Death Metal

* * *

RIPPER WAS THE BAND LEADER by virtue of having the strongest convictions and the most overwhelming personality. Milan and Seb had identified that about him from the beginning and so had made him their focus. But now that they knew the location of the bunker, they were unwilling to risk their own men until the ordnance had been safely removed.

The site had been secured, and they needed transportation. They were aware that the local police were treating Arsneth’s murder as a closed case with the corpse of Jari providing a convenient scapegoat. But it was only a matter of time before someone questioned the scenario, and they did not want to bring their trained personnel into such a situation until they were ready to put their main plan into action.

This was just the preliminary stage. They might have been able to take any evidence of the bunker that could identify its location off the internet, but there had been enough time for interested parties to start assembling clues.

They needed cannon fodder, and they needed it now. Ripper’s bandmates were known only by their assumed band names: Hellhammer, Visigoth and Emperor Hades. That was all they needed; as Seb and Milan stood in front of the stage and addressed them, they saw reflected back four dour and intense faces, serious about their task.

And their task this night was to learn about the weapons they may need if they encountered resistance at the bunker. Briefly Seb outlined the location they were headed to, and the formation they would take: two trucks, three men each truck, ordnance for a firefight if necessary and space to pack the mother lode, with Seb and Milan riding shotgun to each truck driver.

“We may not be alone,” Ripper continued, walking over to the crate stack where Bolan had hidden himself. “Others may be on the trail. We are sure that Arsneth did not tell anyone else the exact location, but it may be that interested parties have worked out the map reference. We must be prepared. I know that you have explosives and small arms experience, and that some of you are used to hunting rifles. As far as I’m aware, despite shipping and storing these babies for us, you’ve never used them. Time to learn.”

He cracked open a crate, pushing back the top to reveal a cache of Heckler & Koch MP5s, each wrapped in oiled cloth. He took one out and uncovered it, then tossed it to Emperor Hades, who caught it without an eyelid flickering.

Seb grinned at Milan; this should be simple.

* * *

BOLAN HELD HIS BREATH as the mercenary turned and walked toward the stack. Bolan had the micro Uzi SMG in hand—spray’n’pray may be his best bet if discovered at such close range, but he would rather not fire at all...yet.

He almost sighed with relief when the merc picked a crate at the front of the stack and then turned away. One of the musicians caught the weapon thrown at him and examined it while the leader returned to the crate and took another out, repeating the process.

With as much stealth as he could muster, Bolan drew back into the shadows, quickening his pace as he made his way toward the exit. He had heard enough to know their plans, and also that he had time to execute some of his own while the mercenaries ran through some basic weapons training for their troops.

Outside in the cold air with his breath frosting, Bolan located his thick coat and put it back on. He was going to be outside for a while, and he couldn’t afford to slow down due to the temperature. He intended to follow the trucks and required a vehicle of his own. He had some ideas about that, but first he needed a way of tracking the vehicles if he lost visual contact.

His lack of surveillance equipment was an oversight that he couldn’t let happen again, but in the meantime, he had the ingenuity to improvise. He had his smartphone on him, and that was fitted with a GPS tracker in addition to the one that came standard to the phone.

Keeping in the shadows with one eye on the open doorway of the warehouse, the soldier took the back off his phone and located the tracker where it had been fitted under the cover. He replaced the cover and hit a speed-dial number.

“Bear, don’t speak. I’ve taken my personal tracker out of my phone and am placing it on a target vehicle. That one I want followed in case I lose it. I’ll be on the network tracker.”

“I’ll adjust accordingly,” Kurtzman replied simply before disconnecting. It was the least Bolan had heard him say for a long, long time, and despite the situation, it brought a smile to his face as he moved forward across the open space between his cover and the two vehicles.

He chose the one nearest him, the vehicle by the doorway providing him with some cover as he slid underneath the chassis and secured the tracker in a gap the bodywork gave him behind the rear wheel well. He rolled out, got to his feet and made his way back into the cover of the dark and silence.

The first part of his task was complete. Now for the second.

* * *

MILAN HELD UP A HAND to stop Seb as he was about to run through the action of the MP5.

“If we’re going to run some targets, then we need to make sure we’re not overheard.”

“Man, we’ve played sets where we set off the full pyro and nobody cares. There’s a trash band that has a warehouse down the block who have all-night parties with the doors open, and no one pays it any attention. Who will hear?” Ripper complained.

Milan smiled coldly. “You’d be surprised at how gunfire can travel and how it can catch the ear when other things get ignored. It’s always best to take precautions. Wait...”

The mercenary made his way from the pool of light and across the darkened floor toward the warehouse gateway. When he reached it, some instinct gave him pause. Cautiously he stepped out into the dark night, scanning the locale. Initially he could hear nothing, only the distant sounds of music and traffic carried on the freezing night air from the edge of the dock. There was an undertone to it that seemed out of place—a rustling of shale, footsteps on damp concrete?

It was then that he saw him: in the far distance, moving around the side of a warehouse, caught for a fraction of a second in moonlight that was bright enough in contrast to the dark shadows to highlight his figure.

He was moving in the opposite direction to where Milan stood, and the merc was pretty sure that no one had been closer, but nonetheless...

He closed the door, locked it and strode back to the center of the warehouse.

“Let’s speed this up. The sooner we’re gone, the better.”

* * *

BOLAN APPROACHED THE TWO CARS outside the partying warehouse. Light and noise spilled out, with the occasional shadow cast as someone reeled close to the entrance. Voices screamed and yelled to make themselves heard, blending in with the noise of the band as they riffed endlessly on one chord, jamming loosely and covering any noise Bolan could make. If anyone came out while he was claiming one of the vehicles, he would have to disable him, but with the minimum of harm.

To look at, the two vehicles were suitably undistinguished: at least five years old, painted in drab colors and with no distinguishing marks. They both looked like they had been driven hard and recklessly, which wasn’t good. Bolan was hoping for something reliable.

He tried the driver’s side door of both. One had been left unlocked, and in the interest of saving time, he opted for that vehicle, as there seemed little to choose between them.

Hot-wiring a car—even in the days of sophisticated locking systems and computerized engine control that sometimes didn’t require a key—was still a simple task for the soldier, and in a matter of seconds he had the engine purring into life. Luck was with him, as it turned over nicely and was in better condition than the bodywork had led him to believe. The tank was three-quarters full, which was a bonus. If his luck held, then he would be able to keep on the enemy’s tail until they needed to refuel without losing ground.

He slipped the car into gear and pulled slowly away from the warehouse, heading back down the dock to a spot where he could keep his prey under surveillance.

* * *

THE MERCENARIES HAD completed their run-through of basic SMG training in double-quick time. The Norwegian band members were fast learners, and their prior knowledge of some armament was a bonus. Setting up targets, the mercenaries were soon satisfied that the four black metallers were proficient enough to hit a target well enough to stop it.

Milan divided up a crate of MP5s and spare magazines so that each man had a second SMG and enough ammunition to stop a division, let alone the handful of men that he was expecting at worst. He hadn’t mentioned what he had seen to the others, but his fellow merc knew there was something wrong and took him to one side.

“It might have been nothing. I saw a man nearby. He was in the shadows, moving away from us. But my gut—”

“Is something I trust,” Seb interrupted. “Was he here?”

Milan shrugged. “I doubt it. But the sooner we move, the less risk. And watch those shadows when we leave.”

Seb nodded and joined the four musicians as they took their weapons to the trucks, splitting into pairs. Milan killed the light, shut the warehouse door and locked it. As he turned back to the trucks, where he would join Ripper and Hellhammer, he sniffed the air like a dog. There was something there, he was sure. But what?

“Is everything okay?” Ripper queried as Milan climbed into the truck.

“Maybe. Let’s roll—but slow.”

Ripper grinned. “You don’t want us to draw attention to ourselves?”

“Something like that.”

* * *

BOLAN HAD PARKED the car between two warehouses, looking out on the main road that led to the dock entrance. There was only the one way in and out of the complex, so the enemy would have to pass him. He sat in darkness, only the red lights on the dash illuminating the interior of the vehicle, the headlights extinguished.

He was jolted from his resting state to full awareness as one of the trucks pulled past the recess in which he was parked. The soldier prepared to turn the ignition and follow after a moment or two, but the second truck didn’t show up.