Книга - Toxic Terrain

Toxic Terrain
Don Pendleton


The badlands of North Dakota become a war zone when a former Pentagon researcher stumbles across a Chinese terrorist plot to unleash deadly prions into the country's largest supply of cattle feed. With America's food chain and the lives of millions in jeopardy, Mack Bolan knows he must shut down the organization–and it has to happen fast.But with the local authorities on the enemy's payroll, and an army of mercenaries tracking his every move, there's no safe place for Bolan. Heavy fire power alone will not win this fight–Bolan must rely on his battle instincts if he's going to prevent tragedy. The Executioner will risk everything to succeed…because if he fails, the United States may never recover.









Bolan awoke to find himself lying on an operating table


A pair of green eyes peered at him from over a hospital face mask. Kristen Kemp sewed the last stitches into his shoulder and said, “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Where are we?” he asked.

“In my clinic.”

Bolan sat up and tried to collect his thoughts. “How long was I out?” he asked.

“About an hour,” she said.

Bolan remained silent, contemplating the likelihood that they’d been followed.

Kemp put her hands on Bolan’s shoulders and tried to get him to lie back down. “You should rest.”

“We’re not safe here,” Bolan said.

“Grassy Butte has two hundred and fifty people, and I know every last one of them. No one’s going to harm us here,” she said as she covered his wounds with sterile bandages.

“Whatever you thought you knew about this place changed the moment we got shot at yesterday,” he told her. “Something big is going on here—and it’s damned dangerous.”

Before Kemp could respond, Bolan saw the shadow of a man holding what could only be a gun outlined in the window. He grabbed Kemp’s shoulders and flipped her over him, as automatic gunfire tore through the walls of the clinic.

Hurling himself on top of her, Bolan had just one more question. “Where are my weapons?”



The Executioner







Toxic Terrain

Don Pendleton’s





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Hesitation and half measures lose all in war.

—Napoleon Bonaparte

1769–1821

Napoleon I: Maxims of War

A threat against America is a threat against me—and I will not hesitate to take out all conspirators, with swiftness and finality.

—Mack Bolan




THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND


Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10




Prologue


Grassy Butte, North Dakota

Pam Bowman stared down at the dead Hereford calf at her feet and said, “This is not good.”

“It most certainly is not,” the man standing next to her confirmed.

He would know, Bowman thought. Though he was just the McKenzie County extension agent, Roger Grevoy had earned both an M.D. and a Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins, and had at one time been considered among the world’s top researchers studying the pathology of communicable diseases. Grevoy had never discussed how he’d gone from holding a high-powered research job with the Pentagon to being a lowly county extension agent, but Bowman suspected it had something to do with the meetings he went to in the basement of the local Catholic church every Wednesday night. Whatever the reason, she was damned glad to have his help.

“Is it what I think it is?” Bowman asked.

“I won’t have the test results until tomorrow,” Grevoy said, “but it looks like it might be. I’ve seen it before. Bovine spongiform encephalopathy. Mad cow disease.”

“How’s that possible?” Bowman asked. “This calf can’t be but four months old. It takes years for an animal to die from BSE.”

“I know. I think we’re dealing with something we’ve never seen before. And it’s extremely bad.”

“We’d better start riding back to the truck if we’re going to get out of here before sunset,” Bowman said.

Grevoy packed his tissue samples in the dry-ice packs in his saddlebag and the pair mounted their horses. They had ridden nearly an hour to get to the infected herd and had about fifty minutes before the sun set. They had good horses, but even a healthy, strong horse would have a difficult time negotiating the North Dakota Badlands in the dark.

They hadn’t ridden fifteen minutes before they heard the “whoop-whoop-whoop” of helicopter blades breaking the near silence that usually blanketed the rough country. On rare occasions one of the oil companies with wells in the Badlands would fly a helicopter out to a drill site, but not often because the bizarre rugged terrain of the area, with its deep crevasses and gullies carved out of the soft bentonite clay soil, offered few places to land a helicopter. Bowman’s grandfather had once described the Badlands as “mountains that go down into the earth instead of up out of it.”

The helicopter skimmed over the top of a butte and hovered about twenty feet above the trail. The horses Grevoy and Bowman rode were strong and sure of foot—they weren’t easily spooked and wouldn’t get upset over anything as mundane as a rattlesnake or a mountain lion. But they were not used to helicopters, and Grevoy’s horse reared up, tossing him to the ground. Ropes fell from the helicopter, and armed men clad in black combat gear slid down to the ground. Bowman reached for the .338 Marlin Express in her saddle scabbard, but before she could pull the lever-action carbine free of its leather, the armed men had combat rifles pointed at both her and Grevoy.

Several pairs of hands pulled Bowman off her horse and threw her face-first to the ground. She looked over and saw Grevoy trying to fight back. One of the men smashed the butt of his collapsible rifle stock into Grevoy’s head, knocking him unconscious. A couple of men tied Bowman’s hands behind her back and bound her feet together. The last thing she saw before they put the hood over her head was a group of men removing the saddles and bridles from their horses and setting the animals free. Anyone who saw them would assume they were wild horses that had strayed outside the confines of Theodore Roosevelt National Park, at least until they got close enough to see the brands. Then she felt a thud on the back of her head and the lights went out.




1


The beauty of the North Dakota Badlands surrounded Mack Bolan as he rode across the terrain on horseback, following Dr. Kristen Kemp, co-owner of a large-animal veterinary clinic in Grassy Butte. Her partner, Pam Bowman, had disappeared a few days earlier, along with Roger Grevoy, a former Pentagon researcher who specialized in communicable diseases.

Grevoy had done some work for Stony Man Farm, an intelligence organization that operated so far under the radar that only the President of the United States and a select few knew of its existence. Grevoy’s drinking had eventually destroyed his once-promising career and taken over his life.

The last Bolan had heard, Grevoy was getting back on track. He had several years of sobriety and had been rebuilding his relationship with his ex-wife and kids. When Grevoy disappeared, his ex-wife had contacted Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, and asked for his help, which was how the Executioner found himself riding a horse through the North Dakota Badlands, with the comely large-animal veterinarian riding the horse in front of him.

Suddenly Kemp stopped her horse at the beginning of a tree-lined ravine. “They found Pam’s horse in this wooded draw. Its saddle and bridle were gone. They haven’t found Rog’s horse yet.”

“What were they doing out here?”

“I’m not sure.” Bolan got the sense Kemp was holding back on him, but he said nothing.

“What do you do again, Mr. Cooper? And why are you out here?”

Bolan repeated his cover story, that he was Matt Cooper, a security consultant who’d worked with Grevoy on a government contract when the man had been with the Department of Defense. The two had become friends, and he was here at the request of Grevoy’s family. The details were vague enough to raise Kemp’s suspicions.

“So what, exactly, is a ‘security consultant’?” she asked, examining the Executioner’s face.

“I’m an expert on securing things.”

“How about killing things?” Kemp asked.

“Sometimes that’s part of the job.” The woman seemed about to respond—she struck Bolan as someone who liked to have the last word—but before any sound could leave her lips the crack of a rifle split the air and a crater erupted in the trunk of a Rocky Mountain juniper tree just inches from her head.

“Get down,” Bolan shouted. He’d already pulled his gun from the scabbard, a DPMS LR-260L, an AR-10-type rifle chambered for the .260 Remington round, and pulled Kemp off her horse. He noted that she’d grabbed her Marlin 1895G Guide carbine from its scabbard. She was nearly down when a second round hit her horse and it fell on top of the vet, pinning her leg to the ground.

“You okay?” Bolan asked.

“I think so, but my foot’s caught in the stirrup.”

Bolan looked for something to use for a lever but found nothing better than the rifle in Kemp’s hands. Unfazed by the rounds that continued to hit the dead horse providing cover between them and the shooter, Bolan lowered the hammer to the half-cocked position and wedged the stock in between the horse’s carcass and the ground, as close as he could get to Kemp’s leg, and tried to lift the dead animal. He managed to get enough space for the woman to work her foot free. They crawled away from the horse, keeping out of range from the rifle shots that flew over their heads. The rough terrain provided the pair with cover from their would-be assassin—or assassins—and they made it into the temporary safety of the wooded draw.

Bolan checked Kemp’s leg, which was already showing bruises but didn’t seem broken. “You’re bleeding,” he said, wiping a trickle of blood from her cheek.

“I think I got hit with slivers from the juniper.”

“Stay down,” he told her. “I saw where the shooter’s hiding. I’m going to try to get a shot at him.” Bolan crept along a low wash in the draw, which would have been a streambed in those few times of the year when the arid Badlands had measurable precipitation. He reached an outcropping near the end of the draw, edged his rifle between a couple of boulders and peered through the Nikon Laser IRT scope. He made out the top of a desert-camo boonie hat poking over a ridge exactly 436 yards to the southeast, according to the scope’s built-in range finder. He placed the crosshairs of his reticle on the part of the boonie hat that would contain at least a portion of the wearer’s head, and squeezed off a round.

It was an easy shot and Bolan watched the shooter’s cap disappear, along with a good chunk of the back of his head, judging by the red spray that went with it. The soldier watched for other signs of movement from behind the ridge, waiting several minutes before he moved from his hide.

Meanwhile, Kemp had worked her way along the wash and joined him. “I told you to stay back,” he told her.

“You told me to stay down. I stayed down. Besides, I don’t recall signing the contract that made you the boss of me. Did you get him?”

“I think so. I’m waiting to see if there’s anyone else out there.” Kemp took off her cowboy hat and flung it Frisbee-style into the open. Nothing happened.

Bolan checked out Kemp’s firearm. The Marlin 1895G Guide was a good choice for the sort of work she was likely to need it for—stray buffalo, hormone-crazed Angus bulls, maybe an elk, a stray cougar, or even a bear—but it made a lousy sniper rifle. It fired the slow-but-hard-hitting .45-70 Government round, making it ideal for big game in close quarters, but practically useless at 400-plus yards.

“You familiar with an AR?” he asked her.

“I paid my way through college by serving in the military,” she said. “It’s been a while, but I could still field-strip that thing down to the firing pin.”

He handed her the DPMS and took the Marlin. “Cover me. I’m going to sneak around the ridge and make my way up to the shooter. If you see anything moving that’s not me, shoot it.”

Using the terrain and flora for cover, Bolan made his way to the back of the ridge. Using a pair of compact binoculars, he scanned the area for other potential shooters but saw nothing other than a horse tethered to some brush at the base of the ridge opposite the gully where he’d left Kemp. He made his way up the ridge and found the shooter’s body slumped over an old, dry log, the back of his head blown away.

When Kemp saw Bolan standing on the ridge, she jogged over and climbed to the top. Bolan had turned the body over and retrieved a wallet from the back pocket of the jeans. The vet looked at the shooter’s face and Bolan asked, “Know him?”

“Not really. I’ve seen him in town once or twice, but he’s not from around here. He works for Ag Con.” She looked at the bloody corpse. “He worked for Ag Con,” she corrected herself.

“Agricultural Conglomerates?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah, they’re the biggest employer in the county. Hell, in this half of the state. They must have three or four hundred employees, but they don’t hire any locals.”

“You or Ms. Bowman ever do any work for them?”

“Not directly. They have their own vets on staff.”

“Ever do anything for them indirectly?” Bolan asked. Once again he sensed that she was holding out on him.

Kemp looked him up and down. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but when it comes to Ag Con, we’ve developed the habit of watching what we say around here. They’ve been known to bring in a few ‘security consultants’ of their own. Near as I can tell, you just saved my life—maybe, maybe not. How can I be one hundred percent sure I can trust you?”

Bolan looked straight into Kemp’s sparkling green eyes. “You can’t,” he replied. “How can you be one hundred percent sure about anything?”

“You can’t.”

“Sometimes you just have to believe what your gut tells you,” Bolan said.

“Is that one of your security-consultant aphorisms?”

“Yep. Aphorism number seventeen. Want to hear one through sixteen?”

“No, thanks,” she replied. “One’s enough for the time being.”

Then it was her turn to stare into the eyes of the man who’d introduced himself as “Matt Cooper.” When she looked into his icy blue eyes, she felt trust. “At least you weren’t the guy who shot my horse. That’s something, I guess.”

“If it helps, I’ll be as honest as I can about who I am and what I’m doing here,” Bolan said. “You’ve probably figured out that there’s a reason I can’t be more specific. But what I can tell you is that I intend to find out what happened to Rog and Ms. Bowman and hopefully bring them home safely. I have some training and experience in this sort of thing.

“I should also tell you that I know Rog and Bowman were investigating a possible outbreak of BSE,” Bolan continued. “Rog suspected that the prions that cause BSE had in some ways mutated, and that had him worried.”

“So why’d you need me to tell you about that?” Kemp asked.

“You’re not the only one who needs to know who can and can’t be trusted.”

“Do you already know about Ag Con, too?”

“Some. It’s Chinese-owned, but the exact nature of the corporation is a little murky.” He didn’t tell her that Stony Man Farm intelligence indicated Ag Con was controlled by retired officers of the People’s Liberation Army— PLA—and ranking members of the Central Military Commission of the Communist Party of China. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, who headed Stony Man Farm’s team of crack cybersleuths, was helping Bolan on this project. He had become friends with Roger Grevoy and wanted to find out what happened to the man. Kurtzman suspected that some of the Ag Con’s principal owners were part of a secret cabal dedicated to ending China’s drive toward a free-market economy and restoring the country’s former socialist status quo by creating chaos in China’s primary export market: the United States. This was just a suspicion on Kurtzman’s part; since he and his team hadn’t been able to find any substantial evidence about the existence of this cabal. But it was starting to look as though Bolan might have found a solid lead.

Bolan didn’t withhold this because of lack of trust in Kemp—his gut was telling him she was okay, and he tended to take his own advice. He withheld it because at this point it wasn’t solid information but rather innuendo and rumor based on vague suspicion.

“What do you know about me?” Kemp asked.

“You’re thirty-four, you have a doctorate in veterinary medicine from Purdue University, you served six years in the military, where you finished your undergraduate degree and started your doctoral program, you have far too many speeding tickets, and you are the co-owner of Grassy Butte Veterinary Clinic with Ms. Bowman.”

“Anything else?”

“You and Ms. Bowman are lovers.”

“My, you are thorough,” Kemp said. “But not completely up-to-date. We were lovers, not that it’s any of your business. These days Pam and I are just business partners again. She’s got another partner in her personal life.”

“You okay with that?”

“You mean did I kill her in a jealous rage? Who the hell are you again? Wait, I know—Matt Cooper, security consultant. I guess you got me. I busted a cap in both her and Rog’s asses because I couldn’t stand the thought of her with another chick.” She held out her hands. “You might as well cuff me and bring me in.”

Kemp was a tiny woman, maybe five-two in her stockings, tops, but she had an energy that seemed much larger, and Bolan couldn’t help but like the incendiary little brunette. He could see the gold flecks in her green irises start to glow, but she calmed down.

“Sorry if I got a little melodramatic,” she said. “I’m not used to complete strangers regaling me with the sordid details of my love life, especially while I’m standing over the dead body of another stranger who just tried to kill me.”

“About that,” Bolan said. “I suppose we have to call the sheriff. Can we trust him?”

“Jim Buck? Hell, yes, we can trust him—to a point, anyway. I know he’s not working for Ag Con, though he does have to answer to some county commissioners who do. Plus he’s as lazy as they come. He’s not going to be happy with all the paperwork this is going to create.”

“I have to say, you’re taking this dead body thing fairly well.”

Kemp looked down at the corpse. “I put down animals all the time,” she said, “and most of them have never done anything to me. This son of a bitch shot my favorite horse. Please excuse my lack of compassion.”

Watford City, North Dakota

“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” Gordon Gould said to the large man standing in his office. “I’m trying to think.” McKenzie County Sheriff Jim Buck didn’t appreciate being treated in that manner, but Gould, president of the North Dakota Cattle Raisers’ Association—and one of the most powerful men in the state—could make Jim Buck’s life a living hell.

After he’d digested the information Buck had given him, Gould said, “Tell me again what happened.”

“Apparently one of those guys Ag Con brought in from out of state went ape shit and tried to shoot Kristen Kemp and some dude named Cooper up north of Beicegel Creek Road, just east of the Little Missouri River.”

“So how come the guy from Ag Con is dead instead of that woman or her friend?”

“I guess he missed and shot Kemp’s horse,” Buck said.

“So you’re just taking her word for this?” Gould said.

“Her word and the word of Cooper, the guy who was with her.”

“Who the fuck is he?”

“I checked him out. He’s a retired Marine, lists his current occupation as ‘security consultant.’ Seems to have some pull with Justice and his record’s spotless.” As usual, Kurtzman had done an outstanding job setting up Bolan’s cover identity.

“Besides,” Buck said, “all the evidence backs up their story. The Ag Con guy fired four shots into the wooded draw where Kemp and Cooper were riding their horses. He was either poaching and thought the horses were elk, in which case he was even blinder than he was stupid, or the man was trying to kill them, which is what I’d say it looks like he was trying to do.”

“You’re going to write it up as an accident,” Gould said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Buck asked.

“I said you’re going to write it up as an accident. The man was out poaching, mistook the horses for elk and forced Cooper to return fire.”

“I’ll do no such thing. That’s pure bullshit, and you know it.”

“I also know that I have evidence that Linda’s been stealing meth from the evidence room and selling it to support her casino habit.”

“You’re full of shit.” Linda was Buck’s wife. The sheriff knew she had a gambling problem, but he couldn’t believe she’d sink that low.

“I figured you’d see it that way,” Gould said and pulled a remote control from his desk drawer. A large LCD monitor on the wall beeped and came to life. “In case you get any ideas, I burned these disks from the originals, which are now in the possession of my lawyer. Watch.”

He hit Play and a grainy image of Linda Buck appeared on the screen. The DVD was obviously taken with the security camera in the sheriff department’s evidence room. Buck watched as his wife, who happened to be the legal secretary for the county attorney, walked into the room and removed a package containing at least an ounce of meth. Gould stopped the DVD, and Buck heard the tray in the multidisk DVD player rotate. Gould hit Play again, and once more Linda appeared on screen. This time the camera appeared to be at a low angle in the cab of a pickup truck. The wide-angle lens showed Linda handing the package of meth to a fellow Buck recognized as Gould’s nephew, Jason. In return the nephew handed her a large envelope. Linda pulled a large stack of bills from the envelope and counted them. She was an attractive woman, in spite of her 1970s-era Farrah Fawcett hairdo. When she finished counting the money, Jason said something Buck couldn’t quite make out and then started to unzip his pants. Once he’d exposed himself, Linda moved toward his lap.

“Do you want to see the rest?” Gould asked.

“I’ve seen enough,” Buck said and Gould stopped the DVD.

“Isn’t that the mother of your children?” Gould asked.

Buck didn’t respond. He had his head in his hands and his shoulders shook. The sheriff was crying.

“Look,” Gould said. “I know you feel like killing me. I know you feel like killing her. But where will your kids be if their mamma’s dead and their daddy’s in prison for killing her? Don’t be mad at her. Gambling is a powerful addiction. Wouldn’t it just be easier to fill out the report the way I tell you to fill it out? Take care of this issue for me, then you get her the help she needs. I’ll even pay for it.”



WHEN BOLAN WAS four miles from Ag Con’s main complex in Trotters, North Dakota, he tethered his horse to a juniper in a deep wash where the animal wouldn’t be seen unless an aircraft flew directly over it. The satellite intel he’d received from Stony Man Farm had been sketchy—there weren’t a lot of satellites readily available to look at this remote part of the world, since it wasn’t exactly a high-priority hot spot for any of the world’s intelligence agencies—but from what he’d seen, the complex, which consisted of corrugated-steel pole buildings and an old ranch house that had been converted into office space, as well as a few barns and other outbuildings left over from the complex’s previous life as a working ranch, appeared to be patrolled by armed guards.

Bolan was armed with his rifle, which he wore from a three-point sling so he could access it while riding, as well as his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle and his silenced Beretta 93-R machine pistol. But this was a soft probe, and Bolan had no intention of shedding any blood on this excursion. Even though he didn’t buy the sheriff’s conclusion about that morning’s shooting being an accident, he had no hard evidence that the shooter had been acting on orders from his employer. The Executioner had no qualms about doling out judgment on the guilty, but he drew the line at murdering the innocent, and the Ag Con employees were innocent until he knew for certain that was not the case.

When he was within one thousand yards of the complex, he made his way to the top of the highest butte he could find. It was mid-July and most of the accessible grass had been grazed by this time of year, but not even the heartiest Badlands cattle could have made their way up the steep slopes of the butte. The grass at the top, though sparse, was tall and provided good cover. Bolan crawled through the grass to the edge of the butte nearest the compound and scanned the complex with a pair of 18-power binoculars that were the next best thing to being there. He identified four men carrying rifles patrolling the perimeter on quads. Inside the fence he counted at least four more armed patrols on the ground. An old hip-roof barn appeared to have been converted into office space or sleeping quarters; its windows had been recently replaced, and an industrial-size air-conditioning unit cooled the building. Bolan noted that there was an additional window-style air-conditioning unit mounted in the oversize cupola atop the barn. On closer examination, Bolan saw that the cupola was air-conditioned for the comfort of the armed guard posted inside. Several other armed guards were stationed around the barn itself.

The level of security was nothing short of bizarre. Most cattle operations in the area needed only the security of a big dog or perhaps some alpacas to keep coyotes and other predators away from the calves. Even though the Little Missouri National Grasslands—a chunk of land that covered more than a million acres in western North Dakota—was all open-grazing, meaning the cattle roamed on more or less free range, most ranchers kept their herds together and they knew one another’s brands and tags. The closest anyone ever got to rustling was when a stray animal accidentally ended up in someone else’s herd, and those situations were usually solved with no hard feelings. Though most people out here carried at least one firearm at all times, and often two, that had more to do with the chance of running into a rattlesnake or buffalo that had strayed from Theodore Roosevelt National Park, or a rogue Angus or Hereford, than with fear of humans.

A Bell 210 helicopter flew over the river and landed in the complex just as the sun sank below the western horizon. Except for the yellow-and-red “Ag Con” decal on its side, the 210 was painted flat black. The first helicopter had barely landed when a second came in from the north. Again, while unusual, Ag Con’s flying a couple of helicopters out here wasn’t unreasonable. The company ran twenty thousand head of cattle in a range that covered over more than sixteen hundred square miles. It would be a challenge to cover it all on ATVs and horses.

But the men wearing full battle gear inside the helicopters were a little harder to explain. Bolan had a hard time imagining a legitimate use for the grenade launchers mounted beneath their QBZ Type 97 assault rifles. Grenades weren’t the most useful tools for rounding up cattle or mending fences. The rifles themselves, modern bullpup-style weapons, with their grenade launchers poking out from under their barrels, looked as out of place in the Western landscape. Not to mention that the Type 97 had never been legally imported into the United States.

Several other men came out of the guarded barn dragging something that eliminated any doubts Bolan might have still harbored regarding the nature of the Ag Con operation—two figures, a male and a female, both with their hands and feet zip-tied together and black hoods draped over their heads. They had to be Pam Bowman and Roger Grevoy. Seeing the two captives was all the evidence Bolan needed to turn this into a shooting war.

Though he was well-armed, the Executioner could see no way to turn this soft probe hard without endangering the captives. Bolan had taken on more people than were guarding the compound and lived to tell about it, but if he started shooting now, there was no way he could take out all the enemy before they executed Bowman and Grevoy.

He watched as the prisoners were loaded onto one of the helicopters and flown from the compound. The Bell had a maximum range of 225 nautical miles, but since it hadn’t refueled, its destination was likely much less than that. The helicopter headed northeast and was soon followed by the second helicopter. There was no cell phone service this far into the Badlands, but Bolan had brought a satellite phone in case he needed some help from Stony Man. Bolan punched in Kurtzman’s secure number, but before he heard the big man’s gruff voice answer, he felt a gun barrel touch the back of his head.

“Put down the phone,” a voice behind him said.

Bolan, still in a prone position, started to put the phone down in an exaggerated slow-motion movement. Hoping that the man’s attention was on his arm, the soldier swept his leg around behind him where he estimated the man would be standing. His calf hooking around the other man’s leg told the soldier that he had guessed correctly, and the man fell to the ground. Bolan felt the barrel of the gun slide away from the back of his head at the same time he felt the man fall. The man squeezed the trigger an instant after the tip of the barrel left the back of Bolan’s scalp and he felt a hot line sear across the back of his head. The bullet didn’t hit him with enough force to cause any concussive damage, but the report from the rifle deafened the soldier—all he could hear was loud ringing.

But he didn’t have time to worry about any permanent hearing loss. He flipped upright and drew his Desert Eagle before the man hit the ground. There was no point bothering with the silenced Beretta, since the soft probe had already gone hard. Bolan aimed and fired. The big 240-grain bullet put a crater the size of a walnut in the man’s forehead and took half his skull with it on the way out.

Bolan still couldn’t hear anything but ringing, but he knew the bad guys would be coming at him in force. He rolled back over and scanned the compound. By this time the sun had gone below the horizon, so he turned on the FLIR thermal imaging sight he’d mounted on the DPMS rifle. Sure enough, all four ATV riders were headed his way, as were a number of foot patrols from inside the compound. Bolan fired a shot at the ATV rider nearest the butte, hitting him in the gap between his full-coverage helmet and the chest protector of his motocross body armor. The .260 round would easily punch through the ABS plastic of the man’s riding gear, but Bolan, who was used to fighting foes wearing antiballistic body armor rather than protective riding gear, instinctively aimed for open flesh. His shot was dead-on and a gaping wound opened in the man’s trachea. The bullet sheared the man’s spine just below the base of the skull, and he tumbled from his vehicle.

Before the man hit the ground, Bolan had already fired on the ATV rider who was next in line. He didn’t have a clear shot at the man’s neck, so he punched a round through the man’s goggles.

The two ATV riders who were behind their fallen comrades both reacted in different ways. The rider who was farther back stopped and tried to get behind his vehicle for cover, while the closer rider opened up his throttle and came bouncing toward Bolan at top speed. The soldier put a round right into the armpit of the man who was clambering off his ATV, and the guy fell from sight. Then Bolan targeted the rider coming at him on the ATV. It took two shots to stop him. Since he was so close to the butte, Bolan had to shoot almost straight down at him, taking him out with a shot through the top of his helmet.

All of this took place in a matter of seconds, but it was long enough for the shooter in the cupola atop the barn to start firing at Bolan’s position. Bullets started knocking up chunks of dirt all around the Executioner, and at least a dozen armed men had left the compound and were running toward him. Bolan scooped up the sat phone, scrambled back to the far edge of the butte and leaped over the edge, half falling, half running down the steep embankment. When he reached the bottom he ran toward his horse. He knew the terrain would be too rough for anything but foot travel or horseback, so he ran at top speed through the bottoms of the maze of washes and gullies that made up the Badlands, knowing that he could keep ahead of the Ag Con goons.

The ringing in Bolan’s ears had finally subsided. He regained his hearing just in time; voices in the brush ahead told Bolan that he also had to worry about what was in front of him as well as what was coming up behind. He could make out two distinct voices speaking with each other in the far end of the wash. He was still a good mile from his horse.

As quietly as he could, the soldier climbed to the top of the wash and took cover in a shrubby growth of juniper trees. From his vantage point he could see four armed men through his FLIR sight. A quick scan in the other direction showed Bolan that the armed men from the compound who were spread out and combing the area looking for him were closing in.

He pulled a pin from an M-67 fragmentation grenade and lobbed the bomb toward the men in the wash, then ducked behind a pile of rocks and clay. Though he was out of the kill radius of the grenade, he was still close enough to be wounded by flying shrapnel.

One of the men in the wash had time to utter, “What the…” just before the grenade detonated. Bolan also heard the sound of other guards coming down the path he’d just made through the shrubs, but before he could identify his trackers, the bomb went off. When the Executioner scanned for survivors after the blast, all he saw was the brightly colored thermal signatures of a leg and a couple of arms amid the less brightly colored signature of the bloody mist that was all that remained of the four men.

He did make out another five-man patrol heading toward the sound of the explosion. Bolan once again broke into a full-speed run through the rough terrain and made it to his horse. He didn’t take time to scan for his pursuers with the FLIR, but he hoped they were still combing the area and not making nearly as good time as he was. Bolan untied the horse and led it out of the draw as quietly as possible. After about a quarter mile he reached the trail he rode in on. He could hear his pursuers closing in by the time he mounted the horse and gave it his heels. The horse broke into a run just as a man emerged from a stand of junipers at the rim of a ridge that ran parallel to the trail. The gunner fired a full-auto burst at the fleeing soldier, but Bolan had already put enough distance between them for the shots to fall short. The horse was given its lead and it ran until Bolan was certain he’d gotten far enough away from his pursuers.




2


Chen Zhen erupted from the barn door before the report from the first shot had quit echoing off the distant buttes. He watched as the ATV-mounted patrols were mowed down as they descended on the shooter’s position on the butte to the east of the ranch. They were supposed to be good—they’d chosen Build & Berg Associates because of their reputation as the best private military contractor available—but so far they hadn’t impressed Chen as especially competent.

At least he had his own men upon which he could depend, troops handpicked from among the very best the People’s Liberation Army had to offer, and Yao Rui, the sharpshooter manning the cupola, had been one of the PLA’s finest snipers. Before Chen could make out the exact location of the shots coming from the butte, he heard Yao’s Barrett M-98 unleash several rounds. The booming of the powerful .338 Lapua Magnum rounds rang through the Badlands like the sonic boom from a jet fighter, but Chen couldn’t see any sign that they’d hit their target.

Chen grabbed the radio clipped to his belt, pressed the talk button and heard the voice of Colonel Liang Wu, his associate who oversaw the PLA contingent and acted as his liaison with B&B Associates. Chen’s English was rudimentary at best, while Liang was fluent in not only English, but also Russian and French, as well as several of the other languages spoken by the eclectic collection of mercenaries that comprised the B&B contingent.

“Find out what’s happening,” Chen ordered, “and report back to me the instant you have information.”

Chen had no idea who was trespassing on Ag Con property, but at least he knew who it wasn’t. Chen knew Ag Con had nothing to fear from the authorities. Gordon Gould had assured him that he would take care of officials from the local law-enforcement agency, which consisted of that fat buffoon Jim Buck and his simpleminded deputies. Likewise Governor Chauvin had given his assurance that Ag Con could count on nothing but the utmost support from the state highway-patrol department. Ag Con was the state’s largest employer and had single-handedly kept North Dakota’s economy growing throughout the United States’ most recent economic turmoil.

Chauvin, who had his sights set on a seat in the U.S. Senate, was not about to let anything like a criminal investigation get in the way of commerce or his political future. Ag Con supplied the butter that Chauvin put upon his bread. Chen knew that wasn’t the exact translation for the American idiomatic expression, but he knew it was close. Chauvin aspired to a higher office, and for that to happen, he needed the campaign funding that Ag Con provided. That’s how things worked in a so-called democracy, Chen thought. In his opinion the word seemed to be code for a system of political prostitution, in which an oligarchy of corporate pimps like Ag Con ran a stable of political whores like Chauvin. To keep this illusion of democracy alive, the political whores spouted rhetoric designed to appease one political faction or another. They seemed to focus on emotionally charged but ultimately meaningless issues to keep their constituency distracted from the real matter at hand, which appeared to be financially raping the population.

Chen had spent much time with Governor Chauvin, and he wasn’t convinced the governor would have spurned Ag Con’s financial resources even if he had known the corporation’s real motive, which was nothing less than the complete destabilization of the U.S. economy. Chauvin most likely would win his seat in the U.S. Senate, but by the time that occurred, the Senate would not have a stable civilization to govern. Chen wasn’t sure that Chauvin possessed the intellectual tools to comprehend Ag Con’s plans even if he knew of them. If their plans were successful—when, not if, Chen reminded himself—the United States would devolve into societal chaos that would make countries like Somalia and Haiti seem stable.

Regardless of whether or not he had the intelligence to comprehend such possibilities, Chauvin had effectively removed the state police from the equation. That left the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, which answered not to Chauvin but to North Dakota’s attorney general, Jack Pullman. They were even less a threat than the highway patrol because Gould had video footage of Pullman having sex with a prostitute. When confronted with evidence of his illicit activity, Pullman had been willing to make any compromise in order to keep his secret safe.

When it came to doing business in North Dakota, Ag Con was above the law, meaning that the intruder killing his men from atop the butte was something other than official. Most likely it had something to do with the abduction of the extension agent and the veterinarian.

Chen watched Liang and a small patrol of his men race away from the compound on foot. This new development worried him. He hadn’t expected to encounter any resistance this early in the process, but he had complete faith in Liang and his ability to neutralize the resistance.



LIANG AND HIS MEN raced around the butte and caught a glimpse of a dark figure disappearing into the sagebrush. He signaled for his men to stop and listen to the fleeing figure. Liang could hear the sound of the man cutting through the sagebrush, but he was remarkably quiet. He had no idea who he and his men were up against, but he was certain of one thing—the man was a professional.

But so were Liang and his troops, and once he’d identified the direction in which his prey was headed, they broke into a full run and pursued him. They moved through the brush almost as stealthily as the big man they tracked. Almost, but not quite.

Liang sensed they were getting close, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt they were on the right track when he heard the grenade go off. The terrain made progress difficult, but when they heard the explosion, Liang and his men moved even faster, until they came into a clearing awash in blood and dismembered body parts. Equine carnage mixed with the human gore; the Build & Berg mercenaries had ridden to the site on horseback, and two of the four horses had been killed in the explosion. A third had been severely wounded by shrapnel and would soon expire, but the fourth appeared relatively unharmed, perhaps because it had been shielded from the blast by the other horses.

Liang heard movement on the ridge above the massacre site. “After him!” he ordered his men. The men took off after the intruder in an instant, exhibiting the discipline that Liang had spent years instilling in them. Meanwhile, he untied and mounted the surviving horse.

Liang felt at home atop the horse. Mongol blood coursed through his veins, a shameful family secret that he’d managed to keep from his superiors, but at the same time a source of inner pride. Liang always felt that his secret Mongol heritage made him the fierce warrior he was. He’d definitely inherited his ability to ride a horse from his Mongolian ancestors.

Liang crouched low on the horse to avoid being swept from the saddle by the juniper branches and rode through the bottom of the gully toward the sound of the reports issuing from his troops’ rifles. He couldn’t hear any return fire and hoped that meant that their bullets had found their intended target. He burst out of the gully just as the horseback-mounted figure disappeared into the fading twilight. It appeared as though the man had not been wounded in the exchange of fire.

Liang estimated the distance between himself and the fleeing figure. Setting his selector to single-round fire, he sighted in on the man, then raised his sights to account for what he’d heard the American Southerners refer to as “Kentucky windage.” He carefully squeezed off a shot. By the time he brought his rifle down and peered at the fleeing figure through the light-amplifying scope he’d mounted atop it, the target was slumped over in his saddle.

There was no time to congratulate himself on his lucky shot. Liang gave the horse his heels and charged toward the fleeing figure. All things being equal, he thought he should be able to catch the man. Both the intruder and he were mounted on quarter horses with similar musculature, but the big man he chased had to weigh at least 200 pounds, while Liang weighed a mere 125 pounds. Simple physics dictated that his horse should be faster given its lighter load, and indeed, Liang swiftly closed in on his prey, though not as quickly as he’d estimated.

Liang decided that the problem was his horse, which, like almost every human he’d encountered in the United States, seemed to be fat and lazy. Liang wished he’d had his own horse, a beautiful athletic Arabian that he’d purchased from a local horse rancher, instead of this oversize nag. The Arabian was too slight to comfortably carry most of the men working for B&B, but for a man of Liang’s diminutive stature the horse was spot-on perfect.

Liang rode the chubby quarter horse at full gallop for nearly three miles before he started to get close enough to try another shot. He could tell that his horse was fading. Quarter horses were sprinters, not bred for stamina, and Liang knew if he kept up the pace for too long he’d kill his ride home. But if that was the case, he knew the quarter horse his opponent rode had to be at least as tired, and probably more so, given his additional burden.

Liang’s quarry didn’t appear to be doing much better than the horses they both rode. The lucky shot appeared to have done enough damage to inhibit the man’s riding ability, but it didn’t appear to be a kill shot. He had hoped to get closer for a better shot, but judging from his horse’s condition he probably couldn’t continue much longer. Liang stopped his horse to take a final shot, but before he had his rifle to his shoulder the big man had whirled his horse and fired off a shot of his own. The shot missed Liang, but it struck his horse in the neck. The animal fell to the ground, throwing Liang into some thorny sagebrush. By the time he’d extricated himself and gathered his weapon and the other gear he’d lost when he fell from the horse, the animal was dead and his opponent had disappeared.



HAD BOLAN BEEN prone to self-pity, he would have cursed the bad luck that had allowed his pursuer’s wild shot to find its mark, which happened to be his left shoulder, but Bolan was a professional and he knew that this was all part of the game. He also knew that he could be thankful for his good luck, because the bullet had passed through muscle tissue without finding an artery or bone. But the soldier didn’t expend a lot of energy thinking about luck, good or bad. Instead, he put his energy into making his own luck.

This time he’d need some help to make his luck good. Even though the bullet hadn’t done any permanent damage, he was still bleeding profusely. He could feel himself getting weaker by the mile, but he continued at as fast a pace as he dared without killing his horse, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Ag Con ranch. Once he was certain he’d shaken his pursuers, he dialed the number on the business card he’d been given the previous afternoon. He’d burned the card, but not before he’d memorized the number.

Kristen Kemp sounded glad to hear from him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’ve been better,” he said. He hated to bring a civilian into this mess, but Kemp was already involved, and judging from what he’d seen of Ag Con, she would probably be safer with him than by herself. Besides, he needed to have a bullet removed from his shoulder and have the wound sewn up, and Kemp had the skills to do the job. He didn’t dare go to the local hospital for medical attention because Ag Con would most likely be watching for him there. And even if they weren’t, the hospital would have to report his wound to the sheriff, which was as good as reporting his presence to Ag Con.

Bolan already knew that Ag Con somehow had its hooks into the sheriff, which was the only possible explanation for the bogus incident report the sheriff filed after the Ag Con sniper had tried to kill him and Kemp the previous afternoon. The Executioner hadn’t seen the report himself, but Kurtzman had obtained a copy of it the moment Buck entered it into the North Dakota State Bureau of Criminal Investigation computer system. The sheriff was dirty. How dirty, Bolan didn’t know, but he did know the man couldn’t be trusted.

“I’ve been shot,” Bolan told Kemp.

“My God!” Kemp exclaimed. “Is it serious?”

“It’s not good,” he told her. “It could get serious in a hurry if I don’t do something about it soon.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m about a half-hour ride from where we parked the horse trailer yesterday. How soon can you be there?”

“It’s about a forty-five-minute drive,” she said. “I can be there in half an hour.”

“Watch your back,” Bolan warned. He tried to sound strong to keep from spooking Kemp, but after he put his phone away he realized he’d lost more blood than he’d thought. It took all the concentration he had to remain in the saddle and control his horse as it trotted through the rugged terrain. He checked his watch, more to give him something to focus on than to see the time, an attempt to keep from passing out.

Bolan used the last of his strength to negotiate the switchback trail that led down to the parking area where he was supposed to meet Kemp, feeling consciousness slipping away. The soldier summoned all the inner strength he could muster to dismount his horse and remove the saddle and bridle. The fewer clues he left for his pursuers, the better. When he was done, he gave the horse a weak slap on the rump and sent it scampering into the Badlands. The last thing he saw before he passed out on top of the saddle was a pair of headlights coming into the parking lot. He hoped to hell they belonged to Kemp’s pickup.



“DID YOU STOP HIM?” Chen asked Liang over the radio.

“No, sir,” Liang replied. “I wounded him, but he was able to kill the horse I was riding before I could get another shot at him. I am sorry, sir.”

Chen knew that the colonel would stop at nothing in pursuit of prey—the man seemed to have no fear, even of death. If this intruder was able to make Liang break off the chase, especially after being wounded, then Chen knew they were up against a seasoned professional.

“Were you wounded?” he asked Liang.

“No, sir. My horse stopped the one bullet the man fired before he got away.”

“Did you get a look at the man?”

“Not a good look, sir, but I believe it was the man who was with the veterinarian yesterday.”

This news concerned Chen. Gordon Gould had sent him the information that the sheriff had collected on this man, Matt Cooper, and everything he’d seen worried him. There was nothing in the report that indicated that Cooper would present any problems, which in itself was the problem. The man was simply too clean. No messy divorces—no marriages for that matter—no disciplinary problems in the military, but also nothing outstanding. No criminal background, not even a parking ticket.

Everything pointed to a professional cleansing of this man’s entire history. Such a thorough cleansing would require cooperation at the highest levels of government. It would also require resources far beyond the reach of any “security consultant,” whatever that was. Clearly this Cooper was well-connected, meaning he either worked for some governmental agency, or at the very least worked with one.

But which one? Not the CIA—of that Chen could be certain. Chen and his comrades were leaving nothing to chance; they were betting everything on the success of their plan. They had a man inside the CIA, and if the Agency had a resource on the ground in North Dakota, Chen would have known about it. Likewise Chen had eyes and ears inside the FBI and there was no activity from that quarter. The NSA was a tougher nut to crack, but as far as Chen knew, its operations began and ended with gathering information. The capacity to convert that information to genuine action seemed beyond them. And as far as Chen was concerned the Department of Homeland Security was pathetic beyond being even a joke, a bloated bureaucracy that was nothing more than a halfway house for utter incompetents owed political favors.

That eliminated every known source of this intrusion on their operations, but wasn’t terribly helpful in deducing who actually did employ Cooper. Other than the obviously doctored background report that the sheriff had pulled, Chen knew only one thing about the large man—he was extremely dangerous. The man needed to be stopped.

“How far do you estimate Cooper has traveled since you last saw him?” Chen asked.

“Possibly two miles, no more than three.”

Chen pondered his options. The helicopters were at the northeast unit of the ranch nearly one hundred miles away and could not be called back in time to help with the chase, and the terrain was too rough to use vehicles, even ATVs. The only way to pursue this intruder was on horseback. Chen needed to act fast if he was to have any chance of capturing Cooper.

“I’m sending out a patrol on horseback,” he stated. “One of them will have your Arabian. I want you to meet up with them and get back on the trail of the intruder. Give me your GPS coordinates.”



BOLAN WOKE UP to find himself lying on an operating table, but he wasn’t in a hospital. A pair of bright green eyes peered at him from over a hospital face mask. Kristen Kemp sewed the last stitches into his shoulder. He watched her finish and then remove a needle from his left arm. She placed a cotton ball over the hole left by the needle and taped it down.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she told him. “By all rights you should still be sleeping.”

“Are we in your clinic?” he asked. He looked around at the Spartan operation. He appeared to be in an operating room, lying on a stainless-steel table. Through an open door he saw a plain lobby bereft of plants, wall hangings, or other items that might provide comfort to a worried pet owner. This place was all business, like the people of the region themselves. It really was a large-animal clinic, a glorified metal barn designed to keep people’s business tools—their horses and cattle—healthy. There didn’t appear to be a lot of resources devoted to pampering pet owners.

“Why do you ask? You have a problem being treated by a veterinarian? Are you afraid I might get confused and neuter you?”

“In my line of work I consider having a bullet removed by a veterinarian luxury treatment,” he said. “It beats doing it myself.”

“That must be some line of work you have. I don’t think I’m going to sign up for security-consulting duty any time soon.”

Bolan sat up and tried to collect his thoughts. “How long was I out?” he asked.

“About an hour.”

Bolan tried to focus on the logistics of what had just happened. By this point his pursuers may or may not have found his horse. “Did you bring my horse tack?” he asked.

“I figured it must have been important for you to take the time to remove it in your condition, so, yes, I made sure I grabbed it. You must be awfully fond of that saddle.”

Bolan remained silent, contemplating the likelihood that they’d been followed. If the Ag Con men found his horse, they wouldn’t be able to positively identify it as his, and without leaving the tack behind, they wouldn’t have a starting point from which to begin their search. On the other hand, they knew that Bolan was somehow connected to Kemp, so they’d almost certainly come after her, meaning that they weren’t safe here.

Kemp put her hands on Bolan’s bare shoulders and tried to get him to lie back down. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she repeated. “You should rest.”

“We’re not safe here,” Bolan said.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said as she covered his wound with a sterile bandage. “Grassy Butte has 250 people, and I know every last one of them personally. No one’s going to harm us here.”

“Have you ever been shot at before yesterday?” he asked.

“No.”

“Whatever you thought you knew about this place changed the moment that happened,” he told her. “Grassy Butte suddenly became a whole lot less hospitable. Those 250 people you think you know? You can’t trust any of them, not for the time being. Something big is going on here. I don’t know what it is, but I do know that it’s damned dangerous.”

“Are you serious?” she asked. As Kemp leaned forward to apply another adhesive strip to his bandages, Bolan saw a shadow of a man holding what could only be a gun outlined in the window behind her. He reached out to grab the woman and flipped her over him. Before she landed on the hard-tiled floor, automatic gunfire tore through the corrugated steel that comprised the walls of the clinic. Bolan hurled himself down on top of her.

The bullets ripped through the metal walls, its insulation and inner plasterboard like they were paper, but the rounds didn’t have enough energy to penetrate the stainless-steel operating table behind which Bolan and Kemp hunkered.

“Where are my weapons?” Bolan asked.

“I’m lying on them,” Kemp replied. She rolled away to reveal most of Bolan’s equipment—his handguns, extra magazines, binoculars and sat phone—along with an extremely bloody shirt with a large hole in the left shoulder.

Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle from its holster and chanced a peek around the edge of the operating table. He could see a streetlight, which was what cast the shadow that had alerted him to the shooter—likely just one of many, judging from the amount of lead flying through the clinic. From the angle of the light he estimated the location of the shooter, whose shadow he could still see in the window glass. He calculated where the man would be standing to cast a shadow at that angle, aimed and fired, punching several holes through the wall in that direction. The hot loads that John “Cowboy” Kissinger had loaded up for him back at Stony Man rammed through the wall at a tick over 1,500 feet per second and found their mark. Bolan watched the shadow in the window drop to the ground, but the rounds kept pouring into the building.

“Is there another way out of here?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah, we can get out the back.”

“That means they can get in the same way,” Bolan said, “but I don’t see many other options here.” The door to the back was directly behind the operating table. Bolan noted that the shots were only coming at them from the front of the building. “I wonder why they aren’t shooting at us from the back.”

“They might be, but they’d have to penetrate about twenty feet of hay bales to reach us. We’ve got hay stored on that side of the building.”

“Have you got any roof vents?”

“Of course,” Kemp said. “We have to comply with building codes.”

“Are they turbine vents?”

“No, only every other one is a turbine,” Kemp said.

“That means we can get out through the others,” Bolan said. “Follow me.”

While they’d been discussing the building’s specifics, Bolan had slipped into the shoulder rig that held his Beretta 93-R and extra magazines. He didn’t bother with the destroyed, bloody shirt. He put the reloaded .44 Magnum handgun back in its holster, which he’d clipped onto his belt, and led the way into the back room with the Beretta.

Scoping out the rear room, which was really just a large barn, complete with pens occupied by various cows, sheep and horses, all of which were extremely distressed due to the gunfire, Bolan saw that the back door was still closed. “I wonder why they haven’t come through the back door?” he asked.

“Probably because of Earl,” Kemp said.

“Earl?”

“He’s an especially foul-tempered Angus bull that we use for sperm,” Kemp replied. “I think they’re going to need something with a little more kick than a .223 to get past Earl.”

Kemp and Bolan made their way to the stack of hay bales along the far wall. They scrambled to the top, then climbed into the metal rafters holding up the roof. The soldier punched out the first roof vent he found and they both climbed onto the roof, Bolan’s feet clearing the vent milliseconds before the shooters burst through the front door.

Bolan looked over the peak of the roof and saw an SUV parked on the street a few feet away from the driveway that led into the clinic’s parking lot. The vehicle appeared empty except for the driver, but it was hard to be certain because of the darkly tinted windows. He saw that the men in front of the building had entered through the front door, probably expecting to find perforated bodies. But the only person in the front of the building was the man Bolan had shot, and he wasn’t moving. Two men stood guard at the rear of the building, just outside Earl’s pen, waiting to see if anyone came out the back.

The drop to the ground was too far to risk jumping. A sprained or broken ankle would be a death sentence for both of them, but Bolan saw an option—a large manger filled with alfalfa for Earl to munch on. But first the soldier had to deal with the sentries, and he had to do it fast, because judging from the commotion in the building, the shooters had discovered that they hadn’t succeeded in killing him and Kemp. Bolan aimed the sound-suppressed Beretta at the farthest sentry and drilled a round right between his eyes. The man’s buddy saw him fall and looked up for the source of the coughing sound made by the Beretta, but before he could raise his own gun, Bolan put a second round through the top of his head, dropping him like a stone. Then the Executioner stood up and fired three quick rounds through the SUV’s open driver’s window. It was dark inside the SUV cab, but Bolan saw the outline of spray issuing from the driver’s head as the man slumped forward, setting off the SUV’s horn.

“Now what?” Kemp asked.

“Now we jump.” Bolan grabbed the woman around the waist and jumped down into Earl’s manger. The falling bodies startled the bull and he lunged away. Before he comprehended the fact that he had visitors, both Bolan and Kemp were running for the corral. Earl gathered his wits and charged the pair, but they managed to grab the rail of the corral and hurl themselves out of the pen just before the bull crashed into its metal bars. That made Earl angrier, and he was about to charge the fence again when the back door opened and two gunmen came blundering into his pen. The gigantic black bull whirled and before the first man out knew what was happening, Earl ran him down and pummeled his body into the hay and manure. The man’s partner froze, giving the bull an opening, which he put to good use, ramming the sentry against the steel building, snapping his spine.

Kemp and Bolan missed out on all the Earl-generated carnage because they’d jumped in a Yamaha Rhino ATV that Kemp and Bowman used for doing chores around the clinic property. The Rhino was a side-by-side ATV, meaning that rather than sitting astride it the occupants rode in bucket seats inside a Jeep-like cab. They’d already cleared the property and were heading into the Badlands by the time Earl had pulverized his second victim.

Bolan let Kemp drive the ATV. He had plenty of experience driving every type of off-road vehicle, but the vetknew how to operate this particular one and she knew the terrain.

“Where are we going?” he asked over the roar of the engine, which Kemp was running at full throttle.

“I know a safe place,” she replied.




3


Killdeer Mountains, North Dakota

Chen’s driver pulled off the highway and headed for the Ag Con facility on Gap Road. This facility operated on a much smaller scale than their main complex. It was really more of a family ranch than a large-scale cattle operation. Chen and his associates had selected it because of its isolation and inaccessibility—it was located so far back in the Badlands that they could land helicopters without alerting neighbors. It didn’t afford much room for their research and development operations, but it was the perfect place to store a couple of prisoners.

Not that their presence hadn’t raised suspicion among the locals. Chen and the other Chinese nationals working for Ag Con stuck out like the proverbial raisins in the oatmeal. That’s why Ag Con relied on the mercenaries from Build & Berg Associates—they at least looked like the locals, and in fact even sounded like them. Many of the B&B mercs came from Eastern Europe, and western North Dakota had been settled by Ukrainians, Germans, Russians, Poles and Hungarians; Eastern European accents were still commonplace.

The locals were self-sufficient, and they valued their freedom. They didn’t want to be bothered, and by the same token, they didn’t bother anyone else. The locals didn’t like confrontation and they kept to themselves. It was the perfect social climate for Ag Con’s plans.

When Liang’s troops lost the intruder’s trail, Liang guessed that the man might try to contact the veterinarian. Since Cooper was wounded, Liang predicted he’d need medical attention, and where better to get that than in a clinic—even an animal clinic. He’d sent a six-man team to ambush the pair, but had lost contact with the men soon after they’d identified Cooper and Kemp inside the clinic. That could only mean that the ambush had failed. So he sent a second team to cleanse the scene of all evidence of Ag Con involvement.

The clinic was two miles north of town. Gunfire was a fairly normal occurrence in the area—target shooting was one of the few recreational activities the region offered—but a fusillade of automatic rifle fire at three o’clock in the morning would raise some eyebrows, even among the stoic locals. So after he’d sent the cleanup crew to the clinic, Chen called Gordon Gould and had him order Sheriff Buck to the scene. Buck was to report the shooting as an act of vandalism, but he was to report that there had not been any injuries. Chen wasn’t as confident in Gould’s ability to control the sheriff as was Gould himself. Forcing Buck to help dispose of bodies would certainly put Gould’s claim of subservience on the sheriff’s part to the test.

Chen was on his way to interrogate Pam Bowman, the second half of the pair of veterinarians. He needed to find Kemp and Cooper, and he needed to find them quickly. He hadn’t harmed his prisoners thus far simply because there had been no reason to do so, but on this visit he brought along a special toolkit. A civilized and fastidious man, Chen didn’t look forward to the unhygienic act of torturing a woman, but expediency required him to do whatever was necessary to gain the information he needed.

Chen’s driver turned off the road and stopped the vehicle. One of the two PLA regulars Chen had brought to assist him got out of the car, opened the gate and closed it again after the SUV had passed through the entrance. Chen would have preferred to install a modern electronic gate, but that would have attracted unwanted attention. Most people in the area used either a cattle grate dug into the road or else they used a primitive type of homemade gate. Though the gate may have been rustic, there was nothing antiquated about the electronic surveillance equipment that was hidden around the entire perimeter of the property. The main complex was too vast and sprawling to effectively monitor the perimeter using electronic methods, but that was not the case with the smaller ranch they’d purchased in the Killdeer Mountains. This facility was much more secure than the other operation.

They drove down the winding, seven-mile driveway that wound around the base of a massive butte and down into a deep ravine. The ravine opened up into a small triangular meadow surrounded on two sides by steep cliffs, and bordered on the third by a small creek. He couldn’t see them, but he knew Liang’s sharpshooters had every possible entrance and exit covered at all times.

His driver punched a button on a box clipped to his sun visor and an overhead door built into the side of an old barn rose open. When the driver had parked the SUV inside the barn, Chen got out and opened a creaky wooden door that apparently led into a storage area beneath the stairway that led up to the haymow. But instead of a storage area, he stepped into a metal lift that would take him down to the basement they had excavated deep beneath the barn. The basement contained the laboratory where much of Ag Con’s real work took place. It was also where they held the veterinarian and the extension agent.

Chen opened the cell door and woke the occupants, who both appeared to have been asleep on the cots that Chen’s men had provided. “I apologize for waking you,” he said, “but I need some information from Ms. Bowman.”

Grevoy started to rise from his cot, but Liang’s soldiers restrained him. “Please secure Mr. Grevoy,” Chen ordered. Liang’s soldiers produced plastic zip ties and bound Grevoy’s hands behind his back with brutal efficiency, then secured his feet to steel rings embedded in the concrete floor. The men then grabbed Pam Bowman and lifted her to her feet.

“Ms. Bowman, let me be perfectly clear. I need some information, and you will provide me with it. You will most likely resist, and I will be forced to extract it from you in a most uncivilized manner.” Chen put on a lab coat, placed a mask over his face and put on a pair of latex gloves. One of Liang’s soldiers handed a tool roll to Chen, who spread it out on the table and picked up what looked like a stainless-steel dental cleaning tool. “I assure you that I would prefer not to go to such lengths,” Chen said from behind his mask, “but make no mistake, I will go to any length if you force my hand. Now please tell me, if Ms. Kemp had fled your clinic and was seeking sanctuary, where would she go?”

“I have no idea where she’d go,” Bowman said.

“Of course, we both know you have some idea,” Chen said. “And of course you won’t betray her unless you are forced to do so. So you are going to make me work to ex tract that information.” He pulled out a pair of needle-nose pliers from the toolkit, along with a medical scalpel. “Since this might take a while, we might as well get started.”





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