"Two," the guy whispered loudly.
"You're betting your life on that number, you know."
"Means nothing to me," the guy said quickly. "They gave me a hundred bucks to cart this load. I don't even know 'em. There's two left. And they got a woman hostage. I saw 'em duck into the office when the firing started."
It could be true. Bolan had suspected that Danny Trinity might be doubling his numbers. He told the guy, "Drive that forklift on out of here. Around the corner and up the wharf and don't stop until you clear the area."
The guy said, "Sure, sure" — relief flooding the voice. He ejected his load in mid-air. The crate struck the side of the truck, split, and spilled its contents onto the floor.
Some contents.
Automatic weapons, fully assembled, critical parts bandaged with grease paper.
The man on the forklift gawked in genuine surprise.
"Ball it!" Bolan commanded sharply.
The guy wheeled his vehicle clear of the debris on the floor and as he rolled past the man in black he shouted, "Watch it mate! They're real loonies!"
Bolan always watched it. As for the female hostage — he was not inconsiderate of an innocent life, but he had also learned the only way to deal with such a situation, where guys like these were involved.
He made a fast run across the open area, emptying his clip high into the office enclosure and instantly reloading as he made the move. Glass shattered and rained loudly onto the cement, producing a cacophony to the thunder roll of the big weapon. A woman's shrill screaming joined the tumult, only to be quickly shut off. A bulky figure rose up from the foreground of office furniture as the reports of a heavy-framed pistol joined the sounds of the moment. The guy was pretty good; it was only Bolan's agility in a firefight that rendered the counterattack impotent. He checked his run, whirled, and reversed before the return fire could track onto him — and sent three closely spaced disintegrators whizzing into that standing target. The gun spun away with a scream, overturning furniture and office machines in the heavy fall.
Another voice in there yelled, "Hey, hold it, man!" It was a young voice, barely mature. "I got a lady in here with me! You back off quick or I splatter her brains all over the joint!"
"Counter-offer," Bolan called back. "You come out alone, hands clean. I'll let you keep walking all the way to the dock, brains and all."
"Yeah, and how many cops are waiting out there?" the youngster screamed.
"Cops, what cops? This is Mack Bolan. You've got about two heartbeats left to decide, soldier. Move it damn quick, and I'd better hear a splash at the end of the walk."
A momentary silence, then, "Hey, is that straight? That's you, Bolan? The big bad shit?"
"It is. Quick now. Move it!"
For all his reputation as a grim reaper, Mack Bolan was also known as a man of his word. His "releases" and "white flags" had become legend in the soldierly ranks of the enemy.
"You want me to jump in the fuckin' water?"
"That's what I want, soldier. Throw out your weapon and come running."
In a quick decision, the young hardman did so immediately. A snubbed .38 whizzed through the shattered window and skittered across the cement floor, followed quickly by the charging youth. Eyes tracked briefly onto the black-clad figure then bounced away with discomfort plainly reflected there as he loped past. He went on without a backward glance, slowing somewhat at the doorway. Then the figure disappeared into the mists and Bolan heard the muffled, tell-tale splash at the end of the run.
A blonde young woman staggered into view from the shattered office. Very pretty, despite the disheveled and terrorized appearance. She shrank back at first sight of Bolan, then changed her mind as he smiled and extended an arm for her. Gladly she fell into the protection of that half-embrace and allowed him to lead her toward the wharf.
"I'm — I'm ..."
"Save it," Bolan quietly suggested. "The important thing now is to get out of here. The game may not be over yet."
It was practically a prophecy. They stepped onto the wharf and into the shadow of a gun held by Danny Trinity.
The crew chief was bleeding from the head and his right arm hung uselessly at his side, but a big Colt .45 was at full extension in the left hand and already blasting into the five-paces confrontation.
Bolan spilled the girl behind him and fired once from the hip. The big bullet chugged into Trinity's chest and sent the guy staggering backward. The second pop was pure combat reflex on Bolan's part, and it caught Danny Trinity in the soft underside of the tilted chin as he was going down, reaming on through and exploding out of the top of the skull in a gory exit.
It was the final straw for the girl. She passed out with a sick little moan.
Bolan hefted her to his shoulder, stepped over the very messy remains of Danny Trinity, and went on up the wharf.
And, yeah, the quiet drill was definitely over.
Everybody in this part of the world, including cops and capos, would know now that the Executioner had come to town.
And there were still too many loose ends remaining from the soft probes.
Aside from melodramatic considerations, what was the true significance of the new super hardsite on Langley Island?
Why was the American syndicate importing crateloads of illicit munitions?
Why were international arms of the mob sending high-ranking delegations into the Pacific Northwest?
Bolan did not have many intellectual answers to the specific questions — but an old familiar gut feeling was telling him that hell was brewing in this quiet corner of the U.S.
Of course, now that his presence was known here — or would be, shortly — things would begin blowing into place with a hellish acceleration. He'd know the answers soon — or he'd be dead. And therein lay the ultimate problem for Mack Bolan. He'd remained alive thus far by making a practice of remaining on top of a problem — not by staggering around behind it, in the dark and wondering what the hell was coming off. He'd have to get on top of this one quick, if he meant to survive Seattle.
So here he was carting away an unconscious girl — doubling his liabilities. Who was she? Why was she here? Was she simply an innocent bystander — and, if so, what possible reason could she have for standing by in such an unlikely spot at such a time of night? She was young, probably no more than twenty-one or so. Stylishly dressed, softly feminine — hardly the kind you'd find wandering the waterfronts in the dark of night. Bolan would develop those answers, of course.
It was part of the reason he was carting her off — but only part. There were other considerations. He could not simply walk off and leave her lying there unconscious — not even assuming that the cops would be shortly making the scene. No matter how innocent she might be, the girl had definitely become entangled in a game of underworld intrigue. She could have seen things and heard things, the knowledge of which would disqualify her for continued life. At least two men had walked away from that firefight — alive and well and able to tell tales. Both knew of the girl.
No, he could not simply walk off and leave her there.
Later, he was to find several reasons to be damned happy he hadn't — as well as a couple of reasons to wish that he had.
For the moment, though, she was simply an unavoidable part of Bolan's world. A living part. And there were all too damned few of those.
5
Death trap
He rounded the corner and moved quickly along the street in a cautious withdrawal toward the war-wagon — a very special vehicle he'd acquired in New Orleans an eternity or so ago. The unconscious girl was draped over his left shoulder — not much of a burden at a hundred pounds or so but a bit slippery. It was the dress that was causing the problem, a silky little chemise sort of thing that seemed to have no reference whatever to the body beneath it — a rather delectable body even under such strained circumstances.