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“How does the trade play out?” Bolan asked.
“Caqueta moves large quantities of cocaine through Atlanta, using a variety of small-time Mexican groups to move the coke from the southwest. The Mexicans completely control the West Coast and the Midwestern markets, but here on the East Coast, El Cráneo and Caqueta are fighting for control. It’s been getting bloodier and bloodier as they try to outdo each other. A lot of the coke originates in Colombia, where your people in Washington have been cutting aid to drug interdiction for years now. The pipeline is getting wider and the distributors on this end are getting more brutal as they fight over rights to distribute their poison in the Northeast.”
“Bloodier and bloodier,” Bolan repeated, “meaning, the street wars are escalating and the hardware is, too.”
“You know it as well as I do,” the cop said.
“Yes, I do,” Bolan confirmed. “Initially, my involvement was supposed to be low profile,” he confided. “Our people—”
“Which people are those?” Burnett interrupted.
“Our people,” Bolan said again, ignoring him, “put me on the trail of one Jonathan West, thirty-four, a technician formerly employed by a company called Norris Labs. Have you heard of it?”
“Norris Labs International.” Burnett nodded. “They do all that contract work in places like Iraq, right?”
“Yes,” Bolan said. “There are only a few corporations larger. NLI has its hands in everything from pharmaceuticals and arms development to contracted military services ranging from catering to armed security. They retain a privately owned firm called Blackjack Group, whose contractors guard convoys and even sign on for field operations in Iraq, Afghanistan and other hot spots.”
“And that’s relevant because…”
“We believe NLI developed the depleted uranium small-arms ammunition,” Bolan stated. “My people are analyzing it, but initial examination of the recovered fragments you originally sent to Washington correlated with some patents and weapons trials linked to NLI. They’ve been working, apparently, to miniaturize the depleted uranium ammunition currently in use in heavy weaponry, while increasing its antipersonnel potential.”
“Where does this West guy fit in?” Burnett asked.
“West tried and failed to broker a deal for a large quantity of DU small-arms ammunition six months ago. His contact, he thought, represented a drug gang based in West Virginia. The gang’s inquiries were part of an FBI sting.
“Domestic chatter had it that the ammunition was available. Several months of Internet chats and e-mails established that this fictitious group was looking for heavy armament, at which point they were contacted by Jonathan West. West quit or was fired from NLI several months prior to that—he says one thing, while they officially say another—which makes him a disgruntled employee with access to either the ammunition or plans for it.”
“If you were trailing him here,” Burnett said, “I gather the sting didn’t go as planned.”
“It fell through,” Bolan admitted. “The FBI and a few associated agencies have been tracking West since, recently placing him here. He was using an Internet service to transfer money electronically from a credit account to what he thought was a safe drop, a post-office box here in the city. Once we knew where to look, we found more Internet traffic pointing to West trying to move the DU cartridges locally.”
“And?”
“We created another fictional group looking for heavy firepower,” Bolan said. “A white supremacist group based here in the greater New York area. A meet was arranged with West to discuss terms and prices. I was here to keep that meeting.”
“Let me guess,” Burnett said. “In Bryant Park.”
“Exactly,” Bolan said. “The rest you know.”
Burnett shook his head again. “I don’t know jack,” he complained. “How does meeting West become a full-blown war?”
“There was no attempt to make contact before I was attacked in force,” Bolan said. “That tells me either West sent them to intercept me and eliminate me—which wouldn’t make much sense, unless he had reason to suspect me—or there’s something much more complicated going on.”
“Meaning what?” Burnett asked.
“Meaning, that I suspect those men were operatives for Blackjack Group—paid mercenaries, judging from their equipment and tactics.”
“Why would NLI and their security firm risk open war in an American city?” Burnett asked.
“Think about it.” Bolan nodded at the street beyond the window, at the people passing by. “You’re a controversial corporation with ties to the military-industrial complex, as they say. Not the best public relations already. Now your experimental and very deadly ammunition is finding its way onto the streets of a city that’s had its nose bloodied one time too many in recent memory. This goes way beyond the usual political posturing, cries for gun control, that kind of thing. If you were NLI’s management, would you want your company linked to endangering the lives of innocent civilians on American streets? If it comes out that NLI is or did produce the munitions used, we’re likely to see congressional action. To some people, that would be worth killing for to avoid.”
“Do you have any proof of this?”
“No,” Bolan said. “That’s what I’m looking to find. West may or may not still be out there. If NLI and Blackjack sent those shooters to silence me, chances are good they’re looking for West, too, if they haven’t gotten to him already. If I run him down, I’ll either get what he knows, or find a link to who took him out. Either way, it gets me closer to the source of the DU.”
“I don’t know exactly what connections you have, Cooper,” Burnett said reluctantly, “but word has come down from the highest authority. I’ve been instructed to offer you every assistance in the pursuit of your objectives. Until you’re through in New York, I’m your shadow.”
“Which means you’ll help me,” Bolan said.
“It means,” Burnett informed him, “that I’ll drive.”
3
Burnett piloted the unmarked Crown Victoria through canyons of glass and steel, flooring it whenever a clear straightaway offered itself in the congested mess that was Manhattan traffic. Several times he came so close to surrounding vehicles that Bolan thought one of the mirrors would be sheared off, but the car remained intact. At each stoplight, pedestrians flowed around the car like a river raging against worn rocks. All around them, the city throbbed with noise and activity, as millions of people went about their business.
Somewhere among those millions were people Bolan sought.
The Executioner’s secure satellite camera-phone began to vibrate in his pocket. “Cooper,” he answered, so whoever was listening at Stony Man Farm would know he was not alone and could not speak completely freely.
“Striker.” Barbara Price’s familiar voice spoke in Bolan’s ear. “How are you holding up? We got an earful from Hal yesterday. He was fit to be tied.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Bolan said. “When you get a chance, explain to him that there was no other way.”
“I will, if he ever gets off the phone with the local, state and federal authorities in New York,” Stony Man’s honey-blond, model-beautiful mission controller said over the scrambled line. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“I won’t,” Bolan acknowledged. “What have you got?”
“Some of the information you requested—technical specs and some dossiers per this morning’s request.”
“Go ahead,” Bolan told her.
“All right,” she said. “First, the DU rounds. Samples recovered from crime scenes in New York correspond to 9 mm, .45 and 5.56 mm small arms.”
“You spoke with Cowboy?”
“Yes,” Price said, knowing Bolan meant John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man’s armorer. “Per your request last night, he’s got a care package on its way to you. He also left me some specifications. He says the rounds are, as near as we can tell, depleted uranium cores sandwiched in tungsten shells and tipped in an accelerant that makes them explosive. They’re incredible penetrators but also mildly radioactive and plenty poisonous. Get hit, and if the bullet doesn’t kill you, the toxic shock might. Cowboy tells me the rounds are pyrophoric.”
“Meaning they’ll start fires where they hit?” Bolan asked.
“Very probably, because of the DU, the accelerant or both.”
“What will it take to stop them?” Bolan asked.
“Nothing short of heavy vehicle armor will make a difference,” Price informed him. “And we’re not talking light protection like on an up-armored Humvee or even most armored personnel carriers. In heavier calibers, this would be an antitank round at the very least. It would take a tank to stop the small stuff. Stay out of the way of them, Striker.”
“I’ll do my best,” Bolan said. “What have you pulled up concerning personnel?”
“I’ve got a possible address for Jonathan West, linked to a credit card that was recently used to purchase a variety of computer equipment. It’s on the Upper West Side.”
“Shoot,” Bolan said.
Price gave him the address and the soldier passed it on to Burnett, who adjusted course accordingly. “We’re rolling now. What else have you pulled up?”
“I’ve got photos and bios for Luis Caqueta, head of the Caqueta Cartel. Also for his half brother, Carlos ‘Eye’ Almarone, and one of his lieutenants, known only as ‘Razor’ Ruiz. Their opposite number includes Pierre Taveras, leader of El Cráneo in New York, and two operatives whom we believe are in his inner circle—Julian ‘July’ de la Rocha and Jesus Molina.”
“It’s coming through now,” Bolan confirmed, glancing at the color screen of his satellite phone and noting the data-transmission icons.
“Anything else?” Price asked.
“Just tell Bear and his team to keep working on that NLI data,” Bolan said. “I need to know what and who I’m up against there. I’ll have follow-ups as needed.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll be in touch once we find West, if he’s there,” Bolan said.
“Be careful, Striker.”
“Always,” Bolan said. He closed the connection.
“Your mother?” Burnett said, eyes on the road.
“Something like that,” Bolan replied.
“Yeah.” Burnett almost chuckled. “Assuming that was your boss, or your people or whomever, we can cross-reference what you have with the task force’s files.” When Bolan said nothing, Burnett finally pressed, “Cooper, what is your story? How are you so connected in Washington? Just what are you after?”
“I want the same thing you want,” Bolan told him. “I want those DU rounds off the streets. I want to stop the escalating war between El Cráneo and the Caquetas. And I want to find the men responsible for setting it all in motion.”
Burnett regarded him for a moment before dodging a taxi and cutting off a panel truck to take position in a slightly less congested lane. He tromped the accelerator as soon as he had the shot. The Crown Victoria roared forward.
“Who are you, Cooper?” Burnett asked.
“Just a man,” Bolan told him. “Just one man. Like you.”
“Yeah,” Burnett scoffed, “just an ordinary guy who runs around in a black commando suit under his jacket, hoping nobody will notice his odd fashion sense.”
Bolan said nothing. The formfitting blacksuit he wore beneath his windbreaker was subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice it, but Burnett wasn’t stupid. They both knew Bolan, whatever relationship he had to the Justice Department, was no ordinary government functionary. Bolan hoped the cop’s respect for authority would keep the lid on his curiosity. It didn’t hurt at all to have a local professional, somebody familiar with the battleground that was New York, to help Bolan with his search. If Burnett became a liability, however, Bolan would have to go it alone.
The two rode in silence for the remainder of the trip. Burnett parked in front of a fire hydrant when they reached their destination. They exited the vehicle and paused to look up at the five-story brownstone.
“What floor?” Burnett asked.
“Fifth,” Bolan told him, patting himself down and checking the Beretta in its holster. “We’ll have to search, once we get up there. Do you carry anything heavy in the trunk of this?” He gestured back to the unmarked car with his thumb.
“I’ve got an 870,” Burnett told him.
Bolan nodded to the car. Burnett took the hint, unlocked the trunk and freed the Remington shotgun from its rack. He checked its loads and then scooped a handful of double-aught buckshot shells from a cardboard box in the trunk, dropping the shells into the left-hand pocket of his suit jacket.
“You expecting trouble?” Burnett asked.
“I always expect trouble,” Bolan told him.
A woman in a frayed housecoat watched them from the steps of the brownstone, where she sat knitting something and drinking from a bottle in a paper bag. Bolan nodded as he passed her on the steps.
“Ma’am,” Burnett said, carrying the shotgun close to his body and tipping an imaginary hat with his free hand.
Inside, the lighting was dim compared to the sunny autumn day outside. Bolan squinted and paused in the small entryway, letting his eyes adjust. Outside, the brownstone looked almost charming. Inside, the wallpaper was peeling and the interior was obviously divided into a warren of studio apartments. Burnett scanned the mailboxes mounted flush with one interior wall. Only a few had names, none on the fifth floor.
“I guess it wouldn’t be that easy,” Burnett said. The shotgun in both fists, he made for the stairs. Bolan followed. The rickety stairs creaked under their weight. As they climbed, Bolan drew the Beretta, his thumb swiping up the slide safety out of long habit. The stairwells smelled of urine. As they passed the third floor, they could hear someone screaming. Bolan paused only momentarily. It sounded like a domestic squabble. Shaking his head, Burnett looked upward and Bolan nodded. The two men finally made the fifth floor without incident.
“Now what?” Burnett asked quietly.
“Try these apartments nearest the stairs,” Bolan told him. “I’ll start at the other end. Stay sharp. If I flush him to you, try not to kill him.”
“Right,” Burnett said dubiously. “Because I was planning on shooting the suspect as soon as I saw him.”
Bolan looked at Burnett hard. “Don’t get yourself killed, either.”
“I’ll do my best,” Burnett said. Bolan marched off. The two men started rapping on doors, both of them staying well clear of the doors themselves. Bolan had been on the receiving end of more than a little gunfire through locked doors before. Burnett either had experienced some of the same, or he was just good at his job. Either way, Bolan was glad not to have to hold his hand; the man was a veteran officer and knew his way around.
Bolan was on his third door, having received no answer and hearing no movement at the first two, when the hollow-core door flew open.
“What the hell is it?” The woman who answered was slim and not unattractive, despite the heavy black eye makeup she wore. Her bottom lip pierced by several silver rings. She wore shorts and a halter top, her bare midriff covered in Celtic tattoos. Bolan, his gun held low behind his right leg, nodded to her.
“Miss,” he said. “I’m looking for someone.”
She smiled up at the Executioner. “What a coincidence,” she said, one hand sliding idly up and down the door frame as she leaned in the doorway and eyed Bolan up and down. “So am I.”
Bolan produced a small photo from the inside pocket of his windbreaker. “I’m looking for this man,” he said, letting her get a good look at the photo of Jonathan West. “He might not look like this. He may have changed his hair color, or grown a beard or done something else to disguise himself.”
The woman frowned through a lip full of metal. “You a cop?”
“No,” Bolan said truthfully. “It’s very important—”
Several shots rang out two doors down, as bullets peppered the thin wood of the apartment door on which Burnett had been knocking.
Burnett jacked the pump on his Remington 870, pressing himself against the wall beside the door. “Police!” he bellowed into the corridor. “This is a lawful entry!”
The door practically disintegrated under a withering full-auto blast, peppering the plaster of the opposite wall. Bolan tackled the woman before him, throwing her down through the doorway onto the scarred hardwood floor of her apartment. He stayed on top of her until the shooting stopped. Burnett’s shotgun sounded like a cannon in the narrow corridor outside as the lawman fired back.
Bolan checked the woman beneath him, who looked at him with a mixture of fear and excitement. The Executioner nodded to the large windows at the end of the small studio, beyond which he could see a fire escape.
“Does that go all the way across the front of the building?” Bolan asked sharply.
She thought about it for a second. “Yes,” she said, as Bolan got to his feet, his Beretta in a low two-hand grip. “It connects all the apartments on this side.”
“Stay low,” Bolan told her. “Don’t go out until the shooting stops. And call 9-1-1!” He was moving before she could say more, throwing open the window and stepping outside. Wind tugged at his hair as he crept along the rusted metal fire escape. From the apartment two doors down, more gunfire erupted. It was the unmistakable chatter of an Uzi, punctuated by more of Burnett’s shotgun blasts.
Wincing as his combat boots rang on the metal fire escape, Bolan slowed and dropped to his knees as he neared the window he wanted. Then he threw himself on his back, using his legs to shove himself forward as he stared skyward, concealing himself between the window ledge and the floor of the fire escape. Below him, New York City continued to bustle, temporarily oblivious to the slaughterhouse within the unassuming fifth-floor walk-up on the Upper West Side.
