Killing Trade. Don Pendleton

of people everywhere. There was only a moment to get them moving before his pursuers would be in range. His face grim, he did the only thing he could. Aiming the Beretta down and at the angle least likely to send ricochets spraying the area, he started shooting.

      “This is a terrorist attack!” Bolan shouted. “Everybody get out of here!” He punctuated the order with another pair of gunshots. “Move! Move!”

      There was more screaming, but not much, as those within range hustled to put space between themselves and the big, dark-haired gunman in their midst. New York, a city hardened to terrorist attacks and near-misses since September 11, was still standing and still vibrant, despite the best efforts of countless enemies, foreign and domestic. New Yorkers, even many of the tourists, were a hardy breed, inured to violence and to its threat, proud of their city. They weren’t stupid, but neither were they cowed. Bolan saw more than a few hard looks as people ran from him. One man, a twentysomething with a shoulder bag and wearing a 5.11 tactical vest, almost looked as if he might go for a weapon under his clothing. Bolan eyed him hard and the young man backed off, looking through what he thought was his enemy, unblinking. The Executioner watched until the man rounded the corner, his hand still fingering the edge of his vest.

      Bolan counted himself lucky. In a city where mere mortals couldn’t get permits to carry guns without a great deal of wealth and political influence, more than a few who valued their lives over petty politicking had made the choice to go armed illegally. The Executioner would not have been surprised if one of the locals had taken a shot at him. Bolan changed magazines and took cover behind one of the stone lions, covering the street as the hired shooters closed on him. The timing was going to be tight.

      As they moved up on either side, Bolan crouched low. Gunfire pocked the pedestal of the stone lion. Then a group of four men made their move, trying to flank the Executioner and get a clear shot at him as he engaged the others. Bolan, again on one knee, took a careful two-hand grip on the Beretta, sighted and fired.

      He took the point man in the head, the hollowpoint round doing its deadly work as it punched through the gunman. Bolan fired several more times, taking the second man in the chest and driving the others back. The remaining two began to backpedal, moving smoothly on bent knees. They fired as they went, almost gliding. They were well-trained. Bolan’s bullets chased after them, but when he was certain they were backing off, he returned his attention to the main group. Above him, the statue took several high shots, spraying him with stinging debris.

      Reloading again, Bolan drew a bead on another enemy as the man crouched behind a suddenly abandoned pickup truck. The gunman, tucked behind the protection of the engine block, nevertheless exposed too much of his bent arm and gun hand. Bolan’s bullets shattered the man’s elbow.

      The Executioner had time to watch a pair of men advance to back up their fallen comrade. Each one carried a slightly longer AR-15, the heavy match barrels of the stainless-steel weapons gleaming in the afternoon light. Bolan ducked back behind the lion’s pedestal as they opened fire.

      The Executioner flinched as a quartet of shots punched through the stone of the pedestal. His eyes wide, Bolan watched as tiny fires flared up in gaping exit holes in the stone. He barely had time to throw himself from behind the pedestal as a fusillade of heavy slugs split the pedestal and broke large pieces from the lion above. Several bullets dug into the stone of the library steps, sparking more small fires that burned with unnatural intensity. Bolan rolled, feeling the heat, squinting against the grit and debris that coated him. He shoved the Beretta forward, slightly canted in one fist, burning through the magazine as fast as he could. The angle was bad, but the shots forced the gunners back behind the pickup truck.

      The slide of Bolan’s pistol locked open again. Bolan’s support hand slapped the ejected magazine away from his body where it couldn’t end up under his feet. He brought the last of his spare magazines from the holder at his belt, slapped it home and racked the slide briskly as he advanced smoothly, knees bent, in an aggressive isosceles crouch. As he pushed the gun to full extension again, ready to engage his attackers with his last fifteen rounds, he finally heard the sirens through the ringing in his ears.

      The first of the NYPD cars roared up, tires squealing as they cut through the chaos of Manhattan’s traffic. Bolan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the gunmen, already backing off and buttoning up, their weapons disappearing under long coats or simply held behind their bodies as they faded back in the noise and confusion. Bolan hit the magazine release on his Beretta and racked the slide as he stood, moving out into the middle of the library steps. As police officers with Glocks and shotguns drew down on him, screaming commands at him, Bolan let the Beretta swivel out of his grip, dangling from his finger by the trigger guard. He held it high over his head as he settled to his knees, his free hand behind his neck.

      No, Hal Brognola was not going to be happy—but Bolan wasn’t finished yet.

      He was only getting started.

      2

      Bolan sat at the small table in the corner of the coffeehouse, an insulated cup of overpriced coffee untouched before him. Checking the heavy stainless-steel watch on his wrist, he sat back in the wooden chair. Brognola had managed to straighten things out, more or less, and much more quickly than Bolan would have thought. The local authorities hadn’t detained Bolan long before cutting him loose, though it was clear they were not happy about it.

      After conferring with the Farm following the shootout at the library, the big Fed had started pulling strings and pushing buttons, hard. The Farm had identified the person most likely to be of use to Bolan in his search through the city—Detective Len Burnett. Burnett was head of a multijurisdictional drug-trafficking task force operating in the greater New York City area, with the authority and the connections Bolan would need. He was on record concerning investigations into several of the shootings that had flagged the Farm’s interest. He was also a veteran officer with a good record, by all accounts. Brognola had arranged to have Burnett assigned as liaison to Bolan. He knew that wasn’t likely to go over well with Burnett or his bosses, but it couldn’t be helped.

      The Executioner couldn’t blame NYPD for resenting his presence. He hadn’t started the war—it was raging long before Bolan had arrived for his most recent tour of the Big Apple—but he’d brought it boiling over onto their front steps within view of countless civilians. Fortunately, despite waging a running firefight in midtown Manhattan, Bolan’s attackers hadn’t killed anyone. The property damage was extensive, but the cost in lives was zero.

      So far.

      The bad news was that Bolan could see no way this wasn’t simply the opening salvo of a much bloodier battle.

      The soldier watched the entrance to the coffeehouse. He did not wait long before a man matching the description he’d been given pushed open the door and let it slam none too gently behind him. The newcomer was male, late thirties to early forties, with an unruly mop of curly, receding brown hair, three days’ worth of beard stubble and a paisley tie at half mast. He was a large man, standing a couple of inches over six feet, with a slight paunch and a lanky, big-boned frame. He wore an off-the-rack suit that actually fit him quite well, the jacket of which didn’t quite conceal the bulge of the gun on his right hip. He quickly surveyed the coffeehouse and zeroed in on Bolan without hesitation. The soldier’s corner was secluded enough, the ambient noise loud enough, that the men could speak in reasonable confidence on what was, Bolan calculated, neutral ground. He did not intend to antagonize Burnett if he could help it, given that he needed the man’s assistance.

      “Matt Cooper?”

      “That’s me,” Bolan nodded, standing to offer his hand. Burnett took it and returned a firm handshake.

      “Burnett,” the man said pleasantly. As he sat, his expression hardened, his smile bearing all the joy of an undertaker. “Would you mind telling me,” he asked with feigned mildness before his voice went completely cold, “just what the fuck you think you’re doing in New York?” He spoke quietly, but the menace in his tone was real enough.

      Bolan looked at him blandly. “That’s need to know.”

      “Well,”