LAW OF THE JUNGLE

In Mexican cartel country to rescue an undercover agent, Mack Bolan arrives to find the stronghold smoked and his man missing. It’s the second failed play at the same site, where five years earlier a mission went deadly sour. This time, Bolan suspects betrayal in the highest places. And when the mission shifts from rescue to revenge, the trail extends into the corridors of Washington.

Bolan uncovers a wealthy industrialist selling arms to drug dealers to finance a daring political gambit. The billionaire has a rogue, high-level CIA official in the game and ambitions to put a puppet in the White House. With genetically enhanced supersoldiers to do his dirty work, he’s unstoppable. Until one of those soldiers dedicates his last fight to helping Bolan take down this enemy of the state who’s convinced he’s got the power to commandeer the U.S. presidency. The Executioner won’t stop until he proves him wrong.

Who the hell are these guys?

The guy with the Fu Manchu mustache turned toward Bolan and said something. The Executioner couldn’t hear, but he was able to read the man’s lips: We’re Americans. Here to assist.

The mansion shook with a series of explosions, and its interior erupted in yellow flames. The big guy with the mustache got up and raced toward the burning building, the muzzle of his weapon spitting flame.

Bolan’s senses were returning. He glanced around and saw that Cepeda had been placed next to him. The soldier reached over and placed his palm on top of the dressing to apply pressure. It was already sodden with the captain’s blood.

Sounds of an explosion ripped through the night. More flames shot out of the mansion, and Bolan saw the new group of men, their saviors, pumping rounds into the burning structure. The cavalry had arrived, and they weren’t taking prisoners.

No one was getting out of there alive.

Time for Bolan to act.

Payback
Don Pendleton

I am concerned for the security of our great nation; not so

much because of any threat from without, but because of

the insidious forces working from within.

—General Douglas MacArthur, 1880–1964

I don’t care who the enemy is. I will always defend this

nation and her people to my last breath.

—Mack Bolan

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

The South American jungle

Five years ago

The undergrowth rustled in the darkness about twenty yards ahead. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, raised his fist to signal the rest of the squad to halt. The heavy foliage had made the movement almost imperceptible, but he was certain he’d seen something through his night-vision goggles. Exactly what, he wasn’t sure. An animal, perhaps? They were in the jungle, after all. Or could it have been a man? Was someone up there waiting for them? Their nighttime insertion by truck along the twisting, mountainous road and the subsequent mile-long hike had been treacherous and lengthy, but supposedly assured the element of surprise. It should have been impossible for anyone to shadow or precede them. Unless they were expected.

Bolan kept his eyes on the area ahead. There was no more movement, but it was still one more tiny crack in the ops plan that he’d been given.

The Executioner didn’t feel totally at ease with this mission. Even its tag name, Operation Cat’s Cradle, bothered him. He remembered the childhood game of looping string around your fingers. He also remembered the Kurt Vonnegut novel by the same name, with the repeating refrain, “See the cat? See the cradle?” Like characters in the book, Bolan never thought the configuration resembled a cat or a cradle.

Things hadn’t seemed quite right at the onset of this op, either. Maybe it was the degree of absolute assurance the Colombians had given them during the briefing. An overweight army colonel who looked as if he’d never missed a meal had smiled throughout the presentation, explaining first in Spanish for Captain Carlos Cepeda and his men, and then making a deferential show of adding a sentence in English for the benefit of Bolan and the two DEA agents, how perfectly crafted and secret the operation planning had been. “Un plano muy perfecto. A perfect plan,” he’d said. “Nothing can possibly go wrong.”

Bolan knew better. Something could always go wrong. Murphy’s Law had taught him that: If anything can go wrong, it will. This wasn’t the soldier’s kind of mission, and how he’d let Hal Brognola talk him into wet-nursing this Colombian army special ops team on some namby-pamby extraction detail was beyond him. If it weren’t for the two DEA agents, Chris Avelia and German Salamanca, who’d been helping the Colombian army locate the De la Noval cartel for the past ten months, Bolan would’ve declined. Avelia had assisted the soldier in a previous mission and he had come to like the kid.

The temperature had dropped a few degrees from the overwhelming heat of the day, but the humidity was still like a wet blanket. Bolan felt the sweat running down his sides and neck. And there was no letup from the ubiquitous mosquitoes. They buzzed constantly in his ears, occasionally landing on a patch of bare skin and stabbing his flesh. He felt itchy in several places. The soldier had told the rest of his team to keep their sleeves rolled down. It was hotter, but meant less exposure to the environment.

He heard someone approach his position from the rear, and crouch. Captain Cepeda and Chris Avelia moved up beside him.

“¿Qué pasa?” Cepeda whispered.

Even though Bolan spoke Spanish, he let Avelia translate for him.

“Movement up ahead,” Bolan replied, once again surveying the area through his night-vision goggles, while the two men did the same. The hanging overgrowth was so thick and the trail so obscure that the flat, two-dimensional image through the green-tinted lenses yielded little. “I see nothing,” Cepeda said in his limited English.

“I don’t either, now,” Bolan told him, flipping the reticules back up on his forehead to recover his depth perception. “Could De la Noval know we’re coming?”

Avelia fell into step, translating each man’s words into the appropriate language.

“Impossible. Even my men didn’t know until we departed.”

“How far are we from the Cathedral?” Bolan asked.

That was the code name for Vincente De la Noval’s isolated mansion. From the surveillance photos the satellites had sent back, the place looked more like a fortress than a church. It was so isolated and so large that De la Noval purportedly felt safe enough to let his guard down to party until he dropped. The special informant had told the Colombian government that this was scheduled to be one of those “heavy party weekends.”

Cepeda checked the readings on his GPS monitor and puckered his mouth. “Quizás quinientos metros, no más.”

* * *

PERHAPS FIVE HUNDRED YARDS, no more. That was according to Cepeda.

Bolan paused to take another compass reading and orient himself on his map. He never liked to totally rely on GPS systems. Murphy’s Law liked to tinker with them, too. The squad was moving parallel to the solitary access road leading up to the main gate of the huge house. It was purported to be surrounded by a twelve-foot-high, chain-link fence, and the main entrance was covered by an armed guard at all times.

The rest of the twenty-five-man squad was bunching up behind them now, and Bolan knew that wasn’t good.

“Have the men spread out and wait,” he said to Avelia. “I’ll move up and take a look.”

The DEA agent nodded and whispered in Spanish to Cepeda. They talked for a moment and then one by one the team began to melt into the darkness, although their noise discipline needed some work.

Avelia grinned at Bolan and whispered, “I’m sure glad you’re here leading us, my friend.” The kid’s grin was infectious. Technically, Bolan was there in an “advisory capacity only,” but he felt a kinship with this group of Colombian soldiers. The Colombians and the DEA had been tracking drug kingpin Vincente De la Noval and his brother, Jesús, for the better part of three years, and this was the closest they’d come to closing the noose, thanks to an informant inside the drug lord’s ranks.

When he’d heard that, Bolan couldn’t help but recall his own past war against organized crime, and decided they could use a helping hand. Hopefully, their dedication would be rewarded this night.

He finished moving though the undergrowth, and peered through a shelf of drooping fronds. The mansion lay about a hundred yards away. The shrubbery had been extensively cleared and trimmed to form a buffer zone devoid of cover or concealment leading to the fence. Between the fence and the house was perhaps another fifty yards of lush, well manicured grass. The huge mansion was dark except for a few sparse lights in the first level. No noise. No movement. And no guard at the gate. Maybe he’d left his post to take a leak or to have a smoke.

Bolan listened intently for any noises and sniffed the air for telltale odors.

Nothing so far, he thought, but there wasn’t much of a breeze, either.

Then he saw a spot of red and used his night-vision goggles again to get a clearer look. A man in jeans and a T-shirt and a woman dressed to kill in a short, revealing dress were locked in a standing embrace about twenty feet from the guard shack. An AK-47 with a collapsible stock was slung carelessly over the man’s left shoulder, the muzzle pointing toward the ground.

The woman laughed as he brought a cigarette to her lips. She inhaled deeply, causing the tip to glow again. Instead of exhaling, she held her breath, and pressed the cigarette to the man’s lips now. They were smoking a joint. Another flash appeared, as he inhaled. She slowly blew out her breath and the man smiled. They whispered together and then kissed before they made their way toward the darkened shadows by the house.

A sentry high on marijuana and on his way to getting laid, Bolan thought. Not a bad scenario leading up to a raid. But he wondered again at the accuracy of the intel they’d received. De la Noval was supposedly a strict disciplinarian, to the point of using deadly force on those he considered untrustworthy. This night he seemed to be running a pretty loose ship, considering that the sentry appeared to be leaving his post to collect seven minutes of heaven.

Of course, this lapse could help facilitate their mission, another aspect of which floated in the “trouble” section of Bolan’s mind. The Colombian colonel had given Cepeda and his men explicit instructions that the drug kingpin be taken alive, at all costs. Bolan naturally took that with a grain of salt, as he did all orders given by higher-ups who liked to lead from behind a desk. Following an order that would hamper those in the field wasn’t how Bolan liked to operate, but he was, after all, just there observing. And if the drug lord could be captured, it would put a serious crimp in the cartel’s operations, not to mention enhance the potential for future intel.

The De la Noval cartel was rumored to be expanding its operation to Mexico. Bolan knew he and the DEA agents were there to make sure that the drug lord was captured alive and extradited to the United States, preferably on the same plane as he and the other Americans.

The brush rustled about twenty feet to the soldier’s right. Bolan pivoted with his M-4 to face the threat.

A small deer scurried through the underbrush as a jaguar leaped from a nearby tree, narrowly missing it. The cat glanced toward Bolan and then disappeared into the jungle, as well.

Guess we’re not the only hunters out tonight, he thought, as he turned and crept back toward Cepeda and his men. Once there he briefed them on what he’d observed.

“That movement I saw looks like it was a jaguar trying to get some dinner.”

“Bueno,” the captain said. “We have the advantage of surprise. We must move. Ahora.”

Bolan nodded, still feeling slightly uneasy, but shook it off. Cepeda sent two of his men forward to cut a hole in the fence, one doing the cutting and one providing cover. They accomplished the task in short order and the rest of the team moved up. The area between the fence and the house was a long stretch, perhaps forty or fifty yards devoid of cover. It was, in effect, a perfect kill zone. They’d have to cross that section fast. The only saving grace was that there was an uphill grade, probably to allow drainage for tropical rains. The slight incline could provide them a modicum of cover, but was a double-edged sword: they’d be making an uphill trek, and this was no treadmill in some plush gym.

Avelia crawled forward and stopped next to Bolan. “I can’t say I like this setup much.”

The soldier surveyed the expanse again. “Me, either. This will be the trickiest part.”

Avelia grinned and Bolan caught a flash of the kid’s white teeth in the ambient moonlight. The sweat dripped off his camo-blackened face like dark tears.

“Let’s just hope our element of surprise holds up,” Bolan whispered, and gave Avelia a thumbs-up.

The DEA agent nodded.

As Bolan had suggested earlier, Cepeda sent two of his men forward across the expanse to take up secure positions under the overhanging balconies of the mansion. Once they’d ensconced themselves there, the rest of the team began moving through the fence line. The next step would be to secure the entrances, and then hit the house using stun grenades and 30 mm rounds containing a high concentration of pepper gas. Once they had the premises and all occupants secure, they’d call for their extraction.

But first we have to take the house, Bolan thought. He looked at Cepeda, who motioned for his men to move toward the planned positions to secure the front and sides of the mansion. They had just started their quick trot toward the structure when the darkness suddenly evaporated as spotlights from various positions flooded the grounds with light. Several bursts of staccato gunfire pierced the night, and a voice came over some loudspeakers, in Spanish, followed by accented English.

“Buenos días, mis amigos,” the voice said. “Mis amigos americanos también.” A guttural laugh pierced the air as more gunfire erupted. “Did you think I would not be expecting you?” The speakers emitted another hard laugh.

Bolan flattened himself on the ground just as a line of shots tore up the sod a few feet in front of him. He saw a series of muzzle-flashes on the upper levels of the mansion, then more from the side of the big house. More shots echoed in the night as he saw a group of at least ten men running from the rear of the building toward the fence line.

They’re moving to flank us, Bolan thought.

He twisted to fire a burst at the running figures. Several of them twisted and fell as they ran. More shots rang out, sending Bolan to the ground again, but the problem was there was no real cover. Cepeda swore and rose, firing his M-4 on full-auto. Bolan started to reach up to pull the man down when more hostile rounds zipped over their position. Cepeda cried out in pain and gasped as he fell. Bolan loosed a burst and checked the captain. The round had hit him in the neck, and blood gushed from the bullet hole.

“Got it,” Avelia said as he slapped a combat dressing over the wound. He applied pressure with his left hand as he fired his rifle with his right.

“Conserve your ammo,” Bolan said, as he shot a quick, 3-round burst.

Avelia nodded and ceased his aimless firing, but the rest of Cepeda’s men looked to be in danger of losing their combat discipline.

“We’ve got to get out of this kill zone,” Bolan yelled. “Lay down suppressing fire so we can move up.”

“Mis amigos,” the voice on the loudspeaker yelled through the cacophony of gunfire. “Let me introduce you to my little friend.”

A few seconds later a man appeared on the balcony holding an M-16 with an M-203 grenade launcher attached under the barrel. The man cut loose, and Bolan caught a brief glimpse of the incoming projectile. He barely had enough time to flatten out before the explosion ripped the night apart. Bolan knew the shrapnel would most likely explode up and out, so he worried less about the explosion than he did the concussive wave. It swept over their position like an invisible tsunami.

His hearing gone, Bolan struggled to take a breath. Through the hazy cloud of settling dirt he could see the figure on the balcony readying the M-203 once again. Another grenade would just about finish them. The man had to be taken out.

As Bolan raised his weapon, the man’s head suddenly jerked back in a cloud of mist, and he disappeared from sight. The Executioner narrowed his gaze as a new group seemed to appear out of nowhere on their right flank, moving forward and firing over the heads of the prone Colombian soldiers. De la Noval’s men, who’d been trying to outflank them, suddenly collapsed to the ground. Several of the new combatants rushed past them. Some paused, kneeling next to the stunned soldiers, pulling them back toward the fence line.

Bolan felt someone grab his shoulders and drag him back. The man was big, and strong, too. His face had a chiseled, rugged cast, and his upper lip was decorated by a dark Fu Manchu mustache. They stopped in a depression, and the man dragging him raised his radio and spoke into it. Bolan’s hearing had not yet returned, but he could tell his rescuer was directing some sort of assault on the mansion.

Who the hell were these guys? he wondered.

The guy with the Fu Manchu turned toward Bolan and said something. The Executioner still could not hear, but was able to partially read his lips: We’re Americans. Here to assist.

Beyond them the mansion shook with a series of explosions and its interior erupted in yellow flames. The big guy with the Fu Manchu got up and raced toward the burning building with the speed of a fullback running in for a touchdown, the muzzle of his weapon barking flame. Bolan felt his senses returning. He glanced around and saw that Cepeda had been laid next to him. Bolan reached over and placed his palm on the dressing to apply pressure. It was already sodden with the captain’s blood.

Sounds of another explosion ripped through the night. More flames shot out of the mansion, and Bolan saw the new group of men, their saviors, pumping rounds into the burning structure. The cavalry had arrived, and they weren’t taking any prisoners. No one was getting out of there alive. As his hearing slowly returned, Bolan was suddenly cognizant of the syncopated beating of helicopter rotors in the distance.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

Five hundred feet above northern Mexico

Thoughts of the old, failed mission in Colombia, Operation Cat’s Cradle, floated through Bolan’s mind as he studied the grim faces of his special ops team. Cat’s Cradle had been a debacle—a setup turned into a deadly ambush. He’d later found out that they’d been betrayed by the Colombian army colonel who had given them the mission briefing. The man had tipped the De la Noval cartel to the exact time and approach of the raid. The rescue had come courtesy of an Agency team that had been independently dispatched to take out Vincente De la Noval. Bolan never found out who they were or got a chance to thank them, but such was the world of black ops. A person rarely got a look at the whole picture.

In the darkness he could make out the tops of the trees below as the helicopter surged forward. He had the utmost confidence in the pilot, though. He and Jack Grimaldi had been here many times before. The rest of the group was new to him, but the men had seemed professional and competent during the briefing. Hal Brognola had asked Bolan to step in and act as squad leader after the original team leader had unexpectedly fallen ill. It was a rescue mission just south of the border. Bolan and Grimaldi had been in the area wrapping up another mission when the big Fed had called them via satellite phone. Bolan put the call on speaker.

“Striker, you remember Chris Avelia, right?”

“Sure,” Bolan said. “Good man. Still with the DEA?”

“Yeah. He’s working undercover in Mexico and managed to infiltrate one of the major cartels down there.”

“Which one?”

“Jesús De la Noval,” Brognola said. “Brother of the guy you hit in Colombia a couple of years ago. Remember?”

“I tried my best to forget that one,” Bolan said. “Chris was with me on that debacle, as I recall.”

“Yeah, well, after Vincente De la Noval’s untimely demise, his younger brother, Jesús, moved things north. He set up a pretty good base of operations in northern Mexico.”

“And Chris managed to infiltrate it?” Bolan asked. He knew full well the dangers of working undercover, especially in something as brutal as the Mexican drug cartels.

“He did. De la Noval wasn’t only moving drugs into the U.S., he’s become one of the major weapons dealers for the Mexican mafia. Avelia was working on something big, but missed his check-in, and DEA’s worried he’s been compromised.”

“What was supposed to be going down?” Bolan asked.

“I’m not sure yet, but I’m working on it.”

“How long since they heard from him?”

“Forty-eight hours and counting.”

The Executioner knew that meant they had to move fast. Brognola gave them the rest of it: the special ops team the government had assembled, the sudden illness of the team leader, the need to act swiftly. “The President asked if Stony Man had anybody in the area, and—”

“I’m in,” Bolan said, looking at Grimaldi, who nodded. “Jack, too.”

“Any chance you could arrange to have Dragonslayer transported down here?” Grimaldi asked. “Otherwise, I’ll settle for a fully outfitted Black Hawk with no markings.”

After a moment of silence, Brognola said, “Thanks, guys.”

“Thank us when it’s over,” Bolan replied.

That had been little more than six hours ago. Just time enough for Bolan and Grimaldi to rendezvous with the special ops team and review the plan. Satellite photos of De la Noval’s headquarters looked eerily similar to his brother’s estate—perimeter fence, large house, expansive grounds surrounding the place, one main access road. If the more arid terrain were replaced for the tropical one, it was Colombia all over again. And if he was holding Chris Avelia prisoner, De la Noval had to know someone would be coming sooner or later. Sooner would be better for the mission and for the DEA agent.

The plan this time was more dynamic: sweep over the compound, fast-rope to the ground, then hit the house with a quick assault. They all had body armor, M-4s, extra magazines, night-vision goggles, and enough pre-set C-4 shaped charges that locked doors weren’t going to slow them. Hit them hard. In and out. Their main goal was to rescue the hostage.

It bothered Bolan that he hadn’t had much time to get to know his team’s capabilities, but they had supposedly been practicing for this raid as a backup plan for weeks, in the eventuality that they might have to go in at some point in the future. Now that future had arrived, but at least they were prepared. That was a bit of a plus. All of them had seen combat, he’d been told, in various operations in the sandbox and in Afghanistan, and Bolan felt confident they could get the job done. The fast descent from above would give them a bit of surprise, as well. He heard Grimaldi’s voice over his helmet’s comm set. “Uh-oh. I don’t like the looks of this.”

Bolan immediately got up and moved toward the cockpit. Through the windshield the soldier saw something rustling against the darkened sky in the distance. He flipped down the visor for his night-vision goggles. Three helicopters, UH-60s from the looks of them, were leaving the area.

What the hell were birds like that doing down here? Bolan wondered.

Something else caught his eye: a thin trail of dark smoke drifting upward over the trees.

Grimaldi was right. Something was off. He turned back to his team and pressed the button to activate his throat mike.

“Something’s up. We saw three helicopters in the vicinity of the target. There’s a smoke trail, too. I’ll need three volunteers to fast-rope down with me to do a recon.”

All the men raised their hands and Bolan grinned. No shortage of motivation in this group. He chose three at random, motioning them forward, and squatted as he unfolded the paper map of the target.

“I’ll be Red One,” he said, then tapped each man consecutively. “You’re Red Two, Three and Four. We’ll drop in here.” He pointed to a spot near the corner of big house. “Red Two and I will go left, Red Three and Four right. Move and cover. Remember our primary mission is hostage rescue. We take down any hostiles in our way and search. But it looks like the mission’s been compromised.” He glanced up at the rest of the group. “You all hook up and be ready to deploy should we need help. Be ready. We’ll determine the status of the situation and then either proceed or evacuate.”

The team members nodded.

Bolan turned back toward Grimaldi. “You getting this?’

“Loud and clear,” the pilot said. “Just show me where you want to be dropped off.”

The Executioner’s uneasiness increased as Grimaldi took the helicopter in for a preliminary fly-by. Normally, they wouldn’t have risked announcing their presence, but the smoke and the departing choppers were a game-changer. Besides, Bolan doubted that De la Noval would have the firepower to take out a Black Hawk. The smoke was emanating from what appeared to be several small fires inside the mansion itself. Yellow flames licked at shattered windows and broken doors. The infrared night-vision goggles showed two prone bodies by the front gate. Several more were scattered over the expansive yard leading to the house. From the lack of movement and the twisted positioning, they appeared to be casualties. The place had already been hit by some kind of tactical assault. Bolan told Grimaldi to keep the chopper in a hover, and he and the other three team members hooked the nylon ropes through their D-rings and backed out of the open doors.

Zipping downward, Bolan didn’t brake until he was almost to the ground. Once his feet were on solid earth, he unclipped the D-ring and kept his M-4 in the ready position as he advanced. His peripheral vision told him his teammates had made it down safely. They split up, each moving through the darkened yard with practiced ease.

Thoughts of the failed Cat’s Cradle mission flitted through Bolan’s mind. The similarities of this setup and the one in Colombia screamed for caution. Same general compound design, same trek through an expansive yard, same last name of the bad guy. From what he’d heard, younger brother Jesús was even more treacherous than Vincente had ever been.

The flickering light from the fires made Bolan’s night-vision goggles practically useless, but nothing seemed to move in the flat, greenish tincture in front of him. No adversaries presented themselves. He kept an eye out for trip wires, scanning the grounds as he went, but it turned out to be a cakewalk. When he got to the side of the building, he saw why.

Two more bodies were sprawled inside the open patio doors. The interior walls burned with yellow flames, and a slew of bullet-riddled corpses littered the floor. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the scent of burned wood and gunpowder.

Bolan pressed his throat mike. “Red Three and Four, check for survivors outside. Watch out for booby traps. Red Two, you’re inside with me.”

Three acknowledgments came over the radio. Bolan stepped inside and tried to move forward, but the thick smoke obscured his vision and made it difficult to breathe. He kept moving quickly, scanning the faces of the dead men. Most had numerous body wounds, but each had been dealt at least one shot to the head, as well. Execution style. Whoever did this had a take-no-prisoners mentality.

A large bamboo cage sat in the middle of the big lounge area. The thick bars looked strong enough to house a tiger, but the pair of chain shackles was obviously designed to fit a man. The cage was empty. Bolan saw splashes of blood on the solid metal floor. An assortment of knives, bludgeons and what appeared to be a fireplace poker lay next to the cage. The sharp edge of the poker was blackened, as if it’d been heated in a flame. A lot of unpleasant thoughts flashed through Bolan’s mind. He scanned the rest of the room. None of the nearby bodies appeared to be that of Chris Avelia.

Covering as much of the house as they could, Bolan found no one alive. He pushed into what appeared to be the master bedroom, seeing that several of the bodies in there were young, scantily dressed women. Hookers, probably, judging from their clothes. They, too, had been dealt execution-style gunshots to the head. Bolan felt the smoke beginning to gag him. He coughed as he said into his throat mike, “Sitrep. Respond in sequence. Any sign of Avelia?”

“Red One, Red Two.” The transmission was punctuated by a cough. “Nothing here. No one alive. No hostage, far as I can tell.”

“Red Three here,” another voice said. “No survivors out here. Red Four’s with me.”

“Roger that. Any of them look like Jesús De la Noval?”

“Hard to say.”

Bolan could taste the smoke in his mouth and paused to cough again, and then spit. The heat, smoke and stench were nearly unbearable. “Let’s get out of here.”

He used the muzzle of his M-4 to smash the glass of the nearest window, and climbed through. The cool clarity of the night air seemed like heaven. He took a few tentative breaths as he moved farther from the inferno, then drew in some deeper ones. When his chest felt clear, he pressed the throat mike and told his men to move to the landing zone, adding, “You copy that, Jack?”

“Roger that,” Grimaldi’s voice said. “One pickup on the way.”

Bolan turned and saw his team trotting toward De la Noval’s helipad. He told them to check it and secure it before touchdown.

The three men replied in the affirmative.

Bolan turned and took one more look at the mansion, which was now almost fully engulfed in flames. Although he hadn’t taken the time to check each body, none appeared to have been Chris Avelia’s. That didn’t mean that Chris had survived, only that they hadn’t found him.

An empty target house...and an empty tiger cage.

Was this another example of bad intel? Then he remembered those departing choppers.

Maybe somebody else had beaten them to the punch.

South Tucson, Arizona

JOHN LASSITERTRACED his fingers over his Fu Manchu mustache as he watched the men off-loading the cargo in the dark field next to the road. He took inventory: one beat-to-hell drug cartel informant, ten suitcases filled with portraits of good old Benjamin Franklin, and a couple more filled with Mexican brown heroin. Lassiter didn’t care about the drugs, other than they were part of his instructions. The instructions, which had come in their customary fashion—a text from “GOD,” always from an unknown number—included the recovery of the weapons that were supposed to be delivered to De la Noval, as well. Lassiter knew GOD was the code name for Anthony Godfrey, formerly of the Agency and now a civilian go-between.

This wasn’t his first transaction with the drug lord. It was, however, supposed to be his last, but somehow De la Noval had slipped away. Lassiter recalled way too many missions where they ended up arming one side in a conflict, only to face down the road the same firepower he’d delivered, and keeping weapons of this level of sophistication out of the cartel’s hands seemed like a good idea. But it wasn’t his place to set policy or make those kinds of decisions. As always, he only followed orders. He’d been doing that his whole life. Guys like Benedict called the shots, and got rich along with the guys producing the goods, like Godfrey.

One of Lassiter’s men was using a forklift to remove the heavy stack of crates from the helicopter for transfer to the trailer. It would be one well-packed semi, that was for sure. He glanced at his watch. Everything was on schedule. Another fifteen minutes and they’d be able to take the copters back.

Not a bad haul, he thought, although a couple things bothered him slightly. Not nailing Jesús De la Noval for one thing. Killing those women for another. He sighed. It wasn’t like they were neophytes or anything. Sure, they were hookers, but they were still civilians in a war zone. Collateral damage. Hanging out with scum like De la Noval, they had to know that death was their sorority sister. But Lassiter still felt bad about killing them.

The women had deserved better, even if it was all about the orders. Collateral damage wasn’t something new to him. Still, it was beginning to bother him more and more. He knew he’d see their twisted faces and hear their piercing screams in his dreams for many nights to come. They’d have plenty of company there.

And then there was the captive. The idea of turning over the semiconscious, beaten-to-a-pulp, barely alive informant to the Wolves wasn’t a pleasant thought, either, although the guy had looked so bad that death would probably be a relief. But he had been involved with the cartel and was getting what he deserved. Just like the Afghan traitors in Afghanistan, the ones who’d tried to play both sides of the fence. Still, Lassiter couldn’t help but think about the fate awaiting this poor bastard. Better to put a bullet in the guy’s brain now and spare him any further suffering. But his orders had been explicit in that regard, too. Bring the man back alive; turn him over to the Wolves. They were troubling orders, but orders just the same.

A lot of things had begun to bother Lassiter lately. Maybe it was time to get out.

Morris, his second in command, came jogging up to him and saluted. “The cargo’s been successfully off-loaded, sir.”

Lassiter thought about telling him to can the salute, but the kid was new to wetworks and fresh from military service in his last deployment. Lassiter had been right there once, just like him. Loyal to a fault and totally by the book. Before he got officially “killed in action” a few years ago, that was. He grinned. Shit, why should any of this matter to “a dead man”? He told Morris to relax, adding, “Don’t call me ‘sir’ and don’t salute me. I work for a living, remember?”

Morris nodded tentatively.

“What’s the status of the prisoner?” Lassiter asked.

“He’s pretty banged up, si—”

Good, Lassiter thought. The kid’s learning. “Go on.”

“I had Marquis give him some first aid. He’s slipping in and out of consciousness.” Morris paused, and then added, “Those two motorcycle guys want to take him and the stuff now.”

“So give him to them. Our orders are to hold on to the rest until tomorrow.”

Morris hesitated again.

“Is there a problem?” Lassiter asked.

“The prisoner.” Morris blew out an audible breath. “He mumbled something like ‘not part of cartel.’ I’m wondering if maybe he’s a Mexican Fed. Undercover or something.”

“People say a lot of things when they’re desperate.”

Lassiter’s cell phone vibrated with an incoming text, but this one wasn’t from Unknown. It was from Ellen.

Are you there?

He glanced at his watch: 0222. He’d assumed she’d be sleeping. Maybe she was just anxious to see him, to talk to him, among other things. He smiled as he texted her back: You’re up early. Or should I say late?

Been waiting for you. Are you back?

I am.

I need to see you ASAP.

He texted her back: Busy now.

It’s important, she replied.

Ok forty mikes. The regular?

Yes. ASAP, her return text said. Very important.

Ok. Be there with bells on.

Lassiter turned to Morris. “I’ve got to go meet someone. Secure the Mexican brown and the money in my car, return the choppers and take the van back to base. I’ll tag up with you at 0700 tomorrow for debrief.”

“What about the prisoner, sir?” Morris asked.

Lassiter shrugged. Could the guy possibly be a Fed? Godfrey would have told him if that was the case. So the poor bastard was probably lying through his teeth. If he had any left. He was practically half-dead, anyway, and he’d made his own bed. Now it was time to die in it.

“Give him to them.”

“But what if he’s really one of the good guys?”

“You do this long enough, Morris,” Lassiter said, “you’ll learn one thing. There are no good guys.”

Morris nodded, turned and left. Lassiter watched him walk away, knowing his doubt still lingered. Could the prisoner be telling the truth? Could he be a Fed? But why would they send them with explicit orders to grab the guy from De la Noval, only to have him turned over to the motorcycle goons? If the guy really was a Fed, Benedict or Godfrey would have known. They’d only said the guy had been playing both sides of the fence. More than likely he was somebody’s low-level snitch who probably knew a few of the players higher up. The guy looked Mexican, too. Maybe he was one of their crooked cops. It was hard to tell. Besides, keeping a prisoner wasn’t something Lassiter had the desire or the facilities to do. Better to get rid of him sooner rather than later. More collateral damage.

Lassiter’s cell vibrated again.

Are you coming?

On the way, he texted back.

As soon as I make the call, he thought, and punched in the number. As he listened to the ringing, he took a deep breath as he pictured her beautiful face and body moving toward him in a translucent glow of the motel’s small lamps. It would be the perfect ending to a semi-successful mission.

Fairfax County, Virginia

ANTHONY GODFREY SET down the disposable cell phone and ground his teeth as he poured more of the amber liquid into his glass. He was careful that none of the liquid spilled on his desk, which was made of high quality teak and imported from Europe, a remnant of the court of King Louis XVI. The whiskey tasted smooth going down, but left just enough of a burn to remind him that everything, as Lassiter said, had not gone according to plan. Jesús De la Noval had slipped away before being terminated, but hopefully he would not find resurrection like his namesake.

But Godfrey would cross that bridge when he came to it. If he came to it. One thing he’d learned during his years as a deputy assistant secretary of state was not to worry about the intangibles. Just deal with them if and when they came up. He tried to let that philosophy carry over to his civilian mind-set now that he’d left government service and taken over the family business, GDF Industries, after the death of his father.

Don’t sweat the small stuff, he could almost hear the old man saying. It had served them both well in the long run.

Godfrey sipped some more of the whiskey, savored it and swallowed. He needed to call the future president of the United States, even if it was five-twenty in the morning. Smiling, he picked up his own cell phone, scrolled to the number for Brent Hutchcraft and pressed the selection button. The senator answered after the third ring, sounding wide-awake and cheerful, but then again Hutchcraft made it a point to go for a three-mile run every morning, rain or shine.

“Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “What are you doing up so early? Or is it more of a late night?” This guy was as cool as dry ice.

“How did you know it was me?” Godfrey asked.

“You’re using the same disposable number that comes up as GOD on my phone,” Hutchcraft said. “Who else would have such audacity?”

Godfrey forced a laugh. Best to sound courteous, deferential and matter-of-fact, just in case someone out there was listening. He didn’t think anyone was, and if they were, he’d most likely already know about it, but the secret of survival was to adhere to security procedures at all times, until they became second nature.

“I was hoping I’d catch you before your morning jog,” Godfrey said. “Want to grab some breakfast?”

This was their customary code for calling a meeting.

“I’m on a diet of egg whites and a protein shake this week,” Hutchcraft said. “The D.C. Triathlon’s coming up in three weeks. Besides, I’m announcing this week, and how would it look if some reporter saw me having breakfast with the ghost of Alfred Hitchcock?”

Godfrey bristled at Hutchcraft’s comparison of him to the deceased filmmaker, although he did recognize that the resemblance was striking. He said nothing.

Hutchcraft chuckled. “Sorry. How about you, me and Dirk in a game of racquetball at the club at three?”

Godfrey said he’d have his secretary make the reservation, and wished Hutchcraft well on his training run. Why the man sought to punish himself to such a degree by entering triathlons at the age of forty-four was beyond Godfrey. Still, image and looking fit were a big part of running for president.

After he’d clicked off he reached for the disposable cell phone to place his last call of the night. He punched in the number and Animal answered with his usual belligerent, “What?” Godfrey hated dealing with this motorcycle moron, but sometimes life left a person little choice. And Godfrey was, for the most part, used to lowlifes and ignorant bastards. He’d dealt with enough politicians.

“It’s me,” he said. “Just checking to see if the package arrived.”

“Yeah,” Animal replied. “But I ain’t getting much. He’s pretty beat up already. Plus I ain’t seen no Benjamins, or no guns and roses, neither.”

Godfrey considered that. It meant that Lassiter still had the money, the weapons and the heroin, which was just as he’d said in his report. Godfrey was big on confirmation. He’d learned that during his tenure in the State Department and the Agency during the cold war. Trust, but verify, as many times as you could, until you were certain. Turning all the goodies over to Animal prematurely wasn’t in the cards.

The DEA man was a different story. The quicker they found out what he knew, and to whom he’d told it, the better. As far as Avelia being worked over, Del la Noval had to have done some preliminary interrogation before the strike team intervened. Maybe that’s how he’d figured the team’s imminent arrival and realized it was safer to boogie. That guy Jesús was as crafty as an alley cat, but it was a moot point now. Godfrey would deal with that loose end later. The bird in the hand had to be eliminated.

“Get whatever you can find out and dispose of him,” Godfrey said. “But do it in a judicious manner.” He wondered seconds later if a guy like Animal would know what judicious meant.

“Yeah, yeah, I know how to deal with a snitch. What about the goodies?”

The “goodies” meant the drugs, along with the twenty Stinger missiles, two-hundred M-72 LAWs, fifty Barrett sniper rifles, five-hundred M-4 rifles, accompanying ammunition, assorted grenades, starlight scopes, claymore mines, and five hundred level-four body armor flak jackets that were supposed to be delivered to De la Noval for a cool ten million dollars. Instead, the drug lord got a shipment of full-metal jackets, courtesy of Lassiter and his group.

“That should proceed as planned.”

“So we’re still on for tomorrow night then?” Animal asked.

“Most assuredly,” Godfrey said. “I’ll get hold of you tomorrow.” He pressed the end button without waiting for a reply or acknowledgment. He needed to make sure Benedict’s cleanup wet team was set to take care of this one. Looking out the window, he watched the nascent sky changing from pink to a gray, almost colorless hue that he knew would inevitably turn to a robin’s egg blue. The monuments and landmarks of the nation’s capital still had that faintly orange glow. Hutchcraft was probably out running in the Virginia woods near his house, enjoying the crisp morning air.

Well, goody goody for him, Godfrey thought. And goody goody for me.

He had more worlds to conquer.

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Bolan watched as Hal Brognola poured himself a cup of coffee. The big Fed took a sip, shook his head with a disgusted expression and asked Bolan if he wanted a cup. It was closing in on 6:00 a.m., and Bolan had barely slept on the plane ride from Mexico to Stony Man Farm.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I want to hit the sack for a few and then the range later on.”

“The range? I figured you’d want to sleep for a week after your abrupt trip south of the border.”

Bolan shrugged. “Have to keep in practice. We didn’t fire a shot down there.”

Part of the reason he was in the office Brognola sometimes used when he was at Stony Man Farm was to give his old friend the briefing so he could, in turn, brief the President. The other part was to get some answers. Bolan wished he had better news. He’d given Brognola a partial sitrep by sat phone on the flight back. Sleep had proved elusive after that, and even Grimaldi’s attempts at humor as he piloted the plane hadn’t shaken the darkness from Bolan’s introspection.

“No sign of Avelia, eh?” Brognola said as he set the cup on his desk. His face showed the fatigue and creases of little or no sleep, so Bolan knew he was in good company.

“Like I said on the phone, somebody beat us there. They hit the place hard, left a bunch of bodies and an empty tiger cage that I assume they’d been using to hold Chris.”

“A tiger cage?” Brognola shook his head. “I thought those things went out a couple of wars ago.”

“Evidently not,” Bolan said. “It looks like they tortured him, too.”

The big Fed winced. “Damn. No sign of Jesús De la Noval, either?”

“As far as we could tell,” Bolan said. “We checked as many bodies as best we could, and didn’t see him. But at that point I figured, since things had already gone to hell in a handbasket, there was no sense sticking around waiting for company.”

Brognola nodded. He picked up the coffee cup and took another sip. “Ah, Aaron outdid himself making this batch. You could run a deuce-and-a-half on it. I knew I should have declined his offer to make a fresh pot of coffee before he headed back to the computer room.”

Even Brognola’s attempts to lighten the mood talking about Aaron Kurtzman’s legendarily terrible coffee did little to lift Bolan’s spirits. The big Fed seemed to sense that. “I’m sorry we missed finding Chris. Do you think there’s any chance he may still be alive?”

The fact the tiger cage had been empty, except for the shackles, meant that Avelia had most probably been there, but had then been removed at some point prior to Bolan’s arrival. Too much time had elapsed between the discovery of his capture and the rescue mission. Somebody had messed up on this one. Badly.

“It’s hard to say,” Bolan said. “Did you find out what Chris was working on?”

“Not a lead in sight, but Aaron’s keeping at it.”

Bolan shook his head. “They hung him out to dry.”

“Yeah.” The sadness was evident on Brognola’s tired face. “That’s obvious.”

“A couple more things are obvious,” the soldier said, holding up two fingers. He tapped the first one. “They should’ve pulled him sooner. Or had a react team on standby in the area. Whoever was in charge of putting him in there undercover dropped the ball as far as scheduling the rescue, and needs to be fired.” He clenched his fingers into a fist. “Or worse.”

“Damn straight,” Brognola said.

“And,” Bolan continued, “somebody who knew we were going in there had advance notice and sent in another team to beat us to the punch. I don’t know if they got Chris, but it’s a likely probability.”

“You think maybe Jesús De la Noval took Avelia?” Brognola asked.

“Run with a prisoner he knew was a federal agent? Not likely.”

Brognola compressed his lips, and then nodded. “Yeah, I agree.” He stared at Bolan as an uneasy silence descended over them. The higher-ups in the federal government never liked to admit they’d made a mistake when an operative ended up compromised, especially in cases where the screwup caused a loss of life. They both knew there would be substantial hand-wringing and finger-pointing as everyone struggled to avoid culpability. But that didn’t change the facts: Chris Avelia hadn’t been properly protected and was most likely now in enemy hands, or dead.

Finally, Brognola said, “There was a leak somewhere along the line. I’ll see what I can find out about that, and get back to you. And I’ll make sure that the President knows, as well.”

Bolan nodded. He knew his friend would do his best in that regard. “Have Aaron check into something else, too. Jack and I saw some helicopters leaving as we approached. It’s doubtful they belonged to De la Noval. They looked like old surplus U.S. military. They had to have transported the team that hit the compound before we arrived. Maybe he can track them down.”

“We’ll get right on that, too,” Brognola said. “Anything else I need to brief the President on?”

“Just that Chris is a good man. Tell him I’m not about to stop looking until I find him. He’d better not, either.”

Brognola’s expression grew sadder and he nodded. At this point the chance Chris Avelia would be found alive was slim to none. Once Bolan knew for sure, his mission would shift from one of rescue to revenge, or as he called it, moral justice.

Tucson, Arizona

THE LIAISON WITH Ellen at their usual spot, the Holiday Inn, was turning out to be anything but the romantic interlude that Lassiter had anticipated. In fact, it was having just the opposite effect on him. The first thing she did was have him take off his shirt, which he took as a good sign. Then he noticed the bed. It was covered with fresh towels. What was that about?

They’d been meeting there for the better part of a year, ever since Dr. Allan Lawrence had brought her in to assist with the GEM Program. Lawrence had introduced her as “Dr. Campbell,” and said, “I’ve brought her west from D.C. She was my finest student at Johns Hopkins.”

Lassiter couldn’t care less about that. One look at the young, twenty-something blonde, with oval glasses and a knockout figure even in a lab coat, and he was smitten. He didn’t hesitate at all when they’d moved to the private examination room and she’d told him to strip down for his physical.

“I’m ready to check anything you want,” he said with a smile. “Demonstrations can be arranged also.”

She’d smiled, too. Briefly. Just a hint of perfect white teeth flashing behind an almost shy expression. But she wasn’t smiling now. The blue eyes looked deadly serious...and sad.

“We need to do this now?” Lassiter said as he reclined on the rather hard motel bed and extended his bare arm toward her. He used his other hand to fluff up the pillow. “I’ve only got about two hours, you know.”

She shot him one of her piercing glances as she tied a rubber ligature around his massive biceps.

“Is this going to hurt?” he asked, trying to sound playful. Getting an IV right now was probably the last thing on his mind. What the hell had gotten into her that this took precedence over them enjoying each other’s bodies for a while?

“I’ll try to be gentle,” she said as she wiped the inner aspect of his right elbow with an alcohol swab. Her dainty fingers looked glossy in the thin, latex gloves. Those were a bit of surprise, too. If she was worried she was going to catch something, it was way too late at this point in their relationship.

“What’s with the gloves?” he asked.

“John, please,” she said, looking around. “I need something to hang this bag on.”

He glanced toward the door. “Too bad this isn’t one of those old bed-and-breakfast places. They’d probably have a coat rack handy.”

She reached into her medical bag and pulled out a catheter. He barely felt the needle slide into his distended vein. A few drops of blood fell out of the shunt before she attached it to the IV line, secured the hookup with some tape and then straightened, holding the plastic plasma bag over him.

“Hook it on the mirror over that.” He pointed toward a dresser adjacent to the bed. “Use one of the coat hangers.”

She looked, and then told him to hold the bag as she went to the small closet and tried to pull one of the thick metal hangers from the clothes rack. They were secured by a circular design that kept patrons from stealing them. Swearing, she turned to him with a frustrated look.

Lassiter was already off the bed and moving toward her. She started to protest, but he held the IV bag above his head as he walked. When he was next to her he asked, “Need some assistance, milady?”

Ellen bit her lower lip, then reached up and took the bag. “Do you think you can pull one of those off without disturbing the hookup?”

He grinned. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“John, be careful. Don’t bend your arm. I’m serious.”

He kept his right arm straight as he grabbed the hanger. The fingers of his left hand curled around the thick, circular metal. For a moment the muscles in both his arms flexed like gigantic pythons awakening. He bent the circular clasp, freed it from the rod and handed the hangar to her. “How’s that?”

“Fine,” she said. “Thank you. Now go back and lie down.”

“Don’t I get a kiss as a reward?” He leaned close to her, his lips brushing hers.

She kissed him softly, but with a gentle urgency, and he once again sensed that something was off.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Go lie down. Let me get this hung.” Still holding the IV bag, she guided him toward the bed and waited while he resumed his position of repose. Then she slipped the tab of the IV bag over the bent portion of the hanger and looped it over the corner of the mirror.

Lassiter watched the steady drip of clear liquid as it fell from the transparent bag into the plastic line attached to the adapter.

“What is that stuff?” he asked. “More GEM goodies?”

She blinked, holding her eyes closed a second or two longer than she should have, and then smiled. “It’s a combination of antibiotics and some other medications.”

“Antibiotics?” He grinned. “Afraid I picked up an STD south of the border?” When she didn’t smile back, he added, “For the record, I didn’t.”

“I want to beef up your immune system a bit.” She patted his arm gently, ending with an affectionate squeeze.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Really?”

She gazed at him, her blue eyes misty, then looked away quickly.

He grabbed her arm, harder than he intended, and she jerked. Lassiter immediately released her and ran his left fingers softly over her cheek.

“Sorry.” He waited a couple of beats, and then added, “Tell me.”

“I’m not sure yet.” Ellen leaned down and kissed him on the lips, keeping her chin on his shoulder, her face out of his sight. “Let the medicine do its work.”

This whole scene was starting to resemble one from some kind of crazy movie.

“Do its work?” He pulled her back so he could look at her face. Streams of tears had found their way down both her cheeks.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I want you to know that I need to run more tests. I don’t know everything for certain.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

She looked away, wiped at her cheek, peeled off her latex glove and turned back toward him, her expression caring, but severe. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Ellen?”

“John,” she said, regaining control, “I don’t know for sure yet, but I’m afraid you could be sick.” Despite her almost professional demeanor her words came out choppy, truncated, like a ball bouncing unevenly down some steps. “From the GEM treatments.”

“Sick?” he asked. That couldn’t be. He felt great. Strong, powerful, never better. “What are you talking about? I feel fine.”

“Like I said, I’ve got to run more tests.” She wiped at her eyes. “But depending on how things go, we might have to start an aggressive treatment plan.”

“Huh?”

She went into another rambling discourse with terms he didn’t understand, about having to do more tests and it being too early to assume anything, least of all a prognosis, but he barely heard her words. Only three of them reverberated inside his skull, over and over again.

Aggressive treatment plan.

What the hell was going on?

Washington, D.C.

THE RUBBER BALL bounced off the far wall, struck the floor and then sailed toward Senator Brent Hutchcraft. He deftly swung his racket, sending the ball back toward the far wall again. Gregory Benedict, assistant director of the CIA, stepped in and slammed the ball as it shot back toward them. Now it was Anthony Godfrey’s turn, and he purposely let the ball zoom past him.

“Aww, come on, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You weren’t even trying.”

“Too much on my mind,” Godfrey said. The ball bounced against the rear wall in a lazy loop and Godfrey grabbed it. “We’ve got a lot to discuss. Why don’t we get some steam?”

The steam room was Godfrey’s favorite place in the club. He’d reserved it for the three of them. The accompanying attire, bath towels and nudity, assured him that no one in the room would be wearing a wire, and any attempts to bug the place would be fruitless. Not that he was worried about Hutchcraft and Benedict. They were both in as deep as he was, and had infinitely more to lose, but he hadn’t survived twenty-five years in the Washington, D.C., political rat race without exercising due caution. Plus, it worked both ways. His associates took a measure of comfort in these precautions for the same reasons. To assure that they weren’t disturbed, Godfrey had one of the senator’s security detail standing by at the door to the steam room. The guy was as big as a house, plus he was packing a SIG Sauer .357 semiauto pistol. Godfrey looked at the hulk as he held the door open for them.

It pays to have friends in high places, Godfrey thought with a smile on his face. And in low ones, as well.

Wisps of steam hung in the air. The locker room attendant had sprayed a dash of eucalyptus in the air, just as Godfrey had requested. He moved to the tiled bench, adjusted his towel and sat. Hutchcraft, obviously proud of his physique, and how he was keeping in shape despite being in his mid-forties, tossed his towel on the bench with careless abandon and sat beside him. Benedict, always guarded and cautious, glanced around nervously and then sat across from them, his back to the wall. The man moved with an almost reptilian precision.

“Okay, Tony,” Hutchcraft said. “You called this little tête-à-tête. Suppose you lead off.”

“Last night’s activity was a mixed bag,” Godfrey said. “As you’d previously advised, the White House did authorize a rescue mission to extract Avelia.” He looked at Benedict. “Luckily, your strike team arrived first and snatched the target, along with the intended cash and drugs.”

Benedict nodded. “As expected.”

“And the weapons our less-than-reputable friend thought he was purchasing?” Hutchcraft asked.

“Safe and to be delivered to my Arizona warehouse facility tonight,” Godfrey said.

Hutchcraft smiled. “Ah, I love it when a plan comes together. So what’s the bad news?”

“Avelia was delivered to our motorcycle friends in such bad shape that they weren’t able to get much out of him. We don’t know how much he found out and who he told.”

“But I’m working on that,” Benedict said.

Hutchcraft frowned. “I assume that loose end has now been terminated.”

Godfrey nodded. “As of this morning. But we’re going to have to brace for the fallout concerning the death of a federal agent.”

“Brace for what?” Benedict said. “He’ll just go down as another unfortunate casualty to our long, ongoing and unsuccessful war on drugs.”

“I might even find some purchase in the debates.” Hutchcraft’s voice assumed a deeper tenor. “Mr. President, please explain the reason you didn’t pull this young man out of harm’s way before he was discovered and murdered.” A smile stretched the corners of his mouth. “As Harry Truman used to say, the buck stops at the top.”

“Careful,” Benedict said. “There’s always a risk if you shit too close to where you eat.”

Hutchcraft looked almost wounded. “Please, spare me your scatological metaphors. I’m going out to dinner later.”

Godfrey didn’t want this to develop into a debate between the two of them. Hutchcraft had his sights set on becoming president, and if that happened, Benedict was the heir apparent to finally take over as director of the CIA. Both of them were so laser focused on their goals that they often lost sight of the big picture.

“Gentlemen,” Godfrey reminded them, “the devil is, as they say, in the details.”

“Very true,” Hutchcraft said, exhaling a long breath.

The temperature felt as if it was edging up into the unbearable range. That was another reason Godfrey liked this place. The longer you stayed, the more of a chore superfluous conversation became. It was like conversing in hell itself.

Hutchcraft stood, went to the shower head and doused himself with a jet of cool water. When he sat again, Godfrey saw the man was ready to talk facts. No more bullshitting.

“What about Jesús?” he asked. “You said the little bastard got away?”

“That’s what I was told.” Godfrey felt like going to the shower for a cool rinse himself, but decided to wait.

“I thought you sent Lassiter?” Hutchcraft said. “Didn’t you say he was one those GEMs you keep bragging about?”

“He is,” Benedict interjected. His mouth twisted in a frown. “He was the prototype.”

“Another triumph for SNPT Laboratories, a division of GDF Industries,” Hutchcraft said, affecting a deeply resonant tone. He wiped a handful of sweat off his forehead and flung the droplets toward the heating unit. “Well, don’t forget I was the one who steered the funding for that particular special program GDF’s way.”

“Before you start handing out cigars as the proud father,” Benedict said, “you should know he’s become something of a liability lately. He needs to be dealt with.”

“Oh?” Hutchcraft said. “What’s that story?”

Godfrey fidgeted. “It’s too complex to go into here. Suffice it to say, he’s outlived his usefulness. But that could work in our favor, as well.”

“How?” Benedict snorted. The heat was getting to him, too.

“Is your cleanup team ready to intercept the shipment tonight?” Godfrey asked.

“Of course.”

Godfrey cracked a smile. He could taste his own sweat now. It felt as if the steam was parboiling him. “With Jesús De la Noval on the loose, and angry at the overnight attack on his compound, it’ll seem logical that he’s behind the little retaliatory strike involving the shipment and the motorcycle whackos.”

Hutchcraft blew out another long breath. “I see your logic, Tony. But how does this benefit us?”

Godfrey rubbed his index finger and thumb together. “I’ve got another buyer lined up for the shipment. We simply take it away from the intended recipients, the Wolves, and then turn it around in a sale to our new interested party.”

“And who might that be?” Benedict asked.”

“Our old friend Dimitri Chakhkiev,” Godfrey said.

“That Russian son of a bitch?” Hutchcraft said. “I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”

“You’d better get used to dealing with him,” Benedict said. “If you want to be president, that is. Word is he’s on the Russian leader’s favorite persons list for building the new Russia.”

Godfrey had about all he could stand of the heat and his two companions. He stood and pulled the cord, giving himself a cool rinse, then reached for the door handle. “If we have no other pertinent business to discuss, I suggest we vacate this hellhole and wait until Greg receives verification that his cleanup team has taken care of Lassiter and his boys.”

“I’m expecting a call from Artie on that later tonight,” Benedict said. And it’s called a wet team, remember?”

“Whatever.” Godfrey started to pull on the door.

“You never did explain to me why you’re so anxious to get rid of Lassiter,” Hutchcraft said.

The senator was still laid out naked on his towel as if posing for some male nudie magazine. “I thought he was one of our best and brightest. Except for having been declared KIA a few years ago, that is.”

“He’s a walking dead man.” Godfrey looked at Benedict. “You explain it to him. I’m done here.”

He pulled the door the rest of the way open and stepped out of the oppressive heat.

CHAPTER THREE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Bolan crouched behind the remnants of a shot-up old Buick. In its day the car had probably been the apple of its owner’s eye. Now the front and back windows were pocked with bullet holes, as were the doors and fenders. He dropped the magazine in his Beretta 93R and tapped in a fresh one. The selector switch was set in 3-round-burst mode. Grimaldi was doing the same with his SIG Sauer P-221. He glanced at Bolan and nodded.

Behind them something clicked, and Bolan moved along the doors and extended his gun hand around the rear post panel. Downrange, two lifelike images flashed in front of a window: a man holding a woman before him. Bolan acquired a quick sight picture and double-tapped two rounds into the assailant’s face, then he sprinted to the next cover point, a solid metal mailbox.

Grimaldi was firing at the building as Bolan moved, then the soldier laid down some suppressing fire so his partner could move, as well. He’d set the Beretta to full-auto, firing at the building. Another target swung into a doorway: a man pointing a rifle. Bolan sent a 3-round burst into the target. Grimaldi was firing now, too, taking his place by the mailbox as Bolan moved to the next cover point, an old utility truck on the other side of the street. The Stony Man pilot joined him seconds later, huffing and puffing.

“Ready?” Bolan asked.

“I was born that way,” Grimaldi said.

They moved in unison again, one man laying down suppressing cover fire as the other ran. Two more hostile targets appeared, more men holding handguns. Bolan took out the first one, Grimaldi the second.

Three more buildings to go.

This portion was known as the Gauntlet. No cover—just a straight, shoot-on-the-run Hogan’s Alley, with targets popping up along the way.

Bolan went first, taking three strides before his first target appeared: a woman pushing a baby carriage. He held his fire. Seconds later another target popped up next to the woman. This one was definitely hostile: another man with a shotgun. Bolan put two rounds into the target, Mozambique style.

Another pair of targets popped up, both adversarial, both easily dispatched.

Three more running steps and Bolan reached the end of the course. He turned and watched his partner negotiate the same turf.

Grimaldi whirled as the first target popped around a corner: a wild looking guy extending a large semiauto pistol. The pilot put two bullets through the target. Another one popped out, this one holding a sawed-off shotgun. Two shots from Grimaldi, both “lethal.” Three more strides and he’d be done, as well.

Yet another target popped up, holding a gun. Grimaldi whirled, almost with casual indifference, and plugged the aggressor between the eyes, just as a final target appeared from around a corner. The pilot’s arm was already extended and he squeezed the trigger just as the bright blue of the target’s uniform and the silver image of the police badge became apparent. The round had gone through the cop’s heart, right next to his shield.

Grimaldi stopped, lowered his weapon and swore.

A voice came over the loudspeaker in a rebuking tone. “Shame, shame, shame, Jack. You shot a good guy.”

Grimaldi’s frown deepened as he decocked his pistol and slipped it back into his holster. He peeled off his ear protectors and goggles as he walked to Bolan.

“Damn. It’s been a long time since I messed up that bad.”

“Better to do it here,” Bolan said, “than out in the field.” He took off his protectors in turn, and they walked back through the course, assessing their shot patterns.

“Man, how do you stay right on with every shot?” Grimaldi asked. “I haven’t seen such small patterns since Jimmy Stewart outshot Dan Duryea in Winchester ’73.”

Bolan grinned at his friend’s movie reference. The guy loved old Westerns.

Grimaldi shook his head again. “It really bothers me when I shoot a good guy.”

“Let’s go through it again,” Bolan said.

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, reaching into his pocket and taking out his sound suppressor. “With these.”

Grimaldi tapped his ear protectors. “What for? We’ve got ears.”

Bolan lined up the fine threads of the suppressor with the end of the barrel on the Beretta. “The weight of the suppressor can throw off your aim. Plus it can affect your ability to get a good sight picture.”

Grimaldi shrugged. “Isn’t that why we have laser sights?”

“Laser sights can malfunction,” Bolan said. “Batteries can go dead. Right?”

Grimaldi nodded.

“Come on,” Bolan said, giving his friend’s shoulder a slap.

The pilot heaved a reluctant sigh and began screwing on his sound suppressor as he followed Bolan back toward the beginning of the Hogan’s Alley course.

Bolan’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the incoming text. It was from Brognola.

Come by the office ASAP.

“What’s up?” Grimaldi asked, leaning over to try to get a look at the LCD screen.

“Hal wants to see us right away.”

“What do you know?” the pilot said as he put the sound suppressor back into his pocket. “Saved by the bell.”

Pima County, Arizona

IN THE STERILE environment of the state-of-the-art laboratory in the GDF Laboratory, Dr. Ellen Campbell leaned intently over her microscope as she placed the second slide tray under the lens.

“You look tired, my dear,” Dr. Allan Lawrence said as he entered and stopped by her table. His long gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his light blue eyes focused on her in their customary, probing fashion. “Haven’t you been sleeping well?”

She smiled as warmly as she could manage. “I’ve got a lot on my mind lately.”

Lawrence made a tsking sound and moved across the lab to the nude, muscular man on the steel table. Trang was the latest and most successful candidate in Dr. Lawrence’s GEM program. So many failures, so few successes...and yet John Lassiter had been one of those successes. If you could call him that. When she’d gone to Dr. Lawrence weeks ago with the somewhat puzzling results from her latest tests, he’d pooh-poohed her findings, patting her arm like a condescending favorite uncle. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he’d said. “Typical fluctuations well within the parameters.”

Only now she knew they weren’t.

Campbell went back to studying the slide showing the breakdown of the cells she’d taken from Lassiter’s blood sample of the previous night, or more accurately, early that morning. The correction did little to alter what was grimly obvious: inflammatory myopathies leading to oncosis. She switched to another slide. Same effect, only in a more advanced stage of pyknosis. Something was causing them to break down at a progressive rate. The nuclei were dissolving into the cytoplasm. Karyorrhexis. She straightened and looked across the lab as Lawrence, her mentor and surrogate father figure, injected a syringeful of the AAV-IGF-X5 into Trang’s arm.

Lawrence had wooed her from her research studies at Johns Hopkins by promising her a chance to make a real difference. That had been seven years ago, and he’d fulfilled his promise in spades. Not only did he take her under his wing and give her total access to the fantastic, governmentally financed research projects that he’d already begun, but he welcomed her input as an equal partner.

Back then she was thrilled, but intimidated. Deep down she knew she could never be Lawrence’s equal. His peer, maybe, but she soon discovered his work, his outlook, was too cutting edge. He was unafraid to take risks, boldly cut swaths through regulations and restrictions, forging a new frontier in genetic enhancement, but ultimately, at the expense of the test subject’s safety.

“We’re this close to curing major diseases like M.S., Alzheimer’s, cancer,” Lawrence had said. “We’ll take the bold step—administration of dystrophin—to the next level.”

It had sounded wonderful, and his promise to give a new hope to so many made her look the other way as he explained the necessity of going from experimentation on mice and guinea pigs to human volunteers. She’d balked, until he’d reassured her once again.

“All the advancements, all the great leaders in medical science—Pasteur, Currie, Fleming—all saw the necessity of putting their theories to the ultimate test. The human test.”

Her reticence lingered, however, until he assured her that nothing could go wrong. “That’s why I need you in the program,” he said. “As a safeguard. You could be a distaff Daedalus to my impulsive Icarus.”

She was flattered by his allusion to Greek mythology, giving her, by implication, the more dominant role. He’d sounded so idealistic, so brilliant, how could anything possibly go wrong? And that was, she reflected, how she first got involved in the supersecret governmentally funded research called the Genetically Enhanced Male—GEM—project. What she’d originally thought would be a quest to eradicate disease soon was transformed into the quest for a super soldier. Human volunteers were no problem. Most experienced violent side effects and were quickly dropped from the program, faceless young men who came and went. Then she met John Lassiter, and everything changed.

Now, instead of the allusion to Daedalus, she likened her experience more to Pandora.

She watched as Trang grimaced slightly when Lawrence depressed the plunger, and wondered if the risks of what they were doing had been fully explained to him. She thought about the slides. She thought about John. All these ramifications, albeit unexpected and sudden, certainly hadn’t been explained to him.

“Doctor,” Campbell said, “I need to talk to you.”

Lawrence glanced at her briefly, then turned back to Trang. He was Asian, but the enhancements had begun to give his face a more brutish cast. The high cheekbones had begun to expand, as had his mandible.

John’s face hadn’t shown the same degree of distortion, she thought. That had to mean that Lawrence was using a higher dosage. She had to tell him about her new findings immediately.

“Doctor, I really do need to talk to you,” she repeated.

He looked toward her, his ponytail flipping over the collar of his lab coat. When she’d first seen him she’d thought he resembled a tall, handsome Einstein. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Trang gritted his teeth. “Feels cold. Like you’re injecting ice into my veins.”

Lawrence patted his shoulder with a gentle assurance. “That will pass soon.”

The door opened and Mickey Potter entered. The man made her think of a human weasel, with his thick tufts of dark hair slicked back, and his small, feral-looking teeth that slanted back into his mouth. He smiled and Campbell wanted to gag.

“Phone call, Doctor,” Potter said.

“What? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Lawrence seemed genuinely irritated.

“Artie sent me.” Potter’s lips peeled back from the disgusting teeth. “It’s Washington. Greg Benedict.”

Lawrence shot him a sharp glance, then turned to Ellen. “Monitor Trang’s vitals until I get back,” he said, as he set the now empty syringe on the metal tray and followed Potter out of the lab.

Campbell approached Trang and looked over the telemetry. Heart rate 56, blood pressure 120/70, respiration 9...everything seemed normal. Trang’s dark eyes stared at her. His body exuded a sharp, almost pungent odor, like pure testosterone. She didn’t like being alone with him, although she knew he wouldn’t try anything. She had only to scream or hit the red safety button and the security forces would be in the lab in seconds.

His piercing stare continued, and the thought of the security guards gave her little reassurance. Trang was progressing at such an accelerated rate that he’d soon equal John’s abilities. Maybe even surpass them. Plus, with John’s current affliction, who knew how long it would be before he’d begin to feel the degenerative effects? She forced a lips-only smile to reassure Trang, and said, “I have to check something over there,” as she moved back to the microscope.

Looking down, she transferred another slide to the shelf and adjusted the focus. These cells showed something new: karyolysis. The nuclei were breaking into fragments. That could mean an acceleration was imminent. But what was causing it? And why was it showing up now?

“Doc, I don’t feel so good,” Trang said.

She went back to him. “What is it, exactly?”

He frowned and shrugged. “I just feel, like, all flushed or something.”

Campbell patted his shoulder. “That’s perfectly normal. Lie back and try to relax. It should pass soon.”

He reclined on the padded table, the huge muscles flexing under skin that looked as thin as paper.

“What’s causing it?” he asked. “Is it the strength serum?”

“It’s probably the vector spreading the serum to your cells throughout your body,” she said.

“Vector? What’s that?”

“Think of it as a sort of dye,” she said, not wanting to use the term virus, even though the AAV—adeno-associated virus—had been tested as non-pathogenic. “It’s a special medication that spreads to each cell.”

“Man, it sure feels weird. Like I’m one of the X-Men or something.” Trang’s face showed a forced smile. “This ain’t gonna turn me into a mutant or anything, is it?”

Campbell patted his arm again and said something reassuring to calm him, but her own mind was racing. A mutant.

Something clicked in her brain and she rechecked all three slides. It was as if the cells were being affected by a new, lethal virus. The AAV had been thought to be safe, in its original form, but that was seven years ago. What if the virus, through the repeated injections John received, virtually one after each mission, had caused his immune system to attack the carrier? What if the AAV had mutated in some way, and was now causing the necrosis?

It’s got to be the vector, she thought. That has to be the answer. It’s killing him.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

BROGNOLA’S FACE LOOKED even more haggard and drawn than it had twelve hours earlier when Bolan had last talked to him. It was obvious he hadn’t slept or rested in quite a while. He motioned Bolan and Grimaldi to two chairs in front of his desk. They sat and waited while the big Fed refilled his coffee cup.

“You look like you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline,” Grimaldi said. “You had any sleep in the last day and a half?”

“Sleep?” Brognola asked. “What’s that?” He made an attempt at a smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. After taking a sip of coffee he took his seat, then blew out a long breath. “You want the bad news first?”

“That’s usually the best way,” Bolan said. “We didn’t think you called us here to talk about the weather.”

Brognola set the cup on his desk and closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “They found Chris Avelia. He’s dead.”

Bolan had been expecting that news. He gave Brognola a few seconds, then asked, “Where and how?”

“Arizona, just outside South Tucson, near the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation. He was dumped alongside the highway with a bullet through his head.” The big Fed compressed his lips, then added, “It looks like he was tortured, too.”

“Who caught the investigation?” Bolan asked.

“You name it,” Brognola said. “It was first reported to the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. As soon as they found out who the victim was, the FBI got involved, not to mention the DEA sending somebody, as well as the ATF. Avelia was supposedly investigating a pending arms deal. There’re rumblings that even the Agency was involved.”

Bolan nodded. Dealing with so many organizations would make it both trickier and easier. He’d have to have a rock-solid cover story to get through the door by using Justice Department credentials. Once he was in, the Feds could eliminate a lot of the legwork for him, if they shared information. That was always a problem, and not playing catch-up on this one was imperative. Still, with so many agencies involved, his Justice Department cover story would make it look as if there was one more federal agency wanting a piece of the pie. It was something all bureaucrats could relate to in spades and would probably attract little attention. “Any good news come with this?” Grimaldi asked.

“Yeah,” Brognola said. “Aaron was able to trace home base for those helicopters you guys saw.” “Where?” Bolan asked.

“South Tucson area, outside city limits. The helicopters are registered to Rigello Transport and Tours, an outfit that does helicopter tours of the Grand Canyon and other choice places. It also buys up a lot of old military hardware that it tunes up and rebuilds for Hollywood productions.”

“And they rented the copters out on the same night as the raid?”

Brognola nodded. “As far as we could tell, they’re the only game in that region that could have. Aaron hacked into their accounting system, but all we could come up with was some company named Bannerside Productions periodically renting two old Black Hawks and a Hind. They did so on the same day as the raid and returned them the following day.”

“Did Aaron find anything on Bannerside Productions?” Bolan asked.

Brognola shook his head. “Nothing yet. It seems to be a front. He’s working on it.”

“What’s the background of this Rigello Transport?”

“Now this is where things get a little bit more interesting.” Brognola picked up his coffee cup and took another sip. “Aaron checked their financials. The business was started about four years ago by Joe Rigello and his brother, Dean. Where they got the capital for such a big investment is a mystery. Before that, they owned a small motorcycle repair shop in South Tucson.”

“Motorcycles,” Bolan said. “Any gang affiliations?”

Brognola smiled. “It seems that one of them, Dean, was particularly close to a less-than-reputable motorcycle gang called the Aryan Wolves. The club supposedly is nothing more than a social-athletic organization, but it’s listed by the G was a one-percenter club. In other words, they’re into all the standard hard-core gangster activities like drugs, guns and, this close to Mexico, human trafficking.”

“Having a fleet of copters would make smuggling a bunch of drugs and illegals across the border pretty damn easy,” Grimaldi stated.

“Too easy. I found out the Wolves were rumored to be connected to De la Noval’s group. He supplied them with brown heroin, and they would get him whatever firepower his little heart desired. That’s what Avelia was purportedly working on. He was trying to find out who was supplying the Wolves with guns to sell. And there’s a new wrinkle.”

Bolan and Grimaldi both looked at Brognola.

“Our old buddy Dimitri Chakhkiev is supposedly coming to the U.S.”

“Chakhkiev?” Grimaldi said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“Russian arms dealer,” Bolan said. “He used to be KBG before the Soviet Union broke up. Now he’s dipping his fingers into every little conflict he can, from Africa to Chechnya to the Middle East.”

“Maybe he’s planning on doing a little sightseeing,” Grimaldi said with a grin. “The Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon, Vegas...”

“Any idea what Chakhkiev is up to?” Bolan asked.

Brognola shrugged. “We have no idea yet, but it’s got to be something to do with an arms deal.”

Bolan stood. “I’ve heard enough. Jack, how soon can you get the Learjet at Andrews ready for a trip to Arizona?”

Grimaldi shrugged. “How long does it take to put in some gas and file a flight plan?”

“Call and put things in motion then,” Bolan said. “Hal, you’d better square things with the Air Force base.”

“Arrangements have already been made. And it’s already been fueled, Jack,” he added drily.

“Did I mention that I have to unpack from our last trip first?” Grimaldi said, shooting Bolan a smile, which he transformed into a fake yawn. “Not to mention repacking for this one. And according to FAA rules, I can’t fly until I’ve had at least eight hours sleep. How about we shoot for first thing in the morning? After all, we’ll gain three hours flying out West anyway.”

“Fine,” Bolan said. “Make it 5:00 a.m. I’m going to the gym.”

“Want some company?” Grimaldi asked. “I’d be glad to hold the heavy bag for you.”

Bolan shook his head. “Thanks, but I need some time alone.”

Pima County, Arizona

A couple things bothered John Lassiter as he rode shotgun in the blue van while Morris drove south under the dark canopy of twinkling stars set against the velvet of the moonlit sky. One was the informant they’d turned over earlier. The other was what Ellen had said. He tried to put all that out of his mind and concentrate on the mission. They were in the middle of nowhere on a lonely stretch of Arizona highway. The semi, laden with the cache of weapons, was three car lengths behind them. Lassiter had the suitcases with the money and the Mexican brown in the van with him. GOD had texted telling them to meet the Wolves to get their payoff money for the heroin, make that exchange, and then drive the weapons and the cash to the warehouse at GDF Industries. Then they’d collect their money and proceed to some much needed R and R.

The stuff about the tests that Ellen had mentioned still lingered in his mind, still bothered him. Was she right? Was he really sick?

But hell, he felt fine. During their liaison last night, which had lasted longer than he’d anticipated, Lassiter had dropped and done twenty-five one-arm push-ups with each arm as if it was nothing. She’d watched him with marveling approval and said she had to run more tests, and not to worry until she’d confirmed a few things. From his experience, doctors, especially women doctors, always made things out to be worse than they really were.

“I don’t think we’re too far from Wally’s Waterworld,” Morris said. “I grew up around here. The park closed about twelve years ago.”

Lassiter nodded. He remembered the place. He’d used the abandoned park from time to time as a staging area for raids into Mexico and Central America.

One of the Wolves escorting them pulled up alongside Lassiter’s window and motioned for him to lower it. The percussive rumbling of the Harley nearly drowned out the biker’s words, but Lassiter could still make them out: “Take the next right.”

Up ahead he saw a dirt road that intersected with the highway.

Lassiter used his radio to relay their turnoff to the semi. “You guys pull over, but stay on the main highway. Set up sentry positions,” he added. “Morris and I will make the exchange down that road, then come back to meet you. Remember, our orders are to take the semi to the GDF facility outside South Tucson afterward.”

He waited until his guys in the Peterbilt truck gave him a “Roger that.”

The lead biker swerved onto the dirt road and glanced back to make sure the van was following. Lassiter didn’t fully trust the bikers, but he had dealt with them enough times to know this was how they operated. Besides, he had his insurance. He nudged the Beretta 93R on his hip for reassurance and rubbed his fingers over the plastic grip of his M-4. He usually left the rifle in the van on these high desert transactions, but there was no way he was going in unarmed. The van jolted as the wheels left the pavement and hit the dirt surface of the side road. The other Harley swung in behind them.

While Lassiter didn’t care about turning over the drugs to the motorcycle idiots, having the weapons along at this point, albeit back on the highway, didn’t seem like a prudent move. Of course, he reminded himself, that wasn’t his call. Or his concern. He was just following orders. It had to be Godfrey’s bright idea, his master plan. He’d been using the Wolves motorcycle gang to transport weapons south of the border for the past year, in exchange for the drugs and money to run their secret, dirty little operations. The deal with De la Noval, set up through the bikers, had been the largest they’d attempted. So large, the Wolves said, they’d have to use helicopters to transport it in. A handy little excuse for dropping Lassiter and his team on the unsuspecting drug lord and his cronies.

They were expecting a large cache of weapons, after all. And that’s what they got. Lassiter smiled. He and Morris had gone perhaps half a mile, with the headlights of the van illuminating the cloudy wake of dust the lead motorcycle was raising, when Lassiter spotted a group of motorcycles parked in a smoothed-out circular patch perhaps a hundred yards distant. A headlight flashed momentarily, and he assumed it was a signal. They came to a stop, and Lassiter waited for the dust to settle before he stepped out.

The terrain was typically barren. Short sprouts of cactus and sage speckled the undulating landscape, which stretched away into the darkness.

Four bikers were leaning on their hogs, each wearing the distinctive burning crosses with the white wolf’s head in the center. The one closest to them pushed off his seat and sauntered forward.

“About damn time you got here,” he said.

Lassiter could see the biker was missing a few important teeth. The guy was maybe six-three and had no shirt on under his leather vest. His fat belly jiggled as he walked.

“You got the stuff?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lassiter said. “You got the money?”

The biker rolled his tongue over his gap-toothed grin. “First we test it.”

“Be my guest,” Lassiter said. “But then we count.”

The biker spit onto the ground off to his side. At least he knew enough not to get near Lassiter’s boots.

“Do that again and I’ll break your neck,” Lassiter said in a calm, but firm voice.

The biker tried to smile, but his bravado was obviously shaken.

Morris brought the suitcase from the rear of the van. The biker held out his hands.

“You got something for us?” Lassiter said.

The biker frowned and then snapped his fingers. One of the other guys got off his motorcycle and undid some bungee cords fastening a suitcase to the rear seat. He walked forward holding the bag.

The third biker stepped up with a small, clear plastic case about the size of a matchbox. It contained three small tubes. He reached into his pocket and came up with a Buck knife, which he flipped open. The blade shone in the moonlight.

“Well, open the motherfucker,” the lead biker said.

Morris looked to Lassiter, who nodded.

After Morris unzipped the suitcase, he lifted the lid. It was full of neatly wrapped, bricklike blocks sealed in plastic.

The biker with the knife reached for one.

“Take one from the bottom,” the first biker told him.

“Show us the money first, asshole,” Lassiter said.

The gap-toothed biker glared at him momentarily, but Lassiter knew it was all bluff. If this idiot had any sense at all, he’d know when to rein in his tough-guy act.

Gap-tooth motioned for the second man to open the suitcase. It was full of rubber-banded hundred dollar bills.

“Make sure there are no flash rolls,” Lassiter said.

Morris grinned as he moved forward. Suddenly, his body made an uncontrollable jerking motion and his hands went to his chest. By the time Lassiter heard the sound of the report he was already dropping to the ground.

Gap-tooth and his friends weren’t so lucky. They looked around and started to draw their weapons, but more shots sounded. One by one they went down, in rapid succession.

Two snipers, Lassiter estimated. The shots had come in too quickly to be from one weapon. The snipers were using night-vision scopes, he figured.

He rolled over, wedging himself into the dirt so he could get to Morris.

His hands found the kid’s neck. No pulse. He swiveled the head toward him. Open, dead eyes stared back.

At least it’d been quick, Lassiter thought. The bullet had hit him in the back and exited the front. A massive tear in Morris’s shirt indicated a big exit wound. It had been made by a large-caliber round. Lassiter brought the radio to his mouth and said, “Condition red. We’re under fire here, over.”

No response.

That probably meant that whoever it was had already taken out his two men with the semi.

Another shot ripped the dirt a few feet from Lassiter’s head.

You missed, asshole, he thought. That was your first mistake.

He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and grabbed the cylindrical object there. He rolled onto his back as his fingers found the plunger, and he closed his eyes.

He felt the pop and then heard the rushing release. Seconds later the popping sound told him the Starlite flare had ignited high overhead, and he rolled to his feet, running all-out toward the expanse of low hills to the west. From the trajectory of the rounds, that had to be where the snipers were. And if his luck held out, they were temporarily blinded by the star-light, star-bright flash.

For once, he hoped his adversaries had been using night-vision goggles.

As he passed the van, he paused to rip open the passenger door and pull out the M-4. If he was going to have a chance, he’d have to settle it rifle to rifle. Snapping off the safety, Lassiter continued his run. Ahead of him something moved.

Your second mistake, asshole, he thought as he brought his M-4 up and fired.

The shadowy figure jerked in the fading light of the descending flare. His spotter next to him obviously panicked and turned to flee. Lassiter’s second shot got him squarely in the back.

Time to zigzag, Lassiter thought as he made an abrupt right turn. If he was setting up the ambush, that’s where he would be. The light from the flare was almost totally diminished now, but perhaps a hundred feet ahead he saw two more men moving in the darkness. He flipped the selector switch to full-auto and sprayed their position. They did a pell-mell dance of death before falling.

Lassiter got to their location and flattened out, grabbing the elongated barrel of the Barrett sniper rifle. It had a mounted night-vision scope. The spotter had a set of goggles on his face. Lassiter aimed the Barrett toward the black silhouette of the semi and used the goggles to survey the area. Three figures moved by the truck. A van had pulled in behind it. Someone had been tailing them, but who?

Better take care of these three before I worry about that, he thought as he braced the butt of the Barrett against his right shoulder. The scope gave him a telephoto green image of the three men. One of them was frantically talking on a cell phone. The second held a radio to his mouth, and as Lassiter’s hearing began to return, a radio on one of the dead men next to him crackled.

“Al, what’s going on?” the voice on the radio said. “Did you get them?”

Lassiter lined up the man’s chest in the crosshairs, then squeezed the trigger. The jolt was hardly perceptible as the big, .50-caliber shell popped out of the ejection port. He lined up the crosshairs on the second man, the one with the cell phone.

Squeeze, boom, pop. His ears automatically went into audio-occlusion due to the concussion of the blast.

Lassiter swiveled the barrel to the third man and repeated the action.

Squeeze, boom, pop. He immediately got up and sprinted toward the semi, circling and pausing periodically to check for any more hostiles. Everything looked pacific in the tranquil green field of display. When he got to the scene, he checked his fallen men first. All dead.

It looked as if they’d been caught off guard. They probably thought the real action was unfolding down the dirt road. The hostiles were all dead, too, and Lassiter dragged the bodies to the side of the road and quickly went through their pockets, but found nothing in the way of IDs. He did a cursory search of their van as well, again finding nothing in the way of traceable identifiers. This was beginning to take on all the earmarks of a Company operation. He did find a GSP with this location blinking. Somebody had planted a tracker on either the semi or his van.

But who? And why? Although the why might take a bit of figuring, he already had a good idea about the who.

All that would have to wait a bit longer, he thought. He had a mess that he had to clean up.

CHAPTER FOUR

Bolan watched as the mountainous terrain of the dry Arizona landscape became gradually bisected with ribbons of highway that intersected with small clusters of buildings and finally with larger towns and cities. As they neared Tucson, the expanse of buildings and civilization grew denser, but Bolan wondered what it had looked like back in the day, when the first settlers edged westward, facing the adversity of the savage land. The tops of some of the mountains, he noticed, were blackened from the summer’s wildfires. He’d spent more years than he cared to remember putting out wildfires of a different type.

Grimaldi banked the plane and began calling the airport to report their approach. When they’d been cleared for landing he swiveled toward Bolan, who sat in the copilot’s seat, and grinned.

“See? Aren’t you glad we waited until morning before we took off?” he asked.

Bolan said nothing as he watched the ground gradually getting closer and closer.

Grimaldi spoke again to the control tower and slowed the Learjet’s descent a bit more.

They were at perhaps five hundred feet now, going over a shopping center and a ball field. When they touched down about thirty seconds later it was as easy as a limousine making a lane change on a freeway.

“And how’s that for the epitome of smoothness?” he asked.

“Careful,” Bolan said. “Don’t strain your arm patting yourself on the back.”

Grimaldi snorted a laugh as he radioed for instructions on proceeding to the appropriate location. Then he turned to Bolan as he steered the plane. “Well, at least I got you to talk. You hardly said two words during the whole trip.”

“I was just thinking how screwed up things have gotten with this one already.”

“That isn’t our fault.”

“No, but it means we’ve inherited a can of worms, as the saying goes.”

Grimaldi taxied the jet toward the section of private aircraft hangers. A man wearing a vest with brightly colored orange stripes directed them to proceed to the right, where an open hangar awaited.

“So what’s our first move?” Grimaldi asked. “After we secure this baby and our gear, of course.”

Bolan had been thinking about how to proceed, and there seemed to be only one course open to them at the moment. “We’re going to see a couple guys about a chopper.”

“Hot damn,” Grimaldi said. “One of my favorite things to do.”

* * *

RIGELLO TRANSPORT AND TOURS was on the edge of town in what appeared to be an unincorporated part of the county, about half a mile beyond the city limits sign for South Tucson. The business itself had a dirt parking lot that gradually gave way to an expanse of asphalt and a long driveway. Three brick buildings with tinted windows were adjacent to the paved lot, and beyond that Bolan could see an extensive area holding neat rows of dilapidated aircraft, trucks, cars and motorcycles.

As they drove by, Bolan noticed a large metallic sign on the front that read Rigello Transport & Tours. By Appointment Only. The big junkyard out back was surrounded by a seven-foot-high cyclone fence topped with three strands of barbed wire, and an additional hand-painted sign on the front gates said, To Hell with the Dog. Beware of the Owneres.

“Obviously, we’re about to come into contact with a couple of real Rhodes Scholars,” Grimaldi said, looking at the misspelling through the passenger window.

He and Bolan had rented a black Escalade with tinted windows, and the air-conditioning was going full blast as the dark SUV sat idling in the late afternoon heat. They’d also opted to wear dark suits, white shirts, ties and sunglasses to fit the role of federal agents.

“We look like refuges from a Men in Black movie,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan was studying the layout, figuring where the points of entry and egress were, estimating the approximate locations of the bathrooms by the vent pipes on the roof, and trying to get a feel for the place. He also was watchful for any human activities, but there were none visible.

“Not really a hotbed of commercial activity, is it?” Grimaldi asked, leaning back in the passenger seat. He took off the nondescript baseball cap and began fanning some of the cold air pouring from the vents toward himself.

“Go try the door,” Bolan said.

“Why me?” Grimaldi winced as he looked outside. “It’s gotta be a hundred and five degrees out there.”

“But it’s a dry heat.” Bolan grinned as he stopped the Escalade.

Grimaldi heaved a sigh and opened the door. He stepped out and slipped on his suit jacket, pantomiming some heavy panting as he said, “Dry or not, it’s damned hot.” He fanned himself with his open palm as he walked slowly to the front door and twisted the knob. The door opened.

The pilot turned toward Bolan with a wide grin, waved and went inside. Bolan pulled into a parking space nearest the door and followed him.

The room was divided into two sections, with a solid rear door leading somewhere. A pair of opaque, plastic shells, about the size of small coffeepots, was affixed to opposite walls, no doubt housing cameras. Their positioning would give a clear view of the entire space 3x to anyone monitoring them.

The office area was rather small, tucked behind the crudely built wooden counter that served as the divider. Metal shelving units behind the counter held stacks of dusty boxes. Crumpled bags from various fast-food restaurants and half-crushed foam coffee cups littered the floor around a small, overflowing garbage can. The place smelled of smoked cigarettes, half-eaten burgers and body odor. A trace of booze lingered in the air as well, like a slightly noticeable aftershave.

A lone figure sat at a small gray desk that held a tattered notebook, a telephone and a calendar.

Grimaldi was already engaged in conversation with him.

“What do you mean, you’re closed?” he asked. “The front door was open.”

“That don’t mean nothing,” the man said. He was a short, gray-bearded guy with an aquiline nose and a handkerchief tied over the front of his head, giving way to a long ponytail in back. His light blue T-shirt was stretched tightly over a belly that indicated a rather flabby, out-of-shape body. Huge rings of sweat radiated from each armpit. He wore a holstered Glock on his right side.

“I’m doing office work at moment. You want to make an appointment, call that number and leave a message.” From the way he spoke Bolan could tell he was missing some teeth in front. The man pointed to a handwritten notice on the wall.

“Actually,” Bolan said, breaking into the conversation, “we won’t take much of your time.” He held up an official-looking credential identifying him as Special Agent Matthew Cooper of the Justice Department. “We need to talk to you about some helicopters you rented.”

The man behind the counter cocked his head back and regarded both of them. His mouth gaped slightly, and his lips twisted into what might have passed for a smile in more pleasant surroundings.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

Bolan stepped to the counter and took out his notebook as Grimaldi walked to the windows on the opposite end of the room.

“May I have your name, sir?” Bolan asked.

The man’s eyes shifted from him to Grimaldi, then back again.

“I’m Joe Rigello.”

“It’d be easier if you just showed him your driver’s license,” Grimaldi said from the windows.

Before Rigello could reply, the Stony Man pilot cried, “Hey, that wouldn’t be a genuine CH-47 you got out back there, would it?”

Rigello’s eyes went back to him. “Yep. You familiar with Chinooks?”

“Hell, yes,” he said with a wide grin. “Flown many a mission in them in my time.”

“You’re a pilot, huh?” Rigello said.

“Show me your ID,” Bolan said, holding out his hand.

Rigello reached into his pocket and took out a brown leather wallet, one side of which looked as sodden as the underarms of his T-shirt. He dug through it, removed his driver’s license and gave it to Bolan.

“And do my eyes deceive me,” Grimaldi said, his voice imbued with artificial awe, “or is that a genuine Huey Cobra, teeth and all?”

Rigello laughed. “It is. Only without the rockets and minigun.”

“Too bad,” Grimaldi said, grinning back. “Old UH-60s? People want to take tours in those things? They must like sitting on hard surfaces.”

“Looks like you know your helicopters, mister,” Rigello said. “But yeah, we do a lot of work with movie companies. They’re gonna be making another one of them ’Nam movies pretty soon.”

“No kidding?” Grimaldi moved closer to the counter. “You a pilot?”

“Naw.” He shook his head. “I just fix ’em. My brother, Dean, is the pilot.”

“Could you use another one?” Grimaldi flashed him a wide smile. “I love to fly.”

Rigello grinned back, showing his missing front teeth.

It was beginning to sound like a war buddy reunion, Bolan thought. He cleared his throat.

Rigello’s eyes drifted to him as Bolan handed the ID back. “What did you guys say you wanted again?”

“Information,” Bolan said. “The names of the people who rented those three helicopters last Tuesday.”

Rigello ran his tongue over his upper lip and shook his head. “Tuesday?”

“Give or take a day or two,” Bolan said. “They might have rented them before that, but they definitely used them on Tuesday.”

Rigello licked his lips again and gave a little shake of his head. “Don’t sound familiar.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to remember back that far,” Bolan said. “Do you mind if we take a quick look at your books?”

The rear door suddenly opened and a larger, younger version of the man behind the counter came storming in. His face was thinner, but he had the same aquiline nose. This guy’s beard was jet-black, and his hair was pulled back in a similar looking ponytail style. He was also wearing a Glock in a pancake holster.

“Yeah, we do mind,” the new guy said. “Unless you got a warrant.”

He turned to Joe Rigello and said, “What did I tell you about keeping your trap shut?”

Bolan studied the man. From his remarks, it was obvious he had been both watching and listening to the conversation from the next room.

“I’m Special Agent Matthew Cooper, Justice Department,” Bolan said. “This is my partn—”

“I don’t give a shit who you are,” the man said. “We don’t got to show you nothing concerning our business ’less you got a warrant.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I know the law.”

“No need to get hostile, pal.” Grimaldi strolled over with an ingratiating grin stretched across his face. “Me and your brother here were just talking about helicopters when you interrupted. Uh, at least I’m assuming that you and Joe are related.”

“That’s my brother, Dean,” Joe blurted.

Dean Rigello shot him another look of disdain. “Shut up.”

He turned the look toward Bolan. “Get outta here and don’t come back unless you got a warrant.”

“We’ll look into getting one,” Bolan said, then turned to exit the building, followed by Grimaldi.

“You do that. We run a respectable business here and got nothing to hide.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” Grimaldi asked.

Dean’s head swiveled toward him. “Nothing. I ain’t afraid of nothing.”

“Is that so?” the pilot said.

“Yeah.” Rigello’s lips twisted into a sneer. “I just don’t like cops, is all. I’m a civil libertarian.”

“You know—” Grimaldi looked at Bolan, then back to Rigello “—that reminds me of that old saying, two weeks ago I couldn’t even spell civil libertarian, and now I are one.”

The sneer deepened on Dean Rigello’s hawkish face.

Back in the Escalade, Grimaldi made a clucking sound and said, “That went really well.”

“I don’t know, you and Joe seemed to be getting on, one chopper enthusiast to another.”

“Yeah, but it looks like our boy Dean’s running things.” The pilot directed the air vent toward himself again. “Got any bright ideas about our next move?”

“Maybe,” Bolan said, glancing at his watch. It was 1:54 p.m. He considered their options and decided that time was definitely not on their side. They had to go into accelerated information-gathering mode, and that meant stretching the rules a bit, as needed. He put the Escalade in gear and drove away slowly. “I think perhaps a little heart-to-heart talk with our boy Dean is in order.”

“Especially since he holds the law and his libertarian principles in such high regard.” Grimaldi smiled. “So what do you think? Hard or soft?”

Bolan considered the question, and then said, “Well, we’re pressed for time. I was thinking perhaps the deep blue goodbye.”

Grimaldi nodded. “Good choice.”

* * *

AFTER SLIPPING a clear plastic covering over the license plates of the Escalade, changing the numerals, they spent half an hour finding an old, suitable, sleazy no-tell motel in a semisecluded spot along the stretch of highway. It was only a quarter-mile drive from the Rigello Transport and Tours establishment. The motel, aptly named the Desert Shadows Motel, was laid out in a T-shape, with a dilapidated, but high wooden fence surrounding the rear portion. The fence was obviously intended to shield vehicles from the view of the highway. Wearing his sunglasses and a baseball cap, Grimaldi went in and rented a room for “a four-hour nap,” with a possible extension. He asked for and got one of the rooms on the fenced-in side.

“I’d like to inspect the room before I rent it,” he said.

The clerk stared at him through the heavy sheet of smudged Plexiglas that separated his booth from the customer portion of the front counter, and then shoved a key with a plastic tag attached through the slot at the bottom. “Be my guest.” The guy looked like a human version of a Gila monster—no neck, just a massive head set on top of a pair of narrow shoulders. He moved with a lizardlike precision, too. “Just give me your ID until you bring the key back, and pay.”

Grimaldi pulled out an authentic-looking driver’s license for one Irving Grim out of Los Angeles, California, and tossed it into the slotted portion. He then walked briskly out of the office and went through a small passageway that separated the motel office from the rooms. The tag on the key had a 9 emblazoned on it, although the white lettering was virtually worn off.

The pilot opened the door and surveyed the interior. A dilapidated double bed took up most of one side. A beat-up wooden table with a phone sat off to the left, and at the foot of the bed was another table with an old-fashioned television on top. An odd-looking box was attached to the side of the set, with a coin slot on the top. A hand-printed sign taped to the box read: Adult Movies for Rent. 25 Cents for Three Minutes. Quarters Available in Office.

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