Nuclear Storm

Chapter 1

Four days earlier

Mack Bolan strode through the luxurious casino floor of the Marina Bay Sands Singapore, oblivious to the bells and clatter of sophisticated slot machines and the chatter and exclamations of well-dressed men and women trying their luck at dozens of gaming tables. His feet sank into soft, plush carpet, while attractive staff served drinks to the high rollers, but he ignored all of the activity, his eyes alert for just one man.

Dressed in a tan sport coat, black short-sleeved shirt and navy slacks, Bolan blended easily into the crowd of natives and foreign tourists, despite his height and imposing presence. The clothes were brand-new—mainly because his luggage had been lost by one of the six airlines he had been on in the past four days, and was presently at least twenty-four hours and several thousand miles behind him. Bolan himself felt edgy from two weeks of nearly constant travel, all in pursuit of one man.

Kim Dae-jung was a renegade nuclear scientist who’d defected from North Korea after working ten years at the highest levels of that country’s nuclear program. The U.S. had mounted an audacious, top-secret mission to free him, only to suffer the embarrassment of having him give the slip to his handlers and walk out of his hotel in Sydney, Australia. Since then, he’d been traveling around the world, freely spending the ten million he’d stolen from the North Korean government, rarely staying more than one night in the same place, and being chased by an assortment of agents and operatives from several nations, including assassins from his homeland who were tasked with assuring Dae-jung took any military and national secrets to his grave.

Despite his flamboyant style—he favored Dom Perignon champagne and the most expensive luxury suites in every hotel he’d been at—the diminutive Korean had the devil’s own luck, escaping government dragnets in several countries. The President had contacted Stony Man Farm and requested that Hal Brognola see if Bolan was available to perform an extraction on short notice.

Along with much of the American intelligence community, Bolan considered North Korea to be one of the largest threats to U.S. security, second only to China. The knowledge inside Dae-jung’s head could give analysts invaluable insight into that country’s nuclear program. After hearing from the big Fed, Bolan had been on a flight to Australia in three hours.

From there it had a bewildering tour of cities around Southeast Asia. He’d picked up the high-rolling scientist’s trail in Port Moresby and had missed him by three hours in Manila. From there, Bolan had passed through the glitter of Hong Kong, Tokyo and Bangkok, until they all blurred together in swaths of neon and steel, mirrored skyscrapers and plush hotels. Every time he landed, he was just one step behind the man. Along the way, he’d crossed paths and swords with men and women from British and Russian intelligence, as well as at least two hit teams, one from North Korea and a Chinese group. Brognola and Bolan figured they wanted the scientist dead before he could reveal China’s sales of enriched plutonium and other nuclear material to the regime.

This luxury hotel was the best lead and the closest he’d been to Dae-jung so far.

The soldier finished his sweep and found an unoccupied table at the bar, ordering a ginger ale from the server who magically appeared at his elbow. “I’ve canvassed the entire casino floor. Plenty of whales swimming in this ocean, but Dae-jung isn’t one of them.”

His words were transmitted through a tiny, flesh-colored microphone glued to the base of his jaw. They were then sent through a relay of satellites back to Stony Man Farm in Virginia, and the gruff answering voice of Hal Brognola came back to him through an equally tiny earpiece in his right ear. Both communication devices were slaved to the smartphone holstered at his belt, which provided power and a signal boost as well as high-level encryption for both sides of the conversation, ensuring no eavesdroppers.

“If he’s not there, he’s probably in his room. Have you identified any hostiles on-site yet?”

“None I can see—if they are around, they’re staying out of view.”

Brognola chuckled. “Easier for them than you, eh, Striker?”

Even through his fatigue, Bolan smiled. “Yeah—unless I’m crouching, it’s hard for me to blend in. Do we know which room he’s in? There are a lot of suites in the hotel, and I’d rather not kick in the wrong door if I can help it.”

“Akira says a man matching Dae-jung’s description is staying in the Chairman Suite on the fifty-fourth floor. He’s working on getting you access to the secure elevators as we speak.”

Bolan drained his ginger ale in one long drink and set the empty glass on the table. “Tell Akira he’s got about three minutes to open those doors.” Rising, he walked toward the casino’s main doors, which slid open at his approach, the air-conditioned comfort giving way to the oppressive mugginess of Singapore at the beginning of monsoon season. The air was thick and humid, and Bolan quickened his pace across the pedestrian bridge. “The vehicle I requested is in place?”

“In the parking ramp, ground floor, space A3.”

“So all I have to do is head up there, drag Dae-jung out of his hidey-hole, bring him down with me, get to our vehicle and drive to the airport.”

“When you say it, Striker, it sounds almost reasonable. Sorry we couldn’t do anything about getting you a sidearm before you went over.”

Bolan shrugged, missing the familiar weight of his Desert Eagle under his arm. “If this guy’s traveling with the entourage you say he is, I doubt it would get past his bodyguards, and since I’m supposed to be doing this on the down low, well, the .44 is a bit conspicuous. Don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Whenever you say that, that’s exactly when I start worrying.” Bolan heard crunching in his ear and grinned, knowing Brognola had just popped one of his ever-present antacid tablets into his mouth. “However you manage to get him out, just don’t create an incident with the Singaporean government. It’s bad enough we snuck you in. I’d hate to see us trying to extradite you from one of their prisons.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.” Bolan entered the main lobby of the Marina Bay, which was decorated to look like a jungle oasis had sprung up in the middle of the huge room, with palm trees and bright orchids and ferns growing inside a walled garden, complete with a twenty-foot waterfall. The rest of the room was modern, covered in exotic hardwoods and marble.

“Okay, walk straight through the lobby and take a right on the far side. The private elevators to the towers will be straight ahead.” The voice in his ear was younger and quicker, and Bolan could hear the tinny beat of the constant rock music Stony Man Farm’s computer hacker, Akira Tokaido, always listened to when on the job.

“You get that pass worked out yet?” he asked.

“I’ve almost got it. The security suite in this place is impressive, and coming from me, that’s saying something,” Tokaido said.

Bolan reached the far end of the room and turned right as instructed. Two sets of gleaming, stainless-steel elevator doors faced him several yards away. Not breaking stride, he headed for them. “Five yards away, Akira. You better type faster.”

“Don’t you worry, I’m on it.” When Bolan was a step away from the nearest set of doors, they slid soundlessly open.

He stepped into a cylinder large enough to hold a dozen people. The doors closed behind him, and the button for floor 57 lit up. The elevator began ascending so smoothly Bolan could hardly tell it was moving. “They spared no expense for this place.”

“Yeah. Too bad you won’t have a chance to catch a meal there. The restaurants are supposed to be terrific.”

Bolan watched the floor numbers tick off. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you’re here.”

“On my salary? Hardly. Okay, you’re coming up to it. The suite will be to the right, the second door on your left. It’ll be easy to spot—it’s the one with the two bodyguards out front.”

“He couldn’t have taken a suite near the elevator, could he?”

“Come on. You wouldn’t want this to be too easy, would you? I’m cutting in an empty loop of the security camera on that floor. You know how you’re gonna get inside?”

“I’ll figure something out.” The elevator chimed softly, announcing he’d reached his destination. Bolan stepped out and looked both ways down the hall. Sure enough, two massive men wearing tuxedoes stood at ease in front of the second door on the left. Bolan headed straight for them.

The pair eyed him as he approached, their postures turning from relaxed to alert the closer he got. Bolan stopped in front of the nearer one, a Samoan man built like a mountain, with dark skin and black hair falling in ringlets to his shoulders. Despite his head-crushing demeanor, his voice was smooth and polite, with a hint of British prep school in it. “May I help you?”

Bolan decided to return the politeness. “I’m here to see Dr. Kim Dae-jung.”

The bodyguards exchanged glances, and the far one turned to face Bolan, stepping in front of the door. “I’m afraid there is no one inside by that name. Perhaps you have the wrong room.”

Bolan held his arms out enough so the hired muscle could see he wasn’t packing. “Relax, guys, I’m not carrying. If you’ll allow me…” He took out a slim leather billfold and flipped it open. “Matt Cooper, U.S. State Department. Now I know Dr. Dae-jung is inside, and all I’ll need is a few minutes of his time.” Bolan and Brognola had come up with the State Department cover together, figuring a bureaucrat would be less fearsome than a CIA officer or even the lesser-known U.S. Diplomatic Security Service.

The Samoan examined the credentials for more than thirty seconds. Bolan wasn’t concerned—they were real as far as anyone outside the State Department was concerned. “One moment, sir.” The bodyguard touched his earpiece and muttered something in what sounded like Korean.

Moments later, the bodyguard returned his attention to Bolan. “Please stand with your legs shoulder-width apart and spread your arms.” Bolan complied, and the second man ran a handheld metal detector over his body. When he was finished, the Samoan patted him down thoroughly. Satisfied that Bolan was unarmed, the second bodyguard produced a key card and swiped it through the lock on the double mahogany door, which opened to a burst of music, loud conversation in several languages, the laughter of men and women, and a swirl of smoke.

The Samoan opened the door farther for Bolan. “The doctor will be with his guests in the main room. You will be escorted at all times while inside. Do you have any questions?”

Bolan shook his head and stepped into a small foyer. He was met by a smaller Asian man, also dressed in a tuxedo, with alert eyes, a buzz cut and an unmistakable bulge under his right arm. “If you’ll follow me, sir.” He turned and escorted Bolan into the large main room.

The huge Chairman Suite more than lived up to its name. It was decorated in black wood and granite, with dark hardwood floors covered with large patterned rugs. A long black-and-silver screen depicting a flock of cranes taking off from a pond took up the far wall of the room. The furniture was modern and sleek, from the leather wingback chairs and plush couches scattered around the room to the ebony baby grand piano surrounded by several women as someone played what sounded to Bolan like some kind of show tune. The women were all singing in more than one language.

From the looks of it, the party had been going on for some time. A long, granite-topped table along one wall contained the remains of a demolished buffet, and suit jackets, evening wraps and shoes were scattered around the room. Bolan guessed the women in attendance were professionals, and as he was led deeper inside, he saw one of them lead a balding, potbellied man dressed only in an undershirt, socks and garters into another room and close the door.

Cigarette and marijuana smoke mingled, the thick, stale cloud obscuring what would probably have been a magnificent view of the city’s skyline.

The third bodyguard led Bolan to a corner of the main room, where a large, U-shaped black leather couch was currently hosting several men and women, all in various states of undress. And in the middle of it all, leading his inebriated guests in an off-key chorus of “I Did it My Way” was the man himself, Dr. Kim Dae-jung.

The man known as the driving force behind North Korea’s nuclear weapons program wasn’t much to look at. Barely clearing five feet, he was pudgy, with a bulging belly that attested to a life spent at a lab table. He wore rimless glasses and his receding black hair, normally swept back from his forehead, stuck out in all directions, as if he had just been mildly electrocuted.

Bolan stood patiently next to the bodyguard while Dae-jung and his group finished their song. His eyes and ears, however, were cataloging every person, where they were, and what they were holding or doing. He spotted two more obvious bodyguards in the room, and one of the prostitutes who he thought might be disguised to blend in with the guests.

The song finished to cheers, applause and everybody drinking a round of what smelled like sake. The bodyguard slipped over to Dae-jung’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“What? Here? Now? What does he want?” the drunken doctor bellowed. The bodyguard pointed to Bolan, and Dae-jung adjusted his glasses as he looked the soldier up and down. “Well, you State bastards finally caught up with me, didn’t you. Took you long enough.”

“I’m afraid so, Doctor, although following your trail was very…interesting. I’d like to talk to you about your accompanying me to the United States, where there are several people who are waiting to talk to you.”

Dae-jung peered at him blearily through the smudged lenses of his askew glasses. “I could have you killed, you know. It would be a great mystery. You walk into this room, but you never walk out.”

Although he was sure he could take out both of obvious and covert bodyguards without receiving a scratch, Bolan nodded. “You could, but the State Department would just send someone else to find you. Why not save both your bodyguards the trouble of disposing of me, and the U.S. government the trouble of flying someone else halfway around the world, and just come with me now?”

The diminutive scientist stared at Bolan for a few seconds, then roared with laughter. “I’ve never met a suit with a sense of humor before. Sit, sit, have a drink. You want anything else—a woman, a man, a boy, coke, hash, dust?”

Bolan slid in between Dae-Jung and the beautiful, almost-passed-out Filipino woman next to him. “I’ve only come for one person. Now that I’ve found him, it’s time to go.”

Dae-Jung poured sake into two cups, his hand trembling slightly. He looked several years older than the CIA’s most recent picture of him. Bolan wasn’t sure if that was due to the stress of being on the run, or due to living a 24/7 party lifestyle for the past few weeks.

Dae-jung picked up one of the glasses and stared into the liquor as if he might be able to see the answer to his problems in it. “I worked for those bastards and our glorious leader for twenty-four years, always maintaining the party line. I did all right, too—cars, summer homes, even vacations. But when my daughter and her entire family starved to death in 2008, well, there’s only so much a man can turn a blind eye to, right?”

Bolan nodded. “I would agree with that.”

Dae-jung suddenly held out the sake cup to him. “Before I agree to anything, you must drink with me. Otherwise, I will order my bodyguards to have you killed.” His smile said he was joking, while his eyes, suddenly clear and piercing, said he wasn’t.

Bolan accepted the glass and held it up. “To your daughter and her family—may they rest in peace.”

The drunk scientist clinked his glass against Bolan’s, spilling a rivulet of liquid down the side, then downed the shot in one gulp. Bolan followed suit, feeling the smooth rice wine heat his palate as it slid down his throat. He placed the empty glass back on the table and watched Dae-jung.

“Can I stay in Las Vegas? I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas!” the doctor proclaimed loudly as he grabbed a magnum bottle of champagne and refilled his glass.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Always aware of the bodyguard, Bolan leaned closer to the small Korean. “However, it would be in your best interest if we were to leave now. Doubtless there are others who are looking for you as well who don’t have your well-being in mind, and if I was able to find you, they will soon, too.”

Dae-jung swigged his champagne, a drop trickling down his chin. “I’ll party tonight, then go with you tomorrow morning, sleep on the flight over.”

“With all due respect. Doctor—” Bolan was interrupted by Tokaido’s voice in his ear.

“Striker, you’ve got armed men coming down the hall—shit, they just took out both guards outside the door! They’re gonna be inside any second!”

Chapter 2

Bolan was already standing, trying to lift the drunken scientist to his feet as the bodyguard pushed through the crowd of women to intercept him.

“Hostiles are outside. You’d better check the door!” The bodyguard frowned at Bolan’s orders, but the big man wasn’t deterred. “Get over there now!”

The guard’s indecision cost him dearly. As his gaze flicked to the door, the woman Bolan had pegged as an undercover bodyguard drew a dagger—apparently ceramic, to bypass the metal detector—from a secret compartment in the bottom of her small purse, stepped behind the bodyguard and slit his throat. The man clasped both hands to his spurting neck as he sank to the floor, already dying. The woman bent over him, her hand darting inside his tux jacket for his pistol.

As men and women reacted to the cold-blooded murder, some screaming, others trying to get out of the way, Bolan stepped toward the Asian assassin and snapped a kick into her face like he was punting a football. The woman arched backward as she flew through the air, blood flying from her crushed nose. She landed on an ottoman and slid off, out cold.

Bolan moved to the dead bodyguard, scooped up the dagger from the carpet and drew the man’s pistol, a compact HK P-2000. He drew the slide back just as there was a commotion at the door—a sound like tearing cloth, followed by the crunch of splintering wood. The Executioner walked to the doctor, who was looking around befuddled as his party disintegrated into chaos. “What’s happening?”

Bolan didn’t reply. He grabbed him by his silk shirt and hauled him over the back of the couch, climbing over it and crouching as the sound of silenced gunfire could be heard on the other side of the room. More screams and shouts followed, along with angry commands yelled in Mandarin, then Korean, then English.

“Nobody move! Stand up! Everyone keep your hands where I can see them!”

Hearing the shouted orders, the confused doctor raised his hands and tried to stand, but was pulled back down by Bolan. “Doctor, I’m going to need you to stay here for the moment, all right?”

“Sure, Mister…whatever you say.”

Bolan kept one ear on what was going on in the rest of the room while he contacted Tokaido. “They’re inside, multiple gunmen. Can you give me a sitrep on where they are in the room?”

“Negative, Striker. I counted four gunmen in the hallway, but there are no cameras inside the suite. No one’s outside but the dead guards, so they must all be in there. I’m afraid that’s all the data I have right now.”

Crawling to the edge of the long couch, Bolan peeked out just enough to see two pairs of combat boots walking up and down a line of dress shoes, high heels and lots of bare feet. He couldn’t see the second pair of shooters, but muffled screams and shouts gave him a pretty good idea of where they were. More threats and the smack of a fist or gun butt on flesh were followed by crying and the addition of more feet on the floor, leaving Bolan with an even bigger problem—if he tried to take out the gunmen, there was a good chance he might hit one of the partygoers. While the chances were excellent that none of the attendees were completely innocent, as far as he knew none had done anything to warrant getting killed on this night either. But without being able to see where the gunmen were standing, it was too risky to engage them. The last thing Bolan wanted was a bloodbath in the opulent suite.

“Where’s the doctor? You have one minute to produce him, or we will shoot one of you each minute he’s not brought out.”

Hearing this, the doctor started to stand again, but Bolan pulled him back down. “Let me go—” he said before Bolan clamped a hand over his mouth.

“You have to stay down and keep quiet!” Dae-jung tried to move his head, fumbling at Bolan’s fingers. “Are you going to stay here and be quiet?” The doctor nodded, so Bolan took his hand away.

“I’m not going to let innocent people die because of me!” he whispered.

“I’m not either, Doctor, but you have to trust me.” Spotting the edge of the floor screen next to the couch, Bolan got an idea. “Please, just stay here for another minute. If I get killed, you can do whatever you want, okay?”

“Okay.”

Bolan began edging behind the screen, which was only a few inches from the hotel room wall. He couldn’t move very fast without risking bumping into his cover, which would most likely get the screen and him both stitched with bullets.

“Fifteen seconds! Where is he?” the threat and demand was repeated in Korean and Chinese.

Bolan shimmied behind the screen as fast as he dared. When he reached the second one from the end, he stopped and pressed the tip of the ceramic blade to the cloth in front of him.

“Time’s up! You, come here! Get over here!” Bolan heard the smack of a fist or hand striking flesh, and gritted his teeth as he slowly drew the knife down to make a slit big enough to see through. When he put his eye to it, however, all he saw was a herringbone pattern.

One of them was standing right in front of him! However, Bolan immediately realized that wasn’t a problem, but a stroke of good fortune. Quickly he enlarged the slit until he could see the back of the man’s head.

“All right, last chance! Where is Dae-jung? Fine—she dies now!”

Bolan slipped the barrel of his pistol through the slit, the muzzle only an inch from the man’s skin. Placing the ceramic blade between his teeth and his free hand on the screen, he squeezed the trigger.

As soon as the shot went off, Bolan shoved the screen over, the ruined artwork falling on the dead gunman. Instantly he took in the scene. A group of about thirty partygoers huddled against the wall, with three gunmen in the room, two standing a few feet behind the leader, who had an Asian woman in a crimson slit sheath dress next to him, a pistol at her temple. As Bolan had expected, the three shooters stared at him with wide eyes, having been taken by surprise at their partner’s head suddenly exploding and spraying blood and brains all over them.