keep talking that shit, I'm gonna cut you." The kid kept talking tough, but Bolan could see real fear in his eyes. He'd seen or heard something that convinced him there was truth to what the Executioner said.
"Go ahead and try," Bolan said. "But I'm not the person who's going to kill your entire family. How does it feel to help someone kill everyone you've ever known?"
The man spit again, but this time he didn't spit at Bolan. Instead he just cleared his mouth and tried to speak. "I saw it," he said. "In the warehouse. We unloaded the cask."
"You saw what?" the Executioner asked. "Where?"
"The cask. We helped unload a heavy steel cask."
The kid choked and coughed up a lot of blood. Bolan knew he wasn't going to last long.
"Where? Where is the cask?"
"Santa Cruz." The kid coughed up more blood, but this time he couldn't clear his throat. "Near the railroad tracks." He coughed a couple of times, desperately trying to catch his breath, and finally dropped his head, silent. Bolan checked his pulse and found none. He could hear sirens fast approaching. He ran back to his motorcycle and roared down Leavenworth Street towards the freeway.
* * *
"Bear, I need you to access a spy satellite for me," Bolan said to Aaron Kurtzman. "Something going over Santa Cruz." The soldier had contacted the Stony Man Farm computer expert the moment he'd returned to his hotel room in Monterey after his trip to San Francisco.
"I can get photography at twenty-three-minute intervals," Kurtzman replied. "Unless whoever you're looking for knew the exact orbits of our satellites and had perfect timing, I should be able to find something. What am I looking for?"
"Some guys unloading a heavy cask or container from a van or truck at a warehouse."
"Are we looking for a Type B container filled with ten kilos of plutonium 239?"
"Something along those lines," the soldier replied.
"I need something more," Kurtzman said. "There aren't a lot of warehouses in Santa Cruz, but what you just gave me could describe almost every delivery to every single one of them.
"Look near the railroad tracks." The soldier had taken a detour through Santa Cruz on his way back from San Francisco and he'd identified several likely warehouse facilities that were along the railroad tracks that ran through town just south of the Cabrillo Highway — California's famous Highway One, also known as the Coast Highway. He gave Kurtzman the GPS coordinates of the prime candidates.
"Anything else that could help me?"
"This might be a long shot, but look for a black Hummer H2 with dark tinted windows."
"That's not much."
"Do your best, Bear."
The sun poked up over the hills to the east when the Executioner finally laid down for some sleep. Less than two hours later, a sharp rap at the door woke him up. He threw on the large robe the hotel had provided, sliding a Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife into the sleeve in case he needed it. Then he grabbed a wire hanger from the closet, untwisted it and used it to hold a black shirt in front of the peephole as he stood to the side of the door. When no shots came through the door, he chanced a look through the peephole.
"Oh hell," Bolan said to himself when he saw the two conservatively dressed Americans at the door. Their dark suits, unstylish neck ties and humorless demeanor meant one of only two possibilities, and since they were too old to be Mormon missionaries they had to be the FBI agents Kurtzman had warned him about earlier.
Bolan opened the door. "Can I help you?" he asked.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," the taller of the two men said. "I'm Agent Smith and this is Agent Kowalski." They both showed Bolan their badges. Bolan inspected the badges so he could be reasonably certain they were legit before letting the two men into his room. "We'd like to discuss yesterday's events," Smith said.
"Did I leave something out of my report to the police yesterday?" the Executioner asked? "I believe I was thorough."
"We've read the
"Go ahead and try," Bolan said. "But I'm not the person who's going to kill your entire family. How does it feel to help someone kill everyone you've ever known?"
The man spit again, but this time he didn't spit at Bolan. Instead he just cleared his mouth and tried to speak. "I saw it," he said. "In the warehouse. We unloaded the cask."
"You saw what?" the Executioner asked. "Where?"
"The cask. We helped unload a heavy steel cask."
The kid choked and coughed up a lot of blood. Bolan knew he wasn't going to last long.
"Where? Where is the cask?"
"Santa Cruz." The kid coughed up more blood, but this time he couldn't clear his throat. "Near the railroad tracks." He coughed a couple of times, desperately trying to catch his breath, and finally dropped his head, silent. Bolan checked his pulse and found none. He could hear sirens fast approaching. He ran back to his motorcycle and roared down Leavenworth Street towards the freeway.
* * *
"Bear, I need you to access a spy satellite for me," Bolan said to Aaron Kurtzman. "Something going over Santa Cruz." The soldier had contacted the Stony Man Farm computer expert the moment he'd returned to his hotel room in Monterey after his trip to San Francisco.
"I can get photography at twenty-three-minute intervals," Kurtzman replied. "Unless whoever you're looking for knew the exact orbits of our satellites and had perfect timing, I should be able to find something. What am I looking for?"
"Some guys unloading a heavy cask or container from a van or truck at a warehouse."
"Are we looking for a Type B container filled with ten kilos of plutonium 239?"
"Something along those lines," the soldier replied.
"I need something more," Kurtzman said. "There aren't a lot of warehouses in Santa Cruz, but what you just gave me could describe almost every delivery to every single one of them.
"Look near the railroad tracks." The soldier had taken a detour through Santa Cruz on his way back from San Francisco and he'd identified several likely warehouse facilities that were along the railroad tracks that ran through town just south of the Cabrillo Highway — California's famous Highway One, also known as the Coast Highway. He gave Kurtzman the GPS coordinates of the prime candidates.
"Anything else that could help me?"
"This might be a long shot, but look for a black Hummer H2 with dark tinted windows."
"That's not much."
"Do your best, Bear."
The sun poked up over the hills to the east when the Executioner finally laid down for some sleep. Less than two hours later, a sharp rap at the door woke him up. He threw on the large robe the hotel had provided, sliding a Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife into the sleeve in case he needed it. Then he grabbed a wire hanger from the closet, untwisted it and used it to hold a black shirt in front of the peephole as he stood to the side of the door. When no shots came through the door, he chanced a look through the peephole.
"Oh hell," Bolan said to himself when he saw the two conservatively dressed Americans at the door. Their dark suits, unstylish neck ties and humorless demeanor meant one of only two possibilities, and since they were too old to be Mormon missionaries they had to be the FBI agents Kurtzman had warned him about earlier.
Bolan opened the door. "Can I help you?" he asked.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation," the taller of the two men said. "I'm Agent Smith and this is Agent Kowalski." They both showed Bolan their badges. Bolan inspected the badges so he could be reasonably certain they were legit before letting the two men into his room. "We'd like to discuss yesterday's events," Smith said.
"Did I leave something out of my report to the police yesterday?" the Executioner asked? "I believe I was thorough."
"We've read the
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