Killing Trade Read online

  As Burnett’s hand closed over the plastic frame of the Glock, he heard a metallic click.

  Bolan, his left hand still pinning Burnett’s left, bracing himself on the detective’s chest, was pointing a tiny North American Arms .22-caliber minirevolver at Burnett’s left eye. The little single-action repeater was cocked. It almost disappeared in Bolan’s fist, but the black muzzle was unmistakable.

  “Where did you get that?” Burnett asked quietly.

  “I have a rule that I try not to break,” Bolan told him. “I don’t kill cops. I’m taking you to face justice, Burnett. Of course, you’re not really a cop. When you sold out innocent people, when you started committing cold-blooded murder for what you thought was the greater good, you crossed the line. You joined the criminals. You gave up your badge. You disgraced yourself and your department. You’re going to pay for that.”

  “Who are you to judge me?” Burnett demanded. “Who are you to be judge and jury—”

  “Who am I?” Bolan echoed. “I’m the one who fights for all of them, all those people you watched die so you could save the city from itself. Now, get up. Flinch and I’ll empty this into you.”

  Burnett’s shoulders slumped. He was caught and he knew it.

  It would not be easy for him on the inside.

  Bolan considered his next step as he led the dirty cop away. No, he was not the judge, nor the jury.

  He was the Executioner.

  20

  Mack Bolan stood on the steps of the New York Public Library. To either side, the lions sat regally on their stone pedestals. Undaunted, a New York City pigeon rested on the petrified mane of the restored statue behind which Bolan had sought refuge. The city repair crews had made their rounds with surprising speed, setting right again the ravages of the past few days.

  Bolan was glad to see he’d done no lasting damage, even indirectly. The lions had stood since 1911 when the NYPL was dedicated. Originally named for the library’s founders, they’d been rechristened Patience and Fortitude by Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia during the Great Depression. Those names had stuck. The statues had seen a lot in the last century—and they’d see still more.

  The Executioner smiled and shook his head. You could hit New York hard and New Yorkers harder. You could kick them while they were down. You could punch holes in their landmarks and burn their buildings to the ground. You could not, however, keep them down. The city and her residents were here for the long haul. That was why Bolan fought. That was why he would always fight, standing between the people of cities like New York and the predators who sought their ruin.

  As Bolan stood, he caught sight of Hal Brognola walking briskly up Fifth Avenue. The big Fed had his hands shoved into an open and very rumpled brown trench coat over a conservative suit. The man from Justice caught Bolan’s eye and joined him on the steps, sparing a glance at Patience and Fortitude as he did so.

  “Pretty inspiring,” Brognola said.

  “Had a busy night?”

  “It hasn’t exactly been a relaxing week for me.” Brognola laughed despite himself. He sighed and looked at the Executioner. “Burnett’s in custody and singing like a canary, trying to avoid the death penalty. He just might, at that, but I don’t like his odds once he’s behind bars. He’s made enemies on both sides of the fence.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Burnett’s task-force members have been rounded up, too,” Brognola went on. “The department cooperated and we’ve got Justice oversight on the internal investigation. A couple of them have cracked and rolled over already.”

  “Good,” Bolan said, still looking at the lions.

  “Thanks to the material you sent us and what we’ve gleaned from Taveras’s hard drive, the Man has ordered a federal raid on NLI and on Blackjack Group,” Brognola said. “By tomorrow, both companies’ assets will be seized and their people will be behind bars awaiting trial. God only knows the circus that will generate, but eventually we’ll put them away.”

  “There are more direct methods,” Bolan said neutrally.

  “There certainly are.” Brognola nodded. “Fortunately, that shouldn’t be necessary.”

  “Blackjack’s people might not go quietly,” Bolan pointed out.

  “They shouldn’t be too much trouble,” Brognola said. “Most of those working as contractors for the company will never be involved. The management ought to be eager to cut whatever deals it can. I suspect they’ll come clean with a minimum of hassle. As for NLI, they’re not field people. They’ve been terrified of the damage looming to the company itself. That damage is done. They’ll show us their throats in an effort to stay out of prison.”

  “How will you know the sacrificial lambs they give you are the ones truly responsible?”

  “We won’t, necessarily,” Brognola said sourly, “but it will be enough to contain the problem and, hopefully, prevent it from happening again. The Man wants to send a message from Washington to the military-industrial complex, as they say. If one of your people goes off the reservation, it’s a lot more painful to cover it up than simply to come clean.”

  Bolan nodded. “Has anyone checked the Camden situation?”

  “Preliminary reports and sampling are in. There’s an increase in background radiation, a few traces attributable to the depleted uranium on-site. Nothing really major, though. Certainly nothing on the order of a dirty bomb. No Chernobyls to speak of, not this time. Stevens was definitely bluffing.”

  “The evidence is all squared away?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes. The local authorities have been apprised of the situation. It’s pretty buttoned up.”

  “Then I guess we’re done here,” Bolan said.

  “I guess so,” Brognola said. “I’ll be happy to get back to Wonderland. I think I’ve met with everybody in city government except the dog catcher.” He paused. “Striker?” he said finally. “The line gets thinner every day.”

  “The line between them and us?” Bolan said, turning to regard his old ally. “I’ve never thought so. Burnett did what he did believing that any amount of evil justified the ultimate good. He thought he could clean his city by letting evil fester, then cutting out the cancer he’d allowed to grow. It can’t be done that way. How many have we seen who’ve done just that—people who’ve played God with the power they had over others, believing they knew better?”

  “But not you,” Brognola said.

  “No,” Bolan said frankly. “I’ve never done it that way. I simply take the war to the predators’ doorsteps. I send a message, too, Hal. The message is that when you prey on the innocent, you will die. It’s never been any more complicated than that.”

  “Burnett and those like him?” Brognola offered.

  “They became what they fought,” Bolan said. “They became predators who spilled innocent blood, or allowed it to be spilled or just stood by knowing it was to be spilled, simply because they thought it was expedient. They joined the ranks of the predators. They became the rot eating society. That’s where I come in. I burn it out so it can’t hurt anyone else. I burn it out my way, on my terms.”

  Brognola looked at the Executioner for a moment longer. Then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat and looked back to the street. “Striker,” he said, “you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. But it’s good to hear it once in a while.”

  “I know, Hal,” Bolan said.

  The big Fed nodded and walked off. He was quickly swallowed by the stream of pedestrians moving past the library. Bolan offered the lions one last glance before he, too, moved off among the crowd.

  The Executioner had a war to fight. As long as men like Caqueta, Taveras and even Len Burnett were willing to take life without justification, Bolan would not stop. He would fight for all those who could not fight for themselves and for all those who had died along the way. Walking briskly among the New Yorkers, Bolan set his sights on the road ahead and on the challenges before him.

  There was work to be done.

/>   There always would be.

  First edition March 2008

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-1426-6

  KILLING TRADE

  Copyright © 2008 by Worldwide Library.

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