Killing Trade. Don Pendleton
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“Always,” Bolan said. He closed the connection.
“Your mother?” Burnett said, eyes on the road.
“Something like that,” Bolan replied.
“Yeah.” Burnett almost chuckled. “Assuming that was your boss, or your people or whomever, we can cross-reference what you have with the task force’s files.” When Bolan said nothing, Burnett finally pressed, “Cooper, what is your story? How are you so connected in Washington? Just what are you after?”
“I want the same thing you want,” Bolan told him. “I want those DU rounds off the streets. I want to stop the escalating war between El Cráneo and the Caquetas. And I want to find the men responsible for setting it all in motion.”
Burnett regarded him for a moment before dodging a taxi and cutting off a panel truck to take position in a slightly less congested lane. He tromped the accelerator as soon as he had the shot. The Crown Victoria roared forward.
“Who are you, Cooper?” Burnett asked.
“Just a man,” Bolan told him. “Just one man. Like you.”
“Yeah,” Burnett scoffed, “just an ordinary guy who runs around in a black commando suit under his jacket, hoping nobody will notice his odd fashion sense.”
Bolan said nothing. The formfitting blacksuit he wore beneath his windbreaker was subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice it, but Burnett wasn’t stupid. They both knew Bolan, whatever relationship he had to the Justice Department, was no ordinary government functionary. Bolan hoped the cop’s respect for authority would keep the lid on his curiosity. It didn’t hurt at all to have a local professional, somebody familiar with the battleground that was New York, to help Bolan with his search. If Burnett became a liability, however, Bolan would have to go it alone.
The two rode in silence for the remainder of the trip. Burnett parked in front of a fire hydrant when they reached their destination. They exited the vehicle and paused to look up at the five-story brownstone.
“What floor?” Burnett asked.
“Fifth,” Bolan told him, patting himself down and checking the Beretta in its holster. “We’ll have to search, once we get up there. Do you carry anything heavy in the trunk of this?” He gestured back to the unmarked car with his thumb.
“I’ve got an 870,” Burnett told him.
Bolan nodded to the car. Burnett took the hint, unlocked the trunk and freed the Remington shotgun from its rack. He checked its loads and then scooped a handful of double-aught buckshot shells from a cardboard box in the trunk, dropping the shells into the left-hand pocket of his suit jacket.
“You expecting trouble?” Burnett asked.
“I always expect trouble,” Bolan told him.
A woman in a frayed housecoat watched them from the steps of the brownstone, where she sat knitting something and drinking from a bottle in a paper bag. Bolan nodded as he passed her on the steps.
“Ma’am,” Burnett said, carrying the shotgun close to his body and tipping an imaginary hat with his free hand.
Inside, the lighting was dim compared to the sunny autumn day outside. Bolan squinted and paused in the small entryway, letting his eyes adjust. Outside, the brownstone looked almost charming. Inside, the wallpaper was peeling and the interior was obviously divided into a warren of studio apartments. Burnett scanned the mailboxes mounted flush with one interior wall. Only a few had names, none on the fifth floor.
“I guess it wouldn’t be that easy,” Burnett said. The shotgun in both fists, he made for the stairs. Bolan followed. The rickety stairs creaked under their weight. As they climbed, Bolan drew the Beretta, his thumb swiping up the slide safety out of long habit. The stairwells smelled of urine. As they passed the third floor, they could hear someone screaming. Bolan paused only momentarily. It sounded like a domestic squabble. Shaking his head, Burnett looked upward and Bolan nodded. The two men finally made the fifth floor without incident.
“Now what?” Burnett asked quietly.
“Try these apartments nearest the stairs,” Bolan told him. “I’ll start at the other end. Stay sharp. If I flush him to you, try not to kill him.”
“Right,” Burnett said dubiously. “Because I was planning on shooting the suspect as soon as I saw him.”
Bolan looked at Burnett hard. “Don’t get yourself killed, either.”
“I’ll do my best,” Burnett said. Bolan marched off. The two men started rapping on doors, both of them staying well clear of the doors themselves. Bolan had been on the receiving end of more than a little gunfire through locked doors before. Burnett either had experienced some of the same, or he was just good at his job. Either way, Bolan was glad not to have to hold his hand; the man was a veteran officer and knew his way around.
Bolan was on his third door, having received no answer and hearing no movement at the first two, when the hollow-core door flew open.
“What the hell is it?” The woman who answered was slim and not unattractive, despite the heavy black eye makeup she wore. Her bottom lip pierced by several silver rings. She wore shorts and a halter top, her bare midriff covered in Celtic tattoos. Bolan, his gun held low behind his right leg, nodded to her.
“Miss,” he said. “I’m looking for someone.”
She smiled up at the Executioner. “What a coincidence,” she said, one hand sliding idly up and down the door frame as she leaned in the doorway and eyed Bolan up and down. “So am I.”
Bolan produced a small photo from the inside pocket of his windbreaker. “I’m looking for this man,” he said, letting her get a good look at the photo of Jonathan West. “He might not look like this. He may have changed his hair color, or grown a beard or done something else to disguise himself.”
The woman frowned through a lip full of metal. “You a cop?”
“No,” Bolan said truthfully. “It’s very important—”
Several shots rang out two doors down, as bullets peppered the thin wood of the apartment door on which Burnett had been knocking.
Burnett jacked the pump on his Remington 870, pressing himself against the wall beside the door. “Police!” he bellowed into the corridor. “This is a lawful entry!”
The door practically disintegrated under a withering full-auto blast, peppering the plaster of the opposite wall. Bolan tackled the woman before him, throwing her down through the doorway onto the scarred hardwood floor of her apartment. He stayed on top of her until the shooting stopped. Burnett’s shotgun sounded like a cannon in the narrow corridor outside as the lawman fired back.
Bolan checked the woman beneath him, who looked at him with a mixture of fear and excitement. The Executioner nodded to the large windows at the end of the small studio, beyond which he could see a fire escape.
“Does that go all the way across the front of the building?” Bolan asked sharply.
She thought about it for a second. “Yes,” she said, as Bolan got to his feet, his Beretta in a low two-hand grip. “It connects all the apartments on this side.”
“Stay low,” Bolan told her. “Don’t go out until the shooting stops. And call 9-1-1!” He was moving before she could say more, throwing open the window and stepping outside. Wind tugged at his hair as he crept along the rusted metal fire escape. From the apartment two doors down, more gunfire erupted. It was the unmistakable chatter of an Uzi, punctuated by more of Burnett’s shotgun blasts.
Wincing as his combat boots rang on the metal fire escape, Bolan slowed and dropped to his knees as he neared the window he wanted. Then he threw himself on his back, using his legs to shove himself forward as he stared skyward, concealing himself between the window ledge and the floor of the fire escape. Below him, New York City continued