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  Bolan hadn't been asleep for forty-five minutes when the phone rang.

  "What do you have for me, Bear?" Bolan said into his cell phone.

  "Plenty, like how to dismantle an atomic bomb. Got a pen?"

  "Yep, go ahead." Kurtzman read off the detailed instructions for dismantling the device described in Maurstad's schematics, complete with advice on what not to do if he wanted to avoid accidentally detonating the device. Bolan could have remembered the procedure without writing it down, but given the consequences of his failing, he took the most detailed notes he'd ever written. When he was through, he asked, "Got any info on known BNG hangouts?"

  "That gets a little tricky," Kurtzman said. "These people aren't as organized as the Mafia or the Asian triads, but they do have one property that serves as something of a clubhouse. It's the top floor of a two-story building in Chinatown, on Grant Avenue between Pacific Avenue and Broadway, just south of Jack Kerouac Alley."

  "What's on the bottom floor?" Bolan asked.

  "A small Asian convenience store. The owner has strong ties with the BNG in the Philippines. The owner's cousin in the Philippines is under investigation for his ties to Jemaah Islamiyah, and he's also a major player in the BNG's Philippines operation. I'd say this is as good a place as any to start, Striker."

  "I'd say you're right, but if I don't find something do you have any other locations to check out?"

  "I'll find something," Kurtzman said.

  Bolan called Osborne as soon as he hung up and gave him the Grant Street address.

  "That makes sense," Osborne said. "That would have been the first place I looked. The cops have been watching that place for months."

  "Where should we meet?" Bolan asked.

  "There's a fish market across the street that opens early. How long until you can be there?"

  "I'll meet you there in one hour," the Executioner replied.

  * * *

  Bolan rode up the highway toward Castroville. The sun was barely poking up over the horizon, but the road leading from San Francisco to Monterey was a parking lot. Fortunately Bolan had the northbound lanes mostly to himself. Traffic was light and he zipped around cars and trucks easily. Then he noticed that he was being followed.

  It didn't make much sense that someone would be following him — the men paying the bills for such an activity were both dead. If it was one of the BNG crews following him, they must have been at it for several days, and they couldn't yet know that bin Osman and Botros were dead. If that was the case, then why hadn't they been following him before?

  The answer hit him — because he'd changed motorcycles. They were probably looking for the big BMW and had just figured out that he'd switched to the smaller one. That was the only thing that made sense. The reason they'd betrayed their presence was probably because he'd cranked up his pace after hitting Gilroy and they thought he was trying to get away.

  Bolan saw what they were driving and knew he was in trouble. His followers were in a brand-new Nissan Skyline GT-R, one of the highest performing cars ever built, and much faster than the motorcycle Bolan rode. He had no chance of outrunning them, so he'd have to come up with another course of action.

  As if his pursuers had read his mind, the driver of the Nissan supercar stomped on the accelerator and the car closed the distance between him and Bolan like the starship Enterprise cranking up its warp drive. The car bore straight down on the BMW and didn't look like it intended to move around him.

  The car was about to run Bolan down as he approached the Masten Avenue overpass. Just as the car was about to make contact, the soldier veered off the road and jammed on the brakes, slowing as much as he could before the pavement ended. The Nissan rocketed past, but jammed on its brakes once the driver realized what Bolan had done.

  When the pavement ended Bolan let off the brakes, stood up on the pegs, and rode the motorcycle up the embankment to Masten Avenue. At the top of the hill he rode across Masten and stopped at the embankment leading back down to the highway. The Nissan had skidded to a stop just past the overpass bridge and was starting to back up. The driver was too busy trying not to get hit by oncoming vehicles to look up and see Bolan standing above him. Bolan pulled his Desert Eagle from beneath his riding jacket. Taking aim at the steel roof, right about where he imagined the driver to be seated, he pumped an entire magazine through the sheet metal.

  The Nissan accelerated hard and spun out of control, smashing into the cement bridge support between the northbound and southbound lanes. Bolan slammed a fresh magazine into the big hand cannon, reholstered it, and rode down the hill. Traffic had stopped behind the accident, and a small line of cars was forming toward the south. Pulling out his Desert Eagle, Bolan approached the car.

  The driver was dead and the passenger wasn't doing much better. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt and when the car hit the cement pylon, he'd been slammed back into his seat with such force that he appeared to have broken his back. His SAR-21 still lay in his lap, but the man didn't appear to be able to move his arms. Both his right arm and the right arm of the driver bore the distinctive question-mark tattoo with which the soldier had become far too familiar over the past few days.

  The passenger barely held on to consciousness.

  "Who sent you?" Bolan asked.

  "The Malaysian," the man said just before he sunk into unconsciousness, confirming the soldier's suspicions. Bolan felt the pulse in the man's neck. He doubted the man was going to make it.

  He could hear sirens approaching in the distance. A delay would likely result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people, so Bolan was on his bike riding toward San Francisco before the first emergency vehicle came into sight. Bolan held his speed to a reasonable level until after he'd passed the last squad car responding to the accident, then poured it on. He felt relatively sure he wouldn't get stopped for speeding since just about every available unit in a ten-mile area seemed to have headed for the accident site.

  * * *

  In spite of his diversion on the way to the city, Bolan arrived at the fish market on Grant Street just ten minutes later than he had promised Osborne on the phone. Not wanting any distractions from the job at hand, the soldier dismissed his tardiness with the one word every Californian understood: "Traffic."

  "I've scouted the area," Osborne said, "and there seem to be just two main entrances to the upper level, one in back that seems to be the one everyone uses and one inside the convenience store. Plus there is a fire escape on each end of the building."

  "I've got a blueprint of the floor plan," Bolan said, "but it's old; the layout might be completely different." Bolan pulled the floor plan that he'd printed from the file Kurtzman had sent him from his back pocket and unfolded it for Osborne to see.

  "There's one big main room up there, along with a bathroom and the two landings here and here." Bolan pointed to the landings on the stairway. The landing in the back was really its own small room but the one coming up from the store was just large enough for the door to swing open.

  "When you get to the top of the stairs, try to find some cover and defend your position until you hear a flashbang go off. You know the drill on that, right?" Bolan knew that Osborne would have learned the procedure for dealing with a flashbang when he'd received his blacksuit training, but he wanted to be sure.

  "Close your eyes, cover you ears and scream like a lunatic."

  "When you hear the shooting stop on my end, you can expect the flashbang to go off within ten seconds. When the flashbang explodes, rush into the main room."

  Bolan wished he had two more people to cover each fire escape, but he'd have to make do with just him and Osborne and try to keep one eye on the fire escapes. "I'll take the back door — you go up through the door in the store. Watch the store owner — it looks like he's dirty and he might try something. What are you packing?"

  Osborne raised his jacket to reveal a Glock 26 in a Bianchi CarryLok high-ride belt holster. "Plus I brought this," he said. He pulled
back his jacket on the other side to reveal a Glock with an extended 33-round magazine sticking out of the grip.

  "Is that an 18?" the soldier asked, referring to Glock's full-auto 9 mm machine pistol, the Austrian company's version of the Beretta 93-R that the soldier carried.

  "It's more of a 17-and-a-half," Osborne said. "It started life as a 17 and I did a little work to the trigger group."

  Bolan knew the gun Osborne had brought was highly illegal and would net the former officer ten years in prison if he was caught carrying it. But Osborne, like Bolan, was operating outside the boundaries of any law, and his weapon was perfect for the job at hand. And that job entailed nothing short of saving more than one million lives.

  "How many BNG bangers do you think are in there?" Bolan asked.

  "I've seen at least ten men go in already this morning. I imagine there were a few who spent the night here. The department's been keeping an eye on this place and there are always at least three or four guys in there at all times. So what's the plan?"

  "Go to the stairway inside the store. Give me thirty seconds, then kick the door down and come up the stairs. These guys are heavily armed, so when you first go in, shoot anything that isn't me. As soon as things settle down, get selective. We need to keep some of them alive to try to find out where they've hidden the nuclear device."

  Bolan went to the rear entrance, watching the fire escape as he went. He glanced at his watch when he got to the door, then kicked down the door and stormed up the stairs. He saw the barrel of an SAR-21 come into sight over the half wall surrounding three sides of the stairwell. He aimed his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle at the wall, right about where the man holding the gun would be standing, and fired off three quick rounds. The report from the gun echoed through the building like an exploding gas main, followed by agonized screams from the other side of the flimsy half wall.

  Two more men appeared at the top of the stairs. As soon as Bolan saw the tops of their heads appear over the top of the stairwell, he triggered a quick shot into each man. Both shots found their mark and punched through the skulls of the gangbangers. Their momentum carried the corpses over the edge of the stairwell and both bodies tumbled down the staircase, landing on the stoop beneath the smashed-in door. Bolan managed to step out of the way and avoid both men, but one of their falling rifles caught him across his back and knocked the wind out of him.

  The soldier didn't let that slow him down and he continued up the stairs, watching and listening for more movement. The room at the top of the stairs sounded quiet, but he heard shots coming from the other end of the building. He heard the distinct sound of a 9 mm machine pistol, but he also heard the booming of rounds coming from a short-barreled rifle set to full-auto.

  Bolan saw that the area at the top of the stairs was empty, but he could hear excited voices coming from the main room. He moved to the top of the stairs, reloading his gun on the way. Then, crouching just below the top step, he pulled the pin on a flashbang and lobbed it into the main room. He ducked down with his hands to his ears and let out a loud yell while the flashbang exploded.

  The soldier rushed through the door and was in the room before the echoes of the blast had died down. He saw Osborne burst into the room at the opposite end. The people closest to him were completely incapacitated by the blast, but the men at the far end of the room recovered quickly and were raising SAR-21s to fire at Osborne.

  Bolan had the Desert Eagle in his right hand and the Beretta in his left. He opened up with both guns and three men at the other end of the room fell to the floor. Osborne took out two more with the Glock. But there were four more men taking aim at him. Osborne dropped to the floor as rounds flew over his head.

  The Executioner drew a bead on one of the gunman with his Desert Eagle and fired. The man's head disappeared in a red mist. At the same time he sprayed almost an entire magazine from the Beretta at the other three men, dropping two of them. Osborne took out the fourth man with his Glock, which locked open, empty, after the man fell.

  Bolan covered Osborne with the Desert Eagle while he dropped one of the long stick magazines from the Glock and slammed home another thirty-three-rounder. He pressed the slide release, slamming a round into battery just as the Desert Eagle ran dry. Now it was Osborne's turn to cover the soldier while he reloaded. Several of the men who had been closest to the grenade had regained their senses and were raising their guns, but Osborne ran toward them with his Glock ready to spray the group and shouted, "Freeze!"

  Two of the men stopped, but the man closest to Bolan continued to raise his gun, preparing to shoot the soldier who had just finished slapping fresh magazines into his pistols. Osborne fired at the man, opening up half a dozen holes in his chest. The man fell to the floor, dead.

  Meanwhile Bolan had both of the two remaining BNG members in the sights of his guns. Both men raised their hands. Bolan walked up to them and asked, "Have any of you worked with bin Osman?"

  The two men looked at each other as if one could somehow save the other's life. They assessed the situation and concluded that they couldn't. A dozen of their comrades lay strewn about the room, dead or dying. The pair realized that they were dealing with an unknown quantity. These men weren't cops; they were far too bloodthirsty and ruthless to be members of any law enforcement agency, and no cop carried weaponry like they packed. And they weren't members of any rival gang — they were too old and too white.

  The gangbangers had no idea who these attackers were, but they could see that they were people best not messed with. Half of their gang had disappeared or been killed in the past several days and these two men seemed to have been responsible. They were the reason the entire gang had been called to the clubhouse that morning, or rather, what remained of the gang. When the big man asked again, they decided to cooperate.

  "You mean the Malaysian?" one asked.

  "Yes, the Malaysian."

  "We don't know what he's doing," the other said. "We haven't seen him since yesterday."

  "What did you do for him yesterday?"

  "Nothing. He helped us get jobs as security guards. We only saw him yesterday when he came to our job site with the fat white man."

  "Where was the job site?" Bolan asked. "What did they do there?"

  Before they could answer, the bathroom door burst open and another gangbanger flew from the room, his finger pressing down on the trigger of his SAR-21. Both Bolan and Osborne ducked to avoid the wild spray, but the two gangbangers who were about to tell the Executioner where the bomb was located were too stunned to duck.

  Bolan and Osborne fired on the man simultaneously, dropping him in a hail of gunfire, but not before he'd taken out both of his buddies.

  The Executioner seldom lost hope, but when the two BNG members who were going to tell him where to find the bomb died, he nearly succumbed. Then he remembered something a crusty old army sergeant once told him. "When you think you can't go on any farther, boy, it's time to shit your pants, jump in and swim."

  17

  Atay saw the American standing by the door to the BNG clubhouse upstairs, looking at his watch. He thought he should go and chase the man away, but the man looked like a cop. Something big was going on, and Atay didn't like it.

  He didn't like much about what had been happening since bin Osman had contacted him, seeking the assistance of the BNG for some project that the Malaysian hadn't been willing to discuss. The only reason that Atay had agreed to assist the arrogant businessman was because he had been ordered to do so by his cousin Gulay, who was the leader of one of the largest Bahala Na Gangs in the Philippines.

  Atay founded the first Bahala Na Gang in San Francisco, and although he was no longer an active member — he was far too old — he acted as a sort of business manager for the gang. Gulay had ordered him to cooperate with the Malaysian, and the money had been good, but it hadn't been worth what happened to the gang. At least twenty members had been killed that he knew of, and at least that many had gone missing in the last several da
ys. Now he was unable to contact the Malaysian or the Saudi who ran the Malaysian's racing team.

  Not only had the partnership with bin Osman been devastating to the club, but Atay had begun to worry about what exactly the Malaysian was planning. He'd heard bits and pieces from the members who had worked with bin Osman, at least from those who survived, and he hadn't liked what he heard. Atay had begun to worry that whatever the Malaysian was up to, it wasn't good for him or for the BNG.

  And now this man was in his store, standing by the door that led upstairs to the BNG clubhouse. The entire gang, or what remained of it, had gathered upstairs, preparing to go to the mattresses. They had been through wars with rival gangs over the years, but they'd never experienced a buzz saw ripping through their ranks like this. From what he'd heard, most, if not all, of the deaths had been the result of a one-man rampage. The man responsible was supposedly a big, dark-haired American masquerading as a sales rep. At least that wasn't the man in his store now; this man was a medium-height man with hair that was more gray than black. He looked like a cop.

  Atay's heart pounded when he saw the man kick down the door and head upstairs. Then the shooting started. Atay was safely ensconced behind the bullet-resistant shield that surrounded the checkout counter and till, but he hid down below the counter anyway.

  He listened as the shots were fired. Some sounded like they were coming from the stairway and others sounded like they were coming from the back of the building. Some were softer, more muffled pops; others were loud, as if they'd been shot from a rifle. Most of the shots seemed to be coming from fully automatic weapons, but they were interspersed by extremely loud booming shots coming from some sort of single-round firing weapon.

  Atay guessed that at least half the shots were coming from the assault rifles that the Malaysian had imported from Singapore. Bin Osman had provided the weapons at no cost, along with ample ammunition, but Atay felt as uncomfortable about that situation as he felt about the rest of his dealings with the sneaky Malaysian. Atay liked his weapons old school, like the old Smith & Wesson he now held in his shaking hand.