Lethal diversion, p.6
Lethal Diversion, page 6
“Keep me in the loop, Striker. The President is breathing down my neck on this one.”
“When I know something, you’ll know it, too,” Bolan promised, ending the call. He put Kowt’s phone in an evidence bag and tossed it in the backseat, then started the car. It wasn’t far to the address Brognola had given him, and the sooner he got there, the faster he might be able to connect the dots between the terrorists and the gangs running the streets of the 8 Mile region.
* * *
THE MASTERPIECE WAS almost complete.
The computer monitor on his desk was directly linked to a secure web-cam network that he’d built himself. From any computer, he could log into his encrypted camera system and see anything from the office where he spent most of his days to over a dozen different warehouses where he and his men processed heroin, and even into the homes of some of his less trustworthy associates. He smiled grimly to himself. If he were to be honest, he could even see into the homes of some of his associates that he did trust.
Presently, the camera he was watching showed three men working with deliberate care. The room they were in was small and shielded from prying eyes by multiple layers. The room itself was inside another room, and both were inside a warehouse that on the outside was labeled Packing Peanuts Unlimited. No one, at least so far, had shown the least bit of interest in stealing packing peanuts. Not that getting through the outer security would have been a simple matter, in any event.
On the monitor, the nuclear weapon he would use to strike the most savage blow ever in the war against America was coming together. He’d been on this path for so long, planted in the muddy cesspit of the infidels, and his patience was stretched thin. But on the screen before him, his reward was taking final shape. He smiled once more. His sacrifice would never be forgotten.
Rabah, his hand-picked expert, must have seen that the camera was on, and he moved away from the work table and picked up the cell phone on the desk, pressing the button that allowed it to function as a walkie-talkie.
“Sayid, my friend, our work is progressing. There is no need for you to watch over us so closely. I am certain you have better things to do.”
Sayid Rais Sayf smiled. There were some men in the operation who might waver, but Rabah was among the most dedicated of his group. Together they would begin to rid the world of the evil taint that America had allowed to take form throughout their country and many others. “I do not doubt you, my friend. I was merely marveling at your work. It really is beautiful.”
And it was—or at least would be when it was finished. At the moment, it was a half-finished sphere that looked a bit like a metal moon with pieces missing from the upper side. The internal core which contained the uranium was still in the container Yasim had used to ship it—locked behind a lead shield with enough coolant to keep the temperature perfectly maintained.
Rabah nodded at the praise, glancing involuntarily at his own handiwork. It truly was a thing of beauty and even when it was detonated and destroyed, the beauty of that destruction would be a sight to behold, indeed.
“Everything is progressing and we will finish on time, provided we get the bridge-wire detonator on schedule,” he said.
“You will,” Sayf promised. “All will be well. Continue assembling the device and let me know if there are any problems or issues.”
“Of course,” Rabah said, then set down the phone. Sayf watched on the monitor a moment longer, then shut it off. There was a great deal more to do if he wanted to achieve a Devil’s Night that would be a fiery, cleansing blaze of fury.
7
There were at least half a dozen tricked-out Harleys on the front lawn. From custom-painted choppers to Softtails to Road Kings and more, and another handful of cars parked in front of the house itself. These were low riders, two of them El Caminos, with fancy paint jobs and most likely stolen plates. If it weren’t for the well-armed riders and drivers of these vehicles, it might be a street-rod show perfect for a city like Detroit. As it was, the members of two gangs were about to crash into each other. The Devil’s Apostles were easy to spot with their distinctive back patches on their leather coats. Bolan didn’t know the other gang, but the members appeared to be mostly Latinos. The two groups came together with a resounding crash of human flesh and steel.
Sitting in his car, Bolan watched as the fight began in earnest and he contemplated how best to get inside the house. He was about to step out when his phone rang, and he saw that it was Brognola calling him, so he answered.
“I was just going to call you,” Bolan said, skipping the preamble. “All hell’s breaking loose at the address you sent me.”
“What’s going on?”
“Is that GPS signal still there?”
“Yeah, it’s still live, but I was able to get you infrared satellite. I thought you might want an uplink before you go in.”
“Send it to my handheld,” Bolan said. “Thanks.”
“I’d get a move on,” Brognola said. “Current imaging shows that whoever has that phone is moving around inside the house. He might be getting ready to leave, and we’d have to run the triangulation all over again once he left the range of the closest cell tower.”
“Keep on him. I’ll make my way to him and you can give me the final ID when I’m close. I’m switching over to my headset now. Stand by.”
“Standing by,” Brognola said.
Bolan checked that his Desert Eagle was secure in his shoulder rig beneath his jacket, then stepped out of his car. The fight was in full swing, moving back and forth across several yards and the street. He didn’t want to engage in the brawl, just skirt it and get into the house.
Jogging to a nearby low hedge and keeping to the shadows, he got to the edge of the fight without any trouble, but getting around it was going to be all but impossible. The hedge bordered the property, and Bolan followed it up to the front side of the house where the phone was located then jumped over, staying low and plotting a path in his mind to the door. Without climbing a tall privacy fence—or breaking it down—he couldn’t go around to the back, so the front was his fastest option.
He moved along the front of the house, getting about halfway to the door, before the fight swept closer and an obese Mexican wearing nothing above the waist but a leather vest and an upper body covered in tattoos approached him. “Where you going, pendaho?”
“It’s a nice night for a stroll,” Bolan said, taking a step back just as the man pulled a large knife from behind his back.
“Gonna cut you, gringo,” the gang member snarled, swinging the blade across his body and lunging forward at the same time.
Bolan spun, letting the blade and the man’s arm go past him, then caught his wrist, twisted the arm, and brought his left elbow down directly on the joint. The man’s arm broke with an ugly snapping sound and he screamed, dropping the knife.
Knowing that it was all fight from here, Bolan thrust a snap kick at the man’s temple, and he went down, moaning and cradling his broken limb. Bolan turned then, just as the rest of the fight washed over him in a wave. It was nothing but a whirling mass of bodies, most of them holding knives, chains and, in at least one instance that he saw out of the corner of his eye, a garden hose—no doubt packed with wet sand and sealed with lead on either end.
Cursing in both English and Spanish filled the air, along with grunts of exertion and moans and screams of pain. Any minute, someone was going to start in with a gun, and it would be even uglier. Bolan ducked one wildly thrown punch, came up underneath, and drove a fist into the underside of the biker’s chin. Spinning, he kicked low and took out the man’s knee, jumping over him and bringing himself almost to the front steps.
Two more bikers, both wearing Devil’s Apostles patches, were there, going at it with several Mexicans from the rival gang. He picked the closest one, smashing his hard fist into the man’s kidney.
He howled in pain, turning toward him, and Bolan made good use of the movement, stepping close enough to get inside his reach. He engaged a double armlock, then pummeled the man’s ribcage with his knees. Once, twice, three times, and he heard them crack on the last one. Stunned at the ferocious attack, the biker stumbled back as Bolan released him, then followed up with a straight snap kick to the chest, which made the thug slam into the group in front of the door. The whole pile went down in a heap of thrashing arms, kicking legs and swear words in two languages.
Bolan stepped around them and reached the steps, but as he started up, he felt a hand grip his right ankle, and before he could adjust, he was on his way down. He put his hands out in front of him to ease the impact and keep his face from slamming into the concrete steps, but the blow on his chest was enough to knock the wind out of him.
Rolling left, he escaped the grasping hand, only to look up and see the biker he’d tossed into the pile-up stagger to his feet and start toward him. In the man’s right hand, a large, heavy tow chain dangled, and by the moonlight, Bolan could see that concertina wire had been woven between the links. It was a handmade weapon, but could inflict serious damage. He crab-crawled back up the steps, trying to get to his feet and gain some distance.
“You’re some kind of bad ass, huh?” the biker said, as he came forward. His brown mustache and beard were soaked in blood—Bolan must have punctured a lung with one of the broken ribs—and the fact that he was still on his feet was a testament to either his will power, strength, or that he was on drugs of some kind.
“You’ve got me there,” Bolan said, getting himself upright. He noted that the man’s eyes were unfocused. His face was covered in acne-like sores, and when he grinned, his teeth were rotted. “How’s that meth addiction going for you?”
“Shut the fuck up!” the biker roared, swinging the chain in a wide arc, and forcing Bolan to jump back to get out of its reach. “I’ll kill you!”
Reaching the top of the steps, Bolan looked around for a potential weapon. The Desert Eagle would do, but he’d prefer not to use it unless he had to. The idea was to get inside and find the guy with the phone before he brought a lot of attention to himself.
Lumbering up the steps, favoring his left side where his ribs had been battered, the biker swung the chain again and again, using a wide X pattern. Even if Bolan stepped inside to try to end this, it was very likely he’d get hit with the wire-wrapped chain at least once. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that a broom had been left on the far end of the porch, so he jerked his body in the opposite direction and when the biker moved that way, he cut back and reached out to grab it.
Turning, Bolan saw that his attacker was right behind him, and he barely got the broom up in time. The length of chain spun around the handle, wrapping tightly, and the wire blades dug into the wood. That would have to be good enough, Bolan thought. He stepped forward then, using the broomstick as leverage and rapped the man in the nose with it.
The biker’s nose broke with a sharp snap and a rush of blood, and he let go of the handle on the chain, screeching in agony as his hands went to his ruined face.
“I guess playtime is over,” Bolan said. He held the broomstick with the heavy tow chain coated in concertina wire. He spun it lightly in one hand and, as the biker’s eyes came up to meet his, Bolan whipped the handle in a short arc, rapping the man on the jaw. The blades opened him to the bone, and the chain broke it. He went down screaming. Given his condition, Bolan measured one last move, and kicked him hard in the back of the head. That one put him out.
On the lawn, the fight had moved back into the street, and Bolan was alone on the porch. He activated his headset. “Are you still with me, Hal?”
“Standing by. Are you in the house yet?”
“Moving in now. I had some trouble getting to the door.”
Stepping quickly past the windows, Bolan reached the front door, which was slightly ajar. Inside, there was also plenty of noise, and from the sounds of it, more fighting. He moved into the entryway and looked into the main living area. There were about ten men in the room, eight watching as two men fought in the center. One from each of the gangs. Perfect, Bolan thought.
“Where is he, Hal?”
“He’s in the room right in front of you.”
“Where? There are at least ten guys in there!” Bolan snapped.
“Hold on and listen for a moment.”
A ring tone sounded and Bolan swiveled his head around and spotted his target.
“Got him,” he said. Not bothering to shut off his headset, he moved in to intercept. He barreled his way across the room, plowing into the large biker who was holding the phone that had just stopped ringing in his hand. They crashed to the ground, and the Executioner continued the pressure from the fall, applying all of his weight on the man’s chest and keeping his forearm pressed against the man’s throat.
“I have some questions for you,” Bolan said.
The biker thrashed underneath him, knocking him off balance and sucking in enough air to howl his displeasure. Stronger than he looked, he fought like an angry cat, and when they rolled through the already crowded living room, Bolan realized that he needed to end this quickly or his new biker friend would soon have a half-dozen allies to help him out.
He released his hold and jumped to his feet just as the man pulled a knife free from his belt and sliced the air where Bolan’s face had been a moment before. The biker swung wildly at first, but then his aim began to get more precise, slicing through the air and finally skidding through Bolan’s coat and shirt, scoring a thin cut along his arm and leaving a trail of blood in its wake.
Ignoring the flash of pain, Bolan closed in and used a wrist lock to force the man to drop the weapon. He followed up with a short, sharp punch to the solar plexus, and repeated it a second time. The air rushed out of his opponent’s lungs and he sagged to the floor. A final blow to the back of the neck rendered the man unconscious, and Bolan turned his attention to the rest of the room.
He felt nine sets of eyes on him and all of them belonged to people wearing the insignia of Devil’s Apostles. He eased his hand toward the Desert Eagle, having no intention of taking them all on, when the sound of rapidly approaching sirens split the night air.
One of them yelled, “Take off!” and everyone headed for the exits. At his feet, the biker he’d taken out groaned as Bolan bent down to take the ringing phone out of his jacket. It was the exact same make and model as the one he’d taken from Kowt earlier—and probably just as useless.
“Damn it!” Bolan snapped, resisting the urge to chuck it on the ground. Instead, he pocketed both phones and made his way back to the door. The night sky was swirling with the bright blue and red lights of law-enforcement vehicles, but he didn’t have time to explain his presence. He slipped off the porch and back over the hedge, making his way to his car unseen in the chaos.
The terrorists were still out there somewhere, and he was officially out of leads.
* * *
THE BAY DOORS SLID OPEN and bright LED headlights filled the space. Sayf stood, feigning patience, as Yasim parked his vehicle and approached the office. Everything was moving quickly, and there was little room for error. Even having to send Yasim to do tasks like this posed risks to his plans.
He took a deep breath and steeled himself against his emotions. Impatience was for the unbeliever. Impatience was to force something that Allah had not intended, and he was nothing if not a faithful servant. Everyone would know soon the depth of his resolve.
Yasim made his way to the office and stepped inside. Sayf smiled at the casual grace that accompanied the man’s movements—Malick was as deadly as his nickname—the Mummy—and despite the earlier mistake, he would not err again. It was written on his face. Pride and confidence looked much different from panic.
“All is well, sir,” Yasim reported.
“Tell me.”
“The gang wars are starting and spreading more rapidly than we could have even hoped for. They will last for hours, perhaps even days, and I have several men prepared to keep them going. The 8 Mile Road is an extremely dangerous place right now and the police will be very busy keeping things under any semblance of control.”
“Excellent. You have done well. For now, let them run amok and do the damage. Should intervening become necessary, we will do so. But for the moment, this will work in our favor. In the meantime, your next assignment is waiting for you.”
Yasim nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. “My men and I will head for the train yard immediately,” he said.
Sayf held up a hand to stop him before he could go. “I need you to make a stop along the way. Our friend, Imam Aalim Al-Qadir, has been asking questions. I do not know the source of these questions, but should it be law enforcement, we must direct them elsewhere. Stop by and ensure that he believes the source of those questions should lead to our warehouse by Blackstone Park.”
Yasim raised one thin eyebrow. “You have a trap in place?”
Sayf nodded. “I planned for this contingency. The imam is not to be harmed. He believes in his own way.”
“I understand.”
“Once you arrive at the train yards, it is imperative that you do not act until I give the order, my friend. No one on your team must get impatient or fearful. Everything must go according to plan. If it does not, our mission will fail.”
“I swear to you, no one shall act without my permission, and I will await your command to move ahead.”
“Excellent,” Sayf said, smiling. “Allah be with you.”
