Bolan’s calculated risk had gone terribly wrong

He ran for the nearest cover, which happened to be the underside of the armored Escalade. Its chain gun was still pouring a firestorm of destruction into the rooftops. While it raked the left side of the street, the townspeople on the opposite side tried to take the SUV out by concentrating their fire, but the lighter rifle shells ricocheted off the body.

Then Bolan heard an even louder racket above the earsplitting thunder of rifle fire as a shadow passed overhead. The helicopter came in low and out of the south, a pair of gunmen wielding M-16s shooting at the remaining riflemen on the roof. But then the M-249 on top of the Humvee swiveled and opened up as the helicopter approached, the 5.56 mm rounds spitting out to star the helicopter’s windshield.

The pitch of the aircraft’s engine changed suddenly, turning choppy. The helicopter’s shadow began whirling around on the street as the pilot fought for control. Bolan watched the M-249 gunner pour more fire into the aircraft, and then heard a small explosion. The chopper reared up and accelerated right into a storefront, where its blades shattered into shards of deadly shrapnel flying in every direction. What was left of the fuselage crashed to the ground about fifteen yards from where Bolan was.

The engine of the Escalade started, and Bolan flattened himself against the ground as the vehicle lurched backward and he was left lying in the middle of the road, while the SUV barreled down Main Street.

Bolan was on his feet in a flash, running for the Humvee. The driver rolled down his window. “What’s your plan?”

Bolan leaped into the rear of the vehicle and pulled back the cocking lever of the M-249. “We’ve got to stop them before they get back to the factory! They’re going to blow it up!”

Stand Down

The Executioner ®

Don Pendleton’s

www.mirabooks.co.uk

There is a certain enthusiasm in liberty, that makes human nature rise above itself, in acts of bravery and heroism.

—Alexander Hamilton

1755–1804

One takedown at a time, I will rid this world of the evil that threatens our liberty and way of life—that’s not a threat, but a promise.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Prologue

Sandra Bitterman’s carefully constructed world in Quincyville, Kansas, came crashing down around her on Thursday evening at 6:14 p.m.

Her husband Jack had called from the office, just like he did every night before coming home. Usually they talked of inconsequential things, but this night he seemed tense, distracted. He was speaking quietly, as if someone was nearby and he didn’t want to be overheard.

Before she could ask him if anything was wrong, he said, “Oh, and about dinner, I’ve changed my mind. Don’t put the roast in—we’re going out.”

Sandra had automatically started to reply before Jack’s words registered. “Okay—what was that?” She’d heard what he’d said, of course, but for a moment her brain refused to process the words.

His voice took on that “don’t-screw-around-just-do-as-I-say” tone she knew all too well. “I said, ‘about dinner, I’ve changed my mind. Don’t put the roast in—we’re going out.’”

Sandra had always been quick on her feet, and now she leaped to the occasion. Still clutching the cordless phone to her ear, she walked across the Italian tile floor of their kitchen, past the thirty-six-inch gas cooktop, past the Brazilian wood cabinets and into the plush, cream-colored carpeted hallway. “Sounds good to me. Are we finally going to that steakhouse you’ve been dying to try?”

“It’s a surprise. Just have Kelly ready to go. I’ll be there soon. I love you, honey.”

Sandra’s heart hammered in her chest. She knew Jack loved her, but he rarely said it. That he’d chosen to say it at this moment told her just how serious things were. “I love you, too. We’ll see you soon.”

She backtracked to hang up the phone, then trotted to a cabinet above their glass door refrigerator-freezer and pulled the door open. Reaching in, she withdrew a compact Smith & Wesson Model 386 Night Guard chambered in .357 Magnum. Opening the cylinder, she checked the load, then flipped it closed again. She checked her pockets, but the slacks she wore wouldn’t allow her to carry the pistol comfortably. Opening the maple bread box, she slipped the pistol inside, then ran upstairs.

Electro-pop music blared behind her daughter’s closed bedroom room. Sandra didn’t bother to knock, but twisted the knob and shoved it open, the door snagging on piles of dirty clothes. The room was a teenage explosion of angst and emerging style, with pop star and movie posters covering the walls. Her daughter lay on the bed, a textbook open in front of her. A tiny MP3 sound system pumped out the tunes as Sandra strode into the room.

“Mo-om, what the he—?” Kelly looked up from her algebra textbook with annoyance and reached over to turn off the player, but Sandra caught her wrist before she could. The expression on her mother’s face cut her daughter off in midsentence.

Sandra put her lips close to Kelly’s ear. “We have to go—now.”

Kelly’s mouth hung open as she stared at her mother. “You serious?”

“Damn right I am.” When her daughter stared up at her, unmoving, Sandra clapped her hands. “Now! Move it!”

Rolling off the bed, Kelly ran for her walk-in closet, scattering clothes as she went. Sandra didn’t wait to check her progress, but headed for the master bedroom, muttering under her breath. “Goddamn it, Jack, you told us they would never find out.”

Sandra hadn’t always been the upstanding pillar of the community she was now. She had grown up in an even more hardscrabble town—really just a gas station, church, small grocery store and two bars—named Malin, in the middle of nowhere in western Kansas. As soon as her feet had hit the ground, she was determined to get out before she became another faceless farmer’s wife. She had dreams of escaping to the big city—Los Angeles, not Kansas City—but before she could do that, she met junior Jack Bitterman at Quincyville High School. A half-dozen dates, a six-pack and two joints later, she learned she was pregnant with Jack’s baby.

Kansas being Kansas, marriage was the only realistic option. But Jack had surprised her—he had no plans to sit around and get a crappy job in Quincyville. Instead, he’d studied hard and graduated law school at the state university. The years of college had been rough on both of them, but when it was done, he’d sprung another surprise on her—they weren’t going to the East or West Coast, but back to Quincyville to set up his practice.

When she’d complained about it, he’d asked her, “Listen, do you just want to be another lawyer’s wife in New York or L.A., trying to raise Kelly in a cookie-cutter crap neighborhood while I’m putting in ninety-hour workweeks as a faceless junior exec in a huge firm, or do you want to be someone in a town where being the wife of an attorney will mean something?”

While she pondered that, he leaned closer and whispered. “And don’t you want to stick it to all those folks back home who said you’d never amount to anything?”

That had been all it took. And the past several years had been amazing. Although some folks had whispered about Jack’s various dealings, it had turned out that he had a true gift for the law—and when and how it might be skirted when necessary. That talent had proved invaluable when the Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company had come calling.

By then Quincyville was dying, its younger generation fleeing the small town for greener pastures. Cristobal had wanted a small town in the Midwest to set up their base of operations, and Quincyville had been the logical choice. That was mostly thanks to Jack’s behind-the-scenes dealings, greasing the wheels of local and county administrations, as well as the state legislature to push through a staggering package of economic incentives and tax breaks that made any other place in the state a fool’s choice. And the men running Cristobal were no fools.

Lately there had been talk of Jack running for mayor—being responsible for the revitalized town, he would have been a shoo-in. And from there, who knew what could be next. State Senate? Governor? U.S. Senator?

But just a few minutes ago, Jack had spoken the code words that told Sandra it was all about to blow up in their faces. Running to her own walk-in closet, Sandra headed straight for the back, where a large, packed suitcase stood in a corner. Grabbing it, she hauled it through the bedroom and into the hallway, where her daughter stood, earbuds dangling around her neck, with her hand on a similar suitcase.

“Where’s Dad?”

Sandra took the lead to the stairs. “He’s on his way, but if he isn’t here in ten minutes, we’re taking the Escalade and will meet up with him later.”

“Are we leaving because of something he did?”

Sandra shot a quick look at her daughter, but Kelly’s expression revealed curiosity, not anger or disappointment. “I don’t know, honey.” She actually had a pretty good idea, though. The only thing that would scare him enough to leave town would be if the company had uncovered his skimming, although he’d sworn they would never notice. “There’s so much money flowing through there, they’ll never realize a few grand is missing here and there,” he’d said when he had first brought up the idea to her.

“Well, apparently they did notice, you ass,” Sandra muttered. By the time they’d had that conversation, she’d figured out the real product the company produced, and had decided her husband was right. Still, she’d insisted they have an escape route ready to go, and had drilled it into her husband and daughter until they had accepted the reality, and could execute it in their sleep.

Hauling the heavy suitcase downstairs, Sandra wheeled it through the kitchen and into the attached garage, where she threw it into the back of the gleaming black Escalade that Jack had given her for their sixteenth wedding anniversary. He’d paid for it in cash, which probably wasn’t a good idea, given how everyone in town knew everyone else’s business. Probably attracted too much damn attention from one of the big shots at the company or something, she thought.

After hoisting Kelly’s suitcase into the cargo area, she slammed the back door closed, then hit the button that would open the garage door. It crept up with agonizing slowness, and what it revealed outside made Sandra’s heart leap into her throat.

Standing in the bright glare of the security lights was a slim man dressed in a sheriff’s uniform, complete with a fur-collared jacket to ward off the prairie chill. He regarded her with a flat stare, his Hispanic features half-shadowed by his flat-brimmed hat. The nightstick on his right hip and holstered SIG-Sauer P-229 on his left hip contrasted with his relaxed stance.

Sandra stared at the man, trying to make her voice work. “Deputy Quintanar, what are you doing here?”

“Good evening, Mrs. Bitterman. I’m actually looking for your husband. I was just about to knock on your front door when I heard the garage door opening. I was wondering if we could go inside and talk.” His voice was perfectly polite, but even in the glare of the lights, Sandra sensed his eyes—their cold, flat, reptilian stare—pinning her to the wall. Almost as if he knew what she was doing, and had caught her in the act.

Sandra sensed rather than saw Kelly frozen in the doorway to the house. Slipping one hand behind her back, she waved her daughter back inside while plastering what she hoped was a guileless smile on her face. “Of course, please come in. I’m afraid Jack isn’t home yet. Would you like some coffee while you wait?”

The deputy smiled, looking anything but pleased. “That would be fine.” He strode quickly into the garage. Sandra was already stepping back into the kitchen, whispering, “Hide!” at her daughter, who took off through the kitchen.

Sandra made a beeline for the bread box. Just as she was about to open it, she heard the deputy’s voice from the doorway.

“I thought you were making coffee, Mrs. Bitterman.”

She looked over to see him standing there, seemingly relaxed—except for his left hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Sandra smiled again. “Of course, but I have to begin preparing dinner as well.”

“I wouldn’t be concerned about that right now.” Deputy Quintanar stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. Despite his relatively small stature, his menacing presence dominated the room.

Sandra’s heart tripled its beat, but she gritted her teeth behind her lips and motioned to a chair while she crossed to the coffeemaker. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.” He moved to a chair and pulled it out, but didn’t sit. Sandra steeled herself and turned her back to him as she filled the coffeepot with water and poured it into the Braun machine.

“Regular or decaf?”

“Whatever you prefer is fine. Do you expect Mr. Bitterman to arrive soon?”

Sandra measured coffee beans into the grinder. “It’s hard to say. He’s been putting in a lot of late nights at the plant recently.”

“So he has.”

Cursing inwardly, Sandra hit the grind button. Would the deputy take that as a hint that Jack was up to something at the plant? Once the beans were reduced to a fine grind, she dumped them into the permanent brass filter, closed the brewing chamber and turned on the machine. The coffeemaker gurgled quietly as it worked. With nothing else to do, she walked to the refrigerator and opened it. “I hope you don’t mind if I begin preparations while we wait for Jack.”

Rustling about among the shelves, she heard the chair creak behind her. “I thought Jack was taking you and your daughter—Kelly, isn’t it?—out to dinner this evening.”

Son of a bitch—they were listening, she thought. Grabbing a ceramic dish of the previous night’s beef stew, Sandra straightened, and closed the refrigerator door. “Why would you say that, Deputy?”

“You know how it is in big companies. Nothing is ever really private.”

Damn. As soon as the words hit her ears, Sandra realized they knew everything. Her priorities shifted from escaping with Jack to making sure her daughter and she survived the next few minutes. Still holding the cold dish in her hands, she walked to the stove and twisted the knob to heat the oven, then opened the door and set the casserole dish inside, slipping the glass cover off as she rose. “I don’t know what you mean by that—”

Putting everything she had into it, she whirled and threw the glass cover at where she expected the deputy to be. The moment she turned, she saw her error—he’d already stepped to the right, closer to the front door. The heavy glass cover sailed past his chest and slammed into the wall, gouging a chunk of drywall out before falling to shatter on the tile floor.

The motion had still caught the deputy by surprise, and he flinched from the breaking glass. Sandra didn’t stop to see what he was doing, but lunged for the bread box, shoving the cover open and grabbing the revolver. Whirling again, she aimed the pistol at Deputy Quintanar at the same time he raised his own gun.

Even in the large kitchen with its high ceiling, the twin reports of the pistols sounded like claps of thunder going off right next to her. As she saw the deputy go down, Sandra also felt an impact on her upper chest, and immediately her right arm refused to work. She managed to get the gun into her left hand and edged around the kitchen table, conscious of the ringing in her ears and the trickle of warm blood dripping down her breast to pool in her bra. Spying a booted foot, she crept closer, pistol at the ready to finish off the deputy. His torso came into view, and finally his arms and head. Taking aim, Sandra was just about to squeeze the trigger when she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye.

Keeping the gun trained on the motionless body, she glanced over to see Kelly in the doorway to the hall, her mouth open in shock at what she was seeing.

“Kelly, get back, now!” Sandra bore down on the trigger, but the moment’s distraction was enough. When she returned her attention to the prone gunman, Sandra saw he was pointing his SIG-Sauer at her, and fired.

The bullet plowed through her midsection, mangling her large intestine and shattering her spine before punching a grape-sized hole in her lower back as it exited. There was a remarkable lack of pain; instead, it felt as if a large part of her body was suddenly just not there.

With all control of her legs gone, Sandra stayed upright just long enough to pull the trigger of her own pistol, the bullet flying harmlessly wide, before collapsing on the floor, landing hard enough to make stars swim before her. Her vision cleared enough to see Kelly coming toward her. With a tremendous effort, Sandra shook her head, mouthing, “Run…” Tears streaming down her face, her daughter vanished up the stairs.

Hearing movement from the other end of the kitchen, Sandra managed to twist her head back to see the deputy climb to his feet, breathing hard, but apparently none the worse for wear. She saw the hole in her jacket where her bullet had entered—a perfect heart shot—but Deputy Quintanar moved like he hadn’t been shot at all. Bastard was wearing a vest…she thought.

He kept his pistol trained on her as he stepped forward. Sandra tried to raise her gun, wanting one more chance at the man who was about to take everything from her, but her numb arm refused to obey the command. Then he was next to her, nudging the revolver out of her hand and placing it on the counter.

“Although I admire your courage, Mrs. Bitterman, it is a pity you didn’t choose to cooperate. Now your husband will have to see you in this state, to say nothing of your daughter. I’m sure he will cooperate fully with our investigation once he knows we have Kelly in custody.”

He moved to step past her, but was stopped by her hand on his ankle. Although she already found it hard to breathe, she forced the words out. “You leave…my daughter…out of this.”

He shook her off like a horse shook off a bothersome fly. “I’m afraid that is no longer possible. You can be consoled, however, by the fact that you will not be alive to see what will happen to her.”

Sandra steeled herself for the final bullet, but instead the deputy stepped past her and walked into the hallway, pistol in front of him as he searched the rest of the house.

Sandra felt herself growing cold, and realized that she was bleeding to death. She hoped Kelly had been smart enough to get out of the house—there were a few ways to leave, even from the second story. She knew the plan, but it had all counted on her securing a vehicle. On foot, she might make it to safety, but there were no guarantees. Sandra racked her brain. There had to be a way to enable her daughter to get to the garage….

The comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted to her nose, and Sandra realized what she could do. She reached for the nearest cabinet, grabbing the stainless-steel handles, pulling each drawer out, and pulling herself up by them with her single good arm. Her injured shoulder throbbed with pain each time she moved, but strangely, she felt nothing below her waist, just numbness. The floor was slick with blood—her blood—making it easier to move, but she didn’t know if she’d be able to stand up in the slippery pool. With all of her remaining strength, she twisted her body so she was facing the counter, and smiled as she saw her target just within reach.

She had just gotten her fingers on the pot handle when she heard noise coming from two different directions—the tread of the deputy’s feet on the stairs, and the rattle of Jack’s key in the front door lock. Twisting back again, Sandra opened her mouth to shout a warning, but simply breathing was an effort, to say nothing of trying to force air out to warn him off.

“Sandra? Sandra, where are you—oh my God!” Jack rushed in, skidding to a stop as he saw his wife slumped against the cabinets in a large pool of blood. “Jesus Christ—” He fumbled for his cell phone as she tried to form words while nodding toward the hallway.

For fuck’s sake, she thought. He isn’t paying attention…again…

“Mr. Bitterman, so glad you could join us.” Sandra watched as Deputy Quintanar’s words made Jack freeze with the cell phone at his ear. For a moment, he was oblivious to the pistol in the other man’s hand, then he recovered his poise and pointed at Sandra.

“Why the hell are you just standing there? My wife’s been shot! Help her, for God’s sake!” Jack stared at the deputy while waiting for his call to connect. Deputy Quintanar didn’t move a muscle toward Sandra, but turned toward Jack, his pistol more visible now.

“What are you doing?”

“We’ve noticed several discrepancies in the month-end statements—amounts not matching up in various accounts, that sort of thing. We’ve traced the discrepancies to your department. You are going to return with me to company headquarters to answer some questions Mr. De Cavallos would like to ask you.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he realized what the deputy was there for. Sandra rolled her own eyes in disgust. Dumb bastard not only gets himself in trouble, but just makes it worse, she thought. With the last of her strength, she heaved the decanter of hot coffee at the deputy’s crotch.

The scalding liquid splashed over his pants, making him shout in pain. Jack seized the distraction to leap for the pistol on the counter. Sandra heard a flurry of shots explode around her as her senses dimmed, her vision fading to black, her last memory the scent of Kona Blend coffee mingling with the coppery smell of blood all over her formerly spotless kitchen floor.

1

Damn, that horizon just keeps moving away, no matter how fast I drive toward it, Mack Bolan thought as he stared out at the endless prairie surrounding him on all sides. The gently rolling grassland was split only by the concrete ribbon of Interstate 70, stretching into infinity both in front of him to the east and behind him to the west. Occasionally the stark landscape would be broken up by a truck stop or restaurant near an exit, but for the most part there was nothing but Bolan, his car and the plains.

He smiled grimly as he considered the apt metaphor of the horizon, always retreating, endlessly out of reach. A lesser man would consider his personal crusade against the enemies of freedom in much the same way—always struggling to reach an ever-elusive goal. Bolan took a more pragmatic view of his ultimate objective. As he’d once said, “Every terrorist I kill, every madman I eliminate, every criminal I put in the ground, that’s one less psychotic thug in the world menacing innocent people. If the job takes the rest of my life, then that’s what it will take.”

His commitment to his crusade against the enemies of freedom and liberty notwithstanding, after his last mission on the West Coast, Bolan, aka the Executioner, decided to take a few days of downtime and drive back to his base of operations, Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Although he was aware of several hot spots that could use his special kind of attention, he also knew constant combat took its toll on any warrior. The trip east had seemed to be a perfect solution at first. He’d planned to relax by driving the entire way, but after a half day of the endless Midwest grasslands, he was beginning to regret his decision. That was the problem with the prairie—absolutely nothing happened or changed out here. Maybe he’d drop the car off in Kansas City or Chicago and hop an airplane.

At least his rental car was comfortable. The slate-gray Cadillac SRX crossover rode across the asphalt as if he were driving a cloud. Bolan was half worried he might fall asleep if something didn’t change soon.

Then something did happen—the low gas light turned on with a polite chime, almost as if the car were too polite to draw his attention to its condition. Bolan eyed the dashboard, then hit the GPS for the next gas station, locating one just a few miles away. Pulling in a few minutes later, he glanced around the barren refueling station, which had one other car in the parking lot. He filled the tank, and saw the sign as he was walking to the cinder-block building to pay.

Visit Quincyville

The Best Little Town in the Midwest!

Unlike most of the road signs out here, the red, white and blue board was as fresh and new as if it had been put up yesterday. Bolan stared at it for a moment, then headed inside.

Even though it was early spring, the air-conditioning was on full blast inside the store. Bolan paid his bill in cash, then nodded at the sign, still visible through the window. “Where’s Quincyville?”

The clerk, a clean-cut teenager, pointed east along the high way. “Just head down another mile, take exit 27, turn left and go about five miles up.”

“A little slice of Midwest America, huh?”

The kid frowned. “If you say so. They wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for that bug pharmaceutical company on the outskirts. Saved the whole place from dryin’ up and blowin’ away.”

“Is that so? Any place good to eat there?”

“Rollins’s Restaurant on Main Street has the best chicken-fried steak in the county. Hobo stew’s good, too.”

Bolan considered it, his stomach chiming in to add its emptiness to the internal discussion. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome, and have a good day.”

Bolan nodded as he headed out into the warm afternoon. Getting back in his car, he got on the highway and followed the kid’s directions. Less than ten minutes later, he saw a picture-perfect small town on the horizon. As he approached, Bolan noticed a cluster of several large, white buildings on his right. The complex was at the end of a double lane paved road with a manned guard shack at the end. The perimeter around the buildings was ringed with an eight-foot cyclone fence topped with double rows of razor wire. Between the road and the fence was a sign that read Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company.

Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight. Typically, U.S. drug companies outsourced their labs overseas, not the other way around. Still, if they were making it work…

Cresting a hill, he saw a lone mansion in the distance on his left, with two police cars out front and yellow crime scene tape around the house. Bolan slowed the Cadillac and casually studied the scene as he passed, then shook his head as he headed into town. Seemed nowhere was picture-perfect anymore.

Passing a Walmart with a packed parking lot, he drove up Main Street, which was neat and clean in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Pickups and midsize sedans filled the parking spaces, along with a scattering of luxury cars here and there. People were out and about, but they were few and far between, all intent on their business. Bolan passed the usual buildings—drug store, local grocery store, freestanding department store, more gas stations, various fast-food restaurants.

He found the Rollins place at the north end of town, an unassuming clapboard building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s. The parking lot was also filled, which Bolan took as a good sign. He found a spot on the end, almost in the weeds, and got out, glancing at the back seat to make sure his black duffel bag hadn’t shifted during the trip. Satisfied that it was secure, he locked up the Caddy and headed toward the front doors.

The interior might have come right out of the 1950s as well. Near the door, the cash register sat at one end of the long Formica counter, with a row of stools, each covered with a patron. Booths with red vinyl seats ran along the wall nearest the parking lot, ending in a large corner booth filled with a boisterous group of teenagers laughing and talking to and over one another. The booths continued along the back wall, and in the middle of it all was a row of tables, also filled to capacity. Unlike many of the retro places that only appeared authentic, this restaurant was the real deal. The chrome edging the counter and booths looked well-used, but also well cared for, and the linoleum on the floor was faded and scuffed with the passage of thousands of shoes and boots.

Bolan entered into a bustle of activity: waitresses carrying trays piled-high with food, diners entering and leaving, and above all, that welcome smell of delicious, home-cooked food. The soldier caught the traditional aromas of cooking oil, bread and spices, but also sniffed what smelled like burning mesquite wood, which made his mouth water. He dutifully took his place at the end of the line and waited his turn.

The conversation level in the place was muted, and Bolan noticed that many men and women kept their heads down, and at least once he thought he saw a woman come out of the washroom with red, mascara-streaked eyes. Although there seemed to be a lot of regulars, with headgear on the men split evenly between Stetsons and gimme caps, there were also plenty of people who had just come to eat, and the stools turned over quickly. Bolan was able to take a seat after just a few minutes.

“Coffee?”

“That’d be fine.” Bolan scanned the menu, which had a decided Tex-Mex flair that caught him by surprise. Although the carne asada tacos looked good, he decided to stick with the kid’s recommendation. “Chicken-fried steak, please.”

“Gravy on your potatoes, too?” the middle-aged waitress asked.

Bolan glanced down at his taut midsection and decided to double-down on his arteries. “Sure.”

“Green beans, salad, or a cup of soup?”

“Beans will be fine.”

“That’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Bolan sipped his coffee, served in a thick-walled ceramic mug he hadn’t seen in years, and found it very good. For a few seconds, he relaxed in the anonymity of the moment—just another casual traveler grabbing lunch on his way to wherever. His reality couldn’t have been more different.

He was giving the rotating dessert carousel a twice over, debating whether to have the cherry pie or the apple tart afterward, when the low conversations throughout the restaurant suddenly died. Bolan looked over to see what was causing the disturbance and saw a group of four well-dressed Hispanics, accompanied by a lone Anglo girl, cut to the front of the line and saunter into the restaurant. They were dressed in formfitting jeans, hand-tooled, silver-edged cowboy boots, and soft, shapeless, button-down designer shirts, with expensive sunglasses covering their eyes or perched on their heads. Their short black hair shone in the overhead lights. The eyes of the locals either followed the group or looked away. No one made a move to stop them.

Not even glancing at the line of waiting customers, the group headed toward the large corner booth, where the kids there scrambled to get out of the way. Their leader stood in front of the booth, staring over his glasses at the dirty dishes left in the group’s wake. Dead silence filled the restaurant, punctuated by the sizzle of grease on the grill and the tap-tap-tap of the young man’s foot on the floor.

The busboy scurried out and cleared the table, but apparently not fast enough. Although Bolan couldn’t see exactly what happened, he saw the boy carrying the plastic container of dishes stagger and go down with a crash of breaking dishes. His gaze darkened.

The group sat down, and conversation began around them again, even quieter now. Bolan looked up to catch his waitress staring daggers at the corner booth. “Who’re they?”

She glanced at him and blushed. “Don’t mind me. The one struttin’ around like he owns the place is Everado De Cavallos.” She drew the name out in a derisive drawl. “The other ones are his flunkies, a cousin and other friends from south of the border. He’s the son of one of the big shots at Cristobal, so he thinks this town owes him whatever he wants. Plus he never leaves a damn tip either.”

“Hmm.” Bolan sipped his coffee again, then turned his head just enough to watch the group out of the corner of his eye. They were huddled together, awaiting their drinks, apparently, which were just arriving. The waitress set the glasses down and turned to go, but not before one of the boys on the end smacked her behind. A man with iron-gray hair in a bristle cut who was watching started to rise from his chair, but was restrained by his lunch companion, a woman with curly red hair, who shook her head. Still glowering at the group, the man sat down again, staring hard at the young men, who just as studiously ignored him.

That’s two, Bolan thought, easing back on his stool as he kept an eye on the table.

“He does that again, he’ll have me to deal with, Cristobal or no Cristobal,” the waitress, whose name tag read Elaine, grumbled.

“Those boys might learn their lesson sooner than you think,” Bolan said. The comment earned an odd look from the counter waitress before the cook called, “Order up!”

His blue-plate special arrived, and Bolan dug in, finding it as good as promised. As he ate, he kept an eye on the corner booth, waiting for them to act up again. But when it happened, it came from within the group itself.

“Goddamn it, Everado, I said knock it the hell off!” The shout was punctuated by the crack of a hand on skin. The next thing Bolan knew, the blonde girl burst from the booth and stalked off. The boys stayed behind for a few seconds, then their leader stood up and walked out, followed by the rest of the group, all of whom were still sniggering. Halfway through, he turned and glared at them, and the laughter died in their throats. They walked out to a gleaming midnight blue Mercedes-Benz convertible, where the girl was waiting with her arms crossed.

Bolan forked up another bite of his steak and turned to see the conversation get heated, with the girl and the guy both starting to gesticulate. She seemed unaware of the potential danger she was in, with the other boys starting to crowd around the couple.

That’s three, Bolan thought, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and heading for the door. Once outside, he didn’t even have to look over to see which way the argument was heading.

“—damn it, Everado, you don’t paw me in public like I’m some piece of meat. I’m not one of those Mexican whores you can just fuck and forget!”

“Chica, just get in the car and we’ll go somewhere quiet and talk about this,” the young man said. He sounded reasonable, but his voice was pitched low.

“Fuck you, just take me home!”

Bolan shook his head. This girl really didn’t realize the fire she was playing with. He’d heard that kind of tone in a man’s voice more times than he cared to count. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, violence was sure to follow.

Sure enough, the young man’s hand came up, the girl’s expression turning from anger to incredulousness to fear in a second. Bolan gave it a one-count, then said, “Hey.” He’d pitched his voice at the exact same timbre, just loud enough to carry to the youth’s ears, but not to attract any attention outside the six of them.

Everado’s hand froze, and he whirled, as did his friends, everyone staring at the interloper.

“Where I come from, any man who’s worth a damn doesn’t hit women. It’s not very—” Bolan paused, as if searching for the right word “—macho.”

The leader looked at Bolan as if the older man had just walked up and slapped him. Everado took a step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Is that right?” His cohorts fell in behind him as their leader approached the Executioner.

Bolan nodded curtly.

“You aren’t from around here, are you, amigo?” The young man stopped a few feet away from Bolan, his posse fanning out around them.

Bolan stood casually and confidently, hands at his sides, his eyes on the leader. He knew the others wouldn’t make a move unless Everado did first. They all thought they had the advantage with their numbers. It would take less time to show than tell them just how wrong they were.

Bolan shook his head slowly.

“Did you have a good meal in there?”

“I did, before it got interrupted,” Bolan stated.

“Hey, no one asked you to stick your nose in, asshole!” This came from the girl, who was slouched against the convertible, apparently annoyed at not being the center of attention anymore.

Bolan and Everado ignored her. The young man took out a thick roll of bills and peeled off a fifty, tucking it into the soldier’s shirt pocket. “Here’s a little advice. Walk back inside, finish your lunch, order two more, I don’t care. Then come back out, get into your car and keep on driving. That way nothing bad will happen to you.”

Bolan had to work hard at suppressing his smile. Normally he’d give anyone who got in his face a bit of credit, but this kid was already in way over his head; he just didn’t know it yet. “That wouldn’t be a threat, now, would it?”

The young man smiled broadly and shook his head. “Not at all, man! But the prairie out here—so desolate. Travelers who are unprepared can lose their bearings pretty quickly.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Bolan looked beyond him to the girl. “She isn’t going with you, by the way.”

The young man had started to turn back to his car when Bolan spoke. He froze again. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. She isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Everado turned back. “And I suppose you think she’s going somewhere with you.”

“Nope. She’s staying right out here, in public, until one of her parents comes and gets her. I’ll be nearby, just to make sure nothing bad happens.”

This time the young Mexican got right up into Bolan’s face, so close he could smell the well-dressed punk’s cologne—a pungent, sharp fragrance. “You got a hell of a lot of nerve to come into our town and start givin’ orders. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Bolan didn’t back down an inch. “I sure do.”

His confident answer caught the youth by surprise, and Bolan kept going. “You’re a kid from south of the border who got lucky. Your grandparents scratched out a living in Mexico, so your parents wised up and joined Cristobal for a way out. You’ve never known a hard day in your life. You’ve never worked twelve, fourteen, sixteen hour days, only to eat, sleep and get up to do the same thing again, six days a week. You grew up with a spoon—not a silver one, just a regular one—in your mouth, so you’ve never had to do anything hard in your life, ever. You’ve assumed a status that you’ve done nothing to earn, and wear it like you have the right. But anyone who looks at you for more than two seconds sees straight through that. They can see right to your soul, see the aimless, ambitionless kid driving a fancy car and wearing designer clothes, and walking around like he knows what’s going on. What those people really see is a boy who has absolutely no idea of who he is, where he came from, or what he’s doing with his life.”

Bolan leaned in close to the youth’s ear, speaking so only he could hear his next words. “And deep down, I think you also know that—and it scares the hell out of you.”

Much like his girlfriend’s face a few minutes ago, Everado’s expression changed from surprise to incredulousness to anger at hearing Bolan’s assessment. “Fuckin’ asshole!” He reached for Bolan’s shirt, while the other young men crowded around them, hands reaching out to snare the interloper, as well. Bolan was a moment away from breaking fingers and moving on from there when the whoop of an approaching police siren made everyone’s heads turn.

2

As soon as the rest of the young men heard the siren, they pulled away from Bolan, leaving him none the worse for wear. He noticed Everado’s expression turn dark at seeing the car, and the young man muttered a curse under his breath.

The approaching sheriff’s cruiser came to a stop in the parking lot, and a Hispanic deputy got out of the car. Bolan eyed the newcomer warily. Even with his mirrored aviator shades on, he resembled the youth close enough to be a relation, which meant the situation could turn bad really fast. The man slung a nightstick into the holder at his side, then took his flat-brimmed hat from the seat beside him and put it on before walking over.

He nodded at Bolan. “Sir.” Then he turned his attention to Everado and the rest of his boys, all of whom were looking anywhere but at the two men. “Everado, what’s going on here?”

The young man stared at Bolan for a moment, then looked away to spit on the ground. “Nothing—sir.”

“Got an anonymous tip of a fight going down in the parking lot at Rollins’s place. Now you boys wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

The group all muttered negative replies.

The deputy turned to Bolan. “Sir, was there any sort of altercation here that you’d like to report?”

Everado spoke up then, “But, Rojas—”

The deputy turned his mirrored sunglasses on the young man, causing his words to die in his throat. He turned back to Bolan. “Sir, you are?”

“Matt Cooper.”

The deputy didn’t write it down, but Bolan was more than willing to bet he’d made a note of it. “Again, did anything go on here that you would care to report?”

“No, thanks. I just thought I saw a misunderstanding, and had come out to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“That what happened, Everado?”

The young man had turned from hard case to indignant to sullen in the span of a minute. He nodded. “Yeah.”

“All right, then. Glad to know you boys aren’t causing trouble.” The deputy leaned over to spot the girl against the convertible. “Connie? I’m sure school isn’t over till the end of the month.”

The girl rolled her eyes and stared off into the distance.

The deputy’s voice turned steel-hard. “Come over here, girl.”

She stared at him, then slowly walked over. Everado’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but the deputy turned his gaze back on the young man, and he shut it with a snap.

Connie stood in front of him. “What?”

The man nodded toward his cruiser. “Get in. I’ll take you back to school.”

Like her boyfriend, Connie was about to try to argue, but the lithe deputy’s stance made it clear he wouldn’t be having any of it. “Goddamn it,” she muttered as she stamped around the cruiser to the passenger side and got in, slamming the door closed.

The deputy turned to the group of young men. “And I better not get any more reports with any of your names in them, else I’m coming after all of you, you hear? Now you all get gone.”

Casting resentful looks back at Bolan, who had just stood and watched the whole affair, the youths got into the Mercedes-Benz. Everado started the car and backed out, then drove sedately off.

Deputy Quintanar—Bolan caught his name tag as he turned—watched until the youths were out of sight, then turned back to Bolan. “On behalf of the rest of the folks here in Quincyville, I’d like to apologize for what happened. They’re what passes for the resident hell-raisers around here, and have to be reined in now and again.”

Bolan nodded. “Boys will be boys, and all that.”

Quintanar cocked his head. “No, not quite. I imagine his father will be talking with him about this very soon. You know how small towns are—nothing’s ever really private.”

“I guess so.”

“Hope you enjoy the rest of your time here.” The deputy turned to go back to his car.

“Oh, Deputy…” Bolan waited until the man had turned half around before continuing. “It’s probably none of my business, but I noticed the large house on the hill with the police tape around it. I’m kind of an amateur crime buff. Can you tell me what happened over there?”

Deputy Quintanar stared at him for a few seconds before walking back over. “I hope you won’t misunderstand my response, Mr. Cooper, but you’re right—it is none of your business. However, if you must know, one of our most prominent citizens and his wife were shot and killed last night. We’re going to find whoever did it, don’t you worry. Now, why don’t you go back inside and enjoy the rest of your meal?”

“Suppose I’ll do just that. Thanks.” Bolan walked back to the diner door and turned to watch the cruiser pull away. Walking back inside, he was surprised to be greeted by a smattering of applause, started by Elaine behind the counter, then spreading throughout the place. Bolan noticed several men who didn’t join in the accolade, either glaring at him or averting their gaze altogether. He understood how they felt—although he wasn’t sure whether they were jealous of it or embarrassed that they hadn’t stepped up—but he wasn’t thrilled with the reception, either. Waving a hand halfheartedly at everyone, he went to his stool and waved Elaine over. “Thought I might finish my lunch.”

“Damn straight you will—on the house. Luke, another blue-plate special!” A few minutes later a heaping plate filled with enough food to choke a grizzly bear appeared in front of him. Bolan eyed the platter, then looked up at Elaine, who stared at him expectantly. “Dig in, honey.”

“I’ll try.” Bolan did just that. The stares and whispers didn’t take the edge off his appetite, and he made a good dent in the double portion of everything before calling it a day. Slipping the fifty out of his pocket, he tucked it under the plate, but before he could remove his hand, the waitress cleared her throat.

“I said your meal was on the house.”

Bolan flashed her an easy smile. “And I thank you, it was delicious. This tip is from Everado and his boys. Make sure the busboy and their waitress get their share, will you?”

Elaine’s mouth dropped at the denomination before she swept it into her pocket. “I most certainly will. You stop by here any time.”

“I will, thanks.” Bolan walked out into the afternoon sun and looked down the street, half expecting to see the punks in their convertible lying in wait for him as he left the parking lot. He looked around at all of the clean, neat buildings and people going about their business. Everything seemed normal.

Maybe that was it—everything seemed almost too nor mal.

Bolan checked his watch. If he was going to hit Chicago today, he should have already been on the road. Still…

He got into his rental vehicle and pulled out his smart-phone, running a quick internet search to find the information he was looking for. Starting the Caddy, he drove to the main intersection of town, then turned right and drove another half mile before pulling into the parking lot of the Quincyville Gazette.

Getting out, he walked past a vending machine with the latest issue in it—the cover story was about the latest round of crop subsidies being voted on in the state legislature. Stepping through the front door of the A-frame building, Bolan walked up to a long counter with a plump, young, bottle-blonde woman behind it. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you had your back issues on computer file or microfilm?”

“The library would be more likely to help you with those kinds of records. May I ask what you’re looking for?”

“Sure, my name’s Matt Cooper, I’m a freelance stringer for the Capitol Journal. I’d heard there was a double homicide here in town recently, and decided to come out and see if I could get the story.”

While he talked, the receptionist’s face went from curiosity to confusion to concern. “Would you wait here for a moment? I’m going to get someone to help you.”

“All right.” Bolan cooled his heels in the reception area for less than a minute. The receptionist hustled back out with an attractive brunette woman in her mid-to late-thirties.

“This is the gentleman I told you about.”

The older woman held out her hand. “Casey Hinder, editor-in-chief.”

Bolan introduced himself again using the Cooper alias. “Perhaps there’s somewhere we can talk more privately?”

“Absolutely, why don’t you come back into my office?” She led him behind the counter, past a cluster of fabric-walled cubicles, some empty, others occupied by employees. At the back of the large room was a row of offices. Casey ushered Bolan into the corner one, which was slightly larger than the others.

“Have a seat.” Bolan did so while Casey closed the door and crossed around the back of the desk, sitting in an old wooden-backed chair. “Okay, buddy, who the hell are you really?”

Bolan frowned. “I told you, I’m—”

She held up her hands. “Save it, there’s no way you’re a stringer for the Topeka CJ. Mainly because this ‘story’ hasn’t even gone out over the wire, so there’s no way you’re from that paper, as they don’t even know about it yet. Then I get a call about a dark-haired man resembling your general description who goes toe-to-toe with Everado De Cavallos this afternoon and walks away in one piece.”

Bolan smiled. “Deputy Quintanar had something to do with that.”

The journalist shook her head. “Whatever. Look, my source—who knows what they’re talking about—says it looked like you were about to mop the floor with them. I may be the editor-in-chief, but I had my share of bylines before I reached this desk, and it doesn’t take much to figure this one out.”

“I don’t think your source saw the same conversation I had with Everado.” Bolan leaned back in his chair. “All right, I’ll level with you. I’m a freelance journalist on my way back from a convention in Las Vegas. I stopped in for lunch at the diner, heard about the double homicide and thought I might be able to get a story out of it.”

Casey’s slim eyebrow rose. “A freelance journalist?”

Bolan nodded.

“Driving a brand-new Cadillac?”

“Rental. You wouldn’t believe how many frequent flyer points I’ve racked up on my credit cards.”

“Pardon my bluntness, but you look way too fit to be a stringer.”

Bolan smiled again. “Thanks for noticing—I try to keep fit.”

His implication hit the editor after a moment, and she colored slightly. “Hmph.” She studied him for a long minute. Bolan returned her frank, green-eyed gaze with his own pair of vibrant blues, not saying a word. “You got some kind of press pass, online clippings, website, anything?”

Bolan shook his head. “Not anything recent. Website got hacked by the Chinese in retaliation for a piece I did on the tongs last year. Even I can’t access it without getting spammed with a thousand pop-ups for ‘enhancement’ products. Even passed out all my business cards in Vegas.”

“Yes, how convenient.” Casey rested her elbows on the desk. “All right, I’ll give you what I know, on one condition—you give me twenty-four hours to break the story first, all right?”

“Sure, I’d have to sell it first anyway, so no problem.”

Blinking in surprise at having won so easily, Casey recovered and leaned back in her chair. “The decedents are Jack and Sandra Bitterman. Jack was basically the town lawyer. He handled just about everyone’s business here. He also was the main factor behind Cristobal locating their first North American laboratory here. Once they arrived, he served as legal counsel for the company in its dealings with the township.”

“Yeah, I’ve been researching them since I got here. Seems like an unusual place to locate a state-of-the-art facility, don’t you think?”

Casey had slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and regarded Bolan over the rims. “That question’s been asked many times before, and the heads of the facility say they wanted a place where it was peaceful and quiet. No doubt the tax break package Jack lined up with the state government had something to do with it as well.”

Bolan had been doing an internet search again, and held up his smart-phone. “This victims?” He’d located a picture of the family, a man, woman and teenage girl, who looking to be about seventeen years old, posing at some kind of county fair next to a blue-ribbon science project.

“Yeah, that’s Sandra, Jack and Kelly…” Casey’s voice trailed off.

Bolan asked the obvious question. “Where is the daughter now?”

Casey stared at him as if he’d just sprouted wings. “Oh my God, just fire me already… The sheriff’s department hasn’t mentioned a single word about her yet.”

“So she’s still out there somewhere, yet from what you just said, the sheriff hasn’t put out an Amber Alert for a missing teenager, or sent out any sort of BOLO announcement yet.”

Casey’s expression had gone from disgust for not seeing the connection to uncomfortable at Bolan’s comments. Before she could reply, her desk phone rang. “Excuse me, will you?”

She picked up the phone. “Hinder, editor’s desk…yes, Principal, how can I help you?…she was where?…Yes…I’ll be right over to discuss it with you…thank you.”

She slammed down the phone, then looked up with haunted eyes. “Do you have any children, Mr. Cooper?”

Bolan shook his head. “Haven’t found the right opportunity yet.”

“Well, if you ever decide to take that particular plunge, think long and hard about it before you do—they’re equal parts heaven and hell, but my daughter seems to be leaning toward the latter recently.”

“Let me guess—she was caught skipping school and brought there by a Deputy Quintanar, right?”

Casey had been rising from her chair while Bolan talked, but stopped halfway to the door, her mouth open. “How’d you know that?”

“She was at the diner when I ran into Everado. Matter of fact, she was with Everado—”

Casey cut Bolan off before he could finish. “Goddamn it all to hell! I told her to stay away from him! Nothing good’s gonna come from her hangin’ out with any of them. Sorry to cut this short, but I gotta go.” She handed him a card. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

“That I do. Thanks for your assistance, and good luck with your daughter.” Bolan rose and got the door for Casey.

“I’ll need more than luck to deal with her today.” They both walked into the bullpen to see Deputy Quintanar talking with the receptionist. He looked up to see Casey and Bolan together, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement before he smoothed his expression over while waiting for them to approach.

“Ms. Hinder, I was wondering if you had a few minutes.”

“Sorry, Rojas, but I got a problem I have to take care of first. Maybe we can catch up later this afternoon?”

“That would be fine. I’ll check in with you later.” He kept an eye on Bolan as Casey ran out of the building. “You’re certainly taking an interest in our little town, Mr. Cooper.”

Bolan nodded. “I’ve been looking for a place to settle down for the past few months, somewhere quiet, peaceful. I thought Quincyville might be just the town I’ve been looking for. I was asking Ms. Hinder about local businesses that might be hiring and properties available for rent or sale.”

The deputy digested this story for a moment. “Quincyville is always glad to have new folks settle down here. It’s a good place to raise a family. What line of work are you in?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Bolan thought. “Private security. I used to work for Blackwater, but got out before the government stuck its nose in too far. Times have been a bit tight lately. That’s why I was looking into local businesses. Right now I’m into whoever can give me a steady paycheck.”

His reply seemed to relax the deputy somewhat. “Interesting. If you do decide to call Quincyville home, perhaps you and I should talk again. It’s possible I could recommend you to our company as a security specialist.”

Bolan frowned. “Our company? I thought you worked for the state?”

Quintanar’s frown matched his for a second, then he smiled. “That’s true, but all of us here in Quincyville are very proud of what Cristobal has done for the town. I hope you’ll excuse our possessiveness.”

Bolan nodded with what he hoped looked like relief. “Doesn’t matter much to me, as long as the pay’s steady. Any word you could put in would be great, although I wouldn’t expect you to have much trouble out here.”

“You’d be surprised. There are always problems that need attention in the pharmaceutical business—corporate espionage, product transfer security, even bodyguarding our senior officials when they travel outside the U.S. A man with the right experience could prove to be very useful.”

“I’d appreciate the opportunity to talk with your superiors if possible. Truth be told, except for that Caddy outside, my pockets are a bit on the light side at the moment. If I decide to stick around, I’ll be in touch.”

The deputy tipped his hat. “Hope you do. I’ll see you around.” He pushed the door open, holding it for Bolan to follow him out, then headed for his cruiser. Bolan watched him leave before getting into his own car and hitting the speed-dial for Stony Man Farm.

“Hey, Striker, looks like I win my bet with Hal.” The cheerful voice of Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman sounded in his ear. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to go more than twelve hours before checking in.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you guys,” Bolan said dryly.

“So how’s the road trip going?”

“Funny you should ask. I’ve run into a bit of a detour in a town called Quincyville, in Kansas.”

“What’s going on out there?”

“I’m not quite sure yet. If you’re only tackling the usual three or four things at the moment, can you check the national law-enforcement databases for information on a double homicide involving an attorney named Jack Bitterman?”

“He the vic?”

“Yeah, apparently he and his wife were both killed sometime yesterday.”

“Okay, just a sec.” Bolan heard Kurtzman’s fingers flying over his keyboard. Stony Man Farm intelligence-gathering apparatus was unrivaled by any other organization in the world, and Kurtzman was the brains behind making it all work. After a few seconds, the analyst spoke up. “I got nothing on local, state or regional DBs. No bulletins or anything. You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

“No, but the local sheriff’s department is keeping it on the QT, which seems really strange. Do me a favor and have Akira place a cover file for Matt Cooper setting him up as an ex-field employee of Blackwater, let go in the recent past under questionable circumstances. Tag any inquiries originating from Quincyville ISPs and trace them back to their source host.”

“We’re on it. You looking for a good or bad jacket?”

“Make it gray—charges brought but nothing proved. Prioritize that one. I have a feeling someone’s going to be checking out my background very quickly. That reminds me, ‘Matt Cooper’s’ last mission was as a DOJ agent. Delete that file. I don’t want this guy stumbling across that jacket while searching for my other fake identity. If anyone needs to check my DOJ affiliation, I’ll have them make a call.”

“I’m on it. Anything else?”

“Yeah, do a search on cell phone records for a Kelly Bitterman. That’s their daughter, who’s been missing since yesterday, and hasn’t been found yet. Two more things. First, get me a jacket on a deputy out here named Quintanar.” Bolan spelled the name as he recalled it from the deputy’s nameplate. “First name Rojas.”

Kurtzman’s fingers sounded like they were moving so fast, Bolan could have sworn he smelled plastic melting. “Got it. What’s the second?”

“There’s a company in town named Cristobal Pharmaceuticals. They seem to be a big player here. What can you tell me about them?”

Bolan heard more tapping. “I can send you their most recent quarterly statement if you’d like. Let’s see… Founded in 1987 in Veracruz. Originally known as a health-food company, selling herbal supplements and the like. Bought out in 2004 by Cristobal Enterprises out of Maracaibo, Venezuela, which renamed itself the Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company. They built their U.S. headquarters in 2006 in Quincyville, Kansas. No initial ties to criminal organizations that I can find, however, it seems Cristobal, no matter how it’s been reinvented, has a rather tangled past. It’s been passed around several South American holding companies like a hot potato. Want me to keep digging?”

“Absolutely. And let me know when you’ve accessed Kelly’s phone records. I want to know if she’s contacted anyone in the past twelve hours.”

“You got it. Hey, if Hal calls for you, what should I tell him?”

Bolan’s mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Tell him I’m doing a little house hunting in Kansas.”

3

Deputy Rojas Quintanar didn’t waste any time calling his superiors once he left Matt Cooper at the newspaper. But he wasn’t reporting in to the sheriff. Instead, he speed-dialed a number that connected him to the Cristobal complex. “De Cavallos.”

“This is Rojas. We may have a problem.” He quickly outlined the confrontation with Everado outside the restaurant, and his subsequent conversation with Matt Cooper at the Gazette building. “If this guy is who he claims to be, it’s pretty coincidental that an ex-PMC guy just happened to wander into our town for lunch.”

“What’s your take on him?”

“Definitely ex-military—he’s got the bearing. He may be who he says he is, but he could be government too, possibly trying to insert as deep cover. He seemed pretty interested in finding work, so perhaps we can reel him in that way, and take care of him on our turf if necessary.”

“I’ll run a check on him, see what comes up. Find out where he’s staying and make sure someone’s keeping tabs on him,” De Cavallos said.

“All right. Also, please keep Everado from doing anything loco. We don’t need him attracting any more attention than he already has.”

“You concentrate on doing your job, Rojas, and let me worry about my son, understand? How are you doing finding the girl?”

“We’ve been combing the entire town and are watching the house—”

“Wait a minute, you think she’d actually go back to the homestead where her parents died?”

“We’re covering all the bases, just in case. We’re also monitoring her friends’ homes and their cells in case she contacts anyone, but so far she hasn’t popped up anywhere.”

“Damn it, you need to find her, and quick. If she saw anything last night and talks to anyone, you’re screwed.”

“Don’t worry about it. The second she appears, we’ll be all over her.”

“You better be. I’d hate to have to lose such a good deputy over this.”

Quintanar swallowed hard. He knew De Cavallos didn’t mean he’d be facing criminal charges. If he was lucky, he’d end up in a shallow grave somewhere on the prairie. If De Cavallos was really pissed, there was always the microwave oven… The deputy shuddered at the thought. “Like I said, we’re on it. Besides, where’s she gonna go?”

“Who knows? She’s a kid who just saw her parents get killed. Did you check on other family?”

Quintanar frowned, letting a bit of annoyance creep into his tone. “Of course. She’s got grandparents in Lincoln, Oregon, but she hasn’t contacted them yet. If she does, we’ll triangulate the call and go get her.”

“Let’s hope that’s exactly what happens. You let me know the moment you have a lead on her. And be sure to tell those brothers of yours that I want her alive. We’ll need to know she hadn’t told anyone anything before we take care of her.”

“Yes, Mr. De Cavallos.” Quintanar disconnected the call, resisting the urge to slam the cell phone against the steering wheel. That girl was the only loose end in what had been a perfectly planned operation, and every hour she was missing was more time that she could be talking to someone about what she had seen. They had searched the house thoroughly, but found no trace of her. Maybe one of her friends might be able to get in touch with her. Hell, maybe one of her friends could get her to come out of hiding, he thought.

Pulling back onto the road, he dialed Everado’s cell. “Hola, Everado. Yeah, well…if you hadn’t been acting so macho, I wouldn’t have had to shut you down like that. But I got a way for you to get out of this little mess with your old man…I’ll tell you, if you just shut up and listen for a minute…”

CASEY TRIED TO KEEP her anger in check as she drove toward the newspaper building again. Glancing over at her daughter, she found Connie staring out the window, tinny music playing through the earbuds attached to her brand-new iPod Touch, which Casey hadn’t bought, and Connie didn’t have the money for. At a stop sign, she reached out and yanked the left one from the girl’s ear.

“What is your problem?” Connie turned to glare at her mother, snatching the bud out of her hand.

“What the hell do you think is my problem? Skipping school to hang out with that Everado boy? Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

Connie rolled her eyes. “Gee, Mom, since you never tell me anything, no, I don’t have any idea. Why is seeing him dangerous? Is it because he’s a Mexican?”

“No, that’s not it, but…” Casey stopped, wanting to tell her daughter of her suspicions about Cristobal, but knowing she couldn’t risk it. There was no way Connie would keep her mouth shut about it, and then they would be as dead as the rest of the town would be if the word ever got back to the heads of the company that someone was talking.

Instead, she took the opposite tack. “Look, honey, I’m just concerned about you. Everado’s from a wealthy family—”

“Yeah, and we’re poor white trash. Thanks for reminding me.” Connie crossed her arms and stared out the window again.

Well, at least she included me in that assessment, Casey thought. “No, dear, that’s not what I was saying at all. I’m just worried that he might consider you a—” with no delicate way to say it, she plunged ahead “—just a way to pass the time here.”

Connie’s head whipped toward her again. “Is that what you think—that I’m just some norteamericano slut to him?”

“Absolutely not—”

“You’re damn right! Everado loves me. He told me so himself!”

Oh great, just what I want to trust—the word of a spoiled young man one step away from the drug trade, Casey thought. “All right, dear, I hear you, and no doubt he believes that as well—”

“Of course he believes that, why wouldn’t he? I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” Connie looked like she was about to jump out of the battered Ford Bronco at the next light. Casey reached over and put her hand over her daughter’s—not grabbing it, but simply getting her attention.

“Sweetheart, listen to me. You and I have had this talk before, the time when Peter left, remember?”

Her daughter’s face twisted in anger and hurt for a moment, then she smoothed over her pretty face and nodded.

“And you remember what we told each other—that neither of us would lose sight of who we are for a man—any man. I just want you to keep that in mind, okay? You may find this hard to believe, but I know a thing or two about love, and what it can do.” Casey ignored her daughter’s eye roll and kept talking. “And I know how hard it is to keep in mind what’s real and what’s not.”

Peter sure did a damn good job of blurring that line, she thought. “I want you to keep your eyes open in this relationship, okay?”

Connie shook her head. “Don’t worry, Mom. I know what I’m doing. Everado is like any other guy—more concerned with his macho reputation than anything else. But I know he really cares for me, and I care about him too.”

Oh, the certainty of the young, Casey mused, resisting shaking her head. The only thing to do now was to accept her daughter’s pronouncement as sincerely as she could. “Of course you do, honey. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I just want you to be careful in what you do with him. Can you promise me that?”

Connie looked at her mother like Casey had just sprouted another head. “You aren’t going to do a reprise of the ‘birds and bees’ speech, are you?”

Casey grinned. “No, once was enough. I trust that you’re smart to take the appropriate precautions. But you’re still in trouble for skipping school.”

“Aw, Mom…”

“No buts, young lady. I will not have you slinging hash here or working a checkout counter at the local dollar store because you didn’t finish high school. You are graduating, and you are getting out of here and going to college.”

Casey felt Connie’s stare on her. “And what if Everado said no?”

Casey inhaled, then lobbed the question back at her daughter. “What if he did?”

Her daughter shook her head, blond hair gleaming in the sun. “There isn’t a man alive who’s gonna tell me I’m not going to college.”

“That’s my girl—but you’re still grounded for two weeks.”

“What? Oh, come on, Mom—”

“One more word outta you and it’s a month.”

Connie opened her mouth, then realized silence was the better part of valor and closed it again.

“All right. Look, I gotta head back to the office and finish up the work that I was interrupted in the middle of by the call to get you. You get started on your homework, and we’ll grab a pizza on the way home.”

“Mmm. Mexican from Rollins’s, with extra sour cream?”

“Sure, dear.” Casey let out her breath, pleased to have navigated that conversational minefield with her daughter. They were just within sight of the newspaper building when Connie’s cell phone rang.

“Hello?…hey, Everado…I know, I know, don’t worry about it…we’ll talk later…really?” She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “He says Deputy Quintanar wants to talk to me about the Bittermans.”

A cold ball of ice coalesced in Casey’s stomach. “What about?”

“I don’t know—hold on.” She put the phone back to her ear. “Why?…Well, yeah, I knew her, but not well…she was kinda stuck up, if you know what I mean—all right, all right, if he’s there, I expect we’ll talk to him…okay…bye.” She flipped the two-year old clamshell phone closed. “The deputy thinks I might be able to reach Kelly on her cell if I call her.”

“I thought you told Everado that you didn’t know her that well.”

Connie shrugged. “We were on the forensics team together for a year, so she knows of me. I can get her number. Hey, maybe I could say that you want to talk to her, get her side of the story.”

A small ray of hope bloomed in Connie’s stomach next to the ice. As much as she didn’t want her daughter involved in the “investigation,” if the deputy was going to officially request Connie’s assistance, and Casey could gain something by it anyway, then there was no reason not to try and turn lemons into lemonade.

“We’ll see, dear. Let’s keep that idea between you and me for the time being.” Casey spotted Quintanar’s cruiser parked outside the Gazette building. “Let’s see exactly what the deputy wants, and we’ll go from there, okay?”

JACK BITTERMAN AWOKE to find himself duct-taped to a chair in an empty, rectangular, metal-walled room, still dressed in the light blue button-down shirt and black slacks he’d left the office in to go home and get his family the night before. His shoulder and arm throbbed unmercifully, and he glanced over to see a large, drying bloodstain running down his shirt. The lower legs of his pants were stiff and crusted, and as the memory of the past few hours crashed down upon him, he realized that his clothes were sticky with his dead wife’s blood.

He didn’t have time to reflect or grieve about it, however, because the large metal doors at the end of the room opened to reveal three men—two outfitted in security uniforms and carrying three tires, and the third one dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. The two men took up positions on either side of Jack and set down the tires. The suited man stepped forward into the light.

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