Weapons were being stockpiled all over the place.
But that wasn't a secret. Bolan knew the best way to get a line on the bastards was to smoke them out. If they ran, they would lead him somewhere. If they stayed put, it could take days, even weeks, to find them. Bolan didn't have days. Neither did Rachel.
The target was a munitions dump just off the river.
The West Side Highway was lined with dozens of places just like it. Tiers of broken windows in rotten frames. Rusted doors on rustier hinges.
Broken asphalt parking lots. And behind it all, the murk of the midnight Hudson. The river had no glamour in this part of town. In the distance, the dim lights of New Jersey flashed halfheartedly, now and then highlighting a piece of garbage bobbing in the oily water. When Bolan was done, there'd be even more trash in the river.
The place looked like all the others — a monument to urban decay. Single storied, its few remaining windows had been unwashed for years. Leaving his vehicle on a side street, the warrior swiftly made his way through the deserted streets. At the last corner, he slipped into an alley as a police cruiser slid down the off ramp from the highway above. It turned a corner and made its way down one of the winding side streets.
When the cruiser was gone, Bolan sprinted across Twelfth Avenue. At the back there was a loading bay that opened onto a door of corrugated sheet metal. The water lapped at rotten pilings behind and below it. Bolan took a small jimmy from his pocket and wedged it under the ring mount of the door's padlock. The old screws groaned, then squealed as the ring came loose. The chain dangled uselessly, slowly banging against the door. The hollow echo from inside the warehouse sounded like a death knell. Mack Bolan slid the door open and entered the building. The scurry of rats stayed just ahead of the beam of his torch as he walked among the assorted crates and cartons. Opening a few, he confirmed Brognola's latest intel. There were enough weapons here to equip a small army. Most of them were packed in cartons that belied their contents.
Tractor parts had been replaced with automatic rifles, submachine guns and handguns. They were of every make and model, a collection of black market arms worth thousands of dollars. A large crate labeled Generator actually contained smaller boxes of ammunition.
Near the rear door, Bolan's flashlight picked out a small panel truck. His search of the vehicle uncovered two five-gallon gasoline containers, one full, one half empty. Quickly Bolan poured the volatile fuel over the stacks of crates. With the jimmy, he punctured the truck's gas tank, adding its contents to the pyre.
Selecting a LAWS rocket from one of the crates, he slipped back through the door, leaving it open to let the wind inside.
Back across the highway, Bolan took careful aim. With a whoosh like the opening of hell's gates, the rocket streaked across the deserted highway, piercing one of the few intact panes of glass. The elevation was perfect. The LAWS rocket blew with a sound like thunder, igniting the gasoline. In seconds the place was a roaring inferno.
Bolan ran up the block toward his car, reaching it just as the first munitions detonated. In minutes the place would be leveled. Bolan regretted that he didn't have time to stay and watch. But as his Camaro roared to life, he smiled grimly. It wasn't only money, he thought, that could burn a hole in your pocket. And when the pocket belonged to the KGB, you could stand and watch or you could fan the flames.
Either way you upped the ante in the game with the highest stakes in town.
15
"That was quite a fireworks display you put on last night. What the hell was in that warehouse, anyway?" Hal Brognola asked the man seated before him.
"You name it," Mack Bolan answered. "If it could kill somebody, it was there."
"I'm catching some heat about it, you know."
"Why? There's no reason to connect you with what happened. You know that as well as I do."
"You're forgetting something, Mack. I told you the President was taking a personal interest in this matter. You've also been around long enough to know that people like Malcolm Parsons get away with as much as they do because they have connections."
"Look, Hal, you brought me in on this, and I've been working closely with you. It's sensitive, I know that. I also think we're onto something. I'd bet you Parsons didn't even know that stuff was there. Time's running out, and I've got to find Rachel."
"I know you feel responsible for the position she's in, but you can't. She knew what she was letting herself in for, and besides, she's okay," Brognola countered.
"For how long, and how do you know she's okay?"
"Because she's not the only one we have on the inside. Look, our information has been right on the money, hasn't it?"
"So far, yeah, it has."
"So trust me on this. She's the ace up their sleeve. If they feel safe, she's safe. But the minute they get the idea that having Rachel isn't going to help them any, they'll kill her. Nobody pays for insurance that's lapsed, Mack."
Bolan knew Brognola was right. Hell, he could ride around the country for a year, blowing warehouses and wasting punks. He'd wanted to send a message. All right, he'd sent it. And they'd gotten it. He was sure of that. The question was, what to do next?
If he lost sight of his primary goal, he wouldn't help Rachel at all. If he lost his cool and got himself killed, it wouldn't matter what his intentions had been. The best way to help her was to put Parsons, and whoever controlled him, out of commission. That had to be first.
"What do you want me to do?"
"First, I want you to tell me everything you learned last night. All of it. What kind of weapons, their place of origin, the works."
Bolan sketched out the broad outlines for the big Fed, stopping occasionally for a question or two. The debriefing took nearly half an hour. When he had finished, Brognola nodded again.
"It all fits. We got a make on your Mr. Glinkov, and there's no question this is KGB. But it's a lot heavier than we thought. Glinkov is one of the big boys. He's got a free hand in operations. His budget is pretty sizable, and he's got a pipeline to the top. We think Peter Achison may be the KGB point man on this."
"What's Glinkov after? Why do I get the feeling that I'm sitting on a nuke, just waiting for someone to set it off?"
"Because that's just where you are. We got a little intel on Glinkov's next move. If we play it right, we can kill two birds with one stone — get Rachel out and shut the KOB bastard down. Glinkov is going for the long ball. You hurt him last night, and I think you gave him a push."
"How deep is your other man?"
"V."
"When do I get to meet him?"
"You already have."
"Not Eli Cohen?" Bolan stared at the big Fed. Brognola stood up, reaching for his cigar.
"You got it."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"It didn't matter before."
"Does it matter now?"
"It sure does. Eli's the one who knows where Rachel is. And he's the one who knows what's on tap. We need him on the inside. I can't take a chance. But trust me, he's a good man, one of the best."
"Mossad?"
Brognola nodded.
"What's their interest in this? And don't tell me it's the same as ours. They spy on us just like we spy on them."
"Nature of the beast. Look, I'll tell you what Eli's been able to get to us so far. That's the best I can do. You already got a leg up. You know what he looks like, and he knows what you look like. When the shooting starts, and believe me it will, at least you'll know not to blow each other away."