Lethal Diversion

“All the usual organizations are already doing their song and dance. They’ve activated the Detroit Emergency Operations Center and all the field agencies are coordinating through them.”

“That sounds right,” Brognola said. “Do you foresee a problem of some kind, sir?”

“I wish we had foreseen any of this. That’s the problem.”

“We can only react to what’s in front of us, Mr. President.”

“All right, Hal, here’s the deal. All our normal agencies are going to be up to their eyeballs in protocol and their little fiefdoms and covering their own asses. I’ve already had the Directors of the NSA and the FBI in here, shouting at each other about whose fault it was. In the meantime, before they get it all together, these terrorists could blow up Detroit. I want you to send someone in to cut through all the red-tape bullshit. If he runs into any snags with the locals, tell him to have them authorize through the Office of the President. I want this found and handled.”

Brognola knew that sometimes fate put the right man in the right place at just the right time. “As it happens, Mr. President, I have a man in the area already who will be perfect for the job.”

“Then get him working, Hal. We don’t know what we’re up against or how long we’ve got until these bastards do whatever it is they plan to do.”

“I’ll contact him immediately, Mr. President,” Brognola said, hanging up with a polite goodbye.

The man for the job was Mack Bolan. And if there was anyone who could hunt down and stop bad guys, it was Striker. The man sometimes called the Executioner.

2

The Military Demarcation Line—the line that divided North and South Korea—was as real as the line 8 Mile Road represented to the residents of Detroit. The road marked the barrier between black and white, rich and poor. It was a boundary in some ways, and in others, it was a no-man’s-land where only the strong survived. The Executioner watched the street below through the cracked glass of his window.

His room was on the second floor of the 8 Pine Motel, an establishment that let rooms by the hour, day, week or even month, depending on how long a person could pay. Most paid by the day or week, depending on whether their income was from drugs or prostitution. The johns paid by the hour, and the elderly, living on a fixed income and a bit wiser than the others, paid by the month. None of them were particularly happy, but Bolan couldn’t blame them. The 8 Pine Motel was not a happy place.

Sadly, it was representative of many of the buildings on this stretch of road. Cracked, broken or boarded-up windows, peeling paint, gang graffiti, bad water from lead pipes, and everywhere the smell of fear and desperation. Bolan’s room was little more than a mildew-scented mattress with a broken frame, a scarred bedside table and a bathroom where the only thing that ran were the cockroaches. He’d stayed in worse places, but most of them had been in other countries that were either impoverished or at war. It was little wonder that the major drug smugglers had decided that Detroit was a target-rich environment.

He’d been in the city for the past two weeks, cultivating information about the now-booming heroin trade that had found its focus here. On the street below him, he watched as a car stopped and the man driving bought some crack and then drove on, while the dealer stepped back to his wall to wait for the next customer. There was little concern about the police in this area—they didn’t want to come near it unless they had to, and when they did, they came in force, giving the street dealers all the time they needed to disappear.

The next customer turned out to be a kid about thirteen. Bolan watched as the girl obviously begged for more. The dealer stood his ground. He stepped forward and began to grope the girl and then nodded toward the alleyway.

Bolan slipped out of his room and into the alley just in time to hear a smack resounding off brick walls.

“I thought I could, I can’t, but I’ll get you the money. I just need...”

Another slap rent the air and Bolan stepped out of the shadows as the dealer raised his hand high in the air again.

“I don’t think you want to do that.”

The dealer turned just enough to see Bolan, but kept his quarry on the ground in front of him. Tears spilled from the dark-ringed eyes of a girl who was growing up way too hard, way too fast. She tried to move, but he pushed her back down.

“Get the fuck out of here, man. Don’t be messin’ around in my business.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t, but you picked the wrong target today and the wrong corner to stand on.”

The dealer pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants and pointed it at Bolan as he swaggered down the alleyway.

“Look, bitch, this is my alley and my street and that bitch there, yeah...she’s going to be mine, too. Now if you don’t want me to leave you bleedin’ here, you’ll turn your ass around and get the fuck outta here.”

The dealer moved closer, confident in the gun he was swinging around in his hand. Bolan was patient until he was just in range. He grabbed the gun and yanked the dealer forward as he brought his knee into the man’s ribcage. Bolan heard the satisfying sound of the ribs cracking and then brought his elbow around to break the dealer’s nose.

Blood spurted as the man dropped to the ground and cried. Bolan was surprised that he didn’t just yell, but actually lay in the alley, crying. He picked up the gun and went to check on the girl who’d remained motionless during the confrontation.

“You could have been shot, why’d you do that?”

“Because everyone deserves a second chance. You got parents?”

She nodded. “My dad, but he’s never home.”

“Look, I’m going to make a call. There’s a rehab center close to here, it’s inpatient and this guy owes me a favor. Will you go?”

“I can’t pay.”

“I didn’t ask if you could pay, will you go?”

“Why?”

“Because everyone deserves a second chance.”

* * *

BACK IN HIS ROOM, Bolan stood, and stared out the window at the corner where the girl had gotten in trouble. Turned out her name was Violet and she’d really needed the help. He’d made sure the dealer was picked up and put away and couldn’t blow his cover and then sat back and enjoyed his mediocre cup of coffee and contemplated his next move.

So far, all his leads had been toward the Muslim community and some kind of pipeline out of Afghanistan. His cover was flimsy, but holding so far: he was representing a buyer from Los Angeles who trusted his muscle more than the information he’d received so far. The process of building trust, however, and getting close to the source, had proven tedious at best.

In fact, without some new leads, Bolan was going to have to try to get his information in a more direct way. The biggest challenge was a simple one: he was a Caucasian from the United States trying to convince a group of Muslims from the Middle East that he was trustworthy. It wasn’t going well.

These were the thoughts running through his head when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his belt and recognized the number on the display as a secure call sign. “Bolan,” he said, answering it.

“Striker, it’s Hal,” the reply came. “We’ve got a situation.”

“Don’t we always?” he asked.

Brognola chuckled, but he had to force it out.

“Okay, so it’s a serious situation,” Bolan intimated. “What’s going on?”

“Have you made any progress on your investigation in Detroit?” he asked.

Stepping back from the window, he took a seat on the bed. “Not very much,” he admitted. “It’s slow going. Why?”

“I’d like you to change focus. This is more pressing than any pipeline heroin and comes straight from the White House.”

Bolan could almost hear his old friend chewing his cigar stub to shreds. “Fill me in,” he said.

“There’s a potential nuclear threat inside the city,” Brognola said. He quickly filled him in on the boat found by the Coast Guard, along with the results of their sweep, and Denny Seles’s quick response so far.

“That works out pretty well,” Bolan said. “I did a passing-through hello with him when I got here. So he’s already got my DEA credentials and we got along well enough. What’s the status of local law enforcement?”

“Right now, they just got their Emergency Operations Center up and running. There’s a woman in charge there, Allison Hart, but Denny will take the lead on field operations. You’ve got White House clearance to do whatever needs to be done to find the uranium rods and stop whoever is behind it.”

“I’m game, Hal,” Bolan said, “but it sounds like they’re doing all the right things.”

“They are,” he agreed, “but you and I—and the President—all know that over the next few hours, every federal law agency in the country is going to start fucking around with protocol this and red tape that. The President wants a man there who can cut through all that and just get the job done.”

“And he doesn’t think Seles is that man?”

“He’s the Special Agent in Charge of the Detroit Field Office, so he’s going to be by the book from beginning to end. I’ve read his file and he’s a good man, but he’s not you. We need you on this one, Striker.”

“All right, Hal,” he said. “I’ll close up shop here and head over to the EOC and see what I can stir up. Do they have any leads?”

“Nothing concrete yet.”

“A target? A threat? Anything?”

“We’ve got three dead guys on a yacht in Lake St. Clair and some missing weapons-grade uranium. I’ll shoot the file to your handheld via a secure uplink. The rest is up to you,” Brognola replied. He laughed drily. “Situation enough for you?”

“Sounds like it,” Bolan said. “I’m on my way. I’ll check in with you when I know more.” He disconnected the call and put the phone back on his belt, his mind considering the possibilities. A moment later, the file came through and he looked it over. The dead men were all Middle Eastern. Not much more information than that.

Before he went to see Denny Seles, there was another man who might be able to help, even if it blew his cover. Weapons-grade uranium took precedence, and right at this moment, he needed information more than anything else.

Bolan quickly packed up his few things, making a quick sweep to ensure that the room was empty of his belongings. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he slipped out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. If he moved fast enough, he might be able to talk to the man he needed to see before his evening prayers.

* * *

THE ISLAMIC TEMPLE OF TRUTH was a combination mosque and community center at what Bolan had come to think of as ground zero of the 8 Mile region. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d come to believe that the man who ran it, Imam Aalim Al-Qadir, genuinely cared about the Muslim community and he’d been willing to share information so long as it didn’t lead to more trouble for anyone.

The imam was in his mid-forties, with skin the color of a French-roast coffee bean and a white goatee and mustache that few men could pull off, but the imam somehow did. Bolan had never seen him in anything other than traditional Muslim garb, complete with a dark red tarboosh that sported golden tassels. He wore silver-framed glasses and a smile that could disarm the angriest members of his mosque.

Bolan pulled his car—a nondescript sedan that had already come close to being stolen several times—into a parking space in the back of the building. Al-Qadir had been forthcoming about his concerns in regards to the 8IM gang, and he’d shared them with Bolan. He had to hope that the man’s contacts in the community would help with something far more pressing and important than the illicit activities of the 8IM gang.

He locked the car and went to the back door, where he rang the bell and waited. From experience, he knew that there was a camera positioned on the roof of the hall beyond the door, and that the imam would be checking his video feed before he answered. It was only a minute or two wait before Al-Qadir appeared, unlocking the door and greeting him warmly in the traditional fashion. “Assalamu alaikum, my friend,” he said.

“Wa alaikum assalaam,” Bolan replied. “It is good to see you. Can we talk in your office?”

Al-Qadir nodded pleasantly and led the way, offering tea once they’d reached the small space. It was a small rectangle, perhaps ten by fourteen, with a large metal desk that looked as though it came straight out of a 1960s school, several bookcases, and many pictures of the Muslim children in the community on the walls.

Bolan turned the tea down with a shake of his head, and took a seat across from the imam.

“Your face is serious, Matt,” he said, using the name Bolan had given. “What troubles you?”

“You have been honest with me,” he said, “and we’ve had a good dialogue. I think we’ve come to know each other a little bit. I am troubled because of news I received today and that my original intentions here have to change.”

“Go on,” Al-Qadir said, sipping his tea. “I sense your hesitation, Matt, but I cannot help you or our community without information.”

Bolan nodded. “As I told you when we met, I work for the DEA. But often, I hear about things from other federal law-enforcement agencies. A short time ago, I heard from someone at the FBI. A ship was found in Lake St. Clair with three dead men aboard—all of them from the Middle East. They found evidence that weapons-grade uranium—the kind used to make nuclear weapons—was on board the ship, too.” He watched the man’s face carefully as he shared these last words, but all he saw was shock and sadness.

“This...this cannot be related to anyone I know, Matt,” he said. “Many of the young people here are in gangs and involved with drugs. I would be foolish to deny it. But no one has said anything about acts of terrorism!”

“I believe you,” Bolan assured him. “But someone in the Muslim or the Islamic community knows, Aalim. Someone knows something. I need your help.”

The imam sat quietly for several long seconds, considering his words, then he sighed and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to start asking questions, pressing people a little just to see if you get a reaction of any kind. We don’t know who’s behind this, but I think it would be safe to assume that whoever it is has a lot of money, and, in this neighborhood, that means drugs and possibly prostitution. Even if they haven’t done anything themselves, someone may have heard something.”

“In my experience, Matt, extremists in this country do their best to stay quiet,” the imam said, shaking his head. “Unless I happen to stumble upon the person who is actually involved, it is unlikely that someone will have heard something.”

Bolan shook his head. “Maybe, but something like this takes a lot of planning, a lot of men. Please, Aalim.”

“I will do what I can. Do you believe that 8IM is involved?”

Bolan shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s possible and it’s a place to start, but it could be anyone.”

“And if I find something out, I should call you at the number you gave me?” he asked.

“Yes, as soon as possible,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Matt. The Holy Koran teaches peace, not violence, and we cannot allow extremists to take root among us. It will only make becoming part of the American culture more difficult.”

Bolan thought for a moment, then said, “There’s one more thing, Aalim. Be careful. Don’t ask too many direct questions. If whoever is behind this hears you asking questions, they’ll kill you. I have no doubts about that.”

“My eyes are open, Matt,” he said, rising to his feet. “And now I sense you wish to leave?”

Bolan got to his feet. “Unfortunately. There’s a lot to do and I have to move quickly. Call me if you hear anything at all.”

“I will,” Al-Qadir said, offering his hand, which Bolan gladly shook. “Stay safe, my friend.”

“You do the same,” he replied. “I’ll show myself out.”

“Fi Amanullah,” he said.

Bolan nodded and headed back down the short hallway. He had a feeling he’d need more than Allah’s protection if the situation escalated, and in his experience, a fully loaded Desert Eagle was more reliable than a god in a fight anyway.

Still, he thought as he headed back to his car, any blessing was better than none at all.

3

The Detroit Emergency Operations Center was housed downtown, in a nondescript office building two blocks from the Wayne County Courthouse, and in the largest law-enforcement precinct in the city. When Bolan arrived parking was already at a premium, which meant he had quite a walk. On the other hand, the walk gave him plenty of time to observe that every branch of law enforcement, as well as fire, medical and emergency-management personnel were already present. It was a regular house party.

He was stopped at the main entrance, but flashed his DEA credentials and got to the reception desk, where a harried-looking security guard was manning the phones. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“Matt Cooper, DEA,” he said. “I’m looking for Denny Seles.”

The guard looked at his credentials again, and nodded. “He’s in the main communications room, giving a briefing. If you want to catch him, that’s the best place to look. Down the left hallway. You can’t miss it.”

“Busy here today,” Bolan observed.

The phone beeped insistently, and the guard shrugged. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Bolan replied, heading down the hall. The guard had been right about one thing—it would be impossible to miss the communications room since the hall led directly to it. The room was set up a bit like an auditorium, though there was no stage, but instead a bank of screens lit up one entire wall. Denny Seles was standing at a portable podium, and behind him on the screens, various potential target locations were being displayed as he discussed where law-enforcement personnel were going to be stationed. In front of him, tiered rows of computer stations looked down, and in addition to the people seated at them, the room was filled almost to overflowing with people standing around. At the top of the room was a set of offices, the largest belonging to the Director of the EOC.

Seles finished up his briefing and answered a few questions, then dismissed everyone. He stayed down front, talking to a small group of people, including a woman Bolan assumed was Allison Hart, the EOC Director, according to the file Brognola had sent him. She was strikingly beautiful and obviously of mixed Asian descent. Her expression at the moment was serious, but Bolan could see the smile lines around her mouth and eyes.

When it looked as if the group was ready to break up, he worked his way down the auditorium to where Seles and Hart were still talking. Seles must have spotted him because he stopped talking and signaled for him to come over. Bolan did so, offering a hand when he got closer.

“Special Agent in Charge Denny Seles,” Bolan said. “We meet again.”

“Special Agent Matt Cooper,” the agent said. “I thought you were undercover over in the 8 Mile region.” He paused, then introduced Bolan to the woman. “Allison Hart, Special Agent Cooper is with the DEA. He came by as a courtesy when he arrived in town a few weeks ago.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. They shook hands.

“What can I do for you, Matt?” Seles asked without preamble. “As you can see, we’re kind of busy today.”

“So I hear,” Bolan replied. “I was briefed a short time ago. I thought I should drop in and offer my help.”

Denny’s lips pursed as he considered this information. “You’re an undercover DEA agent and you were briefed?” he asked. “By whom?”

“Someone higher up in the food chain,” Bolan said, shrugging. “They thought your mission was more important than mine, so here I am.”

“Look, Matt, if we’ve got a leak here...” he began.

Bolan held up his hands. “No, there’s no leak.”

“Then I’ve got to know where you’re getting your information from,” Seles said, his voice regretfully firm. “I can’t do this if every federal law-enforcement agency in the country is going to come in here without telling me.”

Bolan thought about it, and then said, “Look, Denny, I’m something of a specialist. I came here on an operation for the DEA, but my orders today are coming from the White House. Call and get confirmation from the West Wing.”

Hart laughed lightly. “You were ordered here by the White House?” she asked. “Give me a break.”

Bolan stared at her, capturing her eyes with his own blue gaze. “Make the call, Miss Hart,” he said. “We’re wasting time arguing about where my orders came from instead of being out there catching the terrorists.”

She nodded once. “I will,” she said, then turned and headed for her office.

“You’re on the level, aren’t you?” Seles asked.

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “So where do you want me?”

“Allison is going to head up the EOC, and I’ll be in charge of field operations. The best thing you could do for me is pound the streets. Use the informants you’ve got to see if you can dig up something, anything. And maybe take another look at the boat. I might have missed something.”

Bolan nodded. “I can do that. I’ll stop by there first. What have you got so far?”

Seles sighed heavily. “As of right now, not a damn thing.”

“No threats, no intelligence chatter, nothing?” he asked.

“Not even a hint,” he replied. “I’m posting people at high-value targets, and my field team is ready to move on a moment’s notice, but until we get some hard intel, we’re just staging.”

“What’s your gut tell you?”

“That we’re in deep shit,” Seles said. “We just don’t know how deep yet.”

“Waist-high and rising fast,” Bolan said. He gave the special agent a business card with his cell number on it. “I’m heading out. Call that number if you need me. I’ve got yours already.”

“That come from the White House, too?” Seles asked, half-jokingly.

“Nah. It was on your business card when we met,” Bolan said. He turned and headed back up the risers toward the exit. He saw Hart in her office, a phone pressed to her ear and offered her a grin and a salute as he left.

She’d better get focused on the important things, Bolan thought, because he had a feeling that they were already way behind the terrorists, and weren’t catching up anytime soon.

* * *

HIS REAL NAME WAS Sayid Rais Sayf. That was the name given to him by his parents when he was born in Afghanistan and it was the name that he prayed to Allah with for guidance. But few people in Detroit knew this name—very few, and only those who could be trusted to die without speaking it. Everyone else knew him as Michael Jonas, age forty-two, a successful man who had worked his way out of a tough life, growing up adopted, and was presently at the peak of his career.

As he parked his Audi A8 in the jammed parking lot of the Detroit EOC, he mentally became Michael Jonas. While he was here, he would think as Michael Jonas, react as Michael Jonas, he would be Michael Jonas in all respects, because everything he had worked for could unravel like a spool of thread should any trace of Sayid Rais Sayf show in his face, mannerisms, speech or actions. His car was just one part of the costume he wore, no different than his tailored suit, his salon-styled hair or his accent-free speech.

Coming to the EOC on this day was a risk, he knew, but a small one. His girlfriend, Allison Hart, had agreed to dinner later and he had come by to give her an opportunity to cancel in person. While he must feign ignorance, his true purpose in dealing with her was the same as it had always been: information. Information was power, and because he knew more than they did, he had power over them. As he would even when the bomb went off.

Sayf checked his suit one last time in the mirror; it was a charcoal-gray pinstripe worn with a dark blue tie. Then he stepped out of the car, locking it behind him. It was unseasonably warm for Detroit in late fall, but he wore a long jacket nonetheless. He wasn’t a particularly big man, but he carried an imposing presence in his five-foot-eight, 185-pound frame—and the long coat was a part of that. People saw what they wanted to see.