Cyberthreat

Octavios began kicking or punching the trunk hood again. Bolan wasn’t sure which. “Cut it out,” he shouted at the back seat. “I’ll find a spot with some cover and we can—”

Bolan stopped. A silver Mercedes sedan was sliding into position next to him. Both the driver and a man in the passenger seat turned to look at him. Both were Asian.

The soldier recognized them. The driver’s photo was one of the images in his dossier. It was Choi Kwang Sik.

From the passenger seat, Jang Mung-Jun raised a weapon to eye level.

Bolan’s mind had time to register a 9 mm Daewoo K-7. Cyclic rate of fire somewhere around a thousand rounds per minute.

Bolan reached down and yanked his seat lever. The seat back slammed rearward, dropping him almost prone behind the steering wheel. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor.

Nine-millimeter bullets ripped through the driver’s-side window as Bolan sent the Chevy rocketing through the intersection.

Chapter Two

The Streets of Toronto

The Chevy bottomed out as it careened through the intersection, scraping the undercarriage on a hump in the asphalt. Bolan jerked the seat upright then cut the wheel to the left, shooting for a narrow side street. There were no people visible in that direction. It was early enough in the morning that pedestrian traffic was low. Bolan wanted as much fighting room as he could get. With one hand, he scraped some of the pebbles of safety glass from his lap as he floored the gas pedal.

The Mercedes bearing the two North Korean SSD operatives was pulling even with his right rear quarter panel. They were going to try to PIT him—a classic Pursuit Intervention Technique used to ram a vehicle into the shoulder. The soldier couldn’t allow that.

He slammed on the brakes and the Mercedes scraped the passenger side of the Chevy amidships. Metal squealed.

“What is happening out there?” Octavios demanded from the trunk.

“Quiet,” Bolan said. “Busy now.”

The Executioner drew the massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from the Kydex holster. He needed a vehicle-killer. The .44 slugs would do more damage than the 9 mm rounds from his Beretta ever could. He hit the switch for the driver’s-side window—realizing, to his brief amusement, that there was little point in that—and raised the weapon to take aim.

Two more silver Mercedes sedans roared up along either side of the Chevy. Bolan judged the distance and hit the brakes. The vehicle directly behind him, the one carrying the two SSD operatives in Bolan’s dossier, rammed the back of the Chevy. That set off more squalling from the trunk, but the hit wasn’t bad enough to do more than scrape paint.

Just for a moment, the sedan on his left drew even with the Chevy. Bolan had time to see the Asian driver’s eyes go wide. Then the gunner in the passenger seat woke up and raised his own submachine gun. This one a Mini Uzi.

Bolan put a .44 Magnum slug through the gunner’s face.

The bullet bore a tunnel through the passenger’s skull and kept going, striking the driver in the right side of his jaw. The sedan broke right, scraping the Chevy, then careened left, bouncing up over the curb and into a light pole at what had to be fifty miles per hour.

An errant thought flitted through his brain—eighty kilometers per hour. They were in Canada, after all.

He designated the wrecked Mercedes as Car Two. Car One bore Choi and Jang. Car Three was the other backup unit. He would need to take out Car Three to remove the threat it represented. Neutralizing Car One without killing both occupants would be ideal; he’d prefer to question the agents if he had the chance.

He was going to need the Farm to run interference for him, too. This on-the-fly gun battle would bring police attention, and fast. Units might already be responding. He wasn’t worried about being taken into custody; his Justice Department credentials would spring him. But he didn’t want local cops caught in the cross fire. The battle over Octavios was just starting. It was going to get a lot bloodier before Bolan got the man safely to their destination.

The next intersection gave the soldier a choice. Break right and risk entering a more populated area, or break left and travel into increasing commercial real estate. He brought the wheel over to the left, making the tires squeal. The rear end of the Chevy finally broke free and fishtailed through the curve.

“Are you...drifting?” Octavios called out from the trunk.

“Quiet,” Bolan barked. He brought the Desert Eagle up and around and slapped the window switch on his control panel. The right-side windows on the Chevy started to descend.

The driver of Car Three was pulling even on Bolan’s passenger side. He fired wildly from a 9 mm Skorpion machine pistol, punching out the remaining window glass on that side. Bolan ducked low, barely keeping the car under control. Several rounds dug furrows into the plastic dashboard, but none hit the windshield.

He released the window switch, raised his arm and fired back, emptying the Desert Eagle at the driver. Car Three immediately slammed into the Chevy’s flank, creasing the doors. Bolan yanked the wheel hard to the right, away, and right again, slapping the driverless car as its passenger tried grab for the wheel. The Asian man and Bolan made eye contact for a moment. The Executioner dropped the empty Desert Eagle to his passenger seat, whipped the Beretta from its leather shoulder holster and shot the passenger in the head.

Car Three took out a series of newspaper vending boxes and rolled to a stop half on the curb. Bolan again floored the Chevy’s accelerator, putting some distance between him and Car One.

The mirror on the Chevy’s passenger side exploded.

Bolan ducked. Another impact made the vehicle shudder.

“Cooper! There are bullets entering the trunk!”

Bolan risked a glance at the rearview mirror, very aware of the high speed at which they were traveling. The passenger in Car One—that would be Jang—was leaning out his side of the vehicle, lining up on the soldier with some kind of heavy rifle. From the impact with the Chevy, it had to be a .50 caliber, something with real oomph behind it.

They were trying to kill Octavios, Bolan thought. It made sense. The data dump that would be triggered by the man’s death would do far more damage to the West than it would a pariah nation like North Korea, whose media was strictly controlled; there was no danger their citizens would even see most of the data, if any of it managed to leak past the government’s censors. Hell, most of the nation didn’t even have internet access.

Bolan thought that if it was up to him, his priority would be to capture Octavios and interrogate him, get everything out of him that he could. Failing that capture, he’d take him out to trigger the data dump. It would embarrass the West and embolden enemies like North Korea.

The engine was revving so high that the Chevy was starting to shake. Bolan saw the next intersection coming up and knew he was going to have to cut corners, quite literally. There was no way, at this speed, he was going to make the next turn. And there was only so much maneuvering he could do to foul Jang’s shots. It wasn’t easy to hit a moving vehicle from another moving vehicle. Bolan knew that well enough from experience. But Jang would be back there taking his time, knowing the odds were in his favor.

The soldier could feel the North Korean’s finger on that heavy-caliber rifle’s trigger, could feel the SSD operative taking up slack. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he imagined the reticle of Jang’s scope on the back of his head.

Almost there. He counted down the numbers. A compact hybrid vehicle was moving through the intersection, but by his eye, he would miss it.

Ready...steady...now.

Bolan hauled the steering wheel over as sharply as he dared. The Chevy all but went up on two wheels as he cut the corner, bounding over the curb and clipping a hot dog cart. The cart wasn’t open for business, and the owner was nowhere in sight. He caught a fleeing image of hot dogs and condiments flying everywhere as the cart spun and skittered away.

Another bullet struck the right rear fender of the Chevy. Bolan had no time to worry about that, or Octavios’s continued shouts for help. He managed to keep control of the car as they cut across the road at forty-five degrees. He nearly hit a minivan and narrowly missed an SUV before slamming up and over the next curb. Then they were on the other side and Bolan was again man-handling the steering wheel. The Chevy’s tires squealed in agony as they laid down heavy black streaks of rubber.

Bolan was watching behind him and didn’t see the fourth silver Mercedes until it blocked his path. The Chevy didn’t hit it head-on, but a good portion of the passenger’s-side front fender was torn free by the impact. Bolan rocked in his seat, feeling blood in his mouth as his face tapped the steering wheel.

The heavy thump from the trunk at the same time, coupled with the sudden silence from back there, could only mean that Octavios had rolled forward and struck the inside of the trunk. Either the impact had stunned him or one of Jang’s bullets had found its mark. The Chevy’s engine was pouring smoke, steam, or both. Bolan wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

He let the mangled car come to a stop, threw it into Park and kicked open his door, filling his hands with the now reloaded Desert Eagle and the custom-tuned 93-R machine pistol. The Beretta had a 20-round box magazine and a specially built suppressor attached. Bolan flicked the selector switch to 3-round burst, prepared to let the Italian death machine do the talking for him.

Car Four, as Bolan dubbed it, wheeled around to take another run at him, overshooting his position and stopping at the end of the street. The soldier glanced left, then right, making sure there were no civilians visible. He thought he could hear, in the distance, the sirens of emergency vehicles. He hoped he was wrong. Behind him, Car One was making up ground quickly.

He needed to get gone, quickly. But more than that, he needed to verify Octavios’s status. If the man was dead, the mission was over before it had begun. There was only one option if he wanted to end this as quickly as possible. He would have to force his attackers’ hands.

Stepping out into the middle of the street, consciously putting ground between him and the Chevy, he spread his arms. “I’m all yours!” he shouted to the men in Car Four. “Come on. I’m right here!”

He was close enough to see Car Four’s driver pause to consider it. No doubt the man was smart enough to wonder if it was a trick. He’d be wondering what the big man with the two handguns had up his sleeve. He’d also be thinking that a speeding German performance sedan was more than a match for a single pedestrian, no matter how he was armed.

Come on, Bolan thought. Here I am, just begging to be mowed down—

Car Four’s engine roared. The driver jammed his foot on the accelerator, sending his vehicle flying toward Bolan. Behind him, the soldier could hear Car One approaching at high speed.

They wouldn’t be stupid enough to put themselves on a collision course. Car One would be eating up distance between Bolan and Jang so that the SSD operative could get a clean shot with his rifle. They’d either take Bolan first or they’d put more rounds in the Chevy’s trunk, trying to seal Octavios’s fate before they moved on. But right now they’d be picturing what a great prize the Greek hacker would make. They’d be thinking that whomever this armed interloper was, the big man could be removed and then they could still interrogate Octavios at their leisure—if the man was still alive.

Car Four was gaining speed, headed straight for Bolan’s position. There was no way any ordinary man could survive, even armed. That’s likely what the driver was thinking.

But Bolan was no ordinary man. He was the Executioner.

The soldier snapped up the Beretta and drilled a 3-round burst through the windshield directly in front of the driver’s face. At the exact same moment he brought up the Desert Eagle and snapped off a single .44 Magnum round that hit the windshield dead center. The glass disintegrated.

The driver lost control and plowed up and over the curb, missing Bolan by inches.

The Executioner swiveled and fired both pistols into the side windows of the sedan, targeting the men inside. The Mercedes hit a storefront and stopped against the heavy stone steps leading to a used-record store. The engine was still running. Bolan noted, with relief, that the store was vacant, a sign in the front window proclaiming Commercial Property For Rent.

Bolan reached into his war bag, produced a smoke grenade, armed it and tossed the canister through the shattered driver’s window of Car Four. Purple smoke began to pour out of the vehicle. The men inside didn’t move.

Despite the ringing in his ears, Bolan was certain of it now. There were sirens in the distance, approaching his location.

The thunder of a heavy-caliber rifle brought Bolan’s attention around. Asphalt cratered a meter from his position. Jang was firing through the smoke that the Executioner was counting on for cover.

A second shot pealed through the morning air. Bolan had the range, now. He raised his Desert Eagle and waited. There was no way he would fire blindly through the smoke. He didn’t have to. All he needed was a clear spot through the drifting wisps.

He went down on one knee. Jang, on the other hand, was standing now, trying to make out his prey through the purple haze. That would be all the advantage Bolan needed.

The soldier found his moment and took it. Jang appeared with his rifle. Bolan fired the Desert Eagle empty, jacked the magazine, grabbed a spare from his war bag and rammed it home. Then he fired the heavy pistol dry again.

The barrage was enough. Jang, unable to target either Bolan or the Chevy’s trunk effectively through the smoke, jumped back into the Mercedes. The North Koreans made their escape, driving back the way they’d come.

There was very little time now. Bolan holstered his weapon, went to Car Four, opened the driver’s door and pulled out the corpse. He went around to the other side, dumped the dead passenger, and then circled the vehicle again. His next stop was the Chevy’s trunk. He tried to pop it free with the key fob. Nothing happened.

Gritting his teeth, Bolan removed his OTF knife and hit the switch. The single-edged, clip-point blade snapped free with authority. He used the heavy fighting knife to pry open the trunk, succeeding in releasing the latch on the third try. The lid went up.

Octavios stared up at him, eyes wide, unblinking.

“Stop screwing around,” Bolan said.

“You are an utter madman.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” The soldier put his knife away, grabbed Octavios by the front of his windbreaker and dragged him out of the trunk. Then he shoved the man toward the Mercedes. “Get in,” Bolan ordered. “Try to run, try to outsmart me, and I’ll put a bullet in the back of your knee.”

Bolan wouldn’t do that, of course, but Octavios would not know the soldier’s personal code. It didn’t hurt for him to have a healthy fear of his chaperone. The Greek sat in the passenger seat and then looked stricken.

“This seat is covered in blood,” he said, disgusted.

“Be glad it’s not yours, because that’s what they were looking to do to you.”

“I understood as much when they started shooting out the trunk with an elephant gun,” Octavios stated as the solder got in behind the wheel.

“Good.” Bolan put the Mercedes in Reverse and managed to get it back on the road. Once there, he spun the wheel and sped away from the approaching police sirens. The sedan was badly damaged, but in much better condition than the Chevy.

Bolan thumbed the single contact in his encrypted smartphone and put the device to his ear. Barbara Price answered.

“We read you,” was all she said.

“This is Striker,” Bolan said, using his mission code name. “Change of plans. Our ride is wrecked. I’ll need new wheels, a resupply, and I’m going to have some requests for heavy artillery.”

“Understood,” Price replied. She didn’t sound worried. At least, she wouldn’t sound worried to anyone who had not known her for years. “How mobile are you, Striker?”

“Barely. Can you route me somewhere in the vicinity?”

“I have a location standing by,” she said. “Sending it to your phone now. Message us the specifics of your supply needs and I’ll make sure a courier reaches you.”

“Affirmative,” Bolan said. “Thanks. Striker out.”

He pulled the phone away from his head and an address immediately flashed across the screen via the Farm’s encrypted message system. This was followed by GPS routing to the location. Bolan glanced at the map grid long enough to memorize the route. He tucked the phone away and glanced at his passenger.

Octavios was glaring. “It is not enough that you almost get me shot,” he said. “Now you must text and drive?”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed.

Octavios’s face split in a wide grin. He began to laugh. Beaming, he slapped the door on his side, as if he’d just told Bolan the world’s best joke.

“I miss something?” Bolan finally said.

“Nothing,” Octavios told him, struggling to get the words out through his laughter. “It is just that...at least my death will not be boring, Cooper. I have you to thank for that.”

Chapter Three

Toronto Safehouse

“Is this really necessary?” Octavios grumbled.

“Yeah,” Bolan replied.

The Greek pulled at the handcuffs securing him to an exposed radiator pipe in the “guest” bedroom of the safehouse. Bolan had chosen this converted anteroom off the front porch for Octavios because it served his immediate purposes. The windows were small and the room was relatively cramped. While the tall man tugged experimentally at the cuff on his right wrist, Bolan pulled up Octavios’s polo shirt to examine the device implanted in the man’s chest.

“You’re awfully forward,” the data terrorist complained.

“Quiet.” Bolan poked at the wires. “The inflammation is worse than it was this morning.” He put a palm on Octavios’s forehead.

“I do wish you would stop touching me.”

“Shut up. You’re running a fever. That’s going to be a problem.”

“Because you intend to keep me alive long enough for your government to affix jumper cables to my—”

“Yes,” Bolan said. “Do you have any allergies to penicillin, anything like that?”

“Not to my knowledge. Am I to take this as a good-cop ploy to gain my cooperation? A demonstration of faux caring on your behalf? Is this the part where you tell me you are really my friend?”

“No,” Bolan countered. “My job is to keep you alive until we reach our destination. But I need you to understand something, Octavios. You’re a threat to my country. If I can’t keep you alive, the only other option is to make sure you don’t go free.” He pulled the Greek’s shirt back down and went to sit on the edge of the guest-room bed. Taking out his secure phone, he began typing a list of supplies he needed the Farm to courier to him. He added “antibiotics” to the list.

“Then your mission is no different than the many others who want to kill or capture me,” Octavios stated. “Such as the gunmen today. There will be others, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“I am a threat to a great many countries,” the Greek said. “And to any entity, any private individual, any person in power or of prestige, who fears the truth.”

“And you don’t care who gets hurt.”

“If a man is capable of being hurt by the truth,” Octavios declared, “then I say, hurt him.”

“So when Codex Freedom released the names of covert CIA operatives to the internet, you don’t see a problem there?” Bolan challenged. “You bear no responsibility for the lives you endangered?”

“Cooper, I refuse to believe you are that naïve. Shall we discuss, for that matter, who you really are?”

“Come again?”

“Please,” Octavios said. He made an attempt to get comfortable, seated on the floor, his back to the radiator, his right arm hanging from the handcuffs. “You’ve just engaged in open warfare on the streets of peaceful Toronto. The gunplay in which you engaged would be notable even on the mean streets of your own nation.”

“I don’t need a lecture on American violence,” Bolan said, “from a man whose hands are bloody with it.”

“You are mistaken,” Octavios told him. “You think I wash my hands of the consequences of my actions. You think I believe the data speaks for itself. That I release it to the world and accept no responsibility for the consequences.”

“Isn’t that what Codex Freedom is?” Bolan asked. “Don’t you claim just that?”

“Far from it. You’ve been sold a bill of goods by your media. By your own government. Don’t be shocked. Every single person alive is fed a constant stream of propaganda. It infects popular culture. It dominates and dictates your news. It informs your government’s foreign and domestic policies. No one is immune.”

“Except you, of course,” Bolan said. “You and the zealots who work with you.”

“Has it not occurred to you to wonder about my aims?” Octavios asked. “Do you think I want this device in my chest?”

“I think your type loves playing the martyr. I’ve met countless versions of you, Octavios. Every single one of you is convinced you alone understand what’s true. You’ve decided to inflict your version of that truth on the public at large. You don’t care who gets hurt. You don’t care who gets killed. You have your self-righteous cause, and it’s what makes you special. Without it, you’d dry up and blow away.”

“You misjudge me, Cooper,” Octavios said. “That is not the man I am. And I am very aware of the lives taken by my quest to expose the truth. I understand the cost. But then, that’s what bothers you, isn’t it? The cost?”

Bolan eyed the Greek. He took his knife from his waistband and snapped open the blade. Octavios looked, for a moment, like he thought he’d made a mistake. Perhaps he thought Bolan was going to snap and cut his throat. The soldier took a diamond sharpening rod from his war bag and began repairing the slightly damaged edge of the OTF knife. Prying open the trunk of the Chevy had left some nicks in the blade.

“Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me?”

“Touché,” Octavios said. “But please, Cooper. Is that really your name?” He waited for Bolan to answer, but when the soldier said nothing, he went on. “I know governments. I know bureaucrats. I have seen the cables they transmit when they believe no one is looking. I have seen their private emails. Messages to their lovers. To prostitutes. To enemies. To friends. I know what they hide.

“I have not held on to this information, nor used it to blackmail those in power. And I could have. The sex trafficking ring that Codex Freedom exposed to the internet resulted in the arrests of many people in power. Celebrities and politicians alike. Or at least, it would have...had the powers that be not ‘suicided’ a certain wealthy facilitator, the man at the center of the ring.”

“And you think that makes up for the people you’ve gotten killed,” Bolan said.

“Nothing makes up for deaths,” Octavios replied. “Nothing makes up for abuses of power. Don’t you see, Cooper? The only way to disinfect the rot is to expose it to the light. Secrets, Cooper. The world has too many of them. Private secrets. Government secrets. Secrets among allies. Secrets among foes. I fight for a world without secrets. A world where the truth is known. People will die. They are collateral damage in a war for the truth. But that new world, that truthful world, will be a better place.”

“And no doubt you’ll be well taken care of in it.”

“Bah,” Octavios said. “Do you think I do this to enrich myself? I have already said I could have blackmailed countless power brokers. With what I know of your Hollywood celebrities alone, I could amass an illicit fortune. Instead, I am a wanted man with a battery-powered modem stuck to my sternum. I am hunted by government assassins. My assets, those I could not hide, have been seized. My family wants nothing to do with me, and I avoid them for their own safety. Do you think any man would choose this life?”