fly down to the intersection with Leavenworth Street as the big Hummer screeched to a stop halfway down the block. Bolan threw the big motorcycle from right to left to right like an overgrown BMX bicycle and was past the turn onto the Montclair Terrace, a dead-end street that T-boned Lombard Street about halfway through the switchback section between Hyde and Leavenworth, by the time the Hummer started descending the wildly twisting street. Bolan could hear the Hummer crashing into parked cars and banging off the short concrete retainer walls that ran alongside the street as he rode to the bottom of the hill.
At Leavenworth Street, Bolan hung a hard right and rode up on the sidewalk. He parked the bike and ran to the edge of a garage on the street corner, drawing his Desert Eagle on the way. He leaned up against the edge of the garage, waiting for the Hummer to crash its way down. As the cab of the Hummer appeared in his field of vision, the Executioner lined up the sights of the gun right about where he figured the driver would be sitting, compensating for the change in angle that the spalling of the glass would cause. He emptied a magazine into the glass. His calculations must have been fairly accurate because the Hummer ran through the intersection and crashed into the corner of the building on the northeast corner of the intersection.
Bolan ran toward the wreck, reloading on the way. He hoped to find a survivor, but before he reached the vehicle a man stepped out of the rear door, which had flown open on impact with the building, and raised a SAR-21 rifle, a bull-pup-style rifle built in Singapore — and never legally imported into the U.S. market. He fired. The man could barely stand, and his shaky stance made his shooting inaccurate. The 5.56 mm NATO bullets from the stubby gun went wide. Bolan raised the Desert Eagle and drilled a 240-grain hollow point through the shooter's forehead. Bolan kept the gun trained on the open door in case anyone else inside the vehicle might try to attack him.
When he got to the truck, he could see no one was going to cause him any problems. No one in the cab had worn a seat belt, so the air bags that deployed in the front seat hadn't been much help to its occupants. Judging from the .44 caliber hole in the driver's temple, he hadn't been alive when the air bags deployed. The front-seat passenger must have been holding a SAR-21 between his legs because the combined force of the crash and the airbag deployment had driven the stubby barrel into his throat, burying it all the way up to the plastic foregrip. It had hit the jugular and the man had bled out before Bolan reached the Hummer.
The last man in the cab was still alive, but just barely. Like the others, he was a Filipino, and Bolan saw the telltale question mark tattoo on the bare shoulder that showed beneath his dirty wife beater undershirt. He was conscious, but blood ran from his mouth, nose and ears, and he looked like he was fading out. Bolan grabbed his shirt and gently slapped his face, trying to get him to wake up. The man's eyes opened and he smiled. Then he spit blood and tooth fragments at the soldier and laughed.
"Who are you working for?" Bolan asked.
"Fuck you, man," the man — he was really just a kid — said, then laughed again.
"You working for Botros?" The kid said nothing, but a look of recognition crossed his face when Bolan said the name. "Do you know where they've taken the plutonium?"
"What are you talking about plutonium?" the kid said. "You white boys need to lay off that meth."
"Didn't you know?" Bolan asked. "Your boss has brought enough plutonium into the country to build a bomb so big it could blow up this city and take Oakland with it. He's not even going to have to pay you what he owes you because he's going to kill you. He's going to kill your homies, your mother, your sister, your baby momma, and everyone you've ever known. You fools are helping to get your own families killed."
"Man, you
At Leavenworth Street, Bolan hung a hard right and rode up on the sidewalk. He parked the bike and ran to the edge of a garage on the street corner, drawing his Desert Eagle on the way. He leaned up against the edge of the garage, waiting for the Hummer to crash its way down. As the cab of the Hummer appeared in his field of vision, the Executioner lined up the sights of the gun right about where he figured the driver would be sitting, compensating for the change in angle that the spalling of the glass would cause. He emptied a magazine into the glass. His calculations must have been fairly accurate because the Hummer ran through the intersection and crashed into the corner of the building on the northeast corner of the intersection.
Bolan ran toward the wreck, reloading on the way. He hoped to find a survivor, but before he reached the vehicle a man stepped out of the rear door, which had flown open on impact with the building, and raised a SAR-21 rifle, a bull-pup-style rifle built in Singapore — and never legally imported into the U.S. market. He fired. The man could barely stand, and his shaky stance made his shooting inaccurate. The 5.56 mm NATO bullets from the stubby gun went wide. Bolan raised the Desert Eagle and drilled a 240-grain hollow point through the shooter's forehead. Bolan kept the gun trained on the open door in case anyone else inside the vehicle might try to attack him.
When he got to the truck, he could see no one was going to cause him any problems. No one in the cab had worn a seat belt, so the air bags that deployed in the front seat hadn't been much help to its occupants. Judging from the .44 caliber hole in the driver's temple, he hadn't been alive when the air bags deployed. The front-seat passenger must have been holding a SAR-21 between his legs because the combined force of the crash and the airbag deployment had driven the stubby barrel into his throat, burying it all the way up to the plastic foregrip. It had hit the jugular and the man had bled out before Bolan reached the Hummer.
The last man in the cab was still alive, but just barely. Like the others, he was a Filipino, and Bolan saw the telltale question mark tattoo on the bare shoulder that showed beneath his dirty wife beater undershirt. He was conscious, but blood ran from his mouth, nose and ears, and he looked like he was fading out. Bolan grabbed his shirt and gently slapped his face, trying to get him to wake up. The man's eyes opened and he smiled. Then he spit blood and tooth fragments at the soldier and laughed.
"Who are you working for?" Bolan asked.
"Fuck you, man," the man — he was really just a kid — said, then laughed again.
"You working for Botros?" The kid said nothing, but a look of recognition crossed his face when Bolan said the name. "Do you know where they've taken the plutonium?"
"What are you talking about plutonium?" the kid said. "You white boys need to lay off that meth."
"Didn't you know?" Bolan asked. "Your boss has brought enough plutonium into the country to build a bomb so big it could blow up this city and take Oakland with it. He's not even going to have to pay you what he owes you because he's going to kill you. He's going to kill your homies, your mother, your sister, your baby momma, and everyone you've ever known. You fools are helping to get your own families killed."
"Man, you
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