Not friends by any means.
Enemies.
“Down, Mitchell. Now,” he snapped, reaching out to give her a none-to-gentle push that took her off balance and to the ground. Bolan followed, sliding his Beretta 93-R from leather as he dropped, swiveling it to line up on the shooter who had emerged from the trees. Bolan heard the crackle of autofire, felt the hiss of slugs passing over his falling body. His finger stroked the 93-R’s trigger and the Beretta fired a triburst. Bolan had gone for the chest, but his fast release, as he dropped to the ground, was off target.
The 9 mm slugs struck the shooter in the upper left shoulder, creating a significant wound as they hit bone, shattering it as they flattened and tearing at muscle and flesh. The guy stumbled, crying out in pain as his shoulder was mangled severely, losing a flap of torn flesh and spouting blood. He lost all interest in the battle as he went to his knees, letting go of his submachine gun, his attention focusing on the pain that engulfed him. Incapacitated, he was an open target for Bolan to make his follow-up shot. The soldier drilled a 3-round burst into the guy’s head. This time Bolan’s aim was on target. The dead man flopped over onto his back, his skull split and bloody.
Mitchell’s tumble occupied her for the seconds it took her to hit the ground. She managed a clumsy recovery, her right hand automatically snatching at her holstered Glock, dragging it free. Her training kicked in. She threw out her left hand to take her weight as she pulled herself to one knee and focused on the area beyond where Cooper had been firing. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the first shooter falling and saw movement beyond that.
Two more gunners concentrated on their position. The closer man was hauling his weapon into the firing position.
She raised the Glock, two-fisted, and brought the muzzle on line, her finger easing the trigger back. She felt the reassuring kick as the pistol fired, repeating the gesture to launch a second slug. Both slugs hit center-mass, and the would-be shooter fell back, slamming to the ground. The moment she triggered the pair of shots, Mitchell pulled her Glock round to the second man, locked on him and fired another double tap.
Bolan had already resighted his 93-R and fired simultaneously. His slugs were a fraction behind Mitchell’s and hit within a half-inch of hers. Struck by the lethal combination of 9 mm and .40-caliber slugs, the guy went down fast and hard.
“You hurt?” Bolan asked.
“Only my pride,” Mitchell said. “Cooper, you picked up on those guys fast.”
“I have a suspicious nature.”
They fell into a team position, each checking opposite directions, tracking their weapons across the area. As they studied the area, they watched for further movement, easing into the cover provided by the trees.
“I hate to even think this,” Mitchell said, “but Brewster could have been directing those shooters.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, and pulled her deeper into the foliage.
They were heading directly for the Hegre stronghold.
CHAPTER SIX
The bulk of the house spread before them, partly obscured by the overgrown network of trees and undergrowth. The access road was little more than a rutted track. Two vehicles were parked in front of the building. Bolan and Mitchell crouched against the perimeter wall.
“Not exactly a Realtor’s dream property,” Mitchell whispered.
“Ideal for these guys,” Bolan said. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s somewhere they can carry out their work in safety.”
“I’m not sure I like what you’re suggesting. What work?”
Bolan checked his Beretta.
“No time for chitchat,” he said. “We can’t be sure we dealt with the whole of the search team back there. We need to go in now.”
Bolan led them across the low wall. They skirted the bulk of the house and pressed against the side wall. A number of boarded windows were set in the wall. With Mitchell at his back, the soldier moved to the rear corner, crouching to peer around. Thirty feet from the back of the house were more trees and a heavy spread of undergrowth that almost reached the rear of the building.
They observed more closed-off windows on ground level and the upper floor; a derelict outhouse; a single wooden door that would allow access to the interior.
“Our way in,” Bolan said quietly.
Mitchell tapped his shoulder in agreement.
“Stay sharp,” Bolan said and moved to the door.
Mitchell checked back the way they had come. There was no movement but she was aware how quickly a situation could change.
“Clear,” she said.
Bolan examined the door. Wood, the panels cracked and warped. Whatever paint had once coated it was long gone. He set himself, knowing that wooden barriers could be deceiving.
“No walking through walls?” Mitchell said. “I’m disappointed, Cooper.”
Bolan set his distance and drew back his right leg, then launched a powerful kick that planted his boot over the lock. Wood splintered. The door flew open, crashing against the inside wall. Bolan went through, breaking to the right. Mitchell copied his move, going left. They both swept the empty room. Nothing save dust and scattered detritus.
Beyond the room they heard voices raised in anger.
“We disturbed someone,” Mitchell said.
They crossed the room and went through the door on the far side, which revealed a wide passage with stairs to one side.
“Shooter,” Mitchell yelled as a moving shape emerged from the shadows ahead.
A slim guy in shirtsleeves opened up with a squat SMG, a line of slugs punching into the wall to one side. He seemed to fire more for effect than to seek a definite target. Bolan turned and cut loose with the Beretta, catching the guy in the side. The shooter slammed against the far wall, clutching his side as blood began to soak his shirt. Bolan put a triburst in the gunner’s skull. The guy sagged to his knees, then toppled over.
Mitchell caught sight of a second shooter, taking a side step to avoid his falling partner. She took advantage of the man’s hesitation, leaning out from behind Bolan. She settled her aim without hesitation and punched a pair of .40-caliber slugs in the guy. Chest high, over the heart, the solid impact of the slugs knocked the target off his feet. He took an awkward fall, slamming to the floor on his face and rolling against the wall, his body in spasm just before he died.
A shadow materialized along the passage, weapon up and firing. The burst of autofire came close. Bolan held his ground, the enemy fire bypassing him as he raised the Beretta and triggered a burst. The distant figure staggered as slugs ripped into his body. He refused to go down until Mitchell fired a .40-caliber round through his throat. This time he dropped without a sound.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Cover me,” Bolan said as he dropped the exhausted magazine and rammed home a fresh one from his pouch. As he activated the 93-R, he felt the heat from Mitchell’s close fired Glock as she took down a second gunner emerging from an open door. The .40-caliber slugs ripped into the target’s chest. He dropped his weapon. They moved in unison, clearing the foot of the stairs and aiming for the door the shooters had come from.
Mitchell turned to check the stairs, scanning the shadowed landing. As Bolan cleared the doorway, he found a large room spread out in front of him. The large windows looked out on the front of the house and the pair of parked vehicles. Bolan took in the room at a glance and what he saw was imprinted on his vision like a vivid snapshot.
A half-naked figure was strapped to a wooden chair, the exposed chest and torso a mass of bloody wounds. Enough blood had been spilled to soak the man’s pants to midthigh. His head was thrown back, his throat slashed wide and bloody. Bolan’s gaze dropped to the bound man’s bare feet. Most of the toes on the left foot were gone, leaving ragged and bloody stumps. The blood was dry, indic
ating that the man had been dead for some time.
Mitchell had remained at the entrance to the room, keeping a lookout for any interference. She took a quick look inside, saw the bound man and Bolan heard the shocked gasp when she recognized the victim.
“It’s Jake Bermann.”
“Mitchell, don’t lose it. Not now,” Bolan snapped.
Her face registered surprise as she looked beyond Bolan to the farthest reaches of the shadowed room. Her Glock arced to one side, finger closing on the trigger.
“Down,” she yelled, stepping in through the doorway.
Bolan dropped to a crouch, turning.
A pistol fired, the shot going over Bolan’s head.
Mitchell’s Glock cracked twice, flame spouting in the shadowed room.
As Bolan came around, he saw an armed man jerk as Mitchell’s .40-caliber slugs hit. The target cried out in pain as he fell back, the weapon clutched in his sagging right hand firing a shot into the floor. Light from the closest window set him in clear sight.
“It’s Brewster,” Mitchell said.
Bolan crossed the room in long strides, the 93-R trained solidly on the hunched-over figure. Brewster was on his knees, clutching his midsection. His Glock hung from his fingers, loose and presenting no threat. Bolan took it from the man, holstering his Beretta and holding the Glock.
Brewster, moaning, moved so he could sit awkwardly, still clutching himself. Blood soaked through his shirt in a continuous flood, turning his shirt and pants a glistening red.
“I’m calling this in,” Mitchell said.
Bolan handed her his cell phone and she keyed in a number. Standing at the doorway, she stared at Brewster as she raised her phone.
“SAC Duncan, this is Agent Mitchell. We have located Agent Bermann, sir. He’s dead. And we have Brewster. He tried to shoot us. It was Brewster who gave us up to Hegre. He’s down. We have the situation under control. Yes, sir, Cooper is with me. We need backup at the location you gave me. You can send in the troops now. Yes, sir, we’ll stand fast.”
Bolan saw the spread of blood as it pooled under Brewster’s slumped body. He grabbed cushions off armchairs pushed to one side of the room and laid Brewster down with one of the cushions under his head. The man stared up at Bolan. His face was sickly white and glistening with sweat.
“He’s in a bad way,” Bolan said over his shoulder.
“Good,” Mitchell snapped back. “Don’t expect any kind of help from me, Cooper. You see what they did to Jake?”
Her voice rose in anger. “You see what they did, Brewster. To one of your own. And Ray.”
“What did they want from him?” Bolan asked.
“Information,” Brewster said. “Hegre was concerned the FBI was getting too close and starting to unravel how it worked.”
Blood trickled from Brewster’s mouth, frothy and constant.
“You were helping them?”
Brewster nodded. Life was slipping away. His hands covering the bullet wounds in his body were wet with blood.
“They offered so much money,” he said, his voice weakening. “A million. It seemed so easy at the time. I took it because I was greedy. No other word for it. I was living above my means, seeing all kinds of perps with money coming out of their pockets. I was risking my life for nothing while they had it all.” Brewster began to cough up more blood. His face twisted in a spasm, then formed a crooked smile. “When Hegre made the offer, I just couldn’t refuse. You know the funny part? I never got the chance to spend any of it.”
“Where’s the woman?” Bolan asked. “Delaware?”
Brewster’s head moved from side to side. “Lise? She moves around. She’s hard to pin down.” He fixed his gaze on Bolan. “She wants you, Cooper. You killed Rackham, burned her with a bullet and wrecked their Korean deal. She will come after you.”
“I’ll try not to lose too much sleep over that.”
Behind Bolan, Mitchell’s Glock cracked once—twice.
“Incoming,” she called, and Bolan moved to her side. He saw shooters moving along the hallway, weapons up.
Bolan snapped up the Glock and started to lay down offensive fire. As the Executioner drove the shooters back, Mitchell ejected her empty magazine, reloaded and brought her weapon back online. Together they covered the hallway with a powerful curtain of .40-caliber fire. Two men went down, one screaming wildly.
Retreat became the order of the day as the Hegre crew backed off. Bolan refused to let it end there and he tracked the hallway, sending more deadly fire at the enemy as they pulled away. When the Glock locked back empty, Bolan snatched the 93-R from its holster and continued to fire. The interior of the house echoed with the constant stream of gunshots. The last man in the group reached a door and kicked it open. Before he could clear the opening, Mitchell’s Glock fired twice and the guy’s head was hammered by a pair of .40-caliber slugs. They cored in through his skull and blew a portion of brains out through the bloody exit wound.
Mitchell slumped back against the wall, Glock sagging in her two-handed grip. The weapon had locked on empty, smoke still curling from the barrel. Bolan saw her shoulders moving as she trembled in the aftermath. He could see the rage seeping away, and he knew in her mind she would be seeing the image of her tortured, dead FBI teammates.
Ray Talbot.
Jake Bermann.
Mitchell would be taking on the blame because she felt a responsibility toward her team.
It wasn’t enough they had found Bermann.
They had arrived too late.
Bolan watched her, seeing her expression and feeling for the FBI agent. There was not a thing he could do for her.
His thoughts turned to another female.
Lise Delaware.
The woman would seek revenge, would attempt to even a perceived score with Bolan. Somewhere along the line that need would be addressed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“One way or another, Cooper, I’m getting to the bottom of this.”
The determination in Mitchell’s voice told Bolan all he needed to know. The FBI agent was not going to stop until she had the answers she wanted. She had good reasons.
Mitchell reloaded automatically as she voiced her thoughts.
“They don’t do this and not pay.”
Her partners had been killed because they had been betrayed.
And Mitchell’s own tenacious nature would not allow her to ignore facts.
“The Bureau is in a good position to run some checks on Brewster’s recent history,” Bolan said, then added, “second thoughts. Go careful. Hegre appears to have deep contacts. It could be they might get wind of anyone looking too close at their business.”
“Are you saying they might have someone else in the Bureau? That’s crazy, Cooper. This is the FBI were talking about. Hegre doesn’t own it.”
“Agent Mitchell, I’ve been up against this group before. They had a pretty good reach last time around. I can’t do anything to stop you from checking them out. Just be careful is all I’m saying.”
Mitchell understood his concern. And as much as she even hated the thought there might be some other kind of leak within the FBI, her good sense cautioned against being careless.
She only had to remind herself what had happened to Joe Brewster. He had been a careful man, never one to even think about taking unnecessary risks. He was a stickler for obeying the rules. She had believed him to be an upstanding FBI agent who played by the book.
She had been wrong there. Brewster had stepped outside the circle and accepted Hegre’s money. He had been turned. In Mitchell’s eyes, if Brewster had been corrupted, it could happen to anyone.
Mitchell was at the room’s front window, keeping watch, waiting for backup to arrive. Her initial anger when she had realized Brewster had
betrayed them had ebbed, leaving behind a dull ache. It wasn’t every day she had two friends die and witnessed another partner selling her out.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Cooper crouching over Brewster’s prone figure, talking quietly to the wounded man. Cooper fought with the dedication of a professional, yet now he was speaking to the man who had tried to kill them with the compassion of a priest taking confession. In the brief time she had known the man, Cooper had shown her many facets of his character. She found herself drawn to him, fascinated by his powerful presence and the deadly skills he used so well.
“Game’s over,” Bolan said to Brewster. “You rolled the dice and ended up with snake-eyes. A low roll. Whichever way you look at it, you don’t come out with any kind of winning hand.”
“So this is where I open up and admit the error of my ways?”
“Hegre isn’t going to come to the rescue.”
“But you are? You’ll offer me absolution if I confess before I die?”
“I’m no priest,” Bolan said. “But I’m open to offers.”
Brewster was bleeding from the mouth now, his breath ragged.
“If Mitchell was in your place right now, she would be pulling a trigger on me.”
“She lost friends over this. You were one of them. Do the right thing and at least offer her something in payback.” Bolan held the man’s gaze. “Or don’t. It makes no difference to me, Brewster. I’m tracking Hegre however long it takes.”
Brewster’s eyes rolled, and for a moment his stillness made Bolan imagine he was gone. Then he took a breath, his gaze focusing again.
“Hegre has a deal with some high-ranking Iranian group, brokering them uranium for their enrichment program. All illegal. It’s coming out of Kazakhstan. And diamonds to finance it from Australia... Cooper, remember what I said about Delaware. She’s crazy mad for what you did to their last big deal...losing the North Korean game cost Hegre a lot. Too much for them to ignore. Cooper, you’re top of her Most Wanted list.”
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