“How on earth,” Octavios charged, “would I know that?”
“They’re not Codex Freedom?”
“Not from my cell. If they’re from one of the satellite cells, I wouldn’t know them by sight. But I have an eye for these things, Cooper. Those three would have trouble formatting a USB drive. They don’t look the type.”
Bolan thought of Aaron Kurtzman who, though confined to a wheelchair, was every bit as large as the men by the truck. The Bear was the most adept computer expert Bolan had ever encountered. “You’d be surprised,” he said.
The three men began walking over. Bolan braced himself for an attack, his right hand going to the butt of the Desert Eagle under his jacket.
The three men were of similar height and build, as if they’d all walked off the same college wrestling team. Bolan judged their age in the early twenties, max. The one on the left was blond; Bolan dubbed him “Blondie” in his mind. The other two had dark hair and looked enough alike to be brothers. Bolan tagged them “Heckle” and “Jeckle.” Blondie looked like the leader; his posture was more aggressive and he was quick to take a half step in front of the other two.
Bolan started running angles in his mind. There were cameras all over these retail big-box parking lots. Anything he did would be recorded and played back later. He’d have to be swift.
“You’re him,” Blondie said. He pointed to Octavios. “That guy on the internet.”
Bolan’s eyes narrowed. Had they stumbled across the only politically aware good ol’ boys for a thousand miles?
“It is him,” Heckle added. “The guy who released the troop movement data that got those soldiers killed.”
Jeckle took a step forward. “Julio Octavian. That guy.”
Octavios laughed out loud. Bolan chopped his arm down at an angle, the universal symbol for “knock it off.” It was too late. Blondie took that as an invitation to make his move. He threw a wide but powerful haymaker in Bolan’s direction, though he wasn’t really looking to punch the soldier. Blondie’s eyes were on Octavios the entire time. He figured he’d punch his way through Octavios’s chaperone and then take out his patriotic ire on the tall Greek.
Bolan stopped the haymaker cold. He blocked at Blondie’s shoulder and inside his arm, slamming the edges of his hands and his palms into the meat of Blondie’s muscles. It was meant to inflict pain, and the move made the young man groan. Bolan followed with a quick elbow slash with his right, bringing it from right to left across his adversary’s jaw. He stepped in and, using his knee, nudged Blondie’s left leg out of alignment. That made it easy for him to put the young man off balance and spill him to the pavement.
Heckle and Jeckle were long on courage and short on good sense. The first of the two tried to reach out and grab Bolan by the neck. The soldier let him think he was going to manage it...and as Heckle’s fingers started to meet around the Executioner’s neck, Bolan brought one palm from beneath Heckle’s eye line, straight up the middle. He used the heel of his palm to drive Heckle’s jaw up and back, toppling the man in a heap.
Jeckle tried to go low and throw a kick into Bolan’s shin. The soldier intercepted it with his knee again, smashing it against Jeckle’s thigh and then scraping his heel down his opponent’s shin. The guy howled in pain. Bolan threw a short hook that caught the young man at the point where his jaw met his skull. He pulled it at the last minute. The young man wasn’t knocked unconscious, just dazed.
“Get in the car,” Bolan ordered Octavios, who somewhat reluctantly climbed into the Malibu. “I’ll be watching from right over there, at their truck. Don’t make me stop you with bullets.”
“You really are a tiresome man,” the Greek commented. He sat motionless in the Malibu’s passenger seat and even hung his head as if to confirm his compliance.
Bolan grabbed Blondie by the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. “Quit your moaning,” the soldier said, “and help me with your friends.”
It took a little doing, but eventually Bolan had all three of the young men back in their Ford. He paused with the driver’s door open, reached into his jacket and produced his Justice Department credentials. Moving them slowly from left to right, he held them in front of their faces to make sure they saw.
“Holy crap,” Blondie said. “Are we under arrest?”
“No, but I do need you to understand something. I am an authorized federal agent transporting a prisoner. For the record, the man you think is Javier Octavios only looks like him. That’s not him.” He jerked his chin at the Malibu. “That man is a professional lookalike. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Oh man,” Heckle moaned. “Oh man, oh man. We are so screwed.”
“No, you’re not.” When the trio stared at Bolan, goggle-eyed, he managed a reassuring smile. “Just answer some questions for me and you’re free to go.”
“Anything you say, Officer,” Blondie said.
“Who are you?” Bolan asked.
“Just...y-you...know,” Blondie stammered. “We live here. We’re...locals. That’s what you’d call us.”
“And who do you work for?”
“I lost my job when the plant closed,” Heckle stated.
“I sell stuff in online auctions,” Jeckle added.
“I work at an auto parts store,” Blondie chimed in.
“So...none of you is an operative for any foreign interest or domestic terror group?” Bolan asked.
“No way, man,” Blondie declared. “We love America.”
“Yeah, I got that part,” Bolan acknowledged. “Why’d you follow me through the store? Why were you tailing me before I pulled in here?”
“We weren’t,” Blondie said. “We were just behind you, is all. But when you got out with that guy—” he nodded at the Malibu “—Tom recognized him.” Blondie pointed to Jeckle. “So we just...you know. Thought we’d see if it was him. And we thought it was. So we were going to teach him a lesson for all those soldiers who got killed.”
Bolan shook his head. “I get it,” he said. “Look, boys, your hearts are in the right place. I’d be angry, too. But you can’t go around attacking people in parking lots.”
“But...” Heckle countered. “You did.”
“Fair point. But I wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t coming at me. Don’t start a fight you can’t finish, young man. And the next time you think you see somebody who deserves to be taught a lesson, pick up a phone. Call the authorities.”
“But the cops can’t always help,” Blondie argued. “Sometimes a guy has to take matters into his own hands.”
“Believe me, there is nobody who understands that better than me. But you three have a lot of learning to do. For your own good, and for the sake of anyone you might blunder into, stay out of any street altercations. Be good men. Do good things. Stand up for what’s right. But I don’t think what’s right involves beating people down in parking lots, does it?” Bolan held up his hand before Heckle could object again. “I didn’t beat you down,” he said. “I very gently corrected your actions.”
“If that was gentle,” Blondie said, “I’d hate to see you when you got mad.”
“Yeah, you would. I’ve got to go now. I’m on the clock. Do I need to remind you that you never saw me? That I was never here?”
“No,” the trio said in unison.
“Good.” Bolan rattled off an eight-hundred number from memory. “Repeat that number back to me.” The three young men did so. “Good,” Bolan added, nodding. “You see anybody suspicious around here after I’ve gone, particularly a large group of Asian tourists, you call that number and describe what you saw. You’d be doing me, and your country, a favor.”
“Yes, sir,” Blondie said. “And...sorry, sir. We weren’t trying to do anything wrong.”
“Punching strangers in parking lots isn’t usually going to lead to something right. For
get me, but remember that number if you see something suspicious.”
Bolan turned and walked toward the Malibu. As he did, he heard Heckle say to Blondie, “Dude. That was like when the robot cop from the movie tells kids to behave.”
“I know, right?” Blondie said.
Bolan had a slight smile on his face when he got into the Malibu.
“Do you often congratulate yourself after beating your own civilian population?” Octavios chided. “Something about you is very much Fascistic, Cooper.”
“Be grateful they were basically good kids,” Bolan told him. “And you wouldn’t know a Fascist if one slapped you in the face.”
“Are you going to slap me in the face for effect?” the Greek asked.
“Don’t tempt me.”
They pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the road.
“You are the most bizarre man I have ever met, Cooper,” Octavios stated. “Nothing you do makes sense to me.”
“Pretty sure I explained it,” Bolan said. “And, last I knew, you were still alive.”
“Yes, well. That could change.” He put his hand to his face and began coughing. Bolan looked at him. He wasn’t imagining it. Octavios looked wan and sickly.
“Is your infection worse?” the soldier asked.
“No. I am simply old.”
“Yeah, you’re a real fossil,” Bolan said. “There are some sports drinks in the shopping bag behind your seat. Have one. You might be dehydrated.”
“You are too kind.” Octavios’s tone was caustic. “What will you do if your three new friends run to the nearest telephone to tell the local news outlets they saw me?”
“I don’t think they will,” Bolan said. “But even if they do run their mouths, it won’t matter. We’ll be long gone. Although I have a friend whose stomach problems will be better off if they keep it to themselves.”
“Half the time I have very little idea what you are talking about,” Octavios grumbled.
“And the other half?”
“I spend that wishing you were dead,” Octavios confessed. He started to make himself more comfortable in his seat, leaning his head on the window again. “Do you have any more of those sedatives? I think I could use a nap.”
“That was a field-expedient fast-acting tranquilizer,” Bolan told him. “You don’t want to be popping those like sleeping pills.”
“Disappointing.” Octavios looked at his side mirror and froze. “Cooper, you mentioned a group of tourists. Does Twenty-Four Seven-One Tours mean anything to you?”
“That group of matching SUVs coming up on our tail?” Bolan asked. “Not especially. But they’ve been closing faster than any legitimate tour group would. I figure they’re here to murder you. Or capture you. Which would be the same as murdering you, except with a significant break for torture and interrogation before the murder part.”
Octavios looked horrified. “You knew they were there?”
“They’ve been tailing us for a while,” Bolan replied. “When our three young friends got in on the action, I took them for scouts for the same group. When it became clear they weren’t, and that the tour vehicles hadn’t followed us into the parking lot, I figured they would wait. I admit I was kind of hamming it up back there. Just in case they were watching through binoculars or listening with long-distance microphones.”
“Whom do you suppose it is?”
“It’s either the North Koreans or somebody else. My thought, when I saw those kids and their two-tone truck, was that it was your group, obviously. But now I figure it’s another group entirely. You’d better get used to it, Javier. This is your life now. Being hunted by strangers who want you dead.”
Chapter Ten
Route 219
“They have been following us for nearly two hours,” Octavios said. “Why do they not make their move?”
“Because we’re headed into progressively more rural territory,” Bolan replied. “It’s what I would do. Fewer chances of civilian casualties.”
“Why would assassins, or foreign agents, be motivated by the desire to lower civilian deaths?”
“The more people who get killed during their illegal operation on United States’ soil, the greater the chance of enormous international repercussions. You’re forgetting where you stand in all this, Javier. Whatever it is that you’ve got on various governments is bad enough that they’re willing to risk war with the United States to stop you from outing it—or to make sure you die and do reveal it. But none of them want war right now. They’ll cut loose any agent or operative who gets caught here in the States. Any prisoners I take out of play will very suddenly find that they’re without a country.”
“Do I detect a note of empathy in your voice, Cooper?”
“I know how the game is played,” Bolan said. “I’ve seen it happen.” He took the exit ahead, accelerating through the curve rather than slowing. “You might want to brace yourself. I’m about to force them to come at us.”
Octavios looked out the window. There were empty fields on either side of the Malibu. “There is nothing here,” he said.
“Exactly. Now hold on, because the ride’s about to get bumpy.”
“What are you doing?” Octavios asked.
Bolan didn’t have time to listen to any more chatter as he drove off the road. He’d been preparing for this for a while. If, as luck had it, they weren’t being pursued by a large enemy force by the time they reached this spot, then fine; he would owe Price and Stony Man Farm his gratitude for precautions taken that amounted to nothing.
But his gut had been telling him, since the start of this mission, to expect company, and lots of it. He made a mental note to press Octavios about what, exactly, Codex Freedom had managed to dig up about the world’s major powers. If he knew what they were fighting to keep hidden, he might be able to gauge just how desperate they were to capture Octavios. The information might also be helpful in determining other nations’ willingness to murder the Greek to trigger his data dump.
There was no time to worry about that now, though. He was speeding and bouncing over an open field in Pennsylvania, offering a prayer to the Universe that Barbara Price and the Stony Man team had been able to arrange what he’d requested with the precision he required. He’d given them very detailed sketches, including the distances involved. He’d left the execution up to them and had been rewarded, not two hours ago, with a text message saying the work was done.
“Where are you?” Bolan muttered. “Where?”
“What are you looking for, Cooper?”
“Quiet,” Bolan said. “There!” He turned the wheel slightly and pushed the accelerator down harder. The bumping, thumping, harrowing ride began to throw both men around in their seats, against their seat belts. Behind them, the alleged tour vehicles had also left the road and were gaining ground in four-wheel-drive.
Bolan was weaving now, counting in his head. He knew the speed of the Malibu; he knew how quickly they were eating up ground. He also knew the precise layout he’d dictated to the Farm. The only variable not under his control was how exact the work crews had been.
“Are those piles of dirt?” Octavios asked, pointing ahead.
“Berms,” Bolan stated. “Constructed to my specifications.” He turned again, counted, then turned back the way he’d come, zigzagging across the field, tacking toward the berms.
“I assume you are familiar with the ancient concept of a straight line being the fastest connector between two points?”
“Pretty sure I told you to be quiet,” the soldier replied. He finally reached the two large berms, which had been piled up with a path between them. He threaded the gap and, once on the other side, brought the Malibu around to the left. Octavios shrieked in surprise as they began to descend.
A dirt ramp had been excavated behind the left-hand berm. It was wide enough to accommodate
the car. Bolan drove down the incline and stopped the vehicle. They were now below ground level, essentially parked in a giant foxhole. The Executioner got out of the car, went to the trunk and removed a duffel bag from the munitions and supplies stowed there. He withdrew a Milkor M32A-1 grenade launcher and a bandolier of 40 mm grenades. There was also a Tavor modular assault rifle in 5.56 mm. The slick Israeli bullpup rifle looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. He loaded it and slung it over his shoulder. Rummaging through the trunk, he took several other items and tucked them into his war bag.
Octavios rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Cooper? What is this? What is going on?”
“War,” Bolan told him. “That’s what’s going on.” He hit his preset contact and dialed the Farm. “Base, this is Striker. I need a cordon around my position. It’s going to get loud here in a little bit.”
“Understood, Striker,” Price said. “We’ll have the roads in the vicinity blocked. A team of blacksuits has been standing by since your sandbox project was completed.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said. “Striker out.” To Octavios, he said, “Keep your head down. And by that I mean do yourself a favor and stay in the car. Unless it’s on fire.”
“Fire? Wait, Cooper, what? Fire?”
Bolan was already ignoring him, though, making his way back up the dirt ramp. He could hear the tour SUVs approaching. They were moving at a good clip across the field. That was good. Bolan wanted them moving fast.
He climbed the berm and, when he reached the top, backed off slightly and went prone. He was now well protected, but perched so he could see the approaching vehicles, which fanned out in a wide skirmish line, multiple grills facing his way.
Then one of the SUVs disappeared.
He watched it dive, nose-first, into one of the multiple pits dug at his request by earth-moving crews.
It was an old tank-killing tactic. There were only so many ways that a guerrilla force could take down a tank. They could try to damage the tracks; they could cover the tanks in fire; or they could dig pits from which the tanks couldn’t escape.
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