Shadow Strike. Don Pendleton

channel. There was only silence. Damn.

       Going to the wall, Bolan searched alongside the door until finding a disguised access slot in the woodwork. He slipped in the card, and a panel slid back, revealing a glowing sheet of plastic with the outline of a human hand. He grunted at that. A biometric refusal system. That was pretty high tech for a Brooklyn gun dealer. Suddenly, he had a very strong suspicion that his tip from Leo Turrin was right on the money, and that something big had happened here yesterday, something a lot more dangerous than selling cheap Taiwanese revolvers to gangbangers.

       Looking over the unconscious men, Bolan chose the one with the better shoes. That meant he was probably getting paid more, which translated as holding a higher position in the criminal organization.

       Pressing the hand of the man against the panel, Bolan heard a soft chime, and the armored door slid into the wall. Directly ahead was a long hallway illuminated with bright halogen lights and lined with closed doors. The walls were brick, the floor terrazzo, and there were no security cameras.

       Dropping the limp body in the path of the door to prevent it from closing, Bolan shrugged off his leather duster and drew both his weapons. The Beretta 93-R machine pistol rested comfortably in his left hand, while the right was filled with a .50-caliber Desert Eagle. Quantity and quality. A very deadly combination.

       Easing along the hallway, he strained to hear any noises, but there was only the soft whir of the air-conditioning system blowing a warm breeze from hidden vents, then the radio earbud crackled.

       “Chuck, we’ve got a reading that the damn door is wide open,” a man growled in annoyance. “Check it, and see if that idiot Bobby dropped something in the jamb again, will ya.”

       Touching the throat mike, Bolan grunted in reply. Ahead of him a door opened and a man stepped into the corridor, a case of U.S. Army HEAT rounds cradled in his arms.

       He gasped at the sight of Bolan and dropped the case to go for a mini-Uzi holstered on his hip. The Executioner stroked the trigger of the Beretta and the weapon fired, the sound suppressor reducing the report to a discreet cough. The man fell back into infinity, his brains splattered across the brick wall.

       “The damn door is still open!” the voice said as the radio crackled. “What the fuck are you two morons doing up there?”

       Up there, eh? Thanks for the directions, Bolan thought, stepping into the room. It was filled with wall shelves packed solid with cases of Glaser Sure-Kill, Navy SEAL Daisy Cutters, Black Talon cop killers and Army HEAT rounds, all strictly illegal for civilian use. Especially the high-explosive armor-piercing tracers. There was even an empty carrying case for an HK XM-25. Now, that was real trouble.

       Pulling a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, Bolan pulled off the arming strip, then slapped the disguised explosive charge against the middle case of HEAT rounds. Those would do the most damage when the plastic-wrapped wad of C-4 detonated.

       Checking the next room, Bolan found it full of crates of U.S. Army M-16 assault rifles, M-79 grenade launchers, and several cases of mixed hand grenades. He primed a second pack of cigarettes.

       Taking a couple of HE grenades, Bolan dropped them into a pocket. Turrin had been right, and wrong. This wasn’t just a supply depot for the local Mob, but a major league black-market weapons dealer. Now, Bolan was eager to find Tiffany and discover exactly what had happened that made him increase security to this level.

       “If you two assholes are fucking the new girl instead of standing your post, the boss is going to feed your balls into a fucking woodchipper!” the voice on the radio said furiously. “Now, answer me right fucking now, you losers!”

       Too late for that, Bolan thought, removing the safety tape from around the handle of a flash-bang stun grenade. He yanked the pin free and tossed the sphere up the corridor toward the strip club. It landed directly on the back of the unconscious guard and rolled into the alcove.

       Turning away, Bolan sprinted for distance. A few seconds later there was a thunderous explosion and a blinding flash. Instantly, every fire alarm started to howl, then white foam gushed from sprinklers in the ceiling.

       “Red alert,” a woman said calmly over a speaker inside the drop ceiling. “We have an explosion in section 12. Repeat, explosion in 12. Everybody topside clear the club and seal the doors. Allow nobody access. Nobody!”

       “Mr. Tiffany, I sent Harry to get a crate of grenades,” a man said over the radio. “The blast might have been him, sir.”

       “That old drunk?” another man growled. “If the asshole is still alive, shoot him in the head! Now clear the club and seal the doors! The last thing I want is a bunch of firemen charging in here!”

       The voice was low and throaty, almost garbled, and Bolan couldn’t tell if it was from a man, a woman, or computer-generated. But that fit the description of Mike Tiffany.

       “No problem, sir!” the man replied promptly.

       Satisfied that all the civilians would soon be gone, Bolan sprinted for the end of the corridor. From this point onward, anybody else he encountered should be an employee of the arms dealer, and fair game.

       Reaching the end of the corridor, Bolan paused before an elevator, frowned, then stepped through an open doorway that led to a stairwell. Even over the fire alarm, he could hear several people running up the steps. Pulling out another grenade, he left on the safety tape and simply dropped it over the railing. The sphere hit the metal steps below with a ringing crash, then started bouncing along, impelled by gravity and inertia. A few seconds later, the unseen men began shouting curses, then running away fast.

       Pulling out a second grenade, Bolan started to remove the safety tape, then heard a sound from behind. Dropping the grenade, he drew the Beretta and pivoted at the hip.

       A large man in a yellow raincoat was running down the corridor, working the pump action on a 12-gauge shotgun. Instantly, the Executioner fired twice, the double report lost in the clamor of the alarm.

       The shotgun discharged harmlessly into the wall as the first round knocked it aside, then the man jerked backward as the second 9 mm bullet punched a neat black hole in his forehead. Slowly, he crumpled to the floor and lay down as if going to sleep.

       Suddenly, the soldier heard the sound of people running up the stairs again. This time, Bolan pulled the pin on an HE grenade, counted to three, then dropped the bomb over the railing. The metallic sphere hit the stairs with a hard metallic ring, and somebody cursed.

       “Grenade!” a man yelled.

       “Ignore it!” another countered gruffly. “That last one wasn’t even live!”

       A split-second later, a violent explosion filled the stairwell, and fiery chunks of human remains vomited into view. A smoking hand still holding a gun smacked into the concrete wall, and a tattered shoe arched over the railing to land in the corridor.

       Quickly starting down the stairs, Bolan hopped over the grisly remains of the guards and kept moving. Unfortunately, he could feel the stairs swaying, and cursed the fact that the builder had merely attached them to the wall with pinions and wires, instead of anchoring them properly to the masonry with thick steel bolts. Now there was a chance that the staircase would tumble to the bottom level with him on it. However, the elevator was a guaranteed death trap, so he had no choice.

       Increasing his speed, Bolan holstered the Beretta, using both hands to steady his hasty progress down the shuddering stairs. Pinions were ripping free from the wall moorings, the support cables lashing about like insane snakes, hissing as they whipped through the air. He was hit twice in the back, his life saved by the Threat Level IV body armor under his jacket. Then he caught a cable across the face. The sharp pain blurred his vision for a moment, and he tasted blood, but kept moving. Speed was his only defense now.

       As he neared bottom, the last flight of stairs gave a low groan and twisted sideways, closely followed by a horrible crashing sound that steadily built in volume and power.

       Jumping the last eight feet, Bolan hit the floor in a