Terror Ballot Read online

  “Trade you,” Bolan said.

  “I am an old man,” Bayard said, hefting the AK-47. “I need all the help I can get.”

  Bolan almost smiled at that. He checked his newly acquired 1911. The .45-caliber handgun was badly rusted and pitted, but the rounds in its magazine looked new, and it was reasonably clean. He discovered that it had no round in the chamber, which spoke volumes about his dead enemy’s level of preparedness.

  Bolan racked the slide to chamber the first round, made sure the safety was off and positioned himself in the kitchen ahead of the connecting corridor.

  Whimpers and voices could be heard in the living area beyond. The music had been shut off. Bolan was very aware that he did not know how many hostiles were in the living room. He also did not know to what degree the women, either gang members or prostitutes, were part of the threat. He had raided safehouses and other places before to find seeming innocents who, at the first opportunity, turned guns on him. He was not about to take anything for granted.

  Bayard crept along the wall, backing him up. Once again they stationed themselves on either side of a doorway.

  “Give up,” Bolan said in French.

  “Go away!” a man replied, his reply punctuated by several shotgun blasts. Bolan could hear a pump gun being operated furiously between each shot. He waited. The shots stopped.

  “I didn’t catch that,” Bolan called, goading the man.

  Another furious salvo erupted from the living area. The shotgunner was loading slugs, Bolan noted. A cluster of holes, each the size of a quarter, was being punched through the facing wall of the kitchen. Bolan and Bayard, pressed against either side of the corridor opening, were in no danger.

  “You do not think he is that stupid?” Bayard asked.

  “I figure they’ve been partying,” Bolan said quietly. He paused as a renewed series of shotgun blasts echoed through the flat. Between each blast, he managed to continue speaking to the inspector. “He’s probably high or half out of his mind from lack of sleep.”

  “I’m going to toss a grenade in there, pal,” Bolan called. “You better get ready. They’re going to be scraping you off the walls by lunch.”

  “But we have no grenades,” Bayard said quietly.

  “Sure we do. Bolan reached out and snatched a heavy wooden salt shaker from the kitchen counter. “I’m pulling the pin now. Three! Two! One! Fire in the hole!”

  Bolan tossed the salt shaker into the living area.

  A woman screamed. Bolan heard a sharp snap from the room beyond. That was a striker falling on an empty chamber. Then he heard the pump of the shotgun being worked, followed by the same snapping noise. The shotgun was empty.

  “You go high again,” Bolan said to Bayard. “I’ll go low.”

  “Lead the way, Cooper.”

  They went for it. Bolan was able to place two men in the room as well as three women. The women were in various stages of undress. Two were cowering behind a sofa while a third was hiding behind a chair. The shotgunner was kneeling in the middle of the room, his weapon braced on his hip. The second man was lying on the floor at an odd angle, not moving.

  Bolan aimed his 1911. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

  The shotgunner stood.

  “I’ll put you down,” the soldier warned. “Drop the shotgun, put your hands behind your head and don’t make any sudden movements.”

  The shotgunner growled and took a step forward. He raised the shotgun like a club.

  A burst from Bayard’s AK-47 ripped through the floor. Bolan risked a glance and saw that that the man on the floor had been faking it. He had a kitchen knife behind his arm and rose to strike with it when Bayard stitched him. The assault rifle had done its work as efficiently as ever. The man with the knife would now stay on the floor.

  All that happened in a fraction of a second, but the distraction was all the shotgunner needed. He crashed into Bolan, using his empty weapon as a riot stick, trying to press the shotgun against his adversary’s throat. Bolan shoved his pistol under the man’s chin, ready to blow his head off. He pulled the trigger.

  The weapon made a burning, fizzing sound. Misfire, possibly a critical mechanical failure. The rusted weapon was not sound.

  The shotgunner pressed harder.

  Bolan let the useless gun fall to the floor and grabbed the barrel and the stock of the shotgun. He levered it up and out of the man’s hands, twisting it, putting the man off balance. The man had no choice but to let go or be put in a painful wristlock. He chose to release the empty weapon, at which point Bolan reversed it and smashed him in the face with the buttstock.

  The shotgunner collapsed. One of the scantily clad women crawled out from her hiding spot and, instead of going for the door, grabbed for the fallen man. Bolan tried to stop her, but she was quick. She snatched something from the fallen shotgunner’s pocket and held it out for Bolan to see.

  Her slim finger pushed a lever in the handle of a front-opening switchblade. A serrated tanto-type, black-coated blade shot into position on powerful springs. She positioned herself in front of the other two women.

  “Whoa,” Bolan said. “Nobody wants to hurt your friends.”

  “Cooper,” Bayard shouted. “Look out!”

  The woman slashed at him, hard and fast. Bolan brought up his forearm just in time. The secondary point of the knife’s modernized tanto tip cut a long stripe down his forearm, leaving a bright red weal of blood.

  Bolan grabbed her by the arm and the shoulder, applied leverage and managed to get her in an armlock as he turned her. She squealed. He applied pressure and brought her, gently, to the floor. Once there he plucked the knife from her hand, put his knee in the small of her back and looked at Bayard.

  “You wouldn’t have any flex cuffs, would you?”

  “As it happens, I do.” Bayard reached into his pocket and came out with one of the thick zip-tie strips. Bolan took these and secured the woman, while Bayard, AK in hand, checked the other two women. He exchanged a few words in French with them, received an answer and nodded. At his urging they left the room, hurrying out of the flat.

  “Local talent,” Bayard said. “No one of consequence, or so they said. Just in case, we should leave here as quickly as we can. What do you propose we do with her?”

  “Normally,” Bolan replied, “I’d see to it the proper authorities took custody of her. Unfortunately, given our status, I don’t know if that’s practical.” He zip-cuffed the unconscious shotgunner, too. “To say nothing of this guy.”

  “We are somewhat ‘extralegal,’ as you might say,” Bayard admitted.

  “Yeah, that’s how I see it. I suppose we could just leave them here. Eventually their people will find them. And once we’re gone, there’s nothing to stop them from getting up and walking out of here, even with their hands secured.”

  “You could execute them.”

  Bolan shook his head. “Not like this. I don’t kill the helpless. And she’s just probably defending herself against some guy she thinks just broke in here.”

  “For a killer of men you have many rules.”

  “That’s right,” Bolan said. “I do.”

  “Then it is settled. Benign neglect is the order of the day. Come here. That is a nasty slash.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “And she could have been snorting coke laced with drain cleaner off that blade last night. You have no idea how bad it is. We should clean it at the very least.”

  “Inspector, I had no idea you had this parental streak in you.”

  “I do not. Tell no one of this.” Bayard had a small medical kit in the inside pocket of his overcoat. He motioned for Bolan to sit on one of the wooden chairs in the kitchen. The prostitute they left to sulk on the floor. Bolan pocketed her knife.

  Bayard clean
ed the wound first, making sure to use plenty of disinfectant, then set to dressing Bolan’s wound. Bayard had just enough bandage material in his kit.

  “Let me see the knife,” Bayard said.

  Bolan handed him the weapon. It had a switch that extended or retracted the black-coated blade automatically. Bayard flicked it open, examined it, sniffed at it and then flicked it closed. He returned it to Bolan.

  “A quality blade,” Bayard said. “Surprising in one so dissolute. Probably only recently stolen, given how clean it looks. I would say you will be fine, unless it was used to stab someone just today who carried a blood-borne disease. And the blade looks very clean.”

  “You’re a ray of sunshine,” Bolan told him.

  “What was your plan?” Bayard asked. “Hit them and take their heavy weaponry?”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately they don’t seem to have much. An AK with a partial magazine, a 1911 that doesn’t work and a switchblade.”.

  “Do not forget the empty shotgun,” Bayard reminded him.

  “That, too,” Bolan said. “I...” He trailed off, then looked directly at Bayard as the Frenchman finished bandaging Bolan’s arm. “I just realized something. Check the bedroom. Grab a bag or a duffel or a blanket or something. We’ll take all the weapons we have here and put them with the empty AR. Then we’ll take our friends’ car. They won’t need it.”

  “I will look for car keys then,” Bayard said. “You mean to use the weapons for barter?”

  “Yeah. I have cash, but these will supplement it. Gives us a chance to put together something truly memorable.”

  “Memorable. That is a loaded term. It implies that what happens to us will be worthy of note but makes no promises regarding our survival of such an event.”

  “You know the old Chinese curse,” Bolan said.

  “May you live in interesting times? Yes, I have heard of this.”

  “It’s like that.”

  “Indeed it is. You are an interesting man, Cooper. And I do not mean that in a positive way.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The shantytown was as rank as any in a third-world nation. Bolan had seen his share all over the world. This one was not as large as some others; it was crammed into a plot of space defined by the intersection of four different Paris neighborhoods.

  At the edges of each of those zones, which decayed as one moved farther to the junction of the neighboring areas, heavy concrete barricades had been erected. These had been heavily spray-painted with racist and antigovernment slogans during the previous riots that had raged through Paris.

  In many cases, stacks of burned-out automobiles—each one little more than a blackened, stripped chassis—were still piled atop each other. In the cleanup following the riots, during which the delineation between the neighborhoods of Paris was reinforced, many stacks of cars had been dumped near the enclaves suspected of causing the damage. There they rusted, as if they had been deposited in punishment for the locals’ misdeeds.

  Bolan and Bayard parked their newest transport at the edge of the enclave. Flagged with Red Spiders tags, it was probably safe. Bolan thought it likely other residents of the shantytown would simply give it a wide berth, rather than run afoul of any gang warfare that might be associated with the vehicle’s occupants.

  The independent-cell structure of the Red Spiders was working for them, in this case. As no member of the gang could be certain that he knew every other member of the gang, even in smaller areas, traveling in a Red Spiders vehicle was good camouflage.

  The shantytown was not an enclave so much as it was an armed camp. They saw the Red Spiders logo spray-painted everywhere. It was on the sides of the shacks, built from plywood and corrugated tin and tarps and anything else that was at hand. It was painted on cloth hung as banners and suspended as flags. It was even painted on the bodies of some of the people moving around within the shantytown, in the form of Red Spiders body paint and a tattoo or two.

  Guards were posted everywhere. Bolan did not like the look of that. It portended a high degree of resistance if anything went wrong. And if he were any judge of these things, there was a great probability that something could go wrong.

  The posted sentries wore red bandannas, plus a riot of different clothing. They resembled modern-day Somali pirates. Donning all their stolen goods must be de rigueur, given the military gear and mismatched, but often expensive, civilian clothing they wore layered under their gear.

  Each carried a dizzying array of personal weapons. At least one man Bolan spotted had a Soviet World War II–era Mosin-Nagant rifle over his shoulder with the bayonet affixed to its barrel. The bolt-action rifle was as tall as the man toting it.

  “Too bad,” Bolan said. “No floor mats.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Bayard asked. The two men made their way through the aisles and walkways of the shantytown, their red bandannas tied around their arms. Bolan wondered if they were fooling anybody, but hopefully they would be standing in front of the arms dealer soon. Money and trade items would smooth over any other possible misunderstandings, or so he hoped.

  “Cooper?” Bayard prompted.

  “Floor mats,” Bolan told him. “In the United States a lot of businesses have floor mats that are regularly changed, sent away to be cleaned, with new mats left in their place. It’s a whole industry.”

  “I am vaguely aware of that,” Bayard said. “How is this relevant?”

  “In the typical delivery, a driver in a box truck shows up at your door. He carries a floor mat rolled up over his shoulder. When he walks into the place, nobody gives him a second look. As long as his truck and his uniform look right, they just assume he’s the floor-mat guy. Nobody looks at the floor-mat guy.”

  “Meaning that if this man were to carry a weapon in the rolled-up mat...”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “Instant terrorist attack or office shooting.”

  “Why are you even thinking of that?”

  “It’s what I do,” Bolan replied. “I think of these scenarios so I can anticipate the tactics my enemies will use. And a long time ago I realized that nobody looks at the floor-mat guy.”

  “We are going to die, and that will be the last ridiculous thing I remember,” Bayard said sourly.

  “Like I said, a ray of sunshine.”

  They reached a plywood shack that was much larger than the others. They were in roughly the center of the French shantytown. Looking around, Bolan wondered how few people in the world knew this place existed, or even suspected that a festering pit like this lay on the face of Paris like so much blight. So many things were out of sight, out of mind.

  Two guards, each armed with FAMAS assault rifles —expensive, high-end military hardware—stood at either side of the rickety door to the large shack. They moved aside slightly to let Bolan and Bayard pass, but they were in no hurry about it. Bayard had been leading to this point, but when they cleared the threshold, he stepped aside, allowing Bolan to step in front.

  The arms dealer, Levi, was certainly ugly. He was, in fact, repulsive. Weighing well over four hundred pounds, Levi sat pooled in an overstuffed recliner behind a makeshift desk of three different tables. The tables had been arrayed in front of him, forming a display area. On them was an array of military-grade hardware, pistols and explosives. Bolan saw battle rifles, machine pistols, and a stack of grenades and RPGs. There was also an RPG launcher and several attachments for launching grenades from the barrels of rifles.

  Levi, for his part, grinned at them. He wore a grill of diamonds over his front teeth, which made his mouth look like he had just eaten a handful of precious gems. He was bald except for some ragged dreadlocklike wisps that trailed from the sides of his scarred, melon-shaped head. His skin had been ravaged by whatever childhood ailment had marked him.

/>   Levi wore a caftan of fine, brightly colored cloth that looked to Bolan like silk. His sausage-thick fingers were festooned with gold rings, and he wore what had to have been half pound of gold chains around his thick neck.

  When the massive arms dealer leaned forward in his chair, fixed Bolan with a baleful glare and put an ivory, bell-mouthed pipe up to his lips, Bolan knew he was dealing with a truly dangerous man. Levi had the look. He might be fat, he might be scarred and he might look silly, but Levi was a killer who would not hesitate to order Bolan and Bayard slaughtered.

  “What you want, man?” Levi asked. His accent was a curious mixture of American and Jamaican, without a hint of French influence. The patois was hard to define. It appeared to be an affected accent.

  “I’m told,” Bolan said, “that Levi can get me anything. That Levi is the man to see. And that Levi is not a man to fuck around with.”

  Levi stared for a moment longer. Then he closed his eyes, tilted back his head and laughed. Bolan had never heard anything quite like it.

  It was deep and sonorous, but it was also edged with a higher pitch, as if Levi’s vocal cords were distending from the strain of the air being propelled through and past them. When Levi finally stopped guffawing, he held his massive stomach, and rocked forward and back, silently, his mouth open as if he were still laughing. No sound escaped him for at least a full minute.

  Finally he opened his eyes again.

  “You make me laugh. I like that. Yes. You give Levi trouble, Levi gives you more trouble than you ever want, ever need, ever live through.”

  “My name is Belasko,” Bolan said, deliberately avoiding the use of his cover identity. There was no telling what kind of law enforcement notices about Agent Cooper had made their way into Red Spiders territory.

  “Belasko,” Levi repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth. “Belasko. Belasko. What you want, Belasko?”