Don Pendleton - Silent Threat

“Of course,” Bolan said.

“Stand by,” Brognola told him. “I’m transmitting you the contact’s dossier now. He’s relatively green, but nevertheless attached to one of the more shadowy branches of the Agency and its German equivalent. Born to German and American parents, educated here in the States. Did a few years abroad and in the Army, all of it post–iron curtain.”

“Can we trust him?”

“As far as we can trust anybody,” Brognola said. “Interpol thinks it’s taking the lead on this issue now, and we’re happy to let it. It allows us to operate under its umbrella, since we don’t officially exist. Your contact may even produce some worthwhile leads, or relay what Interpol manages to produce between now and when you hit ground in Germany.”

“All right, then,” Bolan had agreed. “I guess I’d better get going.”

“I guess you better,” Brognola had replied. “Good hunting, Striker.”

“Right.” Bolan had closed the connection.

Now, hours later, Bolan and Rieck sat facing each other over the dossier Interpol had managed to put together, and which Rieck had turned over. Bolan nodded, finally, jerking his chin toward the photographs and looking at Rieck. To his credit, the man understood without being told that Bolan wanted a synopsis.

“That,” Rieck said, indicating a photograph, “is Hans Becker, the president of Becker Aerospace. BA produces key missile guidance systems. It’s considered a prime ‘get’ in strategic industrial circles, and in the last several months it’s been having financial problems. An accidental warehouse fire here, a few key developers lost to a car accident there. Word is it’s ripe for buyout, but Becker, who owns the controlling interest, is resisting. It’s a family-owned company and always has been.”

“A prime target, in other words,” Bolan nodded. Watching the doorway from his seat, he saw a trio of young people, possibly students, wearing disposable plastic ponchos. Two of them had backpacks slung over one shoulder.

“Yes,” Rieck said. “Our analysts predict that BA is the most probable object of the Consortium’s interests. It’s financially vulnerable, it produces a strategically critical line of components, and Becker has reported some harassment to the local authorities.”

“Harassment?”

“Being followed, some late-night hang-up calls, and a few incidents of vandalism at his home here in Berlin,” Rieck said, pulling a hard copy of a digital photograph from the stack. The building it depicted appeared to be an apartment or condominium high-rise, its architecture a blend of old-world charm and modern efficiency. It looked pricey, if Bolan was any judge. It was, in other words, just the sort of place a president or CEO would call home in this German city.

“And BA itself?” Bolan asked. The students he had noticed before, a young man and two women, were settling at a table by the corner. One woman was blond, the other brunette. The blonde in particular was a striking Norse beauty. Bolan had seen plenty of beautiful women in his unending war against terror. He’d seen more than a few who had been pretty before the predators got done with them, too. It was a sobering thought.

“Offices here, on Reinickendorfer Strasse,” Rieck said, “and a secondary manufacturing facility maybe an hour from the city, in Muencheberg.”

“Were does Becker spend his time?”

“The accidental deaths of some of his contemporaries in the high-tech field here in Germany haven’t gone unnoticed to Becker,” Rieck said, as if he and Bolan were sharing a very important secret. “He’s been holed up in his suite for the last week, and we know he has employed a bodyguard agency here in the city. They’re expensive, thoroughly licensed and heavily armed.”

“Your recommendation?” Bolan asked, ignoring Rieck’s conspiratorial tone.

“I would start with Muencheberg,” Rieck said. “If Becker’s holdings are being monitored, we might be able to find some of the operatives responsible. We might even catch them in the act of vandalizing Becker’s property. These incidents have increased sharply in the past several days. There have been three reports in the last week alone.”

“It’s a start,” Bolan said. “But if Becker is the target, it’s Becker we should begin with. He’s the key. Removing him removes the primary obstacle to the Consortium’s acquisition of his company. If they orchestrated the problems that have put BA in deep, which it’s likely they have, it makes even more sense that they’re setting him up for a heavy fall.”

“But he’s guarded,” Rieck said. “Won’t that keep him out of play for now?”

“I’ve never known it to mean much in the past,” Bolan said. “Hired guards are hired guards. They’re good as far as they go. But his apartment is no fortress. How could it be? I’ve seen hard targets, Rieck. This won’t qualify.”

“Well, all right,” Rieck began, “but I don’t see why—”

The beautiful blonde at the table in the corner reached into her backpack. Bolan was watching her out of the corner of his eye. When her arm came up with a micro-Uzi submachine gun in her small fist, he had just enough time to register the threat. He put one hand against the table and pushed off.

Automatic gunfire ripped through the coffee shop.

“Down!” Bolan roared, throwing himself back and off his chair. Rieck reacted quickly and hit the floor. The burst of bullets went wide but stitched the wall behind and between the two men nonetheless. Rieck would have been dead had he stayed seated a fraction of a second longer.

Screams erupted as the coffee shop’s customers registered what was happening. Suddenly the shop was full of running, hysterical men and women, shouting in at least three languages.

Rieck upended the table and crouched behind its dubious cover, drawing his four-inch Smith & Wesson. Bolan had seen this type of scenario go down more than once, and knew that hiding or playing a time-compressed waiting game simply wouldn’t work. With each passing second, the risk that an innocent civilian would be hit increased. He pulled the Beretta 93-R from its custom leather shoulder rig, flipped the selector to single shot and brought the snout of the evil-looking little machine pistol on target. Then he charged forward, moving left, then right, crouching low, being careful not to put innocents into the line of fire by getting between them and the shooters. The Beretta led the way, and as he charged, Bolan fired.

The desperate offensive took the momentum from the attackers. The Executioner had seen that sudden look of confusion before, the instant when an enemy, having visualized the killing time and again, suddenly locked up or froze when confronted with something unexpected. These shooters were the hunters, in their minds; they had come to deal death. They didn’t expect to see death hurtling back at them. The enemy broke under the onslaught, scattering. Bolan caught the blonde with the Uzi first.

She was trying to swing her submachine gun onto him when Bolan reached her, slamming a brutal elbow up and across her chin, knocking her sprawling. The Uzi slid from nerveless fingers as she went down and out. The man, not as young as his college dress had made him seem from a distance, had drawn a small automatic pistol from under his clothes and was taking aim. Bolan put a single 9 mm bullet between his eyes, and he collapsed to the floor of the coffee shop.

The third shooter, the other woman, screamed as she traded fire with Rieck. The Interpol agent’s shots were truer, clipping her in the arm and sending her screaming to the ground. Bolan scooped up the revolver she’d been carrying, turned and stood over her, the Beretta aimed at her head. “Do not move,” he ordered.