Stolen Arrows. Don Pendleton
widely around the flock of pigeons to finally sit at the other end of the park bench. For a few minutes neither man spoke.
“Okay, Pat, nobody seems to have followed me. So what the hell is going on?” Brian Kessel, the director of the New York branch of the FBI, demanded in a soft, conversational tone. “Why the secret meeting away from our offices?”
“Too many ears,” Police Chief Patrick Donaldson said, tossing another handful of crumbs to the fluttering pigeons. Then he rolled the bag shut and tucked it into a pocket of his coat. “Heard the news lately?”
Spoken that way, the news could only mean something in their line of work, and there was only one topic of conversation these days—the unsolved string of murders.
“Bet your ass I have,” Kessel said, not looking at the other man. “But it’s not us, if that’s what you’re hinting about. I can assure you of that.”
“Thirty-six hours,” Donaldson said, leaning back in the bench. The birds were gobbling up the crumbs and strutting around looking for more. Such a little act of kindness, feeding the hungry birds, it brought a sense of balance into the violent life of the top Manhattan cop. “It has been less than thirty-six hours and nineteen of the top weapons dealers in the world have been whacked in my town. I’m not a happy man, Brian. This smells like a goddamn secret government kill team.”
“No way,” Kessel replied curtly. “Impossible. If the CIA or some black ops group tried that, I’d have their balls for breakfast.”
“I thought that’d be your response.”
“Look. It could be the Yakuza, the Russian Mob, the Chinese Tongs, Rastafarians, Colombians,” he growled softly. “It’s been a fucking feeding frenzy the past few years.”
Watching the pigeons peck for more bread crumbs, the police chief shrugged. No matter how much he gave, they always wanted more. Sort of like his job. There were goals, but they were always replaced with more goals. In police work, the reward for a job well done was always a tougher job.
“Let the creeps blow each other away, that’s fine by me,” Donaldson stated in frank honesty. “I don’t give a shit. Twenty little mobs are a hell of a lot easier to control than one huge invisible empire. Just ask the OCD.”
“The Organized Crime Division can kiss my ass. Vigilante justice undermines the very fabric of society,” Kessel stated with an angry growl.
“So it really isn’t the Bureau?” Donaldson asked.
“No.”
“Damn.”
For a while the two lawmen sat on the concrete bench, listening to music from somewhere nearby and the shrill voices of children at play. Opening the bag again, Donaldson tossed the birds another handful, then offered it to Kessel. After a pause, the FBI director took some and sprinkled it across the pavement. The birds flocked around the cops, utterly ecstatic.
“So, who do you think is next on the list?” Kessel asked.
“What the hell,” the cop replied wearily. “I don’t know of anybody left.”
Tyree Building, Staten Island
THROWING BACK his head, Alexander Tyree inhaled sharply and then relaxed. Crawling out from under the conference table, the naked blond woman padded over to the mirrored bar set into the wall and poured herself a short Scotch whiskey. Draining the tumbler, she gargled first, then swallowed the rest of the drink.
“You’re the best, baby,” Tyree said, closing his zipper. “See you tomorrow. Same time, eh?”
“No problem, sir,” she said woodenly, rinsing out the glass before placing it in the sink. Stepping into black high heels, the hooker slipped on a full-length mink coat and walked out of the penthouse office, closing the door tightly behind her.
Rubbing his face for a moment, Tyree reached into a pocket and withdrew a small vial of white powder. Thumbing off the cap, the man poured the cocaine onto the polished mahogany table. Taking out a pocketknife, he was about to neatly cut the pile into lines when he heard a wet smack on the window. What the hell? Damn birds had to have flown into the glass again.
Glancing over a shoulder, Tyree blinked in confusion at the sight of a small gray lump of claylike material stuck to the bulletproof glass. There was a nylon rope attached, as if it had been lowered from the roof. Then he spotted the flashing red light of the remote detonator set into the wad of C-4 plastique.
Throwing himself out of the chair, Tyree hit the carpet a split second before the high-explosive wad cut loose and the window stridently imploded across the office, flipping over the conference table and sending the line of wheeled chairs spinning crazily in every direction.
The concussion brutally shoved Tyree hard against the marble wall. He was fighting to regain his breath when a dark figure lowered into view from above and swung in through the smoking ruin of the window.
LANDING ON HIS crepe-soled shoes, Mack Bolan slapped the release buckle of the safety harness around his waist and anchored the line to the splintered ruin of the thirty-foot-long conference table. Dressed for full urban combat, the Executioner was in a black combat suit. A web belt of ordnance and ammo circled his waist, a Beretta 93-R rode in a shoulder holster and a big-bore .357 Magnum Desert Eagle claimed the opposite hip.
A muffled pounding came from the other side of the door to the office, but Bolan ignored it. This was Tyree’s private retreat, his secret bolthole, and the only place in New York where the international arms dealer could relax completely safe. The entire building was a fortress, and this particular floor his personal bunker, the floor, walls and ceiling each composed of two full yards of steel-reinforced concrete. According to the engineering blueprints, the foot-thick titanium door would stop a 60 mm shell, and the magnetic locks could be turned off only from this side. Bolan estimated that Tyree’s bodyguards wouldn’t be able to get through in under an hour. More than sufficient. It had taken Bolan an entire day to track down the hidden location of the retreat, and less than an hour to crack its five-million-dollar security system.
Hauling the crime boss off the ripped carpeting, Bolan slammed him against the Italian-marble wall and pressed the cold pit of the Beretta’s sound suppressor into the man’s stomach.
“What the hell,” Tyree mumbled, clearly still disorganized from the explosion.
Keeping the Beretta in place, Bolan slapped the man across the face. “Get it together, Tyree. This is judgment day.”
Rubbing his stinging cheek, the man sneered at that. “So this is a raid,” he said. “Well, go ahead, cop, read me my rights. Arrest me. My lawyers will have me on the street in an hour!”
Shifting the aim of the weapon, Bolan fired and blood erupted from the man’s shoulder as the 9 mm slug grazed the skin and ricocheted off the cracked marble.
“Stop! You can’t do that!” Tyree shouted, grabbing the shallow flesh wound. “Cops can’t shoot prisoners!”
“I’m not a cop,” Bolan said bluntly, shifting the Beretta to center on the man’s heaving chest.
The implication was clear and Tyree went pale. “It’s a hit? B-but I got connections! I pay protection!”
“Not against me.”
Starting to understand the gravity of the situation, Tyree nervously licked dry lips. “Look, I’m just a businessman. We can cut a deal here,” Tyree said, keeping a palm pressed to his bleeding shirt. “There’s money in the wall safe behind the mirror in the bar. A hundred grand in cash. It’s yours. Take it and go.”
“Wrong answer,” Bolan stated coldly.
“Look, I know the Dragon missiles were shit, but the buyers were al-Qaeda,” he said, the words gushing out in a torrent, “and this is New York, for Christ’s sake! Whack me if ya want, but screw those Afghan dirtbags and the hairy-ass camels they rode in on.”
For one