Sabotage

“There!” one of the armed men pointed in Bolan’s direction. The soldier ducked back behind cover as 5.56 mm bullets chipped away at the battered door frame.

He’d seen enough. He thrust the snout of the Tavor and its grenade launcher through the opening, trusting to luck and his own speed to prevent the weapon from catching a round, then he triggered it.

The grenade caught the lead Suburban, blowing apart the first quarter of the vehicle and sending hot shrapnel in every direction. As the explosion died away, the soldier could hear the screams of his enemies. There was more than one wailing voice. At least two, perhaps more of the shooters had been caught in the blast.

He reloaded the grenade launcher, then repeated the same rattlesnake-fast movement, shoving the nose of the weapon into the gap of the doorway and triggering a second grenade. The explosion, like the one before it, brought a wave of heat pressing through the shattered double doors. Bolan waited and was rewarded with a secondary blast of some kind. Something in one of the damaged vehicles, perhaps extra fuel, perhaps explosives, had caught and detonated.

Sparing the corpse of Hal West a final glance, the Executioner walked out into the flaming hellscape.

Bodies were scattered in and around the two burning vehicles. Some of the shrapnel had damaged two of the nearby parked cars, shattering their windshields and flattening a tire on the closer vehicle. Bolan checked each of the dead men, making sure no one was playing possum. He found only one man still alive, lying on his back behind one of the shattered trucks, staring into the sky trying to breathe with a collapsed lung. His shirt was soaked through with blood. An M-4 lay on the asphalt nearby, forgotten.

Bolan stood over him. He aimed the Tavor at the man’s head, one-handed.

“You’re…one…tough bastard,” the dying man gasped.

“Who do you work for?”

“Card’s…in my pocket,” the man said. Evidently, as death approached, he felt no compelling urge to remain loyal to his employers.

“SCAR?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah,” the man wheezed. “Was…Army.”

“And now you’re a mercenary,” Bolan guessed.

“Yeah.” The wounded man’s voice was growing weaker.

“Why?” Bolan asked. “What’s going on in there? What are you protecting?”

“Beats…hell…out of me.” The man grinned. “They…pay.”

“Was it worth it?” Bolan asked.

The dead man stared up at him, unseeing. He would never answer that or any other question.

The Executioner shook his head. They fought for money, and they died for nothing. He had seen it countless times.

Shaking his head again, the soldier shouldered his weapon and hurried back to his vehicle. There was much more work to be done.

CHAPTER SIX

Mack Bolan found the Ford Explorer waiting at the pickup and drop-off area just outside the terminal of Kansas City International Airport. He carried his heavy weapons and gear in a large duffel bag, while his canvas shoulder bag was slung under his field jacket. His personal weapons were concealed within the jacket. Flying Air Grimaldi had its benefits; he could, between the private plane and his Justice credentials, bypass any and all security in the airport. It wouldn’t do to have some overeager TSA official discovering automatic weapons and grenades on Bolan’s person and in his carry-on.

Agent Jennifer Delaney was prettier than her photograph. She was dressed in a silk blouse, a pair of jeans with hiking boots and a well-cut brown leather jacket that almost hid the bulge of the sidearm on her belt. Bolan looked her over as he stowed his gear on the rear seat of the truck. As he climbed in, she was programming the GPS unit.

“Where to, Soldier?”

Bolan stopped short and eyed her.

“Oh, come off it.” Delaney smiled, flashing white, even teeth. “It practically radiates from you. If you’re a Washington desk-rider or even a legal eagle, I’d be very surprised. You’re military or ex-military.”

Bolan pulled on his seat belt, looked over at her and stuck out his hand.

“Matt Cooper,” he said. “Justice Department.”

“Uh-huh,” Delaney said. She smiled again. “Have it your way, Cooper. Agent Jennifer Delaney, FBI.” She shook his hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “So, Agent Cooper. Or is it…Captain? Major? Colonel?”

“Agent will be fine,” Bolan said, almost laughing despite himself. He hadn’t been read so easily in a long time. Delaney’s head was screwed on right, that much was certain. “You and I both know it’s probably better if you don’t pry too deeply.”

“Which is why I’m getting my digs in now,” Delaney admitted. “We can continue this witty banter on the road. Where to?”

Bolan rattled off the address. “We’ll want to take 152.”

Delaney finished entering the address on the GPS. “That’s not too far. But far enough out of the city that we may have more privacy than we might like.”

“Privacy is good,” Bolan said. “Cuts down on people who might get caught in the cross fire.”

“‘Cross fire’?” Delaney shot him a sidelong glance as she drove. She guided the Ford easily through the busy traffic exiting the airport.

“You were informed of the nature of this operation?” Bolan countered.

“I was told Justice is conducting an investigation into Trofimov, and that there’s evidence Gareth Twain is working with Trofimov in some sort of terrorist campaign.”

“That about sums it up,” Bolan told her. “Officially, the government can’t just break down Trofimov’s door and waterboard him until he talks.”

“Sure it could,” Delaney countered.

The soldier paused, watching the traffic rush past. Delaney drove well, moving in and out of the available openings with efficiency and purpose. “Well, all right,” Bolan admitted, “but if that happens too soon, we run the risk of getting to the bottom of everything Trofimov is doing. To shake the tree, we have to leave the roots alone…for now.”

“Which means?”

“Which means, as you’ve probably been told already, I have a list of targets. I intend to visit each of those targets in turn. At those locations, I intend to break things. When enough important things get broken, Trofimov and those working for him, including Twain, will get agitated and expose themselves. Then I take them down and put an end to whatever threat Trofimov represents.”

“‘Break things,’” Delaney said. “You’re running a series of armed raids.”

“Yes.”

“Who’s your team? Will they be meeting us?”

“We are the team,” Bolan said. “Unless you want to back out now. I’m going to warn you, Agent Delaney. Things are going to get hot.” He turned from the window and gave her a hard look. “Are you prepared for that?”

She returned his gaze evenly. “If it means I get Gareth Twain, then yes.”

“He’s not my priority,” Bolan told her. “But I’ve already faced one of his people, according to the man’s background file. Twain’s past, his method of operation, it fits. If he’s here at all, it’s likely we’ll encounter him eventually. When we do, he’s going to be gunning for us.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’re armed?” Bolan asked, knowing the answer.