Don Pendleton - Stolen Arrows

Parking the Jaguar directly in front of Pierson Importers, Bolan fed the meter some quarters to show that he was planning to be here for a while, then, whistling tunelessly, strolled to the front door of the warehouse and rang the bell.

Bolan knew that he had been under video surveillance ever since he’d turned the corner onto this street. So he wasn’t surprised when the door was instantly opened by a large man in work clothes, two more gorillas standing close behind.

“Private property,” the first man growled, already starting to close the door.

Moving with lightning speed, Bolan drew and fired, the Beretta coughing tribursts of death to the three men. The bodies were still tumbling to the concrete floor when he slipped inside and bolted the door tightly behind.

Pulling out a second Beretta, Bolan moved down the corridor firing at anyone carrying a gun. There could be civilians here—accountants, secretaries—so he had to stay razor sharp. A man stood holding a cardboard box; Bolan shot him in the leg. But as he fell the box went flying, revealing a .38 Walther PPK in a fancy shoulder rig. The Beretta whispered once more and the man no longer felt the pain in his leg.

A big guy swinging an ax charged out of a bathroom, and Bolan ducked fast, feeling the breeze of the blade swish above his head. Still crouching he stroked both Berettas and sent the man tumbling backward to the floor. A shotgun roared and the desk near Bolan exploded into splinters. He dived out of the way, firing both guns, tracking for the target. Across the room, a woman in a crimson-stained business suit collapsed, her shotgun discharging wildly into the ceiling.

Reloading quickly, Bolan swept into the corridor again, catching two more men running his way. They died without even seeing him. Moving deeper into the warehouse, Bolan broached a cross corridor, finding only a spilled cup of coffee steaming on the floor. Listening hard for sounds of movement, Bolan proceeded to the nearest office and found a set of steel doors marked with No Smoking signs in several languages. This was it.

Glancing through the plastic window, he could see that nobody moved among the stacks of crates and endless boxes filling the cavernous room. A billion dollars’ worth of armament sat neatly packed in cushioned crates, waiting to be shipped out. A single loose bullet could start a chain reaction of explosions that would level the elementary school next door. Only a chain-link fence separated the buildings and would do as much as a wall of tissue paper to stop the hellstorm of shrapnel. Even as the dire assessment was made, Bolan accepted the onus. He’d take some lead himself before letting the warehouse explode.

Just then, a scuffling noise from the corridor caught his attention and Bolan turned to fire both Berettas at the left wall. Plaster puffed as the 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched through the drywall and then a bloody man staggered into view dropping an Ithaca shotgun.

“Shit, he got Tony!” another man shouted, swinging around the corner and firing an Uzi machine pistol.

The 9 mm rounds stitched Bolan across the chest and he grunted in pain as his NATO body armor stopped the slugs from penetrating. Then Bolan returned the favor, his own 9 mm rounds smacking the other man backward, but yielding no blood, as the enemy gunner also wore a Kevlar vest. The Uzi fired again as Bolan tracked for the head. The machine pistol dropped from lifeless hands as a third eye appeared in the gunrunner’s forehead.

Dropping the spare Beretta, Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle and headed for the stairs. As he neared, the Executioner fired the Beretta into the dark shadows under the steps and a man grunted in pain, staggering into view and still holding an M-16 assault rifle. Without hesitation, Bolan fired once more. The Magnum rounds smashed the rifle out of the little man’s grasp and he crumpled to the floor.

“Please,” he sobbed, raising his hands for pity, “I only w-work here. I don’t sell the stuff. I’m not one of them!”

Right, just a clerk who carried an M-16 in an easy hold exactly like a pro.

“Where’s Prince?” Bolan demanded.

“B-back room, second floor,” he stammered, jerking his head. “Just take the stairs.”

“You lead the way.”

The gunner looked at the stairs in fear. “No, please, my leg…I can’t walk.”

“Get up,” Bolan ordered, “or die where you are. It makes no difference to me.”

“Okay, okay,” the gunner said, standing easily.

“Up the stairs,” Bolan ordered.

“Please. I only—”

“Move!”

“Jesus, okay already, they’re a trap! Rigged to blow!”

Bolan stepped closer. “Yes, I know.”

He did? Shit. “There’s another set of stairs,” the man said, looking around nervously. “The one the staff uses, ya know.”

“You’re still leading the way,” Bolan said, both weapons held in rock-steady hands. “Get moving.”

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