Firebase Seattle Page 10

  The mission of the moment, however, was not to drain Johnny Franciscus but to spring Dianna Webb. Bolan had not been playing games with Margaret Nyeburg. He felt most overpoweringly that the lady’s daughter was another moth with fragile wings fluttering too close to the consuming flame.

  Bolan knew his enemy.

  He knew their values, the things they revered, the prices they were willing to pay for success. And they would pay any life but their own.

  If not already too late, he meant to see that Dianna Webb did not become part of that price.

  Bolan checked the lady into a Holiday Inn under an assumed name, paid for the room cash in advance, and spirited her into the room wrapped in a blanket—with promises that she would remain until contacted and “play no more games.”

  Then he went to work on the warwagon, changing a few color panels to present a new “design”—replacing the license plates—rearranging various exterior dummy appurtenances.

  The hour was nearing eleven when he wheeled the sleek “new” motor home to an address in Seattle’s east-central sector. It was a high-rise complex in a parklike setting overlooking Lake Washington—an elite neighborhood for fashionable cavedwellers—security conscious, with electronic door interlocks at each building entrance, uniformed patrols on the grounds between the buildings and in the parking areas.

  One building in particular did not seem overly confident of the normal security precautions. It was the address in Bolan’s warbook. A car was parked at the yellow zone curbing just down from the lobby entrance, two guys in the front seat. Four more guys in well-fitted suits stood in a clutch at the entrance, chatting.

  Not the usual mob guys, no. Soldiers nonetheless. Each of those four would have looked more natural in shiny combat boots and the spiffy trappings of the Military Police. That was Bolan’s gut reading, at any rate.

  He donned the yellow nightshades, pulled on to the curb directly opposite the entrance, and opened his window.

  It was as good a time as any to probe the depths of Dianna Webb’s defection.

  Four pairs of eyes took that vehicle instantly apart, but none of the troops moved another muscle.

  Bolan called over, “Pardon me. Which building is forty-two?”

  One of the guys peeled away from the pack to take a couple of paces toward the curb. “This is forty,” he replied in a not unfriendly tone. “Go back around the circle and take the first right. That should put you into forty-two.”

  Bolan said, “Thanks,” as another of the four moved forward and squatted to peer at his undersides.

  “That’s quite an RV,” the new one commented, coming out of the squat to flash a grin at the man at the wheel. “How’s she do in the mountains?”

  “I’ll find out tomorrow,” Bolan replied, grinning back. “Taking her up Olympus.”

  “I’d be interested in how she does,” the guy shot back. “You live around here?”

  “Not yet. Buddy of mine lives over in forty-two. We’re spending the night here, taking off early tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Thompson. Know ’im?”

  “Wish I did, no.”

  “Come in and take a look around if you’d like,” Bolan grandly offered.

  Genuine regret registered there as the guy flashed a sheepish glance toward his companions. “Some other time, I’d love to. How much it set you back?”

  “God I hate to look at the papers and see,” Bolan said, grinning. “It started out at thirty, basic. I just closed my eyes and signed my name. I’ll look at the final price after I see how she does.”

  The guy laughed and stepped back. “I’ll look you up when you get back.”

  “Do that,” Bolan said, and moved on away from there.

  No—not standard mob guys. These “boys” were all business—in a polished military manner. A high percentage of that friendly banter had been business-oriented. The guy dug the rig, sure—but he’d been primarily interested in establishing the status of it. Apparently Bolan had passed the inspection. Just as apparently, Dianna had betrayed his confidence.

  He circled on to the next building and into the parking area separating the two, found a good spot for surveillance, and parked.

  Thirty thousand, hell. Start at a hundred thousand, soldier, and work up from there. She quietly boasted the most sophisticated of electronic and optic systems developed during the space age; no expense had been spared toward that consideration.

  She could “see” for more than a mile with telescopic/stereoscopic clarity, night or day, and she could “hear” flies buzzing at two thousand yards—unaided by any exterior devices. With exterior implantations in the target area, the bonus baby to Bolan’s war effort could scan through walls of buildings and record conversations in a dozen simultaneous operations. And that was far from all.

  But it was all the use Bolan had in mind for the present, and it was time for the battle cruiser to go to work.

  He went to the console and activated the audio surveillance system, directing the concealed barrel pickups to a point near the very peak of 40 Washington Towers, then turned on the “nitebrite optics,” an infra-red system coupled with laser techniques for pencil-flash or broadflood selectivity.

  Minutes later, he had a rather valid understanding of the problem confronting him.

  The Franciscus apartment was the penthouse suite—the only dwelling at that level. There were no exterior approaches. Through a crack in a small half-window—probably a bathroom—he’d picked up the muffled sounds of a television program mixed with occasional bumps, movements, and footfalls somewhere within—a couple of “live” male voices and two audible words: “Johnny said.”

  He worked up a graphic projection of the building on the plotting board and experimented with several “breach plans” before finally going to the mobile phone and calling his friend the mob flyboy, Jack Grimaldi.

  The guy must have been sitting on the telephone. He answered at the first crack of the bell with a breathless, “Yeah, Terrifying Flying Service.”

  Bolan chuckled and said, “Jack, how soon can you lay hands on a windmill?”

  “Had one standing by all day. Thought you’d never call. What’s the job?”

  “Remember Dallas?”

  “Oh God. That again. That was daylight, buddy.”

  “So you try a little harder this time,” Bolan suggested. “It’s only about four hundred feet, though, Jack. Will the weather allow?”

  “Depends on where you are. Over on the coast it’s zero-zero right now. Mountains have most of it blocked but it’s seeping down Juan de Fuca and spilling down along the Sound. If you’re—”

  “Western shore of Lake Washington, Jack.”

  “That’s different. Just a minute.”

  Grimaldi was “gone” for a full minute. Bolan marked time by studying his projections. The pilot returned to say, “Okay, it looks hopeful if we move right quick. You’ve got a ground layer of thin stuff with tops at about two hundred feet. The Naval Air Station over there at Sand Point says it’s acceptable but subject to change very rapidly. Then there’s another deck at one thousand and already descending. There’s no way to know how long it will take to close solid—you know what I’m saying? We could have a zero-zero condition over there from a thousand feet on down if those two layers decide to marry.”

  “We’ll have to risk it, Jack. Let’s at least go up and eyeball it from the top.”

  “Right. Where do I get you?”

  “Come down to the Union Bay bridge. Then keep south and put on your infra-red specs. Look for a beacon. I’ll be at the bottom.”

  “What if I can’t see the damn beacon?”

  “It’s laser-focused. You’ll see it. Just in case, though—give me a comm channel.”

  “Okay,” the pilot soberly replied, “let’s see … how about 126.7 megs? You have that?”

  “I can plug it in, yeah. That’s a standard aero freq, isn’t it?”

  “Well
sure. That’s all these buggies come with. Just watch what you say. You’re Low Boy. I’m High Boy.”

  “Right. Radio silence, though, unless you get lost.”

  “Right.”

  “How soon, Jack?”

  “Let’s see … what will I need?”

  “Guts and skill.”

  Grimaldi chuckled. “What else? Give me something I can handle.”

  “Better have a rope ladder, Jack. I guess that’s about the only special. Oh, no … if you have a basket …”

  The pilot groaned. “You going after a basket case?”

  “Could be. Better be ready for it.”

  “Okay. Give me five minutes to prep, another five to fly. See you in ten. I hope.”

  Yeah, sure, hope.

  There was damn little else to cling to.

  14: NUMBERED

  The tall buildings rose eerily from the low-level mists, stark in their isolation, foreboding, capped with twinkling red lights as a warning to low-flying aircraft—a hazard, yeah, one hell of a fine hazard.

  Bolan pushed a sketch onto the pilot’s knee-clip and circled a spot with his finger. “This one, the two o’clock position, Jack. Let’s take a low pass for look-see. Tell me if you can put down there.”

  Grimaldi whistled softly into his headset. “If we can’t, Sarge, I’d recommend a scrub. We’ve only got about four hundred feet to play with, and it’s closing fast. If we’re down when it closes, well, okay. We can always lift off and pray for someplace to land. You get down there, though, and the clouds settle around those damned windows—well, enough said. I couldn’t get back for you.”

  Bolan growled, “Yeah. Go look.”

  They went by in a slow pass, circling at fifty feet above. The roof was a jumble of utility structures, air-conditioners, supports for the hazard-lighting tower—bounding it all in, a steel parapet about four feet high.

  Grimaldi was the first to note the clear area. “Southeast corner,” he said, elated. “There’s room.”

  Bolan’s attention had been diverted elsewhere. Two men, in foul-weather hoods, were huddled against a small housing near the north parapet. And they had spotted the chopper immediately, were watching it with considerable interest.

  “Go around again, Jack. Couple of bandits at twelve o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “Small structure at the north wall. Elevator, maybe—or stairwell. Let’s make them nervous.”

  The pilot grinned and kicked the little ship into a steep descent, crabbing around in a near-spin to skim dangerously along the rooftop.

  Both men ran into the open, electrified by the stunt and obviously shaken.

  Bolan was threading the sound-suppressor aboard the Beretta. He was rigged for light combat—black-suit, AutoMag, Beretta, chest pouch, single utility belt.

  “Give me a razzle-dazzle approach,” he instructed the pilot. “Go in like an eagle. I’ll clear the area and keep going. Lift off in three minutes, that’s three exactly, with or without me. If it’s without, stand by upstairs for another five—if you can—but that’s my point of no return. Take off and don’t look back.”

  “Gotcha,” Grimaldi replied. “Like an eagle, huh? How’s this?”

  The little bird went into a steep climb then heeled, tilted, and swooped back across the rooftop with hairbreadth clearance. The guys below were running for the open area and waving hardware, now, but they hit the deck and hugged it as the “eagle” swooped overhead.

  Grimaldi was a master at his work. Forward motion halted with a quick upward jerk, followed immediately by a quick drop and a hover with the skids probably no more than six inches above the deck.

  Bolan hit the hatch with a “Tally-ho!” at his lips and the whispering Beretta streaking flame from his right hand.

  The two “bandits” were caught midway in a scramble for footing, and never quite made it. Bolan paused above them for a moment to verify the results then jogged on to the housing where their presence had first been noted.

  And, yeah, it was an elevator. Limited duty, two stops only, the penthouse and the floor below it. Perfect.

  He called the car and stepped quickly inside, punched the penthouse button, and erupted from there at that level with the Beretta Belle in whispering attack.

  A guy on a stool at the opposite wall got his mouth open and never found time to close it, a 9mm Parabellum slug zipping in there with shattering impact and splattering the wall behind with more life forces than any man could spare.

  Another guy, at the end of the lobby area, managed to get a hand inside his coat—his last bloody inch before doomsday.

  Bolan reached back into the elevator car and threw the control to “out of service,” then propped the door open with the sentry stool just to make certain. There was no other elevator service to this level. Penthouse visitors evidently were required to transfer cars at the next level down. An emergency stairway with a fire door was the only other access.

  He stepped across the guy at the entrance to the apartment and kicked the door open.

  An MP type just inside gawked then gurgled under the impact of another snorter. Bolan kept going and found another in the kitchen then another just exiting from a bathroom—and he left them there where he found them.

  A large bedroom with two glass walls was empty; another, a mere cubicle with no glass at all, contained a dresser and a bed with a technically nude young lady spread-eagled and bound to the latter by wrists and ankles. A small handtowel was stuffed into her mouth.

  The eyes became frantic at the sight of Bolan, and a muffled moan escaped the gag.

  He stood over her and carefully removed the towel, then coolly inquired, “Is this some kinky game or is the young lady in trouble?”

  It was a cheap shot, sure, but he was as angry as relieved and just couldn’t let the opportunity slide.

  She wore only the slinky chemise he’d first seen her in, plus bikini briefs. By her struggles or some other force, the dress had become raised in wadded folds to the breastline.

  She turned away from the Bolan gaze and closed her eyes.

  “Ready to go home, babe?” he asked her in a kindlier tone.

  “God, yes,” she whispered.

  He cut the sashcord from her wrists and lay the stiletto on her bare belly. “Meet me at the elevator,” he instructed. “Where’s friend John?”

  “I-I don’t know for sure. And I don’t care for sure. He left hours ago. Something about the Seattle-Tacoma Airport.”

  Bolan snapped, “Hurry!” and jogged out of there.

  He scattered micro pickups all over that joint, even in the bathrooms, then made a run for the lobby.

  Dianna was waiting for him there, standing astride the overturned stool in the elevator doorway, teeth bared and corners of the mouth pulled back in a horrified grimace as she stared transfixed at the former occupant of that stool.

  “Know him?” Bolan growled.

  “Yes, th-that’s David Turner.”

  “Was,” he said, and pushed her gently on into the car then kicked the stool aside.

  He’d just cycled the controls for a return to service when Dianna lunged forward with eyes glaring and a gurgling in the throat, terrified gaze leaping beyond Bolan’s shoulder to something behind him.

  He whirled to see the fire door half-open, a guy pushing through, others close behind on the stairwell.

  The guy in front wore crepe-sole canvas shoes and casual slacks, turtleneck jersey, light nylon wind-breaker—handsome guy, wavy blond hair concealing the ears and curling to the rear in a mod fashion, facial expression altering rapidly from annoyance to alarm as those gazes clashed. The man directly behind looked like some moviemaker’s impression of Aristotle Onassis—a chubby guy done up in swank suit with silk lapels, a boutonniere, smoked glasses, gray Homburg.

  All of which was no more than a flashing impression gained via a microsecond of observation while Bolan was already reacting to the situation.

  He launched himsel
f in full flight, hitting that door with a double judo kick from six feet out, and it went all the way to full closure with a resounding crack, punching the blond man and entourage into a noisy descent along the stairway.

  Dianna was a quick reactor, also. She’d punched the “door close” control and was holding the door open with her hand when Bolan recovered and began scrambling back. “Roof!” he yelled as he dived inside.

  He again cycled to “out of service” as they were exiting, then grabbed the girl’s hand and led the dash to the waiting ’copter. While she climbed aboard, he stepped over to attach an “exterior device” to the outside railing of the parapet.

  “You still had ten seconds,” Grimaldi observed drolly as they lifted off.

  “Not really,” Bolan puffed, but nobody heard him above the clatter of the rotors.

  Nor did they need to.

  Angry men were erupting from another housing just east of the stalled elevator and swarming across that roof down there.

  One of them took a wild shot at the disappearing “eagle,” but it was a vain attempt.

  They were well clear and climbing into the mists above.

  The girl gave him an uncertain visual contact then sighed and snuggled to him.

  Grimaldi was making a sign with his headset.

  Bolan donned his and asked, “Yeah?”

  “Too close for comfort,” the pilot commented. “It’s zero-zero down there right now. You just made it, buddy. Thank God I was sitting, not hovering upstairs.”

  Yeah.

  That, dear hearts, was what Mack Bolan called “on the numbers.” With not a heartbeat to spare.

  15: CLEAN

  Grimaldi found a momentary clearing and set down a few hundred yards from where Bolan had left the warwagon.

  Grim-lipped, he told the Executioner: “Terrified but safe. For now. Here you are, soldier. And the ride was paid in advance.”

  Bolan gripped his friend’s hand in a warm clasp and said, “You’re a real artist, Jack. Thanks. I’m releasing you. Need anything?”

  The pilot shook his head. “But you do. I’ll stick around a while.”