Dragon's Den. Don Pendleton

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      M ACK B OLAN PLACED his first kick in the most literal sense.

      The soldier put his foot against the front door of Antoine Pratt’s two-story flat in Ladera Heights. He stood out like a specter, his blacksuit stark against the cream-colored walls illuminated by mood lights. Mostly warm earth tones set off the decor, which looked more luxurious than its run-down exterior. Pratt had probably tried to keep up appearances with the other houses along the block so his didn’t stand out in any way. Bolan swept the area with the muzzle of his FNC and locked on viable targets almost immediately.

      A pair of house guards in flannel shirts and bandanas came out of their loungers in the living room and reached for pistols tucked in their waistbands. Neither of the young men seemed to care Bolan already had them dead to rights.

      Bolan squeezed the trigger and the FNC chugged in his hands. He couldn’t miss at that range. The hail of 5.56 mm NATO slugs stitched a path across their bellies, tearing through vital organs and sending blood spray in every direction. They twisted inward and collided with each other before dying on their feet. Their corpses hit the carpeted floor with dull thuds.

      The Executioner bounded up the flight of steps to his right after clearing his six. He reached the top of the steps and immediately went prone on the upper landing when he caught motion in his periphery. Two more gangbangers opened up on him with pistols. One had enough sense to stay behind the cover of an archway, but the other practically strutted toward Bolan, his pistol held high and sideways as he triggered round after round. The warrior rolled over once, came to his knee and triggered a corkscrew burst. High-velocity slugs riddled the hoodlum’s body and knocked him off his feet. The dead youth’s partner popped off a few more hasty rounds before ducking behind the archway.

      Bolan detached a Diehl DM-51 from his load-bearing harness. The German-made hand grenade had proved one of the most effective tools of Bolan’s trade. The hexagonal shape of the grenade body contained more than six thousand 2 mm steel balls packed into a PETN high explosive, making it a superbly effective offensive blast device. When requiring defensive capabilities, the Executioner could attach a plastic sleeve to the grenade with a simple half-twist locking motion, thereby causing a shower of superheated steel fragments to disperse in every direction for antipersonnel effects.

      Bolan attached the sleeve, yanked the pin and threw himself into a closed door to get out of the hallway. The warrior didn’t see the grenade explode but he felt it; the resulting screams from his opponent told the rest of the tale. Bolan sensed a presence behind him and spun as he dropped to one knee, finger poised on the FNC trigger. A woman cloaked only in a skimpy towel emerged from a door in the wake of steam clouds and shrieked at the sight of him.

      Bolan shook his head, got to his feet and jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. “Back inside.”

      She didn’t argue with him.

      Bolan stepped into the hallway and advanced along it. He could sense the quarry somewhere ahead; his instincts had taken over the moment he entered the house. He could almost smell the fear on his enemy. Pratt had no intention of running. If anything, Bolan suspected the guy would make a stand right here on his own turf, even if it might kill him, and that made it doubly important Bolan take him alive. Pratt remained the only one who could tell the Executioner why so much dope had been funneled into Los Angeles over the past couple of months.

      Bolan began a room-to-room sweep, the FNC ready, but met no further resistance. He also didn’t find Antoine Pratt. After completing his search, Bolan headed for the stairs. He made it halfway down before the front door burst wide-open and a trio of hoods in gang colors came through the door followed by a fourth who matched the photo of Pratt in Bolan’s intelligence from Stony Man. Two of the gangbangers had their hands full with cases of beer.

      All four wore the same expression of surprise upon seeing the Executioner, but none of them were ready to deal with the threat. Bolan leveled the FNC in their direction and neatly shot holes through the cases of beer they carried. The man walking next to Pratt—who obviously acted as bodyguard to the Bloods lieutenant—seemed to be the only one prepared for action as he reached beneath the loose T-shirt he wore and produced a semiautomatic pistol.

      Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that blew the man’s skull apart and showered his companions with gray matter.

      The remaining three black youths froze in place.

      “Grab the floor!” Bolan ordered the trio.

      They immediately dropped what remained of their brews and did as ordered. Bolan continued down the steps and relieved them of their pistols before securing their hands behind them with plastic riot cuffs. That done, Bolan hauled Pratt to his feet and tossed him face-first against a nearby wall. He placed the hot muzzle of the FNC at the base of Pratt’s skull.

      “What are you, the feds?” Pratt asked. He made a good attempt to hide the fear in his eyes, but it didn’t fool Bolan for a moment. “I want a lawyer.”

      “Shut up, Pratt,” Bolan said. “Here’s how this goes. I ask questions and you give me answers. If I even think you’re lying, I kill you. Simple enough?”

      Pratt just nodded, the hatred evident in his features. Bolan didn’t give a damn right at the moment. He would have taken the opportunity to clean out the Bloods altogether had he not felt it would detract from his mission. The key here would be to get to the source of the opium imports. Then, and only then, would he be able to shut down the pipeline. The Bloods couldn’t profit from the supply if he neutralized the supplier.

      “Word has it you’re running this outfit with Lavon Hayes out of the picture,” Bolan said. “I know you’re on the receiving end of this recent influx of drugs. Tell me who’s supplying it.”

      “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Pratt sputtered. “We haven’t seen a dime of that stuff, which means somebody’s going to end up dead because they’re cutting into our territory.”

      “The only one that’ll wind up dead is you if I don’t get a better answer.” Bolan’s tone implied the validity of the threat.

      “Then I’m dead, whitey, because I don’t got no answers. Whoever’s running this stuff through here had better watch their ass. L.A. belongs to the Bloods.”

      “L.A. belongs to law-abiding citizens,” Bolan said. “So here’s a new slogan for your graffiti artists—stay out of my way and end this business. Otherwise I’m going to come back here and punch your ticket. Get it?”

      “I thought you was going to kill me.”

      Bolan’s cold and friendless smile matched the tone in his voice. “Not today.”

      “You leave me alive, you won’t be long for this life.”

      “Yeah, sure,” Bolan said. “If I hear you’re still in operation a week from now, it’ll be you who’s not СКАЧАТЬ