Zero option, p.22
Zero Option, page 22
Stahl considered the implications. Stengard had the military connections and the clout needed for the follow-up to getting Buchanan and Zero under their control. Stengard had been an important part of the project to embrace Zero and its ultimate power. Without him things would be a little harder to achieve. But as long as he had Buchanan and Kaplan in his hands, matters were far from over.
“Well, Mr. Ryan, it seems a field commission is in order. How do feel about taking over? Are you still in?”
“Do my best to match up to the colonel, Senator. It won’t be easy. He was the best.”
Stahl made sympathetic noises, allowing Ryan his moment of maudlin sentimentality.
“Take control of the situation in there. We can’t afford to lose Buchanan at this point. Make sure he does nothing once he is capable of making contact with Zero. Let me know when that happens, and we’ll make certain we end up with total control.”
“Senator, we’re sailing pretty close to the wind here. You still think we can bring this off?”
“I’m aware of all of Stengard’s contacts. They still have the equipment and people in the right positions. If we can get control of Zero, then we have the strongest card of all, and this game is going to be ours. Ryan, no one ever achieved anything of significance without risk. What the hell, man, do you want to live forever?”
“Senator, I can see how you got to be where you are.”
“Keep Buchanan alive until you limit the damage down there.”
Stahl cut the call and leaned forward. “You hear that, Curtis?”
“Yes, sir. Shame about the colonel, but we’re not in the business of baking cakes. People get hurt.”
“Exactly. Curtis, head back to Washington. Rail yards near Union Station. I’ll direct you when we get close.”
“Doesn’t sound like we’re going to a party, Senator.”
Stahl smiled. “Depends on your concept of what a party is, Curtis.”
THE BLACK SUV swung in through sagging metal gates, bumping over potholes and through deep puddles. A rust-streaked sign proclaimed Stahl Warehousing. Within the high mesh fencing the blocks of large storage buildings were dark and run-down. The main company had ceased using them years ago. The area was littered with debris.
Behind the SUV came a second vehicle, a dark-colored sedan. Backup.
It was close to dusk. Shadows were creeping out from the corners and spreading across the site. It was raining again, and the gray sky was heavy with swollen clouds.
The SUV eased in through half-open doors, rolling inside the cavernous building. It came to a stop close to where offices had once been the operational hub of the Stahl distribution center.
The sedan stayed outside, armed hardmen climbing out to keep watch.
The rear doors of the SUV were opened. Bolan and Valens were hauled out. Although they were reasonably recovered from the effects of the stun grenade, Bolan remained silent, as if he were still under the influence. He had to be pushed around to make him do anything and failed to react when spoken to.
The hardmen who had accompanied them to the warehouse gathered in a loose group. There were four of them, three carrying M-16s and the fourth a combat shotgun. All wore holstered pistols.
The sound of an engine starting reached them. The sound rose as the limousine carrying Eric Stahl rolled down the warehouse and came to a stop alongside the SUV.
Curtis got out and walked to the rear door. He opened it and Stahl emerged. He crossed to where Bolan and Valens stood.
“This is Belasko?”
“This is the guy,” one of the hardmen said.
“He doesn’t look all that special to me. How in hell did he get away causing so much damage?”
“Simple, Senator. He’s good. Have to give him that. He’s a nervy son of a bitch.”
“And this must be Agent Valens.” Stahl looked her up and down. “What a waste. Good-looking woman like this shouldn’t be running around shooting off guns. Her place is in the bedroom giving special service.”
“Senator, if that was true I’d expect to handle real men. So you wouldn’t even be on my client list.”
Stahl’s face hardened. Behind him one of the hardmen choked back a snigger. The senator’s eyes blazed with sudden anger. He lashed out with his bunched fist, catching Valens across the mouth and knocking her off her feet. Valens sprawled on the dirty feet, head down, blood dripping from her lips.
“No respect,” Stahl said. “One of today’s problems.”
He swung around to face Bolan again. There was something in the man’s blank stare that added to his rage.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Effects of the stun grenade. Takes longer to wear off some people.”
“Jesus, that’s all I need. I have to question this man.” Stahl raised his hands in a gesture of futility. “I’m paying all this fucking money and what do I get? Shit by the wagon load.”
For a moment Stahl lost it. All his disappointments, the setbacks, the losses. They boiled to the surface in a flash of white-hot rage.
He lunged forward, swinging his fists at the man he knew as Belasko.
They never landed.
Bolan erupted into action, knocking aside Stahl’s ill-judged attack. He caught hold of the senator’s coat and hauled the man up close, then swung him around to collide with the nearest hardman. The startled man tried to avoid the stumbling senator, but failed. Stahl bowled into him, pushing him off balance, and gave Bolan the chance to duck in under Stahl’s flapping arms. Bolan snatched the pistol from the hardman’s holster and jabbed the muzzle into its former owner’s side. Bolan triggered a trio of shots that cored into the man’s body and blew out the other side in a bloody spray. As the injured man fell, Bolan turned and took long strides toward the parked SUV. He dropped to the floor and rolled under the vehicle, aware he only had seconds before they came after him. He was almost out the other side when the hand gripping the pistol snagged against something under the chassis. The gun was torn from his grip. Bolan heard it clatter across the concrete, lost in the shadows. He came out on the far side of the SUV, pushing to his feet and into the shadows near the empty offices.
The belated crackle of M-16s followed him, slugs snapping and chewing at the office block, tearing out splinters of wood and shattering glass.
“Goddamn. Spread out.”
“Find him.”
“Bring in the guys from outside.”
The final command came from a shrill-voiced Eric Stahl.
“Don’t let him get away.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bolan spotted a flicker of movement close by his left side, the subdued glimmer of light on the metal of a shotgun. At the same time he heard the scrape of a boot on the concrete as someone closed in from the front, the snap of a slide racking back, then forward to push a load into the breech.
Bolan reacted instantly. He moved out of his cover, his upper body twisting, bringing him around to face the shotgunner, his hands reaching to grasp the weapon. The shotgunner hadn’t been expecting his target to confront him. His delay was all Bolan needed. The Executioner wrenched the shotgun from his hands, swiveling the deadly weapon and driving the hardwood butt into the gunner’s face. Bone snapped and blood spurted. The man fell back, gasping, hands reaching up to cover his bleeding face. A rush of sound warned Bolan of a second attack. An M-16 loosed a burst that sent slugs reaching into the shadows way off target. Bolan sourced the position of the shooter. He was facing the target, the shotgun on track, finger against the trigger. Dropping to a crouch in the fraction of a second before the man fired again, Bolan triggered the shotgun, sending the powerful charge into the blacksuit’s lower torso. The close range of the shot ripped the man’s body open, splintering ribs and destroying his internal organs. The guy didn’t have time to scream as he was kicked off his feet and thrown across the floor with dark blood misting the air around him. He landed hard, the back of his skull smacking against the concrete with an ugly sound.
“You fuck—”
The sound came from the ex-shotgunner. Bolan spun, still crouching, and saw the man fumbling for the handgun he carried. His left hand was still pressed to his bloody face.
Bolan jacked the slide and raised the shotgun. He fired into the bulk of the man’s body, the charge ripping its way through flesh and muscle, carving a fatal path that put the shotgunner down in a tangle of flailing limbs and mushrooming gouts of blood.
He heard raised voices, the sound of running feet. Others were closing on his position. Bolan turned, pushing deeper into the shadows around the office block, shouldering aside piles of debris, broken packing cases, stacks of wood.
His exit from the building was an open gap where a wooden door had once hung. Now the opening led directly into the rain-drenched night. There was no easy, comfortable way of doing it. Bolan paused only briefly, working the slide to put another round in the shotgun’s breech, then went through and outside. The crackle of autofire followed him, bullets chewing at the door frame, blowing a hail of splintered wood in Bolan’s wake. He turned away from the door, ignoring the heavy downpour that soaked him in seconds. The rain was bouncing off the ground, silvery sheets driven by the wind that was gusting around the sprawl of empty industrial buildings.
Bolan moved on, shots following him, the snap and zip of passing bullets spurring him to find cover before luck gave up on him. He couldn’t allow that to happen. There were too many scores to settled. Too much to be exposed.
Off to his right a dark figure ran out from behind cover, lifting a weapon. Flashes of fire and the crackle of shots forced Bolan to alter his course, and he took a headlong dive behind piled wooden packing crates. He rolled across the rain-drenched concrete, hearing the burst of fire chew and splinter the crates. Coming to his knees, the soldier swung around, picking up the slap of feet as his attacker closed in, maybe believing he had hit his target. Bolan picked up the man’s sharp breathing as he bulled his way around the end of the crates, overconfidence allowing him to step into the open, his gaze searching the gloom behind the stack.
The shotgun was already up and leveled, and Bolan stroked the trigger as the guy appeared. The shadows were briefly lit by the spout of fire from the muzzle. The reckless shooter took the charge full in the face. He went backward, his scream turning into a strangled gurgle as his pulped throat collapsed, blood filling his mouth. His body hit the concrete with a sodden thump, one heel drumming against the ground in a final spasm of resistance against the overwhelming pain.
Bolan crouched to pick up the M-16 the man had dropped. He slung it by the strap, then eased back into the gloom. Night had fallen quickly. The darkness didn’t worry Bolan; it was his ally, providing cover as he prowled the site, seeking the enemy.
He had become the hunter now. In this savage world of betrayal and deceit, where men had turned against their own country to aid one man’s selfish desires, there would be no mercy this night.
Mack Bolan had turned the game around. He had the advantage because he had seen the face of his enemies, and he was moving in for the kill.
He checked the shotgun. By his estimation he had two shots left. A nearly full magazine was in the M-16. It was enough for what he had to do here.
The noise of the rainfall covered his movements. Bolan skirted the immediate area and worked his way around to the front of the warehouse where he and Claire Valens had been brought. Crouching behind a stack of metal, he saw the parked sedan, one man waiting beside the car.
Bolan shouldered the M-16, taking his time as he made his target and put the guy down with a burst that cored in through the back of his skull. The impact threw him facedown on the concrete. The soldier moved immediately, staying low as he closed in on the building. He flattened against the door and peered inside.
He could see the parked SUV and Stahl’s limo. A number of figures stood around the area, clothing wet from exposure to the rain. Bolan’s pursuers had regrouped for a council. He could see Valens, slumped on the floor, her back against the limo. Senator Stahl and his bodyguard were there, too. Stahl was haranguing the troops, his arms waving around as if he were giving a speech.
Bolan went in through the door, staying in the deeper shadows as he moved to bring the group within range. Choosing his position, the soldier laid the shotgun on the ground, bringing the M-16 into position. He had flicked the selector to single shot.
He braced himself across the top of a steel drum, settling the assault rifle on his first target. There was no hesitation in Bolan’s actions. Distance sniping was a skill he had acquired a long time ago, during his own military service, and that skill never went away.
His finger gently took up the trigger slack. The M-16’s muzzle locked on to the target. He took his time, fixing the distance in his mind.
His finger squeezed the trigger. He heard the shot, felt the M-16 kick against his shoulder and immediately switched to the next target. Now that he had his range, Bolan continued his sniping, firing before his first target had hit the floor. A second man spun away from the group. The cartridge cases chinked against the concrete at Bolan’s feet. He angled the muzzle around for his third shot, seeing the surviving three gunners splitting apart. He locked on and fired again, caught one directly between the shoulders, sending him in an ungracious dive. The man hit the floor facedown, the impact hard and uncompromising.
Stahl’s bodyguard reached out and hauled the senator aside, pushing him behind the cover of the SUV. Bolan laid a number of shots at the vehicle, seeing a window implode and holes punched through the body panels.
Movement caught his eye. Bolan saw one of the remaining hardmen bending over Valens. The guy hooked his left arm under her and dragged her upright. His intention was clear—to use Valens as a shield. Bolan brought the M-16 on track, his muzzle focused on the man’s head. Bolan knew he had a thin window before the guy had Valens fully in position, covering his body with hers and using her as a bargaining chip.
Bolan didn’t dwell on the moment. He shut down his emotions, ignoring the pale mask of Valens’s face as she put up a struggle. But he did see the bright smears of blood standing out against the flesh of her face.
He fired.
The M-16 cracked.
The 5.56 mm bullet took the man above his right eye, snapping his head back. He fell away from Valens, buckling at the knees, and went down hard, his rifle slipping from dead fingers.
Three to go.
Valens had dropped to her knees, but not out of weakness this time. Bolan saw her lean over and pick up the dropped M-16, haul it close to her body as she used the side of the limo to push to her feet.
Bolan allowed a thin smile to edge his mouth. He had to give her credit. Whatever else, Claire Valens was no quitter.
He spotted movement on the far side of the warehouse. A dark figure scuttling toward the door. The sole survivor.
Bolan went after him.
The hardman saw Bolan’s determined figure and brought up his rifle, triggering wild shots as he kept moving. The soldier ignored the chipping concrete, pausing to shoulder his own weapon.
He fired twice, his shots taking the moving man through the side of his torso, shattering ribs and tearing organs. The man’s full flight faltered. He slowed, struggling for breath. He began to cough, spitting blood. Then he sank to his knees and dropped to the floor.
Bolan turned away, heading back to where the two vehicles were parked. Somewhere in the shadows beyond were Stahl and his bodyguard.
And closer was Valens.
The crackle of an M-16 filled the warehouse; someone shouted.
Bolan picked up the pace and reached the SUV.
Valens had vanished.
Silence descended over the warehouse. The only noise Bolan could hear was the rain pounding the roof.
The crackle of an M-16 alerted Bolan to Valens’s presence. He heard the bullets clang against steelwork. There was a rush of movement, then a handgun returned fire.
Bolan moved past the SUV, his M-16 across his chest. He peered into the shadows at the distant end of the warehouse, trying to make out shapes.
Something warned him of a presence.
The Executioner turned, bringing the rifle into target acquisition. A bulky shape lunged at him, slammed bodily into him. Bolan fell back, hearing someone grunt. A hard object cracked against the side of his head, and he felt hot blood course down the side of his face, soaking the collar of his black-suit. He struck out with the M-16, felt the butt make contact, heard the gasp of expelled breath. The brief seconds of hesitation gave Bolan the chance to see his adversary.
It was Stahl’s bodyguard, Curtis.
Curtis lunged at Bolan again, bringing his handgun in line for a shot.
Bolan dropped to the floor, sweeping his leg around and knocking Curtis off his feet. The man grunted with the impact as he hit the concrete. The Executioner rolled, then sat up, saw Curtis recovering and clubbed him across the side of the head with the M-16. The blow spun Curtis away. He lost his grip on the pistol, struggling to shake off the effects of the head blow.
They got to their feet together, Curtis bloody faced and uncoordinated, Bolan set now as he reversed the M-16 and put two shots into his target. The 5.56 mm slugs cored through Curtis’s chest cavity and into his heart, punching him off his feet. This time the bodyguard didn’t get up.
“Belasko, over here,” Valens yelled.
Bolan followed the sound of her voice and found her with Stahl.
The senator looked disheveled, his expensive suit streaked with dirt and oil from the warehouse floor. A bloody smear marred the side of his face. His lips were split and bleeding. He was backed up against the side of the SUV, hands partway raised as Valens covered him with the M-16.
“Jesus, get this bitch off me,” he demanded. “She’s crazy enough to kill me.”
“You want my help?” Bolan asked.
“I’m a United States senator. I have more influence than you realize. Harm me and—”
“Stahl, shut your mouth,” Valens said. “Because of you, people are dead. My partner included. Murdered by that sick buddy of yours. The late Colonel Stengard. Right now your status is down to less than nothing.”
