Shadow Strike. Don Pendleton

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       “Antiques, man. Cold War stuff. AK-47 assault rifles, and some World War II bazookas. Honest, freaking bazookas!” He paused, and a shadow briefly crossed his face.

       “Don’t lie to me now,” Bolan warned, thumbing back the hammer on the Desert Eagle.

       Tiffany shrugged in resignation. “Okay, they stole the guns. They had arranged to buy just a couple hundred land mines.”

       “What kind of land mines?”

       Reaching down to the ruined desktop, Tiffany pushed away some papers to reveal a wooden box. He flipped the top and took out a slim cigar. “Not land mines, underwater mines,” he stated, biting off the end and spitting it onto the floor. “You know, the sort of things Britain used to chain to concrete blocks and line the Channel with to stop Nazi U-boats. Mines, man.”

       Yes, Bolan knew all about underwater mines. North Korea used them by the thousands to blockade their own harbor to prevent NATO or South Korea from invading. Underwater mines were one of the deadliest defensive weapons in existence. But why did Loki want so many of them?

       “I need more,” Bolan prodded.

       Lighting the cigar tip, Tiffany inhaled deeply, then exhaled dark smoke. “Sure, sure, no problem. They were Iranian mines, M-39s.”

       “Any idea what he wanted the mines for?”

       “I don’t stay in business by asking questions,” Tiffany told him, touching his wounded arm.

       Fair enough. “How many mines?”

       “All of them, couple hundred.”

       “Exactly how many, Michael?”

       “Okay, okay, six hundred and fifty.”

       Six hundred underwater mines…that was enough to blockade the entire city of New York. “What did they use to haul them away, trucks or a freighter?”

       “A Hercules transport. Big-ass seaplane.”

       Interesting. “Describe the buyers.”

       “Two men and a woman. She was pretty, and had the biggest tits I’ve ever seen.”

       Considering that he ran the strip club overhead, that was quite a statement. “And the men?”

       “Loki was tall, good-looking, like George Hamilton, the actor. Old, but classy.”

       “And the other?”

       “Just a mook. Street muscle. Skinny, with cold eyes, like there was nothing inside but hate and hunger.”

       A trigger man. Possibly a bodyguard. “Anything else?”

       Tiffany hesitated. “Not all of my guys were dead when I arrived. One of them managed to whisper that he heard the fuckers talk about bringing a squall to the world.”

       “Interesting. Did he say a storm or a squall?”

       “Squall. Now, in my business, that is both a sudden summer storm and an incredibly expensive piece of Russian navy hardware. It’s a kind of underwater missile, a rocket-powered torpedo.”

       Tiffany paused as if waiting for Bolan to deny that such a thing could possibly exist. When that didn’t happen, he added, “I don’t carry any of those. Don’t know anybody who does! The damn things malfunction half the time. They’ve killed more Russians than anybody else. Still…” He shrugged.

       Bolan felt as if an important piece of a puzzle had just clicked into place. North Korean mines and Russian torpedoes. Somehow those two were connected. Was Loki going to declare war on the rest of the world? That made no sense whatsoever. Something very odd was going on here, and Bolan had a bad feeling that a lot more innocent civilians were going to die if he didn’t figure this out fast.

       “Okay, we’re done,” he said, holstering the Beretta. “I leave, and you go out of business, because if we ever meet again…” He didn’t finish the promise and saw in the other man’s eyes that it was not necessary.

       “Yeah, sure, no problem.” Tiffany sighed, crushing out the cigar in a glass ashtray. “Always wanted to retire to…ah…Florida?”

       “Mike, I don’t care where, just leave tonight,” Bolan stated, walking backward out of the room. “Leave tonight.”

       Staying in the chair for several minutes, Tiffany plucked splinters from his aching arm while debating his options. Standing, he started to reach for the Glock in the drawer, then abruptly changed his mind and turned to move the picture of the congressman and reveal a small wall safe. Twirling the dial, he opened the door and began stuffing packets of cash into his pockets.

       “Smart move,” Bolan whispered from the darkness outside.

       Trying not to shiver, Tiffany emptied the safe, then headed directly for the nearest emergency exit. First a bunch of foreigners wipe out his dock crew, and then some hardcase blows open his Brooklyn operation like he was the wrath of God. It was obviously time for him to find a nice tropical island someplace where the rum flowed freely and the native girls wore only smiles and sunshine.

       Keeping his expression neutral, Tiffany waited for the elevator doors to sigh shut before finally allowing himself a brief smile. At least he had been able to bluff that big son of a bitch about one thing. Loki hadn’t stolen a couple hundred of the North Korean mines, but four thousand! Enough to blow the city of New York out of the water, or sink a dozen battleships.

       But that was his problem now, Tiffany smugly thought, rearranging the packets of cash stuffed into his clothing.

       Suddenly, a figure in the darkness blocked his way. “Half a mil in advance would mean a cool million dollars for a couple hundred underwater mines that sell legally for a grand apiece,” Bolan said from the shadows. “Not even you overcharge that much, Michael. What else did they get?”

       His elation melting away, Tiffany felt a cold fury well within him, and he made a desperate grab for the Glock. There was a bright flash of light, a brief pain, and he fell forward into an inky blackness that seemed to extend forever.

       Returning to his car, Bolan saw drunk men staggering away into the night, then heard police sirens and fire trucks wailing in the distance. The club parking lot was empty by now, and even the doorman was gone.

       Stowing his weapons in the truck of the car, Bolan drove off into the hard rain. He had allowed Tiffany to lie about the amount of mines stolen only to salve the man’s ego. Let subjects think they outwitted you on a small point, and they’d spill their guts about all the rest. That trick usually worked, just not this time. Bad luck, nothing more.

       When he was several blocks away, Bolan turned onto Flatbush Avenue and headed toward Manhattan. Okay, Mr. Loki had obviously taken a lot more than a couple hundred underwater mines. Maybe it had been several thousand. The big question was, what did Loki plan to do with enough military ordnance to launch the Empire State Building into orbit? The possibilities were endless, and he didn’t like any of them.

       As the car rumbled across the Brooklyn Bridge, Bolan flipped open a cell phone and tapped in a memorized number. It was answered immediately.

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