Sabotage Read online

  “You were informed of the nature of this operation?” Bolan countered.

  “I was told Justice is conducting an investigation into Trofimov, and that there’s evidence Gareth Twain is working with Trofimov in some sort of terrorist campaign.”

  “That about sums it up,” Bolan told her. “Officially, the government can’t just break down Trofimov’s door and waterboard him until he talks.”

  “Sure it could,” Delaney countered.

  The soldier paused, watching the traffic rush past. Delaney drove well, moving in and out of the available openings with efficiency and purpose. “Well, all right,” Bolan admitted, “but if that happens too soon, we run the risk of getting to the bottom of everything Trofimov is doing. To shake the tree, we have to leave the roots alone…for now.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means, as you’ve probably been told already, I have a list of targets. I intend to visit each of those targets in turn. At those locations, I intend to break things. When enough important things get broken, Trofimov and those working for him, including Twain, will get agitated and expose themselves. Then I take them down and put an end to whatever threat Trofimov represents.”

  “‘Break things,’” Delaney said. “You’re running a series of armed raids.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s your team? Will they be meeting us?”

  “We are the team,” Bolan said. “Unless you want to back out now. I’m going to warn you, Agent Delaney. Things are going to get hot.” He turned from the window and gave her a hard look. “Are you prepared for that?”

  She returned his gaze evenly. “If it means I get Gareth Twain, then yes.”

  “He’s not my priority,” Bolan told her. “But I’ve already faced one of his people, according to the man’s background file. Twain’s past, his method of operation, it fits. If he’s here at all, it’s likely we’ll encounter him eventually. When we do, he’s going to be gunning for us.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You’re armed?” Bolan asked, knowing the answer.

  “Of course,” Delaney said quickly. She shot him a look. “Glock 23, .40 caliber.”

  “It’s a start,” Bolan said. “What can you handle?”

  “Name it,” Delaney said. “Every department has its gun nut. I guess I qualify.”

  “Good,” Bolan said.

  They traveled in silence for a while. Finally, Delaney said, “So. Are you going to tell me what outfit you’re really with? Or were with?”

  “No.”

  Delaney sighed. “All right, Cooper. Keep your secrets. I don’t care, as long as I get Gareth Twain.”

  “Fair enough,” Bolan echoed. “It sounds personal.”

  “It is.” She looked at him again, then back to the road. “Gareth Twain killed someone who meant a great deal to me. The Bureau wants him, but I want him more. I’ve stayed on the case for that. Hell, I’ve stayed in the Bureau for that. I’d have left otherwise. I had to call in a lot of favors and burn all my bridges to do it. They wanted me off and I had to fight to stay with it, fight to get justice. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes,” Bolan said. “I can.”

  “I have to get him, Cooper. I have to bring Twain in, or take him down. I know your investigation of Trofimov is the real focus—”

  “It’s not an investigation from my perspective,” Bolan interrupted. “It’s intelligence. Intelligence for a war, a counterwar, against whatever terrorist operations Trofimov is running.”

  That silenced Delaney for a moment. “I…” she started. “I know that’s more important, both objectively and to the people you work for or with,” she said. “But, Cooper, I’ve tracked him for so long… I can’t fail. I can’t. Twain can’t be allowed to go on killing. That’s my reason for being here. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Not if it doesn’t get in my way,” Bolan said. “I can respect your motives, Agent Delaney. I really can. Just stay with me. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Follow my instructions. Don’t question me, especially under fire. I’ll do right by you. The rest will fall into place.”

  “All right,” Delaney said, considering that. “Understood.”

  “Be aware that there is a very good chance we’ll encounter resistance,” Bolan warned her. “At the previous target, there was a noncombatant work force guarded by paid security personnel. These were professionals unafraid to pull triggers first and ask questions later, if at all. After I neutralized the shooters on-site, I had to contend with a sizable backup force. Whether they were called by one of the guards before or during the firefight, or whether they were responding to some silent alarm triggered by a security breach, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we may encounter the same, or worse, here. When the gunfire starts, don’t waste time trying to negotiate. The people we’re dealing with aren’t interested in talking.”

  “Understood,” Delaney repeated.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. Finally they neared the target address. Bolan didn’t have to tell Delaney to park the SUV some distance away, down the block. The neighborhood was closely packed and industrial. Corrugated-metal buildings and concrete-block boxes dotted with windows and metal overhead doors were stacked two and three deep. There was only a little traffic on the roads leading into the industrial area, which made sense. They weren’t on a major traffic artery and the only people coming and going through here would be, largely, those with business somewhere within.

  They stepped out of the SUV, and Bolan once again shielded his movements by turning his back outward within the open door of the truck. Delaney, close enough to see inside from the driver’s door, did a double take as Bolan checked the 93-R machine pistol.

  “That’s a serious piece of hardware,” she said.

  “You’re not the first to say so,” Bolan replied with a grin. When he checked the Desert Eagle, however, making sure a round was chambered, Delaney tensed up.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That cannon.” Delaney nodded at the weapon. She press-checked her Glock as she spoke, using the shelter of the vehicle’s interior as Bolan was doing. “Twain carries one just like it. Or he did.”

  “Good to know,” Bolan said. He opened the rear door and grabbed the duffel bag. The Tavor with its grenade launcher, loaded magazines and bandolier of 40 mm grenades was secure and waiting.

  “I have a little something in this bag for you, too,” Bolan said as Delaney fell in step next to him. “Heckler & Koch MP-5 K. I had it sent with my rifle as a backup, just in case.”

  “An MP-5 is your idea of backup?” Delaney scoffed. “What’s the primary piece?”

  “Israeli TAR-21,” Bolan said. “Heard of it?”

  “I have, but I’ve never seen one.” Delaney looked wistfully at the duffel bag.

  “You’ll get your chance,” Bolan promised. He removed the MP-5 from the bag and handed it to Delaney, with several loaded spare magazines. The woman shoved the magazines in her belt and put the MP-5 under her jacket, somewhat awkwardly. She looked around as she did so, but the street was empty.

  “Uh, Cooper?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are we just walking down the street toward the target?”

  “Role camouflage,” Bolan told her. “Act like you belong and nobody notices you. We’re just a couple out on the town.”

  “In the industrial district.”

  “Different couples, different tastes.”

  “You must be a hot date,” Delaney joked.

  Bolan stopped as they neared the target address. It was a large prefabricated steel building, a metal box with a high, curved roof that looked like countless other similarly cheap structures. “This is it,” he said. “Take the back. Assuming there’s a doorway, cover it. Wait for me to come to you. If it hits the fan, stay low and cut down anything headed out that’s armed and not me.”

/>   “You don’t want me to come in and back you up?”

  “Better if you don’t,” Bolan said. “One less variable to keep track of.”

  “If there are armed security personnel inside just waiting to blow the head off any intruder,” Delaney pointed out, “how does walking in the front door help?”

  “It worked at the last target.”

  “Didn’t you say they tried to kill you?”

  “Well, yes,” Bolan said. “That’s why it worked.”

  Delaney muttered something that might have been a curse. She hurried around the side of the building, still awkwardly hiding her MP-5. Bolan watched her go. He was going to like Delaney.

  Walking up to the front doors of the facility, he tried the handles. The steel doors didn’t budge. There was no signage on the front of the building, no indication of who or what operated within. He looked left, then right, then removed a small, lightweight pry bar from the canvas war bag slung over his shoulder. This he inserted into the gap between the two doors, pressing with gradually increasing force.

  Something inside the lock mechanism gave with a metallic twang. The Executioner eased the door open and looked inside.

  Nothing.

  The corridor bore several dusty material safety warning signs. Bolan ignored these, but the smell was harder to ignore. The corridor reeked of chemicals that reminded him of a rendering plant, only more metallic, more…synthetic.

  He passed a series of offices divided by translucent plastic partitions, then reached another set of metal fire doors. The chemical smell was growing even stronger. These doors weren’t locked. Bolan pushed the left-hand door wide, dropping his duffel silently on the opposite side of the door. He withdrew the Tavor and its bandolier of grenades, throwing the bandolier over his shoulder.

  “Vince, that you?” A voice came from around the corner. The interior walls were drywall partitions, the type of permanent cubicle-style walls that could be cheaply thrown up and painted within a prefab building like this. Sound echoed off the walls, making it difficult for Bolan to place the location of the speaker. When the unseen man called for Vince again, Bolan responded.

  “Yeah. Over here.”

  “Vince?” The voice was even closer. “You don’t sound—”

  “No,” Bolan said as the man rounded the partition and almost ran into him. “I don’t.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” The man wore a protective chemical suit. His hood was off, however, revealing a sallow, hangdog face under a mop of dark brown, curly hair.

  “Wrong again,” Bolan said. He gestured with the deadly, futuristic-looking Tavor. “Don’t scream. Don’t make any sudden moves. Nod once if you agree.”

  The man nodded.

  “Name,” Bolan ordered.

  “Jason,” the man said. “Jason McKinley.”

  “Well, Jason,” Bolan said, “we’re going to take a tour of the facility. You’re the tour guide.”

  “Hey, man, that’s fine. Only, we don’t have any money here.”

  “This isn’t a robbery,” Bolan told him. “Quickly, now. How many people in this facility?”

  “What? No, man, nobody. Just me and Vince are here, cleaning up.”

  “Cleaning up what?”

  “I’ll show you, man.” McKinley gestured toward the plastic sheets covering the corridor opening behind him. “But you might want to put on a mask. It’s still pretty rank in there.”

  “We won’t be staying long,” Bolan ordered. “Now move. Try anything and I’ll shoot you.”

  “I believe you, man.” McKinley nodded vigorously. “Come on, this way.”

  Bolan followed his reluctant guide through the plastic sheeting. The room beyond was clearly the width and height of the building itself; no partitions carved up the large, open space. There were several metal vats arrayed along one side of the space. From these, conveyor belts led to a series of ramps that terminated in chutes at the opposite wall. There were also small track cranes running across the upper portion of the open space. Scoops attached to chains dangled from these, rusty and mute.

  “Where do those chutes go?” Bolan asked.

  “Outside, of course.” McKinley looked at him strangely. “You don’t have any idea what this is, do you?” He gestured. “Why would you try to rob the place if you didn’t know?”

  “I told you,” Bolan said evenly. “This isn’t a robbery.”

  “Then what?”

  “You tell me,” Bolan said. “What do you do, and why are you here?”

  “I’m with MatrixEarth,” McKinley said, as if that explained everything. When it had to have been obvious to him, from the look on Bolan’s face, that it didn’t, he went on. “We’re an environmental consulting firm. Vince, that’s my project manager, and I are assessing the environmental impact of the operation here.”

  “What was the operation?”

  “That’s a good question,” McKinley said. “I thought maybe you knew and were coming to knock over your former business partner, the crook.”

  “Explain,” Bolan said, growing impatient.

  “We’re under contract from the county,” McKinley said. “The company that owned this joint pulled up stakes about a week ago. Left behind a big mess, and a lot of permits unfiled and unpaid for. The landlord about had a heart attack when he saw this place after they were done with it and let their lease drop.”

  “Who was leasing the building?”

  “Beats me,” McKinley said. “Vince talked to the landlord, but I don’t think they got to that level of detail. Say, uh, could you stop pointing that gun at me?”

  “We’ll see,” Bolan said. “Show me what you’ve found.”

  McKinley, looking irate but still afraid, moved to one of the vats. There were several pieces of metal lying on the floor. He picked one up in his heavily gloved hands.

  “See this?” McKinley said. “This is a piece of stainless steel. There are a couple of leftover boxes of these test pieces in a storage room off the main corridor.” He pointed with his free hand, back the way he and Bolan had come. His feet echoed on the stained, poured-concrete floor as he went to the conveyor belt. He picked up another piece of metal. “Do you see the color difference?” He held up the two ingots of steel.

  “Barely,” Bolan said.

  “It’s faint, but it’s visible.” McKinley dropped the first piece of steel. It hit the concrete and rang like a bell. Bolan briefly scanned left and right, mindful of a trick. McKinley caught the soldier’s movement and froze.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m just making a point, here.”

  “Go on,” Bolan said.

  McKinley held the second piece of steel in both hands. He twisted and the metal snapped like a piece of balsa wood. He dropped the pieces to the floor. They made much less sound when they struck the concrete.

  “That,” McKinley said, “is a piece of the same metal. Each test piece is marked with a serial number. Those two bars started life as the same batch of stainless steel.”

  “Yet one of them now breaks like it’s nothing.”

  “You see why the county is freaking out,” McKinley said proudly.

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  McKinley made a disgusted noise. “Don’t you understand, the vat’s there, the assembly line here. The hoist’s up there. It’s a line for soaking and shipping a product.”

  “Soaking and shipping. You mean whatever they were bringing in was being treated with chemicals that can do…that—” Bolan nodded to the broken steel bar “—and then shipped out through the chutes?”

  “Seems to have been,” McKinley said. “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’ve come armed for World War Three, but I’m guessing you really aren’t a disgruntled business partner looking for payback.”

  “No,” Bolan said. “Justice Department.”

  “Justice Department?” McKinley blanched. “It’s worse than I thought. Originally the county called us in because they were worried about groundwater contamination. The f
olks who skipped out on the building owner’s lease also weren’t too concerned where they dumped waste chemicals, you know? The owner was worried about the value of his property, which is why he called the county, but when their assessor took one look at the mess here and out back, they called us in. Vince and I have been crawling all over the place ever since. But I had no idea this was so bad it was federal.”

  “It might be,” Bolan said, being deliberately vague so McKinley could supply an explanation with which he would be satisfied. “Let me have one of those pieces of treated metal.”

  “Sure,” McKinley said. He handed over half a broken bar.

  “I want your contact information,” Bolan said. “Someone will be contacting you to find out what you’ve learned about the chemicals stored here. I’ll also want the building owner’s name. You’ll get a call asking you about what you’ve told me, and whatever other data your company has on hand regarding this site. I suggest you answer the questions asked without argument.”

  “Hey, man, no problem.” He started shrugging out of the top half of his suit, letting it dangle from its built-in belt cinched around his waist. From his shirt pocket he produced a business card. “Here you go. Everything you need to contact us is there.”

  “All right,” Bolan said. “Point me to the rear door.”

  “That way,” McKinley said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  “I was never here,” Bolan said without looking back.

  McKinley let out the breath he had been holding. The Executioner heard the exhalation from across the room.

  At the rear of the building, he found Delaney and another man in a chemical protection suit. They appeared to have been chatting amiably.

  “Vince, I presume,” Bolan said.

  “Yeah,” Vince said. He was younger than McKinley, with stronger features, and a crew cut that didn’t hide his male pattern baldness very well.

  “You didn’t shoot him,” Bolan said to Delaney.

  “He wasn’t armed.” Delaney shrugged.

  “Uh, what’s going on here?” Vince said, taking in the assault rifle Bolan carried.

  “Your friend inside can fill you in,” Bolan told him. He nodded at Delaney. “Come on. We’ve got to move.” He pulled out his secure satellite phone and hit the speed-dial button that would connect him to Grimaldi.