Killing Trade. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ the DU rounds. Samples recovered from crime scenes in New York correspond to 9 mm, .45 and 5.56 mm small arms.”

      “You spoke with Cowboy?”

      “Yes,” Price said, knowing Bolan meant John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man’s armorer. “Per your request last night, he’s got a care package on its way to you. He also left me some specifications. He says the rounds are, as near as we can tell, depleted uranium cores sandwiched in tungsten shells and tipped in an accelerant that makes them explosive. They’re incredible penetrators but also mildly radioactive and plenty poisonous. Get hit, and if the bullet doesn’t kill you, the toxic shock might. Cowboy tells me the rounds are pyrophoric.”

      “Meaning they’ll start fires where they hit?” Bolan asked.

      “Very probably, because of the DU, the accelerant or both.”

      “What will it take to stop them?” Bolan asked.

      “Nothing short of heavy vehicle armor will make a difference,” Price informed him. “And we’re not talking light protection like on an up-armored Humvee or even most armored personnel carriers. In heavier calibers, this would be an antitank round at the very least. It would take a tank to stop the small stuff. Stay out of the way of them, Striker.”

      “I’ll do my best,” Bolan said. “What have you pulled up concerning personnel?”

      “I’ve got a possible address for Jonathan West, linked to a credit card that was recently used to purchase a variety of computer equipment. It’s on the Upper West Side.”

      “Shoot,” Bolan said.

      Price gave him the address and the soldier passed it on to Burnett, who adjusted course accordingly. “We’re rolling now. What else have you pulled up?”

      “I’ve got photos and bios for Luis Caqueta, head of the Caqueta Cartel. Also for his half brother, Carlos ‘Eye’ Almarone, and one of his lieutenants, known only as ‘Razor’ Ruiz. Their opposite number includes Pierre Taveras, leader of El Cráneo in New York, and two operatives whom we believe are in his inner circle—Julian ‘July’ de la Rocha and Jesus Molina.”

      “It’s coming through now,” Bolan confirmed, glancing at the color screen of his satellite phone and noting the data-transmission icons.

      “Anything else?” Price asked.

      “Just tell Bear and his team to keep working on that NLI data,” Bolan said. “I need to know what and who I’m up against there. I’ll have follow-ups as needed.”

      “Will do.”

      “I’ll be in touch once we find West, if he’s there,” Bolan said.

      “Be careful, Striker.”

      “Always,” Bolan said. He closed the connection.

      “Your mother?” Burnett said, eyes on the road.

      “Something like that,” Bolan replied.

      “Yeah.” Burnett almost chuckled. “Assuming that was your boss, or your people or whomever, we can cross-reference what you have with the task force’s files.” When Bolan said nothing, Burnett finally pressed, “Cooper, what is your story? How are you so connected in Washington? Just what are you after?”

      “I want the same thing you want,” Bolan told him. “I want those DU rounds off the streets. I want to stop the escalating war between El Cráneo and the Caquetas. And I want to find the men responsible for setting it all in motion.”

      Burnett regarded him for a moment before dodging a taxi and cutting off a panel truck to take position in a slightly less congested lane. He tromped the accelerator as soon as he had the shot. The Crown Victoria roared forward.

      “Who are you, Cooper?” Burnett asked.

      “Just a man,” Bolan told him. “Just one man. Like you.”

      “Yeah,” Burnett scoffed, “just an ordinary guy who runs around in a black commando suit under his jacket, hoping nobody will notice his odd fashion sense.”

      Bolan said nothing. The formfitting blacksuit he wore beneath his windbreaker was subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice it, but Burnett wasn’t stupid. They both knew Bolan, whatever relationship he had to the Justice Department, was no ordinary government functionary. Bolan hoped the cop’s respect for authority would keep the lid on his curiosity. It didn’t hurt at all to have a local professional, somebody familiar with the battleground that was New York, to help Bolan with his search. If Burnett became a liability, however, Bolan would have to go it alone.

      The two rode in silence for the remainder of the trip. Burnett parked in front of a fire hydrant when they reached their destination. They exited the vehicle and paused to look up at the five-story brownstone.

      “What floor?” Burnett asked.

      “Fifth,” Bolan told him, patting himself down and checking the Beretta in its holster. “We’ll have to search, once we get up there. Do you carry anything heavy in the trunk of this?” He gestured back to the unmarked car with his thumb.

      “I’ve got an 870,” Burnett told him.

      Bolan nodded to the car. Burnett took the hint, unlocked the trunk and freed the Remington shotgun from its rack. He checked its loads and then scooped a handful of double-aught buckshot shells from a cardboard box in the trunk, dropping the shells into the left-hand pocket of his suit jacket.

      “You expecting trouble?” Burnett asked.

      “I always expect trouble,” Bolan told him.

      A woman in a frayed housecoat watched them from the steps of the brownstone, where she sat knitting something and drinking from a bottle in a paper bag. Bolan nodded as he passed her on the steps.

      “Ma’am,” Burnett said, carrying the shotgun close to his body and tipping an imaginary hat with his free hand.

      Inside, the lighting was dim compared to the sunny autumn day outside. Bolan squinted and paused in the small entryway, letting his eyes adjust. Outside, the brownstone looked almost charming. Inside, the wallpaper was peeling and the interior was obviously divided into a warren of studio apartments. Burnett scanned the mailboxes mounted flush with one interior wall. Only a few had names, none on the fifth floor.

      “I guess it wouldn’t be that easy,” Burnett said. The shotgun in both fists, he made for the stairs. Bolan followed. The rickety stairs creaked under their weight. As they climbed, Bolan drew the Beretta, his thumb swiping up the slide safety out of long habit. The stairwells smelled of urine. As they passed the third floor, they could hear someone screaming. Bolan paused only momentarily. It sounded like a domestic squabble. Shaking his head, Burnett looked upward and Bolan nodded. The two men finally made the fifth floor without incident.

      “Now what?” Burnett asked quietly.

      “Try these apartments nearest the stairs,” Bolan told him. “I’ll start at the other end. Stay sharp. If I flush him to you, try not to kill him.”

      “Right,” Burnett said dubiously. “Because I was planning on shooting the suspect СКАЧАТЬ