Death Metal

Most of the building was empty, devoid of anything approaching cover for Bolan as he approached the open door and slipped into the dark interior. He had removed his outer clothing, despite the intense cold, and the blacksuit underneath allowed him to blend in to the dark with ease. He could only safely stay at the periphery, however. The lack of cover precluded a closer approach until he could recon the rest of the warehouse space. Provided, of course, that his prey stayed where it was and gave him that precious time.

Right now he wished that he had packed some of the surveillance equipment that Stony Man usually provided: a long-range mic would have solved this problem easily. Those were the breaks; he would have to do this the hard way.

While this ran through his mind, he was moving along the wall of the warehouse, to his left, seeking darker patches away from the central light where he could gain ground toward a cluster of packing crates that would allow him to close in.

The fact that the band had chosen such a large space and seemingly used so little of it was initially baffling, until Bolan remembered the last warehouse: private parties would be easy here for black metallers who wanted their musical preferences to remain secret.

Not just musical preferences. The privacy this location afforded could be very convenient for keeping political and terrorist activities under wraps.

By now the soldier had made his way to the cover of the stacked crates and could hear what the six men in the center were discussing in hushed tones.

* * *

RIPPER WAS THE BAND LEADER by virtue of having the strongest convictions and the most overwhelming personality. Milan and Seb had identified that about him from the beginning and so had made him their focus. But now that they knew the location of the bunker, they were unwilling to risk their own men until the ordnance had been safely removed.

The site had been secured, and they needed transportation. They were aware that the local police were treating Arsneth’s murder as a closed case with the corpse of Jari providing a convenient scapegoat. But it was only a matter of time before someone questioned the scenario, and they did not want to bring their trained personnel into such a situation until they were ready to put their main plan into action.

This was just the preliminary stage. They might have been able to take any evidence of the bunker that could identify its location off the internet, but there had been enough time for interested parties to start assembling clues.

They needed cannon fodder, and they needed it now. Ripper’s bandmates were known only by their assumed band names: Hellhammer, Visigoth and Emperor Hades. That was all they needed; as Seb and Milan stood in front of the stage and addressed them, they saw reflected back four dour and intense faces, serious about their task.

And their task this night was to learn about the weapons they may need if they encountered resistance at the bunker. Briefly Seb outlined the location they were headed to, and the formation they would take: two trucks, three men each truck, ordnance for a firefight if necessary and space to pack the mother lode, with Seb and Milan riding shotgun to each truck driver.

“We may not be alone,” Ripper continued, walking over to the crate stack where Bolan had hidden himself. “Others may be on the trail. We are sure that Arsneth did not tell anyone else the exact location, but it may be that interested parties have worked out the map reference. We must be prepared. I know that you have explosives and small arms experience, and that some of you are used to hunting rifles. As far as I’m aware, despite shipping and storing these babies for us, you’ve never used them. Time to learn.”

He cracked open a crate, pushing back the top to reveal a cache of Heckler & Koch MP5s, each wrapped in oiled cloth. He took one out and uncovered it, then tossed it to Emperor Hades, who caught it without an eyelid flickering.

Seb grinned at Milan; this should be simple.

* * *

BOLAN HELD HIS BREATH as the mercenary turned and walked toward the stack. Bolan had the micro Uzi SMG in hand—spray’n’pray may be his best bet if discovered at such close range, but he would rather not fire at all...yet.

He almost sighed with relief when the merc picked a crate at the front of the stack and then turned away. One of the musicians caught the weapon thrown at him and examined it while the leader returned to the crate and took another out, repeating the process.

With as much stealth as he could muster, Bolan drew back into the shadows, quickening his pace as he made his way toward the exit. He had heard enough to know their plans, and also that he had time to execute some of his own while the mercenaries ran through some basic weapons training for their troops.

Outside in the cold air with his breath frosting, Bolan located his thick coat and put it back on. He was going to be outside for a while, and he couldn’t afford to slow down due to the temperature. He intended to follow the trucks and required a vehicle of his own. He had some ideas about that, but first he needed a way of tracking the vehicles if he lost visual contact.

His lack of surveillance equipment was an oversight that he couldn’t let happen again, but in the meantime, he had the ingenuity to improvise. He had his smartphone on him, and that was fitted with a GPS tracker in addition to the one that came standard to the phone.

Keeping in the shadows with one eye on the open doorway of the warehouse, the soldier took the back off his phone and located the tracker where it had been fitted under the cover. He replaced the cover and hit a speed-dial number.

“Bear, don’t speak. I’ve taken my personal tracker out of my phone and am placing it on a target vehicle. That one I want followed in case I lose it. I’ll be on the network tracker.”

“I’ll adjust accordingly,” Kurtzman replied simply before disconnecting. It was the least Bolan had heard him say for a long, long time, and despite the situation, it brought a smile to his face as he moved forward across the open space between his cover and the two vehicles.

He chose the one nearest him, the vehicle by the doorway providing him with some cover as he slid underneath the chassis and secured the tracker in a gap the bodywork gave him behind the rear wheel well. He rolled out, got to his feet and made his way back into the cover of the dark and silence.

The first part of his task was complete. Now for the second.

* * *

MILAN HELD UP A HAND to stop Seb as he was about to run through the action of the MP5.

“If we’re going to run some targets, then we need to make sure we’re not overheard.”

“Man, we’ve played sets where we set off the full pyro and nobody cares. There’s a trash band that has a warehouse down the block who have all-night parties with the doors open, and no one pays it any attention. Who will hear?” Ripper complained.

Milan smiled coldly. “You’d be surprised at how gunfire can travel and how it can catch the ear when other things get ignored. It’s always best to take precautions. Wait...”

The mercenary made his way from the pool of light and across the darkened floor toward the warehouse gateway. When he reached it, some instinct gave him pause. Cautiously he stepped out into the dark night, scanning the locale. Initially he could hear nothing, only the distant sounds of music and traffic carried on the freezing night air from the edge of the dock. There was an undertone to it that seemed out of place—a rustling of shale, footsteps on damp concrete?

It was then that he saw him: in the far distance, moving around the side of a warehouse, caught for a fraction of a second in moonlight that was bright enough in contrast to the dark shadows to highlight his figure.

He was moving in the opposite direction to where Milan stood, and the merc was pretty sure that no one had been closer, but nonetheless...

He closed the door, locked it and strode back to the center of the warehouse.

“Let’s speed this up. The sooner we’re gone, the better.”

* * *

BOLAN APPROACHED THE TWO CARS outside the partying warehouse. Light and noise spilled out, with the occasional shadow cast as someone reeled close to the entrance. Voices screamed and yelled to make themselves heard, blending in with the noise of the band as they riffed endlessly on one chord, jamming loosely and covering any noise Bolan could make. If anyone came out while he was claiming one of the vehicles, he would have to disable him, but with the minimum of harm.

To look at, the two vehicles were suitably undistinguished: at least five years old, painted in drab colors and with no distinguishing marks. They both looked like they had been driven hard and recklessly, which wasn’t good. Bolan was hoping for something reliable.

He tried the driver’s side door of both. One had been left unlocked, and in the interest of saving time, he opted for that vehicle, as there seemed little to choose between them.

Hot-wiring a car—even in the days of sophisticated locking systems and computerized engine control that sometimes didn’t require a key—was still a simple task for the soldier, and in a matter of seconds he had the engine purring into life. Luck was with him, as it turned over nicely and was in better condition than the bodywork had led him to believe. The tank was three-quarters full, which was a bonus. If his luck held, then he would be able to keep on the enemy’s tail until they needed to refuel without losing ground.

He slipped the car into gear and pulled slowly away from the warehouse, heading back down the dock to a spot where he could keep his prey under surveillance.

* * *

THE MERCENARIES HAD completed their run-through of basic SMG training in double-quick time. The Norwegian band members were fast learners, and their prior knowledge of some armament was a bonus. Setting up targets, the mercenaries were soon satisfied that the four black metallers were proficient enough to hit a target well enough to stop it.

Milan divided up a crate of MP5s and spare magazines so that each man had a second SMG and enough ammunition to stop a division, let alone the handful of men that he was expecting at worst. He hadn’t mentioned what he had seen to the others, but his fellow merc knew there was something wrong and took him to one side.

“It might have been nothing. I saw a man nearby. He was in the shadows, moving away from us. But my gut—”

“Is something I trust,” Seb interrupted. “Was he here?”

Milan shrugged. “I doubt it. But the sooner we move, the less risk. And watch those shadows when we leave.”

Seb nodded and joined the four musicians as they took their weapons to the trucks, splitting into pairs. Milan killed the light, shut the warehouse door and locked it. As he turned back to the trucks, where he would join Ripper and Hellhammer, he sniffed the air like a dog. There was something there, he was sure. But what?

“Is everything okay?” Ripper queried as Milan climbed into the truck.

“Maybe. Let’s roll—but slow.”

Ripper grinned. “You don’t want us to draw attention to ourselves?”

“Something like that.”

* * *

BOLAN HAD PARKED the car between two warehouses, looking out on the main road that led to the dock entrance. There was only the one way in and out of the complex, so the enemy would have to pass him. He sat in darkness, only the red lights on the dash illuminating the interior of the vehicle, the headlights extinguished.

He was jolted from his resting state to full awareness as one of the trucks pulled past the recess in which he was parked. The soldier prepared to turn the ignition and follow after a moment or two, but the second truck didn’t show up.

He cursed. It was an obvious precaution, and he should have expected it. Despite that, the tension still gnawed at him as he waited. Should he follow the first truck and risk discovery, even though the second truck may not move for some time?

He knew from what he had heard that the mercs were in a hurry. Their nerves would be cracking right now, and he figured that they were likely to move the second truck sooner rather than later.

* * *

RIPPER GAVE MILAN a puzzled look as the mercenary directed him to turn off the wide road and head down the narrow gap between two warehouses. The truck behind moved past them. In his side mirror Ripper saw Hades stare at them as he passed, with the same puzzled stare.

“Seb understands. Trust me,” Milan said.

“I don’t get it. We have to leave the same way as them,” Ripper muttered.

“Turn the lights out and take it slow,” Milan said, ignoring him. He fingered the MP5 in his grasp. Maybe he would need it.

“I can’t go any slower than this,” Ripper cautioned as the truck moved at a crawl.

“Suits me fine. We can catch up with them,” Milan murmured, his eyes narrowing in the dim light.

There was a maze of narrow roads between the warehouses that populated the docks. They were built in rough squares, so that each had some loading and unloading space to the front, with the narrow spaces between being purely for access. That made them hard to negotiate, and even harder to recon from within a moving vehicle.

“Got you,” Milan whispered to himself as they passed the far end of the narrow passage where Bolan had parked. He indicated to Ripper to back up.

“Who the hell is that?” Ripper asked as he put the truck into Reverse.

“Don’t know, don’t care, won’t ask,” Milan said softly. “Turn down there and hit full beam,” he added, racking the SMG. “Let’s flush him out.”

* * *

BOLAN CURSED WHEN he saw movement in the rearview mirror. It was a momentary darkening of an already black space, but it was enough to make him realize what the second truck was doing.

He had been certain that he had not been seen. Maybe his luck wasn’t as good as he’d thought.

Bolan opened the door, slipping out and letting it fall back so that it appeared to be closed. He moved in front of the vehicle, edging toward the wide ribbon of road. If nothing else, he was pretty sure that would now be secure.

He edged around so that he could see down the narrow alley as the black shape passed back again. The soldier racked the micro Uzi SMG.

Any moment now...

CHAPTER SIX

The night was rent by the sharp and deafening chatter of SMG fire as the headlights of the truck illuminated the car while Milan—having slid out of his seat and resting the barrel of his weapon on the doorsill to steady it—sprayed an arc that spewed glass and acrylic paint chips across the ground and the backseat of the vehicle.

As he ceased fire, the silence was oppressive, closing in suddenly as the SMG fire echoed swiftly away. Ripper and Hellhammer were transfixed in the truck, staring at the damage inflicted on the sedan.

“What the hell...” Milan left the cover of the door and moved forward quickly, MP5 held at waist level. He peered into the interior of the vehicle, gun barrel up and ready. He had expected to see his enemy, incapacitated if not dead. Instead there was just empty space.

He turned angrily as he heard Ripper laugh nervously.

“An empty car, man. No big deal.”

“Then what is it doing here? Why—”

“Hey, it doesn’t matter. Now come on, let’s get going before they get too far ahead.”

Milan gestured to the giant to be quiet, angrily scoping the ground in front of him. He couldn’t see anything, but he just knew that the car’s driver was out there. Waiting...

* * *

BOLAN PULLED BACK as the lights of the truck winked on brighter and heard rather than saw the barrage of fire. His gaze narrowed at the thought of being detected that easily.

It was no longer safe to be in the area. Gunfire in the open would attract attention, and he didn’t want to have to answer awkward questions and get tied up in red tape. One of the trucks was headed for the bunker. If it was the one he had fitted the tracker to, then things were good. If not, he needed to pick up the trail as soon as possible.

He heard the exchange between the Norwegian and the merc, and could picture their relative positions. He had seen two men in the front of the truck that had passed him. That meant one, maybe two more at most beside the pair he had heard.

Bolan stepped out across the line of the alley, snapping off three short bursts of fire before stepping back.

* * *

MILAN WAS DISTRACTED for one full second, yet it was enough. He knew that the enemy was close, but when he had heard Hellhammer mutter to Ripper, he turned back to silence him. It was an instinctive move and an error.

The merc’s head was turned away when Bolan appeared behind him. Milan had time to register Ripper’s expression, but no more, before the first short burst stitched him across the ribs and spine. By the time the second and third bursts had shattered the truck’s headlights and damaged the fender and open door, he was out of the game.

The return fire had panicked the two musicians. Hellhammer was yelling at Ripper to get the truck in gear and out of there. In his panicked state, the driver was grinding the gears, the truck jolting forward with a sickening lurch and crunching into the rear fender of the car before hitting Reverse and screeching backward with rubber burning smoke on the concrete.

Bolan moved down the alley, hurrying past the car and the prone mercenary, needing only the most cursory of glances to see that he was no threat. He snapped off another burst at the dark shape that the truck had become as it reversed and skidded sideways. He wanted to take out the windshield, maybe take down the driver. A burst of glass signaled that he had taken out the side window on the driver’s door, but the Norwegian must have ducked and got lucky as the truck continued on, skidding wildly across the confined space and smacking into the warehouse on each side, the front fender screeching and buckling under the impact.

The vehicle slowed, the agonizing sound of scraping metal betraying that the wheel well had closed in on at least one of the front wheels. But still it moved forward. The soldier could come out behind it and take out the tires, or he could go for a frontal assault, if he was fast enough.

He gambled that he was. Running back past the now useless car, he came out onto the main ribbon of concrete at the dock and ran hard. In his mind’s eye he could see the layout of the warehouses and the narrow alleys between the open squares as they were clustered.

The mercs were headed for the sole exit, and there was only one way they could get there. If Bolan was quick enough, he could get there before the enemy.

He cursed as he ran full-out into a straggling group of drunk and stoned metalheads who had wandered from their warehouse, attracted by the noise of the firefight. They were spread over the road, and Bolan would have to take evasive action to avoid running into them. That was rendered unnecessary when one of the women realized through her stupor that he was carrying a gun and screamed in fear. It had the effect of making them scatter, some of the young men grabbing women and pulling them away, sheltering them with their bodies.

The Executioner was past them, cutting across and down an unlit passage, when he heard an angry voice raised above the confusion. The owner of the car he had hot-wired had discovered its final resting place.

No time to worry about that now. The soldier had cut across an angle in the wide road as it took a curve at the dock and was now at a point where the crippled truck would have to come out if it was to head for the dock entrance.

In the gloom of the overhanging warehouse walls, Bolan could hear rather than see his prey as it approached. He could also hear distant sirens. One of the partygoers obviously had had sense enough to use his or her cell phone. He took a moment to reload his Uzi SMG.

It was time to bring this to a close, Bolan decided. As the dark shape of the truck closed on him, the shrieking of metal setting his teeth on edge, he aimed low and with two short bursts took out the front tires. Whatever control the driver had over the damaged vehicle was gone now, and it swerved wildly within the narrow gap, cannoning off the walls with showers of sparks where metal scraped concrete and more metal.

Bolan wanted to advance and finish the confrontation quickly, aware of the rapidly closing authorities, but he was stymied by the erratic progress of the truck. He didn’t want to risk being caught and pinned in a confined area.

The truck slewed to a halt, sliding around so that it became jammed at an angle between the two walls of the alley. It prevented anyone from exiting the back doors as they were constrained by one wall, but it did leave Bolan on the wrong side of one cab door if a person chose to run.

The soldier snapped off another burst, shattering the window of the driver’s door. He had wanted to take alive the men inside, so that he could question them, but circumstances altered that plan.

He closed in on the truck, micro Uzi SMG held at shoulder level.

“Out. Now. Facedown,” he yelled in English, which was one of the main languages of the nation.

In the relative silence, now that the engine had coughed and died, he could hear moaning from within the truck. There was no faking the sounds he heard. The impact of the crash and the results of his gunfire had disabled the threat within.

Weapon still leveled, he yanked open the driver’s door and stepped back quickly as the driver’s unconscious body spilled out onto the ground. He was covered in blood from wounds that were superficial and caused by glass. Somehow the burst of gunfire had miraculously missed his head and torso, but he was still out of the game.

Stepping over the musician and vaulting into the cab, Bolan found a figure lying across the back of the vehicle. He was the only other person in the truck. Bolan had a slim penlight in one of the slit pockets of the blacksuit, and with its aid he could see that the long-haired man lay at an odd angle, his arm twisted beneath him where the impact had dislocated his shoulder. His eyes were half-closed, unfocused.

There was no way he could get any intel from this man, either, not in the time Bolan would have. He pushed at the far side door; it was jammed solid. No chance of making an escape into the shadows then. He would have to risk the open road.

As the Executioner scrambled out of the truck, he was aware of approaching footsteps and turned to find some of the young men from the warehouse party, armed with wooden pallet stakes and chains. They stood at the head of the alley. Bolan could see that they had taken the women away from the area of conflict before arming themselves and, despite their obvious nerves, were sticking together.

He had to admire their courage, which he wouldn’t have expected, but there was no time for explanations or niceties.

“You speak English, right?” he barked as he leveled his weapon at them. “If I set this on rapid fire, you all go down before you take two steps. You back off, and you’re fine.”

He waited, muscles tense and straining to move as he heard the sirens grow nearer. The young men did not answer him; glances among them betrayed their fear.

Bolan stepped forward slowly, allowing them time to react. For a moment he thought he would have to fire a warning burst to convince them, but as he got closer, they melted away, backing off.

“Wise move, guys. They’re alive back there. Get the police to ask them about Count Arsneth.”

Moving backward so that he could keep his face to them, the soldier moved down the road. He was heading toward the sirens, but he was banking on his words having an effect on the group.

Curiosity, bewilderment and the subconscious desire not to risk death held sway. The group of young metalheads moved toward the truck.

With relief that he hadn’t needed any more punitive measures, Bolan turned and ran, angling toward the next narrow alley leading onto the main drag. His progress was not being watched, and the authorities were not yet within sight. With luck—something that had treated him erratically this night—he could melt into the dark and effect an escape.