Shadow Strike. Don Pendleton
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was the end. Then the portal crashed open and he half fell onto soft carpeting. A split second later, a deafening avalanche of stairs, cables, stays and corpses arrived, blocking the doorway completely as it formed a ghastly pile of debris.
As Bolan started to rise, a dozen armed men charged into view from around a corner. Drawing the Beretta 93-R, the soldier emptied the magazine into the group. Faces disappeared, and hot blood splashed the wall as the chests of the guards were torn open under the barrage.
Dropping the magazine, Bolan slammed a fresh one home as a second group of gunners appeared. But these men were carrying M-16 assault rifles and wearing body armor.
As the guards paused at the sight of the carnage, Bolan threw himself to the floor and quickly shifted targets. Firing 9 mm rounds across their exposed knees, he brought them down screaming and cursing, white bones and gore erupting from the hideous wounds.
Rolling to a new position, Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and stroked the trigger. The big bore handcannon boomed louder than doomsday in the enclosed confines of the hall, the muzzle-flame extending for almost a foot from the pitted maw of the oversize weapon.
The head of the first man simply broke apart, his life gone in a microsecond of high-powered annihilation. Then the nose of the second man vanished, just before the back of his head exploded, the men behind him caught in the spray of bones and brains.
Temporarily blinded by the gory material, the other guards rubbed at their faces and fired back randomly, mostly hitting the floors and ceiling, and occasionally one another.
Constantly moving and shooting, Bolan continued to ruthlessly exterminate each of them, one after another, until the corridor was again empty.
Swiftly reloading both his weapons, Bolan took this opportunity to press the button on the remote detonator clipped to his shoulder holster, then toss the device away.
Moving onward, the soldier stayed low and close to the walls, gunning down everybody he saw carrying a weapon, as well as every security camera that came into view.
Pausing at an intersection, he fired the Desert Eagle into the ceiling, dislodging several foam acoustical tiles to expose raw concrete and several thick power cables. He grunted at the sight. Those would lead either directly to the power room or to Tiffany. A fifty-fifty chance. He went to the right.
Sure enough, at the far end of the corridor, Bolan saw a group of men with military weapons clustered around an unmarked door. As they turned, Bolan shot the two men in front, then dived to the side. Caught by surprise, the guards took a moment to fire back, their assault rifles sending a fiery maelstrom of steel-jacketed lead along the corridor. But Bolan was already safely behind the corner, and unwrapping a grenade.
“Surrender or die!” he yelled, yanking out the arming pin and releasing the safety lever.
“Fuck you, cop!” somebody snarled in reply. “Come and get us!”
As the guards cut loose with another barrage, much longer this time, Bolan threw the military sphere as hard as he could at the opposite wall. It bounced off the bricks and went around the corner.
A man cursed, another screamed, then the antipersonnel grenade detonated in the air, sending out a hellish corona of stainless-steel fléchettes. Just for a second, Bolan heard the hiss of their trajectory, then there was only silence.
Pulling a mirrored dental probe from his inside pocket, he glanced around the corner to check the damage. There were tattered bodies in sight, but none remotely resembled human beings anymore, just piles of ground meat in cheap suits. Then he spotted a disembodied arm holding an XM-15. Bolan scooped it up and slung the deadly weapon across his back.
Stepping over the ragged corpses, the soldier heard one of the mutilated men give a low groan, and he quickly fired a mercy round from the Beretta to end the torment. Just then, the overhead lights went out, casting the corridor in near absolute blackness.
Cracking open a chemical glow stick, Bolan tossed it onto the bodies, then blew off the lock to the office door with a single booming round from the .50 Desert Eagle. The thundering rip of an auto-shotgun answered, a dozen cartridges discharged in a single, continuous volley.
Even before it stopped, Bolan tossed in an unprimed grenade. The bomb hit the carpet and rolled out of sight. He heard a man curse vehemently, and swung around the jamb.
Standing behind a huge wooden desk was a short bald man, a tailored silk shirt almost unable to contain his amazingly muscular frame. He appeared to be made out of nothing but bulging muscles and scar tissue. On the brick wall were several certificates from local charities, and a framed picture of the short man standing with his arm around the recently elected congressman who was rumored to be in the pockets of organized crime. Tiffany was clean-shaved, and had a puckered scar across his throat where a Jamaican drug lord had tried to behead him and failed. That was what gave the arms dealer his characteristic growl for a voice.
“What the fuck…a fake!” Tiffany snarled, dropping the spent drum of the Atchisson and reaching for another from a pile on the desk.
“Don’t do it, Mike,” Bolan said softly.
Tiffany froze with his hand less than an inch from the ammunition drum. Slowly, he looked up to squint into the darkness.
A long moment passed, then he curled his lips into a snarl and tossed away the Atchisson. It landed with a clatter on the carpeting, right next to the smoking ruin of a computer. The cover was off, and an electric stun gun was resting inside the complex wiring, molten plastic dribbling from the hard drive onto the floor.
“Okay, you got me, feeb,” Tiffany growled, raising both hands. “But you took too long, and my computer has bizarrely crashed.” He grinned as if he had just won the battle. “Now, read me my rights and call me a fucking lawyer.”
“Okay, you’re a fucking lawyer.”
Tiffany scowled. “What was that?”
“I’m not with the FBI,” Bolan stated, cracking alive another glow stick while advancing. “And I’m not here for your records, or to arrest anybody.”
“That so?” Tiffany muttered. “Well, you sure aren’t here to zap me, or else you would have tossed in a live grenade.”
Biding his time, Bolan said nothing, letting the arms dealer work out the details for himself. Interrogation was an art, not a science.
“You don’t really think I’m going to rat out my contacts for a shorter jail sentence?” Tiffany barked in a cold laugh.
“Mad Mike, the Brooklyn Terror? That possibility never even entered my mind,” Bolan stated honestly, pressing the hot barrel of the Colt against the man’s cheek.
The skin sizzled at the contact, but aside from a slight furrowing of his brow, Tiffany gave no indication that he felt anything. Finally, Bolan removed the weapon.
“Okay, now that you’ve had fun, what the fuck do you want?” the dealer demanded, rubbing the spot with his fingertips. “Money? I can get you that. More than you can spend in a dozen lifetimes!”
“Wrong again, Michael,” Bolan whispered, making the other man strain to hear the words. This was an old interrogation technique that almost always worked.
“Weapons?” Tiffany snorted in disdain. “You didn’t have to ace half my staff to cut a deal for some guns! What do ya want? Stinger missiles, C-4 satchel charges? I can even get you a PEP laser, if you give me a week.”
Bolan had started to speak when he saw Tiffany’s eyes widen in delight. Instantly, the soldier’s combat instincts flared and he spun out of the way with both guns blazing.
A big man stood in the doorway, aiming an M-16 assault rifle. He stumbled backward from the triphammer impact of the .50-caliber round from the Desert Eagle ricocheting off his chest, the shirt tearing to reveal body armor. Then the triburst of 9 mm rounds from the Beretta walked across the man, tearing away more cloth, then punching through flesh and