Collision Course Page 4

  In the deep darkness of the basement Bolan had his enemy pinpointed. He stepped forward and reached a sprint in three quick strides. Bolan leaped into the air, thrusting out both feet before him.

  His injured leg struck Paolini in the gut, driving the younger man's arm into his own stomach and forcing the air from him. Bolan's other leg struck the cinder-block wall Paolini had been standing against and buckled under the force of impact.

  Bolan bounced away, striking the floor on his rebound. Paolini fell beside him and the Executioner rose, smashing his fist down. He nearly cried out in pain as his knuckles struck the concrete floor and his arm went instantly numb.

  He heard a sharp crack and instinctively threw up his good arm to ward off the invisible blow. His forearm jerked under the force of some club, probably a snapped-off broom handle.

  Intuiting Paolini's position by the angle of the blow, Bolan whipped his legs around and he felt the Italian topple. He heard Paolini's club clatter away as he slammed to the floor, and Bolan snatched up the weapon for himself.

  Bolan didn't hesitate. He rose to one knee and brought the stolen stick crashing down. The stick splintered along its length from the force of the blow on Paolini's body.

  Paolini responded like a fighter, lashing out quickly. The ball of his foot slapped into Bolan's face, driving him backward with the blunt force of a sledgehammer.

  Bolan felt fresh blood hot in his mouth as his bottom lip was cut by his own teeth. Again he used the energy to roll with the blow and disengage, flipping over backward and gaining his feet. He tripped and fell back, landing hard on his butt with ajar that seemed to loosen his teeth in his head. He blinked in surprise. He was sitting up higher than the floor. He reached behind and realized he was on a flight of stairs.

  Bolan turned and scrambled up the steps, racing so fast that his head butted against the door. He yanked at the knob.

  It was locked.

  Bolan felt around the walls, found what he was looking for and the lights came on as he flicked the switch. He blinked in the sudden illumination and looked behind him. Paolini was at the bottom of the staircase, a jagged-ended broom handle in his fists. The left side of his face was a long purple bruise where Bolan had struck him with his own club.

  As Paolini began to slowly climb the steps, his eyes never left Bolan's for an instant. "You're mine now, hardass," he growled. "I'm gonna jam this stick in your heart."

  Paolini raced up the last few steps and jabbed the splintered end of the stick forward in an attempt to stab Bolan. The Executioner dodged to the side and kicked Paolini in the face. Weakened, the man tumbled down the stairs rolling end over end.

  The mobster hit the bottom step at a wrong angle, and Bolan heard the snap of the Italian's neck as it broke. The Mob lieutenant plopped into an unceremonious pile of tangled limbs at the bottom of the stairs.

  Bolan quickly descended and confirmed the kill.

  Then he turned to collect his weapons and search for an exit route.

  6

  The day that Stephen Caine quit his job he didn't tell anyone he was going. He wouldn't need the job; it would only slow him.

  He walked out of his office and to the elevator. He wanted a drink. Inside the elevator he suddenly realized he couldn't remember what his office looked like. Couldn't remember the faces of the people there, or their names.

  He wanted a drink, but he didn't want to return to the blue collar bar. He didn't belong there. His father would have belonged there and so, by definition he didn't belong there. He was going to go some place upscale but mellow, maybe with a piano player.

  In the Explorer, on the way to the lounge, Caine began to cry. The tears streamed down his face in salty rivers. Six casualties a day. All of them dying just like his buddy Angel Ramos had in Mogadishu: hard and bloody.

  In the car Caine remembered the medicine the Army doctors had given the men of the unit upon rotating home, just until the nightmares and flashbacks had stopped, or subsided anyway. He figured there had to be several dozen pills out there that could help trip the switch to stop the images, stop the tears. He didn't think the doctors would hesitate to give him some pills if he told them about Mogadishu.

  The piano bar was quiet and open but comfortably dark, and Caine didn't look out of place in his suit with loosened tie. He drank straight through into evening and met the hooker once the sun had gone down.

  Her name was Stephanie, and he was pretty sure from the start that she was a call girl. She was beautiful and didn't look anything like Charisa and, unlike Charisa, she didn't seem to have a problem getting blasted with him. He got his first Xanax from her, a little pill she fished out of the bottom of her Versace handbag. He watched the way the ends of her long brown hair rubbed across the smooth curves of her spilling cleavage while she dug for the pill. She smelled really good, and after she gave him the antianxiety medicine he decided she could really be into him. He washed the pill down with a swallow of imported beer.

  "Because of demagogues," he finished.

  "Demagogues?" she asked.

  "Yes, demagogues. A political leader who gains power by appealing to people's emotions, instincts and prejudices in a way that is considered manipulative and dangerous... to paraphrase."

  "So you're saying the President is a demagogue."

  "Yes. The problem is that the electoral college failed. The system is flawed. It is flawed because we only have a two-party system. The parties that control the electoral college are partisan. So maybe they would vote to check a demagogue who was an independent, but never to check one from within their own party. Without agreement, which is impossible in partisan atmospheres, the electoral college could never keep out a demagogue if they emerged from one of the two ruling political parties. The system fails."

  "That's democracy." Stephanie shrugged. She seemed to be tuning him out, bored. But Caine was talking mainly to hear his own voice anyway. What he was planning was a big deal, and it scared the hell out of him. The Xanax seemed to help.

  Stephanie's eyes were like glass marbles and her words came out softly slurred.

  "But if democracy had ever been intended to be a simple mob rule then the founding fathers never would have inserted the electoral college into the process to begin with," he continued. "It is a part of the system. The system failed." And six a day are dying because of it, Caine thought to himself.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Well, Thomas Jefferson had a few ideas..." Caine trailed off and took a drink.

  Her hand came to rest on his thigh and the scent of a sensuous perfume drifted over him. He felt himself respond and knew what he wanted, even though he understood what Stephanie was.

  "I meant tonight," she purred. The purr was as slurred as her words.

  Caine looked over at Stephanie and smiled. He felt warm and detached, and he knew now that if he needed to do something then it would be much later and he would be detached enough to do it then, too.

  Thomas Jefferson had known what to do about demagogues, but Caine would be doing it in his own way. The plan started to coalesce in his mind as he stared into Stephanie's eyes. He was not yet sure what it involved, but he was certain it would get to the truth, to the pattern that ran beneath the surface.

  "You ready to get out of here?" she asked.

  "Yes," he answered, "I'm ready."

  The sudden resolve in his voice suggested he was talking more to himself than to Stephanie.

  7

  Mack Bolan was back in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, autonomous states of the former Yugoslavia Republic. While Bosnia maintained diplomatic ties with the United States, it held no extradition treaty and criminals with the financial resources and political connections had found haven from American justice within its borders.

  One such man was Peter Taterczynski, former State Department intelligence analyst and Department of Defense contractor. Two years earlier he had ended two decades of public service after his wife walked out on
him, taking the children and sixty percent of his income in alimony and court-mandated child support. His hard drinking and prolific affairs had stalled his career at the middle-management level and ruined his domestic life. He had brought his own ruin upon himself.

  In response he had used a hidden camera to procure copies of sensitive documents from the National Archives, including counterintelligence files listing active U.S. agents in a host of former Soviet republics and Middle Eastern countries. He had fled with this information first to Munich and then on to Sarajevo.

  Between the sales of the sensitive information and his ability to produce American end-user certificates for international arms sales he had made a tidy sum. He had used some of his newfound money to secure a patron in the Bosnian foreign ministry. This protection, married to the lack of an extradition treaty, had put him beyond the reach of traditional law enforcement and diplomatic resources.

  In Syria alone thirteen agents were exposed and murdered as a result of his treason. Although Peter Taterczynski remained beyond the reach of the law, beyond the reach of justice, he was not beyond the reach of the Executioner.

  After arriving at the international airport, Bolan headed to the concierge's desk to pick up a key left under an alias that matched his passport. The pretty woman in a Sarajevo Airlines uniform smiled at him and checked his ID. Her eyes flitted across the cut of his nondescript but expensive suit.

  "Are you in Sarajevo for business or pleasure?" she asked.

  "Business, I'm afraid," Bolan replied.

  "Well, I hope your trip is successful," she answered, handing him the envelope containing the little key.

  "Thank you."

  The key belonged to a small storage locker in the luggage area. Inside was a parking slip and ignition key to Bolan's mission vehicle, a black Lexus. The Lexus had been upgraded with a diplomatic protection kit that included a V8 engine, tinted and bullet-resistant windows, body armor, self-sealing tires, a satcom uplink phone with encryption device and GPS unit.

  Bolan programmed in the coordinates to the target site that he had memorized after removing a Beretta 93-R from the glove box and attaching the sound suppressor. He set the deadly pistol on the passenger's seat beside him and pulled out onto the road.

  Fifteen minutes later he was ready and in position.

  * * *

  The taupe Mercedes entered the underground garage, rolling forward down the ramp on fat, high-performance tires with its high beams on. Bolan slid the silenced Beretta 93-R behind his back. The Mercedes rolled to a stop and the driver killed the lights. The two luxury vehicles sat facing each other with twenty yards of parking lot between them. After a moment the door to the Mercedes popped open and a tall thin man in an expensive suit climbed out.

  Bolan opened the door to his car and did the same. He walked out from behind the open door to his vehicle and regarded the Iranian intelligence agent. The man was bald with a neatly groomed beard and mustache showing patches of gray. In his hands was a burgundy leather attache case.

  "You are not Taterczynski!" the Iranian swore.

  He dropped the attache case to the concrete, where it made a loud, flat slapping sound. The Iranian's hand flew inside his suit jacket and under his arm. Bolan reached around behind him and grabbed the smooth butt of his machine pistol.

  Bolan was dropping down to one knee as he pulled his weapon free and he saw the Iranian produce a Glock 19. The Executioner fired and the Beretta jumped in his fist delivering a 3-round burst. Spent shell casings tumbled out and bounced off the concrete.

  The Iranian stumbled backward and blossoms of scarlet appeared on his white-linen shirt over his chest. His leg caught the corner of the still-running Mercedes and he went down, arms windmilling.

  The Glock tumbled from his hands, bounced off the bumper of the car and struck the ground next to the attache case. Blood spilled across both items in fat, dime-sized drops. The man hit the floor with a heavy, wet sound and his head bounced with a hollow smack. The dying man's left foot spasmed once, then he relaxed as his final breath escaped his body.

  Bolan rose slowly from his knee, pistol held ready in his hands. He walked over toward the attache case lying at the man's feet and picked it up, heedless of the blood splatters. It represented the quintessential forty pieces of silver any Judas demanded for his services.

  Bolan walked back to his car and threw the money-filled case onto the passenger's seat. He climbed in behind the wheel, slammed the door and keyed the ignition. He drove past the dead man and out into the night without a second glance.

  The soldier picked up the sat phone from the console and hit the speed dial. The person on the other end of the line answered on the first ring.

  "Striker here," Bolan said. "The interdiction was a success. The subject was completely surprised I wasn't the principal. I'm in route to alpha location now. Tell Bear he did good work with the set up."

  Bolan listened for a moment. "I will," he answered. "Call with an update later. Striker out."

  Bolan used his thumb to kill the connection and he tossed the phone onto the seat beside him next to the attache case.

  * * *

  The Central Intelligence Agency had done Bolan's grunt work for him. Stringers, agents and confidential informants saturated the former Yugoslavia Republic. The Kosovo Police Service had been created in 1999 in the aftermath of the NATO bombing campaign and subsequent withdrawal of the Yugoslav and Serbian forces from Kosovo. The former leader of Serbia had previously purged most Albanians from the police in Kosovo, and because of this, when Serbian forces withdrew, there were no longer any police officers to maintain public order in Kosovo. The establishment of the United Nations Interim Administration Mission in Kosovo—UNMIK—included a large international policing component, named the UNMIK Police. Their two primary tasks were to establish a new police force and in the meantime to maintain civil law and order.

  The United Nations police force was filled with former U.S. law-enforcement agents from the state, local and federal levels serving not only as patrolmen but also as trainers. The UN police force provided equipment, weapons, instruction, communications gear and even uniforms to the host nation. Several of the deployed trainers and officers had served as stalking horses for U.S. intelligence concerns. As a result Stony Man Farm had access to the CIAs list of pay-for-play officers.

  In short, Bolan knew exactly whom to bribe.

  * * *

  The night had grown darker as Bolan surveyed the ship secured to the pier. The vessel was small as freighters went at two thousand five hundred tons and running two hundred feet prow to stern by thirty feet across the main deck. Carefully, Bolan chose his route of infiltration.

  He crossed the yard and hit the dock, moving quickly to crouch near a huge pilling in the shadow of the ship. The smell of the quay was strong, a mix of salt and fish and mildew, along with the odor of floating garbage and rotting wood.

  Off to his left from the aft of the ship he saw a single wharf rat scramble across a thick mooring rope of woven hemp. From the side of the ship an automatic bilge pump began spilling yellowish water in a stream out of a small port.

  Unconsciously Bolan reached up and touched the pistol butt of his Beretta 93-R where it rode in a holster under his arm. His eyes scanned the ship, narrowed to slits. Taterczynski had made Bolan's job easier by choosing the sort of company he now kept. The former analyst had handpicked a small cadre of former Bosnian commandos linked to units accused of the worst crimes: ethnic cleansing, torture, rape camps, the sniping of civilians and relief workers.

  Bolan would show them no mercy.

  His gaze roamed over the deck and across the superstructure. The big windows fronting the bridge were dark, and he could detect no activity. Bolan remained motionless, as patient as a hunter in ambush. There would be a guard. A man like Taterczynski always had a guard.

  Wearing a peacoat and watch cap, the Slavic gunman strolled out from around a metal storage container. The red tip of his
cigarette was a bright spot against the shadows of his heavy brow and full beard. A Heckler & Koch MP-5, the weapon that had supplanted the Uzi as the world's most common submachine gun, hung from a shoulder strap. Hidden in shadow, Bolan watched the man walk up to the railing and take a last drag off his cigarette. The sentry flicked the cigarette out and it flew in arc before falling into the cold, polluted water and extinguishing with a hiss.

  The man spit after the cigarette butt, then turned from the ship's railing and leisurely strolled across the deck. Bolan unfolded from the shadow. His hands found the two-inch-thick weave of one of the vessel's mooring ropes and locked his grip on it as he swung out over the water.

  Like a kid on a set of monkey bars, Bolan swung handover-hand out about a yard or so, then lifted up his legs so that his heels could lock around the rope. He went still for a moment, reducing the momentum of his actions, then began to climb up the rope in an inchworm, accordion motion.

  He worked hard, pulling himself rapidly up the rope to the gunwale. He slid over the edge and quickly drew the Beretta. He moved smoothly to the lee of the anchor windlass and crouched in its blocky shadow.

  Bolan surveyed his surroundings. He ignored the cargo hold entrances in favor of the deckhouse. About a hundred feet of open deck separated him from the aft superstructure. He did not like the exposure and he had lost sight of the deck sentry.

  Bolan scanned the dark but saw nothing. His ears detected the creaking of the mooring ropes and the gentle lap of waves on the hull beneath him. The Beretta was out and up and ready as he made his move.

  He broke from the shadowed lee of the windlass, cut around the forward cargo hatch and sprinted toward the king post and crane assembly positioned between the holds. He dropped to one knee, Beretta up so that the suppressor was even with the hard plane of his cheekbone, his left hand resting on the cool metal of the deck. His heart bumped up against his sternum in a strong rhythm. His head swiveled on his neck like a gun turret, tracking for a target.