The Stony Man pilot nodded and held his weapon toward the hillside again. After a moment he turned back to Bolan and said, “Can’t see that shooter guy anymore. He moved.”
Bolan acknowledged with another nod and then tapped the top of his head in the universal signal for “Cover me.”
Seconds later he was moving forward, slowing to take partial cover behind each picnic table. Another of Bellamy’s guards fell, as did two more of their foes. Three were left in that truck. The last of Bellamy’s men, the reticent shooter, stood, raising his arms and letting his rifle dangle in front of his chest by the shoulder strap.
The Executioner could hear men talking and then another shot rang out. Bellemy’s surrendering guard grabbed his chest with a shocked expression on his face. The other men left their cover position by their truck and began laughing. Perkins cowered on the ground.
Knowing he couldn’t afford to let the reporter die, Bolan loosed several bullets from his Beretta toward the three advancing thugs. They turned and attempted to fire, but the Executioner’s volley caught each one in the chest.
Bolan scanned the hillside, trying to locate the last assailant, the black man, but saw no movement.
The motorcycle’s engine sputtered to life and seconds later Perkins whipped by, a look of sheer terror on this face. Bolan was too far away to try to knock the fleeing reporter over, and hoped that Grimaldi wouldn’t shoot him.
The flyboy stepped around the bullet-ridden shack as Perkins shot past. Raising his SIG Sauer, Grimaldi aimed and then glanced back at Bolan, who shook his head.
Grimaldi lowered his weapon and watched the fading taillight of the motorcycle. “I was only aiming for the back tire.”
“Where’s Jefferson?” Bolan asked.
“Told her to stay by the car and duck.”
“Make sure she’s all right. I’m going to check things out.”
Grimaldi scanned the hillside. “Watch out for that shooter on the hill. The black guy.”
Bolan pointed to the glow of two red taillights receding in the distance. “I’ll clear the hill first, but my guess is he jumped ship. I’ll check for any survivors, and we can call for an ambulance. Then we’ll have to see if we can catch Perkins.”
“Let’s hope he keeps wearing his backpack,” Grimaldi said, moving into the darkness.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Bolan said, pointing a backpack lying on the ground a few yards away.
Stevenson Dynamics
Fairfax County, Virginia
STEVENSON SAT ALONE in the well-furnished apartment section of his building, waiting. He’d intentionally left the lights off, staring out the fourth-floor window at the distant lights of DC, which seemed so near and yet so far. Everything was dependent on managing things through other people. People like Nelson, Quarry and the Talon. An etched glass decanter of aged bourbon sat on the table in front of him and he swirled the residual liquid in his glass before taking a healthy swallow. The burn felt good as it went down.
Here’s to good news, he told himself.
He heard a gentle rapping on the door and yelled for Nelson to enter, noticing that he had a look of mild disconcertment on his face. Stevenson knew that look. He’d seen it far too often in the past few days. Something had gone wrong.
“What now?” he asked.
Nelson gestured toward the bottle.
Stevenson nodded and the other man took a glass from the tray and poured himself a couple fingers. After tossing down half the drink, he exhaled.
“Good news and bad news,” he said.
Stevenson frowned, saying nothing.
“Bellamy’s taken care of,” Nelson said. “Plus, our mole and the guards. Quarry made it look like a shoot-out between some locals.” He paused and smiled, then drank a bit more of the bourbon.
Stevenson still said nothing, waiting.
“Unfortunately,” Nelson continued, looking down, “the reporter got away.”
“How did that happen?”
“Quarry said he had some backup with him, apparently. And these guys could shoot. Took out two of our regulars.” Nelson’s jowly cheeks wiggled as he shook his head. “No, don’t worry. Neither of them was carrying ID, so they can’t be traced to us.”
“How the hell did that shit reporter have time to line up protection? I thought Quarry was on top of this?”
Nelson shrugged. “It may be a bit more complex than that.” He flashed another weak smile. “On the way back, he saw that Jefferson woman at the airport. She had two guys with her. Looked like Feds.”
“Feds?”
Nelson swallowed again. “Not only that, but they looked familiar. Like the two guys who busted in on the business with Oakley and Powers.”
“What? He saw them? Did they see him?”
“He says no.”
Stevenson straightened, his face livid. “What the hell? Who are these guys? And how much do they know?”
Nelson shrugged helplessly.
“Find out who they are,” Stevenson said. “Did Jefferson see Quarry?”
“He assures me she did not. None of them did. He was already in the airport waiting on his flight and they passed through. They’d chartered their own plane, as well, but the island police were escorting them somewhere. The three of them were very preoccupied. Probably trying to explain their involvement in the shoot-out. Quarry kept his head down. Plus, he was wearing a disguise.”
“A disguise.” Stevenson uttered a harsh laugh. “How do you disguise a guy that large?”
“At least he’s black,” Nelson said. “You know what they say, they all look alike.”
Stevenson shook his head. “If you believe that, you’re a racist idiot.” He took a couple deep breaths. “Where’s the damn reporter now?”
“On his way to LaGuardia. He grabbed the first flight out. Want me to have a reception committee waiting for him?”
Stevenson considered his options. “No, he’s obviously running scared after what happened to Oakley and Bellamy. We’ve got to find out what exactly he knows and who he’s told. If he’s in collaboration with that Jefferson bitch, we’ll need to grab her, too. We just have to figure out the right bait.” He thought for several seconds. “We’ve got his cell phone number, right?”
Nelson nodded.
“I’ve got an idea,” Stevenson said. “Contact the Talon.”
“You got it, boss.” Nelson raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the decanter. “You mind if I have another to steady my nerves? It’s been a long day.”
Stevenson’s mouth curled into a snarl. He swung his arm in a looping arc, knocking the bottle, the silver tray and his glass onto the floor. “Just do what I tell you to do.” He could feel the anger welling up inside him like a geyser, ready to explode. Or maybe it just had. “Get ahold of one of my regular girls and get her over here. And get somebody to clean this mess up.”
St. Francis International Airport
The Bahamas
BOLAN STOWED THE SPECIAL, diplomatic pouch with his and Grimaldi’s weapons in the cargo compartment of the Learjet. Grimaldi was at the controls, doing his preliminary check for take-off. Agent Karen Jefferson stood about ten feet away scrutinizing Bolan with her dark eyes. He was about to tell her it was time to get on board when his satellite phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he saw the familiar number.
“Everything going okay down there?” Hal Brognola asked.
“It is,” Bolan said. “We’re almost ready to take off.”
He heard Brognola’s exaggerated yawn over the phone.
“Well, then,” he said, “I guess I can go back to bed. I’ll have to be up bright and early tomorrow making apologies for waking up so many people in the State Department to grease those wheels down there in the islands.”
“We appreciat
ed your efforts,” Bolan said. “Thanks for getting that diplomatic pouch over to us.”
Bolan had sent Grimaldi to the airport with their weapons, while he and Jefferson had driven three wounded men to the nearest island medical facility in one of the pickups. Just dropping them off without explanation and heading to the airport, Bolan’s original plan, had proved problematic when they’d been pulled over by the island police shortly after leaving the hospital. From there, things went from bad to worse as Special Agent “By the Book” Jefferson attempted to bridge the gap by flashing her FDA credentials and claiming they were on official business. They both had been handcuffed and transported to the local police station.
It had taken Bolan the better part of an hour to convince the police to allow him to make a call, waking up Brognola in Virginia, who’d started the diplomatic wheels rolling. When the phone call finally came through to release them, Bolan figured the trail to catch Perkins had most likely grown cold.
And he was right, but Brognola was able to provide him with some information.
“Besides being a perennial night owl,” he said, “Aaron likes to keep busy into the wee hours. He was still up poring over those hospital surveillance tapes. He did his customary hacking magic and found that your buddy Perkins is on a plane to New York.”
Bolan glanced at his watch. Their delays had been costly. “See if you can track him from there. He was pretty shaken up. My guess is he’ll be careful about covering his tracks, but he’ll probably head back to his home base.”
“They usually do,” Brognola said. “Well, if you don’t need me to rattle any more cages, I’m going back to bed.”
Bolan terminated the call and replaced the phone in its holder. He was thinking about his next move when he noticed Jefferson was standing about a foot away now, still staring at him.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked.
Bolan didn’t answer.
“Planting a tracking device in George’s backpack,” she said. “And then getting us released from custody... How did you manage all that?”
Bolan still said nothing.
“Who are you really?” she asked. “CIA?”
Just then Grimaldi appeared in the doorway and announced that they were ready to take off.
Bolan smiled and held out his hand to her. “Let’s get on board.”
Jefferson stopped by the stairway and crossed her arms in defiance.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth,” she said. “Who do you really work for?”
“We already told you,” Grimaldi said. “Want to see our IDs again?”
“Who was it that said IDs could be faked?” Jefferson shot back.
“We’re not with the Agency,” Bolan said. “Now, please...” He held his hand toward the stairway into the plane.
Jefferson didn’t move.
“I mean, we could tell you,” Grimaldi said with a grin. “But then we’d have to undress you. Ah, just to make sure you weren’t wearing a wire, that is. Now can we please get on board so I can get this bird in the air?”
“Believe me,” Bolan said. “We’re on the same side.”
Jefferson uncrossed her arms and ascended the stairs. “Okay, but I don’t like it. I told you that the only way I do things is by the book.”
“We do, too,” Bolan said, adding mentally, But it’s a very different book.
10
The Orleans Hotel bar
Towson, Maryland
The Talon watched as the newest group of men walked in, glancing around. Setting up this meeting at a hotel bar wasn’t the smartest thing Stevenson’s toady had done, but it did help that the rich man owned the place. That made things so much easier.
The new arrivals sauntered to the bar. The Talon watched them ogling him in the mirror. He’d taken particular care with the waxing of his face this time. After all, conversations in a hotel bar, even with the subdued lighting, tended to be close... Hardly more than whispers.
A couple of the newbies sat on adjacent stools. The Talon took out his cell phone and pretended to be engaged in a conversation, continuing to gaze into the mirror, but not making any effort to acknowledge the two men seated to his left. After the bartender came around and asked them for their orders, the two apparently took the hint and went to a table.
The Talon watched their departure and waited, still holding his burner phone. Perhaps he’d applied a little too much makeup and perfume? Or maybe the extra padding in his brassiere was a bit too excessive. But he did know the American penchant for big boobs, and when baiting a hook, more was essentially best.
Another man entered the bar and the Talon knew it was him even before he saw his face. Long, unkempt hair, pulled back into a ponytail, black-framed glasses, a nervous expression and bags under both eyes indicating a poor night’s rest...
This was going to be easy.
Perkins went to the end of the bar and sat.
The Talon continued to hold his cell phone, waiting and watching to see if any of the newbies might be confederates. Stevenson had said it was doubtful that Perkins would involve the authorities, or even that he’d bring along someone to watch his back. But then again, the rich man’s assurances aside, he wasn’t the one with his ass in the line of fire.
The Talon viewed the rich man in a light similar to those politicians in France who talked tough and thought nothing of sending a company of Legionnaires to fight and lose their lives in some godforsaken place, all while assuring them there was no cause for concern.
After a good, solid ten minutes, the Talon texted Perkins’s number with a message: Are you alone?
The reporter jumped with the vibration of the incoming text.
He quickly retrieved his phone from his pocket, pressed four numbers and studied the screen. Perkins’s thumbs moved over his keyboard.
The Talon felt the pulsation of an incoming message. He looked at his phone. I am r u?
Unimpressed by Perkins’s grammar—this man was supposed to be a reporter?—the Talon texted back. Will be in touch shortly. Be ready.
Perkins studied the screen on his phone and his head jerked around, studying each person in the bar. When their eyes met, the Talon smiled alluringly and slowly got up, taking his drink in his hand and walking slowly over to the seated reporter.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asked.
Perkins’s jaw was slack, his face tinged with pinkish embarrassment.
“I, uh...” The reporter looked like he was on the verge of pissing his pants. He kept fidgeting with his glasses.
His glasses... Something didn’t seem quite right about them. This was going to merit a closer look.
“You received Arnold’s message?” the Talon asked, slipping onto the bar stool next to Perkins and tapping a long, red fingernail on the reporter’s cell phone. The Talon kept his voice in the same, whiskey-tenor voice, letting a touch of a French accent tincture his words. “He’s waiting upstairs.”
Perkins sat there, frozen.
Both Stevenson and the Talon had foreseen a bit of reluctance on the part of the reporter, given the fact that he’d narrowly escaped being shot the night before. The Talon moved to plan B. He scrolled down the list of calls and pressed the one listed as AD. It rang once before Nelson, speaking in a hushed whisper, said, “Hello?”
“It’s for you, mon ami.” The Talon handed the phone to Perkins, knowing that it was Nelson imitating Debussey’s Eastern European accent and saying the right things to verify to the reporter that the faux scientist was ready to give up the story of the decade regarding his special work on the Keller Virus.
The Talon sipped his drink with delicate precision and watched the reporter’s reflection in the mirror. After a few moments it appeared that Perkins had been convinced.
He handed the pho
ne back. “Okay, I’m ready.” His tongue flicked over his lips and he glanced around again, looking toward the door. Was he waiting for someone?
“Are you alone?” the Talon asked. “Arnold said he wished to talk only to you.”
Perkins swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”
The Talon got up slowly, seductively. “Let us go out, but not together. We will meet by the elevators. I must make certain that no one is following.”
“I already told you I’m alone,” Perkins said.
The Talon smiled. “I do believe you, mon ami, but I must check.”
Perkins shook his head. “Believe me, nobody could’ve traced me here, not even my own mother.”
“Oh, it is almost like being a spy, is it not?” The Talon allowed a bit of sex appeal to creep into his smile.
Perkins smiled back, one step removed from being a nervous schoolboy being admitted to his first burlesque show.
Let the idiot think he might end up getting laid afterward, the Talon thought, and he’ll come along quicker. His fingers rubbed along the reporter’s thigh, ending with a seductive squeeze. “Arnold has told me how brave you are.”
Perkins’s eyes widened for a brief instant. They both got up and the Talon wondered if the poor bastard was getting aroused as they headed for the door. If he was, he was in for one hell of a surprise.
Stony Man Farm
Virginia
BOLAN TOLD KURTZMAN to freeze the image of the three men in the hospital corridor just as the large black man turned and pointed his finger at George Perkins. The reporter had followed them from the elevator and had apparently been trying to bait them. Even without audio, Bolan could tell that whatever the reporter had said had struck a nerve with the shorter, bespectacled man. The big black man turned and issued an admonishment, which Perkins chose to ignore. The man’s hand with the pointing finger curled into a big fist and Perkins scampered off.
“Any chance you can get me blowups of their faces?” Bolan asked.
Kurtzman laughed. “As Jack would say, ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’” He wheeled his chair to a nearby table and grabbed a manila file folder with a sheaf of papers inside. “Check this out.”
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