"Holy shit! Rodriguez, is missing."
"What the hell are you talking about?" McGuire whispered.
"It's us and the truck, man. That's all. There ain't nobody else behind us."
"Where the hell are they?"
"You're asking me?"
McGuire never answered. The window on the driver's side mushroomed inward. He was dead before the car plowed into the front of a rib joint at 133rd Street.
Foster reached for the two-way and yelled into the static. The mike was as dead as McGuire. The surviving cop kicked open his door and fell to his knees as the truck disappeared into the night.
Down Third Avenue he recognized a cruiser. Its roof lights were blinking sporadically. He got to his feet and struggled toward it. He had to get this on the radio as soon as possible. He didn't understand why the other car hadn't notified McGuire it was bailing out. When he got to the cruiser, he found out. Rodriguez was slumped over the steering wheel. His head hung at a crazy angle what was left of it. His partner in the shotgun seat was just as dead. Foster grabbed the radio and clicked it open. Nothing but static.
On a rooftop at 127th Street, Peter Achison watched, waiting for Mack Bolan. He watched Buck Foster struggle down the avenue searching for a phone. It was cold and rainy, and Mack Bolan hadn't shown. Achison nodded to the two men with him. He whispered into his small walkie-talkie, dispatching three shadows from the roofline across the street. He watched Buck Foster stagger south for another half block, shook his head and stepped out of the rain. Maybe Foster would tell Bolan enough to get him interested.
9
All right, they wanted to play games. Mack Bolan liked games, too. And he played for keeps. The missing plutonium would be round one.
Brognola's sources had learned that the stuff had already been sold. But Bolan knew it sure as hell had been stolen to get his attention. And the thieves had it. The Fed's sources had told him that the hot stuff had been off-loaded and the truck ditched north of the city. The plutonium had been taken to West Virginia and hidden in a cave. It was there waiting, waiting for somebody to come and get it.
Sure, it was sold, and the Libyans would still have been happy if they had had to pay twice the price. It was a steal. But Brognola was concerned that somebody else might be just as interested. That much fissionable material was bound to attract some attention from a number of parties. And there were too many people with questionable connections moving in and out of Malcolm Parsons's group. Modesty wasn't part of Parsons's character. He'd been bragging about the coup.
Bolan was determined to break the thing wide open, and to do it quickly. The last thing he needed was to walk into a free-for-all. Taking on Parsons's clowns would be a picnic. But if the KGB moved in, or one of the terrorist groups thought it was an easy score, Bolan wouldn't have time for sandwiches.
The West Virginia mountains were honeycombed with caverns, most of which weren't on any map. Some were regularly used by moonshiners, some hadn't been visited since the Revolutionary War. The limestone of the Alsoleghenies had been dissolving for millions of years. In fact, geologists thought it might even be possible to travel from northern Pennsylvania all the way to Georgia without coming up for air. The intel had even been able to pinpoint the cave. A little footwork had paid quick dividends.
It had been easy to find, but Bolan knew it wouldn't be easy to get close to without tipping his hand.
Once he left Morgantown behind, the winter woods surrounded him. Thick stands of trees rolled on and on over mountains. As he drove deeper into the forest, the towns got smaller and more dilapidated. Bolan wondered how Parsons had known such a place existed. Why he had chosen it to hide the plutonium was obvious.
Two miles from Pine Grove, close enough to walk, Bolan pulled his rented Blazer into a logging road overgrown with weeds. Two hundred yards in, the vehicle would be invisible from the road.
He edged the Blazer into the brush to avoid blocking the road, although it looked as if it hadn't been used in years.
It was getting dark. The cold was biting, and his breath clouded in front of him as he walked. The Weatherby Mark V was slung over his shoulder, its scope covered to protect it from becoming scratched.
The going was tough. Every breath stung as he drew it.
Uphill was the worst; downhill not much better. The terrain was rocky, scattered with weathered boulders.
Fallen branches and leaning trunks of long-dead trees littered the grounds. The Executioner felt right at home. It wasn't jungle, true enough, but he was hunting the usual game. Bolan didn't know for sure what he was up against until he had a chance to watch the cave. If he was lucky, there would only be a small force. Heavily armed, for sure, but small numbers would make it an even match. He'd have to take the cave on his first assault.
On the ridge above, Bolan picked out a break in the trees. It would be a perfect vantage point from which to survey the opposition. The cave mouth was two hundred yards dead ahead across the shallow valley. He lay flat against a dead tree and used his night glasses. No one was visible, but there was a dull glow from deep within the cave. He scanned the logging road that ran back away from the cave. Vehicles would give him an idea of what he was up against. About three hundred yards down toward the main road, two 4Xbled trucks sat in a small clearing. Probably two men each, Bolan thought. Count the driver of the truck and there were at least five, maybe more. They probably wouldn't post a heavy guard maybe only one man. It was unlikely they expected an attack in the middle of the night. A raiding party would make a racket, and one man would never try it on his own. It made no sense to anyone but the Executioner.
The immediate problem was time. Bolan knew from the intel reports that the Libyans were coming to pick up the plutonium. They would truck it to Philadelphia where it would be loaded onto a freighter and shipped God knows where. The Libyans were desperate for a bomb. They'd tried to buy one, and to steal one. They didn't have the technology to build their own, but there was more than one country that would be happy to take the plutonium in exchange for a sample of the finished product.
Mack Bolan realized he had only two options: get the stuff back now, or wait and try to take the Libyans with it. The first was easier, no question about it. But which was better? He might never have a second chance to take a little wind out of the Libyan sails. His decision made, Bolan settled in for a long night. The switch might be made under cover of darkness, but he didn't think so. The logging roads were little more than ruts.
Only a fool would try to negotiate them in the dark with such a cargo. And Mack Bolan knew his enemies were no fools. Otherwise his fight would long since have been over. It was precisely because they were so good that Bolan still found himself watching mankind through a rifle sight. It wasn't pleasant... just necessary.
By dawn, he was chilled through. Flurries during the night had added to his discomfort, and he had slept only sporadically. At first light, he settled his binoculars on the cave mouth again. One of the goons was stretching himself A big guy in white coveralls did a few knee bends to loosen his joints, and then a few jumping jacks. While Bolan watched, the gunner took his own glasses and checked the logging road. That meant it would be soon. Bolan started working his way down toward the bottom of the valley as soon as the sentry had gone back into the cave. He wanted to be close. If he was going to pull this off, it would have to happen swiftly. Time was a luxury Mack Bolan rarely had.
As he reached the foot of the opposing ridge, a muffled rumble echoed through the trees. They were here to make the switch. Bolan hurried up the rocky slope, checking the road behind him twice. He heard a door slam before he saw anyone. There were only two of them. Good, Bolan thought. That cut the odds a little.