“You might be onto something, Striker.”

“You think RBN operations overseas are short of cash?” she asked.

“Why not?” Bolan said. “It makes complete sense based on the intel.”

“Given the state of the world economy, it’s likely they’re starting to see a rapid depletion of funds. They need to get more money from their investors or find new ones. But I’m thinking the latter would take too long.”

“Which means they’d need to get all the financial data they could on those financiers,” Brognola concluded.

“Striker, do you think Godunov’s looking to crack that list?” Price asked.

“I think he plans to have Lutrova crack the New York financial network and suck it dry.”

Other titles available in this series:

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

Predator Paradise

Circle of Deception

Devil’s Bargain

False Front

Lethal Tribute

Season of Slaughter

Point of Betrayal

Ballistic Force

Renegade

Survival Reflex

Path to War

Blood Dynasty

Ultimate Stakes

State of Evil

Force Lines

Contagion Option

Hellfire Code

War Drums

Ripple Effect

Devil’s Playground

The Killing Rule

Patriot Play

Appointment in Baghdad

Havana Five

The Judas Project

Plains of Fire

Colony of Evil

Hard Passage

Interception

Cold War Reprise

Mission: Apocalypse

Altered State

Killing Game

Diplomacy Directive

Betrayed

Sabotage

Conflict Zone

Blood Play

Desert Fallout

Extraordinary Rendition

Devil’s Mark

Savage Rule

Mack Bolan®

Infiltration
Don Pendleton’s

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To be prepared for war is one of the most effective means of preserving peace.

—George Washington

1732–1799

My battle plan remains a constant: that I be prepared to wage war until a threat is neutralized. I don’t see peace breaking out anytime soon.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

A tail could make any number of mistakes, and Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, knew most of them.

This time his followers had been in a hurry not to lose him in Boston’s morning rush hour, and they got too close in the sudden logjam of traffic caused by road construction. Bolan had spotted the vehicle with two men in the front seat as he left the rental agency at Logan International. But what made him suspicious was when a second vehicle identical to the first, occupied by two different men, came up behind him. With their suits and sunglasses, all four were either government types or trouble.

Bolan bet the latter.

Fortunately, it didn’t come as much of a surprise to him. A request from Hal Brognola at Stony Man Farm had brought the soldier to Boston. The President of the United States deemed it of some importance, a fact Brognola had pointed out when briefing Bolan less than eight hours earlier.

“The man we’re interested in is Bogdan Lutrova,” Brognola had said.

“Who’s he?”

“He’s a Russian citizen who was caught by Customs agents attempting to enter the country under a false identity,” Barbara Price, Stony Man mission controller, had answered.

“And what we know about him,” Brognola continued, “is much less than what we don’t.”

“Meaning?” Bolan asked.

Brognola pulled an unlit cigar from his mouth, an old habit that wouldn’t seem to die, and sighed. “We suspect that Lutrova is a member of the Russian Business Network. You’re familiar with this organization, I presume.”

Bolan nodded. Yeah, he was more than familiar. The RBN was a multifaceted enterprise with its hands into just about every form of cybercrime imaginable. They ran child porn sites, botnets, spam scams and virtually any other internet fraud money could buy. The RBN had been elusive, nearly impossible to destroy, given their size and wealth. A large number of intelligence sources were keeping tabs on the RBN’s operations, but none ever seemed solid enough to get close to its heart. For some time now, Bolan had considered launching a full-scale blitz again the RBN, but he knew it would have required the full resources of Stony Man, not to mention weeks or even months of surgical strikes against key sites. When Brognola called and hinted at the possibility he might have an alternate way to get at the group, Bolan jumped at the chance.

“We don’t have any proof Lutrova was here on a mission for the RBN,” Brognola stated.

“What else might have brought him here?” Bolan asked.

“Well, it’s possible he’s on the run and he came here looking for sanctuary,” Price said.

“At least that’s the song and dance he gave Customs officials,” Brognola added. “Lutrova fed them some story about business associates who were unhappy with him. He demanded legal representation and asylum. In return for information, of course.”

“But since he’s not an American citizen,” Price said, “Customs agents were only required to assign him a liaison from INS.”

“Which really just means an interpreter,” Bolan said. “So why not deport him and make it a public show? If the RBN is after him, as he claims, you’ll know soon enough whether it’s true.”

“We considered that. Unfortunately, some analyst in the CIA picked up on the fact that Lutrova had been caught trying to enter the country illegally, and immediately filed a special report that wound up in the President’s daily brief. That, in turn, filtered down to a request by the Man that we investigate Lutrova’s claims.”

Bolan shrugged. “So you want me to go to Boston to question him? That sounds more like a job for Justice Department types. I’m not sure how I can help in this.”

Brognola sighed. “Striker, you’ve been telling us for a while now that the RBN is becoming bigger and more dangerous by the day. After this latest incident, I’m inclined to agree with you. And I’ve told the President as much on more than one occasion. Now, it could be that Lutrova’s just jerking our chain, and if that’s the case then there’ll be hell to pay. But there could be more hell to pay if we don’t give this a closer look. In either case, I can’t think of anyone who can get to the bottom of it faster or better than you.”

“Not to mention you’ve been studying this group,” Price said. “You’re the closest thing we have to a subject matter expert. Not even our contacts at the NSA could give us any definitive answers.”

“All right,” the Executioner replied. “I’ll check it out.”

So Bolan had made his way to Boston via an early commercial flight. His forged credentials identified him as an intelligence analyst with Homeland Security. Bolan knew how to play the role, just as he did so many others. He had practically invented the technique beginning as far back as his war against the Mafia. He called it role camouflage, a method by which he could “appear” to be who he was by acting as people would expect him to act. He’d used these methods many times before, with considerable success.

So it came as a surprise when Bolan picked up on the fact that someone was following him, leaving him to wonder if the RBN’s eyes and ears might actually have extended inside the federal government. Bolan figured staying in role and not letting on he knew these unknowns were tailing him was the best tactic. Besides, he couldn’t take the offensive without risking innocent bystanders, and it wouldn’t avail him anything. Better to pick a time of his own place and choosing.

Yeah, he’d deal with them if and when they proved hostile.

BOLAN MADE the downtown offices of the FBI at One Center Plaza in less than thirty minutes.

The soldier parked his vehicle in a parking garage so he could observe the entrance through the rearview mirror. He waited long enough to spot the sedan as it cruised past. Bolan smiled and removed his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather. He expertly checked the action, then holstered it and made his way toward the elevators. The parking garage was one area that lent itself as a suitable place to take them if he had to. For now, he’d let them stew.

Bolan rode the elevator to the sixth floor and eventually pushed through the heavy glass door marked with the U.S. Customs logo. A receptionist at the desk smiled at him, but she had a no-nonsense glint in her eye. Bolan passed her his forged credentials and announced his business with Lutrova. The woman nodded before returning his badge and ID, along with a visitor pass. She suggested he take a seat, then picked up the phone.

The Executioner declined the seat, instead opting for a quick session with a water cooler in one corner of the reception area. As he crossed the room and helped himself to one of the paper cups, he looked over his shoulder to scope the hallway visible through the all-glass entryway. This was only one of two large federal office buildings at One Center Plaza. City Hall, City Hall Plaza and some county courthouses—as well as a major interchange station overseen by the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority—occupied remaining areas in the government center.

Any criminal organization, even one as vast and bold as the Russian Business Network, would have been insane to try anything in here. Apparently, the RBN fell into that category, because as Bolan tossed back the cold water and dropped the paper cup into a waste can, the four men in suits stepped off an elevator, each of them toting a machine pistol.

“Down!” Bolan yelled.

CHAPTER TWO

The receptionist seemed dazed, but got the message as Bolan cleared his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather and went prone. The gunmen opened up simultaneously with their machine pistols. The glass entrance shattered under the assault, and dangerous shards flew in every direction, while others rained onto Bolan and the secretary, who was now under the cover of her desk. Hot lead burned the air above the soldier’s head before it shattered more glass or punched through the plasterboard walls to leave heavy, choking dust in its wake.

Bolan sighted on the surest target and loosed a double-tap. The weapon bucked in his grip as two 185-grain 9-mm hollowpoint rounds traversed a path to one gunner’s chest. The impact drove him into a large potted plant and carried him over the other side. The heavy ceramic pot teetered and landed on top of him, spilling soil everywhere.

The first man going down distracted the one next to him, and Bolan seized the advantage. He triggered another pair of shots. The first one went low and to the left, but the second struck the man’s hip. The guy screamed and his weapon flew from his fingers. His hands went to his shattered bone and he dropped to his knee on his uninjured side. Bolan sent a third round downrange, which struck the target in the forehead. The top of the enemy’s skull came away with devastating effect, and he toppled prone to the carpet.

The remaining pair got wise to the fact that their numbers were halved, and quit firing to find cover from the Executioner’s bullets. As one guy dived for a chair in the hallway, Bolan caught him with a slug to the left side. The bullet went clean through, narrowly missing the heart and instead ripping through shoulder muscle. The clip brought a cry of pain from the gunner, but it wasn’t lethal.

The injured man’s partner managed to get behind a support beam jutting from the wall, but the thin plasterboard proved hardly adequate to stop Bolan. The warrior flicked the fire selector switch to 3-round burst mode and triggered two volleys. The first trio of rounds punched through the flimsy wall. One of them grazed the gunner, and he twisted away, straight into the line of the second 3-round burst. The bullets drilled through the man’s ribs and shoulder, one of them puncturing both lungs before the man sprawled into the hallway on his back.

The surviving gunman broke cover and swept the area with his muzzle, trying to keep his head down as he reverse-stepped toward the elevator bank. Bolan switched out magazines in a heartbeat and leveled his pistol. He triggered another 3-round burst, and then a second, and all six rounds hammered his opponent. The impacts drove him backward, causing his arms to windmill, and making him stagger like a drunken puppet until he crashed into the far wall. He slid to the ground and left a gory streak in his wake.

The echoes of gunfire hadn’t even died when a half-dozen Customs and Homeland Security officials, accompanied by a near equal number of FBI agents, fanned into the room with their weapons drawn. They spotted Bolan and began to yell at him to drop his weapon. The Executioner knew that, in the heat of the moment, anything other than compliance would be suicide, so he laid the weapon on the ground and kept his hands where he could see them.

One of the agents stepped forward and retrieved the pistol quickly, while a second bent to put handcuffs on him. Too far.

Bolan grabbed the man’s wrist. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Stop resisting!” the man said.

The Executioner whirled onto his back so fast the agent didn’t have time to react. Next thing he knew, Bolan had a forearm around his neck and his legs wrapped against the man’s hips, effectively pinning him in place.

“I said, that’s not going to happen,” Bolan repeated. He looked at the other agents, all of whom had guns pointed at him, and added, “you have my weapon and that means I’m no longer a threat. But I’m on your side and there’s no way you’re going to handcuff me like a criminal.”

“Okay, okay!” one of them replied. He holstered his pistol and gestured at the others to back off. “Put them down for now, boys. Everybody just take it easy.”

When they had complied, Bolan released the agent who had tried to cuff him, and got up, before hauling the dazed man to his feet. The agent stepped a respectful distance away as he rubbed his neck and eyed the soldier with venom. Bolan didn’t let it affect him, instead turning to the balding man who seemed to possess the air of command among the others in the group.

Bolan indicated that he was going to reach for his credentials, and once he got a nod from the head agent, he flipped them out and held them high. The agent stepped closer, quickly inspected them and then nodded with a satisfied expression.

Bolan stuck out his hand. “Name’s Cooper. I’m with the intelligence sector of Homeland Security.”

The man nodded again and took his hand. “Scott Hampton, deputy chief of U.S. Customs, New York. You’re here about Lutrova?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said with a nod.

Hampton looked in the direction of the four deceased. “You always bring this kind of entertainment to the party?”

Bolan couldn’t help but crack a smile, wondering if he might get along with Hampton, after all. “I like to keep things lively.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me…” Hampton’s voice dropped off suggestively.

“Not a clue,” Bolan said. “But if I had to guess, I’m betting they’re Russian.”

“You think they were after Lutrova?”

“Right.”

“Any idea how they might have known about you? Maybe how they managed to follow you?”

Bolan shook his head. “I spotted them tailing me the moment I left Logan.”

“And you came here anyway?”

“Look,” Bolan said, putting a little edge in his voice, “I didn’t think they’d actually storm this place with guns blazing.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a wad.”

“Let’s just focus on finding out who they are and who sent them, Hampton,” Bolan said. “We can worry about blame later.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“If they were here to punch Lutrova’s ticket, it’s logical we start with him. Especially since that’s why I’m here to begin with, and they latched on to me instead of one of your people.”

“Christ,” Hampton replied under his breath, rubbing his temples.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he told Bolan. “It’s just I feel a migraine coming on. Along with a whole hell of a lot of paperwork.”

BOGDAN LUTROVA didn’t come off as particularly special. He didn’t seem all that bright, either, but Bolan knew appearances weren’t trustworthy. Lutrova’s long, blond hair hung in unkempt and dirty strands. Brown eyes, deeply set and lined with circles, peered with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity at Bolan’s imposing form entering the room.

Bolan met the look with frosty indifference as he stood opposite Lutrova, who was seated at a gray metal table in one of the U.S. Customs holding rooms.

“Who are you?” Lutrova asked in a heavy Georgian accent.

“Shut your yap,” Bolan said, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis. “Four of your friends out there just attempted to kill me.”

Lutrova scoffed mockingly. “What friends? I have no—”

The Executioner reached across the table and one-armed Lutrova out of the chair. He dragged the Russian computer hacker across the table and pushed his head down so that the edge buried itself in a painful nerve just under Lutrova’s chin. The man squealed something in Russian, but Bolan doubted the outrage would have been intelligible even in English.

“Let’s start again,” Bolan said with a steady increase of downward pressure. “We’re not going to play games right now because I’m not in the mood for them. You’re also not going to play the victim, since we both know better than that. You know where I’m coming from now?”

The man made some additional sounds the Executioner couldn’t understand, but the furious movement of Lutrova’s head made it apparent he understood the new terms of their relationship. Bolan nodded in satisfaction and released his hold, propelling Lutrova into his chair with a shove. The door opened and Hampton entered—followed by a short, swarthy man Bolan recognized as the guy that had earlier attempted to cuff him—in time to see Lutrova’s scrawny form land hard in the seat.

“I see you’re getting along,” Hampton said with a smirk.

“I was just explaining the rules to Mr. Lutrova,” Bolan said.

Hampton nodded, gestured for the other agent to close the door behind them, and then sat on the edge of the table to one side of Lutrova, dropping a thick manila folder in front of him. It hit with enough force that Lutrova jumped in spite of himself. A red divot had formed on his chin, a lasting reminder of Bolan’s “explanation.”

“You’re in deep shit, Lutrova,” Hampton said. “You know what’s in that folder? It’s a list of names, the names of the hit team sent to kill you and anybody else who got in their way. It seems your friends in the Russian Business Network don’t like you too well.”

Lutrova didn’t say anything at first, but a slight movement of Bolan in his direction made him quickly change his tune and throw up his hands. “Wait! Wait! Don’t touch me. I’ll tell you what I know. But you must protect me.”

“No way,” Hampton said. “Your associates out there just tried to kill a bunch of my people. And the fact that they’re foreigners here on American soil, attacking American federal buildings, makes that an act of terrorism. Which means you’re not entitled to any protection.”

Lutrova looked at Bolan, who was staring at him, his arms folded. When he looked back at Hampton, who raised his eyebrows to indicate he was serious, Lutrova’s defiant expression transformed into defeat. They had him dead to rights and he knew it; worse yet, Lutrova knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. And that’s exactly where the Executioner wanted him.

“You can see, Lutrova, you don’t have many options,” Bolan said. “You can take a risk with us, spill everything—”

“And we mean everything,” Hampton interjected.

Bolan continued without missing a beat, “Or you can take your chances with your friends in the RBN. But you should know, if you don’t already, that whoever you’re working for has the means and connections to make you dead very quickly.”

“We put you in protective custody, you might have a chance,” Hampton said, taking Bolan’s lead. “But you’re definitely a dead man if you go inside the system.”

“And what do you wish in return?” Lutrova asked.

“Everything,” Bolan replied.

“Which is?”

“All information you have about your comrades in the Russian Business Network, including why you entered the country illegally and why they want to kill you.”

“I keep telling you, I don’t know—”

“Don’t play games, Lutrova,” Bolan said, putting an implicit edge in his voice. “You’ve already spilled the fact you’re in bed with the RBN, and I know all of your qualifications.”

Lutrova sneered. “Like?”

“You were formally trained at the Moscow Power Engineering Institute, top of your class. After that, you dropped off the face of the earth for ten years. For the past three years, the RBN cybercrime network activities have increased a hundredfold or more. And then you suddenly show up here and now.”

Hampton folded his arms. “So once more, what’re you doing here?”

Lutrova took a deep breath and a hint of resignation appeared in his expression. “I was sent here by Yuri Godunov. You know this man?”

Bolan scanned his mental files but couldn’t recall the name.

“What about Godunov?” he prompted.

“He is perhaps one of the greatest leaders we have ever known. He is connected to people in nearly every country, and extremely elusive. There is nothing you can do to stop him now.”

“What’s the angle?” Hampton asked.

“What do you mean by this angle you speak of?” Lutrova asked in turn.

Bolan put both palms on the table. “He means what’s Godunov’s plan?”

“Mr. Godunov does not reveal his plans to me. I only know that he sent me to break into the New York banking sector. I was ordered to fly in through Boston, and once here I was to then take a rental car to New York. I was to meet him there. But now that you have taken me, I am a liability to him. He will come after me and kill me, and there is nothing you can do to stop him.”

Bolan couldn’t be sure they were getting the truth. He’d have to run Yuri Godunov’s name through Stony Man Farm’s data banks to get more intelligence. If anyone could come up with something on Godunov, it would be Aaron Kurtzman and his team. Meanwhile, he would be forced to sit on Lutrova—keep the Russian computer hacker on ice—while he waited to find a way inside Godunov’s organization.

“Let’s take a break,” Bolan suggested to Hampton.

When they were outside the interrogation room, he stated, “I don’t like it.”

“You think he’s lying.”

“On the contrary. I think he’s completely legit. Lutrova might be a cybercriminal, but I know the type. He’s scared and with good reason, and he’s looking to make a deal.”

Hampton sighed and leaned against the wall, the resignation obvious in his tone. “I don’t have any deal to offer him, Cooper. I’m a government hack, just like you, and the policy on terrorism is strict. It looks like we’re going to have to turn him over to the boys from Homeland Security.”

“You let me worry about that.”

“You’re not really from its Intelligence, are you?” Hampton inquired with a smile.

Telling Hampton anything more than absolutely necessary might compromise Stony Man’s security. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the Customs official, but the plain fact of the matter was that this kind of red tape was what made Bolan’s job harder. He’d have to get clearance to take Lutrova with him. They would go straight to New York so Bolan could find out exactly what was going on through other means best left unexamined. If the Executioner tried to get chummy with Hampton, or left Lutrova under the protection of U.S. Customs, Godunov’s people would try again and that would only leave Hampton in a predicament. No, he’d have to keep tabs on Lutrova and take him to New York.

“Who I am or work for isn’t important,” Bolan said. “I’m with intelligence and that has to be good enough. I need to make a phone call. That call is going to generate another call, and I’m betting within the hour you’re going to be able to get this completely off your hands.”

“What are you saying?”

“Lutrova has to come with me.”

“Where? To New York?”

Bolan nodded.

“No offense, Cooper,” Hampton replied, coming off the wall now, “but I’d have to say that’s going to be pretty dangerous. If you are nothing more than an intelligence analyst, which I highly doubt based on the handiwork I just saw out there, you’d be committing suicide.”

“Again, that’s my worry. Not yours.”

Hampton shrugged. “Well, I can’t say as I like it, but I have the sneaking suspicion it isn’t going to make much difference what I think. I’d bet somebody in a much higher pay grade is going to make the decision for me.”

“That would be a safe bet.”

Bolan turned to leave and Hampton said, “Hey, Cooper? Just watch your ass out there. If these guys tried once, no doubt they’ll try again.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Bolan replied.

CHAPTER THREE

After Yuri Godunov finished listening to the report from the head of his internal security team, he slammed a fist on his desk.

Their operation, his operation, had taken an ugly turn, and Godunov wasn’t certain how to get it back on track. Thus far, his plans to slip Bogdan Lutrova into the country right under the noses of U.S. Customs had gone off without a hitch. What he hadn’t expected was the destruction of the four men he’d dispatched to liberate his premier hacker.

“This is what I pay you good money for, Volkov,” Godunov had told the mercenary leader known at large as the Wolf. “You were responsible for taking care of this for me. What went wrong?”

The Wolf cleared his throat. “I’m not sure. We weren’t expecting to meet that kind of resistance. I’ve been informed that our team was put down by one man.”

“One man?” Godunov’s expression turned apoplectic. “You mean four of your best men, trained by some of the finest methods I could buy, weren’t able to take out one man? You must be misinformed!”

“I’m not, sir, I can assure you. I verified the information as soon as it came to me.”

That was probably true. The Wolf had spies inside every major U.S. law-enforcement agency, not to mention plenty of civilian workers on the payroll. That kind of network took vast resources, and those resources were quickly diminishing. That was one of the main reasons for Godunov’s plan to crack one of New York’s largest financial institutions, Chase Manhattan, and pilfer everything he could before they got wise to his plan. Along the way, he expected to pick up quite a bit of information on those individuals who were financing the RBN’s activities.

Godunov’s organization spread far and wide. He didn’t head up the RBN—such a position could only be held by one who could walk the real halls of power back in the mother country—but Godunov occupied a prime position. He took his orders straight from the head of their worldwide society of profit and mayhem. Godunov then filtered that down to the hundreds working for him. Of course, he knew that a lot of them marched to their own drummer. Most he’d even caught skimming profits. But there was plenty of wealth to go around. As long as his superior didn’t miss it, Godunov was willing to look the other way now and again. It wasn’t as if he had a big choice, however. The RBN employed thieves, and that meant he had to expect his workers to steal here and there.

The RBN operations remained large only because Godunov had learned to be extremely cautious. The network survived through an infrastructure comprised of thousands of small front companies, many only on paper. A growing list of financiers actually invested in these companies, and as long as their “stock options” were showing steady returns—with the occasional bonus—they didn’t ask a lot of questions. But times were tough, with the world economy being what it was. That had forced Godunov to find more creative ways of getting money, and so they needed to get information on the funds of those anonymous financiers, so they could access those funds without attracting undue attention.

That was the plan Godunov had assigned Bogdan Lutrova to put into action. Now, though, it seemed that four of the Wolf’s team members were dead, and Bogdan had appeared to drop off the map.

“What’s your recommendation?” Godunov finally asked the Wolf.

“I could not make one until I have more information. Certainly, we need to find our…asset.”

“Indeed. I will leave that in your hands. But don’t screw this up again, comrade, or I will hold you personally responsible. Do you understand my meaning?”

There was a pause before the Wolf answered, “I do.”

Godunov bid him farewell by dropping the receiver into the cradle and muttering, “Incompetence. Sheer incompetence.”

He sat back, rubbed his eyes and sighed. Now he would have to play a waiting game. What he couldn’t understand was why they had moved Lutrova and, moreover, done so in secret. Such a move typically involved a considerable amount of time and bureaucracy, but the Customs officials had somehow managed to make it happen quickly. The bungled attempt of his men to liberate Lutrova meant they had shown their hand early. While faithful, and capable of following his script to the letter, Lutrova might see the cause as lost, and roll on their organization, figuring he could cut a better deal for himself by cooperating with the U.S. authorities.

What bothered Godunov most was the talk of this mysterious stranger the Wolf had spoken about. Godunov thought he’d worked every angle, but such a development could signal that the Americans had been onto their plans from the beginning. Either way, it didn’t matter, since Godunov hadn’t pinned all their hopes on Lutrova. He could implement a fail-safe if absolutely necessary, although he hesitated to do so unless the circumstances became dire. Such a fail-safe would involve ordering the Wolf to do whatever was necessary to find Bogdan Lutrova and terminate his life. There could be no loose ends—everything would need to be tied up neatly so as not to risk exposing the RBN leadership to scrutiny.

For now, all Godunov could hope was that it wouldn’t come to that.

“THIS ISN’T going to work,” Bogdan Lutrova said.

“You’ve already said that,” Mack Bolan replied. “Repeating yourself isn’t going to change my mind, so why not just shut it down for a while.”

“Because they’re going to figure it out.” Lutrova sighed. “Yuri is a smart man. He’ll see through the deception and he’ll kill you on the spot. And me, too.”

“He won’t if you play your part right,” Bolan said. “Besides, Godunov needs you. He wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to let everybody else know how important you are, otherwise. Or risked exposing his plans.”

Lutrova had no reply for that, and Bolan knew he’d struck a nerve. The soldier had never really bought the idea that Customs catching someone like Lutrova red-handed was merely a stroke of good fortune and nothing else. He’d suspected from the beginning the RBN had concocted this entire charade to throw them off the track, and Bolan’s plan to insert himself into the organization as a freelancer searching for employment was little more than a way to capitalize on their deception. The fact that he’d more or less blundered into the situation didn’t matter—Bolan would use every advantage to get at the heart of the organization.

He had contacted Stony Man, and Brognola promised to put Kurtzman and Price to work on identifying this Yuri Godunov. It surprised Bolan that he hadn’t heard of the guy when Lutrova first mentioned his name, and part of him wondered if he even existed; it seemed possible, however unlikely, that Lutrova was just lying to them to stall for time. Bolan didn’t think so. Lutrova was bright, sure, but he didn’t come close to being a criminal mastermind and this Yuri Godunov sounded like the type who would never hire an underling smarter than him, anyway.

As if on cue, Bolan’s cell phone buzzed inside his jacket pocket. He answered midway through the second ring. “Go, Bear.”

“We’ve got some updated info on your boy Godunov, Striker,” Kurtzman replied. “You’re not going to like it.”

“That’s usually a given,” Bolan said with a frown. “Talk to me.”

“Yuri Godunov’s been long suspected of ties to the Russian Business Network, but nobody’s ever been able to pin anything on him. In fact, he went as far as getting permission to operate business concerns within the United States quite some years ago, and is protected just one level beneath diplomatic immunity.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that he enjoys some sort of special consideration because his business concerns—which, by the way, are nothing more than probably shell and paper companies—are directly involved in dealings with Russian heads of state.”

“In other words, there’s a profit to be made by one or more of our politicians in Wonderland.”

“Right.”

“What else do we know?”

“Well, Godunov’s never made his presence in the country a secret,” Kurtzman replied. “He owns an estate in the West Hamptons and he regularly makes business trips to New York City. I’m sending the actual GPS coordinates to your phone as we speak. I also hacked into his computer network at his office. Can you believe this guy actually rents space at the Chase One Plaza in Manhattan?”

“I believe it.”

“According to his records, he’s in town all week on business. One entry we found was very cryptic at best, and we think it’s probably the meeting he had scheduled with Lutrova.”

“That would make sense,” Bolan said. “He’d be expecting that situation long resolved by now. What about the hit team in Boston?”

“None of them were Americans, and three of the four were here illegally. We think they’re part of a freelance team of mercenaries, but I can’t pin down which one.”

“So we’re not much further than we were before,” Bolan replied.

“Sorry, Striker. I wish I had more solid info for you, since I know going cold into a situation is tough, but there’s just not much there. If this Yuri Godunov is as crooked as the folks in the CIA’s counterintelligence unit say he is, well, you can bet he’s gone to good effort to cover his tracks and hide any goings-on that would even hint at impropriety.”

“Understood. Looks like I’ll have to work this one by ear.”

“If I get anything else, I’ll contact you.”

“Just hold on to the info and wait for me to reconnect,” Bolan said. “I don’t know what I’m up against yet and I wouldn’t want to put your end in jeopardy.”

“So don’t call you, you’ll call us?” Kurtzman replied with a chuckle.

“Just like that.”

“Okay. Be careful, Striker.”

“Out here.”

Bolan disconnected the call and spared a glance at Lutrova. The young hacker returned the look but didn’t say anything. “Seems like your pal Godunov is legit,” Bolan said.

“You doubted this?”

“I doubt everything,” he stated. “Call it a character flaw.”

“You are still convinced your plan to infiltrate Yuri’s organization will succeed.”

“I’ve already told you it’ll be fine if you just play along like you’re supposed to.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You don’t have to be convinced,” Bolan said with an edge in his voice. “You just have to be convincing.”

“And how do you know that I will not simply betray you when we finally meet with Yuri?”

“I don’t. But I do know that if it goes hard, you’ll be the first person I take with me. You see, if Godunov doesn’t have you, then he really has no ability to move forward with whatever scheme he’s cooking up. And if you go along and he finds out later that you’ve rolled over to our side, he’s still going to kill you. At least you have a chance going the distance with me.”

“Some would call this blackmail, which is nothing less than a criminal activity in itself. That would make you no better than the rest of it.”

“I call it strategy,” Bolan said, savvy to the fact Lutrova was simply trying to bait him. “Now let’s get down to business. I have information that Godunov was supposed to meet you here. Is that accurate?”

“I am not sure where I was supposed to meet him. I had instructions only to wait once I’d been caught, and that he would send someone to collect me. That is the extent of my knowledge.”

Bolan considered his options. He knew the location of Godunov’s West Hampton estate, but taking Lutrova straight there concerned him. If he did, Godunov would be immediately suspicious about where Bolan had gotten his information, particularly since it seemed Lutrova didn’t know anything about it. That left the downtown offices at Chase One Plaza as his best bet. It would have been the logical decision if he hadn’t known anything about Godunov’s private residence.

The plan was designed to be simple and straightforward.

Godunov needed something desperately in order to execute whatever designs he had on the New York financial system. Bolan had that something in his grasp. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to get Godunov bartering for the goods. Bolan had opted to use an old cover that Kurtzman was able to resurrect whenever needed. The alias Frankie Lambretta had served him well during his war against the Mafia, and later he’d used it on occasion when penetrating organized crime. On a couple of occasions, Kurtzman had killed him off or put the identity into the prison system. Once more, Bolan would be out on the streets with credentials as a former Mob hit man that just about any criminal organization would be proud to have on its rolls.

Bolan checked his watch and noted it was just past 1600 hours.

The Executioner had traded his government-issue suit and tie for slacks, a black polo shirt and a brown leather jacket to protect against the biting winter winds of New York City. He’d purchased baggy jeans and a sweatshirt for Lutrova, along with an overnight bag that contained a change of clothes and a toothbrush. The hacker’s hands were free, but Bolan had bound his feet with thick plastic riot cuffs to lessen the risk that the guy would try to take off. The Beretta 93-R rode in shoulder leather, and Bolan had stashed the remainder of his arsenal on the backseat of the rental.

His bag of tricks included twin satchel charges of C-4 plastic explosives configured with blasting caps and a remote detonator. It also contained a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle with spare magzines and ammo, a carbine version of the Fabrique National Herstal SA FNC with plenty of spare 5.56 mm NATO ammunition. Bolan didn’t expect too much in the way of serious trouble at this point, but better prepped than dead.

He made a right off Chambers Street onto Broadway, and could see the Chase Manhattan Plaza building towering in the distance, one of the tallest structures in New York City. Construction on the sixty-floor building had been completed in 1961, and it was still one of the fifty tallest buildings in the world. The only other tenant beside J.P. Morgan Chase & Co. was Milbank, and the recent addition of Godunov’s puppet firm Vastok & Karamakov, Ltd.

Bolan had to admit that Godunov’s attempt to operate like an open and legitimate enterprise was a gutsy move. It also spoke of the man’s great arrogance that he thought he could actually get away with it and not fall under the scrutiny of the federal government. Still, he’d proved adept at avoiding trouble so far. Bolan planned to change all that. He wondered exactly how Godunov would react when he walked straight into the man’s offices with the RBN’s prize puppet under his arm.

They arrived at One Chase Manhattan Plaza, and Bolan circled the block twice before choosing a belowground parking structure two streets over. After he parked and killed the engine, the soldier flipped out a knife and cut the riot cuffs from Lutrova’s ankles. Some mixture of surprise and relief spread across Lutrova’s features, but Bolan ignored that. Instead, he favored the hacker with a warning smile.

“You’re liberated only for the time being,” Bolan said. “Don’t forget you’re still on a very short leash. You double-cross me, and I’ll kill you in the blink of an eye. Understood?”

The relief in Lutrova’s expression melted. “Yes.”

“Good. Now let’s go met Yuri.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The walk to One Chase Manhattan Plaza took under five minutes, but another ten elapsed before Bolan located Godunov’s office suites on the twenty-eighth floor.

He’d managed to get through the security with his firearm, thanks to the forged credentials provided by Stony Man. It never ceased to amaze him how easy it was to get past a uniformed security detachment with an itty-bitty gold badge. The officer in charge had barely scrutinized his identification, taking more of an interest in Bolan’s companion. And with good reason. Despite the new threads, Bogdan Lutrova hardly carried the demeanor or attitude of a model citizen. Fortunately, Bolan had been able to explain it all away by letting them know that Godunov was expecting him, and they were eventually waved through.

When they stepped off the elevators, Bolan heard Lutrova take a sharp breath. He scanned the hacker’s face and then followed his gaze until his eyes came to rest on a tall, bald man with a beak-like nose and pursed lips.

“Godunov?” Bolan asked.

Lutrova nodded.

The soldier grabbed Lutrova’s arm and guided him steadily in Godunov’s direction. The Russian crime lord was standing at the reception desk, flirting with the secretary. Bolan would have paid a nickel to have a picture of Godunov at the moment the man’s attention focused on the pair. For a long time—or so it seemed— Godunov didn’t say a word. At first, Bolan thought the guy might try to act as if he didn’t know Lutrova, but a glance at Bolan told him attempting any such charade would be pointless.

“Mr. Godunov?” Bolan said in greeting.

The Russian nodded, taking up the act, and offered his hand. Bolan decided to shake it so the secretary didn’t get nervous and start punching buttons. Godunov immediately released Bolan’s hand and then turned to look Lutrova in the eyes. A patina of disgust washed over Godunov’s expression and then dissipated just as quickly into one of cordiality.

“Bogdan, it is very nice to see you.”

“And you, sir,” Lutrova muttered.

Godunov didn’t miss a beat. “I trust your trip was…uneventful, gentlemen?”

“It was,” Bolan replied. “Our apologies for being late.”

“Not at all.” Godunov swept his arm in the direction of the hallway behind the massive main reception desk manned by four young women. “Why don’t we adjourn to my office, where you can get off your feet? I’m sure you’re both exhausted.”

“Thank you,” Bolan said.

With the show of pleasantries dispensed, Bolan and Lutrova followed Godunov down the hallway to a pair of double doors at the end. As the Russian opened them, Bolan reached into his jacket and rested his hand on the butt of the Beretta 93-R as he shoved Lutrova between Godunov and himself. If any trouble waited on the other side of the door, he figured Lutrova would buy it first and give him time to react.

The office was devoid of combatants, and while Bolan relaxed somewhat, he didn’t completely let down his guard. Being a paranoid and suspicious type was just part of the role camouflage. It would take quite a bit of convincing to make Godunov buy the story he was about to spin, and prove even more difficult to earn Godunov’s trust enough to hire him. He was hoping that Lutrova would be the trump card in his hand, and it was one Bolan planned to play very early.

Once they were inside, Godunov’s demeanor became venomous. “Who the fuck are you?”

Bolan remained calm, with an expression that implied Godunov didn’t intimidate him. “Not important. What’s important is that I have something here I think you want.”

Godunov exchanged glances with Lutrova, and then asked Bolan, “What makes you think that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Maybe your sources are wrong,” Godunov said, moving to a position behind his desk.

Bolan reached into his jacket.

Godunov raised a palm. “Easy.”

“As long as you keep your hands where I can see them. Try anything and you’ll be dead before help can arrive.”

“You seem a bit jumpy, Mr….”

“Just never mind that right now. What I want to know from you is if pretty boy—” Bolan jerked his head in Lutrova’s direction “—is worth anything to you. If not, I’ve got some buyers who could put him to work on some pet projects they got going.”

Godunov laughed. “You’re not actually here to sell him to me. Are you?”

“So you’re saying he’s not worth anything to you.”

“That’s not what I said,” Godunov replied.

“Look, don’t make a jerk out of me, pal.” Bolan bristled in true mobster fashion to help sell the act, then continued, “You want to pull someone else’s rod, then you go ahead and do that. Me, I’m just a man who looks for business opportunities wherever I can find them.”

“Well, you must understand my position,” Godunov said, switching tact to appeal to Bolan’s sense of reason. “You’re asking me to basically turn over my own hard-earned cash for this young man. What makes you think he’s of any value to me?”

“Because I know where I took him from,” Bolan said. “How do you think I knew you’d be here?”

Godunov appeared to seriously consider this, and then gave Lutrova a look that was murderous, at best. It seemed Lutrova had given away information he shouldn’t have—or Bolan had given away something he shouldn’t have, slipped up in some way, and that had made Godunov very suspicious. In any case, it didn’t appear the Russian crime lord planned to show his own hand, since his original demeanor returned in a moment.

“You’re saying that it was you who snatched him from U.S. Customs?”

“That’s right,” Bolan replied. “That so hard to believe, pal?”

“Put yourself in my shoes,” Godunov replied, spreading his arms. “You show up here, armed, with something that doesn’t really belong to you. You tell a crazy story about how you wrested this man, whom you do not know, away from a group of armed U.S. Customs agents—”

“Not a group,” Bolan interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“You said I took him from a group of agents. Not true. He was with just one man when I found him.”

“And who was this man?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Bolan said. Inside, though, the statement confirmed his suspicions that Godunov—or someone in his employ—had a mole inside the U.S. Customs offices.

“And how did you even know where to look?”

“I got my sources,” Bolan said. “Listen, let’s cut out all the BS and get right to the chase. I have some inkling of who you are, and you can, and most likely will, find out who I am before too much longer. Hell, I wouldn’t doubt you got cameras all around this room right now, and you’re running that high-tech face recognizing stuff. Well, fine with me, then we don’t have to waste a lot of time. Now I’ve got something here you want, and I went to a lot of risk to get it. The question is, are you willing to pay for it, and if so, how much? That leads to another question, and that is whether or not you’re impressed enough with my work that you might want to offer me a job.”

“You’re looking for work?”

“No,” Bolan said flatly, “I’m looking for an opportunity. You can provide something solid, then we talk. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here now and taking your prize with me.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing more to discuss,” Godunov said.

That’s when Bolan’s senses went into high gear.

The pair of goons who emerged from two separate panels hidden in the walls came bearing sound-suppressed .22-caliber pistols. Bolan half expected a bit more firepower, but Godunov would have had trouble getting anything more past building security. Bolan had counted on that, and it looked like he’d proved his theory.

They came hard and fast, but the Executioner was ready. Bolan brought the sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R smoothly into play and took the first hood with a 9 mm Parabellum slug to the chest. The impact spun the gunner into the thick plate-glass window of the big corner office, and he bounced off, leaving a bloody splotch as the only evidence of his presence. The goon from the panel about sixty degrees to Bolan’s left tried to flank his position, but the Executioner found cover behind a leather couch that provided him with a good defensive posture.

Bolan got the second target with a double-tap to the head. The first round punched through the gunman’s face even as he was taking aim: his finger curled reflexively against the trigger and a bullet discharged into the carpeted floor. Bolan’s second round creased the top of the guy’s skull as his body started to topple, and deposited a patch of blood and flesh on the wall behind him.

The subsonic cartridges from the Beretta 93-R had suppressed any significant reports. Coupled with their distance from the front desk and the fact that the heavy door was closed, Bolan figured the fight hadn’t been heard. He doubted that anyone even occupied the adjoining offices, but if they had it still might not have made enough noise to cause alarm. Either way, Bolan now had another hurdle to overcome with Godunov.

“This isn’t what I came here for,” Bolan said as he leveled the pistol at the Russian. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

Godunov’s voice was icy. “Then you shouldn’t have come here with your deals.”

“I guess I shouldn’t have,” Bolan said.

He looked at Lutrova and said, “Let’s go, pal.”

They were nearly at the door when Godunov said, “Wait!”

Bolan turned and eyed him.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t be reasonable,” the man continued with a mock smile. “After all, only a fool wouldn’t explore all his options. Such relationships are built on an equal measure of trust.”

“Trust and loyalty aren’t my problem,” Bolan said. He grabbed Lutrova’s arm and thrust him into a nearby seat. Lutrova hit it with surprise on his face, and glanced at Bolan, who pretended as if he wasn’t there. “I’m a freelancer. I’ve built a reputation on getting a job done. You want what I have, then you have to pay for it. Keeps things simple.”

“Then you won’t mind giving me your name,” Godunov replied.

Bolan made a show of considering it, and then shrugged. “Guess I’ve got nothing to lose. Name’s Frankie Lambretta. I used to work for the Righetti Family until this last stint in Otisville.”

Godunov nodded knowingly. “The upstate New York prison facility. I’m familiar with it. But surely you have a parole officer you answer to.”

“Not anymore,” Bolan said with a cool smile. “He met with an unfortunate accident.”

“You are a man of style then.”

“I’m a man of profit, plain and simple. Now are you interested in doing business with me or not?”

Godunov sighed and took a seat. “What’s your price?”

“I’ll take twenty-five g’s for the genius there,” Bolan said. “And a job.”

“I’m not sure I have a place for you directly in my organization,” Godunov replied.

“Don’t be sly, pal.”

“Not at all.” Godunov reached carefully for a card on his desk and extended it to Bolan. “But I believe I know someone who would be interested in your work.”

Bolan cast a cautionary glance at Lutrova before walking to Godunov’s desk and snatching the card. He studied it a moment, a plain white card with only a phone number. “What’s this supposed to do for me?”

“Call that number and ask for the Wolf.”

Bolan cocked his head with skepticism. “You pull anything on me and I’ll kill you, friend. You can bank on it.”

“Again, we agreed that any relationship should be built on trust.”

Bolan gestured toward the two corpses on the carpet. “Like that? That’s your idea of trust?”

“Surely a man of your talents must understand my position. I have gotten this far by being cautious. The people I work for absolutely demand this. If I weren’t, neither my life nor that of our friend here—” he waved at Lutrova “—would be worth anything.”

Bolan nodded and pocketed the card. “Fine. I’ll just hold on to my catch until you have the money.”

“No need.” Godunov reached into a drawer, again careful not to make any sudden moves, and withdrew three one-hundred-dollar-bill bundles. He tossed them on the desk and said, “There’s thirty thousand in cash. Let’s call the added five a measure of my good faith.”

Bolan didn’t hesitate before scooping them off the desk and pocketing them. “Fine. Consider us square.”

He wheeled around and headed for the exit.

“One more thing,” Godunov said as Bolan reached the office door. “I will be looking into your background. If you are not who you say you are, I will find out. And when I do, you would be better to take the money and disappear rather than attempt to deceive me.”

Bolan flashed a cocksure grin and replied, “Yeah. You do that.”

ONCE BOLAN LEFT the building, he walked several blocks past the parking garage to check for marks. Nobody appeared to be tailing him, so he circled back to the garage and retrieved his rental. He contacted Stony Man after putting some distance between him and Godunov’s offices.

Barbara Price answered. “How did it go?”

“I think I’m in,” Bolan said. “I need another favor. Do some looking into any mercenary groups operating in the U.S.”

“Sure. Are we looking for anything in particular?”

“Not certain yet, but I have a moniker called ‘the Wolf.’ I don’t know if it means anything, but I if you cross-reference it with known freelancers, you may come up with something solid.”

“Will do. Hal’s here now, too. Anything else you can tell us?”

“Godunov’s definitely careful,” Bolan replied, “but I don’t think he’s calling all the shots with the RBN. He specifically mentioned that the people he works for expect him to be careful, which tells me someone sits above him in the ranks. Still, I get the impression he’s close to the top.”

“Any idea what he’s up to, Striker?” Brognola asked.

“Hard to tell this early on,” Bolan said. “He’s going to check into my background, and I gave him the Lambretta cover just as we discussed. Bear’s got that tightened up?”

“Definitely.”

“So what do you have in mind for your next move?” Price asked.

“I’m going to get in touch with this contact he called the Wolf,” Bolan said. “See where that leads me.”

“You could be walking into a trap.”

“Probably. But I’m banking on the fact that whoever this contact is, he’ll be chomping at the bit to recruit some new talent, particularly since those I took out in Boston were likely part of his team. One thing’s for sure—Godunov doles out all the wet work to specialists. I don’t think he’s got any internal people other than for personal security. So the sooner you can get me some intel on this contact I’m supposed to make, the easier it will be to gain a picture.”

“We’ll get on it right away,” Brognola promised. “Give us two hours?”

“Fine,” Bolan said. “I can lie low for that long.”

“What about Lutrova?”

“I left him there for a price,” Bolan said. “That should firm up my cover some as being in this strictly for profit. I just hope our timing’s good.”

“Well,” Price said, “we’ve done some other snooping into Godunov’s background. He’s operated here in the U.S. for about the past five years. That’s left significant paper trails, even if they only lead back to shell or paper companies.”

“I imagine he’s attempted to deal in smaller transactions?” Bolan inquired.

“You’re absolutely correct,” Price replied. “After 9/11, the federal government instituted new policies relative to financial transactions. Any single transaction of ten thousand dollars or more requires the receiving institution to generate what’s known as a currency transaction report. The CTRs are typically routed to the compliance departments for those banks, who then file them with a central database. These CTRs are then analyzed and flagged against a list of known financiers for terrorist or other national and international criminal organizations.”

“So Godunov’s managed to slip through the cracks by keeping the amounts of his transactions low?”

“Exactly. And since he’s never directly involved, his name has never been on the list,” she explained.

“We’ve taken care of that, though,” Brognola interjected. “We had him added as soon as you contacted us with Lutrova’s story. Speaking of which, do you think he’ll roll on you?”

“It’s always a possibility, but I’m confident he’s scared enough to keep his mouth shut. He knows if he tells Godunov that he was coerced into cooperating with us, it will likely cost him his life. I think he’ll pull through it.”

“Agreed,” Brognola said. “It’s not like he has a choice.”

“Well, we still don’t know what Godunov plans to use him for,” Price said.

“We know Lutrova’s an expert hacker and a technology genius. I think Godunov plans to exploit his talents in some way, and I’m guessing it has something to do with the funds they’re channeling through all the bogus investment accounts.”

“You think it’s money being used to fund RBN operations overseas?”

“Why not?” Bolan said. “It makes complete sense in light of what you’ve uncovered.”

“You could be on to something, Striker,” Price replied. “Given the state of the world economy, it’s likely they’re starting to see a rapid depletion of funds. The only way for them to continue their efforts would be if they get more money from their investors, or find new ones. The latter would take too long, so for the sake of expedience they may be attempting to tap the current list.”

“Which means they’d need to get all the financial data they could on those financiers,” Brognola concluded.

“Right,” Bolan said. “And I think that’s what Godunov may have brought Lutrova in to do.”

“You think Godunov’s looking to crack that list?” Price asked.

“I think he’s going to do a lot more than that,” Bolan replied. “I think he plans to make Lutrova crack the New York financial network.”

“Okay, but to what ends?”

“To suck it dry in one fell swoop,” the Executioner replied.

CHAPTER FIVE

Yan “the Wolf” Volkov rubbed his temples in an attempt to abate the splitting headache.

His conversation with Yuri Godunov hadn’t gone well, although it had gone about as he expected. What Volkov couldn’t understand was how four of his people had been put down so quickly and efficiently by one man. The bigger problem came from the fact that none of his contacts in the U.S. Customs had seen this man or gotten their hands on the security tapes in One Federal Plaza. Volkov didn’t even have a rough description, and that would make it next to impossible to identify him.

The other thing that bothered the Russian mercenary was the why of it. What reason had this man had for killing the team sent to retrieve Bogdan Lutrova? Had he been expecting them? And if so, did that mean Volkov had some sort of leak inside his own operations? His people had always been loyal in the past, never a one turning against him. That had to do partly with his training methods and partly from the fact that he paid them very well.

Soldiers-for-hire were a superstitious and close-mouthed lot. They generally didn’t talk to anybody about what they did, for any reason. Loose lips could get those in the business killed very quickly, or lead to ostracizing on a global scale. This most recent event had not only put Volkov’s head on the chopping block, but his reputation, as well—his employer wasn’t known for being the forgiving type.

Volkov sat back in his chair and thought about his options. While he took his instructions from Godunov, he knew the money came from someone higher. That someone—Volkov didn’t know exactly who, but he had his suspicions—expected positive results every time and wouldn’t hear excuses if things went sour. Volkov had to admit he’d never been in a situation quite like this one before. He’d almost declined the job when he heard how Godunov wanted to do it, but saying no wasn’t really an option. He was on retainer, a contract of sorts, and that meant whenever they told him to jump he simply did it. Everything else got put aside and there wasn’t even any asking “how high” he was expected to get it done quickly and efficiently.

The plan hadn’t been very good to start with. It would have been much simpler to get Bogdan Lutrova into America in secret. There were many ways to smuggle such persons into the country without much trouble at all—the Wolf had plenty of mechanisms in place for such an operation. In fact, human trafficking remained a financial mainstay of his operations, and as long as he didn’t do anything to expose the RBN, they were content to look the other way. Of course, he was mandated to remit a certain amount of his profits to them—kickbacks for certain of them to look the other way—but that was simply the cost of doing business. And Volkov didn’t mind paying off those individuals, since it didn’t cut that deeply into his profit margin.

This present problem, however, had become another issue, with a magnitude of complications. If Volkov had any hope of setting this right, he would have to locate the mysterious stranger who’d killed his men, and find Bogdan Lutrova. It didn’t really matter if—

A rap at his office door broke his concentration, and he barked, “Yes?”

The door opened enough to reveal the heavily made up face of his secretary. She was a short, blond, petite woman—midtwenties, Volkov recalled—who hailed from the same area of the Ukraine as he. On occasion she performed more than just secretarial duties for him, although she expected to be compensated for such things. Nothing in life was free.

“Mr. Volkov? It is Mr. Godunov for you. He’s on your personal line.”

“Put it through, Mira,” Volkov said, leaning forward to put his hand on the extension, and muttering curses as to what the man could possibly want now.

When Volkov answered, Godunov said, “I have our asset here with me.”

“What?” Volkov could feel his stomach knot. “You mean—”

“Yes, I mean that asset.”

“But how?”

“It seems we have a new benefactor,” Godunov said. “I’m almost sure that this man is working for one of our competitors, but there is a remote possibility he’s legit. He was looking for work, and so naturally, I sent him to you.”

Volkov wanted to laugh out loud. The one enjoyment he got from dealing with Godunov was the man’s penchant for being extremely careful in his telephone conversations. Volkov had assured him time and again that this particular connection was scrambled, and only the very best electronic communications thieves in the world could perhaps decrypt the complex algorithms utilized to mask their conversations, but Godunov insisted on keeping the talk all business.

“What are you looking for me to do with him?” Volkov asked.

“That would be entirely up to you. Although I believe you will probably need to subsidize your staff, given your recent turnover, yes?”

So the bastard wasn’t planning to let it go. Stick the knife in and turn it a few times just to make sure he kept Volkov in what was “his place.” Well, the Wolf knew how to play that game as well, and he wasn’t planning to fall into Godunov’s trap so easily. This situation would require deft handling, at best.

“Yes, I believe I could find a place for him here. Do you have the details?”

“He goes by the name Lambretta. I’m having him checked out as we speak.”

“He has other connections?”

“He indicated as much,” Godunov said. “Although I don’t believe he’s friendly with those particular contacts anymore. He was away on an extended business trip for some time and is now back in the area looking to establish a new territory with new clients. Based on what I’ve seen of his résumé, he might prove useful to you. Assuming his references check out, of course.”

Of course, Volkov thought, but he said, “I will await his call then.”

“Yes, do.”

“I assume that your other assets are intact?”

“It would seem so. I’m still inspecting them.”

“You’ll let me know, then, if something is damaged or missing.”

“Of course,” Godunov replied, but not without some acid in his voice.

“I shall wait to hear from you.”

Volkov hung up and rubbed once more at his temples. So, another riddle had presented itself for him to decipher. Volkov had to wonder if this mysterious stranger that showed up with Lutrova was the same one who’d killed his men. It didn’t seem improbable, but Volkov couldn’t risk killing the man out of hand, either. If he checked out and Godunov thought he could be of some use, Volkov wouldn’t turn it down; at this point, he’d already taken significant losses among his ranks.

The Wolf always kept his operations relatively small. At no time did he employ more than twelve individuals, and that number had just been cut by one-third. He had other resources upon which he could call at a moment’s notice, but as he only employed freelancers, none of them were bound to take any assignment he offered. It seemed almost too convenient that this new opportunity would have dropped so easily into their laps, but Volkov was willing to take a chance if Godunov vouched for it.

This way, he couldn’t be held responsible if something went wrong. It would all fall onto Godunov’s shoulders, and Volkov could walk away clean.

The regular extension, the one used for public business, buzzed, and Volkov picked it up immediately.

“I’m looking for the Wolf,” the caller said.

“You’ve got him.”

“I was referred by a mutual business acquaintance.”

Good! This one was careful, didn’t assume it was wise to use any names; at least that spoke to his experience. If he’d been sloppy right off, Volkov would have dismissed him as an amateur and hung up immediately.

“Yes, I was just told to expect your call.”

“I assume we need to meet.” It wasn’t a question.

“That would be best,” Volkov said. “I have a particular place in mind.”

“I’d prefer we do this on some neutral ground,” the man replied. “You’ll understand that I can’t be too careful. I’m a stranger to the area, and it wouldn’t be proper or respectful to impose some sort of intimacies until we get to know each other better.”

“You sound very savvy,” Volkov said. “I’ve been informed your résumé is impressive. I’ve also noted that you have quite a bit of experience, although it seems you’ve been seeking work for some time. I take it the prospects have not been good?”

“They’ve been scarce with this economy,” the man replied. “So are you willing to interview on my terms?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Volkov said.

The man immediately gave him an address for a quiet, out-of-the-way spot down on the waterfront. It was a café of some sort; though Volkov had never been there, he did know of it. The environment catered to a yuppie clientele, business class types, so meeting in that place wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary. They agreed to rendezvous in one hour.

“Come alone,” the man said, and hung up before Volkov could reply.

Oh, I most definitely will not come alone, Volkov thought.

BOLAN DIDN’T TRUST the Wolf, but his mission required he make the connection. This guy was obviously the muscle for Godunov, who was the apparent brains of the operation. Not that Bolan would make the mistake of thinking the Wolf was stupid; a soldier didn’t live long if he had a habit of underestimating his enemy. The name of the game was cunning and a healthy respect for the abilities of somebody with the Wolf’s background.

Ten minutes before the meet, Bolan reconnected with Stony Man. The information Price could offer him was scant, at best.

“I’m afraid we can’t tell you a lot about this guy,” she said. “He covers his tracks pretty well.”

“Surely he’s left some sort of trail.”

“Most of this came from an old friend I have in the NSA’s Signals Intelligence unit, and there’s not much to go on,” Price told him.

“I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“We think his real surname is Volkov, first name unknown. Possibly raised in the Ukraine, but that’s also unconfirmed. There are about three dozen men with that last name, all of whom hail from northern Russia, and about half that many the right age and type suitable for the Wolf’s kind of work. We’re pretty certain he’s operated in about a half-dozen countries and under a variety of aliases.”

Bolan sighed. “Sounds like a lot of ifs and maybes, Barb.”

“I know, Striker, and I wish I could give you more, but that’s what we’ve got. I’m not keen on the idea of you going into this situation on such weak information.”

“I’ve done a lot worse recently,” Bolan said.

Price laughed, because she heard the grin in his voice. “Yes, that you have.”

“What about this moniker, the Wolf. That jingle any bells with your sources?”

“Yes, we did get that much. Volkov is actually Russian for wolf.”

Bolan chewed on that a moment before replying. “Okay, sounds like I’ll just have to go for broke on this one and hope fate deals me one more decent hand.”

“Don’t take any risks, Striker,” Price replied. “If it gets too hot you can always pull out and regroup, give us time to hit this from another angle.”

“I don’t think we have that much time, Barb, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Be careful.”

“Out here,” the Executioner said.

He sat in his rental and studied the harborside café and surroundings, watchful for anyone out of the ordinary. Chances were slim to none that Volkov would follow his instructions to come alone, and if he did have additional men, Bolan knew they’d be professional enough to make themselves conspicuous. The soldier figured if he played his cards right he’d walk away from the meet. He’d picked the place at random out of a phone book, after checking with a local shop owner for a decent public venue to conduct an impromptu business meeting. The shop owner had taken one look at Bolan with an expression that implied he wasn’t buying the whole business meeting story. Obviously, this area was used more to conduct meetings between unsavory characters than Bolan had first surmised. Still, the shop owner’s recommendation had seemed acceptable.

Bolan kept one eye on the storefront and checked his watch. Ten minutes until the meet was supposed to go down, and so far he hadn’t seen anything to alert him that trouble brewed in the near future. But again, he couldn’t rely on that alone. The Wolf hadn’t survived this long without being careful, and he would most certainly bring backup, even if he bought Bolan’s cover and story as a down-on-his-luck enforcer looking for work.

The entire thing was thin at best, but Bolan knew he didn’t have any other options. Without this charade he stood almost no chance of getting inside Godunov’s operations. Even this move wouldn’t necessarily put him in the center of things unless he could convince Godunov that some “outside force” threatened the operation. That would be the crux of his story to the Wolf, and maybe, just maybe, Bolan could pull it off.

He scanned the crowd in front of the café again, and this time he spotted the mark. The man was tall and muscular, his conditioning visible through the tan slacks and black T-shirt he wore. It wasn’t so much how he looked as how he moved that allowed the Executioner to pick him out of a crowd. Trained and experienced combatants carried themselves in very specific ways, and while those telltale signs weren’t obvious to the untrained observer, they spoke volumes to a professional like Bolan. This was definitely the Wolf.

The soldier got out of his sedan, locked it and proceeded straight toward him. He reached the café just as the mercenary stepped inside and began to scan the crowded tables.

Bolan came up behind him and quietly said, “Looking for me?”

The Wolf, aka Volkov, turned and glanced at him in surprise. They were about the same height, although the Russian might have had an inch or two on Bolan. His blond hair and cool blue eyes reminded Bolan of Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Able Team’s fearless leader, but that’s where the similarities ended. Where Lyons possessed a humoring demeanor just beneath the cynical surface he wore, there was nothing even remotely gregarious about Volkov. Bolan guessed there was only hard, cold granite in the muscular chest of this guy, and a psychopathic nature born from a love for killing—and it was obvious Volkov had done a lot of it.

“Not a good start, sneaking up on a potential employer,” Volkov said with a sneer.

“Funny, I didn’t think I was ‘sneaking’ up on you,” Bolan replied with an equal amount of acid in his voice. He had to be conciliatory, but he also needed to maintain the aura of a hardened Mob enforcer. It was important in his role that he show Volkov he wouldn’t just flip over and show his belly to anybody; such a move would cause him to lose any and all credibility in the Russian’s eyes, and more than likely lead to trouble.

Bolan glanced outside, and although he didn’t spot anybody, he said, “I see you didn’t come alone like I told you.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place here, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “You’re here asking me for something, not the other way around. I do whatever the fuck I want to do. You get me?”

Bolan made a show of looking uncertain, letting Volkov think he’d taken him off his guard, and then he smiled. “Yeah, sure… I get you, pal. No need to get your shorts in a bunch. I was just feeling you out, is all. I’m pretty careful when it comes to choosing the people I work for. I don’t want to end up getting my throat cut because the crew I’m with or its leader has no jewels. Know what I’m saying?”

Volkov nodded. “So what is it you want?”

“Well, since you know my name, then I assume our, uh, mutual friend contacted you and told you I was looking for a new crew.”

“I saw some tables out there,” Volkov said. “Let’s sit outside.”

Bolan nodded and the two men made their way to a table on the fringes of the patio. The rest of the harborside dock was busy, as lunchtime had finally arrived. Longshoremen and suits from nearby businesses had started to flood the area, cramming like sardines into every coffee shop, deli and grill they could find along the harbor. The sun streamed down onto the dock and took much from the bite of the slight breezes off the water. It actually turned out to be a pretty nice day for mid-February in New York.

When they were seated, Bolan got straight to business. “So I understand you may be looking for some additional hands.”

Volkov nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Hey,” Bolan said, “those guys that your boss sent after me in his office… I hope they weren’t your guys. Because I was just defending myself. Guy’s got a right to do that, huh?”

“I don’t provide private security for Mr. Godunov,” Volkov said. “I operate, shall we say…independently. And yes, I’m in the market for new talents. But I’m not sure you’re going to work out.”

“Why not?” Bolan splayed his hands in true Italian fashion and said, “What’s the beef you got with me? We barely know each other and you’re already backing down.”

“I’m not backing down,” Volkov said, his gaze roving among the crowd. “I’m just saying that I don’t know if your type of skills and training would fit into the outfit I run. You’re used to doing things a certain way, and anybody I bring on board would have to adjust to doing things my way. Your résumé says you’re a little on the wild side, taken to doing things your own way, and I cannot afford that kind of risk. It’s a liability to me and to the people I work for.”

“Hey, listen, pal, I get results.”

“That may be,” Volkov replied, now meeting Bolan’s gaze directly for the first time. “But I don’t want results at the cost of compromising my position. I want loyalty. I want obedience. I expect you to do things my way and only my way. Do you think you can do that?”

Bolan appeared to think about it for a while, and then said, “Yeah, I suppose I could give it a try.”

Volkov stood. “Oh, you’ll have to give it more than a try, Frankie.” He slid a card across the table. “Be at that address tomorrow morning, 0600 sharp.”

“Oh-six what?”

“That’s six o’clock in the morning.”

“Uh, kind of early.”

Volkov raised a finger. “Remember our agreement. My way.”

“Yeah, yeah… Your way.”

So just like that, Bolan was in. Although there was one small problem: it had been a little too easy.

And the Executioner knew he was about to find out why.

CHAPTER SIX

Eduardo Capistrano had made his fortunes on the philosophy there was a sucker born every minute.

He didn’t see how this made him any different than the hundreds of other traders and foreign investors. After all, dealing with companies in other countries—particularly those in the E.U.—had always been more lucrative. There weren’t the regulations to deal with that he faced in the U.S., and he didn’t have the IRS crawling up his ass every tax season. No 1099 interest statements or foreign income investment slips; nobody from the Securities Exchange Commission sniffing around, crapping on his lawn and the like.

No, all Capistrano had to do was sit back and watch the cash roll in.

Sure, every once in a while he’d have to field a complaint from some yuppie calling from his mansion up in the Cape, take the occasional panicked call from a rich bitch sunbathing her sculpted body courtesy of modern medical science. But a kickback here or a few grand in interest dividends usually kept them at bay.

After all, they didn’t need to know Capistrano was pulling down over a mil-and-a-quarter a month. He’d given up his personal integrity and kept his mouth shut, and it had definitely paid off.

And it wasn’t just the cash. There were the other perks to think of, like the young, dark-haired Hispanic woman squirming her head deeper into his lap as she stretched her sensuous, athletic body on the sofa. His sixty-inch plasma televisions with the wireless internet and the high definition picture-in-picture. The vacations to exotic locales like Cancun, Rio de Janeiro and Greece, or the “business trips” twice a year to Paris. Ah yes, and how he could he forget Italy? Eduardo Capistrano had never thought such a lifestyle could be his, but it was there for the taking if one was willing to take a few risks.

Despite the fact the activities weren’t exactly on the legit side, Capistrano had never worried about repercussions. The people with whom he did business—rumors flew around circles that it was the Russian mob, but nobody really had any proof—weren’t willing to show their faces in public. They couldn’t afford that kind of scrutiny, so it didn’t much matter what he said or did. He could go where he wanted and when he wanted, and the people who took his money had nothing to say about it.

Capistrano enjoyed the very best life had to offer. He worked from home, kept his nose clean and attended all the latest social events. He had two kids in a posh Catholic school. He went to the best parties, wore the best clothes and rubbed elbows with others as rich as him—although they were typically a bit more famous. And he never allowed himself to be in the limelight.

There were two men he paid who were responsible for making sure he stayed that way. They accompanied him just about everywhere he went, made sure his path was clear and that nobody was putting his nose in Capistrano’s business. His men were more than just bodyguards; they ran his errands, maintained round-the-clock security on his home and prevented anyone from getting too close when he was in public.

Capistrano never allowed anyone to photograph him and he didn’t do interviews. Hell, even the half-dozen companies he owned were managed by boot-lickers who got their jollies from driving their BMWs to work and throwing wild poolside parties with others of their species. As long as they did what they were told and signed the papers they were ordered to sign, Capistrano didn’t give a shit what they did.

But all of that lent to his surprise when a tall, distinguished looking type showed up at his front door asking to speak to him. Capistrano’s security chief told the man to go away, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. He wasn’t an overly big man, tall but lean, and not very dangerous looking, so Capistrano thought about telling his man to throw the guy out on his ear. Still, discretion was the better part of valor, and so he let Nick show the guy into the parlor, Capistrano still lived in a part of the world where houses had parlors, near the Hudson River.

“What can I do for you, Mr….”

“My name’s Godunov, Yuri Godunov,” the man said.

Capistrano could feel his blood run cold at his extremities, and he had the sensation of a marble being lodged in his throat. He had only a moment to decide how to react, and he decided not to react at all. But the very name alone told Capistrano just about everything he needed to know. He hadn’t really believed the rumors about the Russian Mob, but this guy, his accent and his name and just every damn thing about him, screamed of Russian until it practically dripped from his pores.

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Godunov?”

“You know what you can do for me,” Godunov replied, his smile chilling Capistrano more.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I think that you do,” Godunov said. Capistrano started to reach for his panic button beneath the desk, but the sudden appearance of a small pistol in Godunov’s hand stayed him.

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Capistrano,” Godunov said. “I am not a man taken to violence, but I can assure you that I know very well how to use this. So instead of doing something you will regret, albeit only for a very short time, perhaps you should listen to me very carefully.”

Capistrano merely nodded as he pressed his lips together. “You have my attention.”

“There are a number of things that have occurred recently, things that greatly disturb me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Godunov waved the muzzle ever so slightly and said, “Remember that I said you should listen carefully. That is best done with your mouth shut. Now as I was saying, the people to whom I answer are very disturbed by your recent indiscretions. You’re being downright greedy, in fact. You see, we’ve allowed you to continue for about as long as can be reasonably tolerated. But in these very tough economic times we must protect our assets…which means protecting you, Mr. Capistrano. You enjoy the freedom you do because you’re a producer, a man who knows how to get money out of even the most destitute. The difficulty that is presented to us, however, is that you have not been quite as generous as we’d hoped. That is about to change.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are or who you work for but—”

Godunov’s laugh dripped with derision. “Come now, Mr. Capistrano, do you think me a fool? Look at this place. Look at it! You live like a king, but you give like a peasant. And I’m here to deliver a message, one that would be in your best interests to heed.”

“I don’t respond to threats, Mr. Godunov. I make them.”

“You make nothing apart from us, Eduardo. We have been patient and allowed you to keep the majority of the funds from your investors. Now it is time to return what you have borrowed.”

“Borrowed?” Capistrano laughed so loudly he thought he might fall out of his chair. “Everything that I have I earned.”

“No.” Godunov shook his head like a petulant child. “Everything you have we earned. You are not an independent operator. You never were, in fact. We just let you think you were. All the paperwork for those companies you allegedly own is utterly worthless. None of it is legal or binding. You were so busy scooping up the pot that you forgot you had put others in to play the game for you. Those individuals were very cleverly placed through our own machinations, and they have done a marvelous job of keeping our operations afloat while making money. Now it’s time to return what you’ve borrowed, and with interest.”

“I don’t have any of this money that you’re yapping about, pal,” Capistrano lied.

Godunov shook his head in disbelief. “You just don’t seem to understand what I’m telling you. Yes, that must be it….You are stupid, perhaps? Let me explain this in a way that will assuredly make things clear for you. Your monies and holdings, all of them, will be transferred to the control of my people within the next twenty-four hours. If you attempt to interfere with us, we will take everything you own and exploit it for our gain. That includes those lovely children of yours. How are they enjoying that special school they attend? Are they getting good grades? I would hope that their father would want to cooperate with me, because I can tell you that they would fetch a very nice price in some areas of the world.”

Capistrano could hardly believe his ears, but he didn’t doubt a single word of it. Godunov hadn’t come here to kill him, despite waving the gun. He’d come to explain that everything Eduardo thought was his didn’t, in fact, belong to him at all, and probably never had. He’d made the crucial mistake of not looking too closely at his business associates, and in the end it had come back to bite him. He was left with no choice now but to cooperate. Just as the people he thought had been working for him, but had actually been working for Godunov, were doing.

Capistrano sighed and leaned back in his chair, suddenly feeling much older than his thirty-eight years. “What do you want me to do?”

BOGDAN LUTROVA STARED absently at the computer monitors as rows of data whizzed by.

The program he had written to penetrate the New York banking system had involved much more than simply hacking the data. No, this system had taken months to build, putting the pieces in place a little at a time so as not to alert the security sniffers and lockout programs meant to deter individuals from doing the very things he had done. When it came down to it, breaking down those barriers involved a give and take; it was the equivalent of an electronic dance, really.

Getting into the system required Lutrova to insert specially designed scripts to test various areas of the New York Central Financial Data Exchange, allowing some scripts to be discovered while he deftly diverted others. There was an unspoken rule in the information security field that the more American security specialists were able to stop attempted hacks, the more confident they became in the integrity of those systems. Such attacks were intended to make them put more faith in their systems than they had a right to expect. It was an old trick, but one that worked frequently.

Once Lutrova had discovered the weaknesses in the system security, it had just been a matter of sending bits of his program into the system. When it came right down to it, computers knew only one language—the binary language of ones and zeroes—and it was a language Bogdan Lutrova had become extremely fluent in over the years. He wasn’t about to let this slip out of his hands.

Godunov’s plan had been simple enough, ingenious really—using the embezzled funds from the RBN’s biggest financiers against them. The monies and securities they had buried weren’t difficult to find; in fact, the money was right under everyone’s noses. It just wasn’t easily accessible. The RBN could have attempted blackmail or extraction by more conventional methods, but by doing it in this fashion they wouldn’t draw any attention to themselves.

It would still take some footwork on the part of Yuri and his mercenary team, but Lutrova had decided not to bother himself which such trivialities. His only concern, as his masters in Russia had instructed, was to get the information they needed so the funds could be moved. How the “contributors” dealt with their sudden change in fortune wasn’t anything he needed to concern himself with. His only task was to make sure the transfers took place when Yuri Godunov wanted them to.

In a way, Lutrova wondered why he was so worried. There wasn’t anything they could do to him without ruining their own plans. At this point in the game, the leaders of the RBN had invested a tremendous amount of resources into this operation. The payoff for Lutrova alone would be half a half-million dollars and a place of his own for the rest of his life. He’d picked an estate outside of Geneva for his retirement, a strange choice to many, but one he knew would suit him perfectly. Who would think to look for the RBN’s premier hacker there?

In spite of it all, Lutrova knew he was expendable. Everyone was expendable in the RBN; the organization thrived on self-reliance and survival. When they had something, they took it. When they needed to generate money, they beefed up their pornography sites and sexual slave trading. If they wanted to bring down some high-tech corporation, they would turn to their vast pool of talents, which comprised many like Lutrova, to destroy that company’s information systems infrastructure.

The slam of a door caused Lutrova to jump, breaking his concentration. Or had he been daydreaming? he wondered. His vision was blurry and his eyes itched. He turned in his seat to see Yuri Godunov enter, a newspaper under his arm and a briefcase in his hand. He would look like any other businessman on the crowded streets of New York City’s financial district, but beneath that facade was a heartless killer and taskmaster. Lutrova didn’t really like Godunov and never had; he always acted superior to anyone else. And in a way, Lutrova felt glad that he’d managed to keep his new relationship with the Americans from the man’s scrutiny.

Godunov stepped into the spacious quarters he’d set up. The place certainly was roomy, and Lutrova had to admit he couldn’t complain about his accommodations. He was well fed, and there were plenty of changes of clothes—all in his size and to his discerning tastes—with just about anything he wanted being little more than a request away. Godunov had set him up with an intercom where he could call on the house staff to fulfill every wish.

Of course, heavily armed guards patrolled the grounds day and night. A large wall of thick mortar ten feet high and topped with wrought-iron spires surrounded the estate. The grounds were fully wired, according to Godunov, with electronic motion and sonic monitoring by day and infrared by night. The place was a veritable fortress, and despite his elegant surroundings, Lutrova could not help but feel he was in more of a prison than an estate.

His mind screamed at him to open his mouth and confess his indiscretions, to beg for his life and promise never to be weak again. But his flesh could not bring himself to do it, and he simply looked at Godunov, with a masked expression he hoped would be unreadable.

“How are the operations coming?” Godunov asked as he set his props on a leather couch.

That was just like the bastard—only concerned with business. “The information is being downloaded as we speak. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours before we have everything we need.”

Godunov sat on the sofa, crossed his legs and withdrew a silver cigarette case and matching lighter from his suit coat pocket. He sighed as he chose a slender brown cigarette and lit it. Through a cloud of smoke he said, “You are certain we cannot do this remotely. We must be on-site?”

“There is no way to actually transfer the funds unless we are on-site and able to physically plug into a terminal. The program can only retrieve the information we need, such as the account numbers and balances. We must still be on-site to plug into a terminal, so that the actual transfers can take place. The bank computers will not permit movement of funds of this size without that confirmation. It’s part of the security features.”

“And the time we will have to be inside,” Godunov said. “It will not take more than five minutes?”

“I’ve already explained that three times to you, Yuri. Why do you keep asking me?”

“Because we are running a tremendous risk here,” Godunov said. “We have planned this down to the last detail, and we are relying on you to make good on the numbers you give us. Not to mention that we cannot be expected to hold our position any longer than that. As soon as the transfers start, federal authorities will be alerted and agents will be sent to the New York First Financial Bank immediately. If they catch us while we’re still inside, we will be required to fight our way out.”

“If you already have the money by then, what difference will it make?”

Godunov chuckled, inhaled smoke from his cigarette and shook his head. “Oh, my dear Bogdan, you really have no idea. It is not merely about having the money. Having it does our people little good if we aren’t there to make sure the wealth is distributed. Only you know the locations where the money is going and only you have access to them. If we are forced to do battle with the police, there is little chance that you will survive, since nobody will be able to protect you.”

“I will do my part, Yuri,” Lutrova said, “just as I’ve promised.”

“But of course you will. I never doubted that. Why are you acting so furtive, my friend? You have been as nervous as a cat since you arrived.”

“It is nothing,” Lutrova replied, his mind racing furiously. “My time with that American gangster shook me up a bit more than I thought.”

“You have been around such men before.”

“Yes, men on our side. But there was something about him I did not trust.”

“Well, his references checked out, and he does appear to have some unique talents that I feel we can exploit. However, if it turns out he is not who he says he is, then I can assure you that he will be dealt with accordingly. You no longer have to worry about him.”

“Good.”

“I am a bit curious, though, what transpired while you were in custody of the U.S. Customs.”

“What do you mean?”

“You did not talk to them?”

Lutrova cocked his head. “Talk to them about what? What exactly are you trying to imply, Yuri? Do you think that I would betray you?”

“Did you?”

“Absolutely not!”

Godunov’s eyes flashed as he stared at Lutrova, although he smoked calmly. After a time, he said, “Okay, my friend, okay. I believe you.”

But something in Lutrova’s gut told him that Yuri Godunov knew.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The morning sun was peeking over the horizon by the time Mack Bolan arrived at the address Volkov had given him.

The rallying point turned out to be a dumpy house in the heart of the Bronx. The soldier had hoped the placed was isolated enough that he could do recon, but his luck didn’t hold out on that count. The houses were close together. What frustrated him most was that he knew what Lutrova planned to do and he had some idea of when; he just didn’t know how Godunov would put it together. He also had to keep one eye on the Wolf through this; the guy wasn’t trustworthy and Bolan didn’t think he’d yet bought into the Frankie Lambretta cover.

One thing Bolan had become convinced of: neither Volkov nor Godunov ultimately called the shots here. The entire operation was being led by someone much higher up—someone with both financial and political clout that far surpassed the wildest imagination. That was the head Bolan would have to chop off the Hydra before he could make a dent in the RBN, and it was an operation he surmised would take him straight into the flames of perdition before it was over.

Bolan swung the nose of his vehicle into the drive and eased to a stop behind a silver SUV. The soldier quickly withdrew his Beretta, checked the action and then holstered the weapon. Volkov had instructed him to dress in business attire, so Bolan had opted for a conservative gray suit with silver pinstripes, light blue shirt and light gray silk tie. He had no idea what awaited him beyond the doors of this shack of a house with peeling paint and weathered shingles. For all he knew, he could be walking straight into an ambush, one for which he had physically and mentally prepared himself during his drive.

Bolan climbed out of the sedan, walked to the door and pressed the buzzer. He stood there a minute and realized he hadn’t heard the buzzer from inside, so after waiting a minute he knocked. Soon he heard footsteps and then the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar face. Bolan searched his mental files, but didn’t recognize the guy. Probably another freelancer who had managed to stay under the radar of law enforcement; it appeared Volkov remained consistent in his hiring practices.

The guy had sandy-brown hair and blue eyes a few shades darker than Bolan’s. He looked at him through the ratty screen a moment—sizing him up, as most professional guns-for-hire would—before opening the door and gesturing for him to enter. As Bolan crossed the threshold, the guy stuck out his hand.

Bolan noted the Southern accent as he said, “You Frankie?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a nod as he shook the man’s hand.

“Come on in, the boss is waiting.”

The man led him through a cramped hallway with a worn hardwood floor that appeared dusty with disuse. They continued to a back room that opened onto an equally cramped kitchen. Two other men dressed in business suits sat there. They looked up as the two entered, and Bolan’s escort gestured at them.

“That’s Igor, that’s Keck.”

Bolan appraised each man in a moment. Igor had a short and wiry build; he wore his blond hair in a high-and-tight cut, and his hazel eyes flashed with intensity in the light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Keck looked almost East Indian or Pakistani. A thin, faint scar ran down the left side of his face near to his ear, and Bolan gauged it as a knife wound of some kind, perhaps from straight razor. He also wore his dark hair short, and his expression seemed unreadable.

Each offered his hand in turn, and Bolan shook them briefly. The speaker then said, “I’m Billy, but everybody just calls me Southpaw. We go by first names only here. Guys, this is Frankie.”

Bolan nodded at them and then asked, “Where’s the Wolf?”

“Right here.”

All eyes turned to the kitchen entrance, and Bolan felt a chill crawl up his neck. He hadn’t even heard Volkov come in, and that was no mean feat. Bolan always maintained a keen awareness in his surroundings, yet Volkov had somehow managed to approach his rear flank without a sound. The Executioner filed that fact away, intent on making sure it didn’t happen ever again.

“And I don’t go by that whenever we’re in public. You call me Yan or boss, don’t much care which. Got it?”

Bolan nodded. “Suits me.”

“Fine.” Volkov made a show of looking at his watch. “You’re right on time. That’s good news, because it means you listen and pay attention to detail. Let it become a habit and you just might have a future with this crew.”

“Wilco…boss.”

Volkov nodded and his expression seemed to soften slightly. “We only have a few minutes, so I’m not going to spend a lot of time explaining this to you. Our first job is we got to head upstate to Saint Bartholomew’s. I can explain more on the way up there. This is initiation for you, so I’ll keep the details simple. You’ll follow instructions given by me or Southpaw, there. He’s in charge when I’m not present. Understood?”

“Fine. But I’m just wondering why we’re going to a church.”

“Not a church, a school.”

“Catholic prep school,” Southpaw added, but he quickly shut his mouth when Volkov threw him a look.

Bolan filed the information for later while pretending not to notice the exchange between him and Southpaw. If Volkov had just used his real first name, Bolan knew it would be easier to pick him out of the list of potentials compiled by the Stony Man team. The mention of the school was of a bit more interest to the Executioner, but it also left him with a sense of trepidation. A group of grown men dressed in business suits were going to a Catholic school in upstate New York? Bolan didn’t get it—there had to be some connection to Godunov’s activities, but he couldn’t see it.

Without another word, the men prepared to leave as per Volkov’s instructions. They decided to go in two separate vehicles, with Bolan, the Wolf and Southpaw in one—probably they wanted to keep an eye on the newcomer—while Igor and Keck took the other. Fortunately, Bolan’s rental had the most room, so they opted to let him take the wheel. Bolan counted this decision a fortunate stroke of luck; at least he’d have access to his entire arsenal.

It took them less than two hours to reach the upstate location. On the surface, St. Bartholomew’s wasn’t much different from any other Catholic school. Bolan could only surmise there had to be something of value inside the school. He’d already activated the GPS homing signal on his cell phone so that Stony Man had a track on him. Not that he was worried; the Executioner could most assuredly take care of himself in such a situation. What bothered him more was that they were headed into a potential fire zone filled with innocent teachers, school staff and children.

And Bolan wondered how he would keep the bloodshed confined to the enemy.

IT WASN’T LONG after they arrived at Saint Bartholomew’s Catholic Preparatory School that Bolan could pretty much deduce the enemy’s plan.

Volkov ordered him to pull the sedan to the curb on the far side of the grounds, the entire length of which was bordered by a brick wall, with wrought-iron spires on top covered by the gray-white fingers of dormant ivy. He then instructed Southpaw to stay with Bolan while he went to confer with the other two, who had followed them in an older blue van. The thing was just nondescript enough not to draw attention, but Bolan didn’t doubt it had quite a number of special modifications. Not as practical as the virtual war wagon he drove, which was, unbeknownst to his new “colleagues”, filled with an arsenal of unspeakable firepower.

It would prove to be just what Bolan needed as he engaged Southpaw, aka Billy, in casual conversation.

“So what’s the deal here?” Bolan asked in his best Italian tough guy manner. “We just s’posed to sit out here and freeze our butts off while the other guys get all the action?”

“The boss knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, well, so far I’m not that impressed. How long you known him?”

Southpaw took a deep breath and let it out noisily as Bolan watched him do some quick mental figuring. He finally said, “About two years, I guess.”

“You guess?” Bolan made a show of chuckling. “You don’t know how long you been working for the guy?”

“I just said about two years. You deaf or something?”

“What sort of missions have you done? See a lot of heat?”

“I’ve seen my share.” Then Billy added, “You know what, Frankie, I think you ask too many questions.”

Bolan raised his hands in a show of defense. “Hey, I don’t mean nothing by it. Just making conversation.”

“Well, just stop talking so—”

Volkov rapped on the passenger window and gestured for Bolan to roll it down. He did and Volkov stuck his head inside, his breath visible in the biting morning air. A quick look at the clock told Bolan it was almost 0820 hours, probably just before the first period began inside the school.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You come with us Southpaw. We’re going to need your very unique talents in providing a distraction while we do this. Igor and Keck will stay with the van while Southpaw’s doing his thing.”

“What about me, boss?” Bolan asked.

“You’re going to be our wheels.” He gestured toward a low, squat building that sat to one side. Bolan could see the reflections of sunlight on metal and the occasional movement of vehicles. “See that? That’s the front gate entrance. We’re going to send the van through, and the van’s going to pick up a very specific package for us. You’re going to provide a way for me and Southpaw to get out once that’s done. We’re hoping this will throw off the cops in case we run into trouble. You’ll wait right outside that front entrance. There end up being any problems, you take out the guard and then you wait for us. Everything goes off right, you still wait for us. Got it?”

“Simple,” Bolan said with a nod.

“You better learn something quick, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “There’s a big difference between simple and easy. The two aren’t the same. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure. I got it.”

“Keep in touch,” Volkov said as he tossed a high frequency radio on the seat next to Bolan. He and Southpaw then walked to the van and jumped in.

“All right, you reading me?” Volkov’s voice said a moment later.

“Reading you four-by-four,” Bolan replied.

“Let’s do this,” he said. “You lead us in and then park outside the gate, where you can make a break for it, if necessary. But you don’t move until we’re on board. ’Cause I promise that if you double-cross us, I’ll find you and kill you. You can be sure of that.”

Bolan decided not to reply, instead waving his hand so that Volkov understood he got the message. Fate had dealt him a decent hand on this one, making it possible for him to operate on his own. Now all he had to do was figure out what they had planned, then determine how to stop that plan and still keep anyone from getting in the line of fire. A full-blown fight on the grounds of a Catholic school would be completely unacceptable. He’d have to play this one very close to the vest.

Keeping his pace slow but steady, he approached the main entrance to the school. He’d obviously been right about the start time, because the place was absolutely packed with vehicles, some of them double-parked to drop off kids, while others rolled through the gate. The Executioner kept his eyes open for any running room, counting vehicles and spaces between them as the numbers ticked off in his head. A group of children traveled along the sidewalks, pressed Catholic uniforms gleaming in the morning sunlight as they proceeded toward their school. Others rode with their parents, a good number of vehicles ranging from BMWs to Mercedes to Bentleys, not to mention a gaggle of imports.

Whatever these guns-for-hire had planned, Bolan was almost positive this would amount to a grab. But of whom? Out of the few hundred, perhaps many hundred children that attended Saint Bartholomew’s, why would Godunov have ordered his mercenary team to target just one? Or perhaps two? Bolan’s best guess was that they needed these kids for leverage. Volkov had mentioned that Southpaw would be providing some sort of deception, that he would use his “very unique talents” to do that.

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