Death List

by Don Pendleton

  He merged with traffic and got the minivan up to speed. Lucky for him, the toll ticket was tucked into the visor above him. He had a full tank of gas, too; the owner must have filled up before parking to use the rest area. He would drive to the next rest area, find a suitable vehicle to switch plates with, and then drive to a third stop to use a phone. He had to resist the urge to speed. It wouldn’t do to get pulled over.

  He had a lot of work to do...and that meant he had a lot of people to kill.

  9

  Fort Wayne, Indiana

  The drive to Fort Wayne had taken Bolan about three hours. When he pulled into the parking lot of CyberWell UniSys—CWUS was emblazoned on the sign by the driveway—he found the visitor parking, drove past it and pulled into a spot reserved for some manager or other. A nearly electrically bright, lime-green Hummer H2 was parked in the spot reserved for the company’s CEO, Theodore Shepherd. The vanity license plates on the Hummer read BTRTHNU.

  “Better than you,” Bolan muttered, reading the plate. This guy was a class act.

  Shepherd was the first name on the target list. On the way to Indiana, Bolan had queried the Farm for intelligence on the man. He’d also transmitted the full details of the list, everything the Corinos had given him, to Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman for analysis. Reports had been coming in ever since, some of which Bolan had asked Price to summarize over the secure line so he could absorb the data while he drove.

  The upshot was that Shepherd was one of the hundred richest men in the country, depending on how the numbers were processed and whether the various non-liquid assets he held were valued fairly. Twenty years ago, when Shepherd was fresh out of college, he’d invented an encryption algorithm so good that it had made him a fortune. The controversy surrounding the program had helped drive sales and increase Shepherd’s fame at the time. The government worried that Shepherd’s algorithm was impenetrable, making it a prime tool for terrorists to use to hide their communications.

  Kurtzman had informed Bolan that all that had been a smokescreen. Top encryption specialists in the deepest black-ops corners of the United States government had cracked Shepherd’s algorithm about six months after it came out. The government just hadn’t told anybody they’d done it.

  For close to two decades, Shepherd’s algorithm sold well, as did various other programs his software company, CWUS, marketed to the public. The company’s entire reputation was built on the lie that Theodore Shepherd was the man too smart for the government. Private citizens, corporations, even foreign governments bought Shepherd’s program. And except for the highest, most secure levels of the United States government—such as the team at Stony Man Farm—no one was any the wiser that the code could be cracked.

  During that time, the Farm’s ability to penetrate internet chatter secured with Shepherd’s algorithm had been one major source of intelligence data available to Hal Brognola’s SOG. The rest of the world believed its encrypted communications were secure. The darkest parts of the United States government saw no reason to inform them otherwise.

  But there was a problem, Bolan knew, at least for Theodore Shepherd.

  According to Farm intel, over time, after nearly twenty years of compromised operations, a pattern began to emerge. Despite black ops’ best efforts to conceal the true source of the intelligence they were gathering, and despite the false flags and other red herrings the intelligence community threw out for criminal and terrorist organizations to find, one organization in particular had noticed the connection between repeatedly foiled secret operations and Theodore Shepherd’s encryption program. That organization was the same one that, two decades past, had invested so heavily in Shepherd’s operation, going so far as to form shell corporations that funded more research and development on Shepherd’s part.

  But now the Mafia thought Theodore Shepherd was an informant.

  The Corinos had put Shepherd first on their death list because, for years, they had suspected he was somehow using his program to feed the federal government information about Mob operations. They weren’t sure exactly how it was happening, and it didn’t happen every time they used the software. The pattern had been very hard to detect. It was rumored, in Mob circles, that Rosa Corino herself had been the first to declare her certainty of Theodore Shepherd’s guilt.

  The problem circled back around, for the Mob, to Shepherd’s notoriety. Planting a bomb in his gaudy truck wouldn’t be enough to do the job. A hit that could be traced back to organized crime would only exacerbate the difficulty Shepherd’s spying had done to the syndicate. But if a professional assassin took out Shepherd, a man like Vincent Harmon, well...they had a measure of plausible deniability. Shepherd had enemies all over the world. Anyone might want him dead. One popular theory had it that he would be killed, or taken prisoner and then conveniently found dead in his cell, by the United States government itself.

  Certainly there were elements among the Central Intelligence Agency, Price had confided in Bolan, who might just have been tempted by the offer. Shepherd was prone to making arrogant statements to the media in support of various anarchist and terrorist causes. He was always careful not to say anything that could get him arrested, but he was not a popular man. If the government had not been using his encryption program as an intelligence-gathering tool all these years, if it had actually worked and they had not been able to crack it, there was no telling just how much damage Shepherd might have wrought to counterterror and operations under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act—also known as RICO—for the last two decades.

  Shepherd might be an obnoxious jerk, from all public accounts, Bolan thought, but he was also a paranoid one. He employed an extensive team of bodyguards, some of them armed, to protect him and his business at all times. Most of the guards followed him around from home to work and back again, and even when he went out. There had been numerous press accounts of his hired goons getting into it with the press and anyone who got in Shepherd’s way. He was legendary among the gossip television shows of the day.

  That was the thing about bodyguard work, Bolan mused. Sometimes it was better not to know—at least not too well—the very people you were supposed to guard. Disliking them might make it that much harder to protect them.

  Bolan exited the car. Now that he had the target data, he could cast off his Vincent Harmon persona. The Corinos might or might not have the necessary intelligence network in place to tell them if their plans were being carried out. He was going to assume they did. That meant that when the first couple of hits didn’t go down as planned, they were going to start to get nervous. As Bolan went from list item to list item and none of the Corinos’ targets were waxed, they would realize something was very wrong. At least until they realized they’d been had—if they did—they were going to think Vincent Harmon wasn’t nearly the assassin they wanted him to be.

  He pushed his way through the large glass doors leading into Theodore Shepherd’s software company. A uniformed guard was stationed behind a reception desk. He looked up, apparently annoyed, as Bolan approached.

  “There are no appointments scheduled for today,” the guard stated. “No solicitors.” He was young, early twenties maybe, with a gaunt face and thin, pinched features. His eyes were narrow and set too close together. His nose was a beak. His uniform fit him well, though, and a 1911-style pistol was holstered on his hip.

  “Justice Department Agent Matthew Cooper,” Bolan said, using one of his aliases. “I’m here to take Theodore Shepherd into custody. We have reason to believe Mr. Shepherd’s life is in danger.”

  “I’m going to need to see some identification,” the guard said.

  “I don’t have it with me. And I don’t have time to argue. I’m on a tight schedule. Send Shepherd down here, and I’ll talk to him about it. The man’s life is on the line. I suggest you get the lead out and get him on the intercom, or your phone, or what
ever it is you do.”

  The guard stood. “Sir, you’re on private property, and I am authorized to use deadly force to protect this property from intruders.” His hand started to drift to his belt line.

  “That flap holster might as well be a gun safe back home under your bed. Keep your hand off it unless you want to feel what it’s like to write your name with your weak hand.”

  “You can’t just bully your way in here,” the guard told him. “I’m calling the police.”

  “You call whoever you like. But get Shepherd down here. I told you, his life is on the line.”

  “No, your life is on the line.” The guard fumbled with the flap of his holster. Bolan was faster. Like a rattler, he snared the man’s wrist, jerked forward and pushed back, using his other hand to support the wrist lock. Bone snapped. The man cried out and dropped into his chair.

  “I warned you, kid,” Bolan said. “You’ll heal. And while you’re healing, take a long, hard look at switching professions, because you’re not good at this.” He reached under the reception desk, found the release button he expected to find and pressed it. A buzzer sounded and the secured door leading into the rest of the building popped open on automatic hinges.

  An alarm sounded. The kid with the broken wrist had obviously punched it up. The thing was, Bolan couldn’t blame him. He was doing his job, and the only reason Bolan had hurt him was to avoid having to kill him. He couldn’t have any of Shepherd’s hired hands pulling firearms on him. People got dead fast when guns came out. But with the alarm tripped, he was likely going to face more than a few itchy trigger fingers.

  No sooner had he said it than the elevator at the end of the corridor opened. Half a dozen men with AR-15 pattern rifles trooped out. They were followed by a man in a polo shirt and cargo shorts, complete with white socks and sandals. The fashion victim was none other than Theodore Shepherd.

  The guards surrounded Bolan, pointing their rifles at him. He wasn’t going to shoot any of them. They were, after all, protecting their client, and Bolan himself was a violent intruder.

  The gunmen were so close that they could practically prod Bolan with their gun barrels. They were also surrounding him in a perfect circle. He shook his head.

  “Shepherd,” he said, “you need to hire better help.”

  “Just who do you think you are?” the businessman asked. “You can’t come in here and roust me. Nobody can! I’m the king of the financial mountain, pal, or hadn’t you heard? My money makes me untouchable. And that means you’re leaving here in an ambulance. I don’t care if you’re a government agent or not.”

  “Four things. One, I was sympathetic until that last sentence. If you honestly don’t care if you hurt or kill a federal agent, that makes you a dangerous moron. Two, yes, I am a government operative, and your life is in danger. Three, you’re coming with me for your own safety, because there are people who want to kill you. And four, you need to hire better guys, because these idiots are way too close and, even if I gave them a chance to open up on me, they’d just end up shooting each other.”

  “Wha—” Shepherd had time to say.

  Bolan grabbed the nearest rifle barrel, jerked it free and slammed the butt into the face of the opposite guard. He worked his way through the hapless bodyguards, breaking faces and snatching rifles. Several rounds were fired, but none of them found the mark until one guard shot another in the thigh. In seconds, Bolan had them all disarmed and on the floor.

  “Get that guy a tourniquet,” Bolan ordered, pointing to the man who’d been shot. “And call an ambulance. As for you, Shepherd, what kind of idiot follows his own guards out from his safe room, or wherever, to confront a potentially hostile enemy? You’re lucky I got here when I did. You wouldn’t stand a chance on your own.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Shepherd stated calmly.

  Bolan stared him in the eye. “You’re dead wrong.”

  * * *

  STONY MAN ACE PILOT Jack Grimaldi was waiting for Bolan at the airport. The Farm had arranged for a pass, so the Executioner brought his borrowed car through the security gates leading onto the tarmac area around the terminals, driving to the designated area. It wasn’t hard to spot the Farm’s contingent. An Osprey fitted with auxiliary fuel tanks was waiting with Grimaldi.

  In the passenger seat next to Bolan, Shepherd—sporting a black eye—glared at his captor. Bolan made straight for the Osprey.

  Grimaldi wasn’t alone. He wore his flight suit and a pair of combat boots, which seemed oddly casual next to the men in sunglasses, earpieces and dark suits who waited with him. Their black SUV—it looked like an armored model to Bolan—was parked near the aircraft. The way they carried themselves, there was no doubt in Bolan’s mind these men were highly placed government operatives. They might be blacksuits from the Farm, or they might be intelligence operatives from some other agency. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were there to take charge of Shepherd, who would probably be parked in some safehouse until Bolan finished working his way through the Corinos’ hit list. Once out of the car, Bolan gave Shepherd a shove toward the agents.

  “Cooper,” Shepherd said. “I’m going to remember this. I’m going to find you, and I’m going to find your family, and I’m going to sue you and them for every red cent you’ve ever—”

  Bolan took two quick steps, grabbed Shepherd by the shirt and hooked a leg around the back one of the man’s calves. A quick jerk of Bolan’s heel was all it took to topple the man to the tarmac. He had Harmon’s automatic knife out faster than it took to think about it. The blade snapped open.

  Grimaldi stepped between Bolan and the two agents. “No problem here,” the pilot said. “They’re just saying their goodbyes. Stand down, gentlemen.” The agents didn’t like that very much, but they didn’t push the issue. They simply stood, presumably glaring from behind their mirrored sunglasses.

  Bolan pressed the blade of the knife to Shepherd’s cheek. “You’re going to forget all about me, Shepherd. I’m nobody to you. I’m less than nobody. I was never here. We never spoke. I don’t like threats. Any man who threatens another man’s family, well...let’s just say in a less ‘civilized’ era you’d be lucky to live to do it a second time. You get me?”

  Shepherd nodded vigorously, his eyes wide in terror. Bolan withdrew the knife and dragged the man back to his feet. He pushed Shepherd toward the two agents, who took him by the shoulders and guided him to the truck. Bolan watched the SUV pull away and did not turn back to Grimaldi until the vehicle was out of sight.

  “Some rescue, Sarge,” Grimaldi said. “That guy’s a tool all day long. But seriously, though. You and I both know you’d never cut a guy for something he only said to you.”

  “Sure. But he didn’t.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Your gear is in a canvas war bag on board the bird.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to leave these pearl-handled pistols Harmon favored with you. You can drop them out of a plane the next time you’re over an ocean, for all I care. I think I’ll keep his fancy switchblade.”

  “Okay, Sarge, but listen. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Something we couldn’t risk putting out over comms. Didn’t want any chance of it getting out.”

  “What is it?”

  “Vincent Harmon has escaped. The Farm has intercepted internet chatter that we think means the Corinos and Harmon have been talking. The communications trace was through a contracting outfit that got booted quietly off the books in Iraq because their...corporate ethics...weren’t quite up to snuff. Mercenaries, we figure. And if Harmon has been talking to both the Corinos and a mercenary outfit, there’s no telling how many additional players are now on the field. They could be moving to the next target right now, looking to snuff you when you get there.”

  Bolan’s jaw clenched. “Is there an official report on how Harmon broke custody?�
�

  “Barb is going to transmit it to your secure satellite phone.”

  “Good. I’ll read it on the way. Let’s get in the air, Jack. We’ve got even less time than I thought.”

  10

  Philadelphia, PA

  Bolan, dressed in black combat BDUs with a three-quarter-length leather coat to cover his weapons, drove the Chevrolet Suburban through Philadelphia traffic. The big, black vehicle was armor-plated and sported a few other surprises. It had been waiting for him and Grimaldi at the Philadelphia airport. Grimaldi had decided to ride shotgun in the SUV. He had a MAC-10 machine pistol with a suppressor sitting in his lap. He was still in his flight suit, but the brown-leather bomber jacket he wore helped disguise his military look somewhat.

  “You’re driving like a madman, Sarge.”

  “We can’t spare any time. With Harmon in play, there’s no telling what might be waiting for us. The Corinos’ hit list says Harmon is supposed to take out Franklin Stillwater before dark on the premises of the investment firm, United Assets International, that Stillwater heads as CEO. We need to get there before anybody else does, and I don’t know how far behind the eight ball we might already be.”

  Stillwater was a banking executive who, the Farm had informed Bolan, had been rumored for years to be connected to the Mafia. Nobody had ever been able to pin that on him. In true Wall Street style, he was practically untouchable, and rumors had it that he had the ear of the chairman of the Federal Reserve. For whatever reason, the Corinos wanted Stillwater taken out. Barbara Price had a theory about that.

  Stillwater, Price had told him, was probably the man behind a holding company that ran the Corinos’ offshore investments. Whenever the Corinos wanted to hide money, or grow that cash, they invested it through the holding company. Justice had never been able to tie Stillwater to the firm, but Stony Man Farm had long believed the two were one and the same. There were subtle hints out there to that effect, Price explained. Bolan was good with that; he didn’t need the technical details. If Kurtzman and his team thought the cyber trail led back to Stillwater, that was good enough for him.