Lethal Diversion

4

The flashing blue and red lights from various law-enforcement vehicles were nearly blinding as Bolan pulled to a stop and parked his car. He wanted a look at the boat, but he’d expected the area to have calmed down by this time. The notion that they were going to keep this situation under wraps was going to be pure fantasy if they didn’t scale things back quite a bit. He left his vehicle and flashed his DEA badge at the two county sheriff’s deputies that stood guard in front of the path down to the beach where the yacht had beached. They motioned him to pass on through without stopping him.

He’d reached the rocky shore, noting the three body bags on the ground, and was contemplating whether to check the boat or the bodies first, when he was stopped by a tall, lanky man in a Coast Guard Chief’s uniform. “Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?”

There was an open honesty to the man’s face that Bolan liked to see in law enforcement. “You must be Chief Cline. I’m Agent Matt Cooper. DEA. Denny Seles sent me your way,” he said.

Chief Cline shook his hand and then a quick flash of recognition followed. “That’s right. I got a text from Seles that he might be sending over another set of eyes. What can I do to lend you a hand?”

“Well, the first thing you can do is send about seventy-five percent of these people home or back to their regular patrol. And tell the others to turn off their emergency lights. All this is drawing way too much attention to the scene. I don’t know why Seles didn’t mention it before, except he’s a man with a lot on his mind.”

Cline looked around, taking in the sight. Bolan knew that when someone was in the middle of something, it was hard to see it from the outside.

“You’re right,” he said. “There are too many people here for a simple boat-run-aground scenario. I’ll start clearing them out immediately. What else?”

“Have you learned anything new since Seles was here earlier?” he asked.

The chief shook his head. “Not really. Our hazmat guys finished their piece just a little bit ago. We’ve got a crane and a semi trailer on the way to offload the container and take it to a secured warehouse. Then we’ll tow the boat itself to a secure docking area.”

“A semi and a crane?” Bolan asked. “That’s about as inconspicuous as all these lights.”

“Our options are limited. Seles wants the Feds to be able to examine the container separately,” Cline explained. “And the damn thing weighs a ton.”

“He’s a by-the-book guy,” Bolan replied. “But this doesn’t make a bit of sense. Call off the crane and the trailer, have them meet you at the secured docks and offload the container there. The extra time that will take will be worth the extra security. Let’s not draw any more attention to the area than we have to.”

“I agree with you, sir, but I’m going to need authorization from Agent Seles before I give that order.”

“Call him and get it or I will, but just hold off the semi and crane until you do. Worst case, they’ve got to sit for a few minutes beside the road.”

“I can do that,” he said. He pulled a phone from his belt and made the call for the incoming crane and semi to hold position. “Just get me the authorization, Agent Cooper. This is too serious for me to screw up.”

“I understand,” Bolan said, his eyes moving to the body bags. “I’m surprised that they haven’t moved the victims. What’s taking the coroner so long with the bodies?”

“They’re out on the ambulance in ten minutes or less,” he said. “We wanted to do a complete search to make sure the bodies weren’t carrying something harmful.”

“Good call,” he said. “But if it’s all right, I’d like to take a quick look at them before the coroner removes them.”

“Right this way,” he said.

Each of the bodies was zipped into an individual black bag and the coroner was beginning to load the first one onto the stretcher.

“Dr. Beaman,” the chief said as they stepped closer. “This is Agent Matt Cooper with the DEA. He’d like a moment to examine the bodies, please.”

Beaman looked like a man out of patience and way too old for wandering along a cold, rocky beach in the middle of the night. “Young man, if you’re about to tell me that there has been yet another delay in getting these bodies back to the morgue I’m going to perform the autopsies right here and let the gulls have the carcasses.” The flustered doctor crossed his arms over his chest, huffed at Chief Cline and sent angry glances at Bolan, certain that he was the cause of his having to stay out in the cold.

“No, sir,” Cline said. “At least, not for very long. Agent Cooper here just has a couple of questions for you.”

“Well, there’s not much I can tell you yet. Two of the men appear to have died from gunshot wounds and the other was knifed, but I won’t have a lot more until I get them on my table.” Beaman looked pointedly at his watch.

“I’d like to take a look,” Bolan said.

The coroner sighed as he reached forward and unzipped the body bag and pulled it open to reveal the face of the first victim. Bolan was stunned when he recognized the face and it must have shown.

“You know the guy?” Cline asked.

“I’ll have to double-check my files, but I believe he’s a lower-level dealer that I’ve been looking for. Let me see the other two.”

The coroner revealed the other two faces. Bolan took quick snapshots and thumbprints from each man with his handheld and sent them off to Brognola to begin the facial recognition and fingerprint ID process. The databases at Stony Man Farm were much larger and more detailed than anything that Seles would have access to.

“When you get them on your slab we’re going to need pictures of any tattoos and scars right away and I’ll get my people working on it,” Bolan said. He handed Beaman a card with his number on it. “Send them digital to that number.”

“Won’t Special Agent Seles’s men already be working on it?” Dr. Beaman asked.

“My people are faster.”

“I thought we were all one people working together?” the doctor quipped.

“Sometimes I get to jump the line, that’s all,” Bolan said. “I won’t hold you up any longer, Doctor. You look like you’re ready to get out of the cold.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all night.” Dr. Beaman turned to his two assistants. “Load them up and let’s get going. We’ve got a lot yet to do.”

Bolan and the chief stepped away as they loaded the bodies. Bolan took a quick look around the ship, but nothing else jumped out at him. It was an expensive piece of work, though, and that meant somebody had paid someone else to do it. He’d be sure to mention it to Brognola as a possible information angle. The money trail was sometimes the easiest one to follow.

“You really did know that kid?” the chief asked. “What a shame. He couldn’t have been more than twenty or so.”

“I’d never met him, no, but he dropped off the radar about a couple of months ago. I’ve been working a drug-interdiction case and I never forget a face. That kid was in the briefing files I received.” He looked around the beach once more, contemplating all the law enforcement in the area and thinking about secondary strikes. “I’m done here, Chief, and I think you want to move fast to get all this out of sight. I’ve got a feeling that this just got more complicated. I just wish I knew how.”

“I’m on it,” Cline said, then spun and headed toward his men, barking orders as he went.

Bolan climbed into his car and dialed Seles.

“Seles.”

“Denny, it’s Cooper. I have some additional information.”

“I’d take some good news right now, so shoot,” he said.

“I’m not sure how good it is.” Bolan relayed the information about the dead man he knew to have been involved in the local drug trade, as well as his orders to Chief Cline to minimize emergency personnel, cut back on the lighting, and have the container unloaded in a secure area.

Seles sighed heavily. “Jesus, Matt, you’re right. I should’ve thought of all that, thanks.”

“It’s not a problem. You’ve got a lot on your plate, Denny. Just get Chief Cline his authorization.”

“Done. Do you have any leads on who that kid hung around with? Someone you can talk to for information?”

“He’s got an older brother in the 8 Mile area. I’m going to go and snoop around, see what I can get from him. I’m also going to send you what I have now in my files—just in case.”

“Is talking to him going to blow your other operation? I can go talk to him myself,” Denny said.

“I’ll do it,” Bolan replied. “I’ve got a feeling that if we don’t get a handle on this situation and fast, there may not be any other cases here...ever.”

* * *

THE DRIVE FROM THE EOC to the warehouse on the edge of the 8 Mile region gave Michael Jonas ample time to relax and become himself once again. By the time he arrived at the metal building with the boarded-over windows, he was fully Sayid Rais Sayf again, ready to lead his men and fulfill their plans. The building itself was unremarkable from the street and an ownership search would lead the searcher to a shadow corporation within a shadow corporation. In point of fact, it was owned by an unremarkable bureaucrat in the Iranian government who had no idea he was the owner of a warehouse in Detroit, Michigan.

Sayf used the small building behind the eight-foot-high chain-link fence as an occasional meeting place or storage facility, and, at the present, it was his primary office for their mission until it was over, unless something went wrong or they were discovered and forced to move. After he passed through the electronic gate and ensured that it shut behind him, he drove the Audi around to the backside of the building where a garage door opened in response to the button he pressed on his visor.

He parked the car and shut the garage door. From where he was, he could see Malick Yasim through the glass door of the office. He was pacing and, in the reflection from the light, beads of sweat were visible on his bald head. The damage done by the Coast Guard finding the ship was containable, but he couldn’t let his second in command see that fact right away. First, he must be reminded of how simple mistakes could cost them everything.

Sayf calmly stepped out of the car, retrieved his briefcase from the backseat, and shut the doors. Yasim would be waiting for his judgment—he was a loyal soldier. But his carelessness had given more information to the authorities than they’d planned, and that could prove crucial to their timing. He crossed the concrete floor of the nearly empty warehouse to the office and opened the door.

Yasim turned to him immediately. “Sayid, I heard about the boat and the bodies. We left it anchored. I did not expect it to come ashore until after everything was completed. I have failed you.”

“You are a stupid fool!” Sayf snapped. “Do you know what this means to us? We must change the times for everything and we must keep them looking in other directions. Your mistake makes things more difficult than they already were! What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I...I am sorry, Sayid,” the bald man stammered. “Allow me to redeem myself in your eyes. Give me a task to complete to show you that I will not fail you again.”

Sayf allowed himself to the luxury of appearing to consider Yasim’s words while he put his briefcase on the desk and turned on the computer. “Perhaps there is a way...”

“Anything!”

“What we will need is a diversion, Malick. Something to force the authorities to concentrate on more than one task at a time.”

“Yes! This is easily done. I will prove myself to you by creating the diversion you need!”

Sayf sighed and got to his feet, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Easy, my friend. Slow down. I know that you are sorry. Mistakes happen, but we must not allow ourselves to falter foolishly. In any case, we must adjust and I already have a plan in mind that should suffice. You need only to carry it out.”

“What must I do?” Yasim asked.

“I want you to take a group of our people to the far end of 8 Mile and start a fight there with one of the other gangs. One of the motorcycle groups if you can. Make it loud, get some fires going, and don’t be afraid to kill. Extra bodies will only add to the list of things the authorities must deal with and consider.”

The man nodded. “I know a good place for this. When do you want this to happen?”

“Get started now. I want the fight in full swing within an hour. Can you do this?”

“Yes, it shall be done. I will leave immediately and contact you when it’s over.”

Sayf shook his head. “Go there and get the fight started, but do not linger. I want you back here as soon as possible.”

Yasim bowed low and left the office without another word, eager to prove his worth once more. Sayf returned to the desk and sat down, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. In spite of the minor setback, things were moving along well.

Soon, Detroit would explode in a ball of radioactive fire, and become a permanent symbol of the failures of American policy in the Middle East. And as a martyr to the holy cause, he would be revered for all time and rewarded in heaven.

5

Bolan drove from Grosse Point back to 8 Mile, parking half a block down the street from the address in his files. Mr. Tarin Kowt was five feet, ten inches and 180 pounds of pure trouble. He glanced through the man’s rap sheet one more time. He’d done a brief stint for theft, but whenever he’d been charged with anything more serious, the witnesses had all somehow magically disappeared. So in spite of three murder charges and five smuggling charges, every single case had been dropped for lack of evidence.

Bolan let his eyes scan the street once more. Even though it was only 8:30 p.m. and a Saturday night, anyone who wasn’t part of the problems plaguing this area was already safely tucked inside. The 8 Mile region was a haven for criminals, drugs, prostitutes and numerous types of gangs. The police entered the area only when absolutely necessary, and according to what he’d heard, it was actually better these days than it used to be. It was sort of amazing that this kind of place could exist in an American city, but he’d seen it time and again, in places like Chicago, New York, Boston and even Phoenix.

The rules here were the same as in all those places—keep to yourself and your own crew, don’t ask questions, never give answers to the cops, and maybe you and your family will get to live another day. Maybe. No matter what, he suspected that dealing with Kowt would be no simple task.

From where he was parked, the Executioner had a good visual on the house and the street. There was only one vehicle in the driveway—a black Lexus sedan that was probably stolen. Reaching into the gear bag in the passenger seat, he pulled out a RAZ-IR NANO Thermal Camera. This was a handheld model, and he took his time working across the visual field. There were three people inside, and it was likely that at least a couple of them were armed. People like Kowt didn’t spend much time without a weapon close at hand. He waited and watched, but the luck of having any of them leave was not on his side and for a reason he would be hard-pressed to name, there was a growing sense of urgency in his gut that told him he needed to move quickly.

Checking his Desert Eagle, Bolan dug around in his gear bag until he found what he wanted, then stepped out and locked the car, activating the alarm system. He was already wearing black clothing, jeans and a wool sweater, with a canvas coat over the top. For the moment, the street was empty. He crossed over, his long strides carrying him from shadow to shadow along the cracked and broken sidewalk. It took him less than three minutes to reach the house, and he opted for a more direct approach.

Pulling the pin, but not releasing the lever from the smoke grenade in his pocket, Bolan walked up to the door and rang the bell. When he didn’t hear a tone, he used his left hand to rap sharply on the door. Inside, there was the sound of people scrambling about, and finally, a voice snapping, “Answer the door, you idiot! Cops don’t knock!”

The sound of the door being unlocked followed and it opened, revealing the face of a young black man, maybe twenty-five. “What you want, homey?” he asked.

“I have a delivery here for you,” Bolan said. “Mr. Jones, right?”

The man’s eyes peered about the small porch. “What delivery? Ain’t no Mr. Jones here!”

“This one,” Bolan replied, pulling the grenade out of his pocket and releasing the lever. “Here.” He shoved it into the man’s hands, then pushed him backward and yanked the door closed.

The yelling started almost immediately as the man juggled the unwelcome surprise, bobbled it then dropped it on the floor before realizing that it was a grenade and kicking it away.

A voice screamed, “Are you crazy?” even as someone tried to open the door, which Bolan held shut. Through the narrow pane of glass in the door, he could see the room filling with smoke, and hear the chaos as the three men tried to figure out what was going on while simultaneously trying to escape.

The pressure from the person on the other side of the door increased, and Bolan finally let go, allowing it to fly open. It struck the surprised man on the other side with significant force, cracking him in the forehead and splitting the skin. Blood poured freely from the wound and he stumbled back, blinded and stunned. Bolan finished him with a solid right hook to the jaw that dropped him to the floor.

His sudden appearance was enough to get the other two men turned in his direction, but not nearly fast enough. He kicked the door shut behind him, and had his Desert Eagle out in a flash. The two men started to go for their own weapons, but he snapped, “Don’t do it. You’re dead men if you do.”

They both stopped and slowly raised their hands.

“Good,” he said. “A wise choice. We’ll just wait a minute for the smoke to settle down, then we’ll have ourselves a talk.” He looked them over. Both men were of Middle Eastern descent, but the one on the right was Tarin Kowt.

“You,” he said, gesturing to the man on the left. “What’s your name?”

“Aamil,” he said.

“So, are you Kowt’s workman then?” he asked, knowing the meaning of the name.

“Just a friend.”

“Friends are nice,” Bolan said. “Come over here. And Kowt, don’t even think about going for your piece on the table.”

Aamil moved closer, keeping his hands raised. When he was a few feet away, he stopped. “Good,” Bolan said. “Now turn around and face your friend.”

He complied.

“Do you know much about your friend, Kowt?” he asked.

Aamil shrugged. “Not so much,” he answered.

“He’s a drug dealer, Aamil,” he replied, his voice low and threatening. “More of a mid-level guy these days. His supplier imports directly from Afghanistan, and the question I have for you is, how good a friend are you with him?”

“I...”

“Shut up, Aamil,” Kowt said. “I do not know who you are, my friend, but all this violence is unnecessary. Aamil is simply one of my...couriers. I am sure we can come to some arrangement that will satisfy you.”

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