Ballistic Force Read online

  “What are you doing here?” Bolan asked the woman once he caught up with her.

  “I think they call it surveillance,” Bahn replied.

  The Korean she’d taken on slowly came to, and when he began to struggle against Bahn’s hold had, she gave the man’s arm another sharp twist. He grimaced and began cursing her in his native tongue.

  “Yeah, I love you, too, sweetheart,” the woman told him.

  By now the neighborhood was alive with the wailing of police sirens. Three squad cars soon screeched into view and the moment they rocked to a stop, out spilled a handful of armed officers. Some went to work cordoning off the area from the throng of curiosity seekers drawn by the bedlam; the others strode toward Bolan and Bahn, guns drawn.

  Bolan flashed a badge packet identifying him as a special agent for the Justice Department. His affiliation with Stony Man Farm—not to mention the existence of the Farm itself—was a well-guarded national secret and whenever pressed to identify himself, Bolan usually relied on his Justice credentials. When the officer in charge balked at Bahn’s ID, Bolan quickly vouched for her. Squared away, they turned over their prisoner and headed back toward the Killboys’ hideout. The garbage truck’s engine was still running, but the building itself had fallen eerily silent.

  “Okay, now,” Bahn said once they’d reached the broached front entrance, “you’re here because…”

  “Uh-uh,” Bolan countered. “Ladies first.”

  “Since when was I a lady?” Bahn wisecracked.

  “The jury’s still out,” Bolan said, “but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Such flattery, how can I resist?”

  Once inside, Bolan led the woman to the nearest stairwell. As they started up the steps, Bahn explained that Inter-Trieve had been hired by the family of slain DEA agent Richard Starr to track down the head of the North Korean outfit supplying the Killboys gang with heroin and methaphetamines.

  “That would be Kim Jong-il,” Bolan told her, referring to the rogue nation’s enigmatic leader. “Do they really think you’re going to bring him in?”

  “There’d be one hell of a bonus if I could,” Bahn said. “But I think they’d settle for somebody further down the food chain. One of their generals or else the guy who middlemans their stuff to the States.”

  “Good luck,” Bolan murmured skeptically. The tear gas had begun to dissipate inside the building, but neither Bahn nor Bolan had bothered to put on a mask and their eyes stung from the lingering residue. The smell of cordite was still heavy in the air, as well, as they bypassed the first three stories, making their way to the top floor.

  “At any rate,” the woman went on, “there I was, casing the place out, when some guy plays Batman and goes crashing through one of the windows here. Next thing I knew, all hell was breaking loose.”

  She pointed to the top-story window the DEA agent stationed on the adjacent rooftop had crashed through using the grappling hook line. A slain Korean lay dead on the floor just inside the window, an AK-47 at his side.

  Halfway down the hall, Bolan and Bahn caught up with John Kissinger and the two surviving DEA agents. They were in a large room where the Killboys stored their drug wares. The agents were looking over a folding table stacked high with street-ready bags of heroin and several cardboard boxes filled with methaphetamine capsules. Kissinger stood over two of the gang-bangers killed in the firefight. Bolan recognized one of them as the man the weaponsmith had knocked out on the third floor; apparently he’d regained consciousness and decided to die fighting instead of making a run for it. Kissinger’s right ankle was still bothering him and he’d bound his wounded arm with a strip of cloth that was fast changing color from white to red. He did a double take when he saw who Bolan had brought into the room with him.

  “What do you know…Our favorite party-crasher,” Kissinger said.

  “I’ve been called worse,” Bahn countered evenly. “Nice to see you again, too.”

  “Let’s wrap this up,” Bolan said.

  Leaving the DEA agents to inventory their drug haul, Bolan, Kissinger and Bahn ventured into the hallway and conducted a room-to-room search of the rest of the building. They encountered no further resistance and wound up back in the third-floor room the Killboys had used as a crash pad. Bolan sized up the toppled Army cots and quickly did the math.

  “We’ve got two more beds than we do Koreans,” he surmised. “We better take another look around.”

  “I don’t think we need to,” Bahn told him.

  “Why not?” Kissinger interjected.

  “I saw two guys leave right after I got here,” she explained. “They were in a late-model van. Dodge, I think.”

  “Did you get a look at the plates?” Bolan asked.

  “Hey, I was two buildings away. Give me a break.”

  “Not much chance of them coming back here after this,” Bolan said.

  “Rats like this have more than one nest,” Bahn theorized. “I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

  “Let’s see what else we’ve got here,” Bolan said.

  He was already beginning to search the compound. There wasn’t much to go through. Besides the cots, there were a few sheets and pillows, a couple heaps of rumpled clothes and a cardboard box overflowing with fast-food wrappers and soda cans. Kissinger tipped the box over and started looking for clues and evidence amid the trash. Bolan and Bahn turned their attention to the clothes, checking pockets.

  “No help here,” Kissinger grumbled, coming across only a few back editions of a local Korean newspaper and a foreign language porno magazine. He flipped through a few of the magazine’s glossy pages, then glanced over at Bahn.

  “Nope,” he said. “Thought for a second that might have been you in the Miss November spread here.”

  “Har-har,” Bahn deadpanned.

  “Hang on,” Bolan said. He’d come across a folded sheet of paper in the back pocket of a pair of jeans. Bahn and Kissinger approached as he unfolded the paper, revealing a computer printout with two columns of names. The printout was in English, but there were Korean characters scribbled alongside either column. Most of the names in the second column had addresses listed beneath them. Only one of the addresses was in Los Angeles; the others were in Nevada, Illinois and Washington, D.C.

  “Distribution network?” Kissinger wondered out loud.

  “I don’t think so,” Bolan said. “Otherwise all the names would have addresses. Besides, they probably have other distributors back east. It’s gotta be something else.”

  Bahn peered over Bolan’s shoulder, then whistled to herself as she pointed at one of the names in the first column.

  “Yong-Im Hyunsook,” she whispered.

  “Ring a bell?” Bolan asked her.

  “I might be wrong, but, yeah, I think so.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, Kissinger prodded her. “And?”

  “Again, I might be wrong, but if I’m right about this guy’s name, we just might have opened up a whole new can of worms.”

  “Get to the point, would you?” Bolan snapped.

  “Touchy, aren’t we?” Bahn teased. She went on, “Okay, let me put it this way. If this Yong-Im guy’s who I think he is, we’re definitely not talking about just street gangs and drug-dealing anymore.” Tapping the paper for emphasis, she added, “What we’ve got here is a hit list.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Canoga Park, California

  It was a little past eight in the morning when Hong Sung-nam pulled his rental van to a stop halfway down the block from Dr. Yong-Im Hyunsook’s one-story tract home. He’d planned on arriving sooner but had gotten hung up in traffic. It had also taken longer than expected to apply the slap-on decals that would make the van appear as if it were part of the local cable company’s truck fleet. Hong was dressed in a plain navy-blue outfit that closely matched the uniforms worn by the company’s field workers. He’d picked up the outfit at a secondhand store in Koreatown the previous afternoon. It was missing
the Trident Cable logo, but Hong doubted anyone would notice. If anything, he was more concerned about the short sleeves, which barely covered the freshly inked Killboys tattoo on his right bicep. There was also the matter of the name tag sewn above the right pocket of his shirt. There weren’t many Koreans named Norm.

  As he waited inside the van, Hong saw an overweight, middle-aged man in a peach-colored sweat suit jogging his way on the sidewalk. The hit man quickly grabbed the clipboard on the seat beside him and glanced down at it, scribbling gibberish as he waited for the jogger to pass. Moments later, however, he was startled by a rapping on the passenger-side window. Hong looked up and saw the older man gesturing for him to roll down the window. Hong tensed, then leaned over and cranked the handle, lowering the window a few inches.

  “What’s up?” the jogger said. “They told me on the phone it’d be a couple days before they could get somebody out here.”

  Hong thought quickly and responded, “Change in schedule.” His English was fluent but bore a heavy Korean accent.

  “Decent.” The jogger pointed back the way he’d come. “Only thing is, you’re at the wrong end of the block. I’m the last house on the right—22421.”

  Hong glanced at his clipboard, pretending to look over his work orders for the day. “I have three calls on this block,” he told the man. “You’re on the list.”

  “Perfect,” the jogger said. “With any luck, I’ll be able to catch the ball game tonight, right?”

  “Right,” Hong said.

  The older man stepped back from the van and resumed his jogging. Relieved, Hong tossed the clipboard onto the seat and glanced behind him.

  Crouched in back of the van was a twenty-year-old Korean-American wearing an outfit similar to Hong’s. Ok-Hwa Zung was a new initiate into the Killboys. His older brother was already a gang member, and this day Ok-Hwa hoped to come at least one step closer to earning his stripes. As such, he was nervous with anticipation. Looking out through the van’s rear windows, he watched the jogger turn the corner, then lowered the 9 mm pistol he’d just yanked from the waistband of his slacks.

  “I hope he doesn’t cause us any problems,” Ok-Hwa murmured.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Hong told him. “We’ll be finished with our business and out of here before he realizes he’s not getting any service today.”

  “And when that happens he’ll call the cable company,” the younger man countered. “They’ll figure out we were impostors.”

  “We have no control over that,” Hong said. “Besides, by then we’ll be halfway to Nevada.”

  “If nothing goes wrong,” Ok-Hwa said.

  “Nothing will go wrong,” Hong assured him. “Now put the gun away and stop worrying.”

  The younger man fell silent. Hong turned his attention back to Dr. Yong-Im’s house. They were in an older neighborhood on the western fringe of the San Fernando Valley, an hour’s drive north of the Killboys’ Koreatown headquarters. Large shade trees lined the parkways and over the years their roots had buckled the sidewalks, requiring asphalt patches to keep people from tripping over the raised edges. A few of the yards were well-kept, but most had balding lawns riddled with weeds and surrounded by scraggly, overgrown plants. Hong knew that by U.S. standards this was a lower middle-class neighborhood, but compared to conditions back in North Korea, these people were living in the lap of luxury. And yet they were still concerned about such frivolous things as cable reception. Back home, Hong’s people were lucky if they even had a television capable of picking up state-sponsored broadcasts on the only available channel. Ball game? Back home the only thing to watch was propaganda speeches and reruns of the previous year’s victory parades down the streets of Pyongyang.

  Hong’s envy was surpassed only by his hatred for Americans, which had intensified during his surveillance of the neighborhood the past few days. He’d had his fill of the self-satisfied way these people went about their business, oblivious to hardships endured by the rest of the world. If he had his way, instead of a panel van he’d be here in a tank, blasting rounds into these homes and then picking off the residents with a machine gun when they rushed outside in fear. That would show them.

  At half-past eight, Dr. Yong-Im, a short, balding man in his early fifties, emerged from his house and picked up the copy of the morning paper lying in the driveway. He took the paper with him as he got into his Camry sedan and backed out into the street, then headed away from Hong’s van toward the far end of the block. If he stayed true to his routine, Yong-Im would soon be at the local Starbucks coffee shop, where he’d spend the next hour nursing a latte as he worked his way through the paper. Hong figured that would be all the time he and Ok-Hwa would need.

  “Let’s go,” Hong told his colleague.

  Hong grabbed the clipboard and a tool kit, then the two men got out of the van. An unseen dog yapped a few times at them from one of the neighboring backyards, but they reached Yong-Im’s house without any further run-ins. On the remote chance that anyone might be watching from inside one of the nearby homes, Hong and Ok-Hwa lingered a few moments in the driveway, dividing their attention between the clipboard and the roofline of the house. Hong made it appear that he was trying to track down the cable junction box, then led Ok-Hwa through a side gate to the backyard. There, tall cinder-block walls covered with creeping fig blocked their view of the adjacent yards and, by the same token, insured that no one could see them as they carried out their assignment.

  Ok-Hwa had been tapped for the mission because of his experience as a electrician’s assistant, and he put that experience to quick work, pinpointing the home’s security system and then tracking the wiring to an outside circuit box. Once he’d shut down the system, he signaled Hong, who proceeded to use a locksmith’s pick on the sliding-glass door that led to Dr. Yong-Im’s family room. It took him all of thirty seconds to trip the lock and slide the door open.

  Yong-Im lived alone, and inside Hong was relieved to see that the place was sparsely furnished. That would make things easier.

  “I’ll start in here and work my way to the kitchen,” Hong told Ok-Hwa. “You take the den and the bedrooms. You know what to look for.”

  Ok-Hwa nodded. “If he’s lucky, we’ll find it. Otherwise…” The younger Korean grinned malevolently and dragged an index finger across his throat.

  Hong corrected Ok-Hwa. “If we don’t find what we’re looking for, the good doctor will only wish he were dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  South Kangwon-do Province, North Korea

  General Oh Chol of the Korean People’s Army grumbled under his breath as the military jeep carrying him through the mountains bounded over yet another deep rut in the narrow dirt road. His lower back was aching, and he’d forgotten to bring along his pain medication. There was a part of him that wished he’d forgone security considerations and taken a helicopter from Kaesong. It would have been faster and a hell of a lot more comfortable, but he understood the need for caution.

  After all these years and all the setbacks, things were finally falling to place for Kim Jong-il’s regime, and there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks. Oh knew the U.S. and her allies had spy satellites combing the entire country for signs of suspicious activity, and the sight of a chopper setting down on this supposedly uninhabited side of the Changchon Mountains would be sure to raise a red flag. Traveling by ground was by far the safer course, and Oh figured he could endure a little discomfort for the cause. Besides, once he reached the installation, he figured he’d be able to get his hands on something for the pain.

  While the other side of the mountain range overlooked the demilitarized zone and was overrun with heavily armed military posts, here on the north face there was little sign of civilization other than the dirt road, one of several that threaded its way through the rolling terrain. A few bald escarpments and promontories poked up through surrounding vegetation, but otherwise the mountains were so pristinely verdant that global conservation groups were lob
bying to have the area declared a wildlife sanctuary. Oh knew there was little chance of that ever happening. After all, why should Kim Jong-il give a damn about a handful of endangered species when the hillsides could be converted to poppy fields?

  After another twenty minutes on the road, Oh came upon an area that had already undergone such a transformation. Under the vigilant eye of several dozen armed soldiers, more than a hundred laborers were busy at work on a twenty-acre parcel that just this past spring had been clear-cut and replanted with poppies. The crop was well along and the workers were going from plant to plant, cutting into the podlike bulbs and then scraping the resinous ooze into small containers. Once accumulated into cargo vats, the raw opium would be transported cross-country to government-run pharmaceutical plants in Chongjin and processed into heroin for distribution abroad. Changchon presently contributed only a fraction of the opium grown in the northern provinces, but if things went well here in the trial area, more tracts would be carved out of the local mountainside. The way Oh had heard it, inside of three years, Changchon could be matching the output of all the collective farms combined, doubling the country’s heroin trade and helping to further subsidize Kim Jong-il’s military ambitions.

  There were two obstacles to the Changchon enterprise. The first, climatic conditions, was beyond the regime’s control. Poppies thrived best in a warmer terrain with better soil than what the mountains here provided. But the feeling was that by cultivating more and more land, quantity could offset the inferior quality of North Korean heroin compared to that harvested in more favorable environments such as Afghanistan and Myanmar.

  The second problem involved the work force, and as Oh’s jeep carried him along the periphery of the poppy fields, he was given a vivid demonstration. Twenty yards to his left there was a sudden flurry of activity. Seven carbine-toting soldiers broke from their positions at the edge of the fields and stormed through the waist-high plants to where one of the workers, a woman in her early sixties, had just slumped to the ground.