“Yeah? So behave when I’m around.”

  Nathan smiled. “Hey, what about the thing in Miami? Is it connected?”

  “I don’t know. We’re still checking it out.”

  “Lou, there’s something weird going on. Some guy comes out of nowhere and takes down Soames’s deal, then Chicago gets bounced. We lost merchandise. People are dead. There’s just too much not to be connected. Listen to me, Lou.”

  “Take it easy,” Cameron said. “I got it in hand. You think I’m not going to work this out? We are talking about our livelihood here. Look, Nate, we’re not in the cuddly toy corner of the business community. The people we mix with are not exactly pillars of society. We’ve got to expect things like this. But we deal with it. I’m dealing with it.”

  “How did Calvera take it?”

  Cameron grinned. “He was slightly pissed, but I told him he would get his shipment. Just a little late.”

  “Lou, are you okay? I know how things like this get to you.”

  “I’ll be fine. But it’s lucky we don’t have any dogs or cats around the place. If we had they’d be running screaming with their furry butts kicked all to hell.”

  “Wait until we get our hands on the joker who did all this. Then you’ll have something to kick.”

  “Yeah, you said it, bro.”

  5

  Newark, New Jersey

  Bolan entered Newark, New Jersey, off the turnpike, the GPS unit guiding him through the bustle of the late-afternoon streets to the industrial area where the auto scrap yard was based. He saw the sprawling grounds well before he reached them, a large site surrounded by corrugated iron fencing topped with razor wire. Bolan could see the stacks of wrecked vehicles rising ahead of him, the angled jibs of cranes, the sloping roof of a long workshop.

  The sign on the wide-open steel gates identified the yard as South Auto Salvage.

  He drove by without stopping and followed the road as it took him by other industrialized units. Bolan made a recon of the district, noting ways in and out, mapping different routes. Twenty minutes later he made the return trip and exited the area.

  Okay, he thought, target spotted.

  Next, he needed to carry out a recon exercise. That would be after dark. Bolan needed a base to work from. He had spotted a couple of hotels on his way in, so he backtracked and swung into the parking lot of the first one he came to. It was high end, not cheap, but that didn’t worry Bolan. He was still running on his Stony Man card. He queried the man at the desk, and since there was a room available he checked in. Minutes later he was taking a long, hot shower to wash away the dust of his drive from Chicago. Room service provided a steak and salad dinner, plus fresh coffee. After his meal he stretched out on the bed and allowed himself a few hours’ sleep.

  Seven p.m.

  BOLAN PULLED ON his blacksuit and geared up for what he hoped would be a soft probe. He took the Beretta 93-R, plus a couple of extra magazines in the pockets of his combat vest. A wire garrote, the Cold Steel Tanto knife and supple black leather gloves all went into a black backpack. He pulled on a pair of dark chinos and a roll-neck sweater. The carry-all containing his additional ordnance went to the back of the room’s closet. Bolan slipped on his jacket, making sure his cell phone was there, along with a wad of cash. All for backup and the unexpected.

  He left his room and took the elevator to the lobby, the backpack hanging over one shoulder. He dropped off his key card and made his way out, crossing to his car.

  It took him longer to make the return journey to South Auto Salvage. Traffic was still surprisingly heavy and he drove into rain that had blown in quickly. His earlier recon had left him with a mental map of the industrial area, and he used that image to guide him to a secondary road so he could approach his target from the rear. The back strip that ran behind the scrap yard was unlit and in a state of disrepair, with dumped metal trash edging the road. Bolan pulled the rental into the shadows and cut the engine. Rain drummed on the roof. He wasn’t entirely happy about leaving the car where it was, but he had little choice. There was nowhere else to park. He would have to leave it to luck that the car would still be there when he returned, or that it not be discovered at all.

  Bolan removed his outer clothing. He removed combat boots from the backpack, and put them on, then donned the loaded vest and the shoulder rig for the Beretta. The Tanto was sheathed on his belt. Lastly, Bolan pulled his black baseball cap from the backpack.

  He slipped from the car and locked the vehicle, pulled on his gloves and moved swiftly across the deserted strip, pressing against the corrugated iron fence surrounding the scrap yard.

  The darkness worked to his advantage, his black-clad form blending in well. And the persistent rain added another plus.

  Bolan walked along the rear fence from one end to the other, looking for a weak spot. He found what he was looking for close to the north corner. The corrugated sheets had been pushed into a generous outward bulge, most likely from wrecked autos being collected and pushed into stacks. He found that the overlap between two sheets had been widened, and when he moved in close he saw that the opening was large enough for him to ease through. He took his time, aware that on the other side of the fence tons of mangled steel would be balanced in close proximity to the fence. He didn’t want to bring all that metal debris down on himself.

  As he emerged on the far side of the fence, Bolan found himself in a narrow tunnel. Crushed cars surrounded him. On his knees, hunching his shoulders to reduce his body mass, the soldier crawled forward. The ground under him was wet and spongy, while rain worked its way down through the stacked vehicles. A couple of times Bolan was forced onto his stomach, easing his way through the close-knit formation. The soft creak of metal on metal made him pause. He waited until the creaking ceased before continuing his crawl.

  Beyond his spot Bolan picked up the sound of a vehicle engine. Peering through the narrow tunnel, he found he was able to look out across the yard, past the hulks of broken vehicles. To his right was the large workshop, doors open wide and some illumination that showed him the interior. He saw figures moving about. The vehicle he had heard was new, a rain-slicked panel truck. Bolan watched as the side door opened. Two men dragged a third from inside the van. The captive had his hands bound in front of him and a hood over his head. He was hustled into the workshop, where three more figures appeared. The prisoner started to struggle until a hard fist was slammed into his face through the hood. The guy slumped and was half-dragged when his legs gave way. Bolan watched until the group vanished from sight inside the building. Voices were competing in a lively argument, but Bolan was unable to make out any words.

  He wondered about this unexpected development—he would have to get to the bottom of that later.

  Remaining in position, Bolan checked out as much of the area as he could see from where he was. There were rows of stacked vehicles. Some had already been through the process that reduced them to solid, compacted blocks ready to be shipped out. The vehicle compacter was off to his left, a massive monster constructed from heavy steel and hydraulic rams. There were also heavy-duty tracked machines for moving around the wrecked vehicles. The uneven ground held oily pools of water.

  Bolan mentally moved on from his visual check, turning his attention to the large workshop building. Until he knew otherwise, it would be the focus of his probe. He needed to concentrate there.

  He picked up movement inside the shop, saw the group of men, minus their captive moving to the entrance. They were still engaged in some kind of heated discussion and Bolan wondered if the confrontation was about the hooded and bound newcomer. The pair from the panel truck returned to the vehicle and drove off, spinning the wheels across the greasy surface of the yard. Bolan watched the taillights gleam as the truck paused at the open gates before vanishing into the gloom beyond. He turned his attention to the three men standing just inside the workshop. One lit a cigarette, still talking to his partners. Another shrugged and raised his hands before walking back inside. The cigarette guy said something to the third man, then went inside himself. The guy left on his own stood for a moment before unzipping his thick coat. He reached inside and removed a pistol. He spent a little time checking the weapon, then jammed it back inside his coat. Even from a distance it was clear the man was unhappy.

  Bolan saw this as the time to move in. He swung around the extreme edge of the workshop, positioned himself, then cut a direct line toward the lone watcher, slipping the Beretta into the shoulder holster to free both hands. The guy was leaning against the door frame, arms folded across his chest as he maintained his vigil. He didn’t see or hear Bolan as the black-clad warrior made his approach. A deep-rooted sixth sense made the guy turn his head at the final moment.

  Too late.

  The Executioner struck hard and fast, his arms reaching out to encircle the guy’s neck. Bolan pulled him in close, increasing the pressure with unrelenting force, and the man felt his air being shut off. He started to struggle, achieving nothing except to add to his dilemma. He used up what oxygen he had left, twisting and kicking as Bolan pulled him down to ground level, jamming a knee into the thug’s back. It ended as quickly as it had started, with Bolan applying a final, savage twist that separated the guy’s spine. He slumped, suddenly lifeless and unresisting. The Executioner let the man slide to the ground.

  Slipping inside the workshop, Bolan used barrels and metal toolboxes for cover. The interior was large, the walls at each side cluttered with the debris of the work that went on inside the workshop. Fluorescent lights cast deep shadows across the workshop, and Bolan almost missed the sudden attack as a guy clad in soiled denims stepped into view, a long steel pry bar clutched in his meaty hands.

  “What’d you do to Cole? You’re dead, mother…” he yelled.

  Bolan turned at the sound, saw the steel bar swinging at his head and ducked beneath it. The attacker steadied himself for a return swing. The soldier lunged forward, his left shoulder hitting the guy’s midsection, following with a fist into his side, over his ribs. The man grunted and pulled back, both hands on the steel bar as he attempted a second swing. Bolan powered forward, given little chance to do anything else, and slammed bodily into the guy, pushing him across the workshop floor.

  “Bastard,” the guy roared, lashing out with the steel bar again.

  The bar grazed the front of Bolan’s vest as he pulled the Beretta from the shoulder rig and sideswiped his opponent across the skull. The man skidded on one knee, hauling the bar around for one more strike. But then Bolan triggered a single 9 mm Parabellum round that cored into the exposed skull just above the right ear, tunneling in to spin the guy to the floor. The steel bar dropped from his fingers and bounced against the concrete with a loud ringing sound.

  “Son of a bitch shot Kyle.”

  The yell was followed by the stuttering crackle of autofire as Bolan dropped to a crouch, whirled, and saw an armed shooter coming at him from the far side of the shop. The soldier heard the sound of impacting slugs rattling at the wall of the shop behind him, then he was steadying the 93-R and laying down his own fire. His first shot missed. Bolan gripped the pistol in two hands, bringing the muzzle on track and hit the shooter with two close shots. The guy twisted as the 9 mm slugs lodged in his chest. The Executioner upped the muzzle and laid his third shot to the face, seeing the left side blossom red. The target screamed, triggering his SMG into the floor. He dropped to his knees, clutching hands reaching to his face a second before Bolan put his next shot between the eyes. The guy toppled backward, the back of his head torn open and bloody.

  Bolan stood, turning at the eruption of sound coming from the rear of the shop.

  This man burst into view, wielding an automatic shotgun, and he moved like a charging rhino. Bolan’s finger had flicked the Beretta’s selector to three-round burst, and he had the weapon leveled and on-target as the guy blundered into view from the door of a cramped office.

  The shotgun moved in Bolan’s direction.

  The 93-R fired.

  The guy’s sweaty face vanished in an exploding mess of torn flesh and shattered bone, blood coloring the paler skin red. The shotgunner let out a harsh cry and fell back, the weapon slipping from his grasp. He struck the workbench behind him and hung there, dripping blood on the floor.

  Bolan scooped up the SMG the second man had dropped and slung it.

  He waited, ears tuned to pick up any suggestion of sound. He checked out the workshop. The rain drummed against the high roof over his head. The buzz of the fluorescent lights added their own noise. The tension drained, and Bolan finally moved, checking each of the men. No signs of life. He made his way to the office where the three had been gathered and looked inside. It offered nothing. It was untidy and smelled of tobacco smoke, oil and greasy food. The walls were dotted with work-related charts and invoices, plus the inevitable centerfolds of naked women. A single desk held a telephone and a computer terminal, both having seen better days. China mugs held cold coffee dregs, and the floor was littered with crushed cigarette stubs and fast-food containers. If the yard was Costanza’s base for his illegal weapons; the office didn’t appear to be the hub of the operation.

  Bolan returned to the workshop and heard a sound that drew his attention.

  It was faint.

  A regular thumping, over and over. It was a few seconds before Bolan realized it was coming from somewhere beneath where he stood. He realized he was standing close to the concrete-lined inspection pit. The thirty-foot-long, five-foot-deep pit had been sunk into the workshop floor, the sides lined with lights behind toughened glass covers. Steps at one end allowed access for people working on the underside of vehicles. Current service bays would use power lifts to raise vehicles, but this workshop was most likely decades old, harking back to when such establishments weren’t plagued by stringent safety protocols.

  As Bolan went down the steps, the smell of absorbed lubricants became stronger. He could understand the reason why the alternative name had come into use—grease pits. Dirty duckboards lay on the pit floor, water and pooled oil gleaming beneath them. A blank wall faced Bolan at the end of the pit. A closer look showed it wasn’t concrete, but simply a false cover decorated to resemble concrete. He checked it out and spotted the slightly recessed, thumb-sized button. Bolan pressed it and the end panel slid to one side, revealing an opening that had steps leading down. The thumping sound became louder as he stepped through and found himself in a basement room around forty square feet. He could finally see clearly because lights had come on as the door had opened.

  Bolan was able to stand upright, and the first thing he saw to catch his attention was the bound figure of the man who had been off-loaded from the panel truck. He was on his knees, using a length of wood in his bound hands to bang it against a wooden crate. His hood had been removed, and Bolan saw that his face was bloody, with swollen eyes and torn lips. He was severely battered, but the bruising did nothing to hide the defiant gleam in his eyes as he stared at the black-clad, armed figure. Bolan noticed, too, that the guy’s shirt was torn and bloody.

  “I’m damn sure you’re not one of Costanza’s inbred goons,” he said. “So who the hell are you?”

  6

  Bolan didn’t speak immediately. He was exchanging the partly used magazine in the Beretta for a fresh one.

  “Those guys who delivered you. Are they coming back?”

  “I wasn’t exactly included in their plans. All I know for sure is it was supposed to be a one-way ride.”

  Bolan had looked past the guy, to the far side of the basement room. He saw stacked boxes of various sizes and shapes, but they all had a look he was familiar with. There were some plain boxes, but others were in military olive-drab, stenciled. His soft probe may have gone awry, but at least he’d found the mother lode.

  Costanza’s weapons stash.

  On the far side of the basement were plastic-wrapped blocks of white powder. Cocaine. A wooden palette held tightly bound wads of banknotes sealed in more plastic.

  “Aladdin’s cave,” the bound man said. “This is Costanza’s own little treasure trove. What we’ve been looking for.” He sucked in a breath, again the pain from his torn lips. “Are we going to dance around this all night?” the guy said. “Who the hell are you, and will you get these damn cuffs off me?”

  The guy thrust his plastic-bound wrists at Bolan.

  “As far as I know you could be one of Costanza’s dirtbags. They brought you here on some gang-related issue.”

  The guy shook his head. “No way,” he said. “Take a look. Do I have a low forehead and a straight line of eyebrows?”

  Bolan glanced at him, a faint smile edging his lips.

  “Look, give me a cell and I’ll have half the Newark PD swarming all over this place in thirty minutes. I’m a fucking cop, dammit. Only…I…”

  “Don’t have any ID?”

  “Yeah. Not the brightest thing to carry when you’re undercover.” The guy saw Bolan’s hand move to the sheathed Tanto. “Christ, look, my name is Danny Keoh. Sergeant, Newark PD. I work the OrgCrime unit. My chief is Captain Ben Cahill. Call him to confirm, but let’s find ourselves a better place to have this conversation before any of Costanza’s boys return.”

  Bolan slid out the knife and cut the plastic cuffs. Keoh shook them free, rubbing his wrists and flexing his fingers.

  “Two days they had me in those things while they worked me over.”

  Bolan handed him the SMG. “Think you’ll be able to work that?”

  “A comic, too. Just give me the chance.” He checked the weapon. “What do I call you?”

  “Cooper.”

  “Okay, Cooper, I suggest we get our asses out of here. Before I blew my own cover, I overheard Costanza talking to his client and arranging for pickup of that ordnance. Midnight.”

  Bolan looked at his watch. “Gives us four hours clear,” he said.

  “Costanza could show anytime.”

 

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