Don Pendleton - Battle Cry

As he left the car rental parking lot, with traffic rushing toward him on his right, Bolan quickly got the feel of it, his muscle-memory kicking in from other trips abroad, and he was on his way.

So far, so good. But Bolan couldn’t leap into his mission as he was.

For starters, he was naked—or, at least, he felt that way, without a single weapon close at hand. Airline security made packing weapons on commercial flights unfeasible, and Bolan couldn’t very well comply with standing rules for shipping lethal hardware in the baggage hold. Most of the gear that he relied on was legally off-limits to civilians in the States and the United Kingdom, so he’d traveled light, unarmed except for hands, feet and vast experience in taking life, up close and personal.

But he needed guns, perhaps explosives—and some information, too.

Thankfully, Bolan knew exactly where to find them in the heart of Glasgow, day or night.

IAN WATT WAS a respected businessman. Although he was a product of Gorbals—Glasgow’s toughest slum, located on the south bank of the River Clyde—he’d risen far above his humble roots, like others he could name.

Gorbals owed its name to the Lowland Scots word for lepers, locally housed at Saint Ninian’s Hospital in the fourteenth century and granted begging rights on nearby streets. Alumni of the district included some of Glasgow’s most notorious characters, good and bad.

He had grown up on the streets, in essence, with the likes of Tam McGraw and Frank McPhee, both gone to their rewards now with a host of others who had battled through the ice cream wars and other skirmishes for turf across the years. Watt chose a slightly different path, fencing hot items through a pawn shop that had prospered and expanded into two, then four, then seven citywide. Most of his merchandise was perfectly legitimate.

Most, but not all.

Old friends and new acquaintances still had selected items that required a broker, and they needed other items to defend themselves from competition or the police. Firearms regulation in the British Isles had gone from bad to worse after the Dunblane massacre of 1996, in which sixteen children were killed in kindergarten class by a shooter who then killed himself. But life went on, and hardmen needed shooters all the same.

In Glasgow, many of them bought their wares from Ian Watt.

He had to watch out for the undercover filth, of course, but honestly, how hard was that? A few bob handed over, here and there, bought Watt a warning when the dogs were prowling in his neighborhood, and risks were minimized by dealing mainly with a trusted clientele.

Mainly.

Needless to say, there were exceptions to the rule, but all of them came recommended from another customer who’d dealt with Watt in other situations, with no comebacks. Like the fellow from America he was expecting for a nooner on this very day, referred to Watt by someone who knew someone else, and so it went.

And who was Watt, a thriving businessman, to turn away a foreign visitor in need?

Watt didn’t care what use was ultimately made of any items he procured and sold on to the street. None of the weapons could be traced to him, either by registration numbers or the fancy stuff you saw on TV crime dramas. Watt never touched a piece or cartridge with his bare hands, damn sure never left his DNA on any item from his arsenal, and wouldn’t take a fall for anything unless the coppers somehow found his basement arsenal.

Which wasn’t very bloody likely, he thought.

At half-past eleven on the stroke, Watt put the Closed sign on his door and sent his pretty helper, Flora, off to lunch. She always took her time about it, likely making out with her boyfriend from the pizzeria down the street, but what of it? He’d hired her as eye candy, primarily, and got his money’s worth when punters were distracted by her cleavage while he talked them down on loans, or jacked them up on retail prices. Best of all, she never questioned being sent out on some pointless errand or released ahead of closing time, as long as she was paid up for the day.

A perfect front, he thought, in all respects.

He smiled, amused as always by his own wry wit.

Watt didn’t know exactly what his new customer had in mind, as far as shooters were concerned, but his inventory was extensive. Something for everyone, down in the basement—and twenty years to think about it at HMP Barlinnie, if he was caught with that kind of hardware on hand.

Unless, of course, he struck a deal to shift the burden somewhere else.

A dicey proposition, that was, if you thought about his customers. All men of honor, in their own eyes, meaning that they punished traitors harshly but might sell out their mothers if there was any profit in it.

Most of Glasgow’s current so-called gangsters couldn’t hold a candle to the old breed. They were tough enough, all right, but you could never tell when one of them might crack under interrogation. Once they got to thinking about prison and the things they’d have to do or do without inside, a lot of them would spill and put their best mates on remand.

Watt was a different sort, and anyone who mattered knew it, going in. It was a point of honor, and he knew what could become of those who snitched, even when they were certain that they’d gotten away with it. Watt, himself, hoped to die at ninety-something in a trollop’s arms, rather than screaming on a rack somewhere.

When he had seen the back of Flora, Watt threw down a double shot of Royal Brackla whisky and felt the heat spread through his vitals, relaxing him from the inside out. First-timers always put his nerves on edge a little, but the whisky mellowed him like nothing else.

All ready to do this, he thought, and watched the big hand creep around toward twelve.

THE SHOP ON Dalhousie Street, in Garnethill, was closed when Bolan parked a half-block south of it, but he had been forewarned of that. A knock on the glass door produced a slim man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back from a craggy face that had absorbed its share of blows, and then some. His suit was Savile Row, though Bolan didn’t know enough about the London fashion scene to peg a tailor.

The proprietor beamed a smile at Bolan through plate glass, then unlocked and opened the door. “Mr. Cooper, you would be?” he inquired.

Bolan nodded and said, “Mr. Watt?”

“In the flesh, sir. Come in, won’t you please?”

Bolan scanned the merchandise while Watt secured the door behind him, checking out the street. He stocked a bit of everything, it seemed, from jewelry and musical instruments to antique silverware and china. Clearly, there was money to be made from someone else’s disappointment.

“Just in from America, you’d be,” Watt said as he returned, no longer asking questions. “And looking for some tools of quality.”

“Assuming that the price is right,” Bolan replied.

“I take it that you understand our situation here. We haven’t got a constitutional amendment giving us the right to carry guns, and all. The scrutiny is fierce.”

“And yet.”

“And yet. Of course. Just so you realize that heat increases costs for merchants and their customers.”

“The money’s not a problem,” Bolan said.

“In that case,” Watt replied, “please follow me. The merchandise you’re looking for is kept downstairs.”

He trailed Watt through a minioffice to a storage space in back, then down a flight of stairs concealed behind a steel door labeled Private—No Admittance. Watt turned on a bank of overhead fluorescent lights as they started their descent, bleaching the basement arsenal’s beige paint and striking glints from well-oiled pieces of his secret stock.

The climate-controlled room measured right around three hundred square feet, running twenty feet long east to west, and fifteen wide, north to south. Within that space, Watt had collected an impressive cache of automatic weapons, shotguns, pistols and accessories for every killing need.