All he had to do was make it through the night alive.
Roosevelt Island
BOLAN PARKED HIS latest rental car, a Honda CR-V, in the visitor’s lot at Coler-Goldwater Specialty Hospital, and made his way to the roof of the X-shaped facility’s northwestern wing. From there he had a view across treetops to Lighthouse Park, where his intended targets would be showing up, at least in theory, sometime in the next three hours.
Waiting was a sniper’s specialty. Bolan likely could not have counted all the times he’d lain in wait for enemies in heat and cold, under a drenching rain, while insects crawled over his skin and hummed around his ears. He’d learned to lie in perfect stillness, barely breathing, while a target took its own sweet time about appearing, stepping finally into the crosshairs of his telescopic sight and dying there, struck down from half a mile or more away, with no idea how death had come so suddenly, without a hint of warning.
He was ready now, with his weapon of choice for this phase of the hunt, an M-110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System manufactured by Knight’s Armament in Florida. The rifle measured 46.5 inches with its buttstock extended and a suppressor attached, tipping the scales at just over fifteen pounds with a 20-round magazine full of 7.62 mm NATO rounds. Its AN/PVS-10 night sight would let him place accurate shots out to 875 yards, nearly nine times the range he would be firing from this night. It should be like shooting fish in a barrel.
But these fish might be shooting back.
His plan was simple: place the Afghans and Wah Ching hardmen into proximity, both looking for the same thing, then cut loose and see what happened next. A well-placed shot or two might do the trick, but if the opposition needed any more help, Bolan had a stack of extra magazines on hand and was prepared to use as many as the job required.
Scorched earth, all the way.
He didn’t need to rattle either side for information, since the next stop on his tour had been determined in advance. Khalil Nazari’s opium was processed into bricks of morphine near the poppy fields he cultivated in Afghanistan. Bolan knew approximately where the morphine bricks were sent for their conversion into heroin. The details he did not as yet possess would be available when he arrived on-site, secured by one means or another to complete the next link in the chain.
This night he would be shutting down the pipeline in Manhattan. Not for good; no one could claim permanent victory in any war against a human craving for release. But Bolan could remove the major players in this one dark corner of the world. Maybe incite some other scavengers to take each other off the board while they were grappling to fill the power vacuum that resulted.
Doing what he could with what he had.
His field of fire was open from the hospital’s six-story rooftop to the Blackwell Island Light, four hundred feet northeast of where he sat cradling the rifle, waiting. Once the action started, Bolan’s enemies could break in one of three directions: toward the light, away from him; to cars parked on the left or right, against the river’s edge; or back toward Bolan, seeking refuge among trees that formed a kind of horseshoe shape at his end of the park. Whichever way they ran, it would be under fire from Bolan and from adversaries on the other side, who’d come expecting to go home with ten kilos of heroin.
How many would go home at all?
Bolan never indulged in overconfidence. He trained and practiced, planned and double-checked his plans, then trusted to his own experience and skill. That recipe had kept him in the game so far, but he did not deceive himself into believing that his luck would hold forever. No one had that guarantee, and least of all a fighting man who put himself in harm’s way constantly.
His greatest apprehension at the moment was that Paul Mei-Lun or Wasef Kamran might decide to stay at home, let their gorillas keep the date and see what came of it. If he missed one or both of them this night, he’d have to stick around New York until the job was done, giving his adversaries at the next stop more time to prepare themselves.
For all the good that it would do them.
Even with the news of his Manhattan blitz, they wouldn’t know with whom they were dealing.
They would not be prepared to meet the Executioner.
Lighthouse Park, Roosevelt Island
“Remember, everyone,” Paul Mei-Lun said. “No shooting till we see the bag. It’s all for nothing if we go back empty-handed.”
The shooters riding with him in the Hummer H2 all nodded like a bunch of bobbleheads. In Mei-Lun’s hand, a walkie-talkie crackled and a voice came to him from the second vehicle, trailing behind his, with the other Wah Ching soldiers he’d selected for the showdown.
“Got it, boss.”
They were armed to the teeth and stopping for no one, including police. There could be no explaining the weapons they carried, and Mei-Lun knew he was running a risk with the Hummers. CNN had told him they were ticketed by traffic cops five times as often as most other vehicles, and Mei-Lun himself had enough citations to believe it.
But anyone who tried to flag them down this night, Mei-Lun vowed, was shit out of luck.
Truth be told, he was amped for a killing. The skag heist, the loss of four men in a week... It was all bearing down on him, making him look bad, stretching his nerves like piano wire. He needed an outlet, and whether they got back the suitcase or not, someone was bound to die on the island.
Mei-Lun could personally guarantee it.
Once they’d cleared the tunnel from Manhattan—always claustrophobic for him, though he tried to hide it—they got onto Main Street near the tram station and barreled northward, past the interchange for 36th Avenue and the Roosevelt Island Bridge to Queens, rolling on until Main Street turned into East Road. A giant hospital bulked up beside them on the left, and they slowed down, continuing along the narrow road that led out toward the lighthouse on the island’s northern headland.
Looking at a map before he’d left the Lucky Dragon, Mei-Lun thought that Roosevelt Island looked like a giant condom afloat in the river, right down to what Trojan ads called the “reservoir tip.” He’d started laughing, and his soldiers couldn’t understand it, but he hadn’t bothered to explain. Better if they believed that he was laughing in the face of death than spotting crazy shapes on a road map.
Mei-Lun double-checked the QBZ-95 assault rifle he’d chosen for their little safari. It was the latest thing from China, a bullpup design chambered for the 5.8 mm DBP87 cartridge. Smuggled from his homeland in bulk, the QBZ-95 was selective-fire, feeding from a 30-round box magazine with a cyclic rate of 650 rounds per minute in full-auto mode. The 5-grain full-metal-jacket rounds traveled at 2,900 feet per second and delivered 1,477 foot-pounds of energy on impact, their streamlined shape and steel core designed for increased range and penetration.
Not that he’d be needing any kind of long-range skills this night. The meeting ground, according to his phallic map, was no more than one hundred yards across, its only cover the arc of shade trees screening the hospital’s north-facing windows from the glare of the lighthouse. Their target, whoever he was, should be clearly visible and easy to kill when the time came.
As soon as he showed them the bag filled with sweet China white.
“We’re almost there,” his driver said, and Mei-Lun grunted in reply. He had already seen the lighthouse standing tall against the skyline, sweeping the dark water with its beam to help the barges find their way. The Hummer’s headlights weren’t much competition, but they showed Mei-Lun the sweep of grass where this night’s action would play out.
“We’re early,” someone muttered from the backseat.
“As intended,” Mei-Lun said.