Death Run (19 page)

"You mean the Malaysian?" one asked.

"Yes, the Malaysian."

"We don't know what he's doing," the other said. "We haven't seen him since yesterday."

"What did you do for him yesterday?"

"Nothing. He helped us get jobs as security guards. We only saw him yesterday when he came to our job site with the fat white man."

"Where was the job site?" Bolan asked. "What did they do there?"

Before they could answer, the bathroom door burst open and another gangbanger flew from the room, his finger pressing down on the trigger of his SAR-21. Both Bolan and Osborne ducked to avoid the wild spray, but the two gangbangers who were about to tell the Executioner where the bomb was located were too stunned to duck.

Bolan and Osborne fired on the man simultaneously, dropping him in a hail of gunfire, but not before he'd taken out both of his buddies.

The Executioner seldom lost hope, but when the two BNG members who were going to tell him where to find the bomb died, he nearly succumbed. Then he remembered something a crusty old army sergeant once told him. "When you think you can't go on any farther, boy, it's time to shit your pants, jump in and swim."

Atay saw the American standing by the door to the BNG clubhouse upstairs, looking at his watch. He thought he should go and chase the man away, but the man looked like a cop. Something big was going on, and Atay didn't like it.

He didn't like much about what had been happening since bin Osman had contacted him, seeking the assistance of the BNG for some project that the Malaysian hadn't been willing to discuss. The only reason that Atay had agreed to assist the arrogant businessman was because he had been ordered to do so by his cousin Gulay, who was the leader of one of the largest Bahala Na Gangs in the Philippines.

Atay founded the first Bahala Na Gang in San Francisco, and although he was no longer an active member — he was far too old — he acted as a sort of business manager for the gang. Gulay had ordered him to cooperate with the Malaysian, and the money had been good, but it hadn't been worth what happened to the gang. At least twenty members had been killed that he knew of, and at least that many had gone missing in the last several days. Now he was unable to contact the Malaysian or the Saudi who ran the Malaysian's racing team.

Not only had the partnership with bin Osman been devastating to the club, but Atay had begun to worry about what exactly the Malaysian was planning. He'd heard bits and pieces from the members who had worked with bin Osman, at least from those who survived, and he hadn't liked what he heard. Atay had begun to worry that whatever the Malaysian was up to, it wasn't good for him or for the BNG.

And now this man was in his store, standing by the door that led upstairs to the BNG clubhouse. The entire gang, or what remained of it, had gathered upstairs, preparing to go to the mattresses. They had been through wars with rival gangs over the years, but they'd never experienced a buzz saw ripping through their ranks like this. From what he'd heard, most, if not all, of the deaths had been the result of a one-man rampage. The man responsible was supposedly a big, dark-haired American masquerading as a sales rep. At least that wasn't the man in his store now; this man was a medium-height man with hair that was more gray than black. He looked like a cop.

Atay's heart pounded when he saw the man kick down the door and head upstairs. Then the shooting started. Atay was safely ensconced behind the bullet-resistant shield that surrounded the checkout counter and till, but he hid down below the counter anyway.

He listened as the shots were fired. Some sounded like they were coming from the stairway and others sounded like they were coming from the back of the building. Some were softer, more muffled pops; others were loud, as if they'd been shot from a rifle. Most of the shots seemed to be coming from fully automatic weapons, but they were interspersed by extremely loud booming shots coming from some sort of single-round firing weapon.

Atay guessed that at least half the shots were coming from the assault rifles that the Malaysian had imported from Singapore. Bin Osman had provided the weapons at no cost, along with ample ammunition, but Atay felt as uncomfortable about that situation as he felt about the rest of his dealings with the sneaky Malaysian. Atay liked his weapons old school, like the old Smith & Wesson he now held in his shaking hand.

The shooting stopped and the upstairs was relatively quiet. Then a few moments later, it started up again. This time it lasted only a few seconds, and when it was done, Atay heard no more shots. He left his safe booth and went to the door to the stairway. He heard nothing. He looked inside the stairway and saw a body sprawled out on the steps. It was Frankie, one of the newest members of the BNG. At the top of the steps he saw another body. He couldn't make out whose body it was, but he could tell it wasn't the graying cop he'd seen go up the steps.

He slowly climbed the steps, holding the revolver ahead of him with both hands, ready to fire if necessary. Just as he reached the top of the stairway, two men came through the door. Before his aging reflexes could react, the men had drawn their own weapons and ordered him to drop his. From where he stood near the top of the staircase, he could see multiple bodies piled on the floor in the clubhouse and decided to comply, but he didn't want to drop the gun. It was one of his prized possessions. He slowly lowered the gun to the ground, his finger off the trigger.

"Please," he said. "Let me set it down gently. It is very valuable."'

Bolan and Osborne checked the pulses of the two bangers they'd been questioning before their panicked comrade shot them down. Both men were dead, as was everyone else in the room except for the two blacksuits. "What are we going to do now?" Osborne asked.

"Let's go down to the store," Bolan said. "Did you see the owner down there on your way up here?"

"He was hunkered down behind the counter."

"He's tight with the BNG. Maybe he knows something. Let's go down and talk to him."

Bolan knew the old man was a long shot, but at that moment he might be all that stood between the people of San Francisco and nuclear annihilation.

The men raced for the stairs, but stopped at the top of the steps when they saw the old man who owned the store coming up, a blued-steel revolver in his hands.

"Drop it!" both men shouted in unison.

The man slowly lowered the gun to the ground, apparently unfazed by the multiple gun barrels pointed at his face.

"Please," he said. "Let me set it down gently. It is very valuable." When he had placed the gun on the steps, he raised his hands, interlocking his fingers on the top of his head. He knew the drill.

Bolan picked up the revolver. It really was valuable, a pristine Smith & Wesson Registered model, the very first issue of the original .357 Magnum made between 1935 and 1939, back when that was the most powerful handgun caliber. The craftsmanship of the gun, with its hand checkering on the back strap and hammer, was like nothing seen on a mass-produced handgun in decades. The guns were so exclusive back in the 1930s that each one came with a certificate of registration, which is why they were called "Registered" models. Bolan knew prices for those revolvers easily ran into the five-figure range. He took extra care when he placed the old man's prized possession in his waistband. The Filipino seemed to appreciate the Executioner's gentle treatment of the antique weapon.

Bolan motioned for the man to come upstairs. When he saw the carnage around the room, his eyes went wide. "I should have told Gulay to go fuck himself," the man said, mostly to himself.

Bolan made a mental note to have Kurtzman check out this Gulay character, provided he survived long enough to talk to do so. Time was running out.

The soldier had only hours to find the bomb and disarm it, and that would only happen if the old man knew where it was located.

"Listen to me, old man," Bolan said. "If you think what you see here is bad, you haven't seen anything yet. If you don't give me some answers, you, your store, your home, your family and everyone you know are going to be dead before the evening news comes on tonight."

"So," the old man said, "it really is a nuclear weapon."

"You know about the bomb?" Bolan asked.

"I suspected, from what the boys were saying after they came back yesterday. That son of a bitch Gulay."

"Came back from where?" Bolan asked.

The old man looked distracted. "Where is Gulay? He's in the Philippines, of course."

"No," the Executioner said. "You said 'when the boys came back.' Came back from where?"

"Oh...the CSAA Building."

Bolan looked at Osborne. "He means the old California State Automobile Association building. It's been empty for years. If they aren't able to sell it soon, they're going to demolish it."

"Is that where bin Osman placed the bomb?" Bolan asked the old man.

"I don't know," the old man said.

"Why were gang members returning from there?" Bolan asked.

"I arranged for them to get jobs as security guards in the old building. I did this under orders from the Malaysian."

"Was bin Osman there yesterday?"

"Yes, he arrived with a fat American. My boys said the American seemed to be in the middle of some sort of mental breakdown. He wept the entire time he was there."

"What did bin Osman do in the building," the soldier asked.

"My men weren't supposed to be in the area where they were working, but I had a couple of them keeping an eye on the Malaysian while he was there. I don't trust the man."

"What did they see?"

"The Malaysian had the American construct some sort of device. Both of them were wearing protective suits, the kind you see people wearing in nuclear power plants. They left some strange things behind, like a container that looks like it was designed to transport some sort of nuclear waste."

"That building must be thirty stories tall," Osborne said. "Where did they assemble the device?"

"There is a loading dock just below the main floor, accessible through the alley in the rear of the building," the old man said. "They assembled the device in the storage area behind the loading dock."

"Is it still there?" Bolan asked.

"Yes. If bin Osman had had it moved, my men would have reported it to me. You say it's a bomb?"

"It's a nuclear device with enough power to kill everyone in San Francisco and the surrounding area," Bolan said.

"That's what I feared. Can you stop it?"

"I'm going to try. Can you call your men and tell them I'm coming?"

"I can try, but cell phone reception is bad in the old building, especially down in the loading dock area."

"How many men are in the building?"

"At least three," the old man said. "But if you leave now and drive like demons, you will get there just as the day shift comes on. Then there will be six men."

"Call them and tell them we're coming," Bolan ordered. "Tell them not to try to stop us."

The man called several numbers, but got nothing but voice mail messages. Then he tried several more with similar luck. The old man left a message after each call, telling the men to work with the big soldier. "I can't get through to any of them. My guess is that the day shift is already at the site."

Bolan and Osborne holstered their weapons and started to trot toward the door, but the old man's voice stopped them.

"Gentlemen," he said. "If my boys put up a fight, you have no choice but to take them out, just as you did the boys upstairs." The Executioner nodded in agreement with the man. "If it comes to that, please, don't let them suffer."

"I won't," the Executioner promised.

"One last thing," the old man said. "Could you please leave my gun on the newspaper stand inside the door when you leave? And please, be careful. I've had it a very long time." Bolan set the gun down just before he ran out the door. "Good luck, gentlemen," the old man said as they left.

He knew he was sending the two men to destroy the last remnants of the gang that had been the most important part of his life up until this point, but now he was too tired to continue his involvement with such nonsense. The knowledge that his cousin and mentor back in the Philippines had casually condemned the entire San Francisco gang to death, along with everyone else in the city, angered him.

He felt sad thinking about all the boys who had died during the past several days, and sadder still thinking about what was soon to happen to the remaining boys. But that was nothing compared to the thought of what might happen if these men failed. The old man knew that the two men racing from his store were the only chance he and hundreds of thousands of other people had of surviving the rest of this day.

If I live until tomorrow, the old man thought, looking at the faded blue question mark tattooed on his forearm, I'm going to see a doctor about having this removed.

Bolan and Osborne ran out to where Bolan had parked his bike. Osborne's car was parked several blocks away.

"Bring your car over here," Bolan ordered Osborne. "We won't need to worry about over-penetration at the CSAA Building. I have a couple of rifles in my top box that we'll want to use."

Bolan grabbed one of the two P90s from his top box and slung it over his shoulder, then covered it up with his riding jacket. By the time Osborne pulled up, he'd already put on his helmet and gloves and had the bike idling by the curb. "Take this," he told Osborne, handing him the second P90. "You know the way, so I'll follow you. Drive fast, but try not to get stopped. We don't have time to get pulled over for speeding."

Bolan followed Osborne's Audi down Grant Avenue to Broadway Street, where he made a sharp left. The torque-laden V-8 engine roared as Osborne took the corner, but the car's advanced all-wheel-drive system bit into the tarmac and the car shot around the corner without any drama. To keep up, Bolan had to turn the corner with considerably more effort, breaking the rear tire loose and sliding like a dirt-track racer.