Silent Threat Page 9

  "You first," Bolan said. It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a promise. Bolan could have been speaking of the weather. His words were simple, final and factual. He believed it. Eon, too, could see this.

  "Goodbye, American," he said.

  "Yeah," Bolan answered. He and Rieck were led away by the skinheads, as the anxious and horribly silent crowd watched every inch of their walk out of the warehouse.

  Bolan wasn't surprised. These things happened; these risks were very real.

  It was going to be a long afternoon.

  10

  Bolan opened his eyes.

  The ache in his skull, a familiar one, told him all he needed to know. One of the skinheads had blackjacked him, probably the moment they got out of reach of the hundreds of cultists they were leaving behind at the warehouse. Eon was smart, and he knew danger when he saw it. He was obviously taking no chances.

  As he had done many times before, Bolan assessed himself without moving. He flexed his fingers, his toes; he stretched in place, gently at first, then with more tension. He didn't believe he was injured, except for the ache in his skull. That would fade quickly enough.

  Bolan was on his side, with his hands restrained behind his back. He tested the bonds on his wrists again; they gave slightly and felt slick. Duct tape. His ankles were similarly taped. Without a sound, he pushed himself to a sitting position.

  His weapons were gone, as was the hooded sweatshirt he had worn over them. His captors hadn't taken his boots, but they had made a thorough search of the pockets of his combat blacksuit. The garment resembled black battle dress utilities, but was a bit less baggy. With effort, he checked the secret pockets sewn into the lining of his clothes, but the small escape knife and the wire garrote had been found and removed.

  The wall behind his back was cold and rough, a simple cinder block construction. Peeling green paint coated the room. There was no furniture, and no windows. A single door, of metal with a heavy steel latch handle, faced him. Across the room, lying prone against the wall, was Rieck. He wasn't moving. His sweatshirt was gone, but he still had his sneakers and looked otherwise unharmed. Bolan imagined they'd knocked him cold, too. It was a messy business, really, striking a man in the head to knock him out. There was a good chance he'd wake up with a concussion, if he woke up at all. Bolan had met several sap-happy criminals during his endless war, and blackjacking prisoners was especially popular among the Mafia types. He couldn't say he'd missed it.

  The soldier crabbed his way across the floor until he was next to Rieck. He reached from behind his back, awkwardly, to get two fingers against the man's neck. The pulse was steady and strong. Bolan rolled so he could face the agent, and kicked the man's feet with his own boots. Rieck stirred.

  "Hey," Bolan said. "Hey, Rieck. Wake up."

  The agent opened his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut, groaning loudly. "God! What happened?"

  "Ever held a lead-lined leather sap?" Bolan said.

  "No."

  "Well, you've felt the business end of one," he commented. "How do you feel?"

  "My head hurts like mad."

  "Beyond the obvious," Bolan said.

  Rieck took a moment to consider. "Nothing major, I suppose."

  "No nausea? Blurry vision? Anything like that?"

  "No, nothing like that," Rieck said. He looked around. His ankles and wrists were taped, too, though his arms were bound in front of his body rather than behind his back. "Cooper, where are we?"

  Bolan considered that. The room was far too large to be a storage closet, but the simple box construction and lack of windows meant it had to be some sort of industrial space.

  "Not far, I think," Bolan said. "Probably someplace convenient to the warehouse." Twisting his neck, he caught a glimpse of his wrist, to find his watch was gone.

  "Mine, too," Rieck said, making a face. "And my wallet. They took everything."

  "Not everything," Bolan said. "Be glad they left you your sneakers. I've seen amateurs who were smart enough to take them."

  "I'd hate to meet anyone you considered professional," Rieck muttered, holding his head.

  Bolan ignored that and pushed himself to his feet. He hopped around the cell, using the wall to steady himself, feeling for any break in the cinder blocks. He also examined the ceiling, looking for microphone pickups and cameras. There didn't appear to be anything, though that was no guarantee.

  "What now?" Rieck asked.

  "Nothing, for the moment," Bolan said. "Sooner or later that door opens." He nodded at the metal door and then tapped on it. It was speckled with rust and felt very solid. "And then?"

  "Then the rough stuff starts," he said. "You heard the man."

  "I was hoping he was just trying to scare us."

  Bolan said nothing. He was eyeing one of the hinges on the door.

  "What do you see?" Rieck asked.

  "Rust," Bolan said. "A lot of rust. Enough to make that hinge abrasive." He backed up against the door and started to saw away with his wrists, rubbing the duct tape back and forth across the hinge as quickly as he could.

  "This will take a while," Bolan said. "But I might be able to get it started. When they come, it's very important that you keep them occupied."

  "That's touching of you, Cooper." Rieck laughed bitterly.

  "It's a rough deal." Bolan nodded. "But I can get us out of here, if you give me enough time."

  "I'll do my best."

  There was no way to know if they were being monitored or if the cultists had been checking them periodically, but they did come. The group who entered the makeshift prison was the same bunch of skinheads. They were joined by a man in a tailored gray business suit. His head was bald, and he wore small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. His beard was neatly trimmed.

  "Ah, good," he said in English. His accent was thick, but he was understandable. He was looking at Bolan as he spoke. "Are you ready, American?"

  Bolan had planted himself against the wall when he heard the keys hit the door lock outside. He looked up, giving no indication that he was testing the strength of the mangled duct tape still covering his wrists.

  "For?" he asked, sounding bored.

  "Why, to watch your friend scream," the man said cheerfully. He snapped his fingers, and two of the skinheads took Rieck by the arms. A third disappeared through the open doorway, only to return with a wooden chair. He put the chair in the center of the room and spit a command in German. The skinheads planted Rieck on the seat, holding him upright and immobile.

  Bolan ticked off the numbers. There was the man in the suit, and a total of five shaved-headed street toughs. Not bad odds at all, considering, but he would need some sort of equalizer to take them all quickly enough. The skinheads displayed no weapons and didn't appear to be carrying any, though it was hard to say who might have a pair of brass knuckles, a .25-caliber pistol, or a flick-knife tucked away in a pocket.

  "My name is Finn," the suited man said. "I am, how would you call it, a group leader within Iron Thunder. I am very pleased to have been given this assignment." He spoke another command, and the skinhead who had been hanging back in the doorway removed a small digital Flip camera from his jacket. He pointed it at Rieck and pressed a button.

  "You're not going to put naked pictures of me on the Internet, I hope," Rieck said.

  Finn looked annoyed. "Do not waste my time, policeman," he said, his voice thick with contempt. "I have none to spare for your false courage. I have questions. You have answers. We will proceed swiftly and efficiently. Your friend there will watch, to see what awaits him, and when you die horribly, screaming for us to kill you to end the pain, he will know that there is no release but our sweet gift of oblivion, and he will tell us what we want to know."

  "Your boss thinks there isn't anything we can tell you," Rieck said. He was pale, but his voice held. Bolan watched with respect, straining silently against the duct tape. The man had guts.

  "Tell us everything that Interpol knows about Iron Thunder," Fin
n said. "Tell us now. And tell us why this American is involved, and what he is likely to know."

  "It's a big file," Rieck said. "I forget."

  "Tell us now!" Finn shouted. He pointed, and one of the skinheads holding Rieck cuffed him hard in the side of the head, bloodying the Interpol agent's ear.

  "Ow," Rieck said.

  "Again! Again!" Finn demanded.

  The skinheads needed no further urging. They began taking turns punching and battering Rieck, using their elbows, their knuckles and their open palms. Rieck grunted with each blow but otherwise took it silently.

  Bolan felt the duct tape on his wrists begin to give way.

  "Enough," Finn said. He looked at Bolan, then back to Rieck. "I can see this impresses neither of you. Nor did I expect it to make much difference. But we had to see just how soft he might be, neîn?'

  "Fuck you," Rieck said, spitting blood. His lip was split in several places and was starting to swell.

  "Ah, good, still some spirit." Finn reached into the pocket of his slacks. His hand came back out with an expensive, lever-actuated automatic knife. The stainless-steel blade snapped open at a press of the lever.

  Bolan had his equalizer.

  "Now," Finn said, "I am done playing with you. American." He didn't take his eyes from Rieck as he spoke to Bolan. "I am going to carve out each of your friend's eyes. I am, as you say, cutting to the chase." He laughed. "You see? I make a joke in your language. But if you want to stop me from blinding him, you must tell me everything you know. Only that will save you."

  "You don't want that," Bolan said. He had his plan now. A lot hinged on his timing and on the brutality with which he could execute that plan.

  "What?" Finn looked puzzled.

  "We both know you don't want any information," Bolan said. "You want us to refuse to talk. You want a copy of the video your friend there is taking. You want to sit alone late at night and watch it over and over again."

  "Brave words." Finn forced a laugh. "Now I cut your friend until he screams to die."

  "Sure, sure," Bolan taunted. "Posture and wave your knife around. We both know what you're after. Admit it. You get kinky sexual thrills from all this. I know why you've saved me for last, too. You're going to send the cue balls there out of the room..." Bolan nodded to the skinheads "...so you can get me alone. Then you're going to tell me how nice you can be to me, if only I do a few obscene favors for you."

  One of the skinheads took the bait. He elbowed his buddy and the two started talking and laughing in German. Finn turned on them, shouting something that was probably a demand that they shut up.

  Keep the pressure on, Bolan thought to himself. Get him mad enough to shut you up himself. He'll want to take a stab at you to show he's not weak.

  "You," Finn said, "will be quiet before I cut your tongue out."

  "We both know you won't do that," Bolan said. He favored one of the skinheads with an exaggerated wink, which brought more harsh laughter from the man and his friends.

  "Enough!" Finn shouted. He whirled on Bolan, bringing the knife in low. His intent was clear. He was going to put that blade in the big American.

  Bolan waited until the last possible second, feigning a look of shock and fear that was all the impetus Finn needed to keep coming. When the blade was inches from his face, it was time.

  The Executioner struck.

  He moved like a rattler, the knife edges of his freed hands shooting out to chop Finn in either side of his neck. The brutal, scissoring blows brought the man up short. Bolan rolled his left arm and elbow, moving Finn down and sideways, scooping the open switchblade out of his hand. In the same movement he slashed the tape holding his ankles together, feeling the blade take a chunk out of the skin of his ankle, but ignoring the minor wound. The shocked skinheads were only starting to move, only beginning to react, when Bolan surged to his feet and kicked the closest one in the knee.

  The man screamed and folded on the shattered kneecap. Bolan vaulted him and slashed the knife across the throat of the second man. The skinhead with the camera was beginning to drop his digital recorder and reach for something in his waistband. Bolan snapped a palm heel into his face and followed with a brutal knee blow to the groin.

  The men who had been holding Rieck moved from the agent and rushed at Bolan. The first executed a clumsy tackle, taking the big American to the ground and landing on top of him. Bolan, prepared for the impact, made sure to keep his arms free of the skinhead's bear hug. He simply drove the bloody knife into his adversary's neck, then rolled out from under the dying man.

  The last skinhead had drawn a pistol.

  The Walther P-99 was an expensive piece of hardware for a street thug, but Bolan wasn't interested in the weapon's provenance. The thug, perhaps never having fired it before, hesitated just a second before his finger closed on the trigger. It was all the time Bolan needed to slap the gun sideways and yank at his arm, driving the web of his free hand into the gunman's throat. The pistol went off and the skinhead collapsed to the floor, choking while Bolan pried the smoking Walther from his hand.

  He whipped around again, facing the door, knowing the numbers were falling and his time was running out. Men had come running, yet more of the skinheads on whom Dumar Eon seemed to rely for security. Bolan shot the first one through the head and snapped a clean chest shot into the second. He watched as both men hit the floor outside the improvised cell. Then he checked the Walther to verify the remaining ammunition, stuck his head out the doorway quickly, then looked a second time to make sure no one was coming.

  "Nothing," he said simply.

  Rieck spit blood. "Cooper," he said, "could you untie me, please?" He sounded a bit awed. There was little to be particularly impressed with, to Bolan's thinking; amateurs like that were easily enough taken down. It took time to wade through them, but wasn't really difficult. The problem was that any idiot with a gun or a knife could get lucky. The Executioner's foes had to get lucky only once; he had burned through what he imagined were his nine lives long ago, on countless battlefields around the globe.

  Bolan surveyed the fallen skinheads. They weren't all dead, but none of them would be getting up anytime soon. One of the men was groaning quietly. Bolan made sure he wasn't aware enough to draw a hidden weapon, then retrieved the switchblade he had tossed aside when the Walther presented itself. Tucking the pistol in his waistband, he wiped the knife's blade on Finn's suit jacket and then used it to cut the duct tape securing Rieck.

  "Thanks," the Interpol agent said thickly.

  "How are you holding up?" Bolan asked, searching Finn's pockets.

  "I'll live," Rieck said.

  "Then give me a hand searching these men," Bolan said. "And keep your ears out for anyone else approaching. I'm assuming that gunshot would have brought anyone with an interest in what's going on here. They shouldn't give much trouble now, but if anybody looks conscious, kick him in the head."

  "It will be a pleasure," Rieck said.

  Most of what the skinheads carried was junk or personal effects, not worth taking. Rieck pocketed a pair of brass knuckles one of them had toted; Bolan imagined the agent was looking forward to a little payback for his afternoon beating. Finn had been carrying one of the special phones. Bolan took it.

  "It seems Ziegler failed to mention that," Rieck said bitterly.

  Bolan nodded. "Looks that way."

  "He's the leak," Rieck said. "The reason Iron Thunder's known what to expect all along. There's no telling how long he's been planted within Interpol. Probably awhile, if Dumar Eon is the kind of forward thinker he presents himself to be."

  Bolan covered their withdrawal with the Walther. They found themselves in an outbuilding that, when they looked through one of the grimy windows, turned out to be adjacent to the warehouse. On a card table by the door, Bolan found his weapons and gear, as well as Rieck's personal effects and his MP-5 K. Bolan's canvas war bag was under the card table. He looked through it quickly, satisfied that nothing was missi
ng, and pocked the BMW keys, which had been in the pile of goods.

  "Looks like they searched the car," Bolan said. He looked out one filth-encrusted window, then another. Finally, he spotted the vehicle. The trunk was still open. "Got it."

  "Not very good at this, were they?" Rieck grinned.

  "No, not really," Bolan admitted. He tossed over the car keys. "You drive."

  "No rest for the weary." Rieck sighed.

  "None at all."

  11

  The parking garage was dark and close. David Schucker sat in the back of his Mercedes, watching the shadows cast by the inadequate light fixtures. He wasn't pleased by this meeting location, which afforded far too many hiding places. While he would never admit it, a recurring nightmare for him was to be surrounded, abruptly, by law-enforcement officials bent on seeing him behind bars. This was absurd, he knew, for the Consortium was well practiced at paying the right people to ensure that this did happen. But it bothered him nonetheless, the very idea of it. He wouldn't go to prison. Not at his age. And he couldn't live in a cage after sampling the good life. It simply wasn't in him.

  He put the thoughts out of his mind as he looked at the face of the expensive gold watch on his wrist. It wouldn't do to psych himself out, he scolded mentally, just when a show of strength was necessary. Bashir was an animal who respected nothing but strength. If he thought for a moment he could take the chemicals without paying, he would do so. He would also have no compunctions about turning around and using the deadly nerve agents and other chemical weapons on the very country where he'd purchased them; it was the sort of thing that appealed to his barbarous streak, if Schucker was any judge.

  This was of no concern to Schucker himself, however. He would empty the bank accounts of petty would-be dictators like Assan Bashir for as long as he could, and when he was sitting on a fortune that was as large as he could make it, he would retire. The key was in the balancing act: squeezing as much cash from the buyers as one could, while avoiding the legal repercussions for selling to them what the Consortium shouldn't have been manufacturing without license anyway. The vertical integration of the Consortium's various holdings made it all possible, and Schucker's security force helped keep a tight rein on potential leaks while violently removing any would-be interlopers. Some of the Consortium's lesser operations, for example, such as the manufacture of designer hallucinogens and synthetic "speed" for domestic and world markets, had been attacked by rival drug traffickers in the past. Schucker's trained and experienced mercenaries had made short work of them, and done so violently enough for the eliminations to serve as object lessons to other such competitors.