Cyberthreat Read online

  “Strange of them not to leave you a key,” the data terrorist said. “They’re usually so polite.”

  “They probably assumed I was going to frog-march you out of here in your manacles and orange suit. But I’d prefer to keep a lower profile.”

  “Touché.”

  “Put on the clothes,” Bolan ordered.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll turn around to preserve my modesty?”

  “No.”

  Octavios sighed and stood. He was at least six foot four, perhaps a bit taller. Stripping off his jumpsuit, he turned and Bolan eyed the device attached to his chest. Wires, which ran from a metal box about the size of a portable hard drive, were directly embedded in the man’s skin. The area around the contacts was red and inflamed.

  “Those look infected,” Bolan observed.

  “Somehow,” Octavios said, “I don’t think I’ll have time to die of blood poisoning before one of the international community’s assassins puts a bullet in me.”

  “That’s why I’m here. To prevent that.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical,” Octavios said, his Greek accent light but noticeable. “I mean no offense. But you are one man. What can one man do?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Bolan told him.

  They made their way through the facility’s security layers without incident. Back at his car, Bolan walked around the vehicle, bent to check the undercarriage and then popped the hood to check the engine. He was taking no chances that it had been tampered with.

  “Satisfied?” Octavios asked.

  “Almost.” Bolan popped the trunk and gestured for Octavios to look inside. The Greek expatriate shuffled to where Bolan stood, his gait uncertain.

  The trunk was empty except for the Executioner’s war bag, which he removed and slung across his body.

  “You have no spare tire?” Octavios asked.

  “Under the panel,” Bolan said then shoved the man into the trunk.

  “Wait!” Octavios sputtered. “What are you—?”

  Bolan slammed the trunk closed. He had disabled the emergency release inside—a pull-tab made of glow-in-the-dark plastic intended to release the latch from inside.

  Octavios began kicking and yelling from within.

  “Knock it off. It’s just until we are clear of the prison. I don’t want you where a sniper could take a shot at you until I can assess whether we’ve been tailed.”

  “You might have asked!” Octavios squalled from inside the trunk.

  “I wasn’t in the mood to argue about it.”

  Bolan removed his Beretta 93-R in its shoulder harness from the war bag and shrugged into the leather rig. Then he put his Desert Eagle in its Kydex holster at his waist. Finally, he took the Out The Front—OTF—automatic knife from the bag and slipped it into his waistband at the two o’clock position.

  Once he got the Chevy moving, he left the Canadian facility and made several blocks without incident. He slowed then stopped for a red light, checking his six and surveying the traffic to the front and sides of the vehicle. There was nothing.

  Octavios began kicking or punching the trunk hood again. Bolan wasn’t sure which. “Cut it out,” he shouted at the back seat. “I’ll find a spot with some cover and we can—”

  Bolan stopped. A silver Mercedes sedan was sliding into position next to him. Both the driver and a man in the passenger seat turned to look at him. Both were Asian.

  The soldier recognized them. The driver’s photo was one of the images in his dossier. It was Choi Kwang Sik.

  From the passenger seat, Jang Mung-Jun raised a weapon to eye level.

  Bolan’s mind had time to register a 9 mm Daewoo K-7. Cyclic rate of fire somewhere around a thousand rounds per minute.

  Bolan reached down and yanked his seat lever. The seat back slammed rearward, dropping him almost prone behind the steering wheel. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor.

  Nine-millimeter bullets ripped through the driver’s-side window as Bolan sent the Chevy rocketing through the intersection.

  Chapter Two

  The Streets of Toronto

  The Chevy bottomed out as it careened through the intersection, scraping the undercarriage on a hump in the asphalt. Bolan jerked the seat upright then cut the wheel to the left, shooting for a narrow side street. There were no people visible in that direction. It was early enough in the morning that pedestrian traffic was low. Bolan wanted as much fighting room as he could get. With one hand, he scraped some of the pebbles of safety glass from his lap as he floored the gas pedal.

  The Mercedes bearing the two North Korean SSD operatives was pulling even with his right rear quarter panel. They were going to try to PIT him—a classic Pursuit Intervention Technique used to ram a vehicle into the shoulder. The soldier couldn’t allow that.

  He slammed on the brakes and the Mercedes scraped the passenger side of the Chevy amidships. Metal squealed.

  “What is happening out there?” Octavios demanded from the trunk.

  “Quiet,” Bolan said. “Busy now.”

  The Executioner drew the massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from the Kydex holster. He needed a vehicle-killer. The .44 slugs would do more damage than the 9 mm rounds from his Beretta ever could. He hit the switch for the driver’s-side window—realizing, to his brief amusement, that there was little point in that—and raised the weapon to take aim.

  Two more silver Mercedes sedans roared up along either side of the Chevy. Bolan judged the distance and hit the brakes. The vehicle directly behind him, the one carrying the two SSD operatives in Bolan’s dossier, rammed the back of the Chevy. That set off more squalling from the trunk, but the hit wasn’t bad enough to do more than scrape paint.

  Just for a moment, the sedan on his left drew even with the Chevy. Bolan had time to see the Asian driver’s eyes go wide. Then the gunner in the passenger seat woke up and raised his own submachine gun. This one a Mini Uzi.

  Bolan put a .44 Magnum slug through the gunner’s face.

  The bullet bore a tunnel through the passenger’s skull and kept going, striking the driver in the right side of his jaw. The sedan broke right, scraping the Chevy, then careened left, bouncing up over the curb and into a light pole at what had to be fifty miles per hour.

  An errant thought flitted through his brain—eighty kilometers per hour. They were in Canada, after all.

  He designated the wrecked Mercedes as Car Two. Car One bore Choi and Jang. Car Three was the other backup unit. He would need to take out Car Three to remove the threat it represented. Neutralizing Car One without killing both occupants would be ideal; he’d prefer to question the agents if he had the chance.

  He was going to need the Farm to run interference for him, too. This on-the-fly gun battle would bring police attention, and fast. Units might already be responding. He wasn’t worried about being taken into custody; his Justice Department credentials would spring him. But he didn’t want local cops caught in the cross fire. The battle over Octavios was just starting. It was going to get a lot bloodier before Bolan got the man safely to their destination.

  The next intersection gave the soldier a choice. Break right and risk entering a more populated area, or break left and travel into increasing commercial real estate. He brought the wheel over to the left, making the tires squeal. The rear end of the Chevy finally broke free and fishtailed through the curve.

  “Are you...drifting?” Octavios called out from the trunk.

  “Quiet,” Bolan barked. He brought the Desert Eagle up and around and slapped the window switch on his control panel. The right-side windows on the Chevy started to descend.

  The driver of Car Three was pulling even on Bolan’s passenger side. He fired wildly from a 9 mm Skorpion machine pistol, punching out the remaining window glass on that side. Bolan ducked low, barely keeping the car under control. Several
rounds dug furrows into the plastic dashboard, but none hit the windshield.

  He released the window switch, raised his arm and fired back, emptying the Desert Eagle at the driver. Car Three immediately slammed into the Chevy’s flank, creasing the doors. Bolan yanked the wheel hard to the right, away, and right again, slapping the driverless car as its passenger tried grab for the wheel. The Asian man and Bolan made eye contact for a moment. The Executioner dropped the empty Desert Eagle to his passenger seat, whipped the Beretta from its leather shoulder holster and shot the passenger in the head.

  Car Three took out a series of newspaper vending boxes and rolled to a stop half on the curb. Bolan again floored the Chevy’s accelerator, putting some distance between him and Car One.

  The mirror on the Chevy’s passenger side exploded.

  Bolan ducked. Another impact made the vehicle shudder.

  “Cooper! There are bullets entering the trunk!”

  Bolan risked a glance at the rearview mirror, very aware of the high speed at which they were traveling. The passenger in Car One—that would be Jang—was leaning out his side of the vehicle, lining up on the soldier with some kind of heavy rifle. From the impact with the Chevy, it had to be a .50 caliber, something with real oomph behind it.

  They were trying to kill Octavios, Bolan thought. It made sense. The data dump that would be triggered by the man’s death would do far more damage to the West than it would a pariah nation like North Korea, whose media was strictly controlled; there was no danger their citizens would even see most of the data, if any of it managed to leak past the government’s censors. Hell, most of the nation didn’t even have internet access.

  Bolan thought that if it was up to him, his priority would be to capture Octavios and interrogate him, get everything out of him that he could. Failing that capture, he’d take him out to trigger the data dump. It would embarrass the West and embolden enemies like North Korea.

  The engine was revving so high that the Chevy was starting to shake. Bolan saw the next intersection coming up and knew he was going to have to cut corners, quite literally. There was no way, at this speed, he was going to make the next turn. And there was only so much maneuvering he could do to foul Jang’s shots. It wasn’t easy to hit a moving vehicle from another moving vehicle. Bolan knew that well enough from experience. But Jang would be back there taking his time, knowing the odds were in his favor.

  The soldier could feel the North Korean’s finger on that heavy-caliber rifle’s trigger, could feel the SSD operative taking up slack. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he imagined the reticle of Jang’s scope on the back of his head.

  Almost there. He counted down the numbers. A compact hybrid vehicle was moving through the intersection, but by his eye, he would miss it.

  Ready...steady...now.

  Bolan hauled the steering wheel over as sharply as he dared. The Chevy all but went up on two wheels as he cut the corner, bounding over the curb and clipping a hot dog cart. The cart wasn’t open for business, and the owner was nowhere in sight. He caught a fleeing image of hot dogs and condiments flying everywhere as the cart spun and skittered away.

  Another bullet struck the right rear fender of the Chevy. Bolan had no time to worry about that, or Octavios’s continued shouts for help. He managed to keep control of the car as they cut across the road at forty-five degrees. He nearly hit a minivan and narrowly missed an SUV before slamming up and over the next curb. Then they were on the other side and Bolan was again man-handling the steering wheel. The Chevy’s tires squealed in agony as they laid down heavy black streaks of rubber.

  Bolan was watching behind him and didn’t see the fourth silver Mercedes until it blocked his path. The Chevy didn’t hit it head-on, but a good portion of the passenger’s-side front fender was torn free by the impact. Bolan rocked in his seat, feeling blood in his mouth as his face tapped the steering wheel.

  The heavy thump from the trunk at the same time, coupled with the sudden silence from back there, could only mean that Octavios had rolled forward and struck the inside of the trunk. Either the impact had stunned him or one of Jang’s bullets had found its mark. The Chevy’s engine was pouring smoke, steam, or both. Bolan wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

  He let the mangled car come to a stop, threw it into Park and kicked open his door, filling his hands with the now reloaded Desert Eagle and the custom-tuned 93-R machine pistol. The Beretta had a 20-round box magazine and a specially built suppressor attached. Bolan flicked the selector switch to 3-round burst, prepared to let the Italian death machine do the talking for him.

  Car Four, as Bolan dubbed it, wheeled around to take another run at him, overshooting his position and stopping at the end of the street. The soldier glanced left, then right, making sure there were no civilians visible. He thought he could hear, in the distance, the sirens of emergency vehicles. He hoped he was wrong. Behind him, Car One was making up ground quickly.

  He needed to get gone, quickly. But more than that, he needed to verify Octavios’s status. If the man was dead, the mission was over before it had begun. There was only one option if he wanted to end this as quickly as possible. He would have to force his attackers’ hands.

  Stepping out into the middle of the street, consciously putting ground between him and the Chevy, he spread his arms. “I’m all yours!” he shouted to the men in Car Four. “Come on. I’m right here!”

  He was close enough to see Car Four’s driver pause to consider it. No doubt the man was smart enough to wonder if it was a trick. He’d be wondering what the big man with the two handguns had up his sleeve. He’d also be thinking that a speeding German performance sedan was more than a match for a single pedestrian, no matter how he was armed.

  Come on, Bolan thought. Here I am, just begging to be mowed down—

  Car Four’s engine roared. The driver jammed his foot on the accelerator, sending his vehicle flying toward Bolan. Behind him, the soldier could hear Car One approaching at high speed.

  They wouldn’t be stupid enough to put themselves on a collision course. Car One would be eating up distance between Bolan and Jang so that the SSD operative could get a clean shot with his rifle. They’d either take Bolan first or they’d put more rounds in the Chevy’s trunk, trying to seal Octavios’s fate before they moved on. But right now they’d be picturing what a great prize the Greek hacker would make. They’d be thinking that whomever this armed interloper was, the big man could be removed and then they could still interrogate Octavios at their leisure—if the man was still alive.

  Car Four was gaining speed, headed straight for Bolan’s position. There was no way any ordinary man could survive, even armed. That’s likely what the driver was thinking.

  But Bolan was no ordinary man. He was the Executioner.

  The soldier snapped up the Beretta and drilled a 3-round burst through the windshield directly in front of the driver’s face. At the exact same moment he brought up the Desert Eagle and snapped off a single .44 Magnum round that hit the windshield dead center. The glass disintegrated.

  The driver lost control and plowed up and over the curb, missing Bolan by inches.

  The Executioner swiveled and fired both pistols into the side windows of the sedan, targeting the men inside. The Mercedes hit a storefront and stopped against the heavy stone steps leading to a used-record store. The engine was still running. Bolan noted, with relief, that the store was vacant, a sign in the front window proclaiming Commercial Property For Rent.

  Bolan reached into his war bag, produced a smoke grenade, armed it and tossed the canister through the shattered driver’s window of Car Four. Purple smoke began to pour out of the vehicle. The men inside didn’t move.

  Despite the ringing in his ears, Bolan was certain of it now. There were sirens in the distance, approaching his location.

  The thunder of a heavy-caliber rifle brought Bolan’s attention around
. Asphalt cratered a meter from his position. Jang was firing through the smoke that the Executioner was counting on for cover.

  A second shot pealed through the morning air. Bolan had the range, now. He raised his Desert Eagle and waited. There was no way he would fire blindly through the smoke. He didn’t have to. All he needed was a clear spot through the drifting wisps.

  He went down on one knee. Jang, on the other hand, was standing now, trying to make out his prey through the purple haze. That would be all the advantage Bolan needed.

  The soldier found his moment and took it. Jang appeared with his rifle. Bolan fired the Desert Eagle empty, jacked the magazine, grabbed a spare from his war bag and rammed it home. Then he fired the heavy pistol dry again.

  The barrage was enough. Jang, unable to target either Bolan or the Chevy’s trunk effectively through the smoke, jumped back into the Mercedes. The North Koreans made their escape, driving back the way they’d come.

  There was very little time now. Bolan holstered his weapon, went to Car Four, opened the driver’s door and pulled out the corpse. He went around to the other side, dumped the dead passenger, and then circled the vehicle again. His next stop was the Chevy’s trunk. He tried to pop it free with the key fob. Nothing happened.

  Gritting his teeth, Bolan removed his OTF knife and hit the switch. The single-edged, clip-point blade snapped free with authority. He used the heavy fighting knife to pry open the trunk, succeeding in releasing the latch on the third try. The lid went up.

  Octavios stared up at him, eyes wide, unblinking.

  “Stop screwing around,” Bolan said.

  “You are an utter madman.”

  “You’re alive, aren’t you?” The soldier put his knife away, grabbed Octavios by the front of his windbreaker and dragged him out of the trunk. Then he shoved the man toward the Mercedes. “Get in,” Bolan ordered. “Try to run, try to outsmart me, and I’ll put a bullet in the back of your knee.”