“Not entirely. There are ways to minimize the reach and power of a potential threat. For example, if our operative were to stay on the move, and they were unable to keep up, then they couldn’t carry out any plan against him, simply due to them being unable to coordinate their operation.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Payne said. “All in all, it seems that your group has this operation well in hand. Quick thinking and reaction to an unexpected threat.”
Yes, after all, this wasn’t their first rodeo, Price thought, a wry smile curving the corner of her mouth as she fenced with the latest in a line of bright, young Ivy League junior masters of the universe who thought their freshly minted MBA or political science degree put them on equal footing with those who had already been in the real world. She had seen them come and she had seen them go, usually wiser for the experience, but not always. She briefly wondered which side this one would turn out on. Could be useful with a year or two of the right seasoning, like a foreign posting, she mused.
Their entrées arrived and they both paused the conversation as the waiter set their plates down.
For a few minutes both were silent as they enjoyed their meals. Payne was about halfway through his steak when he swallowed his most recent bite and regarded Price. “So, how did you come to be working at counterterrorism?”
She shrugged. “I answered the right ad.”
The answer was knowing enough to pass muster yet vague enough to put off any deeper inquiry.
Payne just smiled and nodded. “Right, and I’m sure you like the work very much. You’ve been there awhile now. What are you thinking of doing afterward? Something in the CIA? DOD? Joint Chiefs, perhaps?”
Price patted her lips with the white linen napkin then set it back on her lap. “I’m quite content with where I am, thank you. Rather than be a smaller fish in a huge ocean, I’m happy being a medium-sized fish in a smaller pond.”
Plus, she didn’t have to put up with the endless bureaucratic nonsense and red tape where she was. The Stony Man teams—and Striker, when he was in the field on a mission for the Farm—could go out and get results without having to look over their shoulders or watch their backs...at least, they could until recently.
But instead of being disappointed by her answer, Payne seemed strangely pleased with it. “That’s good to hear. I’ve always thought a person should enjoy what they do.”
“I agree.” Price put down her fork. “Mr. Payne, what is this line of inquiry all about?”
He opened his mouth as if he were about to dodge or deflect her question, then grinned. “It would be foolish to not answer you directly, Barbara.”
She didn’t reply but simply waited for him to continue.
“As you know, when a new administration comes in, there is a certain amount of reorganizing that occurs across departments, reassigning, that sort of thing. We’re looking at all branches of intelligence, evaluating and making changes going forward.”
Price had heard this song-and-dance before and leaned back in her chair. She didn’t think he had brought her all the way down here to fire her, but he also didn’t seem about to offer her a new position somewhere else in DC, either.
That could only mean one other thing...
She could only sit there as the words spilled out of Payne’s mouth.
“Barbara, the President would like you to become the director of operations for Stony Man Farm, effective January 1.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Well, does your company have a way to track its employees’ phones?” Bolan asked as he stared into the night, studded only by the glow of an occasional streetlamp. The car chase had taken them to the outskirts of Melbourne, where houses were spaced farther apart, with wide lawns and even occasional rows of low hedges or trees between them.
“We do—if the kidnapper didn’t chuck her purse yet,” Williams replied as he activated the hands-free calling button on the vehicle. “Meanwhile, let’s keep moving forward slowly, although with our luck they might have turned down a side road.”
“Wallcorloo National Security Division. How can I help you?” a voice said through the SUV’s speakers.
Williams identified himself and gave a brief yet detailed summary of what had happened since they’d left WN headquarters back in the city. “I was the one who called in the red alert earlier tonight,” he finished. “We’ve neutralized two of the vehicles, but the hostile with Cindra Tate is still at large. I’m requesting the current location of her phone.”
While he was doing that, Bolan was busy contacting his own specialists. Who’s on overwatch tonight? he texted Stony Man HQ on his secure phone.
Bear here, go ahead, Striker.
If you’ve been following what’s been happening, then you know the situation, Bear. Anything you can do to help us find this young woman?
Give me a minute.
“Any luck?” he asked Williams, who shook his head.
“They’re not able to lock in on her. If the bastards turned her phone off, we might be up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Well, I’m calling in a couple of favors from some folks I know. Maybe between both of them, we’ll get lucky.”
Williams gave him a sideways look. “I’ve met a lotta folks, mate, and I gotta say, you’re not like any engineer, environmental or otherwise, that I’ve ever seen before.”
Bolan tried to shrug casually at that. “Let’s just say I have a different method of solving problems.”
“That you do, mate, that you do.” Williams’s phone chirped and he took it off mute. “Any luck, control?”
“Negative, we do not have a location for that phone at this time. We will keep attempting to get a fix on it, however, and let you know if we have any success.”
“All right, thanks.” The driver grimaced and turned to Bolan. “My side struck out, so whoever’s on yours, I hope they can do better.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Bolan replied.
Anything yet, Bear?
Let your driver know that brilliance is never rushed. You should find the person you’re looking for at this address...or at least their vehicle is there.
Thanks, Bear.
You’re welcome, Striker. Good luck, and be careful.
“I think I’ve got something.” Bolan gave the address to Williams, who punched it into the onboard navigation system, bringing up a location less than ten kilometers away, but back the way they had already come.
“We gotta move,” Bolan said. “If they only want Cindra and they’re dumping the car, we might already be too late.”
“Well, hang on, ’cause I’m getting us there faster than a wallaby on crack!” Williams cranked the wheel and stomped on the gas, whipping the SUV around in a hard turn, then sped down the lane.
“Get off the main road. There’ll likely be police out after we drove several kilometers while involved in a shoot-out,” Bolan said.
“Fair point.” Williams spun the wheel right and turned onto a narrow, paved road that headed deeper into the darkness. Sure enough, Bolan saw the flashing lights of police cars in the distance near the semi-truck accident.
“They’ll be busy cleaning that up for a while,” he commented. “If we’re lucky, their presence might just force the kidnapper to try to hole up for a while until the heat dies down.”
“When we find the car, all we’ll need is a few minutes,” Williams said, his face grim in the red light of the dashboard.
They fell silent for a few more minutes, with the driver navigating deeper into the countryside. Bolan took the time to reload a half-full magazine with rounds from the other magazines. When he was done, he had a full one and a partial. About sixty rounds total.
He peered out at the darkness, seeing a few farms, but mostly what looked like single-family houses. “Neighborhoods pretty full up out here?”
“Not sure,” he replied. “But if I had a bolt hole out here for some reason, I certainly wouldn’t want it near anyone who could get a look at what I was doing.”
“Makes sense.” Williams suddenly pulled the SUV over to the side of the road and killed the lights. “According to the address your mate gave you, the place is at the end of that driveway.” He pointed to small dirt lane barely visible in the moonlight about twenty meters ahead. He called it in to security and confirmed that additional units were on their way.
“We waiting for them?” Bolan asked, hoping for the right answer—and that he wouldn’t have to argue with the man, who’d been great so far.
“Fuck, no!” Williams replied. “We got the element of surprise now. Get a bunch more yobbos tromping about and that’s right out the bloody window.”
“Good.” Bolan nodded. “It’ll be best to approach on foot. You have another weapon in here?”
“Is a hippo permanently pissed off?” He fiddled with his door for a moment and withdrew a matte-black pistol with two magazines from a concealed compartment. “FN Five-seveN.” He pulled the slide back to chamber a round. “Uses the same ammo as yours. Let me take the lead.”
Bolan made sure the interior lights wouldn’t come on when they opened the door, then they both eased out of the SUV. Williams started creeping up the road to the driveway with Bolan following him, two steps behind and one over, so he could cover or support as needed.
They reached the driveway and Bolan could see why this might be a good place for a temporary hideout; a Realtor’s sign swung back and forth in the breeze.
Williams saw it, as well, and nodded. Using hand signals, he directed Bolan to take the right side of the lane, and he’d take the left. They started walking through the ankle-high grass, senses alert to the slightest noise.
After about fifty meters they came upon a white, two-story farmhouse facing south, its front perpendicular to the driveway. There was an outbuilding straight ahead of them, its door closed. There were no lights on anywhere, and it was too dark to see any tire tracks on the ground.
The two men exchanged looks and, pointing, both agreed to search the outbuilding first. If the kidnapper had hidden the car there, finding it now was better than possibly being caught unaware inside the house and allowing them to escape.
The outbuilding was a white, single-story, pole barn with a corrugated metal roof and dark green or brown trim—it was difficult to see in the darkness. A large, white, sliding door occupied one end, with an access door on the side.
The two men ghosted up to the side door, Williams focusing on it, Bolan dividing his attention between it and the house. The driver carefully reached out and tried the metal door handle, nodding to Bolan that it was unlocked. Again, Williams indicated that he would take the left and Bolan would take the right. The Executioner nodded and, after one more glance at the dark house, Williams opened the door.
Bolan realized he wasn’t the only one with military experience as Williams slipped inside and began his sweep by moving along the left wall, pistol ready and covering his side of the room. The Executioner followed with a firm two-handed grip on the FN P-90, sweeping and clearing his side, as well. The dark interior smelled of hay and gasoline. He stepped around the car in the middle of the floor, tracking anything possibly inside, or elsewhere nearby. Everything was quiet except for the two men’s breathing and the scuff of their feet on the hard-packed dirt floor.
Each man finished his perimeter sweep and they met in the right rear corner of the building. The only thing of any interest was a familiar white Kia, its engine still ticking over. There was no one inside.
Williams jerked a thumb at the vehicle and Bolan nodded. He went to the back of the car while the Wallcorloo bodyguard located the trunk release inside. He popped it, and Bolan raised the lid, his gun at the ready but not pointing inside.
The trunk was empty. Bolan signaled as much to Williams, then nodded at the side door. They both slipped back out and stood there for a moment as Williams eased the door closed.
Front or back? he signed to Bolan.
Both, he signed back. Bolan would try the front door, while Williams took the back.
He was about to head out when his companion’s hand on his arm stopped him. Williams couldn’t let Bolan take the lead, as he was, after all, “Cooper’s” bodyguard. He indicated he wanted to do the reverse.
Bolan nodded—now wasn’t the time to try to pull nonexistent rank. The Executioner signaled that he needed thirty seconds, then Williams could enter. On Williams’s nod, he headed to the far corner of the barn and then cut right, sprinting wide around the house to come up on its rear.
As expected, there was a back door set near a small deck, along with a window on the first floor and two windows on the second. Bolan finished his run and reached the platform, ducking underneath it and breathing deeply to slow his heartrate. By his estimation, Williams should be starting his approach about now—
Gunshots from inside the house thundered in the night and there was a cry, followed by what sounded like return fire from the front yard.
Bolan ducked under the deck railing, took a step forward and pistoned his right foot into the door, near the lock plate. It burst inward with a crack and a clang of metal. Bolan dived inside and sought the nearest cover, a counter island that wouldn’t stop a bullet but would prevent anyone in the room from seeing him.
More shots sounded, the ones from the house coming from upstairs. Bolan peered over the counter to see a kitchen with two exits, the one on his right leading to the front of the house, the one ahead leading into what looked like a living room. Going for that doorway, he found the staircase leading to the second floor on his left, with another door to his right. He took the stairs as quickly as he could while still trying to stay quiet. The shots from outside were coming more slowly, while the return fire from the second floor was still fairly intense.
Three quarters of the way up, Bolan slowed, as it looked like the stairs opened right into a room. He could smell gunpowder and could see the occasional flash in the darkness.
Getting on his hands and knees on the stairs, he eased around the solid railing to get a look inside the room. It was a large space with a wingback chair in the left corner and a bed in the right corner next to a nightstand. The shooter was at the window on the far side of the bed. Bolan raised his head high enough to see Cindra Tate lying on the bed, her arms and legs bound, a fearful expression on her face.
Her presence in the room complicated things—a lot. Bolan couldn’t use the bed as cover, since she would more than likely get shot. He’d have to crawl out to the left, past the bed, then try to take the shooter alive.
He began moving around the railing when he heard footsteps from the other side of the bed. Bolan pushed himself onto his knees, bringing his pistol up as the shooter came around the bed toward him, her eyes hidden behind a pair of night-vision goggles.
Seeing him, she hesitated for a fraction of a second then started bringing her weapon into target acquisition.
Bolan didn’t hesitate. Tracking her center mass, he fired his submachine gun. Three rounds hit the woman square in the chest. She staggered, her finger reflexively squeezing the trigger of her gun and sending a bullet into the floor in front of him. She then fell backward and lay unmoving.
Chapter Fourteen
Barbara Price let Christian Payne’s request hang between them for a several seconds while she regarded the man across from her.
“Stony Man already has an excellent director, and I won’t be a part of any kind of underhanded tactic to shoulder him aside,” she said as she began to push her chair back
from the table. “The idea that you thought I could be enlisted to do so—”
Payne held up his hands. “Wait a minute, whoa! Just a second, Barbara. Hold on. Just give me a minute to talk, and then if you’re still set on leaving, I won’t try to stop you. Just sixty seconds, please.”
She regarded him for a long moment and then pulled the chair slightly back toward the table. “Start talking,” she said.
Payne’s hand went up to where his nonexistent tie should have been. “No one—and that includes the President—is asking you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable at all. Mr. Brognola’s operational retirement from Stony Man would be mandated by the President, and you are, of course, the natural successor for the position. It’s a matter of the respect this administration has for you that we wanted to let you know first, ahead of what we have planned, so you weren’t blindsided.”
“How kind of you,” she replied. “And are you planning to extend the same courtesy to Hal, as well?”
Payne smiled—the easy, sincere-looking grin of the career politician. “Of course we’re not going to spring this on him. He’ll be given plenty of time to ease out of the position at his own pace. We don’t want to come in and throw everything into disarray over there, after all.”
“Except for the idea of switching the organization’s leadership, that is,” Price noted.
“Look, any agency, large or small, that doesn’t change grows stagnant, inert. Stony Man has proved itself a valued asset over the years, and the President wants that to continue.” Payne leaned forward. “But we’re in a new world now, with new threats that people are hard-pressed to admit are even threats, much less figure out ways to neutralize them. Hal is...part of the last generation. It’s time for new blood...and we think the best candidate for the position is you.”
The Stony Man mission controller leaned back in her chair. It wasn’t that she had never thought about moving up the ladder at Stony Man, even though there was only one rung above her, the topmost one. She just figured it would happen when she came in one day and found Hal slumped over his desk. It was a morbid thought, but one they had joked about in his office more than once. Hal’s workaholism was legendary in the Justice Department, and Price didn’t know how his wife put up with it, yet somehow she did.
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