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  "Not exactly low-key, is it?" The German watched through the windshield as Bolan eased the car into its spot.

  "You can bet Iron Thunder, either on its own or through the Consortium's resources, has the local police locked in," Bolan speculated. "Bribes, intimidation... When you have their finances you can move the world."

  "So what does that make you. Cooper?" Rieck managed a nervous grin. "The irresistible force or the immovable object?"

  Bolan said nothing.

  The Iron Thunder cultists milling about the parking lot and drifting in knots of two or more to the double doors of the warehouse entrance ranged widely in age and appearance. Most were in their twenties, but there were a few teenagers, quite a few middle-aged men and women, and a surprising number of senior citizens. They wore all manner of dress, from street tough getups to business suits, and everything in between. Bolan saw no firearms, but that meant nothing. Here and there were telltale bulges beneath clothing. A few of the rougher-looking cultists carried chains or clubs, and he saw one leather-clad woman carrying a bullwhip. On the whole, though, the people before him seemed far more interested in getting inside the warehouse for the rally than in any immediate aggression.

  As he and Rieck fell in with the crowd and walked casually toward the double doors, Bolan pondered the throngs about him. What sort of message appealed to such a wide range of people? He had seen his share of cult leaders and charismatic figureheads, certainly. Most of them appealed only to certain stripes, people with a shared need. What shared need did all of these people have? What was the attraction in the death cult's nihilistic message? Perhaps the rally itself would answer some of those questions.

  If not, it wouldn't matter. Bolan's mission was to get to the roots of Iron Thunder and the Consortium, and, ultimately, to burn them to the ground. Brognola had made the pro forma request for information, for damning or incriminating evidence, but Bolan was no police officer. He was a soldier, and he did a soldier's job. The big Fed knew that, too. Bolan would learn what he needed to learn about Iron Thunder and the Consortium, yes, and he would follow the trail of slime back to the source. Then it would be time to plug the security holes the two groups represented. Permanently.

  The crowd grew as they filed through the doors. Inside, the warehouse was a simple and typical concrete-and-metal enclosure. High ceilings were held in place by metal beams, among which small, agitated birds flitted. While it was brisk outside, the heat within the warehouse was palpable, generated by the hundreds of rally attendees.

  The light was dim, and the high-set windows of the warehouse had been spray-painted black to keep out the gray daylight. What illumination there was came from flickering torches set at intervals along the walls. At the far end of the warehouse was a large, rough-hewn stage that looked cobbled together from scrap wood. This was dominated by a podium and, behind it, a giant screen. The projector was switched on and the screen was filled by a projected silhouette: a sledgehammer and a chainsaw, bright white light in a circle of black.

  From somewhere, probably hidden beneath the podium, speakers blared the first few notes of a popular heavy metal song. This was signal enough to the crowds, who ceased their chatter and looked up at the stage. Bolan glanced left and right, at the people standing shoulder to shoulder around him and Rieck. They were absolutely rapt in their focus, one or two almost catatonic with joy as they waited. Bolan examined them for as long as he dared, careful to keep his head and his mirrored sunglasses pointed toward the podium. When he sensed movement on the stage, he, too, focused on the platform.

  The recorded heavy metal music reached a crescendo and increased in volume as a figure appeared. The long-haired man, dressed in a tailored suit and wearing black leather gloves on his hands, had the physique of a bodybuilder beneath the almost straining fabric. He wore expensive sunglasses over his eyes, and he walked with the grace of a panther. The man strode to the podium, allowing the projected logo behind him to backlight him. The effect created a halo about him, intensified by small LED lights in the podium that cast shadows from beneath his jaw.

  The music cut out completely. The sudden silence within the warehouse was ominous. The crowd, as one, held its collective breath.

  Dumar Eon was about to speak.

  9

  Dumar Eon stood before the podium, looking out over the assembled followers. It was hard to tell behind the sunglasses, but Bolan thought Dumar's gaze passed directly over him and Rieck. The man worked the crowd without saying a word, the touch of his eyes a kind of blessing of which the Iron Thunder cultists seemed only too aware. One young woman fainted, and the crowd closed in around her; Eon smiled at that.

  At his hand signal, Eon's image was projected simultaneously on the screen behind him. It moved with a minute but perceptible delay. The effect was mesmerizing, as the trailing image loomed larger than life behind the man it mimicked.

  "Welcome," Eon said finally. He spoke in English, and German subtitles appeared on the screen behind him. Bolan wondered about that for a moment, but then realized it was probably the closest thing to a common language the international membership of the cult was likely to have.

  Microphones, possibly in the podium, picked up Eon's voice, amplifying it, distorting it electronically and creating a deliberate echo effect. This was similar to the voice changer Eon used in many of his propaganda videos. The faithful went insane, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. Bolan and Rieck imitated those around them.

  "What is there to love about this world?"

  The crowd screamed in response. "Nothing!"

  "What is there to leave in this world?"

  "Nothing!" they shouted in unison.

  "What can you expect anyone to do for you?"

  "Nothing!"

  "That is right!" Eon shouted back. "Nothing! The world is an empty, miserable place. It is pain. It is boredom. It is endless, crushing, mindless work. Nations rise and nations fall, and still the crushing misery goes on! The world economy? A shambles! Wars among nations? Never ending! Pestilence, famine, apathy... everywhere! What can be done to solve these problems?"

  "Nothing!" the crowd bellowed.

  "Nothing," Eon repeated. "Nothing at all. The beauty of this nothing is that nothing is also the solution to your pain. It is the wonderful, beautiful nothing of beyond, toward which we reach, toward which we strive. Will you join me in nothing?"

  "Yes!" the crowd roared.

  "We stand at a precipice," Eon said. He paused and looked down, allowing the pause to grow, to dominate. His audience grew silent, and the cult leader finally continued. He spread his arms wide. "A vast and mighty chasm that leaves us with no alternatives. We cannot back up, for the bridges have been fired as we crossed them. We cannot turn away, for this brings us no farther forward. No, to progress, to do more, to be more, to continue, we must move onward! Into the chasm! Unto the breach! And you, the few who have the eyes to see, the wisdom to know, the courage to be, you, Iron Thunder, will take that step into the abyss! We will carry the torches that show the way! We will be the genesis of a bold new age, in which the gift we bring, the joy we share, the end we love is fully acknowledged by all."

  Eon paused. He began to pace the stage, his voice no less augmented as he went on. Bolan could hear the rustle of the man's suit as he walked; he was wearing a wireless microphone.

  "You all know the gift I bring, the gift I preach and the gift we will encourage others to accept. That is the gift of sweet, blissful release from terrestrial pain. It is the gift of oblivion. It is, in its most vulgar expression, the gift of death. But we cannot call it that, not commonly. It is so much more, and the word itself carries such negative associations. We must make the masses embrace the gift of oblivion as we have. We must make them understand." Dumar Eon walked back and forth like a caged animal, like a man possessed. He radiated energy. Bolan raised his estimation of Eon's abilities. This was an incredibly dangerous man who could hold the attention — and the devotion — of hundreds o
f followers, and those followers were willing to kill and to die for their leader.

  Eon returned to the podium. He put his hands on either side of it as if it were the only thing in the world, as if this simple piece of furniture held him up. He sank in place, almost imperceptibly. Bolan had to hand it to him — he knew how to play an audience, right down to the body language that reinforced his words so subtly and effectively. With a flourish, he removed his sunglasses.

  Behind Eon, the image being projected zoomed closer and closer, until only his eyes were visible. "My friends," he said, "my dear, dear friends, my closest family, my blood brothers and sisters... For so very long we have lived in the shadows, worked in the shadows, brought our joy to others in the shadows. I have called you all here today, called you here on this momentous, glorious day, to tell you that the shadows are growing shorter. Night is yielding to the sun. It is time that we bring the greatest pleasure to the greatest number in a way that tells the world, the entire world, the mainstream world, that we exist. No longer will they ignore us. No longer will we be dismissed. No longer will the gift be spurned."

  "I don't like where this is going," Rieck whispered, just loudly enough for Bolan to hear.

  "I know," Eon said, "I know that you have all been waiting impatiently! Since the presents I sent you circled the globe, arriving at your doorsteps or in the secret places only you trust, I know you have been waiting. You need wait no longer! For if Iron Thunder has meant anything, if it has been anything, it has done so while marching hand in hand with technology. It is technology that will link us as we march forward into this bold new world, allowing us to synchronize our most critical movements, our most profound operations. Through technology we will set ourselves apart and bring ourselves together. Through technology we will rule the world. But first I have a call to make."

  Eon removed a small object from inside his suit jacket. He flipped it open. It was a very small, very modern-looking wireless phone. Bolan realized instantly where he had seen such a phone. It had been sitting on the table in front of Ziegler.

  "No longer must you be content to receive messages from me, and from each other, through the Internet. No longer must you wonder which unworthy souls could be reading what you share. No longer must you fear that your connection with your fellow members of Iron Thunder is vulnerable. No longer will it be indirect. The very special phones you all have will keep you connected at all times, and each phone incorporates special scrambling technology that will keep it secure."

  Rieck looked at Bolan worriedly. Bolan shook his head minutely.

  "Now," Eon said from the stage, "you will receive the first of what will be many communiqués from me. You will see how well our network operates. You will raise your phones to the skies with me, and you will voice your triumph, for we are Iron Thunder! We will burn the world!"

  "We will burn the world!" the cultists began to chant in unison. "We will burn the world! We will burn the world!"

  Eon pressed a button on his phone. Around Rieck and Bolan, cultists began reacting as their own phones reacted. As each man and woman opened his or her phone, the stylized logo of Iron Thunder appeared on the small color screen. Each cultist raised that phone high overhead. The chanting, the foot-stomping, the wave and wall of hyperactive crowd energy washed over the multitudes assembled to pay obeisance to Dumar Eon.

  One of the cultists turned to Bolan and then looked at Rieck. "Wo sind ihre telefone?" he asked.

  "Uh-oh," Rieck said.

  Bolan braced himself.

  "Stop!" Eon said from the stage. The crowd, so deafening a moment before, went silent in a heartbeat. Mack Bolan stood his ground, flexing his hands subtly and dropping very slightly into a crouch. His muscles were coiled and ready for action. He was very aware of the hundreds of cultists now turning to face him and the Interpol agent, as Eon pointed an imperious finger at the pair.

  "Those two!" Eon said from the stage, his distorted voice echoing over the sound system. "Clear a path!" He reached for his lapel and switched off his wireless microphone.

  The cultists parted like an enchanted sea. Eon jumped from the stage, landing among them with easy grace. He pointed again at the two intruders and walked slowly along the cleared path. The cultists who were not fixed on Bolan and Rieck followed Eon's movements with silent and wide-eyed absorption.

  Eon stopped scant paces in front of Bolan. He glanced at Rieck, but then looked back to Bolan again. He gestured at his face.

  Bolan slowly removed his sunglasses.

  "You," Eon said. "The American. And that one..." he indicated Rieck with a jerk of his chin "...Adam Rieck, Interpol."

  "Word gets around," Bolan said.

  "It does," Eon agreed. "We've known of your existence since the first night."

  "I left you a pile of bodies." Bolan shrugged. "Are you saying your vast intelligence network ferreted that out?"

  "Please, please," Eon said, frowning. "There is no need to be vulgar. We are all civilized men, Mr...." He paused for Bolan to give his name.

  "That will do." Bolan smiled faintly.

  "No matter," Eon said. He sounded mildly irritated. "We could learn your name if we wished."

  "Now who's being vulgar?" Bolan asked.

  Eon sighed. "True," he said. "We could learn your cover identity, I suppose. Are you CIA? Your kind so often is CIA."

  "Had a lot of experience in that department, have you?" Bolan asked.

  "Please," Eon said again. "I've asked you to be civilized. I'm quite certain, based on what little I know of you, that were you not surrounded by hundreds of enemies you'd be fighting your way out right now."

  Bolan said nothing.

  "Yes, well," Eon continued, "let us not dwell on that. Let us simply take it as given that there are dozens of guns trained on you right now, and those guns are quite unnecessary. At a single word from me, the men and women surrounding you at this moment would gladly rend you limb from limb. You understand this, yes?"

  "Yes," Bolan said.

  "Good. You will come quietly, then. You will make no attempt to reach for your weapons. Your friend will likewise accept his fate passively. Both of you will be conducted from this place and taken to a more secure location. Should you refuse, you will be horribly, brutally killed on this very spot and, while I know you will take a few of my people with you, I assure you that they would go to their deaths with gratitude on their lips — and your flesh in their teeth. Do you wish to resist?"

  "Let's say I choose my battles," Bolan said.

  "Oh, yes, let us say that," Eon laughed. His expression hardened instantly and he snapped his fingers. Several hulking male cultists, more skinheads, appeared from the throng as if by magic.

  "Ja," one of them said.

  "These men," Eon said, "are not true believers." The skinheads nodded and circled the soldier and the agent. Three produced handguns, while a fourth snapped open a switchblade.

  "We're also not very smart," Rieck said abruptly. "You were expecting us, weren't you?"

  It was Eon's turn to smile and say nothing. Finally, he glanced at Bolan, and again frowned. "You have nothing you wish to say to me?"

  "Like what?" Bolan asked.

  "I don't know. A confession of your crimes? Pleas for mercy? Threats that you represent a powerful government agency within a powerful nation? Vows that I will never get away with this? Dire promises of vengeance? Anything?"

  "You've been watching too much television," Bolan said calmly.

  Eon blinked. "Indeed. Perhaps I have." He moved in close, speaking in low tones at the side of Bolan's head, as if whispering into his ear. "You do realize, American, that I will torture both of you until you scream to tell me what you know."

  "Your kind usually does," Bolan said, without turning to look at the cult leader directly. "What is it you think we know?"

  "You have a point," Eon admitted. "In truth, I know as much about you as I need to know. I know you are interfering in Iron Thunder, most likely because In
terpol thinks it has uncovered some of my less noble actions with regard to our host country. Is that general enough? Yes, I think it is."

  "So why torture us?"

  'Why not?" Eon said earnestly. "The gift will be that much sweeter when it finally comes to you. I dare say even one such as you would welcome it, by then."

  "I've seen it before," Bolan said.

  "Have you? Have you, now?" Eon looked Bolan in the eyes, locking his gaze with the soldier's. Something he saw in Bolan's expression, perhaps, caused him to break the stare.

  "Seen it. It was no 'gift.' It was just the brutal end to a brutal act. Everybody paid."

  "Such tragically outdated sensibilities." Eon sniffed. "But yes. I can see it in your eyes. You have seen death. You have taken life. Many times, I suspect."

  Bolan again said nothing.

  "I wish I could be there to witness it personally," Eon said finally. "But I have too much to do. I have certain business matters to which I must attend, certain weeds in the garden of Eden that must be pulled."

  "I don't mind waiting while you get caught up," Bolan offered.

  Eon stopped, blinked and laughed again. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "A good try!" He rattled off a series of instructions in German, pointing to the skinheads and gesticulating wildly. The cultists nodded repeatedly and seized Rieck and Bolan by the arms.

  "Do you really want to make yourself known to Interpol like this?" Rieck asked. "Think it over, Eon. You kill me and the international law-enforcement community will never stop coming."

  "You poor, naive fool," Eon said. "Nobody will ever find you. And nobody will ever be able to prove that I have brought you oblivion."

  He turned to Bolan again. "As for you, I will have your torture videotaped. It will be a special pleasure for me. Please do your best. I want to enjoy it for as long as possible. Perhaps I will edit the best parts together and share it with my people. Take heart, American. You are about to become famous. You will live forever, and beyond death."