When the conveyor belt took an unexpected dip, Bolan nearly lost his footing, and he dropped flat to hold on to the tattered leather strip with both hands. Some of the staples holding the belt together were coming loose, and he got cut and slashed, but the punctures were only flesh wounds and he ignored them.
Suddenly, the whimpering increased, and there she was, only a yard away, moving in the opposite direction. The blasted belt had reversed course somewhere! Diving forward, Bolan grabbed an overhead pipe and felt it start to give as he swung forward. It broke free just as he let go, and Bolan landed on the conveyor belt just as the pipe loudly crashed to the floor, closely followed by a rain of assorted metallic debris.
Instantly, gunfire strobed the darkness, hot lead ricocheting off the machines at that location. But Bolan was already far away, and steadily accelerating. Going to the prisoner, the soldier punched her in the temple to expertly knock her unconscious and stop the crying. He felt sure she’d rather have a throbbing headache, and live, than die.
Running his hands over her body, he was surprised to find her so healthy and well-fed. Suspicious, he drew a knife and slashed away her clothing until she was down to her bra and panties. That was when he found a slim Remington .32 pistol taped under a breast. She was a fake!
Pocketing the gun, Bolan eased off the rumbling leather belt and back into the darkness.
Moving away from the sporadic gunfire, the soldier headed back to the second floor, and started up the ladder for the roof. Whoever the woman was, he felt no pity or remorse. Obviously she worked for Kegan and deserved whatever kind of cruel justice was offered by the grinding gears of the ancient rattling machine.
Reaching the skylight, Bolan checked to make sure the wax seals were still in place, then pushed open the now-lubricated hinges and stepped into a cool refreshing breeze. Heading directly for the emergency pack, Bolan sent off the signal for an emergency evac, took a few grenades, and the spare Beretta, then went back to the open skylight.
Below there was only darkness and the rumbling machines. Then a woman screamed in mortal agony, the cries becoming high-pitched as the machines took on a lower tone. The conveyor belt stopped, but the screaming continued.
Pulling the pin on an antipersonnel grenade, Bolan tossed it in that direction. Before it even landed, he pulled the pin on three Willy Peter grenades and tossed them about the interior of the factory—then he moved back fast.
At the first blast the female’s screaming thankfully ceased as the spray of shrapnel zinged about madly off the walls and machines. Two more voices shrieked, then the incendiary grenades ignited, and the entire factory flashed as an inferno of incandescent chemicals spread outward, blanketing everything they touched with deadly white phosphorous.
As a hellish blaze began to swiftly grow, a side door burst open and out staggered a coughing man. Immediately, Bolan recognized him as Kegan. Drawing and aiming the Beretta in a single move, the soldier emptied the machine pistol in prolonged bursts. The hail of 9 mm hollowpoint rounds slammed Kegan to the ground, ripping into the man until he collapsed to the roof.
“Debt paid in full,” Bolan growled, reloading the Beretta.
The roof was starting to get warm under his feet, and Bolan was considering a jump toward a pool of stagnant water when a deep throb sounded in the starry night sky. Bolan looked up to see a Bell Huey helicopter heading his way.
“Taxi!” he shouted with a wave, then put two fingers into his mouth and sharply whistled.
Swinging about, the helicopter landed a couple of yards away, and Bolan yanked open the side hatch to half step, half fall into the passenger seat.
“Tough day at the office, Sarge?” Jack Grimaldi asked, smiling behind his visor.
“Nothing special,” Bolan replied, buckling a seat belt around his bloody clothing.
Laughing in reply, the Stony Man pilot pulled back on the control yoke, and the helicopter lifted off the roof of the burning factory. It disappeared into the night only moments before the local fire department arrived, closely followed by a brace of ambulances and a heavily armed SWAT team.
CHAPTER THREE
Mexico
A long conga line of police cars drove along the mountainous road, their lights flashing, but the sirens oddly silent.
The backbone of the USA–Mexico combined antidrug effort, Firebase Azules, was a heavily fortified Mexican military base situated on top of a low hill that gave it a commanding view of the surrounding valley and the distant mountains. Concrete K-rails surrounded the entire base to deter suicide bombers from driving a truck loaded with explosive onto the base. Past the rails was a hurricane fence made completely out of barbed wire and topped with deadly coils of concertina wire, the endless coils of razor blades glittering in the early morning sunlight.
Grim soldiers stood in concrete guard towers, smoking, drinking coffee or polishing their M16 assault rifles. Security cameras constantly swept the perimeter, radar scanned the air and sonar probed the nearby river.
The United States of America and Mexico had signed a mutually beneficial treaty many years ago: the US supplied Mexico with military ordnance to help the nation’s endless fight against the drug lords that kept coming up from South America. The best of the best went to Azules.
Only recently, a submarine had been stopped off the Atlantic coast, and 180 million dollars’ worth of cocaine had been found. The crew was in jail, the cocaine destroyed at a special incinerator and the Mexican navy got a slightly used diesel submarine. All things considered, a pretty good day for the Federal Border Patrol.
Slowing down at the maze of K-rails, the police cars proceeded slowly over the expanse of speed bumps and hidden land mines. Stopping a short distance from a fortified guard kiosk, Dalton Greene turned off the engine of the stolen police car, and climbed outside. The billionaire was now wearing the regulation uniform of the Mexico police, including sidearms, sunglasses and wristwatch. A spray tan had darkened his skin to something more appropriate to a Caucasian living below the Rio Grande. The only subtle difference was the Threat-Level-Five body armor he wore under the uniform.
“Good morning, Lieutenant!” Greene hailed in flawless Spanish. “Is the base commander available?”
“Perhaps I can help you with something?” the officer asked, pushing back his cap.
The soldier was armed with a .45 Colt automatic pistol, while his partner inside the kiosk was cradling an M16 assault rifle with an old-fashioned M203 grenade launcher attached underneath. On top of the kiosk, a small radar dish never stopped spinning in its endless search for incoming enemy planes.
“No, sorry, I need to see the base commander,” Greene repeated, trying to sound apologetic.
Warily, the guard looked over the men and women in the eight police cars. Aside from the fact that they were all Caucasians, he wasn’t suspicious in the least. Mexico did things differently than most countries, not better or worse, just different, so while this seemed like a lot of police to send to a military base for any reason, it wasn’t unusual. More than likely somebody important was arriving at the base, and they were here to escort him to someplace else, like Mexico City for example.
“You have papers?” the lieutenant asked at last.
Greene grinned. “Of course!” He passed over a clipboard stuffed with documents.
The officer gave the sheaf of expertly forged papers only a cursory glance, then nodded to the soldiers inside the kiosk. One of them threw a switch, and the steel barricade that blocked entry onto the base slowly descended into the ground with the sound of working hydraulic pumps.
When the way was clear, Greene took back the forged documents, got back behind the wheel.
Driving