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  “Okay, okay,” the torpedo said, voice ragged and choking with defeat. “It is a sort of vacation. We’re on loan. We been out here three weeks now, and this is our first job.”

  “How many boys with you?”

  “I brought a crew of six, plus myself. That includes Charlie boy, here.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “This one? Hell, a milk run. We thought. The locals are picking up some stuff at a warehouse down here. We’re riding shotgun, that’s all.”

  “Where are you shotgunning it to?”

  “To another warehouse.”

  “Another warehouse where?”

  “Up near Everett. Know where that is? Just up the coast.”

  Sure, Bolan knew where. Langley Island lay in that area.

  “Let’s have your hardware,” he told them. “I don’t want to see more than two fingers at a time. You first, Danny. Ease it out and pass it back.”

  There were no arguments in that regard. The hardmen seemed almost happy about it, as though their salvation was thereby assured. Bolan did not have a reputation for “killing cold.” They carefully divested themselves of offending weapons and passed them back, one at a time. Bolan threw them to the street and told the wheelman, “Okay, Charlie, let’s move.”

  The guy started the engine before inquiring, “Where to?”

  “Onto the wharf, down to the warehouse.”

  The two men up front exchanged glances, then Ontario Charlie shrugged and set the car into motion. “Lights on or off?” he asked.

  “Off, till I say different. And keep it slow.”

  “Wait a minute,” Danny Trinity protested. “You know how many people there are waiting for you down there? There’s my four boys plus four locals. None of ’em are what I’d call peaceful citizens. They all get their kicks from the big boom sound and they don’t fuck around with formalities when that time comes around. You can’t just—”

  Bolan interrupted the tirade with, “You worried about my hide, Danny?”

  “Hell no, I’m worried about mine. I don’t wanta be in no crossfire between you people.”

  “Then you play it just like I tell you,” Bolan suggested. “Down the wharf, Charlie, slow and easy. Move it.”

  The wheelman moved it. They rolled onto the wharf and began a slow progression toward those muffled lights at the far end. Danny Trinity slumped into the seat, staring tensely and stonily forward through the enshrouding mists. “Some guys are suckers for suicide,” he growled, fear resurfacing and rippling the voice. “I thought higher of you, Bolan.”

  So did Bolan. He had no belly whatever for suicide. But he told his captives, “Everyone dies sometime, boys. I guess it’s going to be up to you whether this time is our time. Play it cool and maybe it’s just their time. Get dumb for just a heartbeat and I guess it’s time for all us crazy bastards.”

  “I’m not a crazy bastard,” the wheelman said with a shiver.

  “Show me,” Bolan suggested. “You too, Danny. Show me how sane you can be.”

  But Bolan was not betting a nickel on the sanity of those two. He was betting entirely on himself.

  4: DEATH TOUCH

  The AutoMag was a most impressive weapon. Developed by a West Coast gunsmith in the late sixties after years of frustrating trial and error, the autoloading .44 magnum was a triumph of weapon technology. The huge handgun measured eleven and a half inches from tip to tip, weighed three and a half pounds unloaded, and was constructed mostly of stainless steel. It was strictly a man’s weapon—preferably a big man. It took a rather large hand and a well-developed grip to comfortably handle the piece. Designed primarily as a hunter’s handgun, the big silver pistol would do most anything that a big-game rifle would do, except in extremely long-range situations.

  The heavy loads in .44 magnum hollow-nose had hi-shock and instant knockdown capability at more than a hundred yards—which is the length of a football field. Bolan made his own ammo of cutdown .308 brass, using a powder charge of twenty grains behind a bullet of 240 grains, which produced a muzzle velocity of about 1400 fps. With such loads, the performance of the slickly-engineered weapon was truly outstanding and remarkably uniform. At twenty-five yards in combat stance, Bolan could rip a one-inch bull out of a target in rapid-fire. At a hundred yards, using a two-hand stance and firing deliberately, he could consistently group a full clip of the big bullets into an area the size of a man’s head.

  And that was some shooting.

  Bolan had, of course, been a remarkable marksman since early in his army career. During those earlier years, however, his chief interest lay in the weapons themselves—the technical end. He was an armorer, with an almost instinctive understanding of weaponry from the very beginning. Any weapon is of course only as good as its performance, and Bolan’s growing interest in that consideration led him inevitably onto the firing ranges and then into competitive matches where his phenomenal eye and cool self-possession won him championships in various weapons categories.

  For more than a year he had toured the country for the recruiting service, staging marksmanship demonstrations and—toward the end of that period—trick-shot shows, using rifles and handguns.

  The traditional combat stance for shooting competitions is a sort of head-on crouch, knees slightly bent, weapon extended straight out from the chest in one hand, with emphasis on rapidity of fire and reload. Bolan had usually performed these demonstrations with a standard army version of the .45 Colt autoloader, and his speed was dazzling—ejecting spent clips and reloading in less than one second. As a variation of this routine, the youthful Bolan developed some interesting choreography for his audiences, changing stance with lightning speed—from combat to prone and rolling prone—while reloading and continuing to fire with incredible accuracy. He performed similar routines using a thirty caliber carbine and a light auto.

  Then came Vietnam, and Sergeant Bolan’s expertise was diverted into more serious applications of soldiering.

  Now here he was on the Seattle waterfront, the formidable .44 at the ready—trick-shot time again with all his expertise invested in the outcome.

  It was not a situation he would normally choose for himself. He much preferred to be in full command of a battle situation, from the planning stages outward. If anything at all developed here, it would be more in the nature of a firefight—a play-it-by-ear sudden confrontation with all the odds riding on the side that played it the quickest and the trickiest.

  There were, of course, one or two items which he could partially control. And he did have the advantage of surprise to partially offset the superiority of numbers on the other side.

  The jokers in the deck were, of course, Flora and Trinity—his nervous companions of the moment. There was no way of knowing what they would do once he cut them loose on their own. Bolan could only try to influence that open question.

  “Okay, stop right here,” he commanded the wheelman. They had reached the point where Bolan had earlier encountered the lookout. The guy was nowhere in sight now.

  Ontario Charlie brought the big car to a smooth halt.

  “Turn on your parking lights!”

  The wheelman did so.

  Trinity was glaring tensely ahead. “They’re still loading down there,” he observed glumly.

  “How many boys you say?”

  “Eight, dammit. Eight damned mean boys. This is crazy.”

  “Only as crazy as you make it,” Bolan reminded. “I’m getting out here, but I’ll be no more than ten paces to the rear. At that range, Danny, I can shoot the eyes off a fly. You boys cruise right on down there, same speed we’ve been going. First bad move you make, I’ll punch you. Soon as you start moving again, bring the headlamps up—high beam. Keep them there. Stop at the truck and just sit tight.”

  “Sit tight till when?” Flora croaked.

  “Until the shooting starts. Then I suggest you dig a hole quick.”

  Danny Trinity laughed nervously. “It’s still crazy. You can’t take
on eight mean boys alone.”

  “Watch me,” Bolan told him, and stepped out onto the wharf. “Move it!” he commanded, and closed the door.

  The limousine crept forward. The lights came up and choked on the heavy atmosphere, reflecting back to create a weird halo of light to the front.

  Bolan fell to the rear and moved along the wall of the warehouse.

  Halfway to target, two guys ran out onto the wharf beside the parked truck. The Mafia vehicle surged forward suddenly, horn blaring, picking up speed quickly in a heavy-footed acceleration.

  Some guys just never knew when they were well off.

  Bolan smiled grimly and punched them as he’d promised, four big rolling booms in rapid-fire sealing the fate of that plunging vehicle as the AutoMag leapt in full-throated response to the situation as an extension of the man himself. The rounds crashed in at shoulder level through the rear window in a deliberate search pattern.

  They evidently found something. The limousine immediately heeled and tacked sharply to starboard, hit the warehouse, and went into a roll. Bolan sent three blind rounds thudding into the door on the passenger side as the vehicle went over. He ejected the spent clip and fed in a reload as he moved around the wreckage and into direct confrontation with the two hardmen on the wharf. They were already unloading on him, although without effect—their fire wildly adding further havoc to the shuddering vehicle. Even at ten yards, the guys were no more than indistinct shapes in the misty light spilling from the interior—crouching and backing into the warehouse an arm’s length apart.

  The AutoMag roared twice again with blazing rapidity, the double fire track touching both targets simultaneously and punching them over onto their backs in a dual slide to doomsday.

  So okay. Two down and six to go—if Danny Trinity hadn’t been padding the headcount.

  Bolan advanced to the open door of the warehouse and moved inside, presenting himself and inviting fire. None came.

  A large cargo skid sat on the cement floor directly behind the parked truck. The big marine crate had been ripped open; the top and one end lay on the floor. Smaller crates were inside; others were stacked neatly on the bed of the truck. A guy in work clothes sat behind the controls of an idling forklift, his hands elevated, eyes scared. The lift was raised and bore a crate identical to those already loaded.

  “Where are they?” Bolan growled.

  The guy’s head moved almost imperceptibly toward a glassed-in cubicle across the way.

  “How many?”

  “Two,” the guy whispered loudly.

  “You’re betting your life on that number, you know.”

  “Means nothing to me,” the guy said quickly. “They gave me a hundred bucks to cart this load. I don’t even know ’em. There’s two left. And they got a woman hostage. I saw ’em duck into the office when the firing started.”

  It could be true. Bolan had suspected that Danny Trinity might be doubling his numbers. He told the guy, “Drive that forklift on out of here. Around the corner and up the wharf and don’t stop until you clear the area.”

  The guy said, “Sure, sure”—relief flooding the voice. He ejected his load in mid-air. The crate struck the side of the truck, split, and spilled its contents onto the floor.

  Some contents.

  Automatic weapons, fully assembled, critical parts bandaged with grease paper.

  The man on the forklift gawked in genuine surprise.

  “Ball it!” Bolan commanded sharply.

  The guy wheeled his vehicle clear of the debris on the floor and as he rolled past the man in black he shouted, “Watch it mate! They’re real loonies!”

  Bolan always watched it. As for the female hostage—he was not inconsiderate of an innocent life, but he had also learned the only way to deal with such a situation, where guys like these were involved.

  He made a fast run across the open area, emptying his clip high into the office enclosure and instantly reloading as he made the move. Glass shattered and rained loudly onto the cement, producing a cacophony to the thunder roll of the big weapon. A woman’s shrill screaming joined the tumult, only to be quickly shut off. A bulky figure rose up from the foreground of office furniture as the reports of a heavy-framed pistol joined the sounds of the moment. The guy was pretty good; it was only Bolan’s agility in a firefight that rendered the counterattack impotent. He checked his run, whirled, and reversed before the return fire could track onto him—and sent three closely spaced disintegrators whizzing into that standing target. The gun spun away with a scream, overturning furniture and office machines in the heavy fall.

  Another voice in there yelled, “Hey, hold it, man!” It was a young voice, barely mature. “I got a lady in here with me! You back off quick or I splatter her brains all over the joint!”

  “Counter-offer,” Bolan called back. “You come out alone, hands clean. I’ll let you keep walking all the way to the dock, brains and all.”

  “Yeah, and how many cops are waiting out there?” the youngster screamed.

  “Cops, what cops? This is Mack Bolan. You’ve got about two heartbeats left to decide, soldier. Move it damn quick, and I’d better hear a splash at the end of the walk.”

  A momentary silence, then, “Hey, is that straight? That’s you, Bolan? The big bad shit?”

  “It is. Quick now. Move it!”

  For all his reputation as a grim reaper, Mack Bolan was also known as a man of his word. His “releases” and “white flags” had become legend in the soldierly ranks of the enemy.

  “You want me to jump in the fuckin’ water?”

  “That’s what I want, soldier. Throw out your weapon and come running.”

  In a quick decision, the young hardman did so immediately. A snubbed .38 whizzed through the shattered window and skittered across the cement floor, followed quickly by the charging youth. Eyes tracked briefly onto the black-clad figure then bounced away with discomfort plainly reflected there as he loped past. He went on without a backward glance, slowing somewhat at the doorway. Then the figure disappeared into the mists and Bolan heard the muffled, tell-tale splash at the end of the run.

  A blonde young woman staggered into view from the shattered office. Very pretty, despite the disheveled and terrorized appearance. She shrank back at first sight of Bolan, then changed her mind as he smiled and extended an arm for her. Gladly she fell into the protection of that half-embrace and allowed him to lead her toward the wharf.

  “I’m—I’m …”

  “Save it,” Bolan quietly suggested. “The important thing now is to get out of here. The game may not be over yet.”

  It was practically a prophecy. They stepped onto the wharf and into the shadow of a gun held by Danny Trinity.

  The crew chief was bleeding from the head and his right arm hung uselessly at his side, but a big Colt .45 was at full extension in the left hand and already blasting into the five-paces confrontation.

  Bolan spilled the girl behind him and fired once from the hip. The big bullet chugged into Trinity’s chest and sent the guy staggering backward. The second pop was pure combat reflex on Bolan’s part, and it caught Danny Trinity in the soft underside of the tilted chin as he was going down, reaming on through and exploding out of the top of the skull in a gory exit.

  It was the final straw for the girl. She passed out with a sick little moan.

  Bolan hefted her to his shoulder, stepped over the very messy remains of Danny Trinity, and went on up the wharf.

  And, yeah, the quiet drill was definitely over.

  Everybody in this part of the world, including cops and capos, would know now that the Executioner had come to town.

  And there were still too many loose ends remaining from the soft probes.

  Aside from melodramatic considerations, what was the true significance of the new super hardsite on Langley Island?

  Why was the American syndicate importing crateloads of illicit munitions?

  Why were international arms of the mob sending high-
ranking delegations into the Pacific Northwest?

  Bolan did not have many intellectual answers to the specific questions—but an old familiar gut feeling was telling him that hell was brewing in this quiet corner of the U.S.

  Of course, now that his presence was known here—or would be, shortly—things would begin blowing into place with a hellish acceleration. He’d know the answers soon—or he’d be dead. And therein lay the ultimate problem for Mack Bolan. He’d remained alive thus far by making a practice of remaining on top of a problem—not by staggering around behind it, in the dark and wondering what the hell was coming off. He’d have to get on top of this one quick, if he meant to survive Seattle.

  So here he was carting away an unconscious girl—doubling his liabilities. Who was she? Why was she here? Was she simply an innocent bystander—and, if so, what possible reason could she have for standing by in such an unlikely spot at such a time of night? She was young, probably no more than twenty-one or so. Stylishly dressed, softly feminine—hardly the kind you’d find wandering the waterfronts in the dark of night.

  Bolan would develop those answers, of course. It was part of the reason he was carting her off—but only part. There were other considerations. He could not simply walk off and leave her lying there unconscious—not even assuming that the cops would be shortly making the scene. No matter how innocent she might be, the girl had definitely become entangled in a game of underworld intrigue. She could have seen things and heard things, the knowledge of which would disqualify her for continued life. At least two men had walked away from that firefight—alive and well and able to tell tales. Both knew of the girl.

  No, he could not simply walk off and leave her there.

  Later, he was to find several reasons to be damned happy he hadn’t—as well as a couple of reasons to wish that he had.

  For the moment, though, she was simply an unavoidable part of Bolan’s world. A living part. And there were all too damned few of those.