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  Bolan didn't respond.

  "I'm just glad you're here Mr. Cooper."

  "Please, it's Matt. Haven't you hired someone for protection? It might be wise, given what happened yesterday."

  "Some cop from the San Francisco Police Department showed up yesterday evening, said he was supposed to keep an eye on me."

  "Where is he?" Bolan asked.

  "I canned him," Anderson said. "I told him I didn't need a babysitter, and told him to get the hell out of here."

  "And he left?"

  "Hell no! I had to call security and have him escorted out of here."

  "You don't worry about another attempt on your life?" Bolan asked.

  "They had their chance. They won't try anything again, at least not here." The young man sounded sure of himself. Bolan felt less confident about the kid's safety.

  "You said you have proof that your brother was killed," Bolan said. "What proof?"

  "I'll show you." Bolan followed Anderson into his motor home, where Anderson dug out a banjo-bolt fitting wrapped in a grease rag and handed it to the Executioner.

  "What's this?" Bolan asked.

  "It's the brake line connection from Darrick's bike," Anderson said.

  "How'd you get it?"

  "I stole it from the Free Flow garage complex at Losail. They won't miss it; they're supposed to examine the wreckage but they have no interest in it. They don't seem to give much of a shit about what happened to Darrick."

  "I got that impression myself," Bolan said. "Why is this important?"

  "Look at the thread on the male fitting." Bolan did. The thread seemed like new, except for the first two rungs, which were stripped clean.

  "That bolt was never tightened down. Someone deliberately just barely got the threads started, tightening them just enough so that they'd hold as long as there was no pressure applied to the brakes. As soon as someone grabbed a handful of brake, that thing popped right off," Anderson said.

  It looked to Bolan like the kid was on to something. "Why would anyone want to kill your brother?" he asked.

  "Time was, just about everyone wanted to kill him, back when he was banging cocaine and drinking twenty-four hours a day. Even before that. When he had the championship, he was an ass — arrogant, cocky, rude, abusive. Killing him even crossed my mind once or twice, especially after our parents were killed in a car accident and he didn't even bother to come to the funeral. Said he had a tire test in Jerez, Spain, but he didn't show up for that either," Anderson said angrily. He paused.

  "But he'd changed. He wasn't the same person he was back then. He was doing great. It was like I had my brother back." Anderson pointed to the bolts from his brother's bike. "And then those bastards took him away from me."

  "It doesn't make sense. Why'd they kill their top rider?" the Executioner asked.

  "I don't know," Anderson said. "I do know that they don't care one whit about motorcycle racing. I don't know why they're even here."

  Bolan suspected that the reason they were here was because they intended to commit a major act of terrorism somewhere on the west coast, but there was know point in mentioning that to the younger Anderson brother. And the soldier suspected that the reason they killed Darrick was because he either knew something or they were afraid he might know something. One thing was certain — they were dealing with some dangerous men.

  "I suppose you think I'm crazy, just like everyone else," Anderson said.

  "No, I believe you. I know these men are capable of committing murder," Bolan said.

  Eddie Anderson looked at the soldier. "That's strange information for a fuel salesman to have."

  "My company does its research on potential business partners," Bolan said. "These are some bad men, and they're capable of anything. They're capable of killing your brother, and they're capable of killing you. I wish you'd reconsider letting the police officer protect you."

  "Hell no! I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will."

  Bolan respected the kid's dedication to self-sufficiency, but he knew that this inexperienced youth was no match for a group of trained and dedicated terrorists.

  "If you're so good at taking care of yourself," the Executioner said, "how come every time I see you someone is either throwing you out of a building or throwing you into a car?"

  Bolan could tell he'd hit a nerve.

  The kid's eyes narrowed. "I think it's time for you to leave. I have to prepare for afternoon practice," Anderson said.

  * * *

  Eddie Anderson missed his apex on Laguna Seca's turn two, the famous Andretti Hairpin. He couldn't get his head into the moment, a moment that saw his negotiating one of the world's most challenging racetracks aboard what was perhaps the fastest motorcycle on Earth. He couldn't shake his brother's death out of his head.

  He made the next several corners as if on autopilot, and as the next right-hand corner approached, he couldn't remember if it was Turn Five or Turn Six. It turned out to be the more rounded Turn Five and not the sharper-edged Turn Six, though he once again missed his apex because he'd mentally prepared for Turn Six. These were stupid, rookie mistakes and Anderson chastised himself for making them.

  He cleared his mind by Turn Six and executed the corner perfectly, getting a hard drive up the hill toward the corkscrew. He threw his bike to the left, down the hill into the corkscrew, then made a beautiful arcing turn to the right, apexing perfectly at the bottom of the hill as he left the corkscrew, hitting one hundred and fifty miles per hour before braking for Turn Nine. Anderson's technique for negotiating the corkscrew was nearly perfect, almost as good as his brother's had once been. Darrick had been universally regarded as the king of Laguna Seca.

  Thinking of Darrick once again distracted the younger Anderson brother and he braked too late for Turn Nine — Rainey Curve — and he ran wide, toward the gravel trap at the edge of the track. It was what racers called "the kitty litter." He'd just about saved himself from an embarrassing crash when his teammate Danny Asnorossa came by off the main racing line. Asnorossa crossed in front of Anderson and clipped the American's front tire with his rear tire, slamming Anderson's bike down in a low slide.

  Both Anderson and the bike slid off the track, the bike sliding on its side, and Anderson flipping through the air. He saw a rapid series of images — earth-sky-earth-sky-earth-sky — before he finally came to a stop in the gravel. Before getting up, he took stock of his body. Nothing appeared to be damaged except his pride. He walked over to the bike and picked it up. He'd lost a footpeg and his brake lever was broken off, but the motorcycle was still running. With the help of the corner workers who had already descended on the scene, he got it out of the "kitty litter" and rode it back to the pits. It appeared to be just cosmetic damage that his crew could repair so he wouldn't have to get out his backup bike.

  He would have to get his mind right before the race on Sunday or he wasn't going to win. If he kept riding like he had been during that afternoon's practice, he wouldn't even survive Sunday's race.

  7

  "Striker, I think I know where they're keeping the plutonium," Kurtzman said over the secure line connected to Bolan's cell phone. "Better yet, I'm sure I know what they plan to do with it."

  "What's that?" Bolan asked.

  "You've probably figured out how popular racing is in the rest of the world."

  "I've noticed."

  "It's getting more popular here, too. When the big races come to town, they bring out a galaxy of stars, politicians, and international dignitaries who attend the event. This year the attendees will include the newly elected president of Egypt — he's a young pro-Western reformer — along with the king of Jordan, another Islamic moderate, and the youngest son of the crown prince of the House of Saud, who is widely believed to be running Saudi Arabia. He's popular with his people and has good relations with our government. These three men represent our best hopes for stability in the Middle East. And all three are big racing fans."

  "In o
ther words," Bolan said, "just about every pro-Western leader in the Islamic world will be in the same place at the same time."

  "You got it. I did some poking around and all three are staying in hotels on Nob Hill. All three are flying in Sunday morning and all three plan to stay over Sunday night and leave on Monday."

  "Someone could take out all three by setting off a Hiroshima-sized bomb, which is what we're talking about here, right, Bear?"

  "You are correct, sir."

  "If they set off a bomb like that at the race, they would strike a fatal blow to moderate Islamic regimes in the Middle East and probably unleash a fundamentalist firestorm across the region. Plus they'd take out a symbol of Western decadence in the process."

  "Correct again," Kurtzman said.

  Bolan contemplated the situation. "Sometimes it would be better to be wrong," he told Kurtzman. "How about the warehouse?"

  "There really is only one that fits the parameters you gave me yesterday. It's located on Fair Avenue, right next to the tracks. A white delivery van dropped off a load there late Monday morning, a heavy load, judging from the before and after photos of the van. The springs were compressed so far that the van's bumper was practically dragging on the pavement on the way to the warehouse. It looked like a dog dragging its butt across carpet. On the way back, the van rode a full six inches higher in the back."

  "Can you estimate the weight of the load?"

  "I had three-inch resolution from my spy satellite so I got the license plate. It was a rental with a one-ton chassis. The van was easily loaded fifty percent over capacity, so I'd say we're looking at something weighing three thousand pounds or more."

  "Like a small Type B container?"

  "Affirmative," Kurtzman said. "There was even a black Hummer H2 with dark tinted windows parked out front while the van was inside the warehouse unloading the cargo."

  "Who rented the van?

  "A construction company, which turned out to be fictitious, as did the person who signed all the paperwork.

  "So we got nothing on the rental?" the soldier asked.

  "Not quite nothing," Kurtzman replied. "The surveillance cameras showed four Filipinos picking up the van. One of them had a question mark tattooed on his forearm."

  "Anything more?" Bolan asked.

  "The warehouse has been under heavy guard twenty-four hours a day since Monday."

  "Rent-a-cops?"

  "Nope. Gang bangers, by the look of them. I can't quite be sure, but it looks like one of them has a question mark tattooed on his shoulder. They also appear to be armed, judging by the bulges above their waistbands. They've been taking eight-hour shifts, and there appears to be at least four on guard at any one time. There are probably more inside. Someone has something of value in that facility."

  "I'll check it out right away, but first I need one last favor from you."

  "You name it, Striker."

  "Can you figure out a way to keep those two Feds out of my face? I've experienced physical torture that was more pleasant than spending a few minutes with those two."

  "Consider it done."

  * * *

  Santa Cruz, California

  Bolan's decision to rent a motorcycle proved a good one. He was one of tens of thousands of motorcyclists riding the coastal highway between Santa Cruz and San Francisco during the weekend of the big race, though Bolan was probably the only rider with an FN P90 submachine gun slung beneath his riding jacket.

  He'd had Kissinger fit the rifle with a Leupold Mark 4 CQ/T rifle scope, allowing the soldier to accurately fire the bullpup subgun at ranges past two hundred yards, which was farther than he was likely shoot in an urban environment. The scope had an advanced light-gathering coating on the glass, letting the soldier see his targets in extremely low light conditions, as well as a reticle that could be lit or unlit for use in various lighting conditions. Kissinger knew all of the Executioner's measurements and could set the eye relief on almost any gun so that it was near spot-on perfect when it reached the soldier in the field, and he always zeroed the optics at one hundred yards except on high-powered rifles, as per Bolan's preference. The soldier seldom took shots at much longer ranges than that, and if he needed to do so, he knew how to compensate for any caliber of rifle that he might be called upon to use.

  The little rifle held fifty rounds of ammunition, and Bolan had four loaded magazines in his jacket, two in the front vest pocket designed to hold a water bladder and one in each inside vest pocket. The unusual design of the rifle placed the clear plastic box magazine on top of the barrel, under the optical platform. Since the gun was of the bullpup design, the receiver was in the rear of the gun, at the back of the buttstock, so it wasn't much longer than his Beretta 93-R when the sound-suppressor was attached.

  Once again he wore the experimental lightweight armored vest that Kissinger had developed under his riding suit. Underneath that he wore his skintight blacksuit. The vest would stop the 5.56 mm rounds fired by the SAR-21 rifles from Singapore and most other common rifle calibers he'd likely run across, but it wouldn't stop the rounds in his P90. The steel-cored rounds would penetrate forty-eight layers of Kevlar when fired from a weapon like the P90. He didn't know if the gang bangers guarding the warehouse would be wearing body armor, but if they were, the soldier was prepared.

  Bolan rode to Santa Cruz on Highway One, noting that there were people milling around the warehouse when he rode past Fair Avenue. Traffic was heavy and he moved slowly, allowing him to get a good look at the building. The sun was just starting to set; in another hour it would be dark enough to make his move. The soldier rode up the Coast Highway until he got to Laguna Road, then he hung a right. He hadn't gone a hundred yards before he saw a sign that read Road Ends 50 Feet. That should have put the road's terminal point just around an upcoming curve, but Bolan's GPS showed that the road continued after the turn.

  Bolan rounded the curve and found himself in some sort of trashy commune. Old, rusty cars lined both sides of the road; some of them looked drivable, others were just decomposing relics. The cars were parked so tightly on the road that they left just enough room to squeeze through with a motorcycle. Shacks and run-down buildings sat in what appeared to be a cow pasture on the right side of the road, and a few assorted outbuildings in various states of decrepitude littered the hill on the soldier's left. Some of the buildings were clearly abandoned — Bolan could see clean through them because they were missing so many boards and windows — but others showed signs of life inside, a flicker of light behind a dirty window or fresh tracks leading up to the door. Abandoned boats and camper trailers were strewn about the property, keeping the derelict cars, trucks and tractors company.

  Contrary to what the sign said, the road continued beyond the flotsam and jetsam that comprised the place. At least it continued in unpaved form. Laguna Road turned into a two-lane dirt trail that curved parallel to Highway One, finally dissecting it when Highway One curved toward the east and wound its way back to Santa Cruz. It didn't look like much of a road, but Bolan was riding the world's biggest trail bike so he continued onward, riding back down the road until it reconnected with Highway One.

  Bolan took his time, and when he returned to Santa Cruz, it was dark enough to begin his mission. He turned right on Mission Street, a block west of the Fair Avenue warehouse, then turned left on the next street, parking half a block from the warehouse. He hid his motorcycle behind a semi-truck that was parked along the street and took off his riding suit, revealing the blacksuit underneath. He put the extra magazines for the P90 in pouches snapped on his vest and clipped a couple of M-67 fragmentation grenades and a couple of M-84 flashbangs to his utility belt. He crept between buildings toward the warehouse, jumping fences and avoiding guard dogs along the way. In his left hand he held his sound-supressed Beretta 93-R and in his right he held his Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife. He had to go in quietly, and even the coughing of the Beretta might be too loud.

  Bolan crept along the building acr
oss the tracks from the warehouse, a Quonset hut made of deeply corrugated metal. The building was constructed of approximately a hundred half-circle steel rings bolted together. The rings were trough-shaped, with outer edges that rose up from a flat center section. When bolted together, the raised sections formed ribs that circled the width of the building. These ribs were spaced roughly sixteen inches apart, and the space between them was about eight inches deep. Bolan put his foot on the brace that held the header for the sliding garage door on the front of the building and kicked himself up onto the roof high enough so that he was able to climb to the top of the building in the trough between the steel ribs.

  When he crested the curved steel arch, he scoped out the area. He could see two men behind the building and two in front of it. All of them seemed to be wearing body armor, so Bolan would have to make certain to take head shots. Loud hip-hop music blared from inside the warehouse.

  A lone man walked the length of the warehouse. The man turned toward the steel building where the Executioner lay and started to walk directly towards him. Bolan dismissed thoughts of having been discovered when the man below him turned around, unzipped his zipper and began urinating in the dark shadow cast by the Quonset. When Bolan could hear the urine stream dissipating, he slid feet first down the channel between the ribs and landed on the man's shoulders. Wrapping his legs around the man's neck, Bolan grabbed his head and gave it a sharp twist. The man's neck broke with an audible pop, and he fell to the ground with Bolan still on top of him.

  The Executioner leaped from the man's body and dashed toward the warehouse. He crept toward the rear of the building, sticking close to the edge to remain out of the light cast by the spotlights mounted on top of the warehouse. The music blasting from inside allowed him the freedom to use his suppressed Beretta, so he drew the weapon and set the selector on tri-burst mode.

  Bolan peered around the corner. He could smell the marijuana burning in the cigarette that the two men guarding the rear of the building shared. He lined up his sights on the man who had just passed the burning joint to his partner and with a double tap on the trigger he blew off half of the man's head. The partner had closed his eyes while he inhaled the smoke from the joint, and when he opened them, he saw a gaping hole where his buddy's face had been. His eyes got so wide it looked like the skin on his face was going to split, but before he could remove the joint from his lips and shout for help, the Executioner silenced him with another double tap from his Beretta. The man died with the marijuana cigarette still burning between his lifeless lips.