Книга - Chain Reaction

Chain Reaction
Don Pendleton


Elite 8th Wing pilot Celene Jur was taken captive after a mysterious device temporarily disabled her ship's controls. Three solar months later, when Celene receives intel on the man who built the device, she's ready to get the bastard.Only problem is, the higher-ups think her mission partner should be Nils Calder, a tech-head who can understand the disabling device. The attraction between them is electric, but Celene needs a soldier who can watch her back as she exacts her revenge.Nils knows his department is nicknamed NerdWorks. Pilots like Celene think the closest tech geeks come to combat is all-night Nifalian chess tournaments. But behind the NerdWorks insignia on his sleeve Nils is an able fighter, ready to prove himself and gain Celene's trust.The desire between them is unexpected, but with the fate of thousands hanging in the balance, the hotshot pilot and the tech genius must succeed in their mission–no matter the cost.43,000 words







FINAL PAYBACK

When a Stony Man Farm nemesis is suspected in the death of two FBI agents, Mack Bolan gets called into action. The last time Bolan crossed paths with the shadowy criminal organization, he’d annihilated their operations in North Korea. Now the group has brokered a deal that would send weapons-grade uranium to Iran in exchange for a cache of stolen diamonds.

An FBI task force has been working the case for months, but it appears their team is compromised. They need a free agent, someone on the outside who can find the leak and complete the mission. Joining forces with a field operative, Bolan sets off on a shattering cross-continental firefight. Bolan has no choice: he must destroy the criminal conspiracy behind the threat. Once and for all.


Bolan left the cockpit and moved quickly along the cargo area.

Mitchell was pressed against the side of the fuselage. As Bolan reached her, he felt the plane sideslip. The nose began to drop, the aircraft starting to veer off course. They needed to get out fast.

“Now,” he snapped and saw Mitchell’s eyes shining bright. Fear. Her face was white, drained of blood.

She reached out and slid her hands through the straps across his chest, gripping tightly. Bolan grabbed the door release handle and activated it.

As the slipstream caught the edge of the door it was dragged free, swinging back against the exterior fuselage. Bolan felt the powerful drag of air tearing at them. He didn’t fight it, simply let his body fall free.

The slipstream caught them and they were flung away from the plane, bodies helpless as they fell, turning over and over. Bolan heard Mitchell’s scream of pure terror. He concentrated on clearing the aircraft as it wheeled over, free from any control, and then he sensed its bulk swinging overhead….


Chain Reaction






Don Pendleton







When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers.

—Proverbs 21:15

I do what I do not for personal gain, but for true justice. My war is against those who turn their back against civilized society for their own ends.

—Mack Bolan


Contents

Cover (#uff681368-c52f-5e56-909b-0c334efd8683)

Back Cover Text (#u78f3461c-0615-58cd-bf83-8782189b82a9)

Introduction (#u19be7780-2161-5bcf-b254-90798177913f)

Title Page (#u5a0071c0-52a2-55c4-8aac-bac3ed879c50)

Quotes (#ud8c5c195-9f20-5d96-9831-1054ada8e600)

PROLOGUE (#u35a65ab5-870e-5204-91d8-313bc55dd227)

CHAPTER ONE (#ub219a996-3816-5b2b-b8e3-aee80b8ad82d)

CHAPTER TWO (#u7aff9db6-17a7-57ba-acfc-783ff9d73d97)

CHAPTER THREE (#u698c2903-e891-5f0b-b5c1-58898663ea72)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u69a88c75-c651-50cb-9f7a-198a317725ed)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ua10cb6f3-e7e9-51b7-abf8-903c1d91b750)

CHAPTER SIX (#ub100183d-304f-51f9-b5f5-09e9f6e18b27)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u88ff3440-9331-50f2-ba6c-b47720b0ec02)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#u635b048d-ada6-572a-8951-3c7c706a0818)

CHAPTER NINE (#u6975ef95-424f-5dfc-989d-18ced94ef971)

CHAPTER TEN (#u946ff220-7ada-55cc-ae5a-cbf79420bc3f)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FORTY (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#ulink_4dd53af4-d6b8-5650-b3dc-cfedb5f5e11f)

The big Desert Eagle boomed as the black-clad woman fired twice. Her shots forced Mack Bolan to duck, giving her a few seconds to make a grab for the bag on the table. She caught hold of it in her left hand, pulling it with her as she fired again at Bolan before making a direct run for the window.

The Executioner pushed upright, bringing his submachine gun into target acquisition.

The woman had covered her face with her right arm as she hit the glass. It shattered as she burst through it, long legs powering her forward.

Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger. The P-90 fired its remaining rounds before it locked on empty.

The dark-clad figure twisted to one side as a single slug clipped her left arm. Her grip on the bag slackened and it fell free, hitting the frame of the window and dropping back inside the room.

Then she was gone, in a shower of glass fragments and splintered window frame, landing outside. It seemed she was about to fall but with a supreme effort she righted herself and vanished from sight.

By the time Bolan reached the window she was almost out of sight, dodging between the parked cars. Bolan had other priorities. If he hadn’t, he would have pursued her to find out who she was and the nature of her involvement with the criminal group he knew only as Hegre.


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5326c4fe-bc36-5a8c-ab51-357c6aa4af91)

Jack “Boomer” Rafferty, six foot three and powerfully built, released a string of colorful curses as he worked the wheel of the massive diesel truck and swung it off Route N87. Dust boiled out from beneath the huge tires of the Kenworth “road train” truck as Rafferty took the rig along the soft shoulder, red dust clouding in its wake. Air brakes hissed as the assembly came to a halt. Rafferty pulled on the handbrake and sat back, still cursing to himself. He cracked open the door and hauled his bulk off the seat and out of the cab. As he hit the ground, he felt the blast of superheated air wrap around him. The forty-five-year-old Australian native, his exposed skin burned brown by constant exposure to the sun, still found the extremes of Australian weather challenging. Right now he was also frustrated by the double-blowout in a pair of his rig’s rear tires. He expressed his anger by kicking out at the offending wheels. Both tires on the right-hand set at the rear of his rig were flat, the side walls shredded. Rafferty had never seen the like of this damage before; blowouts were not unheard of, but the extent of the damage to the rubber gave him the impression that someone had deliberately tampered with the tires.

“What the hell, Boomer?”

Rafferty saw the face of his co-driver and partner peering at him from the cab window. Lou Douglas, a leaner, balding version of Rafferty, had a sour expression on his bearded face. He had been taking his turn in the sleeper unit behind the cab. Disturbed by the lack of motion, he had woken and was ready to challenge why the vehicle had stopped.

“Problem, mate,” Rafferty said. “Couple of flats and they don’t look right to me.”

Mumbling to himself, Douglas worked his way forward, then out of the cab. He followed Rafferty’s pointing finger, leaning over to peer at the shredded tires. He moved from one to the other, fingering the shredded rubber. When he turned from his inspection, his weathered face was creased by a disbelieving scowl.

“Those aren’t regular bursts,” he said. “Christ, Boomer, those tires have been shot to ribbons. And I don’t think by accident.”

Rafferty didn’t appear to be listening any longer. He had turned away and was staring skyward. His attention had been taken by the silver-and-blue helicopter swooping in low and landing on the road a couple of hundred yards behind the stalled rig. Red dust spiraled up from the rotor wash, briefly obscuring the helicopter and the men who had climbed out to move quickly in the direction of the rig and its operators.

Four men.

All armed.

They moved to confront Rafferty and Douglas.

Three of the newcomers were holding MP-5 submachine guns. The fourth carried a large, long barreled rifle with a telescopic sight unit attached. A powerful sniping rifle.

The explanation as to how the tires had been shot out, Rafferty realized.

“You’ve got be joking,” Douglas said, his face flushed with anger. “A heist?”

One of the armed men laughed. “Never thought of it like that. Now just take it easy, boys, and we’ll be done in a minute.” He looked toward two of his crew. “Go fetch it. Then we can be out of here.”

Rafferty raged on the inside, but he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do. Not with those autoweapons pointed at him and Douglas. He’d served his time in the Australian Army and he knew the sort of damage the weapons could do; he wasn’t about to risk his life for the cargo he was hauling. He wondered what these men were looking for.

He watched the two walk the length of the train, counting off the container boxes until they reached the one they were looking for. A minute or two later he heard a soft crack of sound and spotted a plume of smoke at the rear of the container. He figured the sealed and secured doors had been breached.

The leader of the hijackers smiled at Rafferty’s expression.

“Working it out, smart boy? I like a man who thinks on his feet.”

“What I can’t figure is what you want. That container is full of dry goods for stores in Alice. Nothing else.”

Rafferty was referring to the town of Alice Springs. Set in the geographic center of Australia, in the Northern Territory, and known as The Alice, it lay around three hours’ drive from their present position and had been the truckers destination for this section of the journey.

“Maybe I collect dry goods,” the man said.

“Don’t bullshit me, mate,” Douglas snapped. “You figure we just fell off the turnip truck?”

“Lou,” Rafferty said. “Just leave it.”

“Do what your mate says.”

Douglas stepped forward, brushing off his partner’s warning hand.

“I’m not listening to this bastard,” he yelled.

Douglas was known for his explosive temper and lack of caution under pressure. It had gotten him into trouble on a number of occasions.

This time it got him more.

“No,” Rafferty yelled, realizing what was about to happen.

Douglas had taken only a few steps, raising his fists, when the MP-5 crackled. The burst was short, sending a volley of steel-jacketed 9 mm slugs into Douglas’s torso. The force of the burst stopped him in his tracks as the bullets cored into his lean body, shattering ribs and tearing through his heart and lungs. Douglas took a step back, eyes suddenly wide with shock. He lost coordination and dropped to the ground, clutching at his punctured chest. He squirmed in short movements before his body shut down. Blood trickled from his slack mouth.

“People never learn,” the shooter said.

Rafferty was frozen, staring between his dead partner and the man who had just murdered him.

The two men who had opened the container appeared, hauling a battered metal box between them. It looked like a well-used tool box. They placed it on the ground.

“That was all we wanted,” the shooter said. “Nothing else.”

“What?”

The shooter grinned. “Bloody hell. You had no idea.” He kicked at the box. “Diamonds. Contraband from the mines up north. You’ve been hauling millions in uncut stones. Put on board your train to be picked up by us. We snatch the box and fly away. By the time the cops show up there’s nothing to find.”

Rafferty felt a chill invade his body. There would be nothing for the police to go on because the only witnesses wouldn’t be able to point a finger. He looked beyond the strip of road. At the wide and empty blue sky and realized it would be the last time he saw it.

“Bloody shame, mate, but that’s the way it goes.”

The MP-5 crackled a second time. Rafferty felt the first impact as the burst of 9-mm slugs entered his body, then he was falling. He hit the ground on his back, eyes seeing the bright day fade into darkness. Then nothing.

“Let’s go, boys,” the shooter said.

The metal box was picked up and the hit team retreated to the idling helicopter. It rose quickly, circling the scene once before it cut off to the west. It flew steadily to its destination where it eventually touched down and the metal box was transferred to a waiting SUV. The team quickly changed into civilian clothing. The pilot took the helicopter back into the air, quickly vanishing from sight.

With practiced coordination the team quickly stripped down their weapons and placed them in a large canvas bag. A deep hole was dug and the weapons buried, along with the clothing they had worn during the hijack. All signs of the buried equipment were obliterated once the hole was refilled. The rear of the SUV was loaded with luggage and cameras all part of the team’s cover as a group of traveling tourists. The metal box was placed underneath the bags.

When everything had been organized, one of the team took the wheel and the SUV was turned around and made its way to the main route back along the highway.

Their destination lay just over two-thousand miles away at the coastal town of Port Hedland. For the next twenty-four hours the team would take turns at the wheel, stopping only for refueling and refreshments. The highway meandered through an empty landscape, with few outposts. Planning had established the places where gas could be obtained. Similarly, every food stop had been marked on the map they carried.

They reached Port Hedland twenty minutes after the anticipated arrival time, midmorning, and parked near the harbor.

Phil Durrant, the team leader, looked out over the water. He spotted the ship he was looking for and pointed it out to his people.

“All ready and waiting for us,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Our boy should be waiting in the café just along the way. Let’s do this.”

The driver backed the SUV into the parking spot next to the café, alongside an older, open-backed and paint-faded Australian-made Holden 4x4. The café’s blue-and-white structure had wide windows overlooking the harbor, and as he climbed out of the SUV Durrant spotted their contact sitting at one of the booths. He leaned back inside the SUV. “Let’s go.”

Durrant turned and made his way into the café, leaving his team to handle the quiet transfer of the metal box into the 4x4, next to the clutter of tools and marine equipment. Durrant made silent contact with the waiting man who would take over the next stage of the delivery.

With the transfer complete the crew entered the café, where they joined Durrant at his table. None of them spoke to the contact man. Durrant and his team ordered food and drink. The contact man finished his own meal before paying at the counter and leaving the café. He climbed into his truck and drove away from the café.

The guy’s name was Karl. None of the men had ever met him, and identification was made from the photo image that Durrant had received over his cell phone. Committing the face to his memory Durrant had erased the photo.

All Durrant knew was that they were associates of the Hegre organization.

* * *

KARL DROVE DOWN the road, turning into the marine yard after showing his ID to the security guard at the gate. He was known as a regular in his position as a maintenance man working for one of the companies that serviced seagoing vessels using the Port Hedland facility. After a couple of minutes talking to the security guard, Karl drove on, along the dockside. He parked and hauled a couple of toolboxes from the back of his vehicle. One of the boxes contained the stolen diamonds that had been transported two thousand miles across the country by Durrant and his team.

As he made his way to one of the berthed ships, Karl acknowledged passing associates. He walked up a short gangway that allowed entry to the ship through an open cargo hatch, nodding to the crewman standing just inside.

“Just coming to fit that faulty pressure valve before you push off.”

The man nodded. “You know where to go.”

Karl nodded and continued on his way into the ship. He took a companionway that led belowdecks. Just before he reached the engine room he diverted and walked into the ship’s maintenance store. The guy in charge, known to Karl, took the stolen toolbox and vanished from sight behind the metal racks of parts where he opened the box, removed the heavy leather satchel holding the diamonds and placed it in a large metal locker. He returned to where Karl was waiting and handed back the toolbox, now considerably lighter. He had the replacement pressure valve ready, and Karl took it with him and left.

An hour later Karl left the ship and carried his toolboxes with him as he returned to his pickup. The toolboxes went into the back. Karl drove off the dock and picked up the road into Port Hedland.

In town he parked and sat behind the wheel as he made a quick phone call. When his contact picked up, he delivered the arranged confirmation.

“New pressure valve fitted.”

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER the ship left the harbor and headed out to sea. It was heading for Hong Kong and the harbor at Kowloon. When it docked a few days later, the consignment of diamonds was left in the locker while the ship was unloaded and the crew went ashore for a break. The crewman assigned to handle the diamonds would soon leave the ship and deliver them to the arranged place farther along the dock—a local fish cannery owned in part by Hegre, a legitimate business conglomerate that had a flourishing criminal element.

Lise Delaware received news of the imminent delivery. From Kowloon the satchel would be sent to Hegre’s agent in the Philippines. Once the deal had been completed and the money passed to Hegre the next part of the process would be negotiated and arrangements would be made for the contracted merchandise to get under way.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_08dd1aa3-1f58-56c7-8670-fd2cfc049df8)

Washington, D.C.

Special Agent in Charge Drake Duncan stood at the window of his office in the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover Building. A gray drizzle of rain drifted past the glass. Dark clouds were coming in over the city. The weather matched Duncan’s mood.

He was in charge of the task force investigating the Hegre organization. It was still causing the FBI man sleepless nights. Since becoming involved in the virus investigation a while back, when he had first realized the reclusive nature of Hegre, Duncan had accepted that even the combined resources of the agency were having problems. Now, months following the original investigation, the FBI was seeing only scraps of information. Leads had taken them in a hopeful direction, only to fade away to nothing. He was beginning to understand just how complex the criminal group was. From what had come to light during the virus affair—the involvement of an FBI agent who had been bought off and the existence of a member of the CDC in Atlanta who had handed Hegre samples of the smallpox—Duncan had accepted he was combating a criminal conspiracy with a far-reaching network of contacts. Hegre bought and paid for the best help it could find. And it was obvious the organization was not held back by moral concerns. Hegre was in the business of making money. It didn’t make judgments on the consequences of its operations as long as it profited. It operated on a simple, cold blooded premise: if a venture made money Hegre was interested. Right now Duncan had a problem on his hands, which was the reason for the call he was making to the one man who could help him.

Matt Cooper.

Duncan was the first to accept that Cooper’s direct involvement in the Hegre-North Korea operation had resulted in the curtailing of the incident. Despite Cooper not being part of the FBI, or any agency Duncan knew about, the man obviously had top-ranking backup. And if it hadn’t been for the man’s selfless resistance, more people would have died and the lethal strain of adapted smallpox could have resulted in countless deaths.

SAC Drake Duncan was a dedicated agent, who had the strength of the FBI to back him. Yet here he was calling on a man who worked by a set of rules far beyond the FBI’s agenda. He was doing it because an agent was dead, another missing and Duncan was placed in the position of not trusting the people around him. It was a sad, but undeniable fact.

Hegre had breached the FBI previously. Duncan had the nagging feeling that might have happened again, because the dead agent—Ray Talbot—had been operating under deep cover, his actions sanctioned by Duncan himself, with very few people aware of the fact.

The FBI worked on a mandate of loyalty, with each and every agent sworn to uphold the law and deliver unbiased and corruption-free service. On the other side of the coin was human frailty, the probability that certain individuals could fall into the dark side of life. It had happened over the years, luckily on a small scale, but no organization was immune.

Duncan had built his team by handpicking each member. Yet even that did not preclude someone slipping inside who had a less-than-honest mandate. Ray Talbot had been working in the field under the charge of Duncan’s most trusted—and in this case there was no chance of any suspicion—team leader. Special Agent Sarah Mitchell, early thirties, was a young woman who had come up through the ranks as a Duncan protégée. Smart and capable, she had sailed through FBI training and once in the field had exhibited a natural resourcefulness in her work. Intuitive, she saw things that others might easily miss, and she picked up on the minutia of operating procedure with ease. She also had a willful nature that sometimes got the better of her. Not deliberately smart-mouthed, she could exchange banter with the best, and on more than one occasion her eagerness almost got the better of her.

Duncan found her refreshing. He would have willingly put himself on the line for her, knowing that in any situation she would always have his back. In terms of the physicality of FBI work she was hard to beat. Her marksmanship, with a variety of weapons, was always at the top of the score card.

He had put her in charge of the current phase of the Hegre investigation. She had taken a keen interest in the matter, to the point that Duncan had to remind her to treat it like any operation. He understood her frustration. Sarah Mitchell hated being beaten and no matter how sophisticated Hegre appeared to be, to Mitchell it was simply another criminal organization and as such she channeled her energy toward bringing it down. SAC Duncan had laid out her assignment, then given her free rein to run the operation on her own, with his overall supervision.

The past week had brought nothing. Duncan sensed, from her emailed reports and his talks with her via phone, that Mitchell was becoming frustrated at the lack of progress. And as time went by Duncan himself started to experience concern. In part that was because of his suspicion there might be a Hegre mole within the unit. He was searching to uncover evidence that would expose the traitor, hating the thought that Mitchell and her team might be in harm’s way.

He avoided voicing his concern. The problem with unearthing an insider was the undeniable fact that bringing his thoughts into the open might simply play into the guilty person’s hands. At worst he might find himself talking to the traitor without knowing. It was one of those situations where unburdening himself might come back to bite him. He needed to move slowly, keep his wits about him, and not show his hand.

But now he needed a presence on the case, an independent presence not part of the FBI, but with a feel for Hegre and the ability to move in ways that weren’t possible for Duncan’s people. A man he could trust.

Matt Cooper was free of any inside influence, a man who could move through the morass of regulations as he homed in on the perpetrators.

Duncan’s personal cell phone connected and the voice he remembered from their last meeting came through.

“SAC Duncan, Cooper. Hal Brognola told me you could be reached at this number. Are you free to talk?”

“Yeah, he mentioned that you needed to reach me. You sound like a man with a problem, Duncan.”

“Damn right. And it’s the same problem that brought us together last time.”

“Hegre?”

“Yes.”

“They operating again?”

“You know we’ve been working on cracking their cover since the smallpox affair. And we’ve barely scratched the surface. Then we got a break. Not a massive one, but enough for me to send in part of my task force to check it out. Up in the Northwest. A couple of my people vanished. Now one of them has turned up dead, tortured before he was killed.”

“Sorry to hear that, Duncan.”

“The agent’s name was Ray Talbot. He was young and a real go-getter. His partner Jake Bermann has vanished. There are two other agents on the team, and they’re looking for him—my case agent Sarah Mitchell and the fourth member of the team, Joseph Brewster.”

“Lots of open country up there,” Bolan said. “It would be easy to get lost.”

“I received an email from Ray. It must have been caught up in some sort of server glitch because it was sent a couple of days ago, about when he vanished off the radar. So we lost any chance of getting to him before he died.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t told the rest of the team that he’s dead. There must be a reason.”

“You remember we had a leak during the smallpox operation?”

“And you identified him. Are you saying you might have another leak?”

“I’ll give you a clue, Cooper. This call is being made on my personal cell.”

“Understood.”

“You told me to contact you if there was a new lead. That’s what I’m doing. I need an outside source. Someone off the record and with the know-how to work on his own.”

“I’m listening.”

“I can send you the coordinates Ray Talbot attached to his email, a location in the area where he was investigating. I’ll pass it along to Mitchell, but give you the chance to reach the area first.” Duncan paused. “Cooper, I’m asking a lot for something that’s not strictly your responsibility, so if...”

“You lost people the first time round,” Bolan said. “Talbot now, and maybe your agent, Bermann. From what we understand about Hegre, those people have no respect for anyone in their way. They need to be stopped.”

“Use this number if you need to get through to me, Cooper.”

“I’ll let you know when I have something.”


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bd7ef57c-43f9-50a6-8ce0-91b0591a2fa8)

FBI Agent Sarah Mitchell crossed the parking lot outside the diner, balancing two paper cups of coffee and a couple of sandwiches in her hands. Her partner, Agent Joseph Brewster, saw her and quickly climbed out of the Crown Victoria. He moved around the car to relieve her of the load.

“You always do things the hard way.”

“You noticed.”

“Funny lady.”

They climbed back inside the car, closing the doors against the rising chill.

“This is one cold place,” Brewster said. He glanced across at his partner. “You sure you didn’t specially ask for this assignment?”

Mitchell took her time drinking her coffee before she looked at him.

“Why would I do that, Joe?”

“I can think of one reason. You have a weird sense of humor, and landing me here in the back of beyond would fit that.”

“You think I’d put myself through all this just to get a laugh?”

Brewster placed his coffee in the cup holder and proceeded to unwrap his sandwich. He checked the filling, nodding when he found it was beef.

“If I was playing jokes,” Mitchell said, “would I have brought your favorite kind of sandwich?”

“I guess not.”

They had just completed their meal when Mitchell felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. She took it out and checked the caller ID. She was disappointed it wasn’t from Ray Talbot, or his partner Jake Bermann. The call was from SAC Drake Duncan, her FBI superior.

“Sir?”

“You’re not going to like this, Mitchell.”

“Talbot?”

“He’s been found. It’s not good.”

Mitchell touched her partner on the arm.

“I’m putting you on speaker, sir.”

“Talbot has been found,” Duncan repeated for Brewster’s benefit.

“Not alive?”

“No. The body is about thirty miles from your current position in a place called Treebone. Some locals found the body, which had been dumped in a creek.”

“You want us to check it out?”

“Yes. I want an FBI presence in place. I want you to find out what happened. One more thing, Mitchell. Just remember Bermann is still missing too. I’ll get back to you with details.”

“Leaving now, sir,” Brewster said.

He gunned the Crown Victoria, tires skidding against the loose gravel as he swung back onto the highway.

Neither of them spoke for the first few miles. They had been expecting Duncan’s news. Agents Talbot and Bermann had been missing for a few days, and it hadn’t been looking good. Ray Talbot had always been an independent type of guy, liable to go off without keeping his teammates informed. It was the way he had operated, and he had always brought in good results. Even so, receiving the news of his death had been a shock.

It was Mitchell who broke the silence. She leaned forward and slammed her clenched first on the dash.

“Damn, damn, damn. What the hell is going on, Joe? This is crazy. When Ray stopped checking in, I should have figured something was wrong”

“There’s no logic to it. They vanish, disappear for a few days then Talbot shows up dead.”

“Now I know Hegre has to be responsible for this.”

Mitchell felt Brewster’s eyes flick her way for a few seconds.

“Not that again,” he said.

“Yes. That again. We were getting too close.”

“Sarah, we have no real proof. It’s all...”

Mitchell rounded on him, her hazel eyes flashing with barely concealed anger. Frustration.

“What were you going to say, Joe? It’s all in my head? I’m imagining it?”

“I understand how you feel, Sarah, but we have to go with real proof. We’re FBI. Not freelance cowboys with guns.”

“And a dead agent is proof we’ve made waves. How many more before you believe?”

“Procedure,” Brewster said. “We’re supposed to get local invitations before we walk over their jurisdiction.”

Procedure.

It was word Brewster used a lot, something he pushed every time they came up against a problem.

Hell, Joe, I hope we never get in a tight spot and you won’t move if it goes against procedure, Mitchell thought.

SAC Duncan called her again just under an hour later.

“An email showed up on my computer. It was from Ray Talbot, dated almost two days ago. It had been delayed because of a server glitch...”

“Our system?”

“Unfortunately. Ray’s message got snarled up so it’s only just come through.”

“That leaves us at a disadvantage.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Duncan held back from telling Mitchell that he had delayed informing her until he had contacted Matt Cooper. Talbot had already been dead and Duncan wanted more feet on the ground. And he was still nervous concerning the possible leaks. Hence his call to the unofficial Matt Cooper.

“Is his message going to help, sir?”

“I’m downloading it to your cell, Agent Mitchell. I’ll let you make a decision. Your call on this, Sarah. But keep me in the loop.”

Mitchell sat back. A simple technical delay had held back Talbot’s email and now he was dead.

Had the delay been the reason he hadn’t survived? Unable to have his message picked up quickly. Had it been that simple?

Had Talbot died waiting for his FBI response?

A response that hadn’t come.

The thought sickened her, made her determined to find out what Talbot had been trying to pass along.

Her cell phone pinged. She opened the downloaded message and scanned Talbot’s email.



Info panned out. Have located Hegre base. North of town of Treebone. Am about to check it out. GPS location attached to this message. Talbot.

* * *

“Ray sent a location. He was going to check it out.”

“Just him and Bermann?” Brewster snapped. “Damn stupid move. He should have—”

“Christ, Joe, if you mention procedure again I’ll scream. Ray is dead. Jake is missing. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the rule book right now.”

“I—”

“Just drive, Joe. No talking. Just goddamn well drive.”

She threw her cell phone onto the dash in frustration, then tapped the GPS coordinates into the vehicle’s navigation system.

Her emotions were a mess. The Hegre investigation, missing agents and now Ray Talbot’s death. She knew her FBI training had taught her to maintain objectivity, but how could she not be affected by such things? The day she became that hardened she would hand in her badge and gun and walk away.

She stared out through the windshield, the road curving away in front of the speeding car. Tall trees edged the route on both sides and in the far distance the were hazy outlines of mountains under the blue sky. Mitchell felt the sting of tears, angry at her emotions, but just as sad at the loss of a young life.

They reached Treebone an hour later, Brewster driving through the isolated community.

“We’ll bring the locals in after we check out this location,” Mitchell stated. “See if we can locate Jake without sirens screaming and lights flashing.”

Twelve miles on the northern side of the town, the GPS informed them they were a half mile from their destination. The display on the screen indicated a right turn ahead.

“Keep going,” Mitchell said. They drove by the dirt road. After a quarter mile Mitchell told Brewster to pull off the road.

He pulled the Crown Victoria onto a fire road and nosed it into the timber, undergrowth rattling against the side of the car until Mitchell told him to stop.

She pulled out her Glock pistol, checked it and kept it in her hand as she opened her door.

“Sarah...don’t...”

Mitchell glanced across at her partner. He was staring at her, face taut with anger.

“What the hell, Joe?”

“You know we can’t do this. Not without proper sanction. It’s too risky.”

“Not your damned procedures again. Agent Brewster, I am up to here with you and your rules. Ray is dead. Jake is still missing. He could be dead too by now. Ray left us a message directing us here, offering us a chance to catch up with this Hegre group. And you want to play the protocol rule. Well, the hell with your uptight games. I can’t wait.”

Brewster stiffened. “I can’t stop you, Sarah. You’re my senior agent. But I won’t follow until I have clearance. This is wrong. We need to call it in. Get Duncan’s authority. Call in backup. Too risky otherwise.”

Mitchell stepped out of the car, turning to look back at her partner.

“Those people could be moving out. They may have already. I can’t let that go unchecked.”

“Not until we have Duncan’s say-so.”

“Duncan said it was my call.”

“He didn’t mean this action.”

“Then stay put. I’m not sitting around here.”

Mitchell moved away from the car, into the thick foliage, feeling the close-ranked trees crowd around her.

She knew it was her impulsive nature making her go ahead. But there was the loyalty she had to Ray Talbot. That hot-blooded combination made her push through the forest, back toward the location Talbot had sent before he died.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_1fb95202-06e5-5cc6-9524-ece6bb0b4758)

The thick mulch underfoot deadened any sound she might have made. The close branches overhead broke the daylight into ragged patches. Undergrowth tugged at her FBI windbreaker. She held her Glock close to her chest as she traveled. She scoured the way ahead, moving steadily, but with caution. Her eyes probed the tall trees, the tangled undergrowth. This wild country was new to her. Sarah Mitchell would admit to being a city girl. Tall buildings and concrete she knew. The sights and sounds, the smells of urban life were her familiars, not greenery and timber. The forest with its own scents offered unknown challenges. She had been on the move for roughly twenty minutes when she glimpsed her target directly ahead, its dark bulk showing through the trees. She advanced, taking a slower pace until she could see the full outline of the structure.

A four foot stone wall ran around the property. Mitchell moved up to it so she could see the building clearly. An unpaved road led up to the house, and a pair of high-end SUVs were parked at the front entrance. She could see a number of wood-framed windows, but from her position she was unable to see inside. The whole place reeked of decrepitude. Mitchell crouched, trying to formulate her approach and aware that once she cleared the wall she would be pretty well exposed if she made for the house.

Mitchell heard a faint sound then and realized she was not alone. She gripped the Glock tighter, feeling a slick of perspiration on her palm.

She had been sure she had slipped in unseen.

Something told her that it was not Brewster who had made the sound. Her partner would not have come in so close without identifying himself to her.

She flattened against the stone wall, straining her ears to pick up any more sounds. She stayed put for a while, listening, but picked up no more noise. That didn’t comfort here. For all she knew there was someone close by doing exactly the same thing.

Now, she thought, was where things could get really awkward.

What would the FBI manual tell you about things like this? She knew the answer straightaway. Don’t get yourself into tricky situations in the first place. Right now that was of no damn use at all.

Sweat beaded Mitchell’s face. She had gotten herself into this position, so she had no choice other than getting herself out. All because of her impetuous nature. That and being mad with Brewster.

Mitchell turned slowly, searching the shadows. She probed the air with her pistol.

Nothing.

So why was she so worked up?

Because something didn’t feel right.

Mitchell almost gave a yell when cold metal pressed into her neck.

“Give me the gun,” a quiet voice said.

No threat. Just a commanding tone that made Mitchell pause and consider her actions.

“Finger off the trigger and just let go.”

She felt a hand close around the Glock and push the barrel down.

“Let it go, Agent Mitchell.”

FBI rules stated not to give up her issued weapon, but the insistent pressure of the man’s gun made a powerful statement that instantly wiped protocol off the board. Mitchell let go of the Glock and felt it drawn away.

“That wasn’t hard, was it?”

“My boss might not agree.”

“At least you’re still alive to argue the point.”

Mitchell turned to face the newcomer.

He was tall, well over six feet, with black hair, and steady blue eyes that held her defiant gaze. The first thing she saw was his combat blacksuit. The muscled body beneath showed broad shoulders and a lean, well-defined torso. His calm demeanor was unthreatening, but Mitchell sensed that deceptive calm could turn quickly. He wore a shoulder rig, probably for the Beretta 93-R he held in his fist. A gun belt around his waist held a second high-ride holster holding a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. Whoever he was, Mitchell decided, he had come loaded for bear. There was even a sheathed knife on his left hip.

“Three words,” the man said. “SAC Drake Duncan.”

“Okay. I’ll make a calculated guess you’re not part of Hegre,” Mitchell said.

The faintest of grins etched his lips briefly.

“FBI training is getting sharper.”

Mitchell inclined her head. “Is my badge showing?”

“No, but the way you reacted shows agency training. And that Glock is standard-issue.”

Mitchell stepped back and looked him over a second time. There was a military bearing about him. The way he held himself spoke of self-control and a dedication to what he was doing.

“Special Forces?” she asked.

Mack Bolan shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I don’t have affiliations to any agencies you can think of. But I’m on your side. My name’s Matt Cooper.”

“Matt Cooper? SAC Duncan mentioned your involvement in the smallpox investigation.”

“That’s why I’m here. Duncan asked me to run background interference because he has concerns about your safety. He has suspicions there might be a leak in your department.”

“Damn. This isn’t the first time.” Mitchell thrust out a hand. “Special Agent Sarah Mitchell.”

Bolan took her hand. As slim as it was against his own, he felt the firm grip.

Her handshake gave Bolan the opportunity to take a closer look at the woman. He noted she was tall, and had an athletic build. The eyes that studied him were bright, a shade of green and amber that instantly drew attention to her face, and alert. They were set in a face that could only be described as beautiful. She wore her dark hair cut chin-length. There was a determined air about her that told Bolan she was not a person likely to be intimidated. He gauged her age to be early thirties, and the way she had handled herself told him she was far from being a novice.

“Nice to meet you Agent Mitchell.” He handed her Glock back. “I suggest we get out of here so we can discuss things in more secure surroundings.”

They retreated, drawing away from the wall. Bolan led the way, Mitchell keeping up with his ground-eating stride.

“So how did you get here?” she asked. “Not by taxi seeing the way you’re dressed.”

“A private fast flight and rented wheels.”

He offered no more of an explanation and Mitchell didn’t query. This man plainly had good backup whoever he was.

Bolan guided her into the tree line to where his hired SUV was concealed in the thicket. She looked over the vehicle and the camouflage Bolan had constructed.

“And you?” Bolan asked as they settled inside the vehicle.

“My partner brought me as close as was safe, then we parted company. Right now I have no idea where he is. For all I know he’s somewhere putting his case to Duncan.”

“Is that the way the FBI is running surveillance now?”

“Agent Brewster doesn’t approve of my methods. Now I like him, but the guy is so anally retentive he lives and breathes the FBI manual. After a time it became a pain in the ass. SAC Duncan set us on the tracking of this group we believe is part of Hegre. We got his far but Brewster refused to carry out a close visual on them. Said he needed to get permission from Duncan before we did anything. We got to arguing in the car. I climbed out and told him to go get his permission and walked off into the forest.”

“He didn’t come after you? That doesn’t seem like the best behavior for a partner.”

There was a trace of suspicion in Bolan’s voice that Mitchell failed to pick up.

“I guess I can be difficult to work alongside, Cooper. Duncan is always telling me to cool it.” She waved her hand in a frustrated gesture. “What the hell, I’m supposed to be going after the bad guys, not checking the FBI workbook every five minutes.”

“So what brought you here?” Bolan asked.

“Two missing agents who were part of my team. Then the news that one of them, Ray Talbot, had turned up dead. And Duncan calling me with the news that a delayed email from Talbot had a location. This location.”

“Right now we backtrack to your vehicle. Go talk to your partner. Assess how things stand before we take any action. Agreed? Let’s add your partner to the mix. It gives us one more body.”

Mitchell hesitated but reluctantly nodded.

They retreated, Mitchell giving him directions to the Crown Victoria. Reaching it, they found the vehicle empty. There was no sign of Mitchell’s partner.

Bolan’s intuition was warning him of something not quite right in the situation. This whole setup with Mitchell and her reluctant partner did not gel. He decided to play along until he could work out just what was going on.


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_ff98d169-f1b2-52d0-b55f-eb5773581266)

“This whole thing was based on small leads,” Mitchell said. “Enough to have us make a move. Our analysts have been working their way through names and contacts that have any link to Hegre. Duncan gave me a small team to follow up any leads we got. Hegre is smart. They cover their tracks well, and use local assets to do their dirty work so they can stay out of the spotlight. We got lucky and picked up a couple of very thin leads and started to track the links. One of the cell phones we picked up from the smallpox episode had a list of numbers on it. There were tracked calls to this location. Our people have been watching those numbers, and one of them recently showed activity. We pulled a message that gave a location and it showed up as the being a remote address. The one we just left. Confirmation came when the same location was provided by Ray. I hadn’t had contact for a couple of days. That wasn’t like Ray. The guy always kept in contact.”

“So you decided there was a link.”

Mitchell nodded. “Duncan said that Ray had been found dead near the town of Treebone. Brewster and I had been on the lookout for him. That delayed email Ray sent had the GPS location for this place. Brewster figured it was tenuous at best but as I am higher up the pay grade he went along until I decided to go take a closer look. That was when he dug in his heels and started to quote protocols. Duncan gave me free rein, but Brewster wanted a directive. Now we have another missing agent.”

“You wanted to find out if your missing guy was around?”

“I couldn’t waste time. Ray was dead. Jake Bermann could be in danger. Waiting wasn’t an option.”

“I can’t fault that, Agent Mitchell.”

“Look, Cooper, I don’t have time to debate this. If Brewster has gone to call in the troops we could be waiting for a couple of hours.” She hesitated. “How long does it take to kill someone? For all I know Bermann could already be dead, but I’m damned if I can just wait around.” She took a breath to calm herself. “What I can’t figure is where Brewster is. The man is no Eagle Scout. Not the type to go wandering around in the woods.”

Bolan understood her reasoning. He could accept rules of engagement. But he could also see it from Mitchell’s viewpoint. If her teammate, Bermann, was in enemy hands his life expectancy could be counted in hours...maybe minutes. As she had also said the FBI agent might already be dead. It was an unenviable position to be in, and Bolan could sympathize with her predicament.

“What were you planning before I showed up?” he asked. “You looked about ready to go storming in on your own without any intel about how many you might be up against.”

“I was hoping my partner might join me...oh hell...I know I didn’t think it through. But I can’t simply do nothing. And now Brewster is missing.”

The haunted expression in her eyes made Bolan aware of the depth of her feeling. Sarah Mitchell was impulsive, but caring. Her need to locate one of her own had overridden her FBI protocols.

“We’ll do this,” he said, “but you follow my lead. No questions. Okay?”

Mitchell nodded.

“Where the hell is Brewster?” she asked again.

Bolan had been asking himself that question. There was still that faint but nagging suspicion tugging at him. The more he thought about it the stronger his suspicion became. Until he had proof one way or the other he would not voice his thoughts to Mitchell.

“We need to move back to the house. Check it out before we decide what to do.”

Mitchell nodded again, said, “It’s time I called in and found out what’s happening.” She searched in her jacket for her cell phone. “Damn, I left my cell in the car. I argued with Brewster and tossed it on the dash before I headed out. Losing my cool again...”

She got in the car and leaned forward to grab her cell phone, but it was not there.

“Let me do that,” Bolan said. “My cell is on a higher security setting than yours anyway.”

“You think mine could be compromised?”

“Think about it. If it’s missing, who has it?”

Bolan took out his cell phone and called Stony Man, getting Aaron Kurtzman on the line.

“What can I do for you, big guy?”

“I need you to contact FBI SAC Drake Duncan. Ask him if he’s had a call from Agent Brewster on Agent Sarah Mitchell’s team asking for help.”

“Something you’re not happy about?”

“You could say that. I just need clarification.”

“I’ll call back ASAP. Anything else?”

“Any more intel on Hegre?”

“We’re making some headway.”

“Keep me posted.”

“I’ll let you know what Duncan says.”

Mitchell was watching Bolan intently. “Well?”

Bolan lowered the cell phone. “My contact will get back to me when he has something.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?”

“What we were going to do. Only now we watch our backs.”

Mitchell leaned back in her seat, slowly shaking her head. The thoughts inside her head translated to the expression on her face. A particular thought had pushed its way to the surface.

“My God, you think Brewster has sold out. Right? Damn it, Cooper, you do.”

“Let’s say I have a doubt about him. A partner bugging out and allowing his teammate to go in alone. I may be wrong, and if I am I’ll be the first to say sorry. We let my people make contact. And we handle things my way.”

“Brewster? He’s sold out.”

“I only have a vague feeling at the moment. That’s why I wanted to check it out. I could just as easily be wrong, so we hold our judgment until confirmation one way or the other. Let’s say I have a suspicious nature. Reserve judgment until we have proof positive one way or the other.”

Bolan walked a few steps and waited for Mitchell to join him.

“Cooper, I hope you’re wrong,” she said.

“So do I.”

They retraced their way back to where Bolan had come up on Mitchell. A couple of minutes in and Bolan felt his cell vibrate in his pocket. He took it out and answered the call.

“Striker, Duncan has not had a call from Agent Brewster,” Kurtzman said. “He’s not a happy camper. What’s going on out there?”

“Nothing good. But at least the picture’s clearer. Thanks for the intel.”

Bolan cut the call. He felt Mitchell’s eyes on him.

“Brewster didn’t call Duncan.”

“Then you could be right about him,” Mitchell said. “Looks like he had me fooled. Had us all fooled.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Agent Mitchell.”

“Hey, if he didn’t call it in, what the hell has he been doing? Maybe he got taken himself. Have you thought about that, Cooper?”

“It crossed my mind. I won’t dismiss it as a possibility.”

Mitchell had the same hope. It didn’t quite add up though. The more she recalled her last conversation with Brewster she had to admit his attitude had been evasive. She hadn’t caught on because of her own eagerness to move on the location.

Bolan’s keen instinct for situations had him checking their position as they walked. And that instinct alerted him to a shadow of movement to their right, within the overhanging bushes by the tree line.

They weren’t alone.

The subdued gleam of metal reflecting light brought the Executioner full circle. The people out there were not showing themselves as being friendly. Bolan and Mitchell were being stalked.

A sudden acceleration in movement confirmed that notion. The figures were closing the circle, shortening the distance between them.

Not friends by any means.

Enemies.

“Down, Mitchell. Now,” he snapped, reaching out to give her a none-to-gentle push that took her off balance and to the ground. Bolan followed, sliding his Beretta 93-R from leather as he dropped, swiveling it to line up on the shooter who had emerged from the trees. Bolan heard the crackle of autofire, felt the hiss of slugs passing over his falling body. His finger stroked the 93-R’s trigger and the Beretta fired a triburst. Bolan had gone for the chest, but his fast release, as he dropped to the ground, was off target.

The 9 mm slugs struck the shooter in the upper left shoulder, creating a significant wound as they hit bone, shattering it as they flattened and tearing at muscle and flesh. The guy stumbled, crying out in pain as his shoulder was mangled severely, losing a flap of torn flesh and spouting blood. He lost all interest in the battle as he went to his knees, letting go of his submachine gun, his attention focusing on the pain that engulfed him. Incapacitated, he was an open target for Bolan to make his follow-up shot. The soldier drilled a 3-round burst into the guy’s head. This time Bolan’s aim was on target. The dead man flopped over onto his back, his skull split and bloody.

Mitchell’s tumble occupied her for the seconds it took her to hit the ground. She managed a clumsy recovery, her right hand automatically snatching at her holstered Glock, dragging it free. Her training kicked in. She threw out her left hand to take her weight as she pulled herself to one knee and focused on the area beyond where Cooper had been firing. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the first shooter falling and saw movement beyond that.

Two more gunners concentrated on their position. The closer man was hauling his weapon into the firing position.

She raised the Glock, two-fisted, and brought the muzzle on line, her finger easing the trigger back. She felt the reassuring kick as the pistol fired, repeating the gesture to launch a second slug. Both slugs hit center-mass, and the would-be shooter fell back, slamming to the ground. The moment she triggered the pair of shots, Mitchell pulled her Glock round to the second man, locked on him and fired another double tap.

Bolan had already resighted his 93-R and fired simultaneously. His slugs were a fraction behind Mitchell’s and hit within a half-inch of hers. Struck by the lethal combination of 9 mm and .40-caliber slugs, the guy went down fast and hard.

“You hurt?” Bolan asked.

“Only my pride,” Mitchell said. “Cooper, you picked up on those guys fast.”

“I have a suspicious nature.”

They fell into a team position, each checking opposite directions, tracking their weapons across the area. As they studied the area, they watched for further movement, easing into the cover provided by the trees.

“I hate to even think this,” Mitchell said, “but Brewster could have been directing those shooters.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, and pulled her deeper into the foliage.

They were heading directly for the Hegre stronghold.


CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_8cc2c431-7ff4-5ef4-94ae-c7d167df171e)

The bulk of the house spread before them, partly obscured by the overgrown network of trees and undergrowth. The access road was little more than a rutted track. Two vehicles were parked in front of the building. Bolan and Mitchell crouched against the perimeter wall.

“Not exactly a Realtor’s dream property,” Mitchell whispered.

“Ideal for these guys,” Bolan said. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s somewhere they can carry out their work in safety.”

“I’m not sure I like what you’re suggesting. What work?”

Bolan checked his Beretta.

“No time for chitchat,” he said. “We can’t be sure we dealt with the whole of the search team back there. We need to go in now.”

Bolan led them across the low wall. They skirted the bulk of the house and pressed against the side wall. A number of boarded windows were set in the wall. With Mitchell at his back, the soldier moved to the rear corner, crouching to peer around. Thirty feet from the back of the house were more trees and a heavy spread of undergrowth that almost reached the rear of the building.

They observed more closed-off windows on ground level and the upper floor; a derelict outhouse; a single wooden door that would allow access to the interior.

“Our way in,” Bolan said quietly.

Mitchell tapped his shoulder in agreement.

“Stay sharp,” Bolan said and moved to the door.

Mitchell checked back the way they had come. There was no movement but she was aware how quickly a situation could change.

“Clear,” she said.

Bolan examined the door. Wood, the panels cracked and warped. Whatever paint had once coated it was long gone. He set himself, knowing that wooden barriers could be deceiving.

“No walking through walls?” Mitchell said. “I’m disappointed, Cooper.”

Bolan set his distance and drew back his right leg, then launched a powerful kick that planted his boot over the lock. Wood splintered. The door flew open, crashing against the inside wall. Bolan went through, breaking to the right. Mitchell copied his move, going left. They both swept the empty room. Nothing save dust and scattered detritus.

Beyond the room they heard voices raised in anger.

“We disturbed someone,” Mitchell said.

They crossed the room and went through the door on the far side, which revealed a wide passage with stairs to one side.

“Shooter,” Mitchell yelled as a moving shape emerged from the shadows ahead.

A slim guy in shirtsleeves opened up with a squat SMG, a line of slugs punching into the wall to one side. He seemed to fire more for effect than to seek a definite target. Bolan turned and cut loose with the Beretta, catching the guy in the side. The shooter slammed against the far wall, clutching his side as blood began to soak his shirt. Bolan put a triburst in the gunner’s skull. The guy sagged to his knees, then toppled over.

Mitchell caught sight of a second shooter, taking a side step to avoid his falling partner. She took advantage of the man’s hesitation, leaning out from behind Bolan. She settled her aim without hesitation and punched a pair of .40-caliber slugs in the guy. Chest high, over the heart, the solid impact of the slugs knocked the target off his feet. He took an awkward fall, slamming to the floor on his face and rolling against the wall, his body in spasm just before he died.

A shadow materialized along the passage, weapon up and firing. The burst of autofire came close. Bolan held his ground, the enemy fire bypassing him as he raised the Beretta and triggered a burst. The distant figure staggered as slugs ripped into his body. He refused to go down until Mitchell fired a .40-caliber round through his throat. This time he dropped without a sound.


CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_daefd6af-3132-5ba3-bbc3-0fb03ceee721)

“Cover me,” Bolan said as he dropped the exhausted magazine and rammed home a fresh one from his pouch. As he activated the 93-R, he felt the heat from Mitchell’s close fired Glock as she took down a second gunner emerging from an open door. The .40-caliber slugs ripped into the target’s chest. He dropped his weapon. They moved in unison, clearing the foot of the stairs and aiming for the door the shooters had come from.

Mitchell turned to check the stairs, scanning the shadowed landing. As Bolan cleared the doorway, he found a large room spread out in front of him. The large windows looked out on the front of the house and the pair of parked vehicles. Bolan took in the room at a glance and what he saw was imprinted on his vision like a vivid snapshot.

A half-naked figure was strapped to a wooden chair, the exposed chest and torso a mass of bloody wounds. Enough blood had been spilled to soak the man’s pants to midthigh. His head was thrown back, his throat slashed wide and bloody. Bolan’s gaze dropped to the bound man’s bare feet. Most of the toes on the left foot were gone, leaving ragged and bloody stumps. The blood was dry, indicating that the man had been dead for some time.

Mitchell had remained at the entrance to the room, keeping a lookout for any interference. She took a quick look inside, saw the bound man and Bolan heard the shocked gasp when she recognized the victim.

“It’s Jake Bermann.”

“Mitchell, don’t lose it. Not now,” Bolan snapped.

Her face registered surprise as she looked beyond Bolan to the farthest reaches of the shadowed room. Her Glock arced to one side, finger closing on the trigger.

“Down,” she yelled, stepping in through the doorway.

Bolan dropped to a crouch, turning.

A pistol fired, the shot going over Bolan’s head.

Mitchell’s Glock cracked twice, flame spouting in the shadowed room.

As Bolan came around, he saw an armed man jerk as Mitchell’s .40-caliber slugs hit. The target cried out in pain as he fell back, the weapon clutched in his sagging right hand firing a shot into the floor. Light from the closest window set him in clear sight.

“It’s Brewster,” Mitchell said.

Bolan crossed the room in long strides, the 93-R trained solidly on the hunched-over figure. Brewster was on his knees, clutching his midsection. His Glock hung from his fingers, loose and presenting no threat. Bolan took it from the man, holstering his Beretta and holding the Glock.

Brewster, moaning, moved so he could sit awkwardly, still clutching himself. Blood soaked through his shirt in a continuous flood, turning his shirt and pants a glistening red.

“I’m calling this in,” Mitchell said.

Bolan handed her his cell phone and she keyed in a number. Standing at the doorway, she stared at Brewster as she raised her phone.

“SAC Duncan, this is Agent Mitchell. We have located Agent Bermann, sir. He’s dead. And we have Brewster. He tried to shoot us. It was Brewster who gave us up to Hegre. He’s down. We have the situation under control. Yes, sir, Cooper is with me. We need backup at the location you gave me. You can send in the troops now. Yes, sir, we’ll stand fast.”

Bolan saw the spread of blood as it pooled under Brewster’s slumped body. He grabbed cushions off armchairs pushed to one side of the room and laid Brewster down with one of the cushions under his head. The man stared up at Bolan. His face was sickly white and glistening with sweat.

“He’s in a bad way,” Bolan said over his shoulder.

“Good,” Mitchell snapped back. “Don’t expect any kind of help from me, Cooper. You see what they did to Jake?”

Her voice rose in anger. “You see what they did, Brewster. To one of your own. And Ray.”

“What did they want from him?” Bolan asked.

“Information,” Brewster said. “Hegre was concerned the FBI was getting too close and starting to unravel how it worked.”

Blood trickled from Brewster’s mouth, frothy and constant.

“You were helping them?”

Brewster nodded. Life was slipping away. His hands covering the bullet wounds in his body were wet with blood.

“They offered so much money,” he said, his voice weakening. “A million. It seemed so easy at the time. I took it because I was greedy. No other word for it. I was living above my means, seeing all kinds of perps with money coming out of their pockets. I was risking my life for nothing while they had it all.” Brewster began to cough up more blood. His face twisted in a spasm, then formed a crooked smile. “When Hegre made the offer, I just couldn’t refuse. You know the funny part? I never got the chance to spend any of it.”

“Where’s the woman?” Bolan asked. “Delaware?”

Brewster’s head moved from side to side. “Lise? She moves around. She’s hard to pin down.” He fixed his gaze on Bolan. “She wants you, Cooper. You killed Rackham, burned her with a bullet and wrecked their Korean deal. She will come after you.”

“I’ll try not to lose too much sleep over that.”

Behind Bolan, Mitchell’s Glock cracked once—twice.

“Incoming,” she called, and Bolan moved to her side. He saw shooters moving along the hallway, weapons up.

Bolan snapped up the Glock and started to lay down offensive fire. As the Executioner drove the shooters back, Mitchell ejected her empty magazine, reloaded and brought her weapon back online. Together they covered the hallway with a powerful curtain of .40-caliber fire. Two men went down, one screaming wildly.

Retreat became the order of the day as the Hegre crew backed off. Bolan refused to let it end there and he tracked the hallway, sending more deadly fire at the enemy as they pulled away. When the Glock locked back empty, Bolan snatched the 93-R from its holster and continued to fire. The interior of the house echoed with the constant stream of gunshots. The last man in the group reached a door and kicked it open. Before he could clear the opening, Mitchell’s Glock fired twice and the guy’s head was hammered by a pair of .40-caliber slugs. They cored in through his skull and blew a portion of brains out through the bloody exit wound.

Mitchell slumped back against the wall, Glock sagging in her two-handed grip. The weapon had locked on empty, smoke still curling from the barrel. Bolan saw her shoulders moving as she trembled in the aftermath. He could see the rage seeping away, and he knew in her mind she would be seeing the image of her tortured, dead FBI teammates.

Ray Talbot.

Jake Bermann.

Mitchell would be taking on the blame because she felt a responsibility toward her team.

It wasn’t enough they had found Bermann.

They had arrived too late.

Bolan watched her, seeing her expression and feeling for the FBI agent. There was not a thing he could do for her.

His thoughts turned to another female.

Lise Delaware.

The woman would seek revenge, would attempt to even a perceived score with Bolan. Somewhere along the line that need would be addressed.


CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_b1816c01-9496-53e9-8a16-3e38c76fe51a)

“One way or another, Cooper, I’m getting to the bottom of this.”

The determination in Mitchell’s voice told Bolan all he needed to know. The FBI agent was not going to stop until she had the answers she wanted. She had good reasons.

Mitchell reloaded automatically as she voiced her thoughts.

“They don’t do this and not pay.”

Her partners had been killed because they had been betrayed.

And Mitchell’s own tenacious nature would not allow her to ignore facts.

“The Bureau is in a good position to run some checks on Brewster’s recent history,” Bolan said, then added, “second thoughts. Go careful. Hegre appears to have deep contacts. It could be they might get wind of anyone looking too close at their business.”

“Are you saying they might have someone else in the Bureau? That’s crazy, Cooper. This is the FBI were talking about. Hegre doesn’t own it.”

“Agent Mitchell, I’ve been up against this group before. They had a pretty good reach last time around. I can’t do anything to stop you from checking them out. Just be careful is all I’m saying.”

Mitchell understood his concern. And as much as she even hated the thought there might be some other kind of leak within the FBI, her good sense cautioned against being careless.

She only had to remind herself what had happened to Joe Brewster. He had been a careful man, never one to even think about taking unnecessary risks. He was a stickler for obeying the rules. She had believed him to be an upstanding FBI agent who played by the book.

She had been wrong there. Brewster had stepped outside the circle and accepted Hegre’s money. He had been turned. In Mitchell’s eyes, if Brewster had been corrupted, it could happen to anyone.

Mitchell was at the room’s front window, keeping watch, waiting for backup to arrive. Her initial anger when she had realized Brewster had betrayed them had ebbed, leaving behind a dull ache. It wasn’t every day she had two friends die and witnessed another partner selling her out.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Cooper crouching over Brewster’s prone figure, talking quietly to the wounded man. Cooper fought with the dedication of a professional, yet now he was speaking to the man who had tried to kill them with the compassion of a priest taking confession. In the brief time she had known the man, Cooper had shown her many facets of his character. She found herself drawn to him, fascinated by his powerful presence and the deadly skills he used so well.

“Game’s over,” Bolan said to Brewster. “You rolled the dice and ended up with snake-eyes. A low roll. Whichever way you look at it, you don’t come out with any kind of winning hand.”

“So this is where I open up and admit the error of my ways?”

“Hegre isn’t going to come to the rescue.”

“But you are? You’ll offer me absolution if I confess before I die?”

“I’m no priest,” Bolan said. “But I’m open to offers.”

Brewster was bleeding from the mouth now, his breath ragged.

“If Mitchell was in your place right now, she would be pulling a trigger on me.”

“She lost friends over this. You were one of them. Do the right thing and at least offer her something in payback.” Bolan held the man’s gaze. “Or don’t. It makes no difference to me, Brewster. I’m tracking Hegre however long it takes.”

Brewster’s eyes rolled, and for a moment his stillness made Bolan imagine he was gone. Then he took a breath, his gaze focusing again.

“Hegre has a deal with some high-ranking Iranian group, brokering them uranium for their enrichment program. All illegal. It’s coming out of Kazakhstan. And diamonds to finance it from Australia... Cooper, remember what I said about Delaware. She’s crazy mad for what you did to their last big deal...losing the North Korean game cost Hegre a lot. Too much for them to ignore. Cooper, you’re top of her Most Wanted list.”

Brewster clutched at Bolan’s sleeve as a spasm of pain coursed through him.

“Hegre has this deal all worked out. They plan to transport the diamonds to Hong Kong...pass on to an end buyer in Philippines...make a killing...that’s all I overheard.”

The effort pushed Brewster over the edge. When he fell silent this time, Bolan found his vital signs had flatlined. Pulse and respiration gone. He rose to his feet and turned away, catching Mitchell’s gaze. He shook his head.

“Did he say anything?” she asked when he joined her.

“A lead. Maybe.”

Bolan called Stony Man on his secure cell phone. Price answered and Bolan picked up on her concern.

“I’m fine,” he said in answer to her question.

“You would say that if both your arms had been blown off.”

“I can tell you they’re both intact and in good working order. Now patch me through to Bear.”

“Kurtzman here. Fire away,” he said. Then added, “Sorry. In your circumstances that may have been an inappropriate remark.”

“Make up for it by doing some hard checking. Anything and everything concerning Iran and uranium from Kazakhstan. And look into any intel on a diamond heist in Australia.”

“Slightly bizarre combination but interesting. I guess you want the express response?”

“Don’t I always?”

“I’ll put the Boy Wonder on it. Nothing he likes better than a puzzle request.”

Bolan knew the cyberteam would work its magic. If anyone could pull digital rabbits out of imaginary hats, Kurtzman’s people would do it.

* * *

THE FBI DESCENDED within a couple of hours, a pair of Bureau helicopters swooping in and disgorging armed agents. They surrounded the house and swept the area. Mitchell went out to brief them. SAC Duncan had given the order she was still in charge. Bolan stood back and watched her direct the clean up operation. She handled it with confidence, and he could see why Duncan had so much faith in her abilities. The only moment she faltered was when Jake Bermann was removed from the house, even though the man was in a closed body bag. She showed no remorse at all when Brewster was taken out; she had made her stance known and refused to think any differently; Bolan could sympathize with her—Brewster had turned against everything the FBI stood for, had betrayed his fellow agents by accepting money from the very criminal organization the Bureau was fighting.

Duncan called, informing Bolan he was already inbound from Washington and would attend the scene ASAP. An FBI regional mobile-command center had shown up, establishing a base for the FBI teams working the scene, and once that was in motion Bolan and Mitchell stood down. She designated one of the agents to handle things while she took a break. Despite her professional attitude, Bolan could see she was under some stress though she was attempting to conceal the fact. He had one of the agents drive him to his vehicle and recover Mitchell’s. They returned them to the crime scene. The area was a hive of activity as the Bureau teams processed the house and surrounding grounds. The FBI worked with practiced efficiency, the next couple of hours full of activity.

Bolan kept an eye on Mitchell. She was back directing operations, but a couple of times he noticed her standing alone and looking a little lost. The violent action of their encounter was most likely the worst incident of her Bureau career. High-intensity shooting matches were not an everyday occurrence in the FBI.

Bolan had a quiet word with one of the agents. The man saw Bolan’s point and told him he would step in until Duncan showed up. The Executioner spoke to Mitchell. At first she refused to leave the site, but eventually she gave in to his persuasion. He drove them back along the highway to Treebone. Mitchell sat quietly beside him, gazing out the window and not saying much. Bolan parked up at a local diner, overrode her protests and made her go inside for a coffee and some downtime. She made a half-hearted objection but that didn’t last long once she smelled the aroma of coffee.

Bolan had removed his tactical gear, stowing it in the rear of the SUV, pulling his leather jacket on over his black clothing and Mitchell had produced a plain wind breaker from her SUV so they at least looked like an ordinary couple in need of a break.

Bolan ordered coffee for them as they settled in an empty booth. He sat across from Mitchell and watched as she buried her head in the mug, savoring the hot brew. As she set the mug on the table and leaned back, Bolan could see the tension slip away. She glanced up at him, a tired smile on her lips.

“Yeah, okay, that coffee was just what I needed.”

Bolan nodded. “Always take the doc’s advice.”

“So now you’re a doctor. Anything else I need to know about you, Cooper?”

“All in good time,” Bolan said.

Mitchell ran a finger across the rim of her coffee cup, knowing what she wanted to say, finding it hard to say. She had always followed Bureau lines, stayed within the parameters the FBI hammered into its agents. But right now she had to step beyond them because there was something going on that transcended normal policy. The recent events had made her lose some degree of faith in her profession. She admitted she was probably overreacting, but she was unable to push aside what Brewster had done. Bad enough he had worked against the FBI. The deaths of two of her team, men she had worked with and had trusted, had compounded that betrayal. It had made her see the world from a different angle.

Apart from SAC Duncan, the only man she could trust right now was Cooper.

Matt Cooper had already saved her life, kept her alive and had talked a lot of sense.

“This can’t end here, Cooper. Hegre is still operating. Still out of our reach. And I’m not so sure, right now, that the Bureau is capable of doing anything about that.”

“The FBI makes its decisions based on the rules. I don’t. I work my side of the street by acting on intel, sometimes hunches. Duncan believes I break every rule that exists. He’s probably correct, but my approach gets the results I need.”

“Cooper, you’re just a Lone Ranger at heart.”

“I forgot my mask today. Hey, I need to make a call,” Bolan said. “If there’s something to uncover, we’ll find it.”

“Should I close my eyes and look the other way? Hands my over ears while I sing la-la-la?”

“Only if you want some funny looks. Order some more coffee. Maybe something to eat. I’ll be back.”

Bolan slid out of the booth and walked to the door, retrieving his cell phone from his pocket. Mitchell watched him go, a thin smile on her lips. She caught the server’s eye and beckoned to her.

“Two more coffees. What’s the best thing on the menu?”

“Honey, the boss would tell you everything on the menu is the best. Take my advice and stick to steak, eggs and hash browns. Those he can cook.”

“For two,” Mitchell said. “And thanks for the advice.”

* * *

BOLAN HAD KURTZMAN on his cell phone.

“Any results, Bear? You guys worked your magic yet?”

“Akira’s trawling picked up on that Australian angle. There was a recent theft of diamonds from one of the mines in the Northern Territories. One hell of a haul. At a conservative estimate the cops figure the haul to be worth in excess of $80 million in uncut stones. Akira hacked into the police database and found out there was a hijacking on the highway between the mining area and Alice Springs. One of those Aussie road-trains was stopped on the road, the crew gunned down. The doors on one of the containers were blown open. Nothing on the manifest was taken.

“Then the local police at the mining company homed in on one of the employees taking off unannounced. He must have panicked when the cops started questioning employees. They picked him up on the highway, chased him and the guy lost control. He ended up in the local hospital with two broken legs, smashed ribs and a fractured shoulder. They found a stash of uncut diamonds in his luggage. His pay for the job. It seems he’d been contracted by Hegre to filter off diamonds from a number of batches between being lifted from the mine and weighed up. He was a production foreman and had a gambling and drinking problem. In debt up to his ears. Hegre paid him to arrange the thefts. He hid the cache in a metal toolbox and had it added to the road train cargo. All this came out in the hospital. The guy couldn’t wait to confess once the cops confronted him with the evidence.”

“How were the diamonds taken out of the country?”

“The guy came clean on that. Pretty slick operation. The heist team simply drove across country. Two thousand miles plus, to the coast and the diamonds were to be placed on a freighter out of Port Hedland on the Australian West coast.”

“Any trace on where the cache was heading?”

“The guy didn’t know that. Or the name of the ship.”

“Damn.”

“Don’t give up so easily, Striker. I have more.”

“You found the ship?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, my friend. Our young master of the cyber universe ran checks on all the vessels that left Port Hedland in the timeline we had and has come up with the answer you will love.”

Kurtzman explained how the tracking had been achieved and Bolan chalked one up to Akira Tokaido, the youngest member of Kurtzman’s cyberteam.

“Only three ships left the port in the timeframe we were looking at. Akira ran in-depth checks on them. Ownership. Destinations. Arrival dates. Two were quickly discounted. The third turned out to be the one we wanted. The Echo Rose, registered in Manila. She’s had more owners than you can shake a stick at. The tramp of all tramp ships. She carries mixed cargoes of every shape and size all round the region. When Akira ran his check on who has her papers currently, he hit a spiderweb of fake titles and shaky companies. All covers for the real owner of the Echo Rose.”

“Hegre?”

“Very loose connection, but the buck does stop at the Hegre corporation. Akira logged into the ship’s manifest. The Echo Rose was on a cargo run that would take her up through the Timor Sea, delivering cargo all the way up to Hong Kong and Kowloon.”

“Ties in with what Brewster said before he died. Hong Kong and Kowloon.”

“Brewster?”

“A bought agent. Joseph Brewster. We might be looking at other leaks.”

“Other insiders?”

“Anything and everything, Aaron. We have names from last time around. Start to pull strands together.”

“On it.”

When Bolan went back inside, his food had just been delivered. He glanced at the enormous platter then across at Mitchell. She was enjoying her meal.

“Are we eating for the whole diner?”

Mitchell smiled. “A big guy like you needs his food.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to do any running for the next couple of days.”

“So?” Mitchell asked.

Bolan knew what she was angling for. It was time to update her on his talk with Stony Man.


CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_6cfab5ff-ab4d-5a14-aa0c-81c3acf23b74)

“Hegre is involved in a deal to supply uranium for the Iranians. I don’t have the full details, but it looks likely the stuff came from Kazakhstan. Hegre will do the deal on behalf of the Iranian connection. Iran finds it difficult to buy uranium on the open market, especially since the nuclear deal it struck with the six world powers. Once Iran’s name comes up, most countries back away. Hegre steps in and does the buy for them, shunts it around locations until they can finally ship it to Iran undercover. The stolen diamonds help Hegre raise plenty of cash for working the deal, and they’ll get it back in triplicate once the client pays up.” Bolan added, “Hegre lost a big load of cash when a North Korean deal went sour. The diamond heist will have helped boost their reserves.”

“Not if we could take it away from them,” Mitchell said.

Bolan did not fail to pick up on the we. The look on Mitchell’s face told him that she was not joking. The FBI agent, already deep into the Hegre mythology, was as committed to the organization’s downfall as Bolan. She had already proved her worth under fire and she had a sharp brain. Her unflinching attitude was well suited to Bolan’s way of operating.

“Hong Kong isn’t downtown U.S.A.,” he pointed out.

“Don’t you believe I can handle it?”

“I do. I’m not so sure China can.”

Mitchell smiled across Bolan’s shoulder as she spotted a familiar figure crossing the diner’s parking lot.

“Here’s someone else who probably feels the same,” she said, watching as SAC Drake Duncan pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He spotted them and made his way to where they were sitting.

“Sir,” Mitchell said.

“They told me you two had headed out for some peace and quiet,” Duncan said, not unkindly.

“That was my idea,” Bolan said.

“I’m not complaining.” Duncan surveyed the meals they were eating. “Looks good. I haven’t eaten all damn day.”

Bolan waved the server over and ordered a meal for Duncan, adding a request for more coffee.

“Coffee would be good,” Duncan said. “My head is still reeling after that flight from Washington. I got the go-ahead to get a flight courtesy of the Air Force. And I thought regular airlines moved fast.”

Bolan ran through what they had learned about Hegre, the diamonds and the uranium. Duncan listened patiently.

His coffee arrived and he sipped it.

“Good,” he said. He looked from Bolan, to Mitchell, his thoughts almost visible as he digested the information. “I am getting the feeling there’s something unspoken, and I’m certain I’m not going be too happy about it.”

To his credit SAC Duncan did not explode with righteous anger as Bolan brought him up-to-date. He remained silent as Bolan gave him the details of Stony Man’s revelations, though he refrained from revealing his information source. The FBI man only glanced at Mitchell a couple of times as he absorbed what Bolan had to say, especially when the soldier asked for Mitchell to be allowed to accompany him on the mission.

Mitchell remained silent, for once holding back from making any kind of remarks, facetious or otherwise. She realized the big man was in her corner and his quiet stating of the facts got his request listened to and considered without there being any raised voices or impassioned pleading.

When Bolan had finished Duncan leaned back, catching the server’s eye and asked for more coffee.

“I need this,” he said when the coffee had been delivered. “Truth be told I could do with a splash of whisky in it.”

“If we want to take advantage of this,” Bolan said, “we need to move. A flight to Hong Kong should allow us to be there when that ship docks.”

“To do what?”

“Ideally take that cache of diamonds away from Hegre, stop them from rebuilding their cash stores and try to get a line on where the uranium is.”

“That all sounds damn fanciful to me.”

“There’s always Lise Delaware,” Mitchell said quietly.

“I understand your need to settle this because of your dead teammates,” Duncan said. “The FBI does not go in for personal vengeance, Agent Mitchell—Sarah.”

Mitchell took a breath. “Sir, Hegre is the cause of those deaths. They need to take responsibility for them. In a court of law if possible. We’re talking about a major criminal organization here. One that uses bribery of law enforcement officials and anyone they can get their hands on to protect their interests. Who murder at will.”

“You make a good case,” Duncan said. “You have the means to get to your destination, Cooper?”

Bolan nodded. “Yes.”

Duncan shook his head. “I must be crazy to allow this. If it backfires, Sarah, we’ll both be out of a job. If anyone asks, you’re on special assignment, undercover and out of contact.” He threw up his hands. “What the hell am I doing? Just get out of here, the pair of you, before I get all righteous and lock you both up.”

* * *

MITCHELL DROVE WHILE Bolan contacted Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, whose base was at Stony Man Farm.

“Are you sure about this?” Brognola asked after Bolan had laid out his next move.

“Hegre is leaving a trail of bodies while they wheel and deal. FBI agents, truckers in Australia, and there’s the possibility of a deal with Iran for uranium. Hegre needs to be shut down, put out of business for good.”

“I should know better than to even question what you’re up to. Tell me what you need. Barb will arrange to have tickets ready for you at Seattle-Tacoma airport. We have your photo, and Aaron will access Mitchell’s from the FBI database. I’ll have passports couriered to you by first thing tomorrow morning and left at the hotel desk.”

“Hotel?”

“We’ll book you in for an overnight stay. Details on which hotel will follow.”

“Have Andy Chen meet us at the airport in Hong Kong. We’ll have to leave weapons behind. In the SUV. I’ll leave the key at reception.”

Chen was a contact Bolan had used before.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have a pickup arranged. Chen will be able to get you ordnance once you arrive and a satellite phone.”

“Thanks.”

“Keep in touch, Striker. You know how Hegre operates, so stay on your toes.”

“I have good backup on this.”

“And more at home.”

“Watch yourselves.”

“Good backup?” Mitchell said as Bolan ended the call. “Was that about me?”

“Do you always eavesdrop?”

Mitchell smiled. “Only if it matters.”

“It matters.”

“Then thanks.”

“Keep your eyes peeled for a shopping mall,” Bolan said.

“Why?”

“If we turn up at the airport dressed this way, someone is going to think it’s a SWAT raid. We need clothes to fit the role of tourists.”

They rolled into the parking area of a mall twenty minutes later. Mitchell led the way and they hit a couple of stores, using Bolan’s Stony Man issued credit card to buy what they needed. A quick visit to restrooms and they emerged dressed in casual outfits more suited to the roles they were about to play. They would leave the soiled clothing in the SUV. The only item Bolan retained was his leather jacket.

Bolan had purchased a couple of lightweight carryalls for the change of clothing they had bought. He added a third bag for the weapons they would leave behind. Before they drove away from the mall they placed their weapons in the third bag, wrapped in the clothes they were abandoning. Bolan stowed the bag in the SUV’s trunk, out of sight.

Minutes before they arrived at the airport Bolan’s cell rang. It was Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller.

“A king guest room was booked for you at the Seattle Airport Marriott. The reservation was made for Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. That’s who you are on your new passports. You look like a nice couple.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Your friends interest me,” Mitchell said.

“Interesting is one way to describe them. Head for the Seattle Airport Marriott hotel. It appears we’re booked in as a married couple. The Hamiltons. Passports should arrive before we fly out tomorrow at 11:00 a.m.”

“Whoever you friends are they have good taste,” Mitchell said as they reached the hotel.

She drove the SUV into the parking lot and they made their way inside the hotel.

Mitchell wandered around the large room, checking the facilities.

“Is this your usual standard?”

“No. Sometimes only get a single bed.”

“Cooper, do you mind if I crash? The day’s catching up on me. You know what I mean?”

“You go ahead.”

Mitchell took a fast shower, wrapped herself in a bathrobe and climbed into the bed.

“Just wake me in time for breakfast,” she murmured.

* * *

WHILE BOLAN AND Mitchell slept, a Stony Man courier arrived in Seattle at 6:35 a.m. He handed over the sealed package at the desk of the Marriott, picked up the keys for Bolan’s SUV and drove out of the parking lot. He drove to a small private airport where he transferred to an aircraft for his return flight to Washington, taking with him the carryall containing the ordnance Bolan had left behind.

* * *

AT 8:00 A.M. Bolan picked up the package waiting at the hotel reception desk. It held the Stony Man–prepared passports for himself and Mitchell. They looked well used and were stamped with entry and exit visas from a number of countries.

When he showed the passports to Mitchell, over breakfast, she was impressed.

“I may keep this,” she said. “It would be very handy if I want to take a quiet trip somewhere.”

“What would SAC Duncan have to say about that?”

“That would be telling.” Mitchell regarded him across the table. “And speaking about telling, what about you and the mysterious Lise Delaware? What do you have to tell me about her...?”


CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_2b84cf48-4ad4-58f2-90c1-b021bff5c854)

As they settled in their seats for the flight to Hong Kong, Mitchell leaned over and said, “I still don’t have the lowdown on Delawar”

“First time we met she tried to kill me. I screwed up a big deal for Hegre and grazed her arm with a bullet. From what I’ve learned she doesn’t let it go when she’s been bested.”

“You must have gotten to her, Cooper.”

“What can I say. And all I know is her name...”

* * *

WHEN LISE WAS fourteen years old, she came home from school and found her mother dead in the bathtub. The cold water was tinged pink from the blood that had streamed from her slashed wrists. It was later confirmed that Rose Delaware had also swallowed every pill in the house. It was a final act of desperation, brought on by the severe depression she suffered from. She had struggled with her condition for a number of years, fighting a slow, losing battle. Rose’s ongoing condition had only been relieved by the presence of her daughter, and she fought against it every day. She kept her apartment clean and provided a loving environment for her daughter, Lise.

Things she kept from her daughter only came to light after her death. The thing that pushed her over the edge was the final chapter in the long-running battle with her husband. He had wanted a divorce. Rose had denied him that, but he continued to fight her and had finally gotten what he wanted by citing her unreasonable attitude and deliberate obstruction when he told her he wanted to remarry. It had cost him a lot of money, but he was wealthy and the financial cost meant nothing to him. The divorce papers were found on the bathroom floor where Rose had dropped them.

The trauma of finding her dead mother affected Lise badly. She fell into an almost vegetative state and had to be hospitalized. She was given the best care available, a private room and around-the-clock care. Her father chose not to visit her. They had never been close. Work had always been his top priority. It took nearly six months before she began to come out of her shell and respond to attention.

Three weeks later a man came to the hospital. She vaguely recalled his face. He had visited her mother some years back. Lise remembered how he had been with her mother. He had offered to help, but for some reason her mother had turned him away. She couldn’t understand why. Her mother refused to talk about it. Now on the day he visited her, she sat and stared at him, still cloaked in despair at the loss of her mother. When he came back days later, he brought a woman with him. They spoke with the people in charge and later that same day she was removed from the hospital. There was a large car outside and Lise was placed inside, with the man on one side and the woman the other. They drove for what seemed a long time.

Lise watched through the car window until fatigue took over and she slept.

When she awakened, she was dressed in warm pajamas and tucked in a soft bed.

In the days and weeks that followed, Lise came to know the woman, who was with her most of the days. She brought new clothes. And food. The room she was in was large and bright, filled with good things. The woman—she found out her name was Claire—looked after her. Lise was taken from the room, down the wide staircase and through a door that led outside into a wide, attractive garden.

The house was where Lise would spend the next few years. In comfort and surrounded by people who cared for her and ensured she lacked for nothing. Not once did she inquire about her father. He was responsible for her mother’s death. He was dead to her.

The house and grounds were spacious. There was a swimming pool and a wide patio. Claire and Lise spent many hours in the warm sunshine. There were a number of staff in the house who fetched and carried, doing anything Claire requested. Lise did not see the man for a few weeks. When she finally asked where he was, Claire simply told her he was away on business, but he would come to see her when he came back. Claire was her constant companion, and through her kindness and patience Lise was gradually drawn out of her solitary mood. Sometimes at night she would lie in her bed and think about her mother, trying to bring back the good times. Then her mother had been strong and beautiful. But the dark memories kept overshadowing the good times. Lise would lie and stare into the shadows, brooding. Thinking about the bad times, struggling to banish them. Gradually the memories faded, but never completely. They always hugged the deep corners of her mind. Lise learned to keep them buried because she didn’t want to disappoint Claire, who devoted her time and patience to the girl.

When the man came back to the house, Lise learned his name was Julius Hegre. He spoke to her gently. Explained to her that her mother had been his sister, and he wanted to take care of Lise now.

When Lise asked why her mother had refused his help, he told her she had not approved of his business.

Hegre had smiled his distant smile and told her when she was older he would explain.

The explanation did not come for eight years.

Lise was twenty-two years old when he had explained the mystery behind his business affairs. Watching her face as she absorbed his words, Hegre saw not shock, but a spark of interest that only grew as he revealed his true occupation.

She began, from that day, to immerse herself in his business, always asking questions, wanting to know everything he could tell her. There was a confident spirit emerging and the revelation that his business was nowhere near lawful only intrigued her more. She was like a young child again, full of curiosity, eager to run before she could walk. Hegre could never tire at the bombardment as she badgered him with more and more questions.

Lise threw herself into the physical interests her lifestyle allowed her to pursue: horseback riding, swimming, a growing interest in shooting—using every kind of firearm she could get her hands on. She excelled at martial arts—her instructors were always having to rein her in as she pushed herself harder. She revealed a ruthless streak, and many of Hegre’s hardened crew found themselves challenged when faced with her in the dojo. She was as hard on herself as she was any opponent.

Her companion had left by this time. There was nothing more she could do for the young woman who faced life with a confidence bordering on arrogance. The child had long since disappeared, and the full-grown woman had become a stranger to her tutor.

Lise’s change revealed itself in a traumatic event that occurred one day when she returned from riding across the wide estate. She left her horse at the stable, then made her way through the stand of trees to the house. She entered through the kitchen, riding boots clicking on the tiled floor. From the kitchen she made her way down the wide hall, wondering why the house was so unusually quiet.

No one was about, which she found strange. There should have been at least a couple of Hegre’s bodyguards in sight.

Lise sensed something wrong.

As she passed Julius Hegre’s study, she heard voices. One belonged to Hegre. The other she didn’t recognize.

She neared the closed doors and heard the unknown voice suddenly rise.

She hesitated for no longer than a couple of seconds before instinct took over. The situation was not right. She knew that for a fact, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. All she sensed was Julius being in danger, and she had to do something about it.

The voices rose higher.

Accusations.

Anger.

Then there came the muffled sound of a shot from behind the doors.

She hit the closed double doors with her left shoulder. They flew open.

Julius was down on one knee, right hand clasped to his right side. The bright color of blood seeped through his fingers.

One of Julius’s bodyguards was sprawled unconscious on the floor, a deep gash in the side of his head streaming blood.

Ten feet away was a man she recognized as Peter Karpov, a business rival of her uncle’s. He held a large pistol in his left hand, a Desert Eagle, already bringing it back on target.

Karpov half turned as Lise crashed into the room, made to twist the pistol in her direction. She didn’t break stride, just kept moving, and Karpov had no chance to avoid her. She slammed into him bodily, the force of her forward motion knocking him off balance. As she struck him, she clamped both hands around his left wrist, twisting against the bone until it snapped. Karpov squealed at the burst of pain, And he felt himself going down. He slammed to the floor, the impact knocking the breath from his body, leaving him momentarily stunned. The pistol was jarred from his grip. It struck the floor, bouncing end over end, and Lise took a long stride toward it. She snatched it up.

The weapon settled on Karpov as he rose to his knees, gripping his broken wrist. He saw the black ring of the muzzle pointing at him. It was the last thing he ever saw.

Lise’s finger squeezed back on the trigger.

The pistol bucked in her grasp as it fired. Before the shell case hit the floor she fired a second time.

The slugs slammed into Karpov’s head, entering just above his left eye. They cored in, shattering bone and cleaving through his brain, before erupting in a bloody shower from the back of his skull. The impact threw Karpov off his knees and dropped him to the floor. He landed hard, the looseness of sudden death having removed any physical control. He sprawled on his back, half of his head missing.

Lise stood upright, the heavy pistol sagging toward the floor. Breathing deeply, she turned, her first impulse to check on Julius. She felt only concern for him. The fact she had just killed someone had no impact on her. There was no revulsion.

No regret.

Nor was there any kind of vicarious thrill. It had simply been something that had to be done.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Then gave an embarrassed smile. “Of course you are not all right. You have just been shot.”

She moved to be closer to him. It was then she became aware of the pistol in her hand. The Israeli Desert Eagle was a .357 Magnum. It would become her personal weapon of choice from that day on. She stared at the pistol for a moment. Then she moved to place the weapon on Hegre’s desk before she turned her full attention to him.

“Let’s get you into a chair,” she said.

Lise helped him into one of the leather armchairs. She stripped off her riding jacket, took off her white shirt, folded it and wadded it over Hegre’s wound, pressing it tight. She slipped the jacket back on and buttoned it as she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. Moments later Dominic Melchior, her uncle’s lawyer and friend, stepped into the room. He was closely followed by a couple more of Julius’s men. Melchior was unarmed, while the others carried handguns.

Melchior took in the scene quickly. He raised a hand to the men.

“Get on the phone. I want the doctor here ASAP to attend to Julius, a cleanup team to get rid of that mess on the floor and attention for Hendly. Do it now.”

One of the bodyguards turned and quickly left the room, closing the doors behind him. The other man took up a position close to the door.

“He shot you, but you still got the drop on him?” Melchior said to Hegre.

Hegre shook his head slowly.

“No. Not me. It was Lise.”

Melchior looked across at her. She returned his stare with unflinching steadiness.

“She tackled him. He dropped the gun and she picked it up and shot him,” Hegre said.

Melchior looked from Lise to the bloody corpse on the floor. A spreading pool of blood had fanned out from beneath Karpov’s shattered skull.

“It looks as if all those martial arts and shooting lessons are paying off,” he stated.

“They will from now on,” Lise replied. “I intend to be his personal bodyguard. Where he goes, I go. Argue with me, Dom, and I’ll pick that gun back up and shoot you, too.”

Hegre raised his head and looked at Melchior.

“I wouldn’t argue with her, Dom.”

Melchior nodded. “I believe you. And I believe her.”

“Where were you all? Lise demanded, her voice taking on a hard tone.

“Karpov’s people came in from the garden, taking us by surprise,” Melchior said. “They had us under their guns before we could react. No excuses, Julius, they caught us off guard. Two of our people are dead. They shot them in front of us.”

Lise glanced at Hegre. He had a pale sheen on his face.

“My fault,” he said. “I should have read the signs earlier. Karpov has been threatening to move on us for months. I didn’t believe he would do it in such a crude way.”

“They shouldn’t have been able to get so close,” Lise snapped. “Things have become slack around here. Everyone has become complacent and let security slide. That won’t happen again.”

“I have to admit she is right, Julius,” Melchior said.

Dominic Melchior had been with Hegre from day one. He was, apart from being the organization’s lawyer, Hegre’s consigliere, and the man who often acted as Hegre’s conscience. Slim, gray-haired and always dressed impeccably, Melchior offered counsel to his friend, uttered the words that could calm Hegre and make him see the right path to choose. He had an uncanny insight into what went on in the minds of others. Hegre had an unshakable trust in Melchior’s words of wisdom.

“Where are Karpov’s men now?” Lise asked.

“Our backup team caught their man watching the approach to the estate,” Melchior said. “They caught him, and he admitted our people were being held in the garage. They got the drop on Karpov’s men. We dealt with them and headed back to the house. We heard the shots as we came inside.”

“How many Karpov men are there?” Lise asked.

“Four,” Melchior said.

Watching Lise, he saw the cold gleam in her eyes. Her expression was without a trace of emotion. She reached for the Desert Eagle and picked it up. She stared at Hegre for a time, then turned to where the bodyguard stood.

“All four of them,” she said. “I want them buried with Karpov. See to it our people are taken care of properly.”

The bodyguard glanced at Hegre.

“Do what she says,” Hegre said. “Make it quick. Have the place cleaned up and get everything back to normal. Tell everyone from now on Miss Delaware speaks for me.”

From that day on Lise Delaware became Hegre’s near-constant companion. She proved more adept at the task than anyone previously. She took control of Hegre’s security and within three months he had promoted her to his second in command.

At first there was resentment from within the ranks, but Lise commanded respect by proving that she was far better than any of them. In time she was accepted by them and Hegre himself, though he would never admit it openly. She was physically challenged by a member of the group who viewed her as merely a favored upstart. When he disrespected her in a room full of people, Lise put him down with two moves. The moaning guy was dragged away by two of Lise’s personal team. He was never seen again.

The incident confirmed Lise’s skill at her job. She was given more responsibility with the group, Hegre trusting her with more and more important tasks. He kept the fact to himself, never voicing that he felt safer than he had for some time. He had become aware of her true dedication, coupled with a natural affinity with the needs of the group. There was, as well, a standoffish trait to her character that suited her position in life, a detachment he put down to her early life with an uncaring father and a depressive mother. Lise had learned at an early age not to put much trust in others. She had developed a hardness to protect herself from the harshness of life. Not to become too dependent on those around her. It gave her an aura of aloofness that only Julius Hegre himself could penetrate. No matter what happened around her, Lise held Hegre in the highest regard.

Her true worth was demonstrated when she picked up on his unease over a deal being brokered through the Sicilian Union Corse. Hegre had expanded from the U.S.A. over a number of years, making deals in Europe and Asia where they offered assistance to other criminal groups, to the mutual benefit of all concerned. As always, the acquisition of additional wealth was one of the prime motivators in any business deal. The Sicilian criminal institution had entered into a deal with Hegre that involved money laundering on a large scale.

When the deal was almost complete Hegre’s accountants had discovered that the local Union Corse group had been skimming money from the operation. When Hegre had asked for an accounting, the local head man had simply turned aside the challenge, accusing Hegre of being little more than foreign crooks trying to fleece the honorable Sicilian clan. It was an insult to Julius Hegre. In all his dealings, criminal though they may have been, he had never treated a business partner badly, had never cheated on a deal. Hegre felt strongly about his reputation, and the Union Corse insult hurt him.

Without any outward show of concern over the matter, Lise had begged off her responsibilities for a few days, and because of her tireless efforts over the past few years Hegre had granted her request. Lise had made sure a team of her best security people were assigned to stay at Hegre’s side. Lise had used her authority to commandeer one of the group’s aircraft and take a flight to France. Once there she had used her Hegre influence to recruit help and had traveled to Marseilles where the Union Corse chapter was based.

Two days after her arrival in the French city the two top Union Corse men were killed. Each man died from a shot to the head from a high-powered rifle: one on the street, the second while he stood at the window of his office overlooking the Marseilles waterfront.

The shooter was never identified, the weapon never found. The assassinations were put down to intergang rivalry. The French police ran an investigation that petered out quickly. The killing of local criminals was not an entirely original occurrence, and if the truth was known, the deaths were not going to cause many cops any loss of sleep.

The intergang scenario was true to a point, though it was in fact less rivalry and more a matter of honor.

Lise Delaware left France as quietly as she had arrived. On the flight back to the U.S. she slept comfortably, emerging from the plane refreshed and in no way affected by what she had done.

The killing of two Sicilian gangsters in France was not big news in the States. It received some reporting in newspapers but not enough to garner much reaction.

Except from Julius Hegre.

He read of the incidents and quickly associated the location of the killings and the Union Corse with his own fallout with the crime association. That and Lise Delaware going AWOL for a few days made him come to a conclusion.





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