Stealth Sweep. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
ordnance.
In a stentorian thunderclap, the entire five-story garage was torn from its foundation and lifted into the misty rain on a staggering column of writhing flame and black smoke.
Fifty miles away, in Oskemen City, an amateur astronomer stationed on the roof of the Amanzholov University caught a glimpse of the rising mushroom cloud in her telescope, and fell to her knees, begging for deliverance from the coming apocalypse.
After only a few minutes, a dozen raging bonfires dotted the rugged mountain valley. Everything of any military value was gone, completely eradicated with pinpoint accuracy. However, the roads and bridges were unharmed, along with the huge abandoned Soviet Union weapons factories. Only the windows were gone, the dirty glass shattered by the powerful shock waves.
As the military fires raged unchecked, a warm air rushed through the dark buildings, blowing away the years of accumulated dust from the forges, cranes and conveyor belts sitting patiently in the darkness….
CHAPTER ONE
Baltimore, Maryland
A rosy dawn was just beginning to crest above the horizon in the east, but the shoreline highway was still dark, the heavy traffic an incandescent river, an endless stream of headlights and brake lights. The expensive cars streamed by, the yawning drivers hidden behind tinted windows.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, changed lanes as he downshifted gears. “Are we talking about a ‘stolen arrow’ scenario?” he asked, glancing at the cell phone clipped onto the polished mahogany dashboard. A newspaper lay on the passenger seat, the checkered grip of a big pistol just barely visible beneath it.
“I can’t say more on an open line,” the voice of Hal Brognola replied over the stereo speakers positioned around the luxury car.
“Understood,” Bolan growled. “See you in fifteen.”
“Make it ten,” Brognola countered, and disconnected.
Taking the next off ramp, Bolan merged into the city traffic.
A few minutes later, the soldier turned a corner and saw the flashing neon sign for the Blue Moon Café. It spite of its proximity to the luxurious Crystal City Mall, this was a genuine, old-fashioned, greasy spoon diner that never closed. The coffee was perfect for degreasing tractors, and the pot roast could be used to patch tank armor, but the chili was spectacular. Best of all, the customers were a wide assortment of humanity, so the occasional predator went unnoticed. Bolan had met Brognola there on a few occasions.
A handful of cars stood in the parking lot, most of them positioned directly on the white lines of a space to make sure nobody dinged the smooth finish of the doors. Parking the sleek McLaren away from the other vehicles, Bolan turned off the softly purring engine and got out, deliberately leaving the keys in the ignition and the door unlocked. Crystal City wasn’t the best neighborhood, and he knew that by morning the expensive car would be gone, stolen and stripped into parts, completely erasing his tracks, and the vehicle’s connection to the Colombian drug lord he had permanently borrowed it from the previous day. If there was one thing the Executioner had come to rely upon, it was the insatiable avarice of humanity.
Pausing for a moment, Bolan patted his windbreaker to memorize the exact position of every weapon he carried: a switchblade knife in his pants pocket, a Beretta 93-R slung in shoulder leather under his left arm, a .357 Magnum Desert Eagle under the right, spare ammo clips in the pockets. Satisfied, he moved across the parking lot, his shoes crunching on the loose gravel.
A swatch of bright light streamed from the entrance of the diner, and as Bolan approached, the shadows near a rusty garbage bin shifted.
“Hey, mister, is this yours?” a raggedy old man asked, proffering a shiny alligator skin wallet. “I found it near the curb, and—”
Instantly stepping aside, Bolan felt something move through the darkness exactly where his head had just been. Brushing back his windbreaker, he drew the 93-R.
“Move along,” he whispered in a voice from beyond the grave.
Hesitantly, the two men paused, lead pipes clenched in their scarred hands. Then they looked into his cold eyes, and quickly eased away until the shadows swallowed them whole.
Holstering his weapon again, Bolan then walked around the Blue Moon diner twice, purely as appreciation, to make sure no professionals had it under surveillance. Those two fools were of no real concern, just a couple of muggers.
Going inside, Bolan found the diner packed with people hunched over tables and industriously eating. There was a constant clatter of silverware, a dishwasher chugged somewhere unseen, and a radio thumped out a stream of golden disco music from yesterday. The smoky air was rich with an enticing mixture of smells, including coffee.
Bolan took a table in the corner with his back to the red-and-white tile wall, getting a direct view of both the front and rear doors.
After a few minutes, a waitress walked to his table with an order pad. She was an aging beauty with titian hair that came from a bottle, and magnificent cleavage that seemed natural. Her name tag said Lucinda. The plastic had been cracked and repaired with tape.
“What’ll you have?” she asked, making the sentence one word.
“Chili and coffee, both hot,” Bolan said.
Lucinda tried to push the Midnight Special, but Bolan pushed back, and they didn’t quite come to blows before she relented. Tucking a well-chewed pencil behind an ear, she walked away in defeat, dodging tables and the fumbling hands of drunks.
The diner was busy, the customers a mixture of truck drivers, college students, pimps, clerks, tourists and a couple of slick willies who might as well be wearing a placard to announce their profession as the independent salesmen of recreational pharmaceuticals. Several of the pimps had some of their female employees along as company, so there was a lot of dyed hair and bare skin on display, but everybody was cool. The Blue Moon was neutral territory, the Switzerland of the Maryland underworld.
A scrawny Latino boy, who seemed far too young to be working at that hour, came over with a steaming mug of coffee, and got Bolan started just as a couple of state troopers entered by the front door. They sauntered past the soldier, joking with the fat guy behind the counter, and ordered some meat loaf sandwiches to go.
The cops departed just as Lucinda returned with his chili, along with a basket of sourdough rolls that Bolan hadn’t ordered, but deeply appreciated. He thanked her, and she accidentally-on-purpose bumped him with her bare thigh a few times before realizing that Bolan was simply being nice and not making a pass. Lucinda grudgingly accepted the rejection and walked away.
Not his type, Bolan noted, using a napkin to clean the spoon. However, even if he had been interested, he still would have done nothing. There were certain people in the world that a wise man only treated with respect: the very old, the very young, and anybody who would be left alone with your food for a significant length of time.
As expected, the chili was delicious, rich and meaty. Taking his time, Bolan ate slowly, keeping a close watch on the clock hanging slightly askew on the badly painted wall. The ten-minute mark had come and gone, and he was getting ready to go hunt for his friend when Hal Brognola strolled in through the front door.
Instead of his usual three-piece suit, the stocky Fed was wearing a loose vest, a red flannel shirt, denims and work boots to try to blend into the neighborhood. More important, his hair was mussed, and there were scratches on his cheek.
To Bolan, the man looked haggard, as if he was chronically short on sleep. But that was an occupational hazard in D.C.
Slung over Brognola’s shoulder was a laptop that probably cost more than what most people in the diner made in a month. As he went past the other customers, some of the pimps viewed the device with marked interest. Then they saw the Justice man glance back, and quickly returned to their meals.
“Sorry I’m late,” Brognola said, taking the opposite chair at the table.