The Talon nudged her with the barrel of the gun. “Do it.”
She clicked again and the screen immediately went blue and then black.
The Talon smiled, knowing the downloaded virus had effectively encrypted the entire file system of the law firm.
The Talon then bent forward, pulled out the flash drive and stuck it in his pocket. Still close to the woman’s ear, he asked, “Where are the paper files?”
She pointed to a drawer on the right side of the desk. He pulled it open and saw a collection of manila folders. The sheaves of papers inside looked relatively sparse, but that was understandable in today’s paperless world.
“Give me all the files for Alocore and Oakley, and I’ll let you go,” he said, still keeping his voice soft and as nonthreatening as he could.
She reached down, withdrew two files and set them on the desktop.
“You’ll let me go now?” she asked. Her voice was laced with desperation.
“Absolutely,” he said, straightening and double-tapping two rounds into the woman’s chest. The sound suppressor made a light, plunking sound and she shuddered backward in her chair, her arm jerking outward and knocking the phone off the hook. Slumping to her left, she tumbled to the floor. The woman’s face had been so beautiful it had seemed a shame to defile it with a bullet. The Talon strode quickly around the desk and made sure she was dead by placing the long end of the barrel into the profusion of blond hair and pulling the trigger again. The corpse hardly moved.
He didn’t bother to check for a pulse.
Nine rounds left, he thought. More than enough to do the job.
The Talon straightened and heard voices, laughter, coming from behind the closed inner office door. He stepped toward it, savoring the moment.
A faint, computerized voice from the phone on the desk began to repeat a message, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again...”
After jamming the files into the large purse, the Talon used the handkerchief to twist open the inner office door and then let the cloth flutter to the floor. It would give the processing CSIs a chance to recover some of Chandler’s DNA from the crime scene. He kept his body in an orthodox, sideways stance, concealing the Beretta by his right thigh.
Both men were seated. Powers behind a big, metallic desk, almost as clean as his receptionist’s had been, and Oakley—easily recognizable from the pictures Stevenson had provided—lounging in a chair in front. The mirthful expression on the lawyer’s face faded slightly, replaced by a confused expression. The man wore a tailored gray suit and his hair had been artfully combed over to conceal his baldness. Oakley turned in his chair, as well.
“Who are you?” Powers asked, sudden concern blanketing his face as he spoke. He raised his voice a few octaves and called out, “Stella, get in here.”
“Sorry,” the Talon said. “She’s indisposed at the moment.”
He raised the Beretta and fired two rounds into the lawyer’s chest. The man’s striped power tie jerked slightly and two black holes, rimmed by bright crimson, began expanding on the front of his light blue shirt. His face went slack as he slumped and then tumbled forward, his face striking the desktop with a resounding thump.
Oakley’s eyes widened as the Talon aimed the barrel at him. Instead of firing, the Talon said, “Get on your knees.”
He was frozen in place. The Talon shot the man in the left thigh. He screamed and jerked up and down, grabbing at the widening red stain spreading under the fabric of his tan pants.
“No, no. Oh, please don’t,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Please. I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“Get on your knees,” the Talon repeated.
Oakley nodded but struggled to get out of the chair.
The Talon stood there patiently, silently counting. After ten seconds of watching him squirm, the Talon moved forward and grabbed Oakley’s right ear. Tugging with an almost gentleness, he moved the wounded man forward, out of the chair and onto the floor.
Oakley screamed again as his knees hit the floor.
“Clasp your hands and pray for forgiveness,” the Talon said in a calm voice.
The wounded man continued to wither on the floor.
The Talon repeated himself: “Pray for forgiveness and you will be saved. God will hear you.”
Oakley’s eyes glanced upward, catching the Talon’s, who smiled and nodded reassuringly.
The CEO managed to straighten slightly and clasped his hands, interlacing his fingers.
“Like this?”
“Exactly,” the Talon said. He shot the man in the groin.
Oakley screamed and lurched forward, falling onto his left side.
The Talon kicked the chair away as he stepped around the almost prone figure and placed the long end of the sound suppressor against middle of the man’s buttocks.
“Sorry, old boy,” the Talon said. “But this has to look good.” He pulled the trigger. An eruption of blood burst outward, splattering the long, extended barrel.
Good trace evidence, the Talon thought.
He stepped around again, careful to avoid any of the blood, and held the weapon against the back of the withering man’s head. He pulled the trigger two more times.
Nothing like a bit of overkill to establish that revenge motif, he mused silently.
Acting the part of the consummate professional, the Talon did a quick survey of the office area, once again checking for any cameras or recording devices. Seeing none, he moved to the edge of the desk and grabbed a few tissues from the gold-plated box on the left.
He had three rounds left. Four, counting the one that had been in the chamber before the full magazine had been inserted. Perfect. No need to change mags. Everything was falling into place.
The Talon dipped the tissues into the widening pool of Oakley’s blood and walked out of the office, stepping over Tom Chandler’s fallen handkerchief as he left.
As he moved toward the elevators, he watched the twin sets of doors closing and striking the two blocks of wood he’d used to trap both elevator cars on this floor. As deftly as Fred Astaire in one of those old dancing movies, the Talon kicked loose one of the blocks and stepped inside. Taking out his burner cell, he hit the number for Quarry again.
“I’m on the way to the parking garage,” he said.
Quarry grunted that he was standing by.
“Are your men ready to get that video equipment in the office?”
“They are.”
Glancing at his wristwatch, the Talon resisted the temptation to tell the big idiot that the clock was ticking.
Pittsfield Building
Montgomery County, Maryland
BOLAN AND GRIMALDI watched as George Perkins exited the taxicab and got into a small argument with the driver. After heaving a theatrical sigh, Perkins reached into his pocket, removed his wallet and tossed some bills through the open passenger window. The cabbie sped off.
Perkins quickly slipped on his thick-framed glasses and peered after the departing vehicle.
“Looks like he’s planning on including an irate cabdriver in his documentary,” Bolan said.
“He probably tried to stiff the poor bastard,” Grimaldi said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “I can’t wait to grab those glasses off his face. Promise me you’ll let me do it.”
“Let’s see how this plays out first,” Bolan replied. He did a quick survey of the area. “Powers’s office is on the sixth floor. Let’s go up to the corresponding floor of that adjacent parking garage. It’ll save us taking the elevator and maybe letting Perkins see us.”
“Roger that,” Grimaldi said, speeding toward the ramp. As he swung into the driveway, the lowered wooden arm of the electronic gate raised.
“Sixth floor here we come,” Grimaldi
said. “Watch me beat that mope up to the sixth level.”
As he spun toward the ascending ramp, a black Mercedes with tinted windows shot past them going toward the exit. The two vehicles almost collided and Grimaldi had to swerve. Bolan caught sight of a good-size African American man behind the wheel, and a white female with blond hair in the passenger seat.
Grimaldi laid on the horn and yelled some cuss words at the window.
The Mercedes kept going.
Bolan shook his head and grinned. “In addition to never being asked to write a sequel to How to Win Friends and Influence People, no one’s ever going to ask you to write a defensive driving book, either.”
“What do you mean?” Grimaldi shot back as he wheeled the car up the ramp, cornering at the juncture as if he were on a race track. “That son of a bitch was taking all of his lane and half of everybody else’s.”
“Just get us to the sixth floor.”
Grimaldi grinned and floored it. As the vehicle rounded the corner to the sixth level, the wheels were squealing.
Ahead, Bolan saw two men dressed in black jolt back from the open trunk of a gray Altima. The expressions on their faces were that of alarm, but given the excessive speed of Grimaldi’s approach, Bolan wasn’t unduly surprised. What did surprise him, however, was the action of the closer man in black. After slamming closed the trunk lid, he reached down and flipped back his dark garment and placed his hand on the butt of a gun. His partner said something and the man drew the weapon, a blue-steel semi-auto pistol, from its holster.
Almost simultaneously, Bolan pulled his Beretta 93-R from his shoulder rig. He brought the weapon up and pointed it directly at the windshield, flipping the selection lever to single shot rather than 3-round burst. He held off firing, however, weighing the possibility that the two men were plainclothes police or otherwise authorized to carry concealed weapons. Each had short-cropped hair and an organized appearance. This question was answered a split second later when the first man in black began firing and the second one opened up, as well.
No way these guys were cops.
Grimaldi stomped on the brakes and swiveled the wheel, bringing the speeding vehicle to an almost immediate and skillful stop, its rear end pointing toward the two assailants. The engine stalled and the Stony Man pilot twisted the key in the ignition. Several bullets drilled into the side of the vehicle and the front passenger window shattered, covering both of them with a shower of glass.
Bolan extended his Beretta through the shattered window and fired a quick pair of rounds. Grimaldi pushed open the driver’s door and slid from the vehicle. He had his SIG Sauer out and was firing over the hood as Bolan dived out of the vehicle, rolling so that his body was behind the left rear tire. Glancing under the rear end of their Dodge Charger, Bolan attempted to acquire a sight picture of the lower portions of the assailants. Both men had apparently retreated backward into the sea of parked vehicles.
Ears still ringing from the sudden burst of gunfire, Bolan shook his head to clear it. This did little good. He looked to his left and saw Grimaldi crouching behind the Charger’s engine block.
“Ready to move?” Grimaldi asked, Bolan reading his lips as much as listening to the words.
The Executioner nodded and motioned toward the right. That would be his direction. It made no sense to crisscross in opposite directions. Rolling to his feet, he pointed his left thumb toward himself, indicating he’d provide cover fire. Grimaldi nodded and as Bolan rose and delivered a series of rapidly fired rounds from the 93-R, his partner dashed to his next cover point behind a big pickup. The Stony Man pilot then began firing.
Bolan knew the magazine capacity of Grimaldi’s P-226 was twelve rounds. He’d be due for a combat reload shortly. The Executioner wasted no time in running toward a group of parked cars in front of him. Dropping to the floor, he scanned the view afforded by the tires and undercarriages, but saw nothing. The assailants obviously knew enough tactics to take cover behind the tires of the vehicles to avoid exposing their legs and feet.
Whoever these guys were, they were well trained.
Bolan got to one knee, also using the tire of a big SUV to shield his lower extremities. As he peered through the side windows of the vehicle, a round shot by him, leaving a wake of shattered glass. Instead of ducking, Bolan leaned slightly backward and brought up the Beretta. He watched and waited.
Nothing...until he caught sight of a slight flash of movement as one of the assailant’s heads came partially into view around the side mirror of a van about six car-lengths away. Bolan adjusted his aim and fired three quick shots, each spaced slightly from left to right, toward the van. Even through the haze and buzz of the auditory exclusion, Bolan thought he heard a grunt.
Ducking, he peeked in the direction of the van. A right leg jutted from the safety of the tire. Bolan immediately fired and saw the leg buckle and jerk away.
Grimaldi was firing again. Bolan quickly changed magazines, then moved forward in a crouch. At the end of the SUV he paused and took a quick peek down under again.
A pair of feet danced awkwardly over the concrete, moving on an angle to the left. Bolan flattened and took careful aim, squeezing off another round and seeing one of the moving legs explode with a burst of crimson. The wounded man’s body flopped down onto the pavement, writhing in pain. Bolan took aim at center mass.
While taking the subjects alive would have been preferable for the gathering of intel, these two had shown no compunction about shooting first. He doubted whether either of them would surrender.
He fired the Beretta and saw the supine man jerk again, his face suddenly becoming visible as he convulsed into a fetal position.
One down and one to go.
He wished he could communicate that to Grimaldi, but at this point it wasn’t an option.
Getting to his feet, Bolan waited and listened as best he could. Still affected by the loud reports of the guns, sounds seemed funneled through a long tunnel. But he was able to pick up on the distinctive barks of Grimaldi’s weapon.
More movement, followed by an exchange of shots. Bolan saw a figure in black running between some cars about thirty feet away.
Grimaldi was between cover positions, suddenly exposed.
The running man was bringing his weapon into target acquisition when Bolan zeroed in on the man’s head and, giving him a slight bit of lead time, squeezed off a single round from the Beretta. The man’s momentum kept him moving forward, but his head was surrounded with a halo of reddish mist. He dropped from sight.
Bolan began moving on an angle to check the two fallen assailants. Coming upon the first man, the Executioner saw the murky film of death glazing over the man’s eyes. To be sure, he kept his Beretta trained on his foe, stepping onto the man’s hand and wrist that still held the gun. It was a Glock 17. Bolan leaned down and pressed the barrel of his weapon against the fallen man’s open eye.
No reaction.
He straightened and moved toward the second assailant. This one had fallen face-first between two cars, his weapon a few feet in front of him. Bolan checked him for any sign of life, as well, and finding none, looked for Grimaldi.
“Don’t see any more of them,” Grimaldi said, his voice sounding hollow and far away.
Bolan checked the dead man’s pockets with a quick pat-down. No wallet or ID, but he had car keys and a remote.
Backtracking, he and Grimaldi checked the second man, again finding nothing. After taking quick facial shots of each assailant with their phones, Bolan pressed the remote and the Altima’s lights flashed with a quick honk. They moved to the vehicle and Bolan used the device to open the trunk. He noted a set of wires, a miniature camera lens and what appeared to be a recording-transmitting device.
“Looks like somebody was doing some covert surveillance,” Grimaldi commented.
Bolan nodded,
picking up the items.
“Hey,” the Stony Man pilot said, pointing to a blue Chevy Impala in the adjacent parking space. “Take a look next door.”
A man sat behind the wheel clutching a Beretta M-9 A3 pistol. The barrel had a sound suppressor attached, and the man’s fingers were curled around the weapon. Blood covered the pistol and dripped languidly from a wound under the man’s chin. More blood had sprouted from his nose and mouth. His eyes looked like slits in a swollen face. He hadn’t been dead long.
Bolan estimated him to be late middle-aged.
The Executioner glanced at his watch and suddenly became cognizant that his hearing was returning to normal, the stimulus causing a bit of alarm: sirens in the distance. The police were on the way.
He snapped a few pictures of the dead man in the car and told Grimaldi to get the license plate number and check the trunk.
From all perceptible indications, the dead man appeared to be a suicide, but the circumstances bothered Bolan.
“Empty,” Grimaldi called out. He left the lid open.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bolan said. “We can’t afford to be playing Twenty Questions with the police when they arrive.”
His partner nodded and hurried toward the Charger. Bolan dumped the wires and recorder into the rear seat area and got into the passenger side, holding the Beretta between his knees for the time being.
The sounds of the sirens were getting louder.
Grimaldi shifted into Reverse, backed up, then slammed the gearshift into Drive and took off down the ramp.
“Want to bet that I’ll get us out of here before the cops arrive?” he asked with a grin.
Bolan shook his head. “I’d never bet against a sure thing.”
Stevenson Dynamics
Fairfax County, Virginia
STEVENSON RECLINED IN the chair, his belt and pants still unfastened, and watched as Jenna Callahan straightened her skirt over her hips. She used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth, smearing the red lipstick even more than it had been. He was going to have to clean himself off and weighed the option of sending her to the executive washroom for a couple wet towels.
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