to fire 1,100 rounds per minute.
The soldier also had procured another of his old standbys. The 44 Magnum Desert Eagle Mark VII rode on his left hip in a cross-draw position. Outfitted with the six-inch barrel, the hand cannon’s magazine carried eight rounds.
Bolan’s other tools of war were sealed in the trunk. There he had stashed a Heckler & Koch MP-5 fitted with a sound suppressor, and a small duffel bag loaded with additional magazines for the submachine gun as well as an assortment of fragmentation, flash-bang and smoke grenades.
Turrin, on the other hand, had opted for a Benelli M-4 Super 90 shotgun. Manufactured by Benelli Armi SPA, an Italian company, the shotgun could be loaded with one 12-gauge round in the chamber and seven more in the tube. Like Bolan, Turrin was carrying a Beretta 93-R. He wanted the weapon because of its sound suppressor and its ability to fire multiple rounds with a single trigger pull. But he also was armed with a .38-caliber Colt Cobra that was holstered in the small of his back. The short-barreled pistol’s aluminum-alloy frame made it light to carry and it was easily concealed.
Bolan eased the Jaguar to the curb, turned off the lights and killed the engine. He popped open the door and stepped into the warm night. Turrin had stepped out of the passenger’s side and both men made their way to the trunk.
Bolan raised the lid, reached in, hefted the duffel bag and slid its strap over his shoulder. The bag’s weight caused its strap to pull taut until he could feel it dig into the muscles of his left shoulder. Next he pulled out the MP-5 and checked its load. Turrin had pulled out the Benelli and was looping the strap over his right shoulder.
Reaching back into the compartment, Bolan pulled a rope with a grappling hook.
“You realize it’d be easier to go through the front gate,” Turrin said.
“Sure,” Bolan replied. “No one would notice two guys shooting two other guys and then busting through a wrought-iron fence.”
“I’m just making a point.”
“Rope climbing a little too strenuous for you, Leo?”
“No comment.”
Grinning, Bolan turned and looked back at the wall surrounding the estate. Inside the wall, Dumond usually had anywhere between four and six gunners patrolling the grounds, especially when he was entertaining high-end clients, most of whom also were prone to violence. And, according to his dossier, the arms dealer also sampled some of his own wares, carrying a pair of Detonics .45-caliber pistols beneath his well-tailored jackets and at least one combat blade.
Bolan keyed his throat mike.
“Striker to Base,” he said.
“Go, Striker,” a female voice replied. It was Barbara Price, the mission controller for Stony Man Farm. Bolan and Turrin were connected with the Farm’s ultrasecret facility thanks to satellite links.
“We’re EVA,” he said, “and ready to hit the town.”
“You’re clear,” Price told him.
“Did they crash the party?”
“They” was the Farm’s cyber team, which had been working to hack into the computers that controlled Dumond’s lighting, security system and other critical infrastructure ever since Bolan and Turrin had left the United States.
“Party crashed. Once we saw you stop outside the target, we set the outside surveillance cameras on a loop. If anyone’s monitoring the cameras, all they’ll see is the same empty street they saw three minutes ago.”
“Which is fine,” Bolan said, “until they realize they’ve seen the same car or dog walker pass by eight times in the last couple of minutes.”
“Guess you’ll have to move faster than they can think,” Price replied.
“Are you getting any good intel otherwise?”
“Satellites indicate four guys walking the grounds inside the wall,” Price said. “Two smaller animals, probably dogs, moving separately from them. That’s all in addition to the thugs at the gate. Looks like another moving around on the rooftop.”
“Okay,” Bolan replied.
He returned to the trunk and popped the lid again. Pulling aside a blanket, he revealed a rectangular box, covered in faux leather, which was about four inches thick.
He opened the box and from its interior removed a CO2-powered dart pistol. Breaking the weapon open, he slid a tranquilizer dart into the barrel and snapped it closed. He slipped a smaller box filled with extra darts into his jacket pocket.”
“Still won’t shoot dogs, huh?” Turrin asked.
Bolan turned toward him and shook his head. “The dogs don’t know what they’re doing,” he said. “They just do as their told.”
Turrin nodded his understanding. “You always did like your rules.”
“It’s what separates me from Dumond,” Bolan said.
“Yeah, that and his massive bank account in the Cayman Islands.”
Bolan allowed himself a grin. “There’s that.”
Shutting the trunk for a second time, the soldier slid the dart pistol into the duffel bag and moved toward the fence. If the cyber team had done its job, the motion detectors and other security devices should be disabled without actually registering on Dumond’s IT systems.
They had considered shutting down the electricity remotely, but had decided against it.
Dumond had to expect someone would come for the missing federal agent, even if he’d done his best to move her around. If they shut down electric power to the estate, it would alert Dumond that something was about to happen. His security teams probably would retreat to the house and form an iron ring around Dumond and Rodriguez, making them harder to reach. Besides, it was a safe bet the facility was outfitted with backup generators that would fire to life shortly after the power went out.
Bolan figured it was better for them to take out as many of the exterior guards as quickly and quietly as possible. They still had surprise on their side, and the neighborhood around them had no idea of the mayhem about to erupt. The longer the Stony Man warriors could maintain their advantage, the better.
Bolan scaled the wall. The muscles of his arms, shoulders and thighs bunched and released, starting to burn as he reached the top ledge and pulled himself onto it. He lay across the top of the wall, MP-5 clutched in his right fist, ice-blue eyes scanning for threats, while he waited for Turrin to finish his ascent.
The little Fed reached the top of the wall, his breath coming in labored gasps, sweat pouring down his face.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
Bolan held up a finger to silence him, then jerked his head slightly to the left. Two of Dumond’s hardmen had fallen across his line of sight. The submachine-gun-wielding thugs were less than thirty yards from the Americans, walking a few yards apart from each other.
Bolan raised himself onto his elbows, like a cobra lifting its head from the ground. He lined up a shot on the closer
