome. Backing off, he primed and dropped more M-34s into the remaining vehicles, including the BMW. With the grenades burning down their fuses, Bolan made a swift retreat and ducked for cover seconds before the grenades ignited and the fearsome burst of phosphorous threw out heat that turned the vehicles into blazing wrecks. The crackling sound of igniting ammunition echoed around the building. Smoke and fire followed in their wake.

Bolan exited as swiftly and silently as he had made his entrance, his work in the Windy City done for the moment. The people who ordered the weapons were going to be sorely disappointed. The Executioner’s work for this dark night was over.

The soldier worked his way out of the area, back to where he had parked his rental, he fished the key from a zip pocket, opened the trunk and placed his weapons inside. He pulled his civilian clothing back over his blacksuit, then donned a cord jacket. Taking his Beretta, he stowed it under the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. He nosed out of the shed and drove away from the battle zone, retracing the route he had used to come in. When he was several minutes away, he picked up the approaching sound of police cruisers. Bolan held his speed as he eased back to the main thoroughfare. He had reached a busy intersection when a couple of CPD cruisers sped by, followed by ambulances and a fire truck.

Twenty minutes later Bolan parked in the basement garage of his hotel, backing the rental into a slot. He locked the vehicle and picked up a leather attaché case from the rear seat. He dropped the Beretta into the case along with the laptop, slipped on the dark topcoat he’d kept on the seat and made his way from the garage to the hotel entrance. As he crossed the lobby, the lone woman behind the desk glanced up. She studied him for a moment, then smiled.

“Late finish?” she said as Bolan requested his key card.

“Corporate takeovers have no concept of time,” he said, giving her a friendly grin. “Some people just don’t know when to give in.”

“Room service is still available, Mr. Cooper. Can I arrange for something to be sent up?”

“Coffee and sandwiches would be nice,” Bolan said.

The woman stared into the warm blue eyes and decided that Mr. Cooper was a nice man. “Well, I hope your evening was successful.”

Mack Bolan nodded briefly. “It was,” he said. “Extremely productive.”

BOLAN PLUGGED the laptop into the room’s electrical outlet, powered it up and watched as the wireless internet connection set up. He opened the program and studied the saved files. They appeared to be in some kind of code that defeated Bolan’s limited IT skills. He used his cell phone to call Stony Man Farm. The call was eventually routed to the Computer Room, and he explained his problem to Akira Tokaido.

“No problem,” the computer hacker said. “Let me download those files and I’ll take a look.”

Bolan’s room service order arrived, so he left Tokaido to his computer code breaking. He had barely finished when his cell phone rang.

“Nothing difficult, Striker. The guy used a simple coding scheme to hide his files. Overseas bank accounts. Usual stuff. Some big amounts of money being handled here. I could quit and live off the interest these guys are making.”

“Anything else?”

“Telephone numbers, contact list, delivery dates.”

“Current details?”

“I can only tell you what I see. I can’t make sense of any of it.”

“Just give me what you have,” Bolan said. “You’re doing fine.”

“Latest information has an upcoming transaction at South Auto Salvage in Newark. Due midnight tomorrow.”

“You got any information on who runs South Auto Salvage?”

“Nicky Costanza. I checked him out. He’s a career criminal who’s into all kinds of rackets. Not a nice dude.”

“If they were all nice dudes, Akira, we’d be out of a job.”

“I guess so. I’ll transfer the information to your laptop. With pictures and GPS coordinates to land you right at South Auto Salvage’s front door.”

“Thanks for this,” Bolan said. “Tell Aaron I said you can have a raise.”

Tokaido laughed. “Do I get that in writing?”

“You wish.”