to the hatchway, a silenced Imbel .22 pistol in his other hand. Meanwhile, Mizne grabbed the bleeding sailor by the shoulders to hold him steady as Mariano slowly sawed the razor-sharp blade back and forth straight up the middle of the torso. Thrashing against the grip of the muscular woman, the officer was helpless, his eyes rolling back into their sockets from the incredible pain. Blood poured from the yawning wound as his intestines began to slither out, most of them plopping into the waiting bucket.
With professional detachment, Zalhares watched as the life faded from the man’s eyes and the body went limp, twitching a few times before finally succumbing to death. They all died so easily; it wasn’t even interesting anymore.
“Still feeling seasick, old friend?” Zalhares asked, retrieving the saliva-streaked glove.
“Not any more,” Mariano said excitedly, easing the gory blade out of the corpse and wiping it clean on the coveralls.
“Good,” Zalhares said, sliding the glove back on his hand to cover a curved scar of teeth marks. “Get the guns. We’re taking over the ship. Minas, you stay with the safe.”
“And if the crew resists?” Mizne asked, opening a metal locker and removing an Uru caseless rifle from the collection inside.
“Kill them,” Zalhares ordered, accepting one of the weapons. “But save the captain for me. Understood?”
“Make it quick,” Mariano suggested, catching an Uru in one hand. “He’s a fellow Brazilian.”
Flicking off the safety, former Sergeant Cirello Zalhares looked at the mercenary with eyes as dead and empty of life as a child’s grave.
“Then he should have known better than to cross me,” the S2 operative rumbled deep in his throat.
“Leave the damn hatch open when you go,” Pedrosa finally spoke, sitting in the corner and resting an Uru on his lap. “It stinks in here.”
Staying low and fast, the Scion moved out of the storage compartment and soon the sound of gunfire filled the submarine, but not for very long. Then the screaming started and it lasted all through the long night.
Belmore, Long Island
THE TRAFFIC in Belmore was heavy, with stop lights at every intersection, taxi cabs, delivery trucks and station wagons fighting for every inch of space. Every street was lined with crowded stores and full parking lots, with cars hunting for any available spot. Long Island seemed to carry the impression that everybody was in a big hurry to get somewhere else, and you were personally in their way.
Mack Bolan turned down a side street, the traffic immediately thinning to a more conventional level. Bolan increased his speed. The Jaguar hummed around the man as if every piece of the luxury car was directly involved in generating speed. Bolan had chosen the X-series because the vehicle blended well into the wealthy suburbs of Long Island and because the four-wheel drive gave it amazing traction at high speeds. A good soldier always planned a retreat route in case the enemy had unexpected reserves of strength. Michael J. Prince was a twenty-first-century monster, and those always had a cadre of devils around to hold back the just. The question was how many devils did he have. Honestly, Bolan didn’t know. This was a crap shoot, the worst kind of a fight to go into, but there was no other way.
Unfortunately, while all of the downtown arms dealers had been mere facilitators and brokers, merchants in the selling of destruction, Prince was a dealer. A hands-on kind of guy who actually moved the physical weaponry, storing a lot of his stock in a warehouse strategically set between an elementary school and a shopping mall. Any kind of an armed assault by the feds or the police, would almost definitely result in civilian casualties. Unless the area was sealed off first, which would give Prince all the time he needed to escape and burn his records. No, this had to be a blitzkrieg, a lightning strike directly into the heart of the enemy.
Parking the Jaguar directly in front of Pierson Importers, Bolan fed the meter some quarters to show that he was planning to be here for a while, then, whistling tunelessly, strolled to the front door of the warehouse and rang the bell.
Bolan knew that he had been under video surveillance ever since he’d turned the corner onto this street. So he wasn’t surprised when the door was instantly opened by a large man in work clothes, two more gorillas standing close behind.
“Private property,” the first man growled, already starting to close the door.
Moving with lightning speed, Bolan drew and fired, the Beretta coughing tribursts of death to the three men. The bodies were still tumbling to the concrete floor when he slipped inside and bolted the door tightly behind.
Pulling out a second Beretta, Bolan moved down the corridor firing at anyone carrying a gun. There could be civilians here—accountants, secretaries—so he had to stay razor sharp. A man stood holding a cardboard box; Bolan shot him in the leg. But as he fell the box went flying, revealing a .38 Walther PPK in a fancy shoulder rig. The Beretta whispered once more and the man no longer felt the pain in his leg.
A big guy swinging an ax charged out of a bathroom, and Bolan ducked fast, feeling the breeze of the blade swish above his head. Still crouching he stroked both Berettas and sent the man tumbling backward to the floor. A shotgun roared and the desk near Bolan exploded into splinters. He dived out of the way, firing both guns, tracking for the target. Across the room, a woman in a crimson-stained business suit collapsed, her shotgun discharging wildly into the ceiling.
Reloading quickly, Bolan swept into the corridor again, catching two more men running his way. They died without even seeing him. Moving deeper into the warehouse, Bolan broached a cross corridor, finding only a spilled cup of coffee steaming on the floor. Listening hard for sounds of movement, Bolan proceeded to the nearest office and found a set of steel doors marked with No Smoking signs in several languages. This was it.
Glancing through the plastic window, he could see that nobody moved among the stacks of crates and endless boxes filling the cavernous room. A billion dollars’ worth of armament sat neatly packed in cushioned crates, waiting to be shipped out. A single loose bullet could start a chain reaction of explosions that would level the elementary school next door. Only a chain-link fence separated the buildings and would do as much as a wall of tissue paper to stop the hellstorm of shrapnel. Even as the dire assessment was made, Bolan accepted the onus. He’d take some lead himself before letting the warehouse explode.
Just then, a scuffling noise from the corridor caught his attention and Bolan turned to fire both Berettas at the left wall. Plaster puffed as the 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched through the drywall and then a bloody man staggered into view dropping an Ithaca shotgun.
“Shit, he got Tony!” another man shouted, swinging around the corner and firing an Uzi machine pistol.
The 9 mm rounds stitched Bolan across the chest and he grunted in pain as his NATO body armor stopped the slugs from penetrating. Then Bolan returned the favor, his own 9 mm rounds smacking the other man backward, but yielding no blood, as the enemy gunner also wore a Kevlar vest. The Uzi fired again as Bolan tracked for the head. The machine pistol dropped from lifeless hands as a third eye appeared in the gunrunner’s forehead.
Dropping the spare Beretta, Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle and headed for the stairs. As he neared, the Executioner fired the Beretta into the dark shadows under the steps and a man grunted in pain, staggering into view and still holding an M-16 assault rifle. Without hesitation, Bolan fired once more. The Magnum rounds smashed the rifle out of the little man’s grasp and he crumpled to the floor.
“Please,” he sobbed,
