So the fence was down, for whatever reason. And if the fence was down, so were the sensors, TV cameras, all the rest of it. Whatever the explanation, whatever the risks, McNerney couldn't afford to pass up his golden opportunity.
He withdrew a pair of cutters from his belt. They were insulated, just in case, but he wouldn't have need of insulation now. With deft, decisive strokes, he cut a three-foot hole in the chain link, closing it behind him with a twist of wire to fool the casual observer and preserve the circuit if they got their juice back while he was inside. He would have other problems in that case, but one of them wouldn't be a warning alarm sounding from the ruptured perimeter.
Inside, he brought the stubby riot shotgun up and flicked the safety off. His rifle was for distance work, where he would need precision for the kill. Close up, in darkness, there was nothing better than a scattergun to make your enemies think twice about attacking your position. Moving through the trees, alert for hidden booby traps or sentries, Mike McNerney felt that he was on the verge of a historic moment. Darkness at the house would make his final task more difficult, of course, but it would also hamper Secret Service agents trying to protect the President and his Russian houseguests.
At ninety yards he saw the flashlights, heard disgusted voices calling back and forth around the compound proper. Someone was cursing the backup generators, their mechanics and assorted nameless peons whose heads were bound to roll come daylight.
Edging closer, he could see the outline of the presidential residence, the smaller generator building, other hulking shapes that he remembered as garages and quarters for the staff and Secret Service. It was too damned dark for him to pick out any faces, but he knew the President and Soviet ambassador weren't out there with flashlights, roaming through the shadows. Somehow he would have to penetrate the house… or lure his prey outside.
He was working on a notion, thought it might succeed, when he was conscious of a rustling sound behind him. He was about to pivot and face the coming danger when a soft voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Don't try it, man. One move and I'll be pleased to blow your ass away."
* * *
Calvin James was bored until the lights went out. He knew the game would wait for darkness, and his circuit of the camp's perimeter before they "blew" the generators was a waste of time. He had completed maybe half the distance and was closing on the eastern curve of the property when it went down — a flash, produced by welding torches, and a smoky bang whipped up by Gadgets and the Stony Man special effects department. Camp David went as dark as if someone had thrown a switch — which, in fact, they had. The power could be instantly restored at any time, but barring contact with the enemy, and hopefully a kill, they would be dark the next two hours. Waiting.
James was good at waiting, hunting in the dark. In basic training he had endured the tired, old "nightfighter" gibes from redneck Southern boys, the jokes about how "you can never see ol' Cal at night unless he blinks his eyes or smiles." In time, his talent had become apparent, and the two or three who'd clung to prejudice, continuing to taunt him, had eventually learned respect a different way while dining on a knuckle sandwich a la James.
Tonight his senses were especially alert. This one was big time, even with the President removed from danger miles away. If a fanatic like McNerney could attempt to set the world on fire, then add the murder of a chief executive like icing on the cake, no one was truly safe. A man of few words under normal circumstances, Calvin kept his feelings to himself, but that didn't negate existence of those feelings. He believed in all the things that stirred a soldier's blood and made him risk his life for love of country. If that was corny or old-fashioned, no one had convinced the Phoenix warrior yet. And no one ever would.
He had no idea of how their quarry might attempt to enter. No one knew for certain that McNerney was in Maryland, much less on-site, but if he was and took the bait, he would be forced to cross the fence somehow. James was still pondering the question, several moments later, when he found the entry cut and repaired with twists of copper wire.
He had a radio, but he was also under orders not to use it casually, in case McNerney might be listening. The standing orders were to hit on sight and call for reinforcements only if the bastard rabbited, or if a single gunner couldn't do the job. Supremely confident, James turned from the fence and started tracking Mike McNerney on a relatively straight run toward the compound. He was going for it in the darkness, as predicted, closing fast. McNerney hadn't been inside for very long — five minutes, tops — when James had found his point of entry on the wire, and he couldn't have gone too far — unless he knew the place of course.
James cursed the sketchy nature of McNerney's bio in the files. They had his service record with all the physicals, promotions, commendations, reprimands, but they were too damned short on details. Had he ever visited Camp David? Had he ever scrutinized the compound from the ground or air? Did McNerney have a better picture of the grounds in mind than his pursuers?
Picking up the pace as much as silence would allow, James flicked the safety off his CAR-15 and set the weapon's selective fire switch for full automatic. In the darkness and the undergrowth, he might not have an opportunity to make the perfect shot, but he would hose the bastard down, cut him into ribbons and make damned certain that he didn't rise again.
Ahead of him he saw a black-clad figure crouching in the shadow of a weeping willow, staring at the house. He knew instinctively that it was neither Schwarz nor Bolan… but he couldn't be entirely certain.
Another step, and James cursed silently as thorny bushes snagged his clothing and made a rustling sound like night wind in the leaves. No point in further stealth — he was already blown — but still he wasn't sure. Downrange, the crouching figure shifted, turning.
And that was when James uttered the warning.
The target moved despite the caution, pivoting and going down all in a single, fluid motion, even as he raked the shrubbery with a string of 5.56 tumblers, clipping leaves and empty air. The shotgun blast was thunder in his ears, and James was driven backward by the impact of a dozen buckshot pellets, finger locked around the trigger of his CAR-15, still firing at the sky.
Reclining on a bed of moss and leaves, with ringing silence in his head and blessed numbness in his legs, James thought, So this is what it's like to lose it. This is what it's like to die.
A human silhouette loomed over him, the face obscured by shadows, hatred shining through the narrow eyes. The Phoenix warrior lost his grip on consciousness and followed swirling darkness downward to a place of everlasting night.
* * *
Automatic fire, immediately punctuated by a shotgun blast. Mack Bolan waited for a moment, fixing the position and direction in his mind, expecting the announcement of a kill to crackle from the compact walkie-talkie at his waist. Another precious moment ticked away, and then the rush of thin, metallic voices was eclipsed by the methodical explosions of a big-game rifle.
What had the bastard found to shoot at in the darkness? Even with a night scope — which McNerney hadn't purchased from the Scaggsville shop, but which he might have picked up somewhere else — his targets would be limited to Secret Service agents and the silent buildings of the compound. He could never hope to score a hit by firing blindly through the shuttered windows into darkened rooms. And yet, if there was no alternative, if he had watched his plans dissolve like tissue paper in the rain, McNerney just might try it.
The warrior moved, already homing on the sounds of combat as sporadic small-arms fire responded to the Sako Finnbear. Cranking out five more of the explosive Magnum rounds, the hunting rifle was a giant quarreling with impertinent pip-squeaks, shouting them down. But he couldn't hold out forever. Against Calvin James and Gadgets, Katz and Manning, all the Secret Service men, there was no realistic hope of Mike McNerney getting out alive.
Ignoring odds, extrapolating angles, Bolan veered off course, as if to intercept a runner. There were no more 7
mm thunderclaps, and if McNerney had an ounce of common sense remaining, he would be retreating, breaking off and heading for his exit as if his life depended on it. Which it did.
At night, with trees and undergrowth to baffle sound, distances could be deceiving, but the Executioner relied upon his instincts and a lifetime of experience in jungles all around the world. There were a hundred different ways his man might run, but there was only one track that would finally take him home. Attempting to invade the hunter's thoughts, he opted for a downhill track, through scattered trees and shrubbery, which would eventually take him to the fence two hundred meters away.
With eighty yards to go, he caught a fleeting glimpse of movement in the undergrowth, a darting silhouette against the darker outline of trees. He whipped his Colt Commander up and fired a short precision burst, not taking time to aim. The tumblers were clipping shrubbery, drilling tree trunks, when his quarry answered with a shotgun blast and Bolan went to ground, facedown among the fallen leaves.
At this range, McNerney's Winchester pump was as dangerous as Bolan's autorifle. Each round held a dozen buckshot pellets, each the rough equivalent of a .32 caliber bullet, and the stubby barrel spread them in a conical pattern, covering as much as three square feet at thirty yards.
The soldier wriggled on his belly, searching for another angle of attack. Ahead of him, he heard the quarry moving, looking for a new position of his own. Two blasts in rapid-fire cut through the ferns above Bolan's head, forcing him deeper into the grass and leaves. Before he had an opportunity to return fire, a crashing in the underbrush told Bolan that his prey was breaking for the fence.
Cursing, Bolan scrambled to his feet and gave chase. They were down to the wire now, literally, and if McNerney cleared the fence, they were back to square one.
Pounding through the darkness, sharp limbs whipping at his face and chest, Bolan clawed the walkie-talkie free of his belt and mashed the transmission button.
"Bring the power up!" he barked, not caring if McNerney heard him now. "Electrify the fence!"
* * *
Cut and bleeding after running his gauntlet through the trees, McNerney reached the fence and found his exit waiting for him. Dropping to his knees, he ripped the twists of wire away and clawed the chain link back with desperate fingers, crawling through on hands and knees. Behind him, in the darkness, he could hear an angry voice dictating orders, but he couldn't grasp the words.
He cleared the open gap and was rising to his feet when sparks exploded all around him, crackling on the dew-damp grass. Somehow they had restored the power, but it didn't matter now. If anything, it was a blessing, for the hunters would be trapped inside the compound, unable to pursue him without running around to the main gate.
Incredibly McNerney knew he had it made. He had escaped. No matter that his mission was a failure. He was still alive, and he would try again until he got it right.
He ran downslope, following the natural line of a grassy ravine, hidden from the viewpoint of a gunner in the trees behind him. Let the bastard try to climb the fence or use his exit hatch. One brush against the crackling wire, and he would fry. They could shut the power off again, of course, but every second wasted only strengthened Mike McNerney's lead.
The rental car was dead ahead, a crouching shadow in the filtered light provided by a quarter moon. No more than fifty yards, and he would slide behind the wheel, put all of this behind him. Later, when he was completely safe, there would be time to analyze the play, find out why it had gone wrong. Had they been waiting for him? Or had he, in his exuberance, merely stumbled into the camp's normal security precautions?
No matter. Twenty yards now to the car, and he was slowing, catching his breath, when a shadow detached itself from the trees on his right, moving swiftly on an interception course.
"That's far enough!" the watcher shouted, leveling some kind of automatic weapon from the hip. They fired together, and McNerney staggered with the impact of a bullet ripping through his shoulder, reeling, going down. Before he fell, he fired a second shot, one-handed, and the faceless gunman toppled, sprawling on the grass.
He might be still alive, but Mike McNerney didn't give a damn. Ignoring the flares of pain from his wounded shoulder, he scrambled to his feet, lurching toward the car. Somehow he found the keys in his pocket the first time, unlocking the door and slumping behind the wheel. He was about to key the ignition when he caught the tiny, whirring sound, so like an insect's trilling, somewhere close at hand.
And Mike McNerney knew that he was dead. Before he dropped the keys, before he pivoted in the direction of the open driver's door, he knew it was too late. There wasn't even time to scream as rolling thunder ripped his world apart, consuming him with righteous fire.
* * *
"Cut off the power!"
"But you said…"
"Goddamn it, cut the power! Now!"
"We roger that."
The lethal, crackling fence fell silent, and Mack Bolan wriggled through the exit port provided by his enemy. He felt extremely vulnerable, exposed, until he gained his feet again, and even then the shadows threatened him.
The soldier had a choice. McNerney might have run toward the north or south, but northward lay the highway and potential places of concealment for a vehicle. He turned in that direction, knowing that if his selection was in error, he had blown it, finally, perhaps forever. Having missed McNerney here, there might not be another chance to bring him down before it was too late.
Gunfire added urgency to Bolan's stride. A shotgun blast, a burst of autofire, an answer from the twelve-gauge. Someone, somehow, had attempted to waylay McNerney, but the warrior wasn't betting on their chances of success. He had already learned a new respect for his adversary, but that respect only amplified the need to bring McNerney down.
Ahead of him, the sudden flash of an explosion lit the trees, immediately followed by the sharp, concussive sound. Bolan started running toward the firelight, slowing as the flames resolved themselves into the form of a shattered automobile. From fifty feet away, their heat was stifling.
A movement on the grass to Bolan's right brought him into a crouch, the Colt Commander tracking into target acquisition. Seated on the grass, his features visible in the reflected light of dancing flames, was Hermann Schwarz. Despite the intervening distance, Bolan caught a glint of crimson on his camouflaged fatigues.
"What happened, Gadgets?"
"I was working the perimeter, outside," Schwarz answered, grinning crookedly behind his combat makeup. "Found his car and decided that I'd wait for him in case he made it out."
"How badly are you hit?"
"I guess I'll live."
The Executioner was frowning, curious. "I didn't hear the burst that tagged his fuel tank."
"That's because I never fired one," Schwarz replied. "The bang was waiting for him when he opened the driver's door. A five-second tension-release fuse… just in case."
"The doomsday fallback."
"Now you're talking."
For the first time in a week or more, Mack Bolan felt like smiling. Calling up the medics, he could feel a weight of worry lifted from his shoulders, evaporating into thin air. Their ETA was five, but he and Schwarz could wait. For now, it was enough to read tomorrow in the flames.
Epilogue
"You were superb, as always."
"Thank you, sir."
The presidential limousine was air-conditioned, roomy, but Mack Bolan still felt claustrophobic as he sat beside Brognola on the jump seats.
"No telling where that madman might have popped up next." The chief executive frowned, showing genuine concern. "I trust your people are receiving proper care."
"Yes, sir," Hal answered for him. "Gadg… uh, Schwarz, was wounded in the side and shoulder. James took several buckshot pellets in the legs and groin."
"Good Lord!"
"No lasting damage, sir. Bethesda's best assure me everything will be in working order when they're finished."
&nbs
p; "Well, thank God for that at least." He turned to Bolan once again. "This may not be the time or place, but I was wondering if you've had time to reconsider my proposal."
"I've considered it."
"And?"
"Sir, my quarrel has never been with you."
The Man dismissed his statement with an airy wave. "I know that, son. If someone sold me out the way they did to you… well, dammit, someone nearly did. I understand your feelings, but I need an answer all the same."
"I couldn't come back to the team full-time," he said at last. "I need the kind of stretch you just don't find in uniform."
"I see." The President seemed genuinely saddened.
"However, in the proper circumstances I might be available from time to time."
"On call, you mean?"
"We'd have to take it one job at a time. No promises."
"You run a greater risk outside," the President reminded him unnecessarily.
"Yes, sir."
"I can't protect you while you're on your own."
"You can't protect me on the farm," the Executioner replied.
"I understand. But if we need to get in touch with you…"
"Hal has the number of a service that I use. I check in twice a day." There was no need to mention brother John, no need to make the government aware of his existence.
"All right," the President agreed. "About that pardon…"
"That's not necessary, sir."
"I think it is."
"You'd just be wasting time," the soldier cautioned him. "This time tomorrow, I may be a criminal again."
"There should be something…"
"I don't want permission, sir. The action justifies itself. I'll take my chances."
"Very well. But if you ever want for anything…"
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