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Lethal Diversion
Don Pendleton
HIDE AND SEEKTerrorists have hidden a massive bomb in Detroit, but the White House and local police have no idea when and where it's going to go off. One thing is certain, thousands will die in the explosion unless Mack Bolan can intercept the device before time runs out.As each lead results in more dead bodies but surprisingly little intel, Bolan is convinced that this is a well-planned venture and that he and the police are mere pawns in the mastermind's scheme. But that's about to change. Tired of being led on a wild-goose chase and with the clock counting down, the Executioner is shifting the rules of the game–the hunter is about to become the hunted.
HIDE AND SEEK
Terrorists have hidden a massive bomb in Detroit, but the White House and local police have no idea when and where it’s going to go off. One thing is certain, thousands will die in the explosion unless Mack Bolan can intercept the device before time runs out.
As each lead results in more dead bodies but surprisingly little intel, Bolan is convinced that this is a well-planned venture and that he and the police are mere pawns in the mastermind’s scheme. But that’s about to change. Tired of being led on a wild-goose chase and with the clock counting down, the Executioner is shifting the rules of the game—the hunter is about to become the hunted.
The door crashed to the floor, landing on top of the screaming sentry
Bolan dived through the opening, firing the Desert Eagle as he moved. His comm unit was going crazy, with the FBI teams talking over each other. The four terrorists in the middle of the warehouse had armed themselves and were shooting wildly at the shadows around them.
Bolan ran for the only cover there was—a shadowed nook beneath the stairs leading to the catwalk. He took aim at the man closest to the bomb and dropped him with a well-placed round in the hip. The remaining terrorists didn’t know where to focus their fire, and all three ran in opposite directions.
An FBI agent came through the broken doorway where Bolan had entered, and swiftly put two rounds into the chest of the man running toward him. That left two men on the floor and one on the catwalk.
Bolan scanned the metal walkway above him and spotted his target trying to pry open the window. The Executioner stealthily moved up the stairs, even as he heard the other two assailants go down in a hail of gunfire at the back of the building.
In his earpiece, the lead FBI agent said, “Stand down, everyone.” Bolan ignored the command as he crept up behind the man frantically trying to escape through the too-small window. Bolan was just a few feet behind him when the man’s senses must have told him someone was there.
The terrorist whipped around, pulling a 9 mm from his waistband. The Executioner gunned him down without hesitation, the echoes from his shot loud in the relative silence of the warehouse. “Now everyone can stand down.”
Lethal Diversion
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Dylan Garrett for his contribution to this work.
’Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.
—William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
Hamlet
The devil isn’t hiding in some dark corner of the universe. He is right here on earth, burrowing into the hearts of evil men, thriving on their heinous acts. The devil is all too real—and I am his greatest threat.
—Mack Bolan
The Mack Bolan Legend
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged
relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with
Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
QUOTATION (#u6b6b8a34-4221-5064-b53f-ad714b87420c)
PROLOGUE (#ue9da78f1-27cf-5a6f-8874-4293f6211d31)
CHAPTER 1 (#u73cfee20-7916-58e3-a7e9-90ed36a17163)
CHAPTER 2 (#udbcbb14d-5ec2-51a0-89db-1d1455c2c8d3)
CHAPTER 3 (#u1a1dfff6-b509-5e6b-b12a-5342965799b4)
CHAPTER 4 (#u30db9100-8e33-5974-a3f2-186dd082f7b4)
CHAPTER 5 (#ufab02eb4-bcf5-503c-9a87-16ab8c9cebb3)
CHAPTER 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
“’Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.”
—William Shakespeare
“’Tis the night—the night
Of the grave’s delight,
And the warlocks are at their play;
Ye think that without
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they—it is they.”
—Arthur Cleveland Coxe
“From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!”
—Scottish saying
PROLOGUE
The customized fifty-foot yacht sat low in the water of Lake St. Clair, rocking back and forth with the regularity of the low-tide waves. The full moon overhead lit up the craft and the smaller vessel attached to its side, floating together several miles offshore from Grosse Point Park, Michigan, in the border waters between Canada and the United States. A dispute here might be adjudicated by one country or even both, depending on who claimed jurisdiction and had the precise GPS coordinates to make such a claim. Malick Yasim expected that the location itself might add a certain tangle to the web that was being woven around the city of Detroit.
He skillfully climbed the rope ladder onto the sailboat, taking the lead ahead of his men. Stepping onto the deck, he flinched as a floodlight blinded him momentarily. “Assalamu alaikum,” he said, “now shut that damn thing off! It’s bright enough to be seen from shore.” His Afghani accent was barely noticeable.
The light went out, and was followed by a familiar voice. “Wa alaikum assalaam. I see that Sayid sent the Mummy himself to take delivery.”
Yasim scowled at the nickname. Some called him that because they were certain his body count rivaled that of the mummies in Egypt, but Yusef liked to use it because at six foot two and bald as an egg, Malick’s resemblance to the character in the movie was almost uncanny. There was little that he could do to dissuade the usage, but after this night he suspected others would make reference to it only in regard to his body count.
He waited for his eyes to adjust and for the three men he’d brought with him to come up the ladder. “Have you traveled all this way to mock me, or did you bring the merchandise Sayid requested? We have no time for foolishness.”
Yusef stepped forward and shook Yasim’s hand, kissing him on either cheek. “Do not be so temperamental, my brother. I have succeeded as promised. Come and see.” In spite of the bulk he carried around his waist, the short man pivoted on his heels gracefully and headed below deck. Yasim followed close behind, watching the tassels on the man’s red felt tarboosh swing to and fro.
The loss of the night air and the horizon line combined with the rocking of the boat caused Yasim’s stomach to roll. It was the primary reason he hadn’t been chosen to retrieve this merchandise from halfway around the world. He’d have never made it that long on board a ship and Sayid Rais Sayf believed that getting the uranium into the country was best accomplished by sea through Canada and into the United States.
To the naked eye, the main cabin of the yacht was nothing more remarkable than a well-furnished pleasure vessel, capable of long journeys. A kitchen, a galley, a table and benches that formed a U-shape in the corner. A short passage led to the sleeping quarters and a lavatory. Yusef walked to the table, unlocked the pins from underneath and revealed that it was actually a wooden top sitting on a large metal crate.
The container itself glowed faintly from the light of an electronic keypad on one side. Yasim moved forward, watching carefully as Yusef punched in a combination. The electronic locks popped open and he lifted the lid to reveal the long, slender rods of enriched uranium that he’d purchased for them in Iran. The box itself was refrigerated for safety, and the mist from inside floated around, giving an ethereal appearance to the deadly substance.
“You see, my friend? Everything is as I said it would be. There is nothing to cause you alarm.” Yusef closed the container and punched in the code to lock down the lid.
“And the code?”
“Ah, the only six numbers I knew we would all remember. The years of our prophet’s birth and death: five-seven-zero-six-three-two. Simple enough, yes?”
Trying to ignore the faint roiling in his guts, Yasim nodded. “Simple enough.”
“Then, as I can see that you are already—what is the saying?—green around the gills, let us return to deck and finish our transaction. I am certain that Sayid must be anxious to have you safely back in port.” He lowered the tabletop and replaced the pins. “Shall we?”
“There is one other matter that I must discuss with you first,” Yasim said. “Privately.”
“What is that?” Yusef asked, his eyes going a little white around the edges.
“While we were waiting for you to deliver the merchandise, word reached us that you spoke to the Libyans about selling them these rods instead of us.”
Yusef sputtered, his face turning red before he finally answered. “I... Astaghfirullah! I will not insult you by lying, Malick, and I am truly sorry, but I am a businessman and I thought I might make a greater profit by selling the rods to one of my contacts in Libya.”
Moving like a striking snake, Yasim whipped a thin-bladed knife from his belt, grabbed Yusef by the collar and forced him back against the bench. “It was our men who sacrificed to get you this cargo. Our blood that was spilled. Our money that was spent.” He spat on the ground. “Subhan’Allah! If you were truly a believer you would not be seeking profit. You would give us the rods willingly, for our holy cause.”
“Malick...you are right, I will ask for no profit. I will give this happily for the cause.”
“You have no cause but yourself. Did you tell anyone else where you were delivering the rods? Or perhaps you told the rival who they were bidding against?”
“No! No, I swear. I only explored the option, but I knew that this is where Allah wanted the shipment to go.”
“You should have known that all along.” Yasim’s blade sank into Yusef’s throat, puncturing his larynx. The man thrashed and struggled beneath Yasim’s grip briefly, but only briefly. He slumped to the floor and Malick offered a grim smile to the body. That would be the end of Yusef’s whining and groveling. He was in Hell where he belonged, his passage to Heaven denied by his own traitorous actions.
He wiped his blade clean, then climbed back up on deck. The two crew members who served Yusef were dead on the deck. He nodded in satisfaction to his team. “Let us finish this work and get back on land. My stomach does not tolerate this well. If I never step foot on a boat again it will be too soon.”
One of the men muttered a short prayer under his breath as they moved to unload the heavy crate from the yacht. Yasim prayed, too. He prayed that Allah would be with them as Sayid’s plan was put in motion and that thousands of Americans would die because of his efforts.
This was their jihad, their struggle. Justice would be visited upon them for all the wrongs done to their people by the Americans.
1
Denny Seles, the Special Agent in Charge of the Detroit Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation sat in his black SUV for a moment, watching the scene. He was pushing forty, and while he’d long since gotten used to the middle-of-the-night phone calls that were part of his job, they didn’t usually come from the Coast Guard. More often than not, it was one of his field agents calling about a body. The flashing lights of an ambulance, along with two police cars, a fire truck and two other unmarked vehicles lit up the night. He flicked the Detroit Lions air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror, a superstitious habit he’d picked up along the way, and stepped out of the SUV.
Faintly, over the sound of voices and vehicles, he could hear the lapping of the waves of Lake St. Clair. He guessed that the large, white yacht grounded on the beach was the source of the call he’d received less than half an hour before.
“You must be Special Agent Seles?” a man said, stepping out of the crowd and extending a hand.
At six foot one, Denny wasn’t considered small, but the man standing before him had him by a good three inches. He was tall and lanky, but offered a tired smile.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “Special Agent in Charge, Denny Seles.”
“Chief Richard Cline, sir,” he said, and they shook hands. “When the local guys told me your office had jurisdiction, your name and number were what they gave us. So you’ll be taking over this mess?”
“If the local guys are right about jurisdiction, then yeah. Tell me what you got.”
“A local fisherman called us in with a report of a boat run aground. We dispatched both a boat and a ground crew to the coordinates. Our ground crew got to the vessel first and backed out to wait for law enforcement as soon as they’d verified that everyone aboard was dead.”
“You logged the caller’s information?” Seles asked.
Cline nodded. “It will be in my written report, which will be on your desk by 0800.”
“Good,” Seles said. “Tell me what your ground crew found inside the boat.”
“You’ve got three dead—two with bullet wounds to the head, one with a knife wound to the throat. But I think the important information, sir, is that this isn’t an ordinary yacht.”
His tone caught Seles’s attention. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this isn’t a lake cruiser. This ship has been modified to sail the high seas, complete with an extendable mast system and sails. She came from deeper waters than Lake St. Clair.”
“A lot of ships in the Great Lakes are modified or even built to sail on the ocean. How do you know this one actually came from somewhere else?” the agent asked.
Cline chuckled. “I’m not guessing, sir. We ran the numbers on the hull. This boat was logged in the Mediterranean Sea three months ago and docked in Gibraltar around that time. All the permits for a non-commercial ocean crossing were found aboard.”
“Interesting,” he said. “You know anything else?”
“One last thing, sir. Beneath the table in the galley was a hidden, refrigerated compartment. It was empty, and when the local guys gave me the go-ahead on federal jurisdiction, I went ahead and ordered our forensic team to come in and do a full sweep.”
“You suspect something more than drug-smuggling?” Seles asked. “Out here?”
“A refrigerated metal compartment, sir? For drugs?” The chief shook his head. “It doesn’t add up.”
Seles nodded, appreciating the man’s professionalism. He hadn’t dealt with the Coast Guard much, but every time he had, they’d been genuine pros. “Okay. Thanks, Chief. I think I’ll go have a look-see.”
The large yacht had come aground among the jagged rocks of the coast near Grosse Point, and it was canted awkwardly to one side. He was a bit skeptical about climbing up, but his hesitation was overcome as Chief Cline moved easily onto the sloped deck. Seles mimicked his steps and was soon on the slanting deck himself.
Two bodies were pressed against the rail and the polished wood was streaked with blood. The shots had been up close and personal, as the powder burns on their clothing were easily visible in the bright light being supplied to the scene by the Coast Guard. Staring at them, Seles could feel his stomach tightening. All of the anti-profiling training in the world didn’t change his gut reaction after he’d spent two tours fighting in the Persian Gulf.
“I made sure our men didn’t move the bodies,” Cline was saying. “And we haven’t let anyone else do much with the scene. Pissed the coroner off to no end that the locals were called, but I don’t answer to county folks and I wasn’t about to let them contaminate the scene. God knows how much damage our guys already did by accident.”
“That’s good work, Chief. Where’s the third?”
“Down below deck,” he said. “Follow me.”
Seles’s shoes slipped as they worked their way below deck. He made his way down the steps and came up short as the container hidden beneath the galley table came into view. The heavy metal top lay open and the cooling lining looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. Denny immediately agreed with the chief’s assessment and walked carefully into the room.
“How long before that team of yours gets here?”
“They’re here now, sir,” Cline said. “Shall I have them come aboard?”
“Do it,” Seles said, then waited as Cline used his handheld radio to call them up.
A couple of minutes later, two men in hazmat suits walked on board, each carrying different types of detectors. The first team member who made his way into the cabin struggled with the lack of maneuverability of the suit in the confined space, and waved the second man back to the deck. Then he turned and stared at them wide-eyed. “What are your men doing in here without protective gear?”
“Hang on,” Cline said, “before you get hazmat-crazy. We brought you in to look at this container to see if you could get any tracings off it. We weren’t really expecting some major decontamination scene.”
The man’s eyes moved to the open container and then up to Cline’s. “Your call, Chief,” he said. Stepping forward, he ran his detector along the inside of the box, then pulled back and took off his helmet.
“It’s your scene, Chief, but are you in charge of this mess?” he asked.
Cline shook his head and jabbed a thumb in Seles’s direction. “That’s your man,” he said. “Special Agent Denny Seles, FBI.”
“Makes sense.” The man grunted. “Can I talk to you privately, sir?”
Seles could see the chief becoming flustered and getting ready to protest.
“What’s your name?” the agent asked.
“Mike Kaminski, Petty Officer, First Class,” he said.
“Okay, listen, Petty Officer. We’ve all been doing this a long time and your chief here was the one who had the foresight to get you guys en route before I even got here. Why the secrecy?”
The man straightened his spine. “No disrespect intended to the chief, sir. What he doesn’t know, he can’t talk about.”
“Let’s just have it,” Seles said. “I’ve got my suspicions, but I want confirmation and that’s where you come in.”
“All right,” Kaminski said. “That’s a lead-shielded, refrigerated container. Very recently, it held uranium.”
“Can you tell what kind?” Seles asked.
“Weapons-grade variety,” he said. “And from the looks of the container, I’d say you’re dealing with a substantial amount.”
“Give me an estimate,” Seles said.
“Easily twenty-five kilograms or more would fit inside that container, especially in rod or brick form.”
Seles sighed and nodded. “Okay, gentlemen. No one outside this room talks about this or gets this information until I say so. Understood?”
Both men nodded at once. “Chief Cline, I want your ground team to set up a hard perimeter, and no one—that includes local law enforcement—gets through. Tell them...” He paused as he considered and discarded several stories, then settled on one. “Tell them there’s a minor chemical spill of some kind in here and until we get it cleaned up, no one’s allowed aboard.”
“We can handle that,” Cline said.
“Good,” Seles replied. “I’m going to have some teams in here shortly and they’ll go over this boat, the bodies, everything, with a fine-toothed comb. No one touches anything else.”
“We got it,” Cline said.
“I’ll be back in a few,” Seles said, “but I’ve got to go make some calls.” He worked his way back out to the deck, down to the rocks, and from there to his SUV. Once he was inside, he pulled a number up on his list and almost laughed. He’d never thought to call it in a million years. He dialed, waited and a moment later a woman’s voice answered.
“Office of the Director,” she said. “This is Melinda Harris speaking.”
“This is Special Agent in Charge Denny Seles, Detroit,” he said. “I need to speak to Director Wallace, please.”
“He’s in a meeting, sir,” she said. “I can have him call you.”
“Interrupt him,” he said.
“Sir, he’s in an important meeting and—”
“Miss, this is a national-security issue. Put me through right now.”
She paused for a moment, then said, “Hold please.”
Seles waited on the line for Wallace’s voice, which he knew from phone conversations and the rare meeting in person.
“Seles, what the hell could be happening in Detroit that is so important that you pull me out of a meeting with the...never mind. What’s so pressing?”
“I’ve got a national security matter,” he said. “It’s serious.”
“In Detroit?” Wallace asked, sounding incredulous. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Someone, somewhere near here, has weapons-grade uranium. We just found the boat they used to bring it in.”
Wallace was quiet for a moment, then Seles clearly heard him say, “Melinda, clear my schedule and get me the White House on the other line.”
* * *
HAL BROGNOLA SAT in his hot tub simultaneously trying to position his kinked back in front of the jets and keep his cigar stub out of the water. He never smoked cigars, but he enjoyed chewing on them, and his taste in them was far too expensive to lose one in the water. As the Project Director for Stony Man Farm he could arrange for strike teams, clear up a terror threat and avert international disasters, but the day-in, day-out tension would make any man long for a massage. He’d have to settle for hot-water pressure jets, and as he relaxed, it began to work its magic on his sore muscles. He closed his eyes, sighing in relief.
He dismissed the first ring of his cell phone as a dream. It had to be. The second ring, however, reminded him that wanting something to be a dream often clashed with reality. Only a handful of people in the world had his number. He pushed himself out of the hot tub and reached for his phone, noting that the call was from a secure, blocked line.
“Hal Brognola,” he said.
“Hal, this is the President.”
Brognola felt his tension return with a sudden vengeance. “Mr. President, sir.”
“Hal, there’s a situation in Detroit,” the President said. “It could be very serious.”
“Go ahead, sir,” Brognola said.
“The Coast Guard found a boat run aground in Lake St. Clair. Three dead men and a container that had recently housed uranium. Hal...we have weapons-grade radioactive material on U.S. soil.”
“How can we help, Mr. President?”
“All the usual organizations are already doing their song and dance. They’ve activated the Detroit Emergency Operations Center and all the field agencies are coordinating through them.”
“That sounds right,” Brognola said. “Do you foresee a problem of some kind, sir?”
“I wish we had foreseen any of this. That’s the problem.”
“We can only react to what’s in front of us, Mr. President.”
“All right, Hal, here’s the deal. All our normal agencies are going to be up to their eyeballs in protocol and their little fiefdoms and covering their own asses. I’ve already had the Directors of the NSA and the FBI in here, shouting at each other about whose fault it was. In the meantime, before they get it all together, these terrorists could blow up Detroit. I want you to send someone in to cut through all the red-tape bullshit. If he runs into any snags with the locals, tell him to have them authorize through the Office of the President. I want this found and handled.”
Brognola knew that sometimes fate put the right man in the right place at just the right time. “As it happens, Mr. President, I have a man in the area already who will be perfect for the job.”
“Then get him working, Hal. We don’t know what we’re up against or how long we’ve got until these bastards do whatever it is they plan to do.”
“I’ll contact him immediately, Mr. President,” Brognola said, hanging up with a polite goodbye.
The man for the job was Mack Bolan. And if there was anyone who could hunt down and stop bad guys, it was Striker. The man sometimes called the Executioner.
2
The Military Demarcation Line—the line that divided North and South Korea—was as real as the line 8 Mile Road represented to the residents of Detroit. The road marked the barrier between black and white, rich and poor. It was a boundary in some ways, and in others, it was a no-man’s-land where only the strong survived. The Executioner watched the street below through the cracked glass of his window.
His room was on the second floor of the 8 Pine Motel, an establishment that let rooms by the hour, day, week or even month, depending on how long a person could pay. Most paid by the day or week, depending on whether their income was from drugs or prostitution. The johns paid by the hour, and the elderly, living on a fixed income and a bit wiser than the others, paid by the month. None of them were particularly happy, but Bolan couldn’t blame them. The 8 Pine Motel was not a happy place.
Sadly, it was representative of many of the buildings on this stretch of road. Cracked, broken or boarded-up windows, peeling paint, gang graffiti, bad water from lead pipes, and everywhere the smell of fear and desperation. Bolan’s room was little more than a mildew-scented mattress with a broken frame, a scarred bedside table and a bathroom where the only thing that ran were the cockroaches. He’d stayed in worse places, but most of them had been in other countries that were either impoverished or at war. It was little wonder that the major drug smugglers had decided that Detroit was a target-rich environment.
He’d been in the city for the past two weeks, cultivating information about the now-booming heroin trade that had found its focus here. On the street below him, he watched as a car stopped and the man driving bought some crack and then drove on, while the dealer stepped back to his wall to wait for the next customer. There was little concern about the police in this area—they didn’t want to come near it unless they had to, and when they did, they came in force, giving the street dealers all the time they needed to disappear.
The next customer turned out to be a kid about thirteen. Bolan watched as the girl obviously begged for more. The dealer stood his ground. He stepped forward and began to grope the girl and then nodded toward the alleyway.
Bolan slipped out of his room and into the alley just in time to hear a smack resounding off brick walls.
“I thought I could, I can’t, but I’ll get you the money. I just need...”
Another slap rent the air and Bolan stepped out of the shadows as the dealer raised his hand high in the air again.
“I don’t think you want to do that.”
The dealer turned just enough to see Bolan, but kept his quarry on the ground in front of him. Tears spilled from the dark-ringed eyes of a girl who was growing up way too hard, way too fast. She tried to move, but he pushed her back down.
“Get the fuck out of here, man. Don’t be messin’ around in my business.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t, but you picked the wrong target today and the wrong corner to stand on.”
The dealer pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants and pointed it at Bolan as he swaggered down the alleyway.
“Look, bitch, this is my alley and my street and that bitch there, yeah...she’s going to be mine, too. Now if you don’t want me to leave you bleedin’ here, you’ll turn your ass around and get the fuck outta here.”
The dealer moved closer, confident in the gun he was swinging around in his hand. Bolan was patient until he was just in range. He grabbed the gun and yanked the dealer forward as he brought his knee into the man’s ribcage. Bolan heard the satisfying sound of the ribs cracking and then brought his elbow around to break the dealer’s nose.
Blood spurted as the man dropped to the ground and cried. Bolan was surprised that he didn’t just yell, but actually lay in the alley, crying. He picked up the gun and went to check on the girl who’d remained motionless during the confrontation.
“You could have been shot, why’d you do that?”
“Because everyone deserves a second chance. You got parents?”
She nodded. “My dad, but he’s never home.”
“Look, I’m going to make a call. There’s a rehab center close to here, it’s inpatient and this guy owes me a favor. Will you go?”
“I can’t pay.”
“I didn’t ask if you could pay, will you go?”
“Why?”
“Because everyone deserves a second chance.”
* * *
BACK IN HIS ROOM, Bolan stood, and stared out the window at the corner where the girl had gotten in trouble. Turned out her name was Violet and she’d really needed the help. He’d made sure the dealer was picked up and put away and couldn’t blow his cover and then sat back and enjoyed his mediocre cup of coffee and contemplated his next move.
So far, all his leads had been toward the Muslim community and some kind of pipeline out of Afghanistan. His cover was flimsy, but holding so far: he was representing a buyer from Los Angeles who trusted his muscle more than the information he’d received so far. The process of building trust, however, and getting close to the source, had proven tedious at best.
In fact, without some new leads, Bolan was going to have to try to get his information in a more direct way. The biggest challenge was a simple one: he was a Caucasian from the United States trying to convince a group of Muslims from the Middle East that he was trustworthy. It wasn’t going well.
These were the thoughts running through his head when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and recognized the number on the display as a secure call sign. “Bolan,” he said, answering it.
“Striker, it’s Hal,” the reply came. “We’ve got a situation.”
“Don’t we always?” he asked.
Brognola chuckled, but he had to force it out.
“Okay, so it’s a serious situation,” Bolan intimated. “What’s going on?”
“Have you made any progress on your investigation in Detroit?” he asked.
Stepping back from the window, he took a seat on the bed. “Not very much,” he admitted. “It’s slow going. Why?”
“I’d like you to change focus. This is more pressing than any pipeline heroin and comes straight from the White House.”
Bolan could almost hear his old friend chewing his cigar stub to shreds. “Fill me in,” he said.
“There’s a potential nuclear threat inside the city,” Brognola said. He quickly filled him in on the boat found by the Coast Guard, along with the results of their sweep, and Denny Seles’s quick response so far.
“That works out pretty well,” Bolan said. “I did a passing-through hello with him when I got here. So he’s already got my DEA credentials and we got along well enough. What’s the status of local law enforcement?”
“Right now, they just got their Emergency Operations Center up and running. There’s a woman in charge there, Allison Hart, but Denny will take the lead on field operations. You’ve got White House clearance to do whatever needs to be done to find the uranium rods and stop whoever is behind it.”
“I’m game, Hal,” Bolan said, “but it sounds like they’re doing all the right things.”
“They are,” he agreed, “but you and I—and the President—all know that over the next few hours, every federal law agency in the country is going to start fucking around with protocol this and red tape that. The President wants a man there who can cut through all that and just get the job done.”
“And he doesn’t think Seles is that man?”
“He’s the Special Agent in Charge of the Detroit Field Office, so he’s going to be by the book from beginning to end. I’ve read his file and he’s a good man, but he’s not you. We need you on this one, Striker.”
“All right, Hal,” he said. “I’ll close up shop here and head over to the EOC and see what I can stir up. Do they have any leads?”
“Nothing concrete yet.”
“A target? A threat? Anything?”
“We’ve got three dead guys on a yacht in Lake St. Clair and some missing weapons-grade uranium. I’ll shoot the file to your handheld via a secure uplink. The rest is up to you,” Brognola replied. He laughed drily. “Situation enough for you?”
“Sounds like it,” Bolan said. “I’m on my way. I’ll check in with you when I know more.” He disconnected the call and put the phone back on his belt, his mind considering the possibilities. A moment later, the file came through and he looked it over. The dead men were all Middle Eastern. Not much more information than that.
Before he went to see Denny Seles, there was another man who might be able to help, even if it blew his cover. Weapons-grade uranium took precedence, and right at this moment, he needed information more than anything else.
Bolan quickly packed up his few things, making a quick sweep to ensure that the room was empty of his belongings. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he slipped out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. If he moved fast enough, he might be able to talk to the man he needed to see before his evening prayers.
* * *
THE ISLAMIC TEMPLE OF TRUTH was a combination mosque and community center at what Bolan had come to think of as ground zero of the 8 Mile region. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d come to believe that the man who ran it, Imam Aalim Al-Qadir, genuinely cared about the Muslim community and he’d been willing to share information so long as it didn’t lead to more trouble for anyone.
The imam was in his mid-forties, with skin the color of a French-roast coffee bean and a white goatee and mustache that few men could pull off, but the imam somehow did. Bolan had never seen him in anything other than traditional Muslim garb, complete with a dark red tarboosh that sported golden tassels. He wore silver-framed glasses and a smile that could disarm the angriest members of his mosque.
Bolan pulled his car—a nondescript sedan that had already come close to being stolen several times—into a parking space in the back of the building. Al-Qadir had been forthcoming about his concerns in regards to the 8IM gang, and he’d shared them with Bolan. He had to hope that the man’s contacts in the community would help with something far more pressing and important than the illicit activities of the 8IM gang.
He locked the car and went to the back door, where he rang the bell and waited. From experience, he knew that there was a camera positioned on the roof of the hall beyond the door, and that the imam would be checking his video feed before he answered. It was only a minute or two wait before Al-Qadir appeared, unlocking the door and greeting him warmly in the traditional fashion. “Assalamu alaikum, my friend,” he said.
“Wa alaikum assalaam,” Bolan replied. “It is good to see you. Can we talk in your office?”
Al-Qadir nodded pleasantly and led the way, offering tea once they’d reached the small space. It was a small rectangle, perhaps ten by fourteen, with a large metal desk that looked as though it came straight out of a 1960s school, several bookcases, and many pictures of the Muslim children in the community on the walls.
Bolan turned the tea down with a shake of his head, and took a seat across from the imam.
“Your face is serious, Matt,” he said, using the name Bolan had given. “What troubles you?”
“You have been honest with me,” he said, “and we’ve had a good dialogue. I think we’ve come to know each other a little bit. I am troubled because of news I received today and that my original intentions here have to change.”
“Go on,” Al-Qadir said, sipping his tea. “I sense your hesitation, Matt, but I cannot help you or our community without information.”
Bolan nodded. “As I told you when we met, I work for the DEA. But often, I hear about things from other federal law-enforcement agencies. A short time ago, I heard from someone at the FBI. A ship was found in Lake St. Clair with three dead men aboard—all of them from the Middle East. They found evidence that weapons-grade uranium—the kind used to make nuclear weapons—was on board the ship, too.” He watched the man’s face carefully as he shared these last words, but all he saw was shock and sadness.
“This...this cannot be related to anyone I know, Matt,” he said. “Many of the young people here are in gangs and involved with drugs. I would be foolish to deny it. But no one has said anything about acts of terrorism!”
“I believe you,” Bolan assured him. “But someone in the Muslim or the Islamic community knows, Aalim. Someone knows something. I need your help.”
The imam sat quietly for several long seconds, considering his words, then he sighed and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“I need you to start asking questions, pressing people a little just to see if you get a reaction of any kind. We don’t know who’s behind this, but I think it would be safe to assume that whoever it is has a lot of money, and, in this neighborhood, that means drugs and possibly prostitution. Even if they haven’t done anything themselves, someone may have heard something.”
“In my experience, Matt, extremists in this country do their best to stay quiet,” the imam said, shaking his head. “Unless I happen to stumble upon the person who is actually involved, it is unlikely that someone will have heard something.”
Bolan shook his head. “Maybe, but something like this takes a lot of planning, a lot of men. Please, Aalim.”
“I will do what I can. Do you believe that 8IM is involved?”
Bolan shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s possible and it’s a place to start, but it could be anyone.”
“And if I find something out, I should call you at the number you gave me?” he asked.
“Yes, as soon as possible,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Matt. The Holy Koran teaches peace, not violence, and we cannot allow extremists to take root among us. It will only make becoming part of the American culture more difficult.”
Bolan thought for a moment, then said, “There’s one more thing, Aalim. Be careful. Don’t ask too many direct questions. If whoever is behind this hears you asking questions, they’ll kill you. I have no doubts about that.”
“My eyes are open, Matt,” he said, rising to his feet. “And now I sense you wish to leave?”
Bolan got to his feet. “Unfortunately. There’s a lot to do and I have to move quickly. Call me if you hear anything at all.”
“I will,” Al-Qadir said, offering his hand, which Bolan gladly shook. “Stay safe, my friend.”
“You do the same,” he replied. “I’ll show myself out.”
“Fi Amanullah,” he said.
Bolan nodded and headed back down the short hallway. He had a feeling he’d need more than Allah’s protection if the situation escalated, and in his experience, a fully loaded Desert Eagle was more reliable than a god in a fight anyway.
Still, he thought as he headed back to his car, any blessing was better than none at all.
3
The Detroit Emergency Operations Center was housed downtown, in a nondescript office building two blocks from the Wayne County Courthouse, and in the largest law-enforcement precinct in the city. When Bolan arrived parking was already at a premium, which meant he had quite a walk. On the other hand, the walk gave him plenty of time to observe that every branch of law enforcement, as well as fire, medical and emergency-management personnel were already present. It was a regular house party.
He was stopped at the main entrance, but flashed his DEA credentials and got to the reception desk, where a harried-looking security guard was manning the phones. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
“Matt Cooper, DEA,” he said. “I’m looking for Denny Seles.”
The guard looked at his credentials again, and nodded. “He’s in the main communications room, giving a briefing. If you want to catch him, that’s the best place to look. Down the left hallway. You can’t miss it.”
“Busy here today,” Bolan observed.
The phone beeped insistently, and the guard shrugged. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Bolan replied, heading down the hall. The guard had been right about one thing—it would be impossible to miss the communications room since the hall led directly to it. The room was set up a bit like an auditorium, though there was no stage, but instead a bank of screens lit up one entire wall. Denny Seles was standing at a portable podium, and behind him on the screens, various potential target locations were being displayed as he discussed where law-enforcement personnel were going to be stationed. In front of him, tiered rows of computer stations looked down, and in addition to the people seated at them, the room was filled almost to overflowing with people standing around. At the top of the room was a set of offices, the largest belonging to the Director of the EOC.
Seles finished up his briefing and answered a few questions, then dismissed everyone. He stayed down front, talking to a small group of people, including a woman Bolan assumed was Allison Hart, the EOC Director, according to the file Brognola had sent him. She was strikingly beautiful and obviously of mixed Asian descent. Her expression at the moment was serious, but Bolan could see the smile lines around her mouth and eyes.
When it looked as if the group was ready to break up, he worked his way down the auditorium to where Seles and Hart were still talking. Seles must have spotted him because he stopped talking and signaled for him to come over. Bolan did so, offering a hand when he got closer.
“Special Agent in Charge Denny Seles,” Bolan said. “We meet again.”
“Special Agent Matt Cooper,” the agent said. “I thought you were undercover over in the 8 Mile region.” He paused, then introduced Bolan to the woman. “Allison Hart, Special Agent Cooper is with the DEA. He came by as a courtesy when he arrived in town a few weeks ago.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. They shook hands.
“What can I do for you, Matt?” Seles asked without preamble. “As you can see, we’re kind of busy today.”
“So I hear,” Bolan replied. “I was briefed a short time ago. I thought I should drop in and offer my help.”
Denny’s lips pursed as he considered this information. “You’re an undercover DEA agent and you were briefed?” he asked. “By whom?”
“Someone higher up in the food chain,” Bolan said, shrugging. “They thought your mission was more important than mine, so here I am.”
“Look, Matt, if we’ve got a leak here...” he began.
Bolan held up his hands. “No, there’s no leak.”
“Then I’ve got to know where you’re getting your information from,” Seles said, his voice regretfully firm. “I can’t do this if every federal law-enforcement agency in the country is going to come in here without telling me.”
Bolan thought about it, and then said, “Look, Denny, I’m something of a specialist. I came here on an operation for the DEA, but my orders today are coming from the White House. Call and get confirmation from the West Wing.”
Hart laughed lightly. “You were ordered here by the White House?” she asked. “Give me a break.”
Bolan stared at her, capturing her eyes with his own blue gaze. “Make the call, Miss Hart,” he said. “We’re wasting time arguing about where my orders came from instead of being out there catching the terrorists.”
She nodded once. “I will,” she said, then turned and headed for her office.
“You’re on the level, aren’t you?” Seles asked.
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “So where do you want me?”
“Allison is going to head up the EOC, and I’ll be in charge of field operations. The best thing you could do for me is pound the streets. Use the informants you’ve got to see if you can dig up something, anything. And maybe take another look at the boat. I might have missed something.”
Bolan nodded. “I can do that. I’ll stop by there first. What have you got so far?”
Seles sighed heavily. “As of right now, not a damn thing.”
“No threats, no intelligence chatter, nothing?” he asked.
“Not even a hint,” he replied. “I’m posting people at high-value targets, and my field team is ready to move on a moment’s notice, but until we get some hard intel, we’re just staging.”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
“That we’re in deep shit,” Seles said. “We just don’t know how deep yet.”
“Waist-high and rising fast,” Bolan said. He gave the special agent a business card with his cell number on it. “I’m heading out. Call that number if you need me. I’ve got yours already.”
“That come from the White House, too?” Seles asked, half-jokingly.
“Nah. It was on your business card when we met,” Bolan said. He turned and headed back up the risers toward the exit. He saw Hart in her office, a phone pressed to her ear and offered her a grin and a salute as he left.
She’d better get focused on the important things, Bolan thought, because he had a feeling that they were already way behind the terrorists, and weren’t catching up anytime soon.
* * *
HIS REAL NAME WAS Sayid Rais Sayf. That was the name given to him by his parents when he was born in Afghanistan and it was the name that he prayed to Allah with for guidance. But few people in Detroit knew this name—very few, and only those who could be trusted to die without speaking it. Everyone else knew him as Michael Jonas, age forty-two, a successful man who had worked his way out of a tough life, growing up adopted, and was presently at the peak of his career.
As he parked his Audi A8 in the jammed parking lot of the Detroit EOC, he mentally became Michael Jonas. While he was here, he would think as Michael Jonas, react as Michael Jonas, he would be Michael Jonas in all respects, because everything he had worked for could unravel like a spool of thread should any trace of Sayid Rais Sayf show in his face, mannerisms, speech or actions. His car was just one part of the costume he wore, no different than his tailored suit, his salon-styled hair or his accent-free speech.
Coming to the EOC on this day was a risk, he knew, but a small one. His girlfriend, Allison Hart, had agreed to dinner later and he had come by to give her an opportunity to cancel in person. While he must feign ignorance, his true purpose in dealing with her was the same as it had always been: information. Information was power, and because he knew more than they did, he had power over them. As he would even when the bomb went off.
Sayf checked his suit one last time in the mirror; it was a charcoal-gray pinstripe worn with a dark blue tie. Then he stepped out of the car, locking it behind him. It was unseasonably warm for Detroit in late fall, but he wore a long jacket nonetheless. He wasn’t a particularly big man, but he carried an imposing presence in his five-foot-eight, 185-pound frame—and the long coat was a part of that. People saw what they wanted to see.
He walked quickly to the entrance, and saw that he wouldn’t even get past the door without identification, which he casually provided. The policemen at the entrance instructed him to go inside and stop at the security desk. Jonas nodded pleasantly to them both, then went inside. The man at the desk was familiar to him, and he smiled in greeting.
“Officer Robards,” he said. “What’s going on here today?”
“It’s crazy,” he said, reaching for the phone on the desk. “Hang on and I’ll let Allison know you’re here.”
“I can’t go back?” he asked. “Is there a problem?”
Robards shook his head. “No one but law enforcement is getting back there today, I’m afraid. Like I said, crazy.”
Sayf affected a shrug. “I’ll wait,” he said, putting his hands behind his back and walking in a slow circle in the lobby. He hadn’t expected to get into the EOC, but it would have been a nice bonus. As it was, he would have to see how much he could pry from Hart.
It took her nearly ten minutes to come out to the lobby, but she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “Michael,” she said. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“It’s no problem,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
She shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. We’ve had to stand up the EOC. I’m afraid I have to cancel our plans for this evening.”
“You must be joking,” he said. “We have dinner reservations at Opus One tonight!”
“I wish I were,” she said.
“There is...trouble?” he asked. “I didn’t hear anything on the news and the weatherman said the skies would be clear.”
“Let me walk you to your car,” she said, taking him by the arm. “I’ll explain as much as I can on the way.”
He allowed her to lead him back out of the building and into the parking lot. “You seem very upset, Allison,” he said. He already knew that the boat had been discovered and he was quite angry with Malick Yasim, but he would deal with him later. For the moment, he needed to play the solicitous boyfriend.
“I am,” she said. “There’s a...threat to the city. A terrorist threat. Until we can lock it down, I need to stay at the EOC to coordinate our response.” She looked up at him and he was struck again by her physical beauty. She was a very spiritual woman, but she was not Muslim. Like the car or the suit, she was simply part of his disguise.
“I see,” he said. “So it is serious. Should I be worried? What kind of threat?”
She shrugged delicately, then peered around the parking area for his car and started in that direction once she saw it. “We don’t know, at this point, who’s involved or what their plan is, but the threat seems serious enough. I can’t tell you much more, just that the threat is radiological—and I shouldn’t even say that.”
“My God!” he said, pretending surprise. “And you don’t have any idea of what their actual plan is?”
She shook her head. “No. That’s what we’re working on now.”
“Perhaps we should cancel the game tomorrow night,” he suggested. His job as the head of Security for Ford Field—the home of the Detroit Lions—provided both income and a very high-profile cover for his work. “This kind of danger. So many people. It’s Halloween and we’re expecting a full house.”
They stopped at his car and she leaned into him. “Michael, no one can know. Don’t cancel the game yet. That would just start people asking questions and sooner or later, a panic. I’m sure we’ll get it figured out before then.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’ll call the restaurant and cancel our reservations. And I won’t say anything, but you must promise to keep me informed.”
“As much as I can,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “I’ve got to get back, but I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Of course,” he said, returning the kiss. His disgust at the public display of affection didn’t show on his face. He unlocked his car and got in. “Call if you need anything. Would it be all right if I increased security at the stadium?”
Hart nodded. “Just do it quietly.”
“I will,” he said. He started the engine, then drove away, quite satisfied. They knew very little and Hart was obviously very afraid. He could see it in her posture, her eyes, and hear it in her voice. Fear was a powerful weapon, too, and those who were scared didn’t make good decisions. It would serve his purposes quite well.
4
The flashing blue and red lights from various law-enforcement vehicles were nearly blinding as Bolan pulled to a stop and parked his car. He wanted a look at the boat, but he’d expected the area to have calmed down by this time. The notion that they were going to keep this situation under wraps was going to be pure fantasy if they didn’t scale things back quite a bit. He left his vehicle and flashed his DEA badge at the two county sheriff’s deputies that stood guard in front of the path down to the beach where the yacht had beached. They motioned him to pass on through without stopping him.
He’d reached the rocky shore, noting the three body bags on the ground, and was contemplating whether to check the boat or the bodies first, when he was stopped by a tall, lanky man in a Coast Guard Chief’s uniform. “Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?”
There was an open honesty to the man’s face that Bolan liked to see in law enforcement. “You must be Chief Cline. I’m Agent Matt Cooper. DEA. Denny Seles sent me your way,” he said.
Chief Cline shook his hand and then a quick flash of recognition followed. “That’s right. I got a text from Seles that he might be sending over another set of eyes. What can I do to lend you a hand?”
“Well, the first thing you can do is send about seventy-five percent of these people home or back to their regular patrol. And tell the others to turn off their emergency lights. All this is drawing way too much attention to the scene. I don’t know why Seles didn’t mention it before, except he’s a man with a lot on his mind.”
Cline looked around, taking in the sight. Bolan knew that when someone was in the middle of something, it was hard to see it from the outside.
“You’re right,” he said. “There are too many people here for a simple boat-run-aground scenario. I’ll start clearing them out immediately. What else?”
“Have you learned anything new since Seles was here earlier?” he asked.
The chief shook his head. “Not really. Our hazmat guys finished their piece just a little bit ago. We’ve got a crane and a semi trailer on the way to offload the container and take it to a secured warehouse. Then we’ll tow the boat itself to a secure docking area.”
“A semi and a crane?” Bolan asked. “That’s about as inconspicuous as all these lights.”
“Our options are limited. Seles wants the Feds to be able to examine the container separately,” Cline explained. “And the damn thing weighs a ton.”
“He’s a by-the-book guy,” Bolan replied. “But this doesn’t make a bit of sense. Call off the crane and the trailer, have them meet you at the secured docks and offload the container there. The extra time that will take will be worth the extra security. Let’s not draw any more attention to the area than we have to.”
“I agree with you, sir, but I’m going to need authorization from Agent Seles before I give that order.”
“Call him and get it or I will, but just hold off the semi and crane until you do. Worst case, they’ve got to sit for a few minutes beside the road.”
“I can do that,” he said. He pulled a phone from his belt and made the call for the incoming crane and semi to hold position. “Just get me the authorization, Agent Cooper. This is too serious for me to screw up.”
“I understand,” Bolan said, his eyes moving to the body bags. “I’m surprised that they haven’t moved the victims. What’s taking the coroner so long with the bodies?”
“They’re out on the ambulance in ten minutes or less,” he said. “We wanted to do a complete search to make sure the bodies weren’t carrying something harmful.”
“Good call,” he said. “But if it’s all right, I’d like to take a quick look at them before the coroner removes them.”
“Right this way,” he said.
Each of the bodies was zipped into an individual black bag and the coroner was beginning to load the first one onto the stretcher.
“Dr. Beaman,” the chief said as they stepped closer. “This is Agent Matt Cooper with the DEA. He’d like a moment to examine the bodies, please.”
Beaman looked like a man out of patience and way too old for wandering along a cold, rocky beach in the middle of the night. “Young man, if you’re about to tell me that there has been yet another delay in getting these bodies back to the morgue I’m going to perform the autopsies right here and let the gulls have the carcasses.” The flustered doctor crossed his arms over his chest, huffed at Chief Cline and sent angry glances at Bolan, certain that he was the cause of his having to stay out in the cold.
“No, sir,” Cline said. “At least, not for very long. Agent Cooper here just has a couple of questions for you.”
“Well, there’s not much I can tell you yet. Two of the men appear to have died from gunshot wounds and the other was knifed, but I won’t have a lot more until I get them on my table.” Beaman looked pointedly at his watch.
“I’d like to take a look,” Bolan said.
The coroner sighed as he reached forward and unzipped the body bag and pulled it open to reveal the face of the first victim. Bolan was stunned when he recognized the face and it must have shown.
“You know the guy?” Cline asked.
“I’ll have to double-check my files, but I believe he’s a lower-level dealer that I’ve been looking for. Let me see the other two.”
The coroner revealed the other two faces. Bolan took quick snapshots and thumbprints from each man with his handheld and sent them off to Brognola to begin the facial recognition and fingerprint ID process. The databases at Stony Man Farm were much larger and more detailed than anything that Seles would have access to.
“When you get them on your slab we’re going to need pictures of any tattoos and scars right away and I’ll get my people working on it,” Bolan said. He handed Beaman a card with his number on it. “Send them digital to that number.”
“Won’t Special Agent Seles’s men already be working on it?” Dr. Beaman asked.
“My people are faster.”
“I thought we were all one people working together?” the doctor quipped.
“Sometimes I get to jump the line, that’s all,” Bolan said. “I won’t hold you up any longer, Doctor. You look like you’re ready to get out of the cold.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all night.” Dr. Beaman turned to his two assistants. “Load them up and let’s get going. We’ve got a lot yet to do.”
Bolan and the chief stepped away as they loaded the bodies. Bolan took a quick look around the ship, but nothing else jumped out at him. It was an expensive piece of work, though, and that meant somebody had paid someone else to do it. He’d be sure to mention it to Brognola as a possible information angle. The money trail was sometimes the easiest one to follow.
“You really did know that kid?” the chief asked. “What a shame. He couldn’t have been more than twenty or so.”
“I’d never met him, no, but he dropped off the radar about a couple of months ago. I’ve been working a drug-interdiction case and I never forget a face. That kid was in the briefing files I received.” He looked around the beach once more, contemplating all the law enforcement in the area and thinking about secondary strikes. “I’m done here, Chief, and I think you want to move fast to get all this out of sight. I’ve got a feeling that this just got more complicated. I just wish I knew how.”
“I’m on it,” Cline said, then spun and headed toward his men, barking orders as he went.
Bolan climbed into his car and dialed Seles.
“Seles.”
“Denny, it’s Cooper. I have some additional information.”
“I’d take some good news right now, so shoot,” he said.
“I’m not sure how good it is.” Bolan relayed the information about the dead man he knew to have been involved in the local drug trade, as well as his orders to Chief Cline to minimize emergency personnel, cut back on the lighting, and have the container unloaded in a secure area.
Seles sighed heavily. “Jesus, Matt, you’re right. I should’ve thought of all that, thanks.”
“It’s not a problem. You’ve got a lot on your plate, Denny. Just get Chief Cline his authorization.”
“Done. Do you have any leads on who that kid hung around with? Someone you can talk to for information?”
“He’s got an older brother in the 8 Mile area. I’m going to go and snoop around, see what I can get from him. I’m also going to send you what I have now in my files—just in case.”
“Is talking to him going to blow your other operation? I can go talk to him myself,” Denny said.
“I’ll do it,” Bolan replied. “I’ve got a feeling that if we don’t get a handle on this situation and fast, there may not be any other cases here...ever.”
* * *
THE DRIVE FROM THE EOC to the warehouse on the edge of the 8 Mile region gave Michael Jonas ample time to relax and become himself once again. By the time he arrived at the metal building with the boarded-over windows, he was fully Sayid Rais Sayf again, ready to lead his men and fulfill their plans. The building itself was unremarkable from the street and an ownership search would lead the searcher to a shadow corporation within a shadow corporation. In point of fact, it was owned by an unremarkable bureaucrat in the Iranian government who had no idea he was the owner of a warehouse in Detroit, Michigan.
Sayf used the small building behind the eight-foot-high chain-link fence as an occasional meeting place or storage facility, and, at the present, it was his primary office for their mission until it was over, unless something went wrong or they were discovered and forced to move. After he passed through the electronic gate and ensured that it shut behind him, he drove the Audi around to the backside of the building where a garage door opened in response to the button he pressed on his visor.
He parked the car and shut the garage door. From where he was, he could see Malick Yasim through the glass door of the office. He was pacing and, in the reflection from the light, beads of sweat were visible on his bald head. The damage done by the Coast Guard finding the ship was containable, but he couldn’t let his second in command see that fact right away. First, he must be reminded of how simple mistakes could cost them everything.
Sayf calmly stepped out of the car, retrieved his briefcase from the backseat, and shut the doors. Yasim would be waiting for his judgment—he was a loyal soldier. But his carelessness had given more information to the authorities than they’d planned, and that could prove crucial to their timing. He crossed the concrete floor of the nearly empty warehouse to the office and opened the door.
Yasim turned to him immediately. “Sayid, I heard about the boat and the bodies. We left it anchored. I did not expect it to come ashore until after everything was completed. I have failed you.”
“You are a stupid fool!” Sayf snapped. “Do you know what this means to us? We must change the times for everything and we must keep them looking in other directions. Your mistake makes things more difficult than they already were! What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I...I am sorry, Sayid,” the bald man stammered. “Allow me to redeem myself in your eyes. Give me a task to complete to show you that I will not fail you again.”
Sayf allowed himself to the luxury of appearing to consider Yasim’s words while he put his briefcase on the desk and turned on the computer. “Perhaps there is a way...”
“Anything!”
“What we will need is a diversion, Malick. Something to force the authorities to concentrate on more than one task at a time.”
“Yes! This is easily done. I will prove myself to you by creating the diversion you need!”
Sayf sighed and got to his feet, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Easy, my friend. Slow down. I know that you are sorry. Mistakes happen, but we must not allow ourselves to falter foolishly. In any case, we must adjust and I already have a plan in mind that should suffice. You need only to carry it out.”
“What must I do?” Yasim asked.
“I want you to take a group of our people to the far end of 8 Mile and start a fight there with one of the other gangs. One of the motorcycle groups if you can. Make it loud, get some fires going, and don’t be afraid to kill. Extra bodies will only add to the list of things the authorities must deal with and consider.”
The man nodded. “I know a good place for this. When do you want this to happen?”
“Get started now. I want the fight in full swing within an hour. Can you do this?”
“Yes, it shall be done. I will leave immediately and contact you when it’s over.”
Sayf shook his head. “Go there and get the fight started, but do not linger. I want you back here as soon as possible.”
Yasim bowed low and left the office without another word, eager to prove his worth once more. Sayf returned to the desk and sat down, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. In spite of the minor setback, things were moving along well.
Soon, Detroit would explode in a ball of radioactive fire, and become a permanent symbol of the failures of American policy in the Middle East. And as a martyr to the holy cause, he would be revered for all time and rewarded in heaven.
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.”
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