Don Pendleton - Killing Trade

“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.”

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.”