Don Pendleton - Cold Fury

The building he was interested in was about fifty yards away. He and Jack Grimaldi had been watching and waiting for the better part of three hours. The tip about the smugglers had been intercepted by the cyber team at Stony Man Farm, the base for the covert antiterrorist and anticrime organization known as Stony Man. Whether the intel would pan out was questionable. This was the first solid opportunity to determine the exact nature and extent of the smugglers’ illegal activities and who their business partners might be.

Grimaldi emitted an extended groan from the driver’s seat. “Think these other guys are ever gonna show?” he asked.

Bolan didn’t reply.

“How many shootouts have we had in this damn city?” the Stony Man pilot continued. “Some of them go way back.”

Just as he was about to offer more words of wisdom, a faint sound caught Bolan’s ear and he held up his hand for silence.

Grimaldi didn’t speak for a few moments. “You know,” he said, “I think I hear a Harley.”

Bolan had heard it, too. The distinctive percussion of the big motorcycle’s engine began to reverberate louder. He raised the binoculars again but switched off the night-vision feature. Soon a lone headlight appeared at the opposite end of the alley, followed by a second set of lights obviously belonging to an automobile.

A big SUV.

This had to be it.

The motorcycle continued toward them, perhaps forty yards out now.

The luminescence of the headlights made using the night-vision impractical, but the SUV’s headlights illuminated the motorcycle in front with enough clarity that Bolan could discern that the Harley was being driven by a heavyset man.

The biker stopped parallel to the overhead door and pounded several times in a rhythmic fashion on the heavy metal panel. Seconds later, the door began to rise. Light spilled out from the building, further illuminating the motorcyclist and the trailing vehicle. The rider looked like a stereotypical biker: huge upper body with a substantial belly protruding through an open denim jacket decorated with a plethora of insignias. The SUV was a dark-colored Lexus. The windows were tinted, so it was impossible to determine how many people were inside.

Bolan lowered the binoculars and stowed them in their pouch. He did a quick weapons check of the Beretta 93-R in the leather holster under his left armpit and of the big Desert Eagle in a cross-draw holster on his right hip. He and Grimaldi had dressed in black BDUs and were wearing level III tactical vests. Bolan’s had a rugged Espada knife with a braided parachute cord attached to the handle above the Beretta. Two stun grenades had been affixed to the vest’s left side. There were two magazines for a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun also sheathed on the front of the vest.

He pulled up the door handle and removed the MP-5 from the floor between his legs. “Time to go EVA,” Bolan said. “We may need to keep this vehicle out of harm’s way in case we have to make a quick exit.”

Grimaldi was reaching for his subgun, as well. “How about I let you take this one and I grab our biker buddy’s Harley?”

Bolan said nothing as he gestured for Grimaldi to cover his flank and began to move forward. He stayed in the shadows and watched for cameras as he covered the distance. When they were approximately twenty feet from the big overhead door, they caught the sound of an approaching diesel engine. The beams from a pair of headlights swerved toward them as a large semi with a boxed, twenty-five-foot trailer swung into the alley. Bolan flattened against the wall and Grimaldi did the same. They managed to edge into a slight gap between the two buildings.

The Executioner turned and leaned out, allowing himself an angled peek around the corner at the vehicle. The heavy transport continued to rumble forward at a slow, deliberate speed, halting in front of the now closed overhead door through which the biker and the Lexus had entered. Bolan could see two men in the cab of the truck, one of whom was speaking on a cell phone. The other man sat motionless, holding the barrel of what appeared to be an AK-47 assault rifle. He then brought something up to his face—a night-vision scope.

Bolan pulled his head back immediately and relayed the information to Grimaldi, who was crouching behind him.

“How are we gonna handle this?”

Before Bolan could answer, the sound of the overhead door rising broke the silence. The box truck chugged forward, going past them and then jerking to a stop. It began to back up, angling so that it moved into the open overhead doorway slot of the warehouse.

“Want to try to follow them in?” Grimaldi whispered.

Bolan mentally weighed the possibilities. They were up against some firepower, though they’d have the element of surprise. There was a substantial amount of risk, but the alternative of losing time trying to find another way in might mean forfeiting any chance of recovering information about the transaction.

“Sounds like our best bet,” he said. “We swing in after the truck as the big door goes down and I’ll use a flash-bang. You take out the passenger with the AK.”

“Roger that.”

Bolan took another quick look around the corner of the building and saw the passenger sweeping the area with what was certainly a night-vision scope. The end of the truck swung into the lighted, open space, the headlights extinguished, and the overhead door began its descent. Bolan flipped the selector switch on his MP-5 to semiautomatic and then removed one of his flash-bangs. He pulled the pin but kept it ringed on his left index finger in case it had to be reinserted if the grenade wasn’t used.

Bolan held it up and whispered, “I’ll release on five after we clear the door.”

They moved forward toward the edge of the big warehouse and ducked under the lowering door.

Along the left wall there were at least thirty Harleys parked in an orderly row. Next to them stood a series of long workbenches cluttered with motorcycle parts, disassembled engines, handlebars, windshields and other bike parts. The smell of motor oil was pervasive. Bolan saw a cluster of legs and feet at the rear of the boxed trailer. He counted eight adversaries there. Plus the two from the truck meant a total of ten.

As he cocked his arm and executed an underhand toss, Bolan saw the passenger step down from the cab of the semi, his face registering surprise as he caught sight of the intruders. He started to bring the AK-47 into play just as Grimaldi cut loose with a burst from his MP-5, stitching the man across the chest. His target momentarily jerked backward but continued to bring up the weapon, his face twisting into a sneer.

Body armor, Bolan thought. These guys had come prepared.

Grimaldi was already crossing behind to make his approach from the opposite side of the truck, so Bolan used his subgun to shoot the passenger again. A red mist burst from the rear of the man’s head as he slumped forward, the AK-47 tumbling out of his grasp and clacking on the concrete.

One taken out, nine to go.

The numbers counted down on the flash-bang and the blast reverberated through the warehouse. Bolan rushed alongside the trailer, his MP-5 held at combat-ready. As he paused at the corner of the trailer, a biker stumbled out in front of him, his hands over his ears. A weapon sounded from the cluster of men and the rounds ripped through the biker’s back, causing bloody spots to decorate the front of his brown T-shirt. As the biker crumpled, Bolan aimed his subgun at another man in a sporty black jumpsuit. He was holding a large-caliber semiauto pistol, apparently unaffected by the flash-bang.

Bolan delivered one fatal shot to his adversary’s head.

The man in the jumpsuit collapsed to the floor as a second, similarly clad man leveled a big pistol and fired at the Executioner. The round went wide, whizzing by his right side. As Bolan started to rotate his MP-5, Grimaldi appeared from around the corner and delivered a shot to the back of the man’s head, dropping him. He then took out two men using a workbench as cover.