Desert Eagle resting snugly in the high ride holster on his right hip. He carried extra magazines for each handgun, as well as for the M-16 and Uzi, in the combat harness over the blacksuit. In addition he carried a number of flash-bang grenades and M-34 phosphorous grenades.
Satisfied his intel was sound, Bolan eased off the M-16’s safety, selecting the triburst setting. He freed one of the flash-bang grenades, pulled the pin, then threw the canister so hard that it landed in between the parked panel trucks. Bolan opened his mouth, shielded his ears and turned his head away from the harsh burst of sound and white light as the grenade detonated. Men yelled in surprise and pain as they staggered back from the blast. Someone, perhaps shielded from the effects of the grenade, opened fire and Bolan heard slugs clanging off the metalwork around him. Angry shouts erupted.
Still crouching, the Executioner shouldered the M-16 and picked his targets. The tribursts from his rifle set up echoing noise. A man cried out as 5.56 mm slugs found his vulnerable flesh. Bolan swept the M-16’s muzzle back and forth, following targets and dropping a couple more before the main group found cover behind the parked vehicles and began to fire back.
“Spread,” a voice commanded. “Don’t give him easy targets.”
Figures fanned out across the floor, seeking shelter so makeshift firing positions could be established. Return fire was concentrated on Bolan’s position, the steel wall rejecting the hard slam of autofire. The soldier edged along the line of containers until he was clear of his original spot, then raised himself and opened fire again. He heard someone cursing, followed by the clatter of a dropped weapon. More voices called out. Bolan detected traces of panic in some of the words and allowed a thin smile to edge his lips.
He freed one of the M-34 phosphorous grenades, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb in the direction of one of the panel trucks. His aim turned out to be better than he might have imagined. The grenade landed inside the open rear doors, rolling to rest against the stacked cargo. One of the men saw it and made the mistake of scrambling inside the truck to retrieve the grenade. It detonated in the moment his fingers grasped it. The guy let out a harsh scream as the phosphorous burned its way into his flesh, gnawing deep into the bone. Howling in agony, the man was consumed as the phosphorous expanded, filling the truck interior with a blinding surge of incandescent heat that would reach 5,000º F. At the point where the stored ammunition began to ignite, the panel truck was blown apart, the stripped metal panels adding to misery being heaped upon the armed group, slivers of razor-sharp steel scything in all directions. Some of those fragments caught vulnerable flesh and men went to their knees in pain.
Bolan used the distraction to add his own brand of justice, the autorifle pumping out tribursts that took more of the men down. He replaced his empty magazine with a fresh one and kept up his steady fire, punching the shooters down as they attempted to take him out. It turned into an uneven contest. Bolan, despite the shots fired in his direction, continued to mop up.
Out the corner of his eye he saw a bulky, suited figure break free from cover, clearing the drifting smoke from the blown truck, and running in the direction of the BMW. Someone was leaving the party. Even in that brief moment, Bolan recognized Fredo Bella from the mug shot Kurtzman had sent him. The soldier swung the M-16 around, working the lever for single shots. He tracked his target and fired, the 5.56 mm slug impacting against the Bella’s right thigh, shattering bones. The Executioner followed with a second shot that cored into the man’s left leg and toppled him facedown on the grimy floor.
As the sound of the final shots faded, the silence broken only by the moans coming from Bella, Bolan checked out the area. Only when he was convinced the battle was over did he move from cover and inspect the other parked vehicles and their contents. He discovered a generous selection of weapons that included automatic rifles and automatic pistols, as well as a plentiful supply of ammunition for the various pieces. In one van he located a case of military Light Anti-Tank Weapons—LAWs. Bolan’s concern rose at the sight of the shoulder-launched missiles. The ordnance was destined for street gangs—urban crime. Automatic weapons were bad enough, but the inclusion of LAWs took the concept of street violence to a new level. It convinced Bolan that his intel had not been exaggerated. His foray here in Chicago was more than justified.
Bolan broke open one of the LAW boxes and lifted out three of the launchers, slinging them from his shoulder. Additional ordnance was always welcome. Backing off, he primed and dropped more M-34s into the remaining vehicles, including the BMW. With the grenades burning down their fuses, Bolan made a swift retreat and ducked for cover seconds before the grenades ignited and the fearsome burst of phosphorous threw out heat that turned the vehicles into blazing wrecks. The crackling sound of igniting ammunition echoed around the building. Smoke and fire followed in their wake.
Bolan exited as swiftly and silently as he had made his entrance, his work in the Windy City done for the moment. The people who ordered the weapons were going to be sorely disappointed. The Executioner’s work for this dark night was over.
The soldier worked his way out of the area, back to where he had parked his rental, he fished the key from a zip pocket, opened the trunk and placed his weapons inside. He pulled his civilian clothing back over his blacksuit, then donned a cord jacket. Taking his Beretta, he stowed it under the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. He nosed out of the shed and drove away from the battle zone, retracing the route he had used to come in. When he was several minutes away, he picked up the approaching sound of police cruisers. Bolan held his speed as he eased back to the main thoroughfare. He had reached a busy intersection when a couple of CPD cruisers sped by, followed by ambulances and a fire truck.
Twenty minutes later Bolan parked in the basement garage of his hotel, backing the rental into a slot. He locked the vehicle and picked up a leather attaché case from the rear seat. He dropped the Beretta into the case along with the laptop, slipped on the dark topcoat he’d kept on the seat and made his way from the garage to the hotel entrance. As he crossed the lobby, the lone woman behind the desk glanced up. She studied him for a moment, then smiled.
“Late finish?” she said as Bolan requested his key card.
“Corporate takeovers have no concept of time,” he said, giving her a friendly grin. “Some people just don’t know when to give in.”
“Room service is still available, Mr. Cooper. Can I arrange for something to be sent up?”
“Coffee and sandwiches would be nice,” Bolan said.
The woman stared into the warm blue eyes and decided that Mr. Cooper was a nice man. “Well, I hope your evening was successful.”
Mack Bolan nodded briefly. “It was,” he said. “Extremely productive.”
BOLAN PLUGGED the laptop into the room’s electrical outlet, powered it up and watched as the wireless internet connection set up. He opened the program and studied the saved files. They appeared to be in some kind of code that defeated Bolan’s limited IT skills. He used his cell phone to call Stony Man Farm. The call was eventually routed to the Computer Room, and he explained his problem to Akira Tokaido.
“No problem,” the computer hacker said. “Let me download those files and I’ll take a look.”
Bolan’s room service order arrived, so he left Tokaido to his computer code breaking. He had barely finished when his cell phone rang.
“Nothing difficult, Striker. The guy used a simple coding scheme to hide his files. Overseas bank accounts. Usual stuff. Some big amounts of money being handled here. I could quit and live off the interest these guys are making.”
“Anything else?”
“Telephone numbers, contact list, delivery
