Bolan slammed the M-16 across his adversary’s gun hand

The crack of breaking bone was audible above the driving rain. Ryan roared in agony. He lifted his hand and stared at the split flesh.

“Bastard!” he screamed.

He saw Bolan staring at him, his own battered, bloody face glistening with rain. The look in the man’s eyes unnerved him. They were cold, devoid of compassion.

“Lessons are over, Ryan. This is for keeps.”

For the first time in his life Ryan really knew how it felt to look death in the eyes and understand what it meant.

He turned to run, but there was nowhere to go.

Other titles available in this series:

Firepower

Storm Burst

Intercept

Lethal Impact

Deadfall

Onslaught

Battle Force

Rampage

Takedown

Death’s Head

Hellground

Inferno

Ambush

Blood Strike

Killpoint

Vendetta

Stalk Line

Omega Game

Shock Tactic

Showdown

Precision Kill

Jungle Law

Dead Center

Tooth and Claw

Thermal Strike

Day of the Vulture

Flames of Wrath

High Aggression

Code of Bushido

Terror Spin

Judgment in Stone

Rage for Justice

Rebels and Hostiles

Ultimate Game

Blood Feud

Renegade Force

Retribution

Initiation

Cloud of Death

Termination Point

Hellfire Strike

Code of Conflict

Vengeance

Executive Action

Killsport

Conflagration

Storm Front

War Season

Evil Alliance

Scorched Earth

Deception

Destiny’s Hour

Power of the Lance

A Dying Evil

Deep Treachery

War Load

Sworn Enemies

Dark Truth

Breakaway

Blood and Sand

Caged

Sleepers

Strike and Retrieve

Age of War

Line of Control

Breached

Retaliation

Pressure Point

Silent Running

Stolen Arrows

Zero Option

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

Justice is the constant and perpetual wish to render to every one his due.

—Emperor Justinian, c.482–565

When individuals believe they are above the law or beyond justice, they deserve a harsh lesson in reality.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PROLOGUE

Zero Platform One, Earth orbit

Zero Platform One moved on its slow orbit against a background of star-dappled darkness, silent and seemingly dead. The exterior was composed of aluminum and titanium steel, the burnished surface dotted with antennae, signal and scanning dishes, targeting probes. Rings of sensors crisscrossed the platform.

The upper section had a row of observational windows that ran the circumference of the dome. The lower, much larger dome could rotate on an internal rail system and held long-range missiles in multiple banks that jutted from the surface like so many metal blisters. Directly above the missile clusters were laser and particle-beam weapons. On the central ring of the platform sat a series of smaller missile pods. These were for the protection of the platform itself. The pods were linked to some of the sensor arrays, which in turn incorporated long distance radar scanners. Picking up the approach of any object, the platform’s own defense system would analyze and determine any possible threat. Once confirmed, a series of both verbal and electronic warning signals would be transmitted, giving the object ample time to identify itself. If the object ignored the warnings, it would be destroyed without further delay. A correctly received reply would generate an order to retreat. If that was acknowledged and the appropriate action taken the matter would be concluded. If Zero didn’t receive the expected response, it was programmed to take full punitive action. In essence nothing was allowed to get within one-quarter mile of Zero without being challenged.

Although Zero appeared dormant to the casual observer, that was far from reality.

Zero Platform was in a state of hibernation. Within the outer shell the electronic heart of Zero lay in standby mode. Its main functions were in electronic slumber, waiting. But in its half-life Zero carried out useful functions. Its information gathering probes scanned Earth activity. It was locked into a ring of roving satellites, code-named Slingshot, that had a defense capability, but that also fed intelligence data into Zero’s data banks. Sound and vision were picked up on a global scale. Zero assessed, collated and fed the information back to Zero’s collecting station. That was a minor part of Zero’s function, but until the platform was placed on full operational status it was a useful adjunct.

Zero’s potential lay in wait. In the ice-cold emptiness of space, endlessly orbiting Earth, Zero had more to offer than simple eavesdropping. It had the capability to become the U.S.A.’s most potent defensive-offensive weapon. That power would remain dormant until Zero was activated by the one man who would have the platform under his control. Until that time came, Zero would stay silent. Waiting patiently as only a machine could…waiting for its partner…

New Mexico

HE WAS ALONE, hurt, running for his life from an unseen enemy.

Major Doug Buchanan, United States Air Force, was in his early forties, a physically impressive figure in or out of uniform. He wasn’t a man to back away from confrontations, violent or otherwise. He’d flown combat missions in the Gulf War, and had six confirmed kills to his credit. He was a quiet man, proud of his service career and dedicated to his country’s defense.

On this particular night he was running for his life, unsure who the enemy was but knowing full well that if he stayed near the base he was going to die. He had already seen many of his friends and colleagues shot down without hesitation by the strike team that had breached the base perimeter. Whatever their identity, the intruders were well versed in the activities of the project. They had moved swiftly, efficiently, seeking out the main defense points and taking out the armed U.S. Air Force security detachment before moving into the base proper, where they had used autofire and grenades to deal with the base personnel, both civilian and military.

The normally peaceful area had become an inferno of gunfire, detonations and the screams and cries of hurt and dying people. The intruders moved with trained precision from section to section, firing as they went, then set off explosive packs that reduced the base to rubble. Powerful incendiary devices were also used, sending intense fire in among the shattered buildings, where it devoured equipment and any of the people trapped there.

Buchanan had escaped by a simple fluke, physically blown out a window by the force of one of the explosions. He landed in shadow at the base of a wall, stunned but unhurt. He remained on the ground for long seconds, hearing the sound of mayhem all around, and realized that he had a chance to escape if he took it immediately.

He crawled along the dusty ground, moving beneath parked vehicles until he reached the perimeter fence. He dragged himself under the wire, following the natural contours of the ground until he was two hundred yards from the fence, and rolled down the slope of a dry wash, where he lay in the tangled scrub until the sounds of destruction quieted.

When he peered over the lip of the slope, he saw that the base was engulfed by raging fires, minor explosions occasionally sending showers of sparks into the soft dark of the New Mexican night. He could still see the intruders, dark shapes silhouetted against the brighter glare of the flames as they moved back and forth, checking and rechecking, weapons firing when they discovered a survivor.

As Buchanan watched, he heard the sounds of helicopter rotors beating the air. Flame and smoke swirled in the rotor wash as three dark choppers rode the night sky over the base, then settled. They were on the ground only long enough to pick up the attack force, then they lifted off and rose into the darkness, the sound of their engines fading quickly as they angled off across the empty desert terrain.

Buchanan stayed where he was for a while longer, checking in case anyone had been left behind to make a final sweep for survivors. He crouched in the dust, studying the base, his mind trying to make sense of it all. Nothing made any sense. He thought about going to see if any of the base personnel had survived, but he knew the answer. No one could have lived through that attack. It had been too thorough. Too professional. His own survival had been due to pure good luck. His duty now was to inform his superiors back in Washington about what had happened at the base. The only way he could do that was by reaching the nearest highway, flagging down a ride and getting to a secure telephone.

He checked his position by the stars, pushed to his feet and headed cross-country in the direction of the main highway. It lay some ten miles west, and it would take some time to reach it.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was way past the time for his medication, which meant that he was going to start feeling uncomfortable in a while. His exertions would only aggravate the situation, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had to inform Washington. It didn’t matter that he would be in pain. It wouldn’t be the first time. All he knew was that since he had undergone the final implant surgery, he needed his medication to stave off the discomfort and the pain of those damned things inside his body. The implant team back at the base had explained that it would take time for his system to accept the implants, and as long as he continued with his medication it wouldn’t be a problem. Now those people were gone. Dead, and his medication was lost. So he was going to have to keep going under his own steam.

The first real twinges started to make themselves known after the first hour. Deep-seated discomfort that became nagging aches radiated throughout his body. Buchanan kept moving, trying to ignore the sensations that were alien and scary. This was the first time he had really felt the implants. Up until this night the medication had kept the discomfort under control, deadening the feel of implants. It began to feel as if he had living things inside him and they were waking from a long slumber. They made the skin of his arms and hands itch where some of the implants lay just below the surface. It was almost like experiencing tiny electric shocks, and he imagined the implants bursting through his skin and exposing themselves. The thought unsettled him. It was only now, in his current position, that he gave thought to what he had allowed to be done to him. And he had allowed it, volunteered to be the first to undergo the radical surgery that was vital to the project. He had been chosen as much for his service skills as for the inescapable fact that he had advanced cancer. The Air Force doctors had given him no more than eighteen months before the disease took him. They had then given him an option—the Zero Option—a way that he might live longer while still being a useful member of the Air Force. Buchanan had been intrigued, and had asked to know more.

When it had all been explained, they gave him time to digest it all. It meant time alone, sitting in his lounger, staring out the window at the spread of the country beyond his house and letting the information seep slowly into his mind. He went over it again and again, at first finding it almost impossible to believe what he had been told.

Reason had made its plea and Buchanan, never one to deny what was staring him in the face, took the decision that would—if everything worked out according to his briefing—alter his life in a number of ways. Acceptance of the program would deny the cancer its victory, but Buchanan’s existence would take on a new form. True, he would be alive, but he would be bound, both physically and mentally, to the machines that gave him that life. Buchanan chose his path because he wanted to stay alive per se, and he was also curious to experience this radical technology. He was, if nothing else, a romantic in that he viewed the future with open eyes and a willing heart. The thought of space travel and the machines that would take man there fascinated him. And this opportunity he had been presented with would allow him to be one of the first to taste this innovative technology. If it worked for him, it could later be adapted for deep-space exploration. A way of overcoming long-distance travel for future generations.

If it worked.

Buchanan had been given the downside of the project. It wasn’t guaranteed to be one hundred percent infallible. His participation was as a guinea pig. He would be monitored on a 24/7 basis. Every breath, every movement would be recorded, discussed, analyzed, until there was a definitive answer one way or the other. His private life would be near nonexistent, and even when he slept his vital signs would still be monitored. There would be nothing he would say or do that would go unrecorded in some way. There would also be discomfort during the initial stages. It would take time for him to become used to the implants as they slowly integrated with his own system, remaining dormant until the time he took up his position within the project itself and became as one with the machine that would assimilate him.

The concept scared the hell out of Buchanan at first, and he had some sleepless nights. But he was man full of curiosity and he threw himself into the Zero program. As well as his innate need to know more, his being part of the project meant he had little time to dwell on his developing cancer. The mass of information he needed to absorb took over his waking hours. The project medical team also had him on a course of drugs designed to hold back the pain of his disease, so the weeks following his acceptance of the offer were extremely busy ones, allowing no time out for self-pity or periods of reflection on what might have been.

The weeks passed in a blur, leaving Buchanan little time to think about anything else. Much of his waking time was spent with Dr. Saul Kaplan, the man who had both created and helped direct the entire project. Kaplan was a man of many talents, one of them being his ability to be able to both sympathize and to stimulate Buchanan when the strictures of his disease and the effects of the Zero treatment became overwhelming. The two men had become good friends. Buchanan had looked on Kaplan as his mentor, his adviser, and he was both shocked and dismayed when he was informed that Kaplan had withdrawn from the project. Something had made the creator of Zero step back and analyze what he was doing. For whatever personal reasons Kaplan had gone, leaving no indication of where he had gone, or why, or whether he would be back.

Buchanan had felt betrayed. Lost. His only contact with reality had deserted him. He spent a few days in contemplation of his future before his natural optimism returned and he had, for want of no other avenue, thrown himself back into the project. Gradually things had returned to normal, or whatever passed for normal in Doug Buchanan’s new world. With his implant surgery behind him, Buchanan allowed himself to be immersed in the next stage of the project, spending hours connected to the computer database as it filled his head with information and instructions, the neural net inside his body drawing in the streams of data and filing them away for when they would be needed.

And then the attack had come. One quiet night, when even Buchanan was relaxing.

As with most surprise attacks it came suddenly, shockingly, the New Mexico night ripped apart by explosions and autofire. The crackle of guns and the blast of explosions. Now he hoped he could stay alive long enough to alert his superiors.

The temperature had dropped considerably, the desert air chilling him. He tried to keep on the move, knowing that if he stopped too often, for too long, he might not be able to resume his walk. With his medication long overdue, Buchanan’s pain had become extreme. It was, he assumed, like drug withdrawal. His body cried out for relief and he was alternately hot, then cold, his joints aching where the implants were blending with his own living tissue, the neural network beginning its slow, agonizing transformation.

When he checked his watch he saw he had been on the move for three hours. He wasn’t sure just where he was, but after a position check he knew he was walking in the right direction. The highway was dead ahead. It had to be. Doug Buchanan was no beginner when it came to search-and-locate procedures. It was something the Air Force drilled into its pilots from the start of their training. How to walk out of enemy territory with the minimum, or total lack, of any guidance equipment. They learned the location of stars in the night sky, the way to insure they were on course without the aid of a map or compass. So no matter how hurt he might be, as long as Buchanan could use his eyes and determine his position, he would locate the highway.

If he had been in prime physical and mental condition, Buchanan would have heard and seen the old red Dodge truck coming. He had just come across a dusty, tire-marked dirt road, when his dulled senses warned him of danger.

It was a shade too late.

The instincts that had walked him across trackless miles of empty desert failed him at the last moment. Maybe he was tired. Weary from fighting off the effects of the change taking place inside his aching body, he didn’t see the pickup truck. It came barreling out of a dip in the trail, tires throwing up clouds of dust as it crested the rise only yards from him.

The unexpected glare of the headlights engulfed Buchanan, pinning him against the desert backdrop like a butterfly to a collector’s board. He half turned, throwing up his hands to shield his eyes from the light. All he saw was the wall of light, then he picked up the roar of the engine as the driver stood on the brakes. The pickup dipped and rose like a bucking mustang. The rear slid from side to side, then it was on him. Buchanan put out his hands to ward it off, making a desperate lunge to get out of the way. He didn’t make it. The front of the truck caught him a glancing blow, not hard enough to kill him, but forceful enough to lift him off his feet and throw him in the air. He came down on the side of the track, hitting hard, coming to rest against a jutting outcrop.

Stunned, his body in agony, Buchanan picked up the sound of the truck coming to a stop. Doors banged. It seemed a long way off, and then he heard voices. They were faint, and spoke in a language he couldn’t understand. The voices closed in on him. He felt hands touch him. He tried to resist.

And that was all he remembered…

CHAPTER ONE

Nassau, Bahamas

Jack Grimaldi pushed through the hangar door and made his way to the office on the far side. He could see Jess Buchanan through the glass partition. The young woman was bent over a high desk, working on a flight plan for an upcoming charter flight.

The Stony Man pilot had known the young woman for some months, ever since she had been caught up in a mission involving Able Team. Grimaldi had stepped in when Jess had been threatened, dealing with the perpetrators. Since then he had visited her on Nassau whenever he could. The pair had a natural camaraderie that allowed them to enjoy each other’s company. This particular visit had added interest. Grimaldi had persuaded Mack Bolan to fly across to Nassau. The Executioner had taken one of his infrequent R&R breaks, and Grimaldi had gained a deal of satisfaction when Bolan had agreed to join him. The soldier had met Jess once before, so they were all anticipating a quiet few days. For Bolan and Grimaldi it would be a welcome break from the ongoing visits to the war zones and the ongoing struggles against the evil that ravaged the world.

Jess glanced up as Grimaldi neared the office, waving a hand behind the glass. As usual when working, she wore coveralls and a long-peaked baseball cap over her blond hair.

“Hey, Tex, how’s the Alamo?” she asked.

Grimaldi smiled. The remark was a throwback to the first time they had met. Grimaldi had been using a cover ID that had him as a Texan. She sometimes teased him by recalling the cover name, just to catch him off guard.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he said.

As he drew near, he slipped an arm around her slim waist and kissed her on the cheek. Buchanan turned her head to eye him.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“During office hours. You never know when the boss might be around.”

“I am the boss. Remember?”

“Hell, so you are,” Grimaldi said and completed his greeting.

“Now that’s more like it, Tex.”

For a moment the woman drifted away, her mind occupied by something else.

“Still thinking about that phone message?”

“Sorry, Jack. I know it’s crazy but I get the feeling there was more to it. I know I haven’t seen Uncle Doug for some time, but he sounded strange. Like he wasn’t sure about things. Damn, it’s hard to explain.”

“You know him better than me.”

“I hope he calls again. Last time I saw him was when we buried Dad. He calls and I’m out. And what did he mean about keeping quiet about his call? Not talking to strangers? Jesus, Jack, I missed his call.”

“No way you could have known he was going to get in touch, Jess. Likely he’ll call again. Don’t give yourself a hard time.”

She nodded.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” Grimaldi asked.

“The choice is yours.”

Grimaldi glanced at his watch. “Lunch. Then waste time till Mike arrives. Figure we work something out.”

“I’ll need to tidy up. Get into some clean clothes. Can you wait while I do that?”

“I can do better. How about I come and help?”

Buchanan laughed, pushing him away.

“If I let you do that, we’ll be eating at midnight.”

“Romantic meal under the stars sounds good,” Grimaldi said.

Before she could respond, the sound of the hangar door being slammed open caught her attention. Through the office window she and Grimaldi were able to see a group of five men. They paused to locate themselves, then started across the hangar floor, one hanging back to cover the entrance door.

“Who are they, Jess?” Grimaldi asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen any of them before.”

“Do they look like potential customers to you?”

“Not impossible, but I somehow don’t think so. They look more like FBI. Or IRS.”

Buchanan moved to the door and stepped through into the main hangar, followed by Grimaldi.

For some reason he felt himself growing tense. There was something almost official about the group. Not just the uniform way they were dressed, but more in the way they handled themselves, how they walked, checking out their surroundings, one of them hanging back to cover the door, slightly turning so he could see out across the strip. He kept his right hand close to the fastened button on his suit jacket. Just so he could quickly get to the shoulder-holstered handgun he was carrying. Grimaldi had already spotted the slight bulge under every jacket. It was so slight that it would be missed by the average citizen.

But Grimaldi was no average citizen, and there was no way these people were customers. His suspicions made him step forward, slightly in front, blocking Buchanan from the men. His stance, outwardly easy, told them he was on the alert, watching for any problems.

At the forefront of Grimaldi’s mind was the telephone message from Jess’s uncle.

Don’t talk to strangers.

“What can I do for you?” Grimaldi asked.

The lead man, his white-blond hair cut short, body solid under the loose folds of his suit, turned his head slightly so he could see Buchanan over Grimaldi’s shoulder—but he spoke directly at Grimaldi.

“Are you Jess Buchanan, mister?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t have business with you, and you are interfering in mine.”

Buchanan touched Grimaldi’s arm, moving to stand beside him. “I’m Jess Buchanan. What do you want?”

“We need you to come with us. No arguments. No questions. You just do it.”

“Just like that? You walk into my place and I do exactly what you want?”

The man smiled as if he were calming an unruly puppy. “Now there’s a good girl. You see. No fuss. No bother.” Then his manner changed in an instant, the smile turning cold as Grimaldi tensed and put out a warning hand. “I already gave you an order, mister.”

“Order? Where do you think you are, friend? This isn’t a military base and you’re no damned squad leader.”

“No?”

Grimaldi caught movement off to his left. One of the suits lunged, his move fast and smooth as he arced in at Grimaldi. His left hand, previously at his side, rose to show the dark configuration of a hard-looking compact shotgun. The guy brought up the weapon, securing it with his right hand, and he was already into his swing as he stepped around the lead man. Grimaldi brought up an arm to ward off the blow. The solid steel barrel cracked against his forearm, the blow delivered with maximum force. The impact drew a pained grunt from Grimaldi, and he swiveled hard, his right hand catching Buchanan’s shoulder, pushing her aside as the lead man went for her.

As she stumbled out of the immediate area, Grimaldi swung his right hand and caught the lead man across the side of the face. The blow stung and the man’s head rocked. He stepped back, anger showing in his cold eyes as the shotgunner closed in, swinging the weapon again, slamming the butt into Grimaldi’s side, a savage blow that cracked ribs and drove the breath from the Stony Man pilot’s lungs. The others were moving in now, dark shapes converging on Grimaldi. He was no slouch when it came to defending himself, and he used his moment of freedom to set himself, gritting his teeth against the swell of pain from his broken ribs. The pain was sharp, sweat popping across his face as Grimaldi forced himself to fight back.

He got in a few telling blows, had the satisfaction of seeing bloodied faces before the overwhelming odds closed around him and he went down under a deluge of blows from weapons and feet. He struggled to push himself upright, the continuing blows starting to wear away his resistance. His face was dripping blood. He tasted it in his mouth. A savage kick drove in over his left eye, splitting flesh to the bone. He felt the hot gush of blood, which washed downward and blinded his vision. Somewhere out of the blur of movement and sound he heard Jess. She was yelling, fighting hard. Through the swirl of dark coats he caught a glimpse of her.

She was struggling in the grip of the lead man. He held her with little effort, a crooked grin on his tight face. She reached out and took hold of his short blond hair, yanking hard. He jerked away, then suddenly, cruelly, punched her hard in the face. The last thing Grimaldi saw was Jess going limp, her mouth bloody, eyes starting to glaze over from the blow. He tried to yell to her but he was choking on his own blood. Someone stamped down hard on his left hand, breaking several fingers. Grimaldi felt himself being hauled up off the floor, pinned against the bench as more blows landed on his body. He made a vain attempt at resisting. His attempts were brushed aside. As his body began to shut down, oblivious to the continuing beating, all Grimaldi could recall was the final expression in Jess’s eyes…it had been one of pure terror. And then he went under.

MACK BOLAN STOOD as the white-coated doctor came into the waiting room. The medic held out a hand, gripping Bolan’s firmly.

“How is he?” Bolan asked.

“When you called you said you were family. I don’t see a resemblance.”

Bolan smiled. “Maybe I should have added that I’m all the family Jack has, Doc. We work together. Right now my friend is in trouble, and I want to know how he is.”

“All right, Mr. Belasko. Let’s sit down. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

When they were seated, the doctor took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Jack Grimaldi was brought in about five hours ago. He had taken one hell of a beating. We have three broken ribs on his left side. Came close to puncturing his lung. He also has three broken fingers in his left hand. In addition his upper torso, arms and face are showing severe bruising associated with the beating he took. He has a slight fracture in his right cheekbone, and it looks like someone kicked him above the right eye. Left a deep gash. His eye has swollen so he won’t be able to see for a while. In nontechnical terms your friend has been well and truly worked over.”

“Are any of the injuries life threatening?”

“No, but he’s going to be out of action for a while.”

“Is he awake?”

The doctor sighed; he knew what was coming.

“You want to see him?”

“I understand he needs rest. I’m not going to be there long, and I’m not about to put him under any kind of stress. I just need to see him for a couple of minutes. Then I’m gone.”

The doctor stood and beckoned for Bolan to follow him.

“If I say no, you’ll just keep pestering me. Am I right?”

“You got it.”

“I’ve already sent the police away when they wanted to question him. So why am I letting you in?”

“Did the police ask as nicely as I did?”

The doctor shook his head and chuckled.

Bolan followed the medic down the hall and to the private room where he could see Grimaldi’s prone shape on the bed through the window.

“I’ll be outside,” the doctor said. “And I’ll be watching. Any signs of distress, and I’m hauling you straight out. He’s been sedated to ease the pain, so he might not be fully awake.”

“Understood. And thanks.”

Bolan eased into the room. The lights were low and the room was silent except for Grimaldi’s slightly harsh breathing. As the soldier stood beside the bed, looking down at his friend, Grimaldi’s good eye opened and he stared up at his visitor.

“Hey, Sarge, thanks for showing up.”

“I’m going to make this quick,” Bolan said. “Your doc’s got his eye on me.”

“Sarge, they took her. They took Jess.”

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know. But they looked like they had military training at some time. The guy in charge had close-cropped white-blond hair. I got one in on his left cheek before they put me down.”

Grimaldi was talking slowly so as not to increase any pain he was suffering. It still had to have hurt, Bolan realized, seeing the strain on his friend’s face.

“Any idea why they wanted Jess?”

“The only thing I can tell you is she told me she’d had a call from her late father’s brother. Jess was out at the time, and he left a message on her answering machine. She hadn’t had contact with him for some time. He’s in the Air Force, Sarge, and his name is Doug Buchanan. The call came out of the blue. Jess said he sounded like he was under some strain. He warned her not to talk to anyone about hearing from him and to watch out for strangers. Coincidence?” Grimaldi fell silent for a moment. “What could they want from her, Mack?”

Bolan rested a gentle hand on Grimaldi’s shoulder. “Let me worry about that. One way or the other, I’ll find out.”

Grimaldi nodded, satisfied. He knew Mack Bolan well enough to accept those few words as a promise.

“You rest easy.”

Bolan turned to leave. At the door he paused as he heard Grimaldi’s whispered thanks. When he turned to look back, the Stony Man pilot had drifted into a tranquilized sleep.

Back in the corridor Bolan thanked the doctor and made his way outside. He stood in the warm afternoon sun, considering his next move. There was, he realized, only a single option open to him. Bolan walked to the street and picked up a cab. He told the driver his destination, then settled back and watched the tourists going about their business, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Taking time out to be a tourist had been the reason Bolan had come to Nassau. He had finally accepted Grimaldi’s invitation to join him and Jess on the island for a few days, and had been looking forward to the brief R&R. A break from the battlegrounds that dominated his life. Bolan might have dedicated himself to a life of struggle against the forces of evil, but he wasn’t so immersed that he failed to realize the need for a moment of respite. Endless missions took their toll. Time out had been called—but even that looked as if it was about to be canceled.

THE CAB DROPPED Bolan at the entrance to the charter airstrip next to Nassau International Airport. He paid the driver and crossed to the security hut. The soldier had spoken to the uniformed man earlier when he had arrived. Earl was in his late fifties, quiet spoken.

“How’s Jack?” he asked.

“He’ll pull through,” Bolan said. “That beating he took is going to keep him in hospital for a while.”

“Damned shame. I like Jack. Him and Miss Jess made a nice couple. I know he couldn’t get over here to see her as often as he wanted, but when he did they always had a good time. Miss Jess got real excited every time he called to say he was coming in.”

The Stony Man flier had that effect on people. His outgoing personality reached out to embrace anyone he met. Bolan didn’t fail to notice the way the security man talked about him. Jack—not Mr. Grimaldi.

“After it happened were the police told?”

Earl nodded. “They sent an officer after I called. He took my statement and had a look around. Thing was, the place was pretty quiet when it happened. Hardly anyone around. The cop who came, well, he didn’t put much effort into things. Problem is, the police are down on manpower. They didn’t even send down an experienced officer. He looked like he just got out of training school. He was a kid. Hardly knew the right questions to ask. Listen, Mr. Belasko, I know you’re a friend of Jack and all. I just wonder what’s going to happen to Miss Jess. Where is she? What did those people want with her?”

“I don’t know. But I want to find out. Earl, you mind if I go in and take a look around?”

“You take all the time you need. I got a phone in my booth. Anybody shows up I’ll make a call to Miss Jess’s office.”

Bolan made his way along the strip, crossing the concrete apron that took him by other charter companies until he was able to spot Jess Buchanan’s place.

He walked through the open hangar, making his way to Jess’s office. He hadn’t expected to find anything visible to offer any information. Bolan went directly to the telephone and checked the number. He took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Stony Man. The call was bounced off the satellite link and rerouted through a series of cutouts to the Farm. Bolan’s call was answered by Barbara Price herself. Bolan identified himself and told her what he wanted.

“I’ll get Aaron on it. How’s Jack?”

“Not at his best right now. He’s going to need some time to recover.”

“Listen, Mack, we’ll make sure he’s looked after. What do you need?”

“For now that check on all recent incoming calls to Jess Buchanan’s number. The only connection with her disappearance seems to be this out-of-the-blue call from her uncle. Doug Buchanan didn’t want Jess to say anything about his contacting her. Sounds like he was expecting problems.”

“You think maybe he’s in trouble with the Air Force?”

“Right now I don’t have any idea. Look into his background. See what you can find. If he was in trouble with his own people, I can’t see them handling it the way it happened. You going to have any problems getting information from the Air Force?”

“Let me worry about that. I’ll call the minute we have anything.” Price paused. “You take care.”

“You worrying about me?”

“Nothing in the manual that says I can’t.”

“Then I’ll be fine.”

He broke the connection and put the cell phone away.

Bolan spent a few more minutes going over the office. As before, he didn’t expect to find anything, but it never did any harm to check things out thoroughly.

When he stepped outside again, he took a slow look around the immediate area. He almost missed the security camera set on a corner of one of the adjacent buildings. Bolan took a walk across the concrete apron until he was standing under the camera. Turning to look back, he saw that as it panned from left to right and back again it would scan the frontage of Jess Buchanan’s building.

Bolan made his way back to the security hut.

“Earl, when the cop was here, did he ask about the security camera that overlooks Jess’s building?”

Earl thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Matter of fact he didn’t. Like I told you before, he was nothing but a damned rookie. To be honest, Mr. Belasko, I didn’t give it much thought myself. This whole thing got me so I’m forgetting things myself. I’m getting too old for this kind of work. They should have a younger man here, but they won’t pay the money.”

Earl beckoned for Bolan to step inside. At the far end of the hut was a monitoring setup that contained a master and four smaller TV screens. They showed black-and-white images from the cameras located along the charter strip. To one side were four VCR machines in a stacked bank, each machine numbered to correspond with one of the cameras. Bolan studied the setup until he located the camera he had seen near Jess Buchanan’s building. He watched the camera pan slowly back and forth. At one point it covered the frontage of the Buchanan outfit.

“Earl, tell me you still have the tape that was in the machine when Jack and Jess were attacked.”

The security man cleared his throat.

“Should have if the night man hasn’t reused it,” he said lamely. “I’m going to feel bad if it’s been wiped.”

He moved to a shelving unit fastened to the wall and began to sort through the cassettes stacked there. Bolan could hear him muttering to himself, his guilt over his lack of foresight obviously bothering him. In his nervous state he fumbled with the tapes, knocking a couple onto the floor.

“Earl, take it easy,” Bolan said.

Earl took a deep breath, then started to look again. He gave a grunt of excitement when he finally found what he was looking for. He turned back to Bolan, holding up a cassette.

“I got it.”

He crossed to the monitoring desk and sat. There was a fifth VCR unit under the large monitor. Earl slid the tape in and punched the play button. When the image came on-screen there were date and time indicators in the bottom right of the screen.

“Give me a minute,” Earl said, pushing the fast-forward key. The on-screen image sped by, Earl watching closely. He stopped the tape and pointed a finger at the monitor. “There’s Jack arriving.”

Bolan watched as Grimaldi’s lean figure walked across to the entrance of the Buchanan hangar. He pushed open the door and went inside.

“Wasn’t much else happening that afternoon,” Earl said. He leaned across the desk and pushed the fast-forward key, sending the on-screen image into overdrive. He stopped it when a light-colored car rolled to a stop outside the hangar. “Not long after Jack arrived,” he said. “Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing that car come in. Wait, I remember, ’bout that time I went across to the admin building. I got a call from one of the payroll clerks. They messed up my paycheck the previous week, and he wanted to talk to me about it. I locked the hut and went over. Guess I would have been away maybe twenty minutes is all.”

Bolan was watching the on-screen activity. Five men emerged from the car. They were all dressed alike in dark suits and moving like a squad of soldiers.

Score one for Jack’s assessment, Bolan thought. Somewhere along the line these men had received military training. There was no mistaking the precise, controlled movements, the way they carried themselves as they walked to the entrance door, opened it and went inside.

“Damn,” Earl muttered. “If I hadn’t been called across to the admin, I might have seen these people come in.”

“And you might have ended up like Jack. Or worse,” Bolan reminded him. “Move it on.”

Earl sped up the tape until the moment the men emerged from the building. One of them crossed directly to the parked car and opened the rear door. Bolan heard Earl let go a gasp of dismay when he recognized Jess Buchanan being led out to the car. She appeared dazed, having to be supported between two of the men. She was maneuvered inside, the rest of the group quickly following. The last man drew Bolan’s close attention as he took his time to look around before climbing into the car…

White-blond hair, cut short. Taut features, one hand reaching up to touch the left cheek where a dark bruise was visible, cold eyes staring straight ahead. A dangerous man, angry at being resisted, liable to react violently.

Bolan studied the face, stored it away for future reference. Here was a man the Executioner wouldn’t forget, and he also knew that sooner or later he was going to come face-to-face with him.

“Earl, can we see the license plate?”

Earl paused the tape, then used the remote to edge it forward, the car advancing into full frame, allowing them to study the rear end.

“I need to run down that number to see if I can locate that car.”

“I can tell you where it comes from,” Earl said. “Local rental agency. I recognize the number sequence. They have special plates for rental cars. Makes them easy to trace if they get stolen. We get a lot of tourists driving in for flights.”

Earl wrote on a sheet of paper and handed it to Bolan. He had recorded the license number and also the location of the rental agency.

“Thanks for this,” Bolan said. “Earl, if I don’t get to call back, I appreciate what you’ve done.”

“Wish it could have been more. I’ll drop by the hospital some time. Have a few minutes with Jack.”

Bolan stepped outside. There was a cabstand a few yards along the road. Behind him he heard the security hut door open.

“Mr. Belsako, you going to bring Miss Jess home?”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

Bolan picked up a cab and had it take him back to town and his hotel. As he sank back in the seat, he thought.

It had been a long time since Bolan had dealt with something on such a personal level. Whatever the reasoning behind Jess Buchanan’s abduction, enough in itself, Jack Grimaldi was also involved. Badly hurt and unable to find out what had happened to Jess, Grimaldi was about to learn the meaning of true friendship. As far as Bolan was concerned, he would step in and deal with the matter on Grimaldi’s behalf. It would have been no different if the roles had been reversed. Bolan and Grimaldi went back a long way. Perhaps too far. But there were no questions that needed to be asked once the chips fell.

BACK IN HIS ROOM Bolan took time to freshen up before he put in a call to Stony Man farm. This time he spoke to Hal Brognola.

“You find anything useful?” the big Fed asked. There was a distinct weariness in Brognola’s tone. Bolan picked up on it the moment he heard his friend’s voice.

“There something wrong? You sound like you need a break.”

“Some hopes,” Brognola answered. “I’ve got Phoenix somewhere in the Middle East. Able chasing rebels in Central America. And you ready to go ballistic in Nassau. And there I’m thinking it might be a good weekend to go fishing.”

Bolan smiled at that. “Hal, you’d go crazy trying to land a salmon.”

“Yeah? I’d gamble a few gray cells just to give it a damned try.”

“Anything come through on the information I gave to Barbara?”

“I was afraid you were going to ask that.”

“Complications?”

“We’ve run Doug Buchanan’s name through the military computer banks, and all we come up with is a blank. It’s like he never existed. And Aaron detected some kind of a trace string. It tried to get into his system, but he blocked it.”

“Meaning someone got interested when he flagged up Buchanan’s name?”

“Aaron is trying to follow the trace back to its source. In the meantime the rest of the cyber team is doing what it can to find something about Doug Buchanan from other data banks.”

Bolan filed the information away. Interest in Doug Buchanan seemed to be the flavor of the day.

“Anything on the incoming call from Buchanan?”

“Not yet, but we won’t give up on it.”

“Okay.”

“You find anything at your end?” Brognola asked.

“Picked up something on the people who attacked Jack and took Jess Buchanan. I need a little more time down here before I come home.”

“Striker, are you seeing more than a simple abduction here?”

“Let’s say I’m starting to become curious. I’ll be in touch.”

Bolan cut the connection. He moved to stare out the window at the passing traffic, raising his gaze to the sunlight sparkling on the water of Nassau Harbour.

He took the sheet of paper from his pocket and checked the address of the car-rental agency Earl had written down for him. Using the room phone, Bolan spoke to the desk and asked for directions to the rental company. The desk clerk told him it was no more than a few minutes’ walk from the hotel.

Bolan slipped on his jacket and picked up his keycard. He left the room, took the elevator to the lobby and left the hotel. It was early evening. The sun was warm. A breeze drifting in off the harbor made the day comfortable. Bolan eased into the crowds thronging Bay Street, which ran parallel with the harbor. The crowds were from the great cruise ships that called in at Nassau, disgorging their souvenir-hungry passengers. The vacationers surged up and down the thoroughfare, eager to spend their money and stare at the pink-and-white buildings that were part of Nassau’s appeal.

If Bolan had been so inclined, he might have been envious of the simple needs of the crowds. He simply wished them well and moved on, his agenda somewhat deeper than which gaudy trinket was the best bargain.

The crowds began to thin around the time Bolan found his side street. It took him away from the harbor front, up a slight incline, then a spot where the street widened and he found himself confronted by the rental agency. The logo above the entrance also bore the telephone number Earl had written on the paper. To the left of the building was a lot where the rental vehicles were parked. Farther back was a medium-sized workshop. Bolan crossed over and took a cursory glance at the half-dozen parked cars, spotting the one he had seen on the security video.

Bolan stepped into the office. The woman behind the counter glanced up as he entered. She was dark skinned, her black hair worn in a short style that accented her striking features. Pinned to the front of her pale blue blouse was a name badge. Karen.

“May I help, sir?”

“Well, that depends,” Bolan said, keeping his tone friendly. “I need some information about a recent rental.”

The woman frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m an agent with the U.S. Customs Service,” Bolan said. “Agent Mike Belasko. Right now I’m working undercover, tracking a group of people we believe are committing crimes around the islands. They were in Florida before they moved here. A few days ago they rented a car from you.”

The woman continued to stare at Bolan, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Sorry to drop it on you like this,” Bolan said. “The problem with working undercover is I don’t get much time to warn people I’m coming. Right now I’m under pressure to keep up with this group. They could move on at any time.”

“We only rent out cars,” the woman said. “I don’t know anything about these people.”

Bolan smiled, reassuring her. “I understand that. I’m just trying to pick up some information.”

“Shouldn’t I ask to see some identification? I mean, how do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“I don’t carry anything because I’m working undercover. But I can give you a number you can call. My base in the U.S. They’ll confirm anything you want to ask. If there’s a problem, I can come back with some paperwork. The trouble is, it takes time and by then these people will have moved on. Look, I don’t want to make a fuss. I need your help, Karen. I really do.”

The woman bit at her lip. She studied Bolan. He maintained his casual attitude, his eyes fixed on her.

“What is it you want to know?”

“Any details they might have put on their rental form. I’m just trying to get hold of something we can use to track them. They rented that car.” Bolan pointed to the vehicle.

Karen made a decision. She turned and went to a metal cabinet. Opening a drawer, she riffled through the files and pulled out a sheet of paper that she placed on the counter in front of Bolan. He slid the sheet toward him, checking the details.

Bolan scanned the information. He took a pen from his pocket, then used the sheet of paper Earl had given him to copy down some of the details. Once he had what he needed, he slid the rental form back to the woman. As she reached for it, Bolan laid his big hand over her slim one, putting on a little pressure.

“I appreciate this, Karen. You’ve been a great help.”

“I hope you catch them.”

“If I do, it’ll be because of you.”

Bolan left the office and turned toward the harbor front. He needed to get back in touch with Stony Man. From the rental form he had picked up two items that might provide some information on the people who had taken Jess Buchanan and attacked Jack Grimaldi: driver’s license and credit card details.

If they had anything to offer, Kurtzman and his team would drag it to light. It was time to leave Nassau and get back to Stony Man. Bolan needed input before he moved any further on this.

Back in his hotel room he packed his few belongings, then called the desk to ask if someone could book him a seat on the next available flight back to the U.S. He made it clear he didn’t mind the type of flight. The desk called him back less than ten minutes later to say he could take a charter flight leaving in two hours. It was a tourist economy flight, which meant no frills. Bolan told the clerk to book it and have his room bill ready.

CHAPTER TWO

Bolan’s plane touched down in Washington, D.C., in the early hours. A quick call to Stony Man had Barbara Price on the line.

“You back on home ground?” she asked without preamble.

“Just got in. I need a ride to base.”

“On its way to the usual pickup spot,” she said. “I thought of coming out myself.”

“That would have been nice.”

Price laughed. “Then I figured you probably wouldn’t have time to buy me a meal, so I decided to wait here for you.”

“So it comes down to me being just a meal ticket?”

“Girl has to look after the priorities.”

“You’re a hard woman.”

“Really? I always thought of myself as pretty accommodating.”

“Some day we’ll have to define your interpretation of ‘accommodating.’”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Price told him, a smile in her voice.

Bolan ended the call and left the terminal. As he slid the cell phone into his pocket and turned toward the rendezvous area, he felt the prod of a gun muzzle against his spine.

“I don’t give a damn if you die now, or in a couple of hours, Belasko. I’d prefer you stayed alive long enough to answer some questions, but just give me the option.”

Bolan remained still. He calculated the odds and decided he needed to wait. The carry-on slung from his shoulder would hamper his movements, so any action against the gunman would have to come later. For the time being the Executioner did what he was told.

“A car is going to stop right here,” the gunman said. “We climb in. You keep both hands where I can see them. Bag on your lap.”

The car rolled into view, a Dodge Intrepid, swinging in to pull up directly in front of Bolan. The insistent prod of the gun warned the Executioner that his captor meant business. Bolan opened the rear door and slid inside the car, moving across to sit directly behind the dark bulk of the driver. The man with the gun moved quickly, crowding in against Bolan, pulling the door shut with his free hand.

“Let’s go,” he said to the driver.

The car eased away from the pickup point and pulled into the lane of traffic heading away from the airport. The soldier felt an experienced hand move over his body, checking for weapons. The gunman found nothing. The cell phone Bolan carried was plucked from his pocket and tossed to the floor of the car. Satisfied, the gunman pulled back from his captive, making space between them. He kept the muzzle of his pistol, a .45-caliber Glock 21, pointed in Bolan’s direction.

“You make yourself hard to find, Mr. Belasko,” the gunman remarked. “Almost missed you back there. Makes me figure this isn’t something new to you.”

Bolan didn’t reply. He decided to let the other man do the talking if that was what he wanted.

“I prefer to deal with professionals,” the man went on. “Get yourself a damned civilian, and they’re likely to fall apart once you show them a gun. You know what I mean? Hell, sure you do.”

Still no response from Bolan. The Executioner was making an evaluation. Making sense of the armed pickup. His mind clicked through the elements of the situation. This had been done professionally. Quick, clean, with little chance for even Bolan to react. The transition to the car had been timed to the second, making these men something more than street hoods. No, these guys were…Bolan recalled something Jack Grimaldi had said about the men who had confronted him and Jess Buchanan, something about their having military training. Precise, practiced execution of their maneuver. Even in his injured condition the Stony Man flier had been able to recall the way his attackers had operated, and Bolan accepted Grimaldi’s assessment. The man was too much of a professional himself to have made a mistake.

“Don’t say much, do you, friend? Suit yourself. There’ll be time to talk once we hit base. Plenty of time. And incentives.” The gunman chuckled to himself. “Like whether you want to stay alive.”

Bolan fixed his gaze on the back of the driver’s head. The man had a close haircut. Near to the skull. Even from where he was sitting Bolan could see enough of the driver’s neck and shoulders to know he was looking at a big man. The guy was into weight training and body development with a vengeance. He sat behind the wheel as if he were at attention. Bolan realized why the military imagery kept coming to mind.

The car swung around a vehicle ahead, the driver having decided to speed up.

“Hey, ease off the gas pedal, Buchinsky. Remember what the man said. Low profile. Don’t attract attention. Remember? Piss off the enemy in this town and the mothers give you a speeding ticket and ask all kinds of questions.”

“And the answers would have to be pretty damned good to explain asshole back there.”

“No need to insult our guest,” the gunman said. “He could turn out to be important.”

“Looks like a shit nobody to me,” Buchinsky said. “Give you odds he won’t have a thing to tell us. Waste of time picking him up. We should dump him in the Potomac right now.”

“Just do what I tell you, Buchinsky.”

Buchinsky muttered to himself, flexing his massive shoulders.

Bolan watched the city slip by. He wasn’t certain where they were. Buchinsky was ducking and diving, moving about the road system with ease. Taking side roads and sometimes seeming to double back on himself. The trip lasted almost twenty minutes. Then Buchinsky slowed and rolled the car down a ramp that led to a basement parking area beneath a large office building that displayed For Rent signs on the outside. As the car cruised across the parking area, Bolan glanced out the side window. The place was deserted except for a couple of cars standing near an access door at the far end. Buchinsky parked near the other vehicles.

The gunman climbed out and walked around to Bolan’s side. He opened the door and indicated for him to get out. The soldier dropped his bag on the seat and stepped out.

“Stay here and keep an eye out. We don’t want any surprises,” the gunman said to the driver.

“Suits me,” Buchinsky said.

The gunman guided Bolan to the access door. They went through and found themselves confronted by stairs and an elevator door.

“Elevator,” the gunman said.

Bolan pushed the button and heard the elevator start its descent. The door opened and he stepped in with the gunman close behind. Once they were inside, the soldier was instructed to push the button for the eighth floor.

THE LARGE OFFICE SUITE held a desk and a few plastic chairs. Three men stood at the room’s wide windows, looking out through the glass at the rainy night. They turned as Bolan and his escort entered the office.

“This him?”

Bolan had already identified the speaker. He was exactly as Grimaldi had described, from his physical size down to the bruise on his left cheek. He moved away from the others, his gaze fixed on Bolan, checking him out and making a swift assessment of the Executioner.

“He say anything?”

The gunman shook his head. He stood a few feet back from Bolan, the handgun held steady, making no concessions even though they were no longer alone.

The blond man paused in front of Bolan, his hands clasped at his back.

“You know why you’re here, Belasko?”

“Maybe you’d better tell me.”

“Questions. You’ve been asking questions. At the charter strip. Talking to the gate man. Then the car-rental agency. Now why would you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Why would I?”

“Maybe you’re looking for someone. Same as us. Douglas Buchanan? Or maybe you know where he is and your job is looking out for him.”

“Sounds more likely,” one of the other men said.

Bolan glanced across at him. He had a cut lip that looked very sore. Jack again.

“Ask him if he knows where Buchanan is.”

“Fair question.”

Bolan remained silent.

“So what’s the answer?”

The blond man’s lips tightened against his teeth. He sucked in his breath, glancing over his shoulder at the gunman who had brought Bolan in. The Executioner picked up the sound of rustling clothing, heard the gunman grunt and knew that a blow was being aimed at him from behind.

Bolan held for the briefest of moments, then bent at the waist, felt the rush of air as the gunman’s swing passed over his shoulder, then lunged upright. He saw the gunman’s arm blur into view as it passed harmlessly over his shoulder. He made a grab for it, twisting and jerking down so that the arm was brought across the top of his shoulder. Pushing to his full height, Bolan snatched the Glock from his adversary’s fingers, then yanked down hard on the man’s arm with enough force to break the bone. The gunman’s scream of agony was cut off abruptly when the muzzle of the Glock was jabbed against his chest and a .45 round drilled through his heart. The moment he pulled the trigger, Bolan dropped to a crouch, the Glock tracking in on his next target.

A lean guy, sporting a blue sport coat over a tan shirt, hauled a handgun from a hip holster. He raised the weapon in a two-handed grip, seeking Bolan, but the Executioner had already changed position and his newly acquired pistol fired first. The .45 slug caught Blue Coat in the throat, taking away a large chunk of flesh. The wounded gunner flopped backward, striking the window behind him. The glass bowed slightly under the impact, then threw the dying man facedown on the carpet.

Bolan had already located his next target, seeing Blue Coat’s partner clawing for his own weapon. He placed two .45 slugs in the guy’s lower torso, driving him to the floor in a spray of blood and a lot of pain. A third shot to the head put him out of his misery.

The blond man had already moved, turning, ducking as he lunged for the door. He went through a fraction of a second before Bolan could track and fire, and by the time the Executioner cleared the door the corridor beyond was empty.

Bolan made for the door that gained him entrance to the stairs. He went down fast, conscious of his partial exposure, yet knowing he had to get clear of the building before possible reinforcements showed up. He had no way of knowing if the blond man had additional backup, and he didn’t want to find out.

He hit the fourth-floor landing. As he turned to take the next flight of stairs, the access door was banged open and a pair of armed men rushed onto the landing. Bolan knew he couldn’t take the stairs without catching a bullet in the back. He spun, reaching out with his left hand. He put his palm over the closest face and pushed hard, ramming the guy’s skull against the concrete wall. The man gave a grunt of pain, slumping to his knees, gun falling from his hand. The second guy eyed Bolan, then made the mistake of checking out his partner. The soldier saw the guy’s hesitation, as slight as it was, and took his chance. It was, as always, seizing the moment, and turning it to his advantage. He turned fast, coming around from the right. Bolan’s forearm struck the guy’s gun hand, knocking it up and back. Maintaining his sweep, Bolan stiff armed his left fist into the guy’s throat, hard, feeling flesh and cartilage cave in. As the guy began to choke, Bolan grabbed his gun arm and twisted, until the joint snapped. The guy screamed, a harsh, ugly sound due to his crushed throat, and dropped his gun, which fell into Bolan’s waiting hand.

The other gunner had started to climb to his feet, clawing his fallen weapon from the floor. His eyes were searching the area immediately behind him as he completed his stand. The last thing he saw was the raised gun in Bolan’s fist, then the world blew up in his face as the weapon was triggered twice, putting both slugs into the guy’s head. The impact knocked him back against the wall and he hung for a moment, surprise etched across his face. Then he slid down the wall, leaving behind a trail of bloody debris. As he hit the floor he gently toppled face forward.

Bolan bent over the corpse and picked up the fallen handgun—another Glock 21. He slipped it into a pocket, then frisked the guy for any extra magazines he carried. He also located the guy’s wallet and pocketed it for future reference.

The other man was on his knees, close to unconscious, his shattered arm hanging limply at his side. He was making harsh choking sounds as he struggled for air. He offered no resistance when Bolan searched him for spare magazines for the Glock. Two more went into the soldier’s pocket.

Before he moved on Bolan ejected the magazine from the pistol he was using and snapped in a fresh one, making sure the weapon was ready to go.

Bolan took the final flights of stairs until he reached the basement level. He eased the door open a fraction and peered through.

The Intrepid was in the same place, with Buchinsky waiting beside it. The man was upright, taking his job seriously, his pistol in his right hand, held against the side of his leg, out of sight but ready for use. Bolan scanned the surrounding area. There was no cover between the doorway and the Intrepid. Bolan double-checked, then shoved the door wide open so that it swung back against the wall with a hard bang.

Buchinsky snapped his head around at the noise, his right hand bringing his weapon up as he dropped to a shooter’s stance, left hand following to brace the butt of the Glock.

Bolan had stepped immediately to the right of the door, his own weapon tracking his intended target. The moment he had the guy in his sights, the soldier pulled the trigger twice, and put both slugs over Buchinsky’s heart. The enemy gunner took a faltering step forward, losing coordination, and slumped to his knees. He leaned sideways, the Intrepid’s fender holding him upright. The gun dropped from his hand, clattering onto the concrete. Bolan had closed the gap by this time, and he stepped up to where the man lay. He went through Buchinsky’s pockets until he located the vehicle’s keys.

He opened the rear door and retrieved his bag, then the cell phone from the floor of the car. Sliding in behind the wheel, Bolan inserted the key and fired up the powerful engine. He released the brake and shifted into reverse, spinning the wheel so that the Intrepid moved in a wide circle. As the car moved, Buchinsky toppled facedown on the concrete, a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Bolan drove out of the basement and onto the street, memorizing the name of the building’s rental agent before he drove away.

It took him a few minutes to establish his whereabouts. Bolan swung the car across the street and made a U-turn, then picked up the signs that would lead him to the main highway out of D.C. and back to Stony Man. He made a quick call to Price to cancel his ride.

His only immediate regret was the blond man’s escape. There was a strong connection between the man, Jess Buchanan and her uncle. Bolan was about to make it his business to find out just what that connection was. He would have questions when he got back to the Farm.

“HE GOT AWAY, Colonel. There’s no other way of saying it. He took out my guys and got away. I only got away myself by a hair. Sorry, sir, I let you down.”

“These things happen, Ryan, so don’t get paranoid over it.”

“What next, Colonel?”

“Get yourself organized. I’ll arrange cleanup for the casualties. It might be necessary for you to call in and see Senator Stahl. He could have some information for you.”

“On my way, sir.”

Colonel Orin Stengard replaced the receiver and took a breath, collecting his thoughts.

He crossed the room, staring out through the window, watching the rain falling from a slate-gray sky. The weather suited his mood at that moment. He wasn’t angry, rather more disappointed that the capture of the man from Nassau had failed. Stengard didn’t like surprises and the way this stranger had appeared on the scene, checking out what had happened at the Buchanan charter company and then going to the car-rental agency, suggested he was more than just an acquaintance of the Buchanan woman. The way he had handled himself when taken by Ryan’s men seemed to confirm he knew what he was doing.

Stengard crossed to his desk and picked up the phone. He punched in a number, hearing it click its way through a series of distant secure lines before it rang at the other end. He heard six rings before it was picked up.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Problems?”

“Nothing that’s about to wipe us out. I need you to do some checking. My people have identified an individual asking questions in Nassau. We picked him up when he touched down at Dulles. He was taken for questioning but he got away, taking out the snatch team in the process.”

“Security agent? FBI?”

“It’s why I’m calling. We don’t know. All we have is a name. Mike Belasko. See what you can find out and get back to me. I need to know if this man has backup. The last thing I need at this point are agents crawling all over us.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Stengard made a second call.

“Eric, have you had any more problems with Randolph?”

“Only what I told you last time. Why?”

“There’s someone asking questions. Digging into the Buchanan thing on Nassau. He killed some of Ryan’s men when they took him for questioning. Right at this point we know nothing about his background. I’ve just spoken to Beringer and asked him to run a check on the man. It occurred to me that Randolph might have put him on our case. Got him to do some rooting for information he can use against us.”

“Damn. I wouldn’t put it past Randolph. It’s something that old bastard would do. Hire someone to check out his suspicions. Let me go and talk to him. If the old coot won’t play ball, you can have your people take him out. How does that sound?”

“Sounds exactly what I’d say if our roles were reversed.”

“Randolph always goes to his club midmorning. I’ll catch him there.”

“Do it, Eric. Let’s brush off these annoying flies so we can concentrate on the important things.”

SENATOR ERIC STAHL confronted Senator Vernon Randolph in the quiet of his private club. Stahl was a member himself, and this wasn’t the first time the pair had faced off. Stahl was aware of how serious a threat Randolph was. Stahl had made the decision to remove him, regardless of the senior politician’s decision. There was something about Randolph that unsettled him. In essence Randolph was too much of an honest man. He didn’t make it obvious; he didn’t preach, nor did he try to press his views on others. Yet his standing in the Washington environment was unmatched.

Seated across from Randolph, Stahl felt the older man’s blue eyes fixed on him. Randolph’s gaze was unflinching.

“Eric, we have had this conversation before. Too many times. I am not interested in your proposal.”

“From someone who admits to being a patriot I find your reaction disappointing.”

“Why? Because I refuse to advocate your policies? Destabilizing the elected government of the country? Agitation. Almost an invitation to an armed uprising.”

“Go out and ask anyone on the streets, Vernon. Ask them what they feel about the way the government has sold this country down the river. Weakened it. Taken away our right to freedom and the true spirit of the American way.”

“That kind of rhetoric only appeals to the lowest intellect, Eric. Is that how you expect to gather your supporters? Where are you going to find them? In the gutters, the downtown bars and lap-dancing parlors?”

“Might work, too.” Stahl grinned, trying to lighten the moment. “Vernon, we shouldn’t be arguing like this. At a time like this we should be joining forces, not playing word games.”

Randolph allowed himself a gentle smile.

“Eric, I mean every word I say. Please don’t get confused. I despise your intentions, your policies, the people you associate with. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re in bed with Orin Stengard. He’s your military clone. A warmonger who would bomb any country that dared to defy him. The man is a throwback to the 1950s. A different time and a different army. He should have been retired years ago. Thank God the man doesn’t have his finger on the button.”

“Be careful what you say about my friends, Vernon. I might have to send Orin to see you one dark night.”

Senator Vernon Randolph ignored the implicit threat. He leaned back in the deep armchair and studied Stahl.

“Eric, you’re either very stupid or extremely arrogant. I’d have to choose the latter. Not that it makes all that much difference. What you’re considering is ridiculous in the extreme. And do you honestly believe I’m going to sit back and pretend I don’t know what you intend to do?”

Stahl smiled. “Vernon, I realize you’re a man of high principle. I’ve always admired that part of your character. But I have to say in this instance it might not be the wisest choice. It could turn out to be unhealthy to say the least.”

“Don’t try to frighten me, Eric. I’ve been in politics too long to worry over words. And at my age threats tend to add a little spice to a life that’s run for a long time.”

“Playing the hero doesn’t suit you, Vernon. Believe me, you wouldn’t like what I could do to you.”

“I intend to go ahead with the investigation I’ve been considering. You have something to hide. You’re searching for Doug Buchanan. and you have an unhealthy interest in the Zero project. I’m going to drag it all out of the shadows and into the spotlight. The moment I have solid proof I’ll take it to the President. You have my word on that.”

“All right, Vernon. However you want it,” Stahl said and turned to leave.

“Eric,” Randolph said, “do your worst, and to hell with your damned games.”

“A neat analogy,” Stahl replied. “Just remember that games all have one thing in common. A winner and a loser. And you know well enough, Vernon, I hate to lose.”

“THE EQUATION CAN’T be that difficult to grasp,” Stahl said. “If Doug Buchanan is out there looking for some kind of sanctuary, there’s only one man he’ll look for.”

He paused, savoring the moment, his triumph over every man in the room. He was still surprised at the revelation that had come to him on his return from confronting Senator Randolph.

“Senator, don’t play fucking games,” Cal Ryan said. “And pardon my language.”

“No, you’re right, Mr. Ryan. Excuse my indulgence. The man we need to locate is Saul Kaplan. Find Kaplan, and Buchanan won’t be far away.”

“What’s the connection?” Ryan asked.

“Kaplan brought Buchanan into the Zero project, chose him as the man who would inherit Zero as his savior.”

“You mean Buchanan is the guy who gets to sit in the control seat?”

“Exactly. He was chosen because he has all the military skills, is a man with a strong moral sense of right and wrong and he has terminal cancer.”

“We playing games again? They were going to put a dying man in charge of Zero?”

“Two reasons, Mr. Ryan. Buchanan was aware that on his own he would have been dead in a couple of years, but once he became part of Zero, his biological functions, including his immune system, would be taken over by the machine. It would replace his natural bodily awareness and integrate it into the biocouch. Zero’s capabilities are far in advance of anything in existence. You can appreciate why I want it under our control, Mr. Ryan. Our control alone.”

“I’m starting to, Senator.”

“With Zero in our hands, there won’t be a nation that would dare to even think about threatening the U.S. We would be in total control of the nation and have the ability to make our enemies toe the line. If they refuse, Zero could be used to make them see sense.”

“The ultimate authority.”

Stahl smiled. “Zero tolerance, Mr. Ryan. Zero tolerance.”

“Can we be certain Buchanan will head for Kaplan?”

“I believe he will. Buchanan has no one else to turn to. The Zero project was hit by an unknown force. Destroyed. No one is certain by whom. We suspect foreign interference. Regimes who see the threat Zero would pose to them. Which is why we need the project up and running. To counter such threats. If we bring Zero fully online, anyone contemplating a strike against the U.S. is going to know they would be under Zero’s scrutiny. To answer your question, Buchanan is a man out in the cold. Who can he trust? He’ll understand his position and he’ll know he’s a wanted man. Saul Kaplan was his mentor, the one man he knows he’ll always be able to turn to. If Buchanan calls, Kaplan will help him.”

“Where do we find Kaplan?”

“Right now we don’t know where he is. Kaplan vanished from his university post weeks ago. Just took off. It could be he’s heard from Buchanan in the past few days and the pair have arranged some meeting. We have to follow it up.”

Stahl slid a folder across the desk. Picking it up, Ryan flicked through the data sheets.

“Everything there is on file about Saul Kaplan. Use it and find him. We need them both alive. Kaplan has knowledge about Zero we can use.”

Ryan nodded. He gestured to his team and they followed him from the room, leaving Stahl alone. He remained seated for a while, then stood and crossed the room. He lingered at the window, watching Ryan and his people as they climbed into their vehicles. Stahl stayed there until the cars had driven out of sight. He made his way to the desk in a corner of the room, picked up his phone, punching in a number sequence.

“Are you available, Orin? Good. Where? That’s fine. An hour?”

STAHL ARRIVED ten minutes early, which gave his security team time to check out the area around the meeting place. It paid to be careful. A man in Stahl’s position needed to be cautious. He knew he had enemies. There was no point in making it too easy for them.

His team came back to report the area was clear. They climbed back in their car, and Stahl made his way down to the canal. Even though his car was some distance away, he knew his security men would have him in their sight.

The water was flat, not a ripple breaking the surface. Birds sang in the distance, calling to their mates. Stahl took a breath, allowing himself a moment of calm.

There was no doubt, he told himself, America was a beautiful country. It had everything a man could ever want or need. It was worth defending from those who looked at it through envious eyes. Terrorists, religious fanatics, countries who saw America as their adversary. The do-gooders and the liberals, even in America itself, who wanted to weaken it from within. The government legislators. The Communist sympathizers. The list was long. The threats came from abroad and from within America’s own borders. Between them they would turn America into a soft target, with no military to speak of and the defense system pared down to the bone to appease the overwhelming lobby of pacifists and downright cowards. It was sometimes hard for Stahl to believe that America had been built by far-seeing, hardy pioneers, men and women who had crossed the primitive continent, creating the strongest, richest nation in the world. They had done it from scratch, using their bare hands and their burning desire to be free. In the end they had done just that. It had taken decades, spilled blood and the bones of the dead who littered a hundred dusty trails, but they had achieved a miracle.

And now, if it was left to the spineless administration, America would be weakened further, prey to any rogue nation that decided she was ripe for the plucking. There was talk of cutting back on defense, weakening the country’s armed forces, taking the nation’s protection out of the hands of the military. And there were too few politicians with the backbone to stand up in defense of those cutbacks. The Zero Option was ready and waiting, the ultimate weapon. In Stahl’s eyes, even if the current administration brought it online, it would step back from utilizing the weapon’s potential. Stahl would not hesitate to make the world fully aware of Zero and what it could do. His first act, once he was installed in the White House, would be a practical demonstration of Zero’s capabilities. There was nothing like a hard strike to show the world America meant business. And a hard strike was what Stahl intended. Then the world could look on and see that the new American government meant what it said.

Stahl’s hands were shaking as he plucked a cigarette from his silver case and lit it. He inhaled deeply, of smoke, letting the effect calm him. Just thinking about the enormity of his scheme unsettled him. Once he embarked on it there would be no turning aside. It would have to be seen through to the end. There was no doubt that there would be a global outcry. Condemnation. Accusing fingers aimed at America.

But what could they do?

With Zero online and able to target anyone, what could they do?

Damn them all!

America needed a hard man at the helm. Someone not afraid to take on the bitchers and the whiners and the appeasers, a man who could tell the enemies of the U.S. to go to hell, because the country had the best, the finest, the most deadly weapon under its control. Once Stahl had Zero in his camp, he could bargain his way into the White House and show the American people he wasn’t fooling. And when he had the administration firmly manned by his people and the military under the command of Orin Stengard, then it would be the turn of the global community to see that America had turned the corner and was really back as the strongest nation on Earth.

Stahl flicked ash from his cigarette and watched it fall into the water at his feet. He felt a little better after his internal rant. Sometimes his bitter feelings got the better of him, and it proved therapeutic when he gave vent to them.

He heard footsteps close by. Stahl turned and saw Orin Stengard walking toward him. He was in civilian clothing. Sharply creased slacks and an expensive leather jacket over a pale cream shirt.

“Eric,” Stengard said by way of greeting. “You made this meeting sound urgent.”

“I wouldn’t have asked to see you if it hadn’t been.”

“So?”

“I was correct. Randolph has been making more of his threatening noises. I offered him the chance to join us, but he turned the offer down point-blank.”

“Is it bluster, or does he actually know something?”

“I think he’s starting to became suspicious. You know what he’s like. He’s worked out you and I are close. He also knows about Buchanan being alive.”

“How the hell did he find out about that?”

“Not from me. Look, Orin, that old bastard has been around for a long time. He has contacts all over, a finger in every department of the administration and the military. He’s a one-man CIA. He’s done favors for so many people you couldn’t read the list on a long weekend. That man has survived so many changes of government it’s worth a fucking medal.”

“All right. So what does he want? A payoff? In on the deal? What?”

“I’ll tell you what his intentions are, Orin, and believe me I know what I’m saying. Randolph wants to take us down. The man is a dinosaur. He has principles and morals. He doesn’t have enough at the moment, but the minute he does he’ll take his findings to the President and spill beans all over the fucking Oval Office carpet.”

Stengard ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He looked down at his highly polished leather shoes, cleared his throat, then looked out along the peaceful canal.

“We get rid of him, then. No ifs or buts. Senator Randolph has reached the end of an exceptional life in politics. It comes to us all, Eric. None of us is immortal. You have any problems with Randolph’s imminent demise?”

“Do I look like a man with a problem?”

“To be honest, Eric, yes, you do. You need to learn how to relax. Tension never won any battles. Go with the flow. See the problem, work it out and send in the troops.”

This time Stahl had to laugh.

“I have to hand it to you, Orin. Here we are getting ready to make a hostile takeover for the government of the United States. We have teams of covert mercenaries on the loose. A fully armed orbiting weapons platform over our heads just waiting to be switched on. And all you can say is ‘Relax.’ How the hell did you get where you are in the military?”

“By following my instincts. Letting the other poor idiots run around and get sweaty. Watching them work their butts off so they were old men before forty. I waited and listened, and took the chances they were too scared to tackle. They fell behind while I moved up the promotion ladder. And before you say it, yes, it was as easy as that. The military and politics are not so unalike. We plot and connive. Cultivate our allies and get rid of our enemies. Build up a store of favors we can call in. Make sure you always have your back to the wall and an eye out for the main chance.” Stengard turned so he had Stahl full face. “After that little speech I think we both should watch the other. After all, Eric, aren’t we after the same thing? Total power? High positions and control of the most awesome piece of hardware ever conceived? Tell me, Eric, do you still trust me?”

“If I told you, it would place me at a disadvantage.”

“Spoken like a true politician.”

“Can I leave you to deal with Randolph?” Stengard nodded. He turned to make his way back to his car, Stahl at his side. He had his door open before he spoke again.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Belasko? Mike Belasko?”

Stahl shook his head.

“Name doesn’t mean a thing. Should it?”

“No. Forget I asked. You’ll not hear it again.”

AS HE WAS DRIVEN back to his own office, Stahl wondered briefly who Mike Belasko was. The name occupied him for a few minutes as he tried to make a connection. When he failed he dismissed it sat back in the comfortable leather seat, watching the Washington landscape flash by.

If things went as planned and they gained control of Zero everything he saw outside the car, as the old saying went, would be his. It was a pleasing thought.

CHAPTER THREE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Bolan was on his third coffee when Hal Brognola arrived. He took one look at the soldier and reached for the pot himself, pouring himself a mug before dropping into the chair behind his desk. Brognola looked like a man who hadn’t slept for a long time. He took a long swallow of coffee, leaned back in his seat and stared at his old friend while he formed the words he wanted to speak.

“What the hell is going on, Striker?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. I’d planned to spend some R&R with Jack on Nassau. I touched down and found out it had gone to hell—Jack in hospital, Jess Buchanan kidnapped. I picked up some information on the perps and headed back for the mainland only to get hijacked at the airport and ended up having to fight my way out of a bad situation. That’s it. I dropped off the security tape I located at Jess Buchanan’s airstrip. Aaron is running it through the computer now to see if we can get some names for the faces. End of story. Now it’s your turn.”

“You up for another ride?” Brognola asked.

“Sure. Why not? I’m not even going to ask where.”

“One of your admirable qualities, Striker. Flexibility.” Bolan scowled at his longtime friend and ally. “Don’t push it.”

Brognola allowed himself a brief smile. He drained his coffee mug and stood.

“We’ll check with Aaron before we head out.”

AARON KURTZMAN was alone in the Computer Room. He spun his wheelchair away from his workstation as Brognola stepped into the room, with Bolan shadowing him. One look at the Executioner’s expression and Kurtzman knew it was no time for levity. He had been updated on what had happened from the moment Bolan had arrived in Nassau.

“I ran your security tape through the military database. You and Jack were right with the military connection. I came up with two positives. Your blond guy is one Calvin Ryan. Ex-Army. Retired a couple of years back from his last unit. Worked his way up through the ranks. Quite a record. The guy is a professional, a hard hitter. Desert Storm. Grenada. Headed a team of infiltrators for his commanding officer. You’ll like this. Colonel Orin Stengard.”

“Steel and Thunder Stengard?” Brognola said.

“The one and only. Makes all the other hard-liners look like pacifists.”

“The guy is always in the news with his views on why America needs to pull up the drawbridge and turn the country into an armed camp. Given his way, he’d have kids in school being taught weapons drill and issued with M-16s.”

“Any suggestions on what Ryan has done since he left the military?” Bolan asked.

Kurtzman shook his head. “Nothing on file.”

“You said two IDs.”

“Only got a clear image on one other man. Paul Meeker.”

“One of Ryan’s former military unit?”

“How did you know that?”

Bolan shrugged. “Just a guess.”

“Every time you start guessing, I get a cold finger down my spine,” Brognola said. “You have any other insights?”

“One observation,” Bolan said. “Orin Stengard has been known to associate himself alongside Senator Eric Stahl. Another might-is-right believer, and a man who has more than a passing connection with the armaments industry.”

“Connection is a nice way of putting it,” Brognola said. “The Stahl family has been in armaments since the 1930s. It’s where he gets his money. The man is worth billions.”

“Is this the Eric Stahl who fronts the Third Party?” Kurtzman asked.

“Stahl is the Third Party. The guy wants to be President. He was elected on his manifesto in his home state because he has one hell of a following in the Fortress America camp. We might not like his views, but a lot of people do. Stahl makes no concessions to political correctness, or tiptoeing around the issues. He says it as he sees it. The country is losing face and the ability to defend itself because we fudge the issues and let our enemies tell us how we should act. According to Stahl, we should think of the U.S. first and if it upsets the rest of the world, so what?” Brognola glanced across at Bolan. “Time we left.”

“You guys on a date?” Kurtzman asked.

“Not the kind you’re thinking about,” Brognola said.

“See what you can come up with on the wallet and the car-rental details,” Bolan said as he followed Brognola out the door. “Check those Glock pistols, as well. I’ll catch you later.”

“You know where to find me,” Kurtzman said to the Executioner’s back. He swung his wheelchair back to his desk and bent over his keyboard.

He had been working on the car-rental information Bolan had brought in. The credit-card detail ran him into a firewall on his first attempt. It went so far, then threw up a block. That was its first mistake. Kurtzman didn’t like being denied access to information. So he had pulled back and brought up one of his own programs, using it to bypass the card company’s firewall. He had just requested his program to worm its way into the card company’s database when Bolan and Brognola had visited. Now they had gone, Kurtzman turned back to his computer’s search and checked on the results. A smile creased his face as he read what the search had produced. He was into the card company’s database. His program had overcome the firewall put up by the security system. All Kurtzman had to do now was trace the ownership of the card, and it would point the finger at whoever was financing the people who had attacked Jack Grimaldi and Jess Buchanan.

THE BLACKSUIT PILOT behind the controls of the helicopter nodded as Bolan and Brognola settled in their seats behind him.

“Any update on Jack, sir?” he asked.

“Nothing new. He’s going to be out of action for a few weeks, but he’ll be okay.”

“Glad to hear it. Hope everything works out okay. He was really looking forward to his break on Nassau. All he talked about the last few days before he left.”

“He’d be pleased to know people are thinking about him,” Bolan told him.

“Yeah, they sure are, sir. Hell of a guy.”

Bolan sat back as the chopper rose into the air and gained altitude.

“Hell of a guy” didn’t even scratch the surface when it came to describing Jack Grimaldi.

RAIN PELTED the helicopter as it touched down on the well-tended lawn behind the White House. The pilot shut off the power and the rotors began to slow, making a soft pulse of sound as they cut the air.

A pair of dark-suited Secret Service agents came out to meet Bolan and Brognola as they ran across the grass to the entrance that would admit them to the President’s residence.

“The President is expecting you,” one of the agents said. He was staring at the slight, telltale bulge under Bolan’s jacket.

“You need to take it?” Bolan asked, preempting the agent’s thoughts. He opened his jacket to expose the holstered Beretta 93-R.

A muscle in the agent’s jaw twitched slightly. He cleared his throat.

“The President has sanctioned your right to keep your weapon, sir.”

“I appreciate that.”

The agent held Bolan’s gaze for a heartbeat.

“If you’d feel more comfortable, I’ll hand it over,” Bolan said evenly.

“That won’t be necessary, sir. Thanks for your cooperation.” The agent turned his gaze on Brognola. “Same concession goes for you, as well, Mr. Brognola. Would you both come this way.”

The agents led the men to a thickly carpeted hallway that deadened the sound of their passing. They paused at the door to the Oval Office. One of the agents tapped on the door, which was opened by one of the White House staff members who spoke briefly to the agent before withdrawing. He reappeared moments later, beckoning to Bolan and Brognola.

“The President is ready to see you.”

Bolan let the big Fed step inside first, then followed close behind. The staff member retreated, closing the door behind him, leaving the men alone with the President of the United States.

The Man came from behind his desk, holding out a hand to greet Brognola. The President’s jacket was draped over the back of his chair behind the desk and his sleeves were rolled partway up his arms.

“Hal,” he said.

“Sir.”

The President turned his attention to the Executioner. It was a rare happening for the President to actually meet the man he was in the habit of sending out to do dangerous work on behalf of the nation. Before he even had words with Bolan, the President realized this was someone he could trust. The soldier had a presence, a quiet confidence that reached out and confirmed his devotion to country and duty. It was a rare thing, especially in the current climate of mistrust and deceit, and despite being hailed as the most powerful man in the world, the President found he felt safe being in the same room as Mack Bolan.

“Glad you could make it, Striker,” the President said, holding out his hand.

Bolan took it, feeling the firm grip of the President.

“Did Hal fill you in with the details?”

“No, sir,” Brognola interrupted. “I wanted this to come directly to him when the three of us were together.”

“There’s fresh coffee over there. Help yourselves before we start.” The President crossed to the tray resting on a small table and poured himself a mug. “Anyone?”

“Black for me,” Bolan said.

“Nothing for me just now,” Brognola said.

Bolan took the mug the President handed him. He waited until the Man had taken his place behind his desk, then settled himself in one of the comfortable chairs facing the desk. Brognola sat on his left.

“Cards on the table, gentlemen,” the President said evenly. “We have a problem brewing and you, Striker, however you want to call it, seem to have become involved.” The President allowed himself a quick smile. “Not the first time that has happened, either.”

“No, sir.”

“Hal has given me the details of your involvement from the start, up to the present, so we don’t need to go through that again. I also understand that your people at Stony Man are working on material Striker brought back with him, Hal?”

“Yes, sir, and we do have some feedback already,” Brognola said. “It’s a little early to give us definite connections, though.”

“Cards on the table?” Bolan interrupted, leaning forward in his seat. He caught Brognola’s warning glance but chose to ignore it. “I’m picking up a feeling of urgency, so I’m going to play my hand.

“From evidence I picked up in Nassau and the people who were waiting for me at the airport, we came up with two names. The man in charge of the team who took Jess Buchanan and attacked Jack Grimaldi is an ex-military man named Calvin Ryan. The other man is Paul Meeker. Meeker was part of Ryan’s special-ops team. Their commanding officer in the army was Colonel Orin Stengard, and Stengard is a known associate of—”

“Senator Eric Stahl,” the President said. He glanced at Brognola. “Hal? What do you make of this?”

“Right now they’re just names and tenuous connections, Mr. President.”

“But in the context of what I’m about to explain to Striker, don’t you feel those connections are too strong to ignore?”

“As we’re off the record and this goes no further, my personal feelings are that Stengard and Stahl are involved right up their necks, Mr. President. On past records concerning their political and personal views, I have to admit to being downright biased against them.”

The President nodded. “That wasn’t too hard to say, was it, Hal?”

Brognola glanced across at Bolan. “Happy now?”

“Getting there.”

The President placed his coffee mug on the desk. He looked directly at Bolan.

“One thing Senator Stahl and I agree on is the defense of the United States. Where we part company is on the application of any defense system. Eric Stahl is a ‘shoot first, consider the implications after,’ kind of a man. I have no problem with having the best defense system available so that we can, as a nation, be in the position of having full protection in times of crisis. I do not see a defense system as a means of threatening and bullying other nations. That isn’t going to get us anywhere.

“However, we live in parlous times. We moved into a new era in the wake of September 11. No doubt about that. The world has changed. We need to change with it. Peace, however defined, has to be worked at. It’s going to take a hell of a lot of talking, and in the meantime there are still going to be those states and groups, terrorists if you will, who refuse to take the quiet option. So, gentlemen, we need to be able to protect ourselves from the rogue states until such times come that allow us to step back from the firing line. We owe that to the people of the United States.

“Three years ago a project was conceived and initiated by the U.S. The project is called the Zero Option. In simple terms Zero is a self-sustaining, orbiting weapons platform. Its purpose is to act as a defensive deterrent. Because of its capability no potential enemy of the United States would be able to launch anything against us. Once Zero detects a launch, it responds by targeting it with its own built-in missile system. The incoming missile would be destroyed while it was still in flight. Zero is equipped with detection and tracking capabilities of the highest specification. The system has been tried and tested. The tracking system is locked into the Slingshot satellite ring we put up earlier.”

“We had a run-in with the Chinese and the North Koreans over that,” Brognola said.

“Some run-in,” Bolan commented. “From the way you’re talking about Zero, Mr. President, I’m guessing this orbiting platform is up and running.”

“Construction and final interior equipping was completed six months ago. There was a great deal to do. You have to appreciate the sophistication of the interior systems. Once all that had been given the all-clear Zero came partially online. A secondary function of Zero is information gathering and transmitting to our Earth command station. Coupled with Slingshot, Zero can pinpoint any known location, listen and see what’s going on. That part of the Zero platform is already operating. We have, in essence, the best observation station in existence.”

“That isn’t the whole story, sir?”

The President glanced in Bolan’s direction. “No. Zero’s primary function is still on hold. And it will be until the final piece of the puzzle is in place. That brings me to why you’re here. But first I have to explain the way Zero will be controlled. A somewhat unique way.”

“To do with Doug Buchanan?”

“Doug Buchanan will be Zero’s guiding hand and decision maker. The platform can perform its mechanical functions, yes, but every one of those operations requires a command decision initiated by human intelligence. An intelligence that can assess the parameters and reach a decision based on experience and the capacity to make judgments with considerations for the consequences. Something a machine doesn’t always regard as necessary.”

“So Buchanan will be in command of the platform?”

The President looked across at Brognola.

“This is where your knowledge of Zero stopped before, Hal. Now seems to be the time to bring you up to speed, as well as Striker.”

If Bolan was surprised that Brognola already had insight into Zero, he didn’t show it.

“Doug Buchanan will become part of Zero, yes, but I mean a part in the sense that a process will assimilate him, via what is termed a biocouch. His physical body will fuse to the couch, the connections being made by neural implants designed to merge living matter with the implants already within the couch. In the simplest terms Buchanan will become Zero will become Buchanan. Don’t ask me to go into too much detail because Saul Kaplan lost me after the first couple of pages.”

Bolan considered what the President had told him. He was as aware of bio-and cybernetic engineering as most. He was not aware it had developed this far.

“Research into this field has been going on behind the scenes for years,” the President said. “Saul Kaplan has been one of the most energetic participants in the advancement of this science. When he put his concept forward at the start of the Zero project we realized just how far he had gone. This man-machine bonding hadn’t been part of the Zero equation until Kaplan showed interest. The man is brilliant, creative, and he had everything mapped out when he made his presentation to the oversight group.”

“How did Buchanan become part of this project?” Brognola asked.

“You mean why would a man offer to put himself through such a trauma?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Doug Buchanan is a serving officer in the U.S. Air Force. Impeccable record. He is also a man who loves his country and has dedicated himself to serving it any way he can. Not unlike the people in this room right now. We each do what we can in individual ways. In Doug Buchanan’s case he had reached a point in his life where he needed to make a critical decision. He has an incurable cancer. It will kill him, and there isn’t a damned thing anyone can do to stop it. That was true until Buchanan and Kaplan came together. Saul Kaplan offered Buchanan a way out. I have to admit it turned out to be the most dramatic way, but once Kaplan had explained it, Buchanan volunteered to join the Zero Option project.”

“The merging of Buchanan to Zero means the biocouch will replace many of Buchanan’s bodily functions. Zero will both nourish and monitor his life patterns. It will, as I understand it, kill off the cancer cells and sustain his life for as long as he remains integrated. His life expectancy will be extended, and the pain he would have experienced from his cancer will be eliminated. There will be, of course, substantial changes in his level of physical ability.”

“He won’t be able to leave this biocouch?” Bolan said.

“Exactly. But as Buchanan himself said, by the advanced stages of his cancer he would be confined to a hospital bed anyway. At least with Zero he would still be able to contribute something.”

The President paused. He sensed that both Bolan and Brognola were trying to come to terms with what he had just told them. He allowed them their time by getting up to refill his coffee mug.

“Doug Buchanan is an intelligent, forward-thinking man. He took a long time considering the options open to him. There was no pressure put on him. No one had any right to push him into something like this. I made that a stipulation when Kaplan first came to me with the concept. Buchanan’s decision was related to his life as it would be if he decided not to join Zero. In the end he came to me and we discussed it at length. He saw the challenge in the project. Looked on it as a step forward in his own life and something important for the defense of the country.”

“So what happened?”

“The project was established at a facility in the New Mexico desert. This had been closed down some years previously, and when Zero came along it was decided this facility would be an ideal place—isolated, with all the things Kaplan would need. The facility was reopened and equipped under Kaplan’s supervision. The Zero team was composed of only a small number of technicians, plus Air Force personnel and security. They worked day and night to have everything ready for when the Zero platform reached completion. They were almost there when a nighttime strike by enemies unknown destroyed the facility, the equipment and the personnel. By the time a rescue team arrived, the facility was totally destroyed. Everything. There were no survivors. The intensity of the explosions and the thermal devices used had reduced the place to ashes. Even the bodies were consumed to the point where it was impossible to make a count.

“I have to mention something at this point,” the President added. “Saul Kaplan had removed himself from the project some time back. He lost faith in the whole thing, I believe now due to some conflict he had with the Air Force command. I didn’t learn about this until too late. He simply walked one day. Apparently he refused to do what they wanted. I had some heated discussions with the people involved and made it clear I wasn’t pleased with their behavior and attitude. But the damage was done, and we were too far along to abandon the project. I’m telling you this because I did speak to Kaplan some time later. He had taken a post as a lecturer in a Midwest university. Even though I apologized for the attitude of the Air Force, I was unable to persuade him to return.” The President smiled. “In the end Kaplan hung up on me. I took that as his final no.”

“Is this a way of saying Kaplan might be involved in the strike against the facility, sir?” Brognola asked.

The President shook his head. “This wasn’t revenge by a disgruntled ex-worker. Saul Kaplan is too much of a decent man to even consider something like this. Don’t forget that his protégé, Doug Buchanan, was at the facility. Kaplan wouldn’t do anything to hurt that man.”

“Are there any theories on the strike force?”

“Nothing yet. We believe it may be the work of some foreign organization that may have found out about the Zero project and was simply making an attempt to prevent it becoming a reality. There are nations who would feel unjustly threatened even by the thought of something like Zero watching over them. Think about it, gentlemen.”

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