Don Pendleton - Contagion Option

“You want me to be careful, or do you want me to get there in time for the festivities?” Graham asked.

Marrick rolled her eyes. “Just don’t kill any other drivers.”

Graham chuckled. “On my way.”

Marrick sighed and checked the .40-caliber Glock in her hip holster, and was about to double check the backup .38 she wore underneath her armpit when the windshield starred violently. The woman crouched deeper into the driver’s seat and stared at a fist-size hole in the glass. The driver’s door opened, and she nearly drew and fired when she saw a policeman in full uniform.

“They’re shooting at everyone who drives up,” the big, brawny black cop said. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to warn you.”

Marrick looked up the side of the building.

“We tried to spot the sniper, but there’s either more than one, or he moves quickly,” the cop explained. Marrick noted that his name was Cage. “They’re playing with us until the hostage negotiator gets here.”

Marrick grimaced. “Sounds like a fun party. We got all the entrances sealed?”

“Alleys and the rooftops are covered. No way they can escape,” Cage said.

Marrick crawled out of her seat and slammed the door, joining the cop behind cover. “Anyone hurt?”

“Security guard’s corpse was dumped outside. They left his .38 in its holster. They didn’t need it,” the police officer replied. “Tore the shit out of my car and my partner’s got two bullets in his legs.”

Marrick took a deep breath as she saw the carnage wrought on the Salt Lake City squad car. It was perforated hundreds of times, and both front tires were flat. The hubcaps had been torn off by the brutal salvo that had crippled the vehicle. Smoke poured from dozens of holes. “What the hell weapons do they have?”

“I didn’t have much time to see what they were cutting loose with,” Cage answered. “But it didn’t sound like anything American.”

Marrick tilted her head.

“I was a SAW gunner in the Gulf war,” Cage replied. “I know what an M-249 sounds like, and an M-60, too. This wasn’t either of those, and it sure wasn’t an M-16.”

“Russian?” Marrick asked.

Cage shrugged. “We’ve got the two bullets from my partner’s leg. Maybe you could make it out better.”

Cage guided Marrick across the street to an ambulance that had parked out of view of the five-story bank. The windshield of the vehicle had been pockmarked with several slugs, but the paramedics had pulled it out of the line of fire.

“No respect for medics,” Cage mentioned. “These are just punk kids.”

“Punk kids with enough firepower to make the front end of a Crown Victoria into a screen door,” Marrick corrected.

“Luke?” Cage asked, looking in the back.

A blond police officer lay on a cot. His leg was swathed in bloody bandages, and a saline bag was draining into his arm.

“Hey, Danny,” the wounded cop muttered. Marrick read his badge name. Rand. He looked her over and smiled through his discomfort. “Who’s the cutie?”

“Special Agent Rachel Marrick, FBI,” she introduced herself. Her ears burned under her shoulder-length cape of hair, as she hated being called a “cutie.” She’d have thought that her position as an FBI agent, complete with the business-suit look would have commanded respect. She didn’t mind being hit on as a petite, sweet young thing in her off hours, but this was work. “Danny told me that you got a couple souvenirs from your first contact.”

Rand nodded. “Roy’s got them.”

A dark-haired paramedic handed her a plastic bag. “He told me to save them.”

Marrick nodded and took the bag. “This is evidence.”

“Yeah. Still, maybe I’d like to get ’em back someday,” Rand explained.

Marrick looked at Cage.

“It’s a cop thing,” the black cop replied. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh. Don’t worry, I’ll see what paperwork I can pull,” she stated. She looked at the bullets.

“They look like .22s,” Cage mentioned. “But hell, the gun didn’t sound like any 5.56 mm that I’d ever run into.”

“And it didn’t sound like an AK?” Marrick asked.

“Nope. I heard my share of those,” Cage replied. “More than I’d like.”

Marrick frowned. “The Russians use a 5.45 mm round. Very similar to our 5.56.”

“Yeah,” Cage replied. “When we went head-to-head with Saddam the first time, he was still using good old ComBloc ammo. I heard they still were, our second trip through Baghdad.”

“Doesn’t mean much,” Marrick replied. “The Russian black market is flooded with the newer AK-74s, and ammunition. The Commonwealth of Independent States is hemorrhaging top-of-the-line military equipment as fast as they can build it.”

Cage nodded. “Which is why none of it sounded familiar. So, we’ve got what? Russian Mafia supplying Korean street gangs in Salt Lake?”

“Part of why I’m here,” Marrick replied. “You’re sure they’re Koreans?”

“They sounded Asian,” Rand said. “And called me a few names in some kind of language. It wasn’t Chinese, though.”

“You speak Chinese?” Marrick asked.

“I lived with my dad in Hong Kong,” Rand replied. “My guess, they’d have to be Korean.”

Marrick frowned, then got out her cell phone.

“What’s going on?” Cage asked.

“I’ve got another agent coming in. I want to let him know about the welcoming presents these punks are giving out,” Marrick returned.

“Yeah. I’ll tell you, firsthand, they suck,” Rand replied.

Marrick took the call.

“Graham, here.”

“How soon you gettin’ here?” Marrick asked.

“I’ll be there.”

“Park two blocks back. There are snipers in the upper levels,” Marrick warned.

“Snipers?”

“They’re marking their territory. Any vehicle pulling in gets a bullet through the windshield.”

“How many are there?” Graham asked.

“Can’t tell, but enough to hold the Saturday crowd in a bank lobby and spare enough people to man the upstairs windows. We’re thinking maybe two, three snipers. I nearly caught a slug, but S.L.P.D. is saying that these punks are just playing,” Marrick explained.

“Hope I’m there before playtime’s over and they decide to get serious,” Graham replied.

“I hope so, too,” Marrick answered. “I just can’t see how we’re going to get anywhere with this bunch. The building’s tied up tight, and with the firepower they’ve got, we’re pretty much looking at a long standoff.”

“So, maybe I can get back to the slopes and report in Monday morning?” Graham quipped.

“If my weekend’s going to suck, so is yours. I don’t care who’s in town,” Marrick retorted.

“Yes, ma’am!” Graham responded.

Marrick looked back at the bank as her partner hung up. More vehicles were arriving, including other agents from the local office. She debated whether to give them a warning as they passed the perimeter, but held her tongue.

Since the other agents in town wanted to treat her like a leper, let them squirm as a Korean sniper put a bullet in their windshield. She turned her attention to the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sniper.

The Gulf of Thailand

THE EXECUTIONER descended on the cargo crane from the deck of the smuggler’s ship to the superstructure of the submarine in the water. He held on to the cable, resting his feet against the base of a large iron hook that had gear from Dragon Slayer attached to it. Grimaldi lowered him down to the conning tower.

The gear settled on the deck, and Bolan hopped off to release it from the hook. Grimaldi pulled it back up.

Bolan opened the first of the two duffels and pulled out a strap of grenades, hanging it around his neck and one shoulder. He adjusted the bandolier, making sure the blasters he wanted to use were easily drawn, then took out a Fabrique Nationale P-90 submachine gun. The stubby little chopper was ideal for close quarters work, and held a 50-round magazine. He slung the weapon, then filled his harness with a half-dozen .50-round magazines.