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“ROOSEVELT ISLAND?” Paul Mei-Lun pronounced the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “What’s on Roosevelt Island?”
“Your shipment,” Bolan replied. “It waits for you till half past midnight, then goes looking for another buyer.”
“That would be a big mistake.”
“I’ll risk it if you don’t show up.”
“I said I’d be there, didn’t I? The park, out by the lighthouse, right?”
“That’s it,” the caller said. “If you decide to change your mind, the bag goes to Kamran.”
“Hey, now—”
But he was talking to dead air.
Standing beside him, almost at his elbow, Kevin Lo asked, “Well? What did he say?”
“Midnight, Roosevelt Island. At the lighthouse park.”
“This whole thing smells.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“It has to be some kind of setup.”
“Obviously. But it’s not the pigs,” Mei-Lun declared. “No mention of the H at all, so far. I show up and they bust me, I can always claim somebody called about my uncle’s missing suitcase.”
“Okay. It’s the Afghans, then.”
“Three of their men got wasted, right along with ours. If they already had the bag, why call me?”
That stumped Lo, but he still was not satisfied. “So what’s the angle, then? This can’t be straight.”
“His angle doesn’t matter,” Mei-Lun answered. “Only ours. He wants to dance, we call the tune.”
“We go in hard?”
“As hard as diamonds, brother.” Mei-Lun checked his Movado Swiss Automatic SE Extreme watch and smiled. “The meet’s at midnight. That gives us four hours to get there. I want a dozen of our best men here in half an hour, dressed to kill.”
“No problem,” Lo assured him. “You’re still going with us?”
“Kevin, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Get moving now and set it up.”
Lo bobbed his head and left the office, cell phone already in hand. Mei-Lun considered changing his command to make it twenty soldiers, rather than a dozen, but that felt like overcompensating. From the early eyewitness reports, one guy had done the killing on Canal Street by himself, and he would likely come alone to claim his payoff for the stolen heroin. But if he showed up with a friend or two, so what? Mei-Lun would have his soldiers waiting at the drop well in advance of midnight, primed to waste this fool on sight.
No, scratch that. They would have to chat a little with him first, to make sure that he’d brought the merchandise. Killing the bastard without getting back the skag would be a waste of time—and it would leave Mei-Lun at risk from Ma Lam Chan when he admitted to the loss.
A sudden thought disturbed him. What if Chan already knew about the heist? He almost certainly had eyes and ears inside Mei-Lun’s Manhattan cadre, someone who would tip him off to any problems Mei-Lun tried to cover up. If word had reached the Dragon Head at home, would he reach out to Paul Mei-Lun, or simply send a team of his enforcers to correct the situation, meting out the punishment Chan deemed appropriate?
Mei-Lun peered at his watch again, counting the hours since the slaughter on Canal Street, guessing how long it would take to have a team airborne from Hong Kong to the States. As he remembered it, the flight to San Francisco took approximately fifteen hours, then they’d face another seven hours in the air, if they were fortunate enough to catch a nonstop flight from Frisco to LaGuardia or JFK. If they were airborne now, Mei-Lun shouldn’t expect to see them nosing around Chinatown until sometime tomorrow afternoon.
No sweat.
He’d have the problem solved by then, the merchandise in hand, and they could tell Chan that he’d taken care of business without any interference from the East. And if that didn’t satisfy the Dragon Head, perhaps they ought to meet and talk about it, face-to-face.
Maybe, Mei-Lun decided, it was time for him to think about advancement in the Family.
Flushing, Queens
“THIS MAKES NO SENSE, WASEF,” Ghulam Munadi said.
Wasef Kamran shrugged in response. “This man stole heroin we planned to steal, and now he wants to sell it. What confuses you?”
“First, that he knows the number where to reach you.”
“Anyone can find a number nowadays,” Kamran replied. “The internet is free to all, and this man has skills.”
“Too many skills,” Munadi countered. “He is some kind of policeman. I’m convinced of it.”
“Some kind? What kind? He asks for money to return an item that was stolen. There is nothing to incriminate us, eh?”
“Until we claim the bag. Then they arrest us.”
“Think, Ghulam! Would the police kill six men in the public eye, then steal the drugs just to arrest us?” Kamran did not wait for his lieutenant to reply. “Of course not! If this person is a cop, he’s more like us. Trying to save a little for retirement, eh?”
“And what if it’s a trap?” Munadi asked.
“I can assure you that it is. We seem to take the bait, then close the noose around his neck. With fifteen men, what can he do?”
Munadi frowned. “I don’t like going to this island.”
“Tell me what you do like, Ghulam. It’s a shorter list, I’m sure.”
“What I would like is to forget this business. Since we can’t do that, I’d like you to remain here under tight security until the bag has been retrieved and this is settled.”
“Stay at home and miss the show this bastard has planned for me especially? I wouldn’t think of it.”
“You’ll wear the Kevlar, though?”
“Of course. I’m not an idiot,” Kamran replied.
He would be armed, as well, with his usual sidearm for a start, a Heckler & Koch P30 chambered in .40 S&W, with a 13-round magazine. To back it up, another favorite: the Spectre M4 submachine gun with its casket magazine containing fifty 9 mm Parabellum rounds, less than fourteen inches long with its metal stock folded above the receiver. With the Spectre he could lay down 800 rounds per minute, killing anyone or anything that stood between him and his goal.
Including this killer who believed that he could dupe Kamran somehow, perhaps make off with Kamran’s hard-earned money, and the heroin besides.
“Good luck with that,” he muttered to himself.
“What did you say?” Munadi asked.
“Nothing. Go and make sure the men are ready. We should leave soon.”
“But it’s only—”
“Yes, I know the time. I want to be there, waiting, when our friend arrives. Let us surprise him, eh?”
“As you wish it, Wasef.”
He was looking forward to the meeting with this stranger who had robbed him—or, in truth, who’d robbed the Chinese Kamran had meant to rob. He felt a sneaking kind of admiration for such courage and audacity, but it required a harsh response to salvage Kamran’s reputation as a man whose enemies enjoyed short, miserable lives.
This one, whoever he might be, would have been wiser to go hunting somewhere else, perhaps rob the Jamaicans or Dominicans, maybe the damned Armenians. He was about to learn a lesson that Afghanis had been teaching Westerners since 1839. Kamran’s people could not be vanquished in their homeland—not by England, Russia or America—and now they were expanding into every corner of the planet to assert themselves and claim their proper share of wealth.
This night, Roosevelt Island. This time next year, perhaps Manhattan. And beyond that...who could say? It was a whole new world, beyond Khalil Nazari’s wildest dreams from Kabul, where the old ways mired him down. Perhaps a younger, stronger man was needed to command that new domain and bend it to his will.
Job one: collect the heroin without dispensing any cash to the audacious thief. Then, having proved himself, Wasef Kamran could think about tomorrow and the great things he was going to accomplish.
All he had to do was make it through the night alive.
Roosevelt Island
BOLAN PARKED HIS latest rental car, a Honda CR-V, in the visitor’s lot at Coler-Goldwater Specialty Hospital, and made his way to the roof of the X-shaped facility’s northwestern wing. From there he had a view across treetops to Lighthouse Park, where his intended targets would be showing up, at least in theory, sometime in the next three hours.
Waiting was a sniper’s specialty. Bolan likely could not have counted all the times he’d lain in wait for enemies in heat and cold, under a drenching rain, while insects crawled over his skin and hummed around his ears. He’d learned to lie in perfect stillness, barely breathing, while a target took its own sweet time about appearing, stepping finally into the crosshairs of his telescopic sight and dying there, struck down from half a mile or more away, with no idea how death had come so suddenly, without a hint of warning.
He was ready now, with his weapon of choice for this phase of the hunt, an M-110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System manufactured by Knight’s Armament in Florida. The rifle measured 46.5 inches with its buttstock extended and a suppressor attached, tipping the scales at just over fifteen pounds with a 20-round magazine full of 7.62 mm NATO rounds. Its AN/PVS-10 night sight would let him place accurate shots out to 875 yards, nearly nine times the range he would be firing from this night. It should be like shooting fish in a barrel.
But these fish might be shooting back.
His plan was simple: place the Afghans and Wah Ching hardmen into proximity, both looking for the same thing, then cut loose and see what happened next. A well-placed shot or two might do the trick, but if the opposition needed any more help, Bolan had a stack of extra magazines on hand and was prepared to use as many as the job required.
Scorched earth, all the way.
He didn’t need to rattle either side for information, since the next stop on his tour had been determined in advance. Khalil Nazari’s opium was processed into bricks of morphine near the poppy fields he cultivated in Afghanistan. Bolan knew approximately where the morphine bricks were sent for their conversion into heroin. The details he did not as yet possess would be available when he arrived on-site, secured by one means or another to complete the next link in the chain.
This night he would be shutting down the pipeline in Manhattan. Not for good; no one could claim permanent victory in any war against a human craving for release. But Bolan could remove the major players in this one dark corner of the world. Maybe incite some other scavengers to take each other off the board while they were grappling to fill the power vacuum that resulted.
Doing what he could with what he had.
His field of fire was open from the hospital’s six-story rooftop to the Blackwell Island Light, four hundred feet northeast of where he sat cradling the rifle, waiting. Once the action started, Bolan’s enemies could break in one of three directions: toward the light, away from him; to cars parked on the left or right, against the river’s edge; or back toward Bolan, seeking refuge among trees that formed a kind of horseshoe shape at his end of the park. Whichever way they ran, it would be under fire from Bolan and from adversaries on the other side, who’d come expecting to go home with ten kilos of heroin.
How many would go home at all?
Bolan never indulged in overconfidence. He trained and practiced, planned and double-checked his plans, then trusted to his own experience and skill. That recipe had kept him in the game so far, but he did not deceive himself into believing that his luck would hold forever. No one had that guarantee, and least of all a fighting man who put himself in harm’s way constantly.
His greatest apprehension at the moment was that Paul Mei-Lun or Wasef Kamran might decide to stay at home, let their gorillas keep the date and see what came of it. If he missed one or both of them this night, he’d have to stick around New York until the job was done, giving his adversaries at the next stop more time to prepare themselves.
For all the good that it would do them.
Even with the news of his Manhattan blitz, they wouldn’t know with whom they were dealing.
They would not be prepared to meet the Executioner.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_96905fc5-b3a5-5c74-96b2-0d085d1354f5)
Lighthouse Park, Roosevelt Island
“Remember, everyone,” Paul Mei-Lun said. “No shooting till we see the bag. It’s all for nothing if we go back empty-handed.”
The shooters riding with him in the Hummer H2 all nodded like a bunch of bobbleheads. In Mei-Lun’s hand, a walkie-talkie crackled and a voice came to him from the second vehicle, trailing behind his, with the other Wah Ching soldiers he’d selected for the showdown.
“Got it, boss.”
They were armed to the teeth and stopping for no one, including police. There could be no explaining the weapons they carried, and Mei-Lun knew he was running a risk with the Hummers. CNN had told him they were ticketed by traffic cops five times as often as most other vehicles, and Mei-Lun himself had enough citations to believe it.
But anyone who tried to flag them down this night, Mei-Lun vowed, was shit out of luck.
Truth be told, he was amped for a killing. The skag heist, the loss of four men in a week... It was all bearing down on him, making him look bad, stretching his nerves like piano wire. He needed an outlet, and whether they got back the suitcase or not, someone was bound to die on the island.
Mei-Lun could personally guarantee it.
Once they’d cleared the tunnel from Manhattan—always claustrophobic for him, though he tried to hide it—they got onto Main Street near the tram station and barreled northward, past the interchange for 36th Avenue and the Roosevelt Island Bridge to Queens, rolling on until Main Street turned into East Road. A giant hospital bulked up beside them on the left, and they slowed down, continuing along the narrow road that led out toward the lighthouse on the island’s northern headland.
Looking at a map before he’d left the Lucky Dragon, Mei-Lun thought that Roosevelt Island looked like a giant condom afloat in the river, right down to what Trojan ads called the “reservoir tip.” He’d started laughing, and his soldiers couldn’t understand it, but he hadn’t bothered to explain. Better if they believed that he was laughing in the face of death than spotting crazy shapes on a road map.
Mei-Lun double-checked the QBZ-95 assault rifle he’d chosen for their little safari. It was the latest thing from China, a bullpup design chambered for the 5.8 mm DBP87 cartridge. Smuggled from his homeland in bulk, the QBZ-95 was selective-fire, feeding from a 30-round box magazine with a cyclic rate of 650 rounds per minute in full-auto mode. The 5-grain full-metal-jacket rounds traveled at 2,900 feet per second and delivered 1,477 foot-pounds of energy on impact, their streamlined shape and steel core designed for increased range and penetration.
Not that he’d be needing any kind of long-range skills this night. The meeting ground, according to his phallic map, was no more than one hundred yards across, its only cover the arc of shade trees screening the hospital’s north-facing windows from the glare of the lighthouse. Their target, whoever he was, should be clearly visible and easy to kill when the time came.
As soon as he showed them the bag filled with sweet China white.
“We’re almost there,” his driver said, and Mei-Lun grunted in reply. He had already seen the lighthouse standing tall against the skyline, sweeping the dark water with its beam to help the barges find their way. The Hummer’s headlights weren’t much competition, but they showed Mei-Lun the sweep of grass where this night’s action would play out.
“We’re early,” someone muttered from the backseat.
“As intended,” Mei-Lun said.
Then he addressed his wheel man. “Stop here. Kill the lights.”
A moment later they were sitting in the near dark with the Hummer’s engine ticking. From the back, again, one of his soldiers said, “Nobody here.”
Mei-Lun palmed the walkie-talkie, giving it to all of them at once. “Get out and take your places. Anybody fires before I give the word, he’s dead.”
* * *
BOLAN TRACKED THE Hummers through his AN/PVS-10 nightscope until they parked and Wah Ching soldiers started climbing out, all clutching long guns. Bolan counted off a dozen targets armed with automatic rifles, shotguns, submachine guns, picked out Paul Mei-Lun among them, then went back to watching for the other team.
The triad boss had played it smart, coming an hour early to the meet and staking out his men to cover both approaches, east and west of Lighthouse Park. It was a sound move, sensible, maybe the best that he could manage without formal military training or a sniper’s long view toward the waiting game. He had the park well covered, but he obviously hadn’t given any thought to checking out the nearby hospital.
Too public and too risky. Now, too late.
