Season of Slaughter Read online

  It didn’t matter. After the past couple days, anything to do with an airport, especially the busiest airport in the country, set off the alarms in his brain. Another bit of mystery data was a map of Wisconsin, with a town off the beaten path noted with a pencil mark.

  An assortment of handguns and improvised grenades was littered about the second floor of the building, and Bolan secured them away from the men he left bound. Now, with the arrival of the marshals, he felt free to head back to his rental car and get out of town. He’d make an effort to meet with Hector Terin back at Terintec, but once that was over with, he had a job to do, and his steps were being guided by a pencil-scratched Wisconsin road map.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dr. Jackie Sorenson sensed the presence outside her door before she heard or saw it. The tingle she got from the new arrival wasn’t one of hostility, though, and when she looked up at the sound of the knock on the doorjamb, she knew why she sensed him of all people.

  “Did you hear me coming?” Hermann Schwarz asked, smiling.

  “Gadgets!” Sorenson grinned and rose to her feet, wrapping her arms around the stocky Able Team electronics genius. “Still into your metaphysical studies?”

  “Of course,” Schwarz answered, returning the hug. He was holding back on the strength of his embrace, as if he were worried about hurting her willowy five-six frame.

  Sorenson sighed and took a step back. “You’re not in town for a social visit, are you?”

  Schwarz shook his head, and the woman seemed emboldened by the admission. She walked back to her desk and heaved herself up to sit on its edge, pointing for Schwarz to take a seat in front of her.

  “What’s up?”

  “We need some information from you, Jackie.”

  The woman nodded and leaned forward, cupping his cheek. “First of all, how is everyone?”

  “Carl’s laid out in a hospital bed.”

  “I told him not to play chicken with 18-wheelers.”

  Schwarz shook his head. “Someone put him down in hand-to-hand combat. And he took a bunch of bullets, but his body armor stopped most of them.”

  Sorenson was quiet. “This wouldn’t happen to have involved Dulles Airport, would it?”

  “Can’t hide anything from you.”

  “I did some checking with some old contacts. They said only two men were involved.”

  “And only one man was responsible for Ironman being sent to the scrap heap for a while.”

  Sorenson raised an eyebrow. “And another man, on his own, managed to destroy the air-traffic control systems so completely?”

  “He had an experimental antiradiation missile. And a computer.”

  Sorenson narrowed her eyes. “The software for air-traffic control is some of the most protected code in the world. It’s not just anyone who can get their hands on it.”

  “That’s why Barbara sent me to talk to you. You have any ideas who could have stolen it, or even just duplicated it themselves?” Schwarz asked.

  Sorenson slid off the edge of the desk and walked toward her bookshelf. “You think I might have some fingers in watching out for cybercriminals, Gadgets?”

  “You’d have to be listening in at the Farm to know about it just being two guys who wrecked Dulles,” Schwarz replied.

  He paused for a moment. “Does Aaron know?”

  “He subcontracts out to me.”

  Schwarz nodded. “So what do you have for me?”

  “Nothing off the top of my head, but we can look.”

  DAVID KOWALSKI LOOKED over to Rosario Blancanales. He could tell the veteran Able Team member wasn’t pleased with the turn of events.

  “No matter how good a role-player you are, you’re not going to hide your Hispanic features,” Kowalski told him. He pressed the throat mike, covered with a surgical adhesive to a spot just below his clavicle. “Testing testing.”

  “I read you,” Blancanales answered. He handed over a dusty, sweaty-looking baseball cap. On the outside it looked as though it couldn’t even be sold at a yard sale for a nickel. On the inside, however, the U.S. Marshall knew there were a couple thousand dollars of miniaturized electronics.

  He accepted the hat, which bore a John Deere logo on the front. “No Chicago Cubs?”

  “I wouldn’t press your luck at being a Chicagoan around these chumps.”

  “South’n Illinois it is,” Kowalski said. He spit out the window. “Ain’t nearly so many spics and Jews around them parts.”

  Blancanales bounced a playful punch off the man’s bicep. “You almost sounded like the real thing.”

  “God, just wash my mouth out with soap when this is over.”

  “Just don’t get it washed out with lead,” Blancanales admonished.

  Kowalski nodded, then got out of the car.

  According to Blancanales, Able Team had been working undercover, trying to root out the sources of automatic weapons and explosives that the Army of the Hand of Christ were employing in bank robberies and armored car thefts. So far, they’d managed a couple confrontations with splinter cells in three Northern California cities, but there was nothing that allowed them a definitive killshot against the organization. They’d managed to trace AHC activity to the combination gun shop and range.

  Kowalski’s jaws were grinding again. It was bad enough that these racist, homophobic pieces of crap were calling themselves followers of Christ and their actions the will of God. But law-abiding citizens of any religion were going to get tarnished by association because these thugs associated freedom from an “unfair government” with robbing banks, blowing up abortion clinics and fondling guns. Kowalski was a certified trainer in weapons handling, and he genuinely liked guns the same way people liked Corvettes or Mustangs. In his perfect world, though, all he’d ever have to do was put bullet holes in sheets of fancy paper, or maybe bagging a deer or moose to provide an alternative to store-bought meat for a winter.

  He entered the shop and, as one, a dozen heads turned to look at him. There was a clerk at the counter, jawing with a couple “good ol’ boys” and a couple tables full of men sitting and chatting up over assorted sporting magazines and mugs of beverages. He gave them all a smile and strolled over to the counter, looking at the handguns on display.

  “What’re you looking for?” the clerk asked. There was a hint of accusation in his voice, an unspoken request for him to find what he was looking for and get the hell out so that everyone could get back to what they were doing.

  “I’m looking for a government that isn’t standing on my neck, denying me the rights I fought in the Gulf to protect,” he answered. He looked along the counter. “But for now, I’m looking for a nice American-built .45 with a lefty for southpaws.”

  He lifted his left hand for emphasis. “I’m a lefty.”

  The clerk smirked. “That’s big talk.”

  “Why? You don’t like left-handed people?”

  “Talking trash against this nation’s government. I can’t believe you. What are you, ATF trying to see if I’m selling magazines that hold too many bullets?” the clerk pressed.

  Kowalski sighed. “No. I want a .45. If you want me to get real specific, fine. I’ve been dying to pick up a Kimber Pro-Carry, but any four-inch-barreled .45 with an ambidexterous safety, Novak sights, a Wilson magazine and complete reliability will be fine.”

  “You know your guns.”

  “Told you, I’m a soldier. A Marine.”

  The men at the table spoke quietly among themselves. Kowalski looked over his shoulder, then passed them off.

  “So you could go to any gun store around….”

  “Yeah, but I’m moving into town,” Kowalski countered. “I’ll be here in a couple days, just enough for one of those stupid waiting periods to go by.”

  “Where are you moving from?”

  “Southern Illinois. Metropolis.”

  “Metropolis?”

  “Yeah. Home of truth, justice and the American way.”

  “There is such a
town.” One of the men at the table spoke up. “Took my kid to one of their Superman celebrations. They have them every summer, bring in guest stars, they have a Superman museum, too.”

  Kowalski grinned. “There’s that. Trouble is, I just haven’t been feeling the love back home. Wanted to look for someplace that appealed to me.”

  “Why California? It’s more liberal here than Illinois,” the clerk asked.

  “It’s closer to some old military contacts of mine. I was thinking of starting a security business.”

  “You look kind of young to be starting your own security firm.”

  “I’m a hands-on kind of man. I figure by the time I get tired of doing my own work, I’ll be old enough to sit behind the desk and get attention from an intern like Blow Job Bill.”

  The room exploded into laughter.

  “You don’t want that right now?”

  “I can chase tail on my own. When I get that old, I’ll be glad to have it delivered.”

  “You’re crazy,” the shop clerk said. “Here. I did this myself. It’s a classic Colt Commander and it’s done up with all the Marine Expeditionary Unit, Special Operations customization. I presume that’s what you were looking for.”

  Kowalski took the gun, checked that the chamber and mag well were clear by touch and sight, then checked the balance. “Got a mag full of dummy rounds? I really want to check the balance.”

  The clerk looked at him a moment, then nodded in approval, tossing him a magazine. Kowalski checked the top round on the clip, seeing the bright orange rubber bullet poking out. Even if he chambered the round, a pull of the trigger would only result in a dull click. He loaded the gun, chambered the top round and flicked on the thumb safety. He took aim at a section of wall covered with a Heckler & Koch products poster, thumbed off the safety and pulled the trigger with a resounding click. He handed the gun back to the clerk.

  “I’ll buy it. Trigger’s just right—a bit heavy, but no mush on the pull.”

  “Not going to ask the price?”

  “Fifteen hundred?”

  “Thirteen, actually,” the clerk answered. “Not as much demand for the middle-size .45s. Everybody either wants a short Officer’s or a full-length Government model.”

  “Shame, too.” Kowalski produced his credit card, or rather the one provided to him by Stony Man Farm under the name of Peter Steel. “Officer’s models end up choking a lot, and the Government model is too big for warm weather. Besides, the Commander has the best balance of all three versions.”

  “Sign here,” the clerk said. “You know what you want, kid.”

  Kowalski looked around the room, saw eyes still warily watching him, then smiled. “Seize the day.”

  He signed his receipt. The clerk put one copy in the register and handed him the customer copy. “Fifteen days. If you want, you can come by sooner to the range and target practice with it.”

  Kowalski pretended to think about it for a moment. “I don’t have to head back for about four days. Maybe I’ll be back around if business lets me.”

  The clerk eyed him for a moment, then shook his hand. “Come back anytime. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  Kowalski returned the handshake, not voicing that he’d return, but they wouldn’t be expecting him at all.

  “YOU MADE FRIENDS and influenced people,” Blancanales commented as they headed back to their hotel. “Not bad for your second day on the job.”

  Kowalski chuckled. “I’m not a rookie. Just more rookie than you.”

  Blancanales smirked. “Implying something, young whippersnapper?”

  “Nothing a bottle of hair dye couldn’t fix.”

  The Able Team veteran laughed and looked into the rearview mirror. “We’re being followed.”

  “Oh, good. It’s only been a whole three days since I shot at someone,” Kowalski said, pulling a Beretta from the glove compartment. “Do you think they saw me get into the car with you driving? Did they get a good look at your face?”

  “I kept from directly showing my full face. A tan and gray hair could belong to a caucasian man, too,” Blancanales said. He checked the presence of his Kissinger-tuned Colt Government model, then continued to concentrate on driving. “I’m not going to make any effort to lose them. Keep the Beretta out of sight, in case any cops spot it.”

  “Right. We act like pros at spotting a tail, then they’ll know we’re bad news and any links we could get out of the shop…” Ski let his voice trail off as he studied the rearview and passenger mirrors. “Who’s the tail?”

  “A black Lincoln,” Blancanales answered. “We could just as easily get information off dead bodies after they make the mistake of coming after us.”

  Blancanales quickly added, “Stay cool, kid.”

  “Draw them in and ambush them?”

  “It’s not going to be pretty, and it’s going to be coldblooded. If you want, I’ll do all the work.”

  “I was a sniper-scout. With confirmed kills. And I don’t even want to know how many terrorists I took down with Striker in Egypt. I can do the job.”

  Blancanales nodded grimly. “I didn’t doubt your ability.”

  “Just whether I could live with myself. Where do we put the smack on these turds?”

  “The hotel looks like our best bet. We’ll set up our defense because these guys are going to watch where we went, maybe leave a lookout on the corner, and get ready to do some damage later,” Blancanales told him.

  “Sounds like you’re used to having your hotel rooms shot up,” Kowalski mentioned.

  “Well, the running joke for us is that the other guys always got shot at when they got off the plane at the airport, and we always got ambushed in our hotels.”

  “Leave it to Mr. Stone to get taken down at an airport, then.”

  “I’ll have to tell that to Gadgets. He’d get a kick out of that. Speaking of which…Ring him up.”

  Kowalski pulled his phone and dialed up Schwarz’s phone. A voice popped up on the connection after the second ring.

  “Able Group Investigations.”

  “Pol told me to call you. We’ve got a tail.”

  “You picked that up quick,” Schwarz said. “So, bad news. I’ll keep an eye out on my way to the hotel. You might get there first, so no blowing me off the doorstep with a limpet charge.”

  “We promise.” The connection went dead and he put the phone away. He looked to Blancanales. “Well, he knows. What’s the status on our shadow?”

  “Still there. We’re almost to the hotel, so hide your gun.”

  Kowalski lifted his shirt and stuffed the Beretta into his waistband, Mexican style, then let the folds of his jacket and sweatshirt fall over the handle of the big gun. It disappeared under the rumpled clothing that came down from his thick chest. “Done.”

  Blancanales parked and they both got out. “All right. Meet you in a couple minutes for a war council.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  As much as the Executioner wanted to get on the road to Wisconsin, he still had work to do at Terintec, and a cover to maintain. He also would be lying to himself if he wasn’t a bit curious as to Hector Terin’s reaction the news about his missing bodyguard. He was also concerned about what else Terin might have on hand. The MARS missile was a dangerous tool by itself. But what if it were used to supplement something even more dangerous? On the itinerary for his review of Terintec’s holdings was a demonstration of their variation on the U.S. Army’s National Automotive Center’s SmarTruck. The vehicle was a rolling war machine with every electronic warfare advantage and the added ability of having a combat laser and racks of grenades that ranged from high explosive to tear gas. It even had door handles that provided electrical shocks to anyone trying to gain unauthorized entry. The vehicle read like it came out of a James Bond movie.

  Bolan, who had lived his fair share of James Bond-movie like experiences, reminisced wistfully about the War Wagon, his own old high-tech mobile home. It had been sacrificed at the end of his war agai
nst the Mafia, a blazing pyre to a body the world would believe was the Executioner as he died on that deadly, cold Saturday.

  The SmarTruck reminded him, conceptually at least, of the vehicle that had been his home, his sick bay, his armory and his transportation for the first two bloody miles of his War Everlasting. This one even shared one feature—a missile launcher. Whereas Bolan’s “firebirds” were intended for taking out mobbed-up mansions or armored limousines, the Terintec SmarTruck display was going to feature the SmarTruck/MARS combined platform. A synergy, as the public-relations people would say in corporate speak.

  That was what got the Executioner concerned as he thought of the potential of a state-of-the-art urban warfare vehicle in the hands of a terrorist conspiracy like the RING. A few crashed airplanes and an airport massacre weren’t going to be the be-all and end-all of terrorist attacks. Not with the RING’s promises to pull down all the national governments around the globe. Bolan’s instincts writhed like a nest of unsettled serpents, ready to pitch themselves in venomous, savage defense.

  The press was waiting at the gates of the office complex and cameras flashed as a limousine began its crawl up the driveway. He’d gotten there an hour before and avoided the press thanks to Sable Burton leading him around to a side entrance.

  “You don’t like publicity, Colonel Stone?” she probed as the white limo came slowly past the mob of reporters.

  “It’d be bad for my business to be seen on the evening news,” Bolan admitted. “I don’t like the spotlight.”

  Burton nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “Not really, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

  Burton sighed, giving him a lingering glance, then looking back as the limo finally cleared the crowd of reporters and cameramen.

  “It’s terrible about Shep.”

  “Shep?” Bolan asked. He didn’t like lying about the fact that Aaron Kurtzman had identified the dead man thanks to digital photos taken from the crime scene. He also didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was the one who had discovered him dead, not the way she talked about him. So he played dumb.