Deadly command, p.15
Deadly Command, page 15
“Show me Cameron’s place,” he said.
Kowalski scanned the terrain below, getting a fix, then jabbed her finger in a direction, shouting over the engine noise.
“That way,” she said. “Keep your heading and you’ll see the house. You can’t miss it.”
“That large?”
“Oh, yes.”
22
An hour later, flying into the coming dusk, Bolan saw the sprawl of buildings that comprised the Cameron property. Lights were starting come on inside the extended house. Floodlights sprang to life, illuminating the wide frontage. Bolan flew in from well behind the rear, slowly descending and aiming the helicopter for the landing pad there.
“Cooper, aren’t they going to see us coming? Or is that a stupid question?”
“Yes and no,” Bolan said.
He completed the landing with a bone-jarring bump. He shrugged at Kowalski’s questioning look.
“Still working on my landing skills.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed if you hadn’t told me.”
“They’ll be expecting the chopper because it’s theirs,” Bolan said, “so we’ll have a few minutes before they figure out there’s something wrong.”
“And…?”
“We head for the closest outbuilding,” he said, indicating a squat construction off their right. “Cover before they come looking for us.”
As the chopper powered down, they made final checks of their ordnance.
“Are you set?”
“This is the day I’ve been waiting for all my life,” she said drily.
“Good. Because I never like to disappoint a lady.”
Bolan pushed open the cabin door and dropped to the ground. Kowalski followed suit and they crouched by the front of the chopper. He tapped her on the shoulder and they cut across the flat earth, heading for the outbuilding. They had barely reached cover when a shout was heard.
“Oops,” Kowalski said, “I think we’re blown.”
The rattle of autofire confirmed her statement. Slugs pounded the adobe wall seconds before they rounded the corner. More shots came. Someone was loosing off a great deal of ammunition. “Mi casa es su casa doesn’t appear to apply here,” the deputy said.
Bolan was looking at their current position in relation to the main house. The light was fading fast, long shadows encroaching on the property. The soldier could hear movement in the vicinity, and he turned as he sensed someone closing in. He spotted an armed figure rising from behind a low wall, brought the M-4 A-1 on-line and hit the guy with a burst. The gunner reared up, weapon slipping from his hands. As that man went down, two more rushed forward to fill the space he had vacated.
Kowalski took her place at Bolan’s side, her own SMG adding its sound. They fired in the same moment, catching the pair of gunners with concentrated bursts that dropped them to the ground.
“Over the wall,” Bolan said
They cleared the wall, stepping around the downed men, and Bolan led the way through a stone arch that took them into a patio area, with the main house ahead.
“Cooper,” Kowalski called.
Her warning preceded the emergence of more armed men coming up on their rear. Bolan heard the deputy yell again and might have continued the fight if her strangled words hadn’t alerted him. He turned and saw she had been overwhelmed. Arms pinned at her side, she struggled to break her captor’s grip, despite having a pistol pressed against her head.
“Do it, Cooper. Don’t give in to them.”
Bolan lowered his M-4 A-1. There was no way he could continue and risk her life. No excuses. He had put them into a bad situation and now Kowalski was under a direct threat.
He raised his hands.
It was not the time to force the issue. That would have to come later.
BOLAN CHECKED his watch. They had been in the cellar of the house for a couple of hours. Their captors had been overly aggressive when they had stripped Bolan and Kowalski of their weapons before dragging them through the house and into the low-ceilinged cellar. A short flight of stone steps led down to the packed earth floor, and the captives were thrown bodily down. The door had been slammed shut and secured, leaving Bolan and Kowalski on the cold floor, bodies aching from the blows and kicks they had received on way.
There was a dull light in the ceiling. It came from a fixture behind thick glass, enabling Bolan to check out the cellar—earth floor, stone walls, no window. The twenty-by-twenty room was bare. No furniture. Nothing stored. Just an empty space.
Bolan had pushed to his feet, stretching his aching bones. One side of his face was raw and scraped, blood oozing from a gash on his lower lip. He crossed to where Kowalski was slowly raising herself. He helped her to her feet, seeing the marks that discolored her face.
“And it was all going so well,” she mumbled through bruised lips.
Two hours on they were starting to feel the chill pervading the cellar. Sitting with his back to a wall, Bolan had his arms around Kowalski’s shoulders, keeping her close against the cold.
“My dad said that one day all my expectations about romance would hit me in a rush,” Kowalski said.
“But not today?”
“Uh-huh. But let’s just stay like this for a bit.”
DESPITE THE uncomfortable surroundings, Bolan and Kowalski had managed a few hours of sleep. When the door to the cellar was finally opened, Bolan’s watch told him it was almost 10:00 a.m.
And Kowalski was no longer by his side. He was alone in the cellar.
Armed men stood framed in the doorway.
“Let’s go, Cooper. Sorry you missed breakfast, but it’s time to take a ride and go see the boss. He’s busy right now, so he wants you in McQueen.”
Bolan moved stiffly up the stairs.
“Come on, come on, don’t hang back.”
Bolan was on the top step.
The man in charge of the team had an impatient expression on his face as he reached to hurry Bolan along.
From somewhere outside the house Bolan heard the sound of autofire—a number of weapons firing.
“What the hell?” the lead guy said.
His attention was drawn from Bolan as he worked on what was happening.
And that was when the Executioner struck.
23
The flight time from Newark to New Mexico had passed smoothly and uneventfully. The private jet belonged to a small company owned by the Russian syndicate, but on the surface it had little connection with Zader Poliokof. Poliokof and his team relaxed—watched a movie, listened to music, talked among themselves. When they touched down someone was waiting for them.
Poliokof was met by a Russian who had his own team with him. Yuri Stetko had worked for Poliokof a long time. They sat in the climate-controlled comfort of the Volkswagen Touareg. There were two more of the powerful SUVs waiting. Stetko was a broad-shouldered man in his early forties, a formidable figure. Below his dark hair, his square face showed his Slavic roots.
“So?” Poliokof asked.
“I used the information you gave me. Cameron is based near a town called McQueen, about a four-hour drive from here. Out of town there is very little—a few ranches, tourist spots. There is also some oil production in the area, and this is how Cameron covers himself. He owns an oil company—Cameron Oil—twenty miles south of McQueen. It does actually produce some product, but it’s primarily there to hide his real business. The detail you got from Manny Gottfried led us to all this. Cameron also owns the local sheriff, a man by the name of Torrance, and his chief deputy, Lonny Magruder.” Stetko smiled, pleased with himself. “We already picked up Magruder.”
“It all sounds very cozy,” Poliokof said. “Does Cameron have a big crew around him?”
“He is bringing in outside help, from a man in Kansas named Kassalis. We know about him. He’s an independent contractor who supplies outside help for anyone willing to pay. He’s sending men to Chicago, Newark and McQueen.”
“Cameron is getting worried his own people can’t handle things,” Poliokof said. “Which is true. His business is falling apart, so he’s bringing in help to hold it together.”
“It won’t do him any good. These American criminals believe they are such hard men. Let them match up against my people—they will fall like dead leaves from trees in winter.”
“You have this Magruder you say?”
Stetko smiled. “We picked him up from his home and took him to a safehouse we found way outside town—an old farm that has been deserted for years. We have already gained information from him. It was easy. He squealed like the fat pig he is when we worked on him.”
LATER POLIOKOF was able to see for himself how easy it was to extract information from the captive.
Naked and bleeding, his face wet with tears, Lonny Magruder begged and pleaded for his life. In the root cellar of the empty house, Magruder, tied to a rusting metal chair, sobbed unashamedly. The dirt floor under the chair was slick with his spilled blood. His soft face was barely recognizable from the severe beating he had been subjected to, the flesh swollen grotesquely. Stetko’s men, well used to this kind of work, had used a number of handy tools they had found in the cellar on Magruder’s naked flesh. Torn, mangled strips of flesh hung from his flabby chest and his overweight, pale body sagged in an ungainly posture. The plastic ties pulled tight over his wrists and ankles had already cut off the circulation so that he was unable to pull himself upright again. If it hadn’t been for the lengths of electric cable looped around his bulging middle and secured to the chair, the deputy would have fallen to the floor.
“So this is Deputy Magruder. An American cop,” Poliokof said, standing directly in front of the mutilated man. “Tell me, Stetko, are we in deep trouble because we have kidnapped this important policeman?”
“Very deep trouble,” Stetko said, smirking at the joke. “He has already threatened to have us locked up in jail if we do not free him.”
Magruder shook his head violently. Blood and sweat sprayed away from him. “No…I…I…didn’t mean that. Please, don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Stetko nodded to one of his men standing to one side. The Russian swung the already bloody baseball bat he was holding and brought it down against Magruder’s left knee. The force of the blow split flesh and crushed the kneecap. Magruder threw his head back and let out a high shriek of agony. The baseball bat came down a second time, ensuring that the kneecap was beyond repair.
“Ask him what he knows about this man Cooper,” Poliokof said.
It took no more persuasion to extract everything Magruder knew about the man.
“On the run from Cameron’s men with a female accomplice.” Poliokof smiled. “I still want to meet this man. After all, he did kill some of my people in Newark.”
“He sounds a little more accomplished than this one,” Stetko said, jerking a thumb in Magruder’s direction.
“Do you think you have everything he can tell us?”
Stetko nodded. “He told us Cameron uses the office in town as his HQ and keeps all his data there in a computer system. The local police keep watch over the place for him.”
“Good. Finish him off. His moaning is becoming a nuisance.”
Stetko nodded to the man wielding the baseball bat. He moved in, the bat swinging in a brutal arc as he began to smash it down across Magruder’s skull. The sodden sounds of the repeated blows followed Poliokof as he led the way out of the root cellar.
BACK IN THE SUV, cruising steadily in the direction of Cameron’s home, Poliokof watched the dry New Mexico landscape slide by.
“I can see why Cameron chose this location for his head-quarters—isolated, not heavily populated, and close enough to the border with Mexico so he can both import his weapons and also trade with the drug cartels. They always need weapons. Just like their Anglo cousins. When we take over,” he said confidently, “there will be no reason why these conditions should change. You understand the problems the Mexican government has with the drug business, Stetko? We can make money from his situation.”
Stetko shrugged as if he did understand but didn’t care. All he saw was an open market, with an unceasing demand for quality weapons. The same was almost true as far as the Americans were concerned. Criminal activity in American society was not declining and the groups and the gangs were becoming bolder, demanding better and more guns. To be in control of such an enterprise could mean only one thing. More money. More power. Stetko was not sure which of those appealed more to Zader Poliokof.
The money, or the power?
“Have Cameron’s home checked out. Use the information that pig of a deputy gave you. I don’t want to put my people into any risky situations. We should know our enemies’ home ground clearly before we go in. When we take it, I want Cameron’s people dead—all of them. The only exceptions will be Cameron himself and his brother. We keep them alive only until we have what we need from them. I need his contacts, his book, where he keeps his money. Cameron is, after all, a businessman. He will have information I need. After he has given it to me, he and his brother can be disposed of and buried somewhere in the desert. Their final act will be to turn into fertilizer for the plants that grow out there.”
24
Bolan turned and elbowed the team leader in the throat. The raw power behind the blow crushed the man’s throat beyond any hope of recovery, and he was already on his last breath when Bolan made a successful grab for his SMG and turned it on the assembled group. The closest shooter fell clutching his middle. Beyond him the rest of the group split apart, caught off balance by the sudden change in circumstances. Bolan caught one with a burst of 9 mm slugs that hit the back of his skull, pitching the guy onto his knees. Before he slammed facedown on the floor, the soldier had fired again, this time hitting a pair in the act of unlimbering their handguns. The SMG crackled harshly, blood misting the air as the gunners were blasted apart by the concentrated fire from the weapon. They stumbled and fell, bodies racked with pain, flesh and bone giving in to the hot slugs coring into them. Bolan kept firing, not giving any of Cameron’s men a chance.
They were unable to fight back against the furious assault from the man in black. The moment he clicked into this mode, Bolan transformed into a lethal fighting machine. His buildup to this had been rising over the past few days, as he was subjected to the unrelenting violence of Cameron’s crew. From Chicago to Newark to McQueen, Bolan had witnessed the morally corrupt empire ruled by the Cameron brothers. The merchandise they traded in, sold into the hands of criminal groups was intended to spread death and suffering to anyone who walked into their path. Illegal weapons, accruing vast amounts of cash, had become Lou Cameron’s stock-in-trade. The man had no concerns over the misery caused by the weapons he sold. His long-term ambition was to become the major dealer of stolen weapons, satisfying the needs of his clients. He cared less for the chaos his trade created against the tide of money dropping into his hands. But from the moment the Executioner had dealt himself into the game, Cameron had been given nothing but losing hands.
There was no golden pot at the end of this game.
Only death.
No winner’s celebration.
Only the certainty of life being extinguished by the black-clad deliverer of their judgment.
The last man fell, sprawling on the floor in a spreading pool of his own blood, his whimpering cries ignored as Bolan reloaded the SMG with one of the spare magazines taken from the dying and the dead. He jammed others into the pockets of his blacksuit.
Bolan crouched beside the moaning man and turned him on his side, ignoring the protest. In spite of his weakened state the guy was still able to see the former captive’s ice-cold eyes.
“Where’s the woman? The deputy?”
The guy, sinking into his own pain, simply stared at the grim mask that was Bolan’s face. His suffering diminished when he stared into Bolan’s eyes.
“The woman,” Bolan demanded. “Where is she?”
The man had no will left to defy his tormenter. “Third door along the passage,” he whispered, blood streaming from his lips.
Bolan let him go, the man rolling facedown on the blood-slick floor.
As the soldier made to rise, he heard the crash of footsteps—a pair of shooters. Though their weapons were up and ready, they paused as the scene of bloody carnage unfolded before them. In that moment of shock, the pair became unwilling targets as Bolan unleashed the full-auto destruction of his SMG. The weapon spit 9 mm fury, the hot slugs pounding vulnerable flesh and pulverizing internal organs in a few seconds of living horror. The impact of the barrage drove the men back from the doorway, blood spurting, spattering the wall of the passage as they tumbled, jerking and twisting.
Bolan stepped over them, moving along the passage, still echoing to the crackle of gunfire. He strode to the door the dying man had indicated, raising a booted foot to kick it open and following it into the room beyond.
Three men.
One woman.
Deputy Erin Kowalski was tethered to a hard-backed chair, her arms pulled tightly behind her. Her tan uniform shirt had been torn open and half out of her trousers, exposing her upper body. As Bolan stepped into the room, one of the three men was bent over Kowalski in the act of unbuckling her belt, pausing as the shots Bolan had fired broke through his concentration. From the state of his own clothing and the expectant expression on his face it was obvious what would have happened if the man had not been interrupted.
The other two men had already grabbed at the guns left on a nearby table. The Executioner hit them with short bursts that drove them across the floor, screaming in agony. As they fell, he dropped to a crouch, turning the SMG at the third guy, who had thrown himself at the table, one hand extended to snatch up the pistol lying there. Bolan’s weapon hosed him with a long blast that tore in through his side, snapping ribs before coring through to internal organs. The guy fell across the table, defying his wounds to grip the pistol. Bolan fired again, the staccato cadence of the weapon accompanied by a rising growl of anger that rose in his throat. The last thing the guy saw was the savage grimace on the Executioner’s face before eternal darkness swallowed him.
