LITMIR.BIZ

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      “They look like .22s,” Cage mentioned. “But hell, the gun didn’t sound like any 5.56 mm that I’d ever run into.”

      “And it didn’t sound like an AK?” Marrick asked.

      “Nope. I heard my share of those,” Cage replied. “More than I’d like.”

      Marrick frowned. “The Russians use a 5.45 mm round. Very similar to our 5.56.”

      “Yeah,” Cage replied. “When we went head-to-head with Saddam the first time, he was still using good old ComBloc ammo. I heard they still were, our second trip through Baghdad.”

      “Doesn’t mean much,” Marrick replied. “The Russian black market is flooded with the newer AK-74s, and ammunition. The Commonwealth of Independent States is hemorrhaging top-of-the-line military equipment as fast as they can build it.”

      Cage nodded. “Which is why none of it sounded familiar. So, we’ve got what? Russian Mafia supplying Korean street gangs in Salt Lake?”

      “Part of why I’m here,” Marrick replied. “You’re sure they’re Koreans?”

      “They sounded Asian,” Rand said. “And called me a few names in some kind of language. It wasn’t Chinese, though.”

      “You speak Chinese?” Marrick asked.

      “I lived with my dad in Hong Kong,” Rand replied. “My guess, they’d have to be Korean.”

      Marrick frowned, then got out her cell phone.

      “What’s going on?” Cage asked.

      “I’ve got another agent coming in. I want to let him know about the welcoming presents these punks are giving out,” Marrick returned.

      “Yeah. I’ll tell you, firsthand, they suck,” Rand replied.

      Marrick took the call.

      “Graham, here.”

      “How soon you gettin’ here?” Marrick asked.

      “I’ll be there.”

      “Park two blocks back. There are snipers in the upper levels,” Marrick warned.

      “Snipers?”

      “They’re marking their territory. Any vehicle pulling in gets a bullet through the windshield.”

      “How many are there?” Graham asked.

      “Can’t tell, but enough to hold the Saturday crowd in a bank lobby and spare enough people to man the upstairs windows. We’re thinking maybe two, three snipers. I nearly caught a slug, but S.L.P.D. is saying that these punks are just playing,” Marrick explained.

      “Hope I’m there before playtime’s over and they decide to get serious,” Graham replied.

      “I hope so, too,” Marrick answered. “I just can’t see how we’re going to get anywhere with this bunch. The building’s tied up tight, and with the firepower they’ve got, we’re pretty much looking at a long standoff.”

      “So, maybe I can get back to the slopes and report in Monday morning?” Graham quipped.

      “If my weekend’s going to suck, so is yours. I don’t care who’s in town,” Marrick retorted.

      “Yes, ma’am!” Graham responded.

      Marrick looked back at the bank as her partner hung up. More vehicles were arriving, including other agents from the local office. She debated whether to give them a warning as they passed the perimeter, but held her tongue.

      Since the other agents in town wanted to treat her like a leper, let them squirm as a Korean sniper put a bullet in their windshield. She turned her attention to the building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sniper.

      The Gulf of Thailand

      THE EXECUTIONER descended on the cargo crane from the deck of the smuggler’s ship to the superstructure of the submarine in the water. He held on to the cable, resting his feet against the base of a large iron hook that had gear from Dragon Slayer attached to it. Grimaldi lowered him down to the conning tower.

      The gear settled on the deck, and Bolan hopped off to release it from the hook. Grimaldi pulled it back up.

      Bolan opened the first of the two duffels and pulled out a strap of grenades, hanging it around his neck and one shoulder. He adjusted the bandolier, making sure the blasters he wanted to use were easily drawn, then took out a Fabrique Nationale P-90 submachine gun. The stubby little chopper was ideal for close quarters work, and held a 50-round magazine. He slung the weapon, then filled his harness with a half-dozen .50-round magazines.

      The second duffel had several canvas packaged blocks. Bolan slung the spares over his shoulder, then unwound one of the packages. It looked like a spiderweb, made out of thick putty, with an electronic device in the center. Bolan stuck the putty to the conning tower hatch and activated the center device. He stepped out of range, then pulled out a radio detonator.

      The breaching charge, while explosive, wouldn’t disperse its detonation like a regular bomb. Instead, the putty would focus its force against the hull. No shrapnel would fly back toward Bolan, but the concussion could harm him. The detonation cord would explode more slowly than regular plastic explosive, acting more like a cutting torch, and would peel apart steel easily. Bolan thumbed the detonator to life. There was a soft woomp, and metal clattered on the hatch. Bolan plucked a concussion grenade from his harness and swung around to the opened hatch. He dropped the flash-bang through the hole and turned away. There were screams of panic as the men inside the control room recognized what had happened, but they were cut off by a fierce crack.

      The Executioner dropped through the hatch, the P-90 in his fist.

      Koreans clutched their burned eyes or their shattered eardrums, stunned by the force of the explosion. Bolan clubbed one of the submariners across the jaw with the stock of his weapon and dropped him to the deck. It took only a few moments for Bolan to knock out the remaining conscious crewmen. That would hold them until he could use the plastic cable ties in his harness to restrain them.

      A hatch shifted and Bolan braced behind the doorjamb.

      It opened partially, a gun muzzle poking through. Bolan was to the side, out of sight, but his P-90 was primed and ready to greet the newcomers.

      A Korean sailor stepped through the hatch, talking to his partners. Bolan didn’t understand what he was saying, but he recognized the lilt of confusion in his voice. The Executioner speared him with a powerful kick and hurled him to the deck.

      Panicked cries filled the air as Bolan lurched into view. The P-90 blazed to life, and its payload of 5.7 mm flesh-shredders made the hatchway into a no-man’s land of supersonic death. Bodies tumbled in a mad rush to escape the big soldier’s salvo, but the .50-round magazine had enough ammunition to give everyone who had been poised to retake the bridge a deadly kiss.

      The opening burst lasted only three seconds, but the quartet of Koreans in the hatchway leaked from forty fatal wounds. Bolan changed the depleted magazine for a new one, and checked on the stunned sailor on the deck.

      Bolan’s kick had caught him in the kidney, and as he’d bounced off a control panel, his forehead and nose had been split by unyielding metal and plastic. The Korean’s face was a bloody mask, and he was curled on the deck, insensate to his surroundings. The soldiers spared a moment to bind his wrists and ankles with cable ties, waiting for the next wave of defenders to show up.

      “How’s it going, Jack?” Bolan asked over his headset.

      “The carrier’s choppers are still fifteen minutes out. That’s all you’ve got to mop up the sub.”

      “It’ll have to do,” Bolan told him.

      The Executioner pulled another stun grenade, armed the bomb, and hurled it into the depths of the corridor beyond the bridge. It bounced, and he was rewarded

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