Don Pendleton - Dragon's Den

“Computers fail, navigation systems go out and GPS units have been known to land pilots in Alaska who were going to Hawaii. I’m all about a backup plan, Sarge.”

“Far be it for me to interfere with a master at work,” Bolan said with a chuckle.

The soldier rose and went to the reinforced doors of the weapons locker in the aft compartment. He punched in a nine-character alphanumeric code on a keypad attached to the heavy steel and the latch came free. The weapons reflected the dim blue lights recessed in the sides and top of the cabinet with an oily gleam. The complement included an M-16 A-4/M-203 combo, M-4 5.56 mm carbine and one FN FNC submachine gun. The armory also held a SIG-Sauer SSG 3000 sniper rifle, a spare Beretta 93-R with twin clips and a dozen Diehl DM-51 grenades. Finally, Bolan’s eyes rested briefly on the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. This gas-operated hand cannon utilized a rotating bolt system and fired 300-grain rounds at a muzzle velocity just shy of 1,500 feet per second.

Bolan picked the Beretta and FN FNC for this trip, as well as a few DM-51 grenades. He’d be entering gangland territory, which meant some autofire and a few low-yield antipersonnel grenades might come in handy, but heavy assault weapons probably wouldn’t be necessary. In fact, he didn’t even know if he had a target yet. He could only hope Stony Man’s intelligence would point him in the right direction.

After drawing his selections, Bolan secured the armory doors, then left the plane with his utility bag. He crossed the hangar to the living quarters, where he found a shower. He stripped, turned on the hot water and enjoyed the high-pressure spray, washing away the grime and dirt of the day. He then turned the nozzle to allow about two minutes of icy spray to cool his body. Bolan finished showering, toweled dry and then donned his skintight blacksuit and slid his feet into a pair of combat boots with vulcanized neoprene soles. He then returned to the plane.

Grimaldi jerked his thumb at a computer terminal set into the two-seater communications panel against the starboard side. “Your transmission from Bear just arrived.”

Bolan nodded and took a seat at the computer terminal. He punched in his access code, and the information immediately displayed across two separate LCD screens. One screen rendered photographs and dossiers taken from LASD evidence computers, with detailed reports of every raid where they had recovered drugs matching the parameters Stony Man already had. Bolan shook his head, unable to resist grinning at Kurtzman’s ability to hack straight into any computer network to get the intelligence Bolan needed. The Executioner scanned the information, which basically confirmed what Amherst had said.

“Well, at least Amherst is telling the truth,” Bolan said aloud.

“What’s that?” Grimaldi asked.

“This Rhonda Amherst,” Bolan replied. “She’s the Marina del Rey station chief with LASD. It looks like she gave me the straight story.”

Grimaldi just hummed an acknowledgment as Bolan turned his attention to the second screen. He tapped the paging key and quickly identified the key information he’d been looking for. Records from the Gang Support Section of the LAPD currently listed Lavon Hayes as the leader of the Bloods, but his current whereabouts were unknown. The file gave too many possible locations, so Bolan mentally filed the information for future reference and pressed on. And then the Executioner got a hit. The GSS briefs listed Antoine Pratt as being Hayes’s second-in-command. Already Pratt had spent the better part of his life in juvenile for everything from petty theft to drug possession, and he currently had a half-dozen warrants pending for additional crimes.

A real pillar of the community, Bolan thought. “Looks like this intel from Bear might pan out,” he said as he stored the downloaded intelligence and put the computer into hibernation. He went to where he’d stashed his equipment and geared up.

“Where you going?”

“It’s time to find out who was supposed to be on the receiving end of these shipments.”

“Going to knock on some doors, are you?” Grimaldi asked with a knowing wink.

“More like kick them down,” the Executioner replied.

M ACK B OLAN PLACED his first kick in the most literal sense.

The soldier put his foot against the front door of Antoine Pratt’s two-story flat in Ladera Heights. He stood out like a specter, his blacksuit stark against the cream-colored walls illuminated by mood lights. Mostly warm earth tones set off the decor, which looked more luxurious than its run-down exterior. Pratt had probably tried to keep up appearances with the other houses along the block so his didn’t stand out in any way. Bolan swept the area with the muzzle of his FNC and locked on viable targets almost immediately.

A pair of house guards in flannel shirts and bandanas came out of their loungers in the living room and reached for pistols tucked in their waistbands. Neither of the young men seemed to care Bolan already had them dead to rights.

Bolan squeezed the trigger and the FNC chugged in his hands. He couldn’t miss at that range. The hail of 5.56 mm NATO slugs stitched a path across their bellies, tearing through vital organs and sending blood spray in every direction. They twisted inward and collided with each other before dying on their feet. Their corpses hit the carpeted floor with dull thuds.

The Executioner bounded up the flight of steps to his right after clearing his six. He reached the top of the steps and immediately went prone on the upper landing when he caught motion in his periphery. Two more gangbangers opened up on him with pistols. One had enough sense to stay behind the cover of an archway, but the other practically strutted toward Bolan, his pistol held high and sideways as he triggered round after round. The warrior rolled over once, came to his knee and triggered a corkscrew burst. High-velocity slugs riddled the hoodlum’s body and knocked him off his feet. The dead youth’s partner popped off a few more hasty rounds before ducking behind the archway.

Bolan detached a Diehl DM-51 from his load-bearing harness. The German-made hand grenade had proved one of the most effective tools of Bolan’s trade. The hexagonal shape of the grenade body contained more than six thousand 2 mm steel balls packed into a PETN high explosive, making it a superbly effective offensive blast device. When requiring defensive capabilities, the Executioner could attach a plastic sleeve to the grenade with a simple half-twist locking motion, thereby causing a shower of superheated steel fragments to disperse in every direction for antipersonnel effects.

Bolan attached the sleeve, yanked the pin and threw himself into a closed door to get out of the hallway. The warrior didn’t see the grenade explode but he felt it; the resulting screams from his opponent told the rest of the tale. Bolan sensed a presence behind him and spun as he dropped to one knee, finger poised on the FNC trigger. A woman cloaked only in a skimpy towel emerged from a door in the wake of steam clouds and shrieked at the sight of him.

Bolan shook his head, got to his feet and jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. “Back inside.”

She didn’t argue with him.

Bolan stepped into the hallway and advanced along it. He could sense the quarry somewhere ahead; his instincts had taken over the moment he entered the house. He could almost smell the fear on his enemy. Pratt had no intention of running. If anything, Bolan suspected the guy would make a stand right here on his own turf, even if it might kill him, and that made it doubly important Bolan take him alive. Pratt remained the only one who could tell the Executioner why so much dope had been funneled into Los Angeles over the past couple of months.