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There was another lull in the automatic gunfire. Bolan popped up, his pistol held compressed against his chest in both hands. He fired twice, punching spidery holes in the window glass, then lowered his shoulder and dived through. He came up, still targeting the shadow he’d seen through the glass—a single, relatively small man with a submachine gun in his fists. The gunman was shoving another stick magazine into the grip of the weapon.
“West!” Burnett called from the hallway. “Stop!” The small man charged the door. Bolan dived aside as a shotgun blast from the doorway peppered the rear wall of the apartment. Then Burnett was down, tackled as the Uzi fell to the floor. The two rolled into the corridor. Bolan closed on the doorway, his Beretta leading, unable to get a clear shot.
“Cooper!” Burnett called, wrestling for his shotgun.
As Bolan approached he could see blood soaking the khaki shirt the small man wore. Burnett’s blast hadn’t been a complete miss. The cop used his size advantage to muscle his way to his feet, shaking the smaller man back and forth as the pair fought each with both hands on the Remington.
Bolan aimed the Beretta two-handed, trying and failing to acquire his target. He lowered the weapon, then raised it again as first Burnett, then the small man moved into his line of fire. “Down!” he shouted.
Burnett took the cue and dropped onto his rear, falling back and slapping his arms. The small man, who had been pushing against Burnett’s resistance, flew forward with the shotgun in his hands. Bolan fired once, low, catching the gunman in the thigh. The man grunted and stumbled over Burnett down the corridor, out of Bolan’s view. The shotgun fell from his fingers.
“Stop!” Burnett called. From the floor he clawed for the gun holstered on his hip. Bolan reached the doorway as the wounded gunman rammed the door of the woman’s apartment two doors down. It opened and the woman screamed.
“Shit,” Burnett cursed, pushing to his feet with a .40-caliber Glock in his fists.
“Back! Get back!” the gunman shouted. He reappeared in the corridor, one arm around the young woman’s neck. He held a folding knife to her face, the serrated S-curved blade just barely below her right eye. His face was ashen. A pool of blood was forming where he stood.
Bolan advanced, the Beretta high in his line of sight. Burnett backed him as the two men crept forward.
“I said stop, damn your eyes,” the small man said. He spoke in a clipped, British accent. “Come any closer and, I swear, I’ll carve this bird’s eye out.”
The woman’s eyes widened at that, but to her credit she remained still. Bolan’s gaze found hers and her expression hardened with resolve.
“You’re going into shock,” the Executioner said. “You won’t be on your feet for long.”
“Get back, I said!” the wounded man shrieked. “I’m walking out of here, you lot, and little missy here is coming with me. If I start to go, I’ll cut her throat as I do. Now, drop the hardware!”
Bolan nodded, almost imperceptibly.
The woman jerked her head to the side, away from the knife. It was just enough. Bolan’s shot drilled through the man’s eye. The body collapsed, a puppet with its strings cut, the folding knife still clutched in one dead hand.
The woman screamed.
“Easy,” Burnett said, holstering his Glock. He went to her and put one arm around her shoulders as she started shaking. “Easy,” he said again. “It’s okay. We got him. We got him.”
Bolan stepped around them and leaned over the corpse. There was a lot of gore, but most of the face was still visible. He took his phone from the inside pocket of his windbreaker and checked the photo viewer, examining the small image on the color screen.
Burnett, still calming the distraught woman, caught Bolan’s frown. “Is it him?” he asked.
“No,” Bolan said, steadying himself on one knee. He activated his phone’s built-in digital camera, snapping a couple of shots of the dead man. “I’ll transmit these—”
“To where?” Burnett queried.
“I’ll send these,” Bolan said evenly, “for analysis.” He nodded to the woman. “Get her back to her apartment and call in before we’re buried in units responding to the gunfire. I’m going to check West’s apartment.”
Burnett nodded and ushered the crying woman past the body and through her doorway. Bolan backtracked, unclipping the SureFire combat light from his pocket. With the Beretta and the light together in a Harries hold, he swept the cluttered and dim studio, wary for West or someone else hiding in ambush.
The studio was a wreck. Apart from the bullet holes just added to it, and the litter of empty pizza boxes, soda cans and other bags of garbage, what little furnishings it held had been torn apart. The sofa cushions had been cut open, as had the mattress sitting without a box spring in one corner. A set of bookshelves had been knocked over and many of the books torn up as whoever had tossed the place—probably the dead man in the hallway outside—searched for hiding places. A rolling computer desk bearing a state-of-the-art desktop unit was relatively unscathed, but the computer itself had been gutted.
Bolan checked near the desk and found the hard drive on the floor. It was badly damaged. No computer technician himself, Bolan was not sure if its data was retrievable or not, but he placed the drive in a pouch of his blacksuit nonetheless.
Behind the desk, on the floor in the far corner of the studio, Bolan found Jonathan West.
The image in his phone’s data file confirmed it. It was Jonathan West and he was quite dead. The smell hit the Executioner as he examined the body, finding nothing in the man’s pockets and discovering a small-caliber wound behind the dead man’s left ear. Judging from the condition of the corpse, West had been murdered at least a few days previously.
The Executioner frowned again. The gunman he and Burnett had intercepted hadn’t been here to kill West, at least not that day. That meant he’d had some other purpose in mind. Bolan’s eyes fell on the gutted computer again. He would have the hard drive couriered to a mail drop for the Farm, where Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman and his team could take a crack at it. Stony Man’s wheelchair-bound computer expert and his assistants had worked similar miracles in the past. If anyone could manage it, they could. It might be nothing, of course. But it might just be the case that the dead man in the corridor had come to destroy the computer, which meant the information on it might be valuable.
Bolan was no cop and he had no interest in playing detective. He did, however, need to find the source of the DU ammunition. Without West, there was no telling where it might be, where it was coming from, or how much more of it could be waiting to hit the streets and turn them red. If West could not tell the Executioner his secrets, perhaps West’s computer could.
“Cooper!” Burnett’s voice was agitated as he called from the doorway to West’s apartment. He held a wireless phone to his ear. “We may have a break.”
Bolan holstered his Beretta. “What have you got?”
“The department called. It’s Caqueta. The cartel wants to deal.”
4
Burnett parked the Crown Victoria illegally, checking his Glock unnecessarily as he and Bolan exited the vehicle. As they crossed the street, a horse-drawn carriage clopped past, the tourists inside staring about happily. Both men paused for a hurtling yellow cab before taking the asphalt-covered path into Central Park.
“I hate leaving the shotgun in the car,” Burnett said as they walked.
Bolan said nothing. He had his messenger bag slung over his shoulder across his body, his windbreaker covering the Beretta and his spare magazine pouches. Behind his left hip he wore a SOG Pentagon dagger in a custom Kydex Sheath inside his waistband. The guardless, double-edged, serrated dagger had a five-inch blade. There’d been no need for the weapon before now, but he’d worn it since arriving in New York and recovering the Beretta and his other personal items from the courier drop at the airport.
“That was good shooting back there,” Burnett offered.
“You didn’t do too badly yourself,” Bolan said.
“Yeah, whatever.” He looked back at the car as they left it behind. “Cooper, I’m bringing you in on this because I don’t figure I can keep you out of it if I want to.”
Bolan looked at him as joggers, power walkers and various people on bicycles passed the two men. He was uncomfortably aware of the number of innocents who might be caught in the line of fire. “If the Caquetas are part of the street war in New York, the one West or someone else has been using as a market for the DU ammo, he’s a legitimate target. He’s also a potential source of information.”
“Exactly,” Burnett said. “Though I don’t know as I would have listed them in that order.” When Bolan said nothing, Burnett forced a chuckle. “I guess I still wouldn’t mind having a little more firepower.”
“Neither would I, but then, I said as much already.”
“Don’t go there.” Burnett laughed genuinely this time.
Back in Jonathan West’s apartment, Bolan had briefly considered taking the Uzi from the dead intruder in Jonathan West’s apartment, but the idea had made Burnett too nervous. The weapon was evidence in the shooting, as was the knife the intruder had used. Burnett had assured Bolan that he’d be able to borrow suitable hardware from the department, given his pull with the powers that were. Bolan had in turn given Burnett an address to which they had driven before coming to the Caqueta meet in Central Park. There, at what was a government agency safehouse, they had shipped the hard drive to the secure mail drop that would, though Burnett didn’t know it, get the data to Stony Man Farm in a matter of hours.
“Listen, Cooper,” Burnett said soberly, “Caqueta is an animal. He’s the elder statesman of the cartel now, but he used to get his hands plenty dirty, especially when he was clawing his way up the chain. We couldn’t nail him on it, but early on in his stewardship of the Caqueta Cartel he killed an undercover narcotics agent with his bare hands. Beat him to death. His greatest hits, if you’ll pardon the pun, include garroting a woman he suspected of cheating on him, using what used to be his favorite piece of piano wire stretched between two pieces of broomstick. He is also widely believed to have personally pulled the trigger on the family of the Colombian prosecutor who took him on in the late 1990s, trying to pin the Caquetas down at home. Shot the man’s kids in front of the mother, then kneecapped her. Had his lieutenant, Razor Ruiz, cut the eyes right out her head, so the death of her children would be the last thing she ever saw. She couldn’t testify against him because she killed herself before the trial. Drank oven cleaner. It was ugly.”
Bolan didn’t comment. Caqueta and his people were no different than countless other thugs he’d battled in his War Everlasting. Luis Caqueta was a means to an end. He was also a predator whose people had shed gallons of innocent blood. He would not get any more chances to prey on New York or any other city, when the Executioner finished with him.
The two men followed the trail to the designated spot. There, on a park bench, sat Luis Caqueta. Bolan recognized him from the file photos.
Caqueta was a bit thick around the middle, with curly white hair cut close to his head. He was in good shape for a man his age, though, with strong, muscled forearms crossed over a silver-tipped walking stick. He wore a linen suit that was completely unnecessary in New York in autumn, but which would have looked right at home in Colombia. His face was smooth, almost peaceful, with subtle features that belied the monster staring out from his large, brown eyes.
The man standing behind the bench to Caqueta’s right was also someone Bolan and Burnett recognized. Tall, painfully thin, with gaunt features and hollow, sunken eyes, Razor Ruiz stood almost at attention by his employer. He wore a lightweight dark trench coat over a black T-shirt and slacks. Bolan didn’t like that at all; Ruiz could be hiding anything under that long coat.
There were no other men in sight. Bolan took in the landscape with one sweeping glance. There were several park buildings nearby, not to mention more than a few civilians going about their business. Some were sitting and reading. Others were playing with dogs or simply walking. Any of them could be plants to back up Caqueta. He could have troops stationed nearby, too.
It would not be the first time the Executioner had walked into an ambush to trigger it before rolling right over the top of it.
Ruiz had his hands in the pockets of his trench coat as Bolan and Burnett approached. They stopped a few feet from the park bench. Caqueta leaned forward on his cane but made no move to rise.
“So, Detective Burnett,” Caqueta said, smiling like a shark. “You have come.” His voice was a rich baritone, slightly accented. “And you bring a friend. Who is this large fellow?”
“That’s really not—” Burnett began.
“You were instructed to come alone,” Caqueta said sharply. “Yet you bring another. Explain to me why I do not simply leave now and let you take your chances.”
“Cooper,” Bolan told him. “Justice Department.”
“Justice?” Caqueta’s eyes widened. “And what would you know about justice, Mr. Cooper? Is it justice that my people are gunned down in broad daylight in the most prosperous part of this, the crown jewel of the East Coast? Is it justice that I must take ever more drastic means to protect them, to protect my family, to protect myself?”
“Spare me the tale of woe,” Burnett said scornfully. “You and El Cráneo have been trying to take each other out for years. Now you’ve found a way to do it while endangering even more people. It’s not enough for you that innocent men, women and children get caught in the line of fire while your family and Taveras’s people gun for each other. Now you’ve got weapons guaranteed to cut up anyone within sight of your murders.”
“Ah,” Caqueta said thoughtfully. “You speak of the special bullets.”
“No shit, Caqueta,” Burnett said. “I speak of the special bullets. I know your organization isn’t faring well in your war with El Cráneo, either. That’s why you’re not going to do anything but sit right here and tell me what you wanted to tell me. You wouldn’t have called if you weren’t desperate.”
Caqueta shifted uneasily on the edge of the bench. Behind him, Ruiz bristled, his dark eyes flitting angrily from Burnett to Bolan and back again. Bolan watched as the detective worked Caqueta verbally. The man was good. Bolan’s already high estimation of Burnett rose accordingly.
“It is true,” Caqueta said reluctantly, staring at his feet, “that my enemies conspire against me and use El Cráneo to do this terrible thing.”
“Meaning, they’re beating you,” Burnett interpreted.
Caqueta looked up at him sharply. “No, they are not,” he said. “They have, however, successfully convinced the supplier of the bullets to sell the lion’s share to them, those sons of pigs.”
“So you’re outgunned,” Burnett said.
Caqueta shrugged. Behind him, Ruiz continued to glare. It was obvious he did not approve of the meeting.
“What do you want, Caqueta?” Burnett asked bluntly. “You called and said you wanted to deal. Well, deal. What have you got that I want?” Bolan looked from the tall detective to Caqueta. The answer was obvious.
“I can tell you how and where I purchased my supply of the bullets,” Caqueta said. “Of course, this is all hypothetical. I would admit to nothing. I know of no bullets, none at all, when it comes to…to the record, you see?”
“I see,” Burnett said grimly. “We look the other way and you help us put the supplier away.”
“More or less.” Caqueta nodded. “I can lead you to a certain fellow who brokered the sales with me and with Taveras, and he will lead you to your precious bullets.”
“What assurances do we have that your information is legitimate?” Burnett asked.
“I have little choice,” Caqueta said frankly. “To compete with El Cráneo my people must have weaponry to rival their own. Our supply—the supply we do not have, of course—of the ammunition is dwindling. Taveras has increased his own stockpiles. El Cráneo is planning something, something very big. It is the way they think, the way they operate. They plan to show me, to teach me—me!—a lesson. They will also show you and your people that you are powerless to stop them.”
“Give me a name,” Burnett demanded.
Ruiz turned to his boss. “Jefe, no! Give them that, and—”
“Silence!” Caqueta roared.
He turned back to Burnett. “The man’s name is West.”
“Too late,” Burnett told him. “We’re ahead of you. West is dead.”
“Is he, now?” Caqueta said, unimpressed. “Not much of a surprise. A man like that, a man meddling in so many different affairs of life and death. Such a man must have many enemies, no?”
“You have nothing for me, then,” Burnett said.
“Do not be so quick to dismiss me,” Caqueta said, his voice hard again. “Either your people are not as thorough as mine, or NLI is not as forthcoming with the law as it might be.”
“What do you know about Norris Labs?” Bolan put in. Caqueta eyed the big soldier, his expression stern.
“I know that this West quit some time ago, some months before my people made the first purchases of his very useful, very powerful bullets for our weapons. And I know that he quit after another man, a much more significant man, was fired. This fellow was a researcher, a developer of arms. It would seem, my sources tell me, that this man was full of great and useful ideas. He was unappreciated by his employers, and when he complained of as much, they deemed him too troublesome and sent him away. West was his assistant at NLI. It would seem he was loyal to the man, not the company. Or perhaps he was loyal only to money, and was offered more than his former employers would give. That is often the way, is it not?”
“Why do you know all this?” Burnett asked.
“Would you not look into the men on whom you staked the fate of your family, your business, your honor?” Caqueta shrugged. “West contacted us after the first sales were made to El Cráneo. He arranged for a demonstration. He asked that I send one of my bulletproof limousines—and a driver of whom I was not terribly fond. He found some piece of street trash, gave him a magazine full of bullets for his pistol. When my driver arrived at the meet, he was killed immediately. The bullets passed through the armored car and through a fire hydrant nearby.”
“So you had no choice but to escalate the war,” Burnett said skeptically.
“None,” Caqueta said. “West told me in no uncertain terms just how much ammunition my enemies had purchased. It was only a matter of time. We—hypothetically, of course—armed ourselves accordingly. But a few months later, he stopped answering our messages. El Cráneo grew bolder, more vicious. I lost more men even as I took down theirs. We are running out of the special bullets. El Cráneo had obviously cut a deal with West, offered him more than I could.”
“They’re winning the war,” Burnett said.
Caqueta shrugged again. “They do not have to. You can stop this. Things can be…shall we say, much more calm. More like they used to be.”
“While you continue shipping your poison,” Burnett said.
“I do not force it up anyone’s nose or into anyone’s veins,” Caqueta said. “I am interested in business, not war.”
Burnett sighed. “Like you,” he said, “I don’t know what choice I have. Let’s get this straight, though. I’m not making any promises, Caqueta. If I could nail you to the wall, I would do it.”
Caqueta laughed. “But of course you would, Detective Burnett. That is what makes you safe. You are predictable. As long as I am not stupid enough to give you evidence you can use against me in court, you are no threat to me. And as long as you have no such evidence, I am no threat to you.”
“All right,” Burnett nodded. “We understand each other. Give me the name.”
“The man you seek,” Caqueta said, “is—”
Something caught Bolan’s attention. Reflexes honed over years of battle kicked in. Whether it was a simple shift in the wind, or some other subconscious cue, something was wrong.
“Down!” Bolan yelled. He tackled Burnett, just as Luis Caqueta’s head exploded.
They heard the gunshot as Caqueta’s nearly headless body fell forward onto the ground before the bench. There was a single, still moment in which Razor Ruiz, splattered with his boss’s blood, looked up with wide eyes. He glanced down at Caqueta’s body and to the ground behind the bench, where a tiny blade smoldered.
“Treachery!” he shouted. From within his trench coat he brought up a pistol-gripped Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun.
“Go!” Bolan told Burnett, drawing his Beretta.
