Lethal Diversion. Don Pendleton

got a feeling that this just got more complicated. I just wish I knew how.”

      “I’m on it,” Cline said, then spun and headed toward his men, barking orders as he went.

      Bolan climbed into his car and dialed Seles.

      “Seles.”

      “Denny, it’s Cooper. I have some additional information.”

      “I’d take some good news right now, so shoot,” he said.

      “I’m not sure how good it is.” Bolan relayed the information about the dead man he knew to have been involved in the local drug trade, as well as his orders to Chief Cline to minimize emergency personnel, cut back on the lighting, and have the container unloaded in a secure area.

      Seles sighed heavily. “Jesus, Matt, you’re right. I should’ve thought of all that, thanks.”

      “It’s not a problem. You’ve got a lot on your plate, Denny. Just get Chief Cline his authorization.”

      “Done. Do you have any leads on who that kid hung around with? Someone you can talk to for information?”

      “He’s got an older brother in the 8 Mile area. I’m going to go and snoop around, see what I can get from him. I’m also going to send you what I have now in my files—just in case.”

      “Is talking to him going to blow your other operation? I can go talk to him myself,” Denny said.

      “I’ll do it,” Bolan replied. “I’ve got a feeling that if we don’t get a handle on this situation and fast, there may not be any other cases here...ever.”

      * * *

      THE DRIVE FROM THE EOC to the warehouse on the edge of the 8 Mile region gave Michael Jonas ample time to relax and become himself once again. By the time he arrived at the metal building with the boarded-over windows, he was fully Sayid Rais Sayf again, ready to lead his men and fulfill their plans. The building itself was unremarkable from the street and an ownership search would lead the searcher to a shadow corporation within a shadow corporation. In point of fact, it was owned by an unremarkable bureaucrat in the Iranian government who had no idea he was the owner of a warehouse in Detroit, Michigan.

      Sayf used the small building behind the eight-foot-high chain-link fence as an occasional meeting place or storage facility, and, at the present, it was his primary office for their mission until it was over, unless something went wrong or they were discovered and forced to move. After he passed through the electronic gate and ensured that it shut behind him, he drove the Audi around to the backside of the building where a garage door opened in response to the button he pressed on his visor.

      He parked the car and shut the garage door. From where he was, he could see Malick Yasim through the glass door of the office. He was pacing and, in the reflection from the light, beads of sweat were visible on his bald head. The damage done by the Coast Guard finding the ship was containable, but he couldn’t let his second in command see that fact right away. First, he must be reminded of how simple mistakes could cost them everything.

      Sayf calmly stepped out of the car, retrieved his briefcase from the backseat, and shut the doors. Yasim would be waiting for his judgment—he was a loyal soldier. But his carelessness had given more information to the authorities than they’d planned, and that could prove crucial to their timing. He crossed the concrete floor of the nearly empty warehouse to the office and opened the door.

      Yasim turned to him immediately. “Sayid, I heard about the boat and the bodies. We left it anchored. I did not expect it to come ashore until after everything was completed. I have failed you.”

      “You are a stupid fool!” Sayf snapped. “Do you know what this means to us? We must change the times for everything and we must keep them looking in other directions. Your mistake makes things more difficult than they already were! What do you have to say for yourself?”

      “I...I am sorry, Sayid,” the bald man stammered. “Allow me to redeem myself in your eyes. Give me a task to complete to show you that I will not fail you again.”

      Sayf allowed himself to the luxury of appearing to consider Yasim’s words while he put his briefcase on the desk and turned on the computer. “Perhaps there is a way...”

      “Anything!”

      “What we will need is a diversion, Malick. Something to force the authorities to concentrate on more than one task at a time.”

      “Yes! This is easily done. I will prove myself to you by creating the diversion you need!”

      Sayf sighed and got to his feet, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Easy, my friend. Slow down. I know that you are sorry. Mistakes happen, but we must not allow ourselves to falter foolishly. In any case, we must adjust and I already have a plan in mind that should suffice. You need only to carry it out.”

      “What must I do?” Yasim asked.

      “I want you to take a group of our people to the far end of 8 Mile and start a fight there with one of the other gangs. One of the motorcycle groups if you can. Make it loud, get some fires going, and don’t be afraid to kill. Extra bodies will only add to the list of things the authorities must deal with and consider.”

      The man nodded. “I know a good place for this. When do you want this to happen?”

      “Get started now. I want the fight in full swing within an hour. Can you do this?”

      “Yes, it shall be done. I will leave immediately and contact you when it’s over.”

      Sayf shook his head. “Go there and get the fight started, but do not linger. I want you back here as soon as possible.”

      Yasim bowed low and left the office without another word, eager to prove his worth once more. Sayf returned to the desk and sat down, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. In spite of the minor setback, things were moving along well.

      Soon, Detroit would explode in a ball of radioactive fire, and become a permanent symbol of the failures of American policy in the Middle East. And as a martyr to the holy cause, he would be revered for all time and rewarded in heaven.

      5

      Bolan drove from Grosse Point back to 8 Mile, parking half a block down the street from the address in his files. Mr. Tarin Kowt was five feet, ten inches and 180 pounds of pure trouble. He glanced through the man’s rap sheet one more time. He’d done a brief stint for theft, but whenever he’d been charged with anything more serious, the witnesses had all somehow magically disappeared. So in spite of three murder charges and five smuggling charges, every single case had been dropped for lack of evidence.

      Bolan let his eyes scan the street once more. Even though it was only 8:30 p.m. and a Saturday night, anyone who wasn’t part of the problems plaguing this area was already safely tucked inside. The 8 Mile region was a haven for criminals, drugs, prostitutes and numerous types of gangs. The police entered the area only when absolutely necessary, and according to what he’d heard, it was actually better these days than it used to be. It was sort of amazing that this kind of place could exist in an American city, but he’d seen it time and again, in places like Chicago, New York, Boston and even Phoenix.

      The rules here were the same as in all those places—keep to yourself and your own crew, don’t ask questions, never give answers to the cops, and maybe you and your family will get to live another day. Maybe. No matter what, he suspected that dealing with Kowt would be no simple task.

      From where he was parked, the Executioner had a good visual on the house and the street. There was only one vehicle in the driveway—a black Lexus sedan that was probably stolen. Reaching into the gear bag in the passenger seat, he pulled out a RAZ-IR NANO Thermal Camera. This was a handheld model, and he took his time working across the visual field. There were three people inside, and it was likely that at least a couple of them were armed. People like Kowt didn’t spend much time without a weapon close at hand. He waited and watched, but the luck of having any