“Agent Cooper?” Officer Copeland broke into Bolan’s reverie. “Uh, sir, is he one of yours?”
Bolan saw the man just as the uniformed cop pointed him out. The figure, dressed in a dark hooded sweatshirt and slacks, had taken off at a dead run from the very edge of the cemetery, headed away from the graves.
Bolan broke away and sprinted.
He raced through the maze of tombstones, dodging this way and that. The runner looked back, saw him and produced a handgun of some kind. He loosed a round, but it went wide, ricocheting off one of the marble memorials. Then they were both free of the cemetery proper, the running man cutting across a two-lane road that backed the rear of the graveyard. A Honda narrowly missed the man, the driver honking in outrage.
Bolan yanked the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder holster, risking a glance left and right before rocketing over the road. His combat boots chewed up asphalt and the muddy grass of the field beyond in long, rapid strides. The distance closed; there was a small copse of trees some yards beyond, but no real cover for the fleeing man to seek. He snapped another shot in Bolan’s direction. The bullet never came anywhere near the sprinting soldier.
Mack Bolan was a crack shot, a trained sniper and marksman of decades’ experience. Even he, however, wouldn’t risk a shot on a running man he wished to keep alive for questioning. Instead, he poured on the speed, judged the distance and then launched himself in a flying tackle. He took the smaller man around the knees and rolled through the muddy earth. He came up standing above the runner, who looked up from his back. The Beretta 93-R was trained on the smaller man’s face. His hood had come off to reveal that he was Asian, maybe midtwenties.
“Don’t move,” Bolan ordered.
The Asian was lightning fast. His body torqued and his foot came up like a rattlesnake, snapping a vicious blow into Bolan’s wrist. The Executioner lost the Beretta and took a step backward. The Asian leaped up and was at him, raining a flurry of brutal, acrobatic kicks. Bolan felt the wind being pressed from his rib cage. He reeled, clawing for the Desert Eagle still in its sheath, protecting his head with his left forearm as kick after vicious kick hammered away at him.
He ended up on his back, pulling the Desert Eagle free as the Asian man dropped a knee onto his chest. Firing from retention with the massive weapon pressed against his body, Bolan put a single .44 Magnum round through the little man’s midsection. He yelped in surprise, rolling over and off Bolan, scrambling to his feet once more and taking a few shaky steps away from the soldier.
“Stop!” Bolan ordered, surging to his feet and leveling the hand cannon. The Asian man seemed not to hear him. He took another drunken step, lost his footing and collapsed on suddenly rubbery knees. His legs were folded beneath him as he stared at the sky and took a last, ragged breath, his eyes wide.
The death rattle was unmistakable.
Bolan checked the body carefully. There was little chance a man could fake that sound; the Executioner had heard it often enough for real. Satisfied that the man wouldn’t be going anywhere ever again, Bolan searched the grass for his Beretta and surveyed his surroundings.
Silence.
The empty field bordered several properties, a couple of them residential. The nearest buildings were quite some distance away. No one had heard the gunfire, or no one thought to check it. Either way, Bolan was alone with the dead man.
He’d hoped to question the Asian, but as viciously as he’d fought, it was unlikely he’d have been very talkative. Bolan knew the type. This man was a fighter. He’d have gone down struggling.
Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and retrieved the Beretta. He ejected its magazine, catching it in his free hand, then racked the slide and caught the ejected round in his cupped hand. He inspected the barrel of the machine pistol, peering through the open slide up the spout, making sure there was no mud or other foreign matter obstructing the weapon. Then he loaded the loose round back in the 20-round magazine.
“Agent Cooper!” Bolan turned at the sound of his cover name.
“Are you all right?” Officer Copeland asked, breathing hard as he ran to catch up.
“Fine,” Bolan said. He gestured to the dead man. “I can’t say the same for him.”
“You got him,” Copeland said. Bolan made no response as none was required.
Bolan checked the body. The man’s gun, a Glock 19, was on the ground nearby. Copeland retrieved the weapon, checked it, then unloaded it. Bolan nodded his approval. The dead man had nothing on him except a spare magazine for the Glock, a compact pair of binoculars and a short-range two-way radio, the sort of device hunters and other sportsmen used to coordinate groups of people in the field.
“Did you find one of these?” Bolan held up the bright yellow, rubberized radio. “In the van, or on any of the bodies?”
“Yes, actually,” Copeland confirmed. “It was in the van, in the back with a bunch of junk.”
“Junk?”
“An old dog blanket, a few cardboard boxes full of mostly trash.” Copeland shrugged. “The sort of thing that collects in the back of a van. It was rolling around loose back there. We thought it was just part of the debris, along for the ride after the vehicle was stolen.”
“Not an unreasonable conclusion,” Bolan said, nodding. “But this—” he wagged the radio at Copeland “—changes everything.”
“Who was he?”
“My guess,” Bolan said, “is that this man was a spotter. He was watching the service and called in the gunners in the van for maximum effect.”
“Copeland,” a distorted voice said from Copeland’s belt. “Copeland, come in.” The officer unclipped the walkie-talkie from his duty belt.
“Copeland here,” he said.
“We’ve found something. That federal hotshot will want to see it.”
“That federal hotshot is right here.” Copeland grinned at the Executioner. “What have you got?”
“We found a video camera on one of the gravestones,” the voice came back. “It was still running.”
“Set to record what?” Copeland asked.
“It was pointing at the grave site.”
Copeland looked at Bolan.
“Publicity,” Bolan said. “Had this gone off as planned, they would have killed everybody down there, collected their video and left. Chances are the camera was left by this one.” He jerked his chin toward the dead Asian. “He must have decided getting clear was more important than working his way back around to retrieve the camera.”
“So if the shooting had worked—”
“If it had worked,” Bolan said grimly, “the video of those people dying would have been all over the Internet by the weekend. Count on it.”
“Bastards,” Copeland muttered.
“And then some,” Bolan agreed.
The soldier crouched over the dead Asian, once more taking out his secure satellite phone and taking a digital picture. He paused to transmit it to the Farm. No instructions were needed. Aaron Kurtzman and his team of cyber wizards would know that any corpse shot Bolan sent was a request for identification and intel. He did, however, take a moment to text message Kurtzman with the phone number he’d gotten from Mitch Schrader. It was unlikely the number would prove to be useful, but one never knew. So far Bolan’s enemies had been a curious mixture of sloppy and professional. Someone, somewhere, might have been careless and used a number that was traceable in some way.
Bolan and Copeland made the long walk back to the cemetery. The soldier’s own vehicle, a rental SUV, was parked on the opposite end of the access road leading out the front of the property. He would need to collect his gear and get back to the airport, where Grimaldi and the jet would be ready to go. While the Farm checked on the intelligence Bolan had gathered so far, the Executioner would travel to the nearest Trofimov facility from his target list. There was no telling what he’d find, but it was his experience that if he made enough forays into enemy territory, sooner or later he’d find something or someone would take a s
hot at him. That would be the only break he’d need.
Once the Executioner was certain how far deep the rot went, he was going to slash and burn it out of the nation’s heartland.
The Patriotism Riders remained on the scene, though the police were getting ready to pack up. The police changed their minds about that quickly when Copeland informed them that there was yet another body to account for. As they scrambled, a few of them shooting suspicious looks Bolan’s way, the soldier went to the group of Riders to see what held their attention so firmly.
“I don’t believe it,” Mitch Schrader was saying. This was met by a chorus of agreement from the others, who sounded angry. Bolan looked over the shoulder of the nearest Rider, who noticed him and moved out of the way. Sitting on one of the motorcycles, another of the Riders had a small portable television, apparently something he carried in his saddlebags. The little device showed a newscast with the TBT logo in the corner. Trofimov’s cable news network, Bolan thought.
“You’re not going to like this,” the man on the motorcycle said, looking up at Bolan. “You were military, right? You got the look.”
Bolan had nothing to say to that. He focused on the little television.
“We were getting ready to roll out,” Schrader explained, “when Norm thought to check the news, see if anybody’d gotten wind of all this.” He gestured around him. “I figured, no way, there aren’t any news cameras here, you know?”
“The locals are probably running interference,” Bolan said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a marked car parked at the entrance to this property, keeping the reporters out.”
“Figured as much,” Schrader said. “Anyway, Norm turns on the TV, and this is what we got.” He pointed to the television.
“…promising a full investigation at the highest levels of government and the military command in Afghanistan,” the young female news anchor was saying. “We at TBT are proud to bring you the following commentary from our president and CEO, Yuri Trofimov.”
The scene cut to the interior of a sumptuously appointed office. Behind a gleaming desk, Yuri Trofimov—text near the bottom of the screen identified him as such—looked out at the screen, his features grim. When he spoke, he had a slight accent, but this coupled with his expensive suit and his aristocratic manner gave him the aura of a foreign diplomat. He exuded confidence, competence and, above all, a barely suppressed righteous indignation. Bolan took one look at the man and knew he was dealing with a master manipulator. It oozed from every pore, from the man’s slicked, perfectly coiffed hair to the rings that glittered on his fingers as he clasped his hands on the desktop.
“We at TBT are deeply saddened to bring you this news,” Trofimov said. “But as always, we are committed to nothing so much as the truth, and to the unflinching reporting of that truth, no matter how graphic or unpleasant. I think I speak for many when I say, as proud as I am of my adopted country, that this is a dark day for the United States, and a day when I am ashamed to call myself an American.”
“Shut the hell up, you scumbag!” Norm interjected. Schrader shushed him, gesturing to the screen.
“It is my hope that we, as a nation, can eventually work through this,” Trofimov said soberly, “but I will not lie to you. It will be difficult. We will have to make some hard admissions about our standing in the world. We will have to come to terms with the barbarism that lurks, even now, within our armed forces. This will not sit well with many of us, but I know that we are up to the challenge. For TBT News, I am Yuri Trofimov, and I thank you for trusting us.”
Norm switched the set off in disgust. He looked ready to throw the little device.
“Can you beat that?” Schrader said. “I just…I just don’t know.”
“What happened?” Bolan asked.
“They’re reporting that a bunch of our guys attacked a village in Afghanistan,” Schrader said. “Totally unprovoked, they claimed. Burned the place to the ground, shot twenty, maybe thirty women and children. And Trofimov’s news says they have videotape of our guys doing it…and laughing about it.”
Bolan’s jaw clenched. Things were getting ugly.
They were going to get uglier.
CHAPTER THREE
“Word’s in from the Farm, Sarge,” Grimaldi said from the cockpit, his voice carrying over the jet’s intercom. “You’ve got another rental truck waiting for you at the field, and the care package you requested will be inside. The GPS unit in the truck should get you to the target location without any trouble.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Bolan said. He had finished cleaning the Remington and was replacing it in its Pelican case.
“I’ll stay with the jet once we land, and I’ll be ready to get us in the air again as soon as you’re done in Cedar Rapids. We’ll make good time to Kansas City after that. Barb confirms that your ‘driver’ should be waiting for you when we hit the tarmac again.”
“Copy that,” Bolan acknowledged.
His “driver” was, in fact, a government agent. As he always did, he had his reservations about the arrangement, but Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, Barbara Price, had done her homework. When she had contacted Bolan on his secure satellite phone minutes after the soldier boarded the new jet, she had wasted no time in breaking the news to him.
“The FBI,” she said, “wants in.”
“I’m listening,” Bolan had said simply.
“Kwok Jin,” the Farm’s honey-blond mission controller had stated. “That’s the identification that came back on your dead man, the Asian you said gave you such a hard time. I’m transmitting to you the files on the other shooters, too, but except for Kwok they’re amateur talent. Rabble-rousers with ties to known political agitator groups. Two were former members of PAAC and supposedly expelled, presumably because they were more radical than the group could tolerate. That alone says something. A couple have rap sheets, but nothing too serious. Some of the records go back quite a ways, and in one case it was a sealed juvenile case.”
“So in other words, they’re nobody. But someone put guns in their hands and sent them to kill innocent people. And somebody coordinated them and planned the operation for them.”
“That somebody was likely Kwok or, more probably, the organization that employed him,” Price confirmed. “Kwok Jin. North Korean, formerly with the country’s military. Fled the country and went freelance about ten years ago, in the company of a brother, Sun. Both of them sold the only skills they had on the open market. They’ve been mercenaries for the past decade, most of those ten years in association with one Gareth Twain.”
“I know that name,” Bolan had said.
“For good reason,” Price said. “Twain was one of the most murderous terrorists ever to work with the Irish Republican Army. He was so bloodthirsty, in fact, that the IRA expelled him. That was a good fifteen years ago. He’s been an international mercenary ever since, notable for the fact that he has absolutely no loyalties to any entity, governmental or personal. He’ll kill anyone for the right price, and no body count is too high.”
“Why hasn’t the Farm targeted Twain before?”
“He’s always stayed one step ahead of us,” Price said. “Always on the move, and always in corners of the world where the most conflict was to be had. He’s a brutal operator, and his organization is extensive, but he’s managed to blend into the background noise of the various wars being waged in the Third World and elsewhere. He really gets around, too. He’s done stints all over Africa and South America. In Gaza, while reportedly working for Hamas and the PLO, his people blew up a freighter bound for Semarang last year. He’s been implicated three times in acts of domestic terrorism in the United States, including an aborted bombing of a federal facility in Virginia, sponsored by a homegrown ‘patriot’ group, and he’s wanted for the murder of an Interpol agent in Paris last year.”
“That’s quite a résumé.”
“It’s the Virginia bombing that put him on the Bureau’s radar,” Price reported. “Their
Omnivore computer processing programs, which of course Aaron has fully infiltrated, are set to flag any mention of Twain or his known associates in any law-enforcement database, including Interpol and a dozen others. We ran Kwok’s identification and it generated a flag. The Bureau contacted Justice, wanting to know what we knew, and Hal ran some interference for us. He pulled a few strings and called in a few favors. Someone on the Bureau’s end did the same. Ultimately it was decided that an agent be assigned to what Hal is characterizing as a ‘domestic investigation’ on the part of Justice and its assets. Hal, in the spirit of cooperation and goodwill among government agencies, of course agreed.”
“In other words, they’ll raise a stink if we don’t let them in the door.”
“Exactly,” Price said. “And as sensitive as this could be, considering Trofimov’s access to the media and the harm being done to the nation’s military interests, our friend in Wonderland has decided it’s best if we go along to get along.”
“That’s a dangerous game,” Bolan said. “I’m not going to scale back my mission to accommodate the sensibilities of a by-the-book FBI agent.”
“There’s where we catch a break,” Price had told him. “I’m transmitting the file to you now. Jennifer Delaney, thirty-four. Been with the Bureau for the past ten years. A decorated agent, but also one who’s been disciplined more than once. You can read the details yourself, but I’ll sum it up for you—she has a recurring problem with authority and no compunctions about bending the rules to get things done.”
“But she’s still with the Bureau, which doesn’t tolerate loose cannons.”
“True,” Price said. “Which means she’s a very good agent, for all her willingness to be pragmatic in the field.”
“I can live with that,” Bolan said.
“We don’t know who talked to whom in the Bureau, but Delaney has a personal stake in Twain and has been pursuing him since the incident in Virginia. Her partner, a Paul Sander, was the lead on the investigation that eventually saw Twain and his outfit popped before they could plant their explosives. A couple of them went down, but Twain and his key people got away. Twain shot both Sander and Delaney in making his escape. Sander died.”
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