The Executioner® Dragon’s Den
Don Pendleton’s

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Bill and Joan Oliver

Acknowledgment

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.

Contents

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Prologue

Washington Post, AP—Los Angeles

At approximately 7:15 a.m. PDT yesterday morning, narcotics officers of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department conducted a drug raid against a private yacht moored at the world-famous Marina del Rey. Sources report the yacht belonged to Raul Montavo, thirty-two, Hollywood’s hottest Latin superstar. Police confiscated more than two hundred kilograms of opium and an undisclosed amount of heroin that one officer stated “was in plain view.”

In a recent press conference, police spokesperson Martha Stellano said, “There were no fatalities or injuries during the raid. We found several bodies on board we believe are drug-related homicides.”

When questioned about the identities of the deceased, police refused to comment until members of the immediate family were notified and causes of deaths determined. However, confidential sources indicate Raul Montavo is among those dead, as is the relative of a U.S. politician. There is no word yet on when police plan to provide further information.

1

Mack Bolan parked his rental car in the lot of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department’s Marina del Rey station and climbed from the air-conditioned interior into the midday August heat. The salty odor of the Pacific breezes stung his nostrils. Bolan pulled the mirrored sunglasses from his face and rubbed his eyes. He still felt the aftereffects of jet lag. Shortly after his return from a personal mission in Europe, Hal Brognola had called and begged him to go to California.

“What’s up?” Bolan asked the Stony Man chief.

“We don’t have all the facts quite yet, but it was enough to draw the Man’s attention.”

Mention of the President got Bolan’s interest. “Let’s back it up a little. Tell me what you know.”

Brognola—head of the ultracovert Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm—told Bolan about the drug raid in Marina del Rey. Police had seized almost two hundred kilos of pure-grade opium. “And there were seven bodies,” Brognola added.

“Any make on them?”

“Three were Asian, but local law enforcement is having one hell of a time putting names to faces.”

“The other four?”

“Three Hollywood celebrities and Senator Simon Lipinski’s daughter.”

“Lipinski…” Bolan murmured. “From California?”

“Yes, the same Lipinski who’s been making such a big stink over human rights on cheap, exported labor. He also happens to be a close personal friend of the President’s family. Their kids went to high school together.”

“That explains why the Man’s involved.”

“It gives us a possible reason for why someone might want to kill the girl, too,” Brognola said. He paused and his tone softened. “She was just a college freshman, Striker. Barely out of high school with her whole life ahead of her, and just like that it’s snuffed out.”

Bolan could sense his friend’s pain, even empathize with him, but he’d learned long ago he couldn’t take those things personally. Vengeance, even exercised with righteous might, wasn’t the sort of baggage a professional soldier could afford to carry—not that Bolan hadn’t been tempted himself a time or three. He’d started his war against the Syndicate for the sake of vengeance but quickly converted it to a much higher call: duty.

“Lipinski may not be popular, but I doubt professionals would risk indiscriminate murder,” Bolan replied. “If the killers wanted to send him a message, there are easier and more effective ways.”

“We considered that possibility,” Brognola said. “Truth be told, it’s the drugs that concern us the most.”

“Yeah, that’s the angle I think we should play. Myanmar’s the place I think of for that volume of pure opium.”

“And they have the distribution network to back it up.” Brognola’s tone became matter-of-fact. “If anyone could move it without drawing attention, the heavies in the Golden Triangle would be my first choice.”

“Practice makes perfect. There are two main transshipment points in that area. China, via the Thai route, or straight out of Myanmar. Myanmar still runs the major action, near as I recall. I’d say we start there,” Bolan said.

“I’ll make some calls to our DEA contacts, see what I can come up with as far as the current atmosphere. We’ll make the travel arrangements here. You can expect Jack there within the hour.”

“So soon?” Bolan asked.

Brognola chuckled. “I already knew you’d say yes.”

So four hours later the Executioner stood before the LASD’s station in jeans and a polo shirt. A DEA badge hung from his belt, and the Beretta 93-R rode in a canvas shoulder rig beneath his left arm.

Bolan entered the cool station, and a uniformed woman behind the desk greeted him. Sergeant stripes adorned her sleeve. She sported an enviable California tan, and her blond hair was short. Her clear blue eyes immediately locked on Bolan’s pistol. He tapped the badge and the cop relaxed some.

“Special Agent Cooper, DEA. I’m looking for Captain Amherst.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the young officer asked him in a brisk, judicious tone.

“Not exactly, but I’m sure she’s expecting me,” Bolan replied. It didn’t exactly constitute a direct answer to the sergeant’s question, but it wasn’t entirely untrue, either. Bolan’s experience in role camouflage had taught him middle-of-the-road tales always sounded the most believable.

“Maybe not, but just a moment,” she replied, and reached for a telephone.

Bolan turned to look out the glass doors and tuned out the sergeant’s conversation with whoever picked up at the other end. He couldn’t have cared less about their internal bureaucracy. Bolan had come to find out about the death of an innocent college girl, and partly because his friend had asked for his help.

“Captain Amherst will be with you in a moment, sir. Would you like something to drink while you wait?” the sergeant asked. Her voice had lost much of its edge; someone had obviously instructed her to show him the first-class treatment.

Bolan requested a mineral water. The sergeant smiled and inclined her head, mumbled something, then turned to a compact refrigerator. She produced a plastic bottle a moment later and tossed it to him. He caught it one-handed and nodded his thanks.

Captain Amherst came around the corner of the hallway to Bolan’s left. She strode with confidence, but the uniform didn’t quite hide the curves of her slight, lean form. She wore her coal-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, but the oval face looked mature. She projected the air of a woman in charge, and Bolan immediately pegged her as a pro through and through. This wouldn’t be easy.

“Captain Rhonda Amherst,” she said, extending her hand.

“Matt Cooper,” he replied.

“We weren’t expecting anyone from the DEA just yet,” she said.

“You probably weren’t expecting us at all,” Bolan said with a lopsided grin. “Or at least hoping.”

She inclined her head slightly. “We’re all in this together. Would you follow me, please?”

Bolan fell into step behind her. She led them to a conference room, flipped one of the wall switches and gestured toward a seat at the lit end of the long table. Amherst took the seat at the head of the table, folded her arms and leaned forward. She lowered her voice, but her eyes burned with pure scrutiny.

“Just to be sure I’m making no mistakes, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to show me some official credentials?”

“No problem.” Bolan reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He flipped out the identification, set it on the table in front of her and then added the badge to it.

She studied them a minute, then returned both to him. “Thanks. Can’t be too careful these days.”

“You’ll find out they’re in order when you call.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw your lips move,” Bolan said. “You memorized the ID number. I was letting you know I’ll check out when you talk to the DEA.”

Amherst couldn’t do a thing about the sudden flush in her cheeks, and Bolan figured she knew it.

“So forget it,” he said with a wave. “I’m not here to tread on toes, Captain. I’m only interested in tracing the origin of the drugs your people seized. Washington tells me it was high-grade opium, and there isn’t too much of that flying around in the quantities we’re talking here. You knew it would attract attention.”

“I’m afraid it goes deeper than that, Agent Cooper.”

“Tell me what you know,” he said, leaning back and relaxing. Bolan figured she’d open up if he kept it loose. “Maybe I can help.”

“Let me start by giving you some idea of our territory,” she replied, getting out of her chair and walking over to a wall map. She stopped to eyeball him and added, “Only because it’s important to our present circumstances. I won’t try to snowball you.”

Bolan nodded his acknowledgment.

“This map encompasses the entire jurisdiction of LASD. My particular area is that part shaded in light blue. Chiefly we provide service to the unincorporated parts of L.A. County, broken into three main areas. Area Marina we monitor with six patrol boats, and we share responsibility with another division over at Santa Monica Bay. We’re also responsible for a number of communities east of us and then of course Lost RD.”

“The what?” Bolan interjected.

Amherst chuckled. “Our little pet name for a small island piece about a mile inland.”

“You said this little tour you’re giving me is important.” Bolan shrugged. “In what way?”

“We recovered more opium in every one of our jurisdictional areas. This stuff has been located in everything from the mansions in Windsor Hills and Ladera Heights to the slums in View Park. That’s what hasn’t been in the papers. I’m under strict orders from the higher-ups to keep this as quiet as possible. I’ve argued with the sheriff. Hell, I even risked my rank by threatening to take it over his head and straight to the county commissioners, but he swore to me he’s keeping them apprised. And yet, nada.”

“So you don’t believe him.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she said with a deep sigh.

“Exactly how much opium are we talking about?” Bolan asked.

Amherst dropped into a chair next to the wall map. “Including the other night, I’d say we’re up to about three thousand kilos. Frankly, it’s more than we can handle. I’m actually relieved the DEA’s involved. The sheriff has no choice now that the cat’s out of the bag.”

Most of what he’d just heard didn’t make sense to Bolan. “So your superiors ordered you to keep it under wraps?”

“Until the other night. You know, it’s a little easier to keep this quiet when the drugs aren’t accompanied by seven corpses aboard a boat owned by one of the most famous actors in Hollywood.”

“Raul Montavo?”

Amherst nodded and expressed distaste. “Yes, but I don’t know why they called him the Latino Angel. I can testify he was anything but.”

“Why’s that?”

“The only reasons we even ran that raid was because of a reliable tip and a very friendly judge. Hell, he’s probably one of the few judges on our side.”

“You’re too young to be that jaded,” Bolan replied easily.

She frowned. “I got a lot on my plate, mister, believe me. There’s more graft in the L.A. County court system than hookers on Hollywood Boulevard.”

Bolan got to his feet. “I don’t doubt you have a lot on your hands, so I’ll keep out of your way and you keep out of mine. But you can bet I’ll look into this further.”

“That a promise or do you really mean it?” Amherst quipped.

“Funny,” Bolan said. “You could help by keeping word of my involvement strictly need-to-know for now.”

She did nothing to hide the derision in her tone as she threw up her hands. “Oh, great, another person who wants to keep this all hush-hush. Oh, well, who would I tell?”

“I don’t want to keep it quiet because I have some hidden agenda,” Bolan said in an even tone. “I just don’t want to attract attention. If there are legit reasons the sheriff has kept a gag on this, fine. But if there’s corruption involved, then it would be better if they didn’t know anything about me until I can determine how deep it goes. Make sense?”

Amherst nodded. “Yes. And I owe you an apology, Cooper. I’m just tired, I guess. It seems like nobody wants to do anything about this.”

“I do,” Bolan said. “Trust me.”

B OLAN SPOTTED THE TAIL in a nondescript sedan as soon as he left the parking lot of the LASD station. It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been in-country even twelve hours, and nobody outside of Stony Man Farm would know of his existence or mission. That meant one of two things: Amherst had arranged for her people to follow him and see what he had up his sleeve, or someone already had the station under surveillance and Bolan’s sudden arrival sparked their interest.

Bolan bet the latter scenario as the likeliest.

He’d use the next few minutes to decide if the followers were friend or foe. As Bolan merged with traffic on the interstate, he kept an eye on the tail through his rearview mirror and considered his options. Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot and longtime friend to Bolan, waited at the airport with the plane that had brought them there. Bolan had skipped renting a hotel room; he didn’t figure they’d be long in L.A.

The Executioner didn’t have a hotel, sure, but his tail probably didn’t know that. The soldier quickly formulated his plan and then took the next exit when he spotted a hotel sign. Bolan kept to the outermost exit lane. His eyes flicked to the rearview in time to see the sedan slide into the lane next to his and keep back a couple of car-lengths. The maneuver left no doubt in Bolan’s mind the followers weren’t new to the game.

Bolan spotted the large hotel ahead of him and signaled early enough to make sure his tail saw where he planned to go. He swung into the parking lot and parked in one of the side-lot spaces. The L-shaped hotel was actually split into two sections separated by a breezeway at a right angle to the main office.

Bolan walked into the breezeway and broke into a jog after moving from view of the observers. He reached the other end, then turned right at the end. He followed this causeway to the rear of the hotel and crossed around the windowless back side of the office. Bolan waited about half a minute, then vaulted the eight-foot wall. He dropped to the pavement and skirted the wall to the edge of the lot.

Bolan peered around the wall and quickly spotted the sedan. The driver had pulled into the parking lot of a taco joint directly across from the hotel. It afforded them a virtually unobstructed view of the hotel. It seemed they meant no violent threat to the Executioner—at least not an immediate one—and Bolan planned to make sure it never got that far. He’d learned that sometimes discretion wasn’t the better part of valor, and this was one of those times.

Bolan turned and strolled to the stoplight half a block away. He crossed with the light and then doubled back so he could approach from the rear. When he reached the building next to the taco stand, he circled it and came up on the sedan from the rear. He took the last twenty yards in a crouch and approached on the passenger side. Two men in crew cuts and short-sleeve shirts occupied the front seats. Bolan kept low and quietly tested the rear door handle. Locked.

Bolan went in hard.

He reached into the open window and grabbed the passenger by the collar. With his left hand, he shoved the man to the left and produced the Beretta 93-R in his right fist, pointing it toward the head of the driver.

“You packing?” he asked them.

The passenger yelped something as Bolan’s rock-hard knuckles pressed against his neck, and the driver’s eyes went wide. The men were young and inexperienced. They hadn’t expected their quarry to become the aggressor, and Bolan had taken them by total surprise.

“I asked a question,” Bolan said. “You guys packing?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the driver replied.

“Right or southpaw?” Bolan asked him.

“Say what?”

“Are you right-or left-handed?”

“Right,” he said. “Why?”

“You first, then. Use your left hand and dump the piece out the window.”

“You’re making a big mistake, asshole,” the passenger finally squealed in outrage.

“So is he,” Bolan said, gesturing in his partner’s direction with the muzzle of the Beretta. He returned his attention to the driver. “Last chance. Lose the sidearm or it all ends here.”

“Fine, fine,” he said.

When Bolan heard the pistol hit the pavement outside, he ordered the passenger to carefully hand over his weapon. The guy complied. Bolan immediately recognized the Glock 21. He tucked the pistol at the small of his back, then commanded the pair to put their hands on the dash. He opened the rear door once they had done it and slid to the center of the backseat.

“Okay, let’s have it,” Bolan asked.

“You just stepped in a whole pile o’ shit, pal,” the passenger said. “You’ll be at the top of Homeland Security’s most-wanted list by close of business today.”

“Somehow I don’t think so,” the Executioner replied.

2

“I don’t get it,” Hal Brognola said when Bolan related his encounter with the federal agents. “Why would this interest Homeland Security? In fact, how would they even know about it?”

“No clue. But they admitted their orders were to pressure local authorities to keep this thing under wraps,” Bolan replied. “I kept my cover but it won’t last. I’m sure they’ll make calls. I need them to back off this thing. I don’t want to have to worry about friendlies getting caught in the cross fire if it goes hard.”

Brognola sighed. “You got it. I’ll make sure the order to stand down comes straight from the top. I’m sorry about this, Striker.”

“Not your fault, Hal. This wasn’t on my radar screen, either.”

“So Captain Amherst told you they’ve seized three thousand kilos of high-grade opium, huh?” Brognola recited. “That’s seriously heavy weight.”

“Yeah, and it’s obviously drawing more attention by the moment. That’s why I need to move on this right now before the entire area gets flooded with real DEA.”

“If the press gets wind of this, DEA will be the least of your problems. All the major papers are carrying the yacht-raid story, and you know sooner or later someone’s going to leak the rest of it. Reporters will swarm that town like nobody’s business.”

“Exactly,” the Executioner replied. “And I’m not real big on having my face splashed all over the six-o’clock news.”

“You have a plan?”

“It’s sketchy, but it’s all I have to go on. Amherst told me about the other surrounding towns within her jurisdiction where they also seized large quantities of the same purity. One of them is Ladera Heights. According to my LAPD contacts, the Bloods control all major drug action in this area. I need to know who’s in charge.”

“I’ll put Bear to work. You’ll have it within the hour.”

Bolan believed him. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman wore his nickname well. Not only because of his wrestlerlike body, but also because of the heart to match. The leader of Stony Man’s crack cybernetics team seemed serious, but he hadn’t permitted the internal man to mirror that gruff exterior. That sensitivity set him apart from most men who’d experienced the kind of trauma he had—confined to a wheelchair by a bullet in the spine—and Bolan considered Kurtzman to be one of the most intelligent people in the world.

“You can send it through the plane’s uplink,” Bolan said. “I’ll be waiting there with Jack. Out here.”

Bolan broke the connection, then took the exit ramp leading to LAX and the private hangar leased under one of Stony Man’s paper companies. While the ultracovert group operated at the pleasure of the President, its actions weren’t consistent with constitutional law. Some of Stony Man’s past operations inside the territorial borders of the U.S. would have been considered by most as highly illegal, even with the leeway granted to federal agencies investigating terrorism. That’s why Brognola insisted on the provision of cover names and federal-agency credentials, as much to reduce Stony Man’s culpability as to protect the identities of its operatives.

The Executioner didn’t really need the forged documents, since he could get what he wanted by other means. He disliked working with allies—the other team members of Stony Man notwithstanding—and what he couldn’t glean from his many intelligence contacts or free access to Stony Man’s databases, he could get through enemy interrogation. Bolan rarely had to implement the latter solution and he didn’t believe in torture, chemical or otherwise, although he occasionally understood the need for such methods.

Bolan reached the airport in fifteen minutes. He pulled his rental car around the rear of the hangar—the section not visible from the tarmac—and then strolled inside. In the center of the hangar sat a converted Gulfstream C-20 jet. At just over eighty feet in length, it sported a pair of Rolls-Royce Spey engines and had a range of more than thirty-six hundred nautical miles. Any casual observers wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary until they looked inside. Bolan had become quite familiar with the decor, which included state-of-the-art surveillance, countersurveillance and secure communications equipment. A weapons locker took up the rear of the plane and contained the latest gadgets. John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man’s resident weapon smith, had stocked it with enough firepower to start a small war. Nothing unusual for the man they called the Executioner.

“What say ye, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked, looking up briefly from an air chart. He’d never dropped the moniker, a reference to Bolan’s early days as a sniper sergeant in the U.S. Army.

“We’ll be sticking around for a bit longer,” Bolan said as he took a seat at the table across from Grimaldi.

The pilot nodded, then stabbed a finger in the direction of a small stainless steel carafe. “There’s some java if you’re interested.”

Bolan shook his head. “Not really attractive in this heat. What are you doing?”

“Looking over some charts,” Grimaldi said. “I got talk from Hal we might end up going out of country. There was some mention about the sunny beaches of the Golden Triangle, perhaps?”

“Yeah. You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you, most of your navigation is done solely by computers these days. Why do you still use paper charts?”

“Computers fail, navigation systems go out and GPS units have been known to land pilots in Alaska who were going to Hawaii. I’m all about a backup plan, Sarge.”

“Far be it for me to interfere with a master at work,” Bolan said with a chuckle.

The soldier rose and went to the reinforced doors of the weapons locker in the aft compartment. He punched in a nine-character alphanumeric code on a keypad attached to the heavy steel and the latch came free. The weapons reflected the dim blue lights recessed in the sides and top of the cabinet with an oily gleam. The complement included an M-16 A-4/M-203 combo, M-4 5.56 mm carbine and one FN FNC submachine gun. The armory also held a SIG-Sauer SSG 3000 sniper rifle, a spare Beretta 93-R with twin clips and a dozen Diehl DM-51 grenades. Finally, Bolan’s eyes rested briefly on the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. This gas-operated hand cannon utilized a rotating bolt system and fired 300-grain rounds at a muzzle velocity just shy of 1,500 feet per second.

Bolan picked the Beretta and FN FNC for this trip, as well as a few DM-51 grenades. He’d be entering gangland territory, which meant some autofire and a few low-yield antipersonnel grenades might come in handy, but heavy assault weapons probably wouldn’t be necessary. In fact, he didn’t even know if he had a target yet. He could only hope Stony Man’s intelligence would point him in the right direction.

After drawing his selections, Bolan secured the armory doors, then left the plane with his utility bag. He crossed the hangar to the living quarters, where he found a shower. He stripped, turned on the hot water and enjoyed the high-pressure spray, washing away the grime and dirt of the day. He then turned the nozzle to allow about two minutes of icy spray to cool his body. Bolan finished showering, toweled dry and then donned his skintight blacksuit and slid his feet into a pair of combat boots with vulcanized neoprene soles. He then returned to the plane.

Grimaldi jerked his thumb at a computer terminal set into the two-seater communications panel against the starboard side. “Your transmission from Bear just arrived.”

Bolan nodded and took a seat at the computer terminal. He punched in his access code, and the information immediately displayed across two separate LCD screens. One screen rendered photographs and dossiers taken from LASD evidence computers, with detailed reports of every raid where they had recovered drugs matching the parameters Stony Man already had. Bolan shook his head, unable to resist grinning at Kurtzman’s ability to hack straight into any computer network to get the intelligence Bolan needed. The Executioner scanned the information, which basically confirmed what Amherst had said.

“Well, at least Amherst is telling the truth,” Bolan said aloud.

“What’s that?” Grimaldi asked.

“This Rhonda Amherst,” Bolan replied. “She’s the Marina del Rey station chief with LASD. It looks like she gave me the straight story.”

Grimaldi just hummed an acknowledgment as Bolan turned his attention to the second screen. He tapped the paging key and quickly identified the key information he’d been looking for. Records from the Gang Support Section of the LAPD currently listed Lavon Hayes as the leader of the Bloods, but his current whereabouts were unknown. The file gave too many possible locations, so Bolan mentally filed the information for future reference and pressed on. And then the Executioner got a hit. The GSS briefs listed Antoine Pratt as being Hayes’s second-in-command. Already Pratt had spent the better part of his life in juvenile for everything from petty theft to drug possession, and he currently had a half-dozen warrants pending for additional crimes.

A real pillar of the community, Bolan thought. “Looks like this intel from Bear might pan out,” he said as he stored the downloaded intelligence and put the computer into hibernation. He went to where he’d stashed his equipment and geared up.

“Where you going?”

“It’s time to find out who was supposed to be on the receiving end of these shipments.”

“Going to knock on some doors, are you?” Grimaldi asked with a knowing wink.

“More like kick them down,” the Executioner replied.

M ACK B OLAN PLACED his first kick in the most literal sense.

The soldier put his foot against the front door of Antoine Pratt’s two-story flat in Ladera Heights. He stood out like a specter, his blacksuit stark against the cream-colored walls illuminated by mood lights. Mostly warm earth tones set off the decor, which looked more luxurious than its run-down exterior. Pratt had probably tried to keep up appearances with the other houses along the block so his didn’t stand out in any way. Bolan swept the area with the muzzle of his FNC and locked on viable targets almost immediately.

A pair of house guards in flannel shirts and bandanas came out of their loungers in the living room and reached for pistols tucked in their waistbands. Neither of the young men seemed to care Bolan already had them dead to rights.

Bolan squeezed the trigger and the FNC chugged in his hands. He couldn’t miss at that range. The hail of 5.56 mm NATO slugs stitched a path across their bellies, tearing through vital organs and sending blood spray in every direction. They twisted inward and collided with each other before dying on their feet. Their corpses hit the carpeted floor with dull thuds.

The Executioner bounded up the flight of steps to his right after clearing his six. He reached the top of the steps and immediately went prone on the upper landing when he caught motion in his periphery. Two more gangbangers opened up on him with pistols. One had enough sense to stay behind the cover of an archway, but the other practically strutted toward Bolan, his pistol held high and sideways as he triggered round after round. The warrior rolled over once, came to his knee and triggered a corkscrew burst. High-velocity slugs riddled the hoodlum’s body and knocked him off his feet. The dead youth’s partner popped off a few more hasty rounds before ducking behind the archway.

Bolan detached a Diehl DM-51 from his load-bearing harness. The German-made hand grenade had proved one of the most effective tools of Bolan’s trade. The hexagonal shape of the grenade body contained more than six thousand 2 mm steel balls packed into a PETN high explosive, making it a superbly effective offensive blast device. When requiring defensive capabilities, the Executioner could attach a plastic sleeve to the grenade with a simple half-twist locking motion, thereby causing a shower of superheated steel fragments to disperse in every direction for antipersonnel effects.

Bolan attached the sleeve, yanked the pin and threw himself into a closed door to get out of the hallway. The warrior didn’t see the grenade explode but he felt it; the resulting screams from his opponent told the rest of the tale. Bolan sensed a presence behind him and spun as he dropped to one knee, finger poised on the FNC trigger. A woman cloaked only in a skimpy towel emerged from a door in the wake of steam clouds and shrieked at the sight of him.

Bolan shook his head, got to his feet and jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. “Back inside.”

She didn’t argue with him.

Bolan stepped into the hallway and advanced along it. He could sense the quarry somewhere ahead; his instincts had taken over the moment he entered the house. He could almost smell the fear on his enemy. Pratt had no intention of running. If anything, Bolan suspected the guy would make a stand right here on his own turf, even if it might kill him, and that made it doubly important Bolan take him alive. Pratt remained the only one who could tell the Executioner why so much dope had been funneled into Los Angeles over the past couple of months.

Bolan began a room-to-room sweep, the FNC ready, but met no further resistance. He also didn’t find Antoine Pratt. After completing his search, Bolan headed for the stairs. He made it halfway down before the front door burst wide-open and a trio of hoods in gang colors came through the door followed by a fourth who matched the photo of Pratt in Bolan’s intelligence from Stony Man. Two of the gangbangers had their hands full with cases of beer.

All four wore the same expression of surprise upon seeing the Executioner, but none of them were ready to deal with the threat. Bolan leveled the FNC in their direction and neatly shot holes through the cases of beer they carried. The man walking next to Pratt—who obviously acted as bodyguard to the Bloods lieutenant—seemed to be the only one prepared for action as he reached beneath the loose T-shirt he wore and produced a semiautomatic pistol.

Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that blew the man’s skull apart and showered his companions with gray matter.

The remaining three black youths froze in place.

“Grab the floor!” Bolan ordered the trio.

They immediately dropped what remained of their brews and did as ordered. Bolan continued down the steps and relieved them of their pistols before securing their hands behind them with plastic riot cuffs. That done, Bolan hauled Pratt to his feet and tossed him face-first against a nearby wall. He placed the hot muzzle of the FNC at the base of Pratt’s skull.

“What are you, the feds?” Pratt asked. He made a good attempt to hide the fear in his eyes, but it didn’t fool Bolan for a moment. “I want a lawyer.”

“Shut up, Pratt,” Bolan said. “Here’s how this goes. I ask questions and you give me answers. If I even think you’re lying, I kill you. Simple enough?”

Pratt just nodded, the hatred evident in his features. Bolan didn’t give a damn right at the moment. He would have taken the opportunity to clean out the Bloods altogether had he not felt it would detract from his mission. The key here would be to get to the source of the opium imports. Then, and only then, would he be able to shut down the pipeline. The Bloods couldn’t profit from the supply if he neutralized the supplier.

“Word has it you’re running this outfit with Lavon Hayes out of the picture,” Bolan said. “I know you’re on the receiving end of this recent influx of drugs. Tell me who’s supplying it.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Pratt sputtered. “We haven’t seen a dime of that stuff, which means somebody’s going to end up dead because they’re cutting into our territory.”

“The only one that’ll wind up dead is you if I don’t get a better answer.” Bolan’s tone implied the validity of the threat.

“Then I’m dead, whitey, because I don’t got no answers. Whoever’s running this stuff through here had better watch their ass. L.A. belongs to the Bloods.”

“L.A. belongs to law-abiding citizens,” Bolan said. “So here’s a new slogan for your graffiti artists—stay out of my way and end this business. Otherwise I’m going to come back here and punch your ticket. Get it?”

“I thought you was going to kill me.”

Bolan’s cold and friendless smile matched the tone in his voice. “Not today.”

“You leave me alive, you won’t be long for this life.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bolan said. “If I hear you’re still in operation a week from now, it’ll be you who’s not long for this life.”

Bolan grabbed the drug-dealing gang member by his collar once more and took him to the floor. He then turned and left through the front door. He reached the rental he’d left parked a half block away within a minute and soon reached the expressway.

The probe hadn’t revealed much in the way of viable information, but Bolan now believed these drugs had nothing to do with the Bloods. He’d taken the mere chance that a grasp at straws might lead him somewhere; instead, he’d come away with more questions than answers. The Executioner had been in L.A. six hours, and he still didn’t know where the opium had come from or why somebody would have wasted seven people over a couple hundred kilos, especially when they had already managed to get twenty times that inside the country in the past sixty days. Bolan hoped Stony Man’s far-reaching network came up with something more solid.

In the meantime, he still had a couple more doors on his list.

3

Even from early childhood, Rhonda Amherst knew she wanted to be a police officer.

She didn’t necessarily believe in destiny, but she felt something like that every time she thought of her inevitable entry into law enforcement. On her twelfth birthday she’d become copresident of the Neighborhood Watch Program of suburban L.A., and by fifteen she had joined the Sheriff’s Explorer Program. By eighteen she’d been accepted to UCLA under a scholarship, and during her years in college she served with the Big Sister program. Amherst graduated UCLA with honors at age twenty-two holding a degree in criminal justice.

That’s when life really began for Amherst. She went straight into the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Recruit Training Center, graduated top of her class, and soon she returned to patrol the same streets of the neighborhood where she had grown up. Amherst volunteered for every special assignment or training course she could manage when they came along—few and far between as they were—but it eventually paid off and got her the notice of the entire LASD and eventually led to her promotion to sergeant. One of her favorite volunteer jobs involved boat patrols done in extra shifts. From a very early age she had taken to the water like a bird dog. Before she knew it, her CO recommended Sergeant Amherst for a position as his lieutenant when he took the captaincy at Marina del Rey Station. Four short years later, he suffered a stroke that disabled him permanently, and since Amherst happened to be testing for a captain’s slot, she seemed a shoo-in for the position. She had just completed her second year as captain, not only one of the youngest captains in the department but also the first female to achieve that rank so quickly.

What had gained Rhonda Amherst the most respect in her position was that she’d accomplished everything through hard work. She didn’t subscribe to the political maneuvering that involved others. Most of her subordinates and fellow officers would have described her as easygoing and friendly, a leader’s leader who really cared about each and every officer under her command, but also as a tough and no-nonsense cop. She held a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, and possessed an unrivaled record of felony arrests.

All of her success came from the internal drive to protect others with integrity and honor. That same drive caused her to put down the bottle of scented bath crystals she had just started to pour into her garden tub and go answer the jangling telephone. She’d heard a little activity over the scanner but chose to ignore it as it didn’t sound like anything going down in her district. Beside the fact, she tried to reserve at least one night a week where she didn’t think about work, time she chose to devote to herself.

“Yes?” she said into the receiver.

“It’s me.”

“Nesto, to what do I owe such a pleasure?” Amherst teased him. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You don’t call, you don’t write—”

“This is more of an official call, I’m afraid.”

Amherst had known Nesto Lareza since high school. They were just about as best friends as a man and woman could be next to taking it to the romantic level, which they had once tried in an exercise that failed miserably. Amherst could hear the tone in Lareza’s voice, and he didn’t sound happy.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m here at the house of Antoine Pratt,” Lareza said. “Got called here after someone dialed 9-1-1 and reported shots fired and what sounded like an explosion.”

“Pratt lives in Ladera Heights,” she said, recalling it almost instantaneously from her memory. She’d made it a habit to be familiar with the movements of certain elements. “Did somebody finally take him out? Another rival gang or something? If so, I’m throwing a party.”

“This wasn’t a rival gang,” he said. “Just one guy.”

Amherst felt her blood immediately run cold. She couldn’t explain why, but for some reason Lareza’s statement made her think of Matt Cooper. Amherst had called to check Agent Cooper’s credentials as soon as he left, and the Department of Justice confirmed not only his status with the DEA but his authorization to investigate the sudden flood of drugs into Los Angeles. And further, people at the “highest level would appreciate it if Captain Amherst cooperated with Cooper’s investigation in every way possible.”

Amherst tried to keep her voice neutral. “So why call me?”

“Well, Pratt’s not talking but one of his boys got diarrhea of the mouth as soon as we arrived. This guy had some interesting things to tell me, but I don’t want to get into any more of that over the phone. I think we should meet.”

“You told me this was more official.”

Lareza sighed deeply. “Look, it is official but it’s also kind of unofficial, what I have to tell you. Can you just meet me, Rhonda?”

“Sure,” she said. “Tell me where and when.”

“You remember Cappie’s?”

“Of course,” she said, recalling the renovated fishing wharf turned restaurant that had become a popular hangout for UCLA alumni.

“I get off at eleven, so I’ll meet you there about quarter-to-twelve. Okay?”

“I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.

It had been one of the weirdest calls she could ever remember receiving from Lareza, but also one of the most intriguing. She couldn’t fathom why whatever had transpired at the home of Antoine Pratt would have anything to do with her. Apparently Lareza felt otherwise, and she’d learned to trust her friend’s judgment. Something Lareza heard obviously led him to believe it would be of interest to Amherst, and yet sensitive enough he didn’t want to draw undue attention.

Amherst could only recall confiding in him recently on one topic, and that had been the sheriff’s unwillingness to pursue the major influx of opium into L.A. County neighborhoods. Now, with the DEA involved, it only stood to reason the stuff would start going public and the need for secrecy made naught. But on the other hand, maybe the sheriff’s position hadn’t changed. Maybe more existed here than Amherst believed, and maybe this involved more than just drugs and gangs.

Amherst would have to keep her wits about her, because in a very short time she knew she’d need to call on them under the direst circumstances.

T HE FISH BATTER and din of voices were the only two things thicker than the smoke in Cappie’s Lounge.

An observer might have concluded the lounge catered mostly to the yuppie clientele, but, in fact, Cappie’s served a mixer of rowdy college students—mostly they congregated in the bar and pool area.

The alumni or faculty—the adults, in other words—confined their activities to the restaurant. In either case, Amherst had come to adore the lounge. For one thing, most cops wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place, except in an undercover role. That meant it unlikely anybody would spy on her there or she’d run into anyone uncomfortable.

Lareza studied Amherst over the rim of his glass. He’d been watching her intently as she devoured her third helping of fish. He seemed almost stone-faced except for that damn smirk that occasionally played across his lips. The fact Amherst couldn’t figure out why he kept staring at her with that ridiculous expression only served to irritate her. Finally, Amherst put down her fork, wiped away the grease from her lips and washed her food down with a swig from an ice-cold bottle of beer.

“I hate to eat alone,” she said. “Why didn’t you order anything?”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

Amherst dropped her napkin on the table next to her plate, grabbed the bottle in one hand, stuffed the other in her pocket and then leaned back. She wiped the bottle across her forehead. The temperature seemed to have gone up ten degrees since they arrived forty minutes earlier.

“So, what was so damn hush-hush you couldn’t tell me on the phone?”

Lareza sat forward and put both forearms flat on the table. His hands visibly tightened as he dropped his tone some, making it much more difficult to hear him over the music blaring from the jukebox speakers mounted strategically throughout the establishment. His dark brown eyes gleamed under the diffuser-shade lamp that hung over their table. He’d always been a handsome guy, partly rugged with his dark skin and partly teddy bear with those dimples. He wore his black hair short and slicked back.

“The guy I questioned tonight, he’s a bodyguard and enforcer for Antoine Pratt.”

“You already mentioned that,” Amherst replied with a nod. “What’s his story?”

“His story is this mystery perp scared the living shit out of him. Said the guy was a big son of a bitch, dressed up like some type of commando. Apparently he just walked in and started shooting the place up and blowing it all to hell. Preliminary evidence says there were automatic weapons and high explosives used in Pratt’s house. Crime scene thinks possibly grenades.”

“And you believed him?” Amherst asked as she cocked one eyebrow.

“Hell, yeah, I believed him!” Lareza noticed her look around and lowered his voice self-consciously. “Sorry.”

Amherst could already see where this conversation would end up, but she couldn’t ignore what Lareza had just revealed. “Automatic weapons aren’t anything new here. But military-grade explosives, that sounds a bit more serious.”

“You’re goddamn right it is,” Lareza said. “And I’ll tell you something else. This wasn’t done in gangland style one bit. This guy hit the place like a professional all the way.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall with dark hair. Pratt’s guy couldn’t really get a look at his face because I guess he had it smeared with shoe polish or something, but he remembered the guy’s eyes were blue because they stood out so much. Said he’d never seen colder eyes on someone than this bastard.”

Amherst could feel that sensation go through her again, like ice pulsing in her veins. Other than the commando outfit and face paint, the guy matched Matt Cooper’s description perfectly: big, dark hair and some very intense blue eyes. Yes, she couldn’t deny that sounded exactly like Cooper, and moreover she couldn’t deny how betrayed she felt. At that moment, she had an even bigger problem. While she’d known Lareza for a lot of years she didn’t entirely trust him. In the past he had kept her other secrets, though, and if she needed a friend now was the time.

“That guy sounds like a dead ringer for a man who came to my office late this afternoon.”

Something changed in Lareza’s expression. “What man?”

“Well, I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody, but you know how to keep your mouth shut. You can’t breathe a word of it to anybody, Nesto, I’m telling you straight.”

“I swear, I won’t say nothing,” Lareza replied, crossing himself and kissing the crucifix hanging from his neck. “But what the hell are you being so damn secretive about?”

“Because I don’t know where any of this is going yet, and I don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions and doing something stupid.”

“It would be a little hard to do something stupid when I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“This guy who came to see me, his name is Matt Cooper. He’s an agent with the DEA…or so he claims.”

“The feds? Why would they be so interested in any of this? It’s a local problem.”

“Because of the volume of drugs that have come into the greater Los Angeles area in just the past three months.” Amherst looked around, took a swig of beer and continued, “There’s been a lot more than you know about, Nesto. A lot more. I’m talking major weight, not just a few hundred kilos being pushed around.”

“Great. So how come I don’t know anything about this?” Lareza asked.

“For the same reason you didn’t know about any of the other stuff I’ve told you about,” she said. “The sheriff and city politicians have been trying to keep it quiet. They didn’t just threaten my job, like I told you before. They threatened to go to a judge and get a gag order.”

“Why didn’t they?”

Amherst shrugged and said, “I managed to convince them I’d remain silent, I guess.”

“Except for what you’ve told me,” Lareza replied. He cracked a smile.

She smiled and nodded. “Except for what I told you, yes.”

“So let me get this straight. There’s been major drugs recovered at a number of key locations in the past few months, and now all of the sudden you get paid a visit from the DEA.”

“Right,” she said, “and I got in touch with some friends in Washington about this Cooper, just to be sure it wasn’t some kind of trap. Maybe put there by the sheriff to spy on me.”

“You figure if he’s legitimate he wouldn’t prefer you keep quiet. He’d want you to make some noise.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But if the guy your gangbanger describes is Cooper, then there might be another way to look at this.”

“How’s that?”

“Maybe Cooper’s DEA, maybe he isn’t,” she said. “I’d guess he’s some sort of special operator in town to rattle cages. He figures it’s probably one of the local gangs trying to get the corner on the market here in L.A., or maybe even a rival faction.”

“So he shakes some trees to see who falls out,” Lareza concluded. “And he doesn’t want you to tell your higher-ups in case they’re involved somehow.”

“Or maybe he just doesn’t want local interference. He might have his own leads to follow. Hell, Cooper might not even be interested in the drugs at all. This could be about something else entirely. He did tell me he wasn’t here to step on our toes.”

“Oh, bullshit! They always say that, Rhonda.”

“I don’t know, maybe you’re right. But I swear to you, Nesto, there was just something different about this guy. Don’t ask me to explain it. I can’t. I just know—” she stopped and chewed her lip a moment “—I just know he’s not like most other men.”

Lareza expressed surprise. “Get serious! You’re starting to sound like you’ve fallen head-over-heels for this Cooper.”

That caused her to laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just have this sense about him. It’s only a feeling, but I get the notion he’s really a good man.”

“Well, good man or not, he just blew peace between the gangs wide-open, and that only stands to make more trouble.” Lareza wagged his finger at her almost as if reminding her of another time, a time back during the gang riots following the announcement that vindicated several police officers charged with nearly beating to death a black man.

Amherst waved away the notion. “This situation is entirely different, and you know it. There will never be peace between these gangs. Especially if drugs continue to flood the market at the current rate.”

“Seems to me this is about way more than drugs,” Lareza said, sitting back and folding his arms in resolve.

Amherst cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“You just said it yourself,” Lareza said. “Let’s suppose this Cooper’s a real federal cop, or even some kind of special troubleshooter.”

The concept intrigued Amherst. “You mean, special ops.”

“Right. It’s no secret every federal agency in this country was required to lend resources when the administration formed Homeland Security. They all work together now. Task forces and suchlike are very common.”

“I might agree there was something to what you were saying. But then that leaves me with one question where Cooper’s concerned. How come he came alone?”

“You don’t know for a fact he’s operating alone,” Lareza replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Maybe that’s what he wanted you to think.”

Amherst certainly couldn’t deny the possibility, so she chose to keep any further thoughts about Cooper to herself and turned the conversation to other things. They made small talk for a while, bantered a few war stories and discussed the latest gossip within the department.

The digital clock read 1:42 a.m. by the time Amherst climbed behind the wheel and started for home. The quiet caused her mind to wander some, and her head ached with the echoes of nearly two hours of continuous loud music and having to shout now and again to be heard.

As she continued toward home her thoughts turned toward Cooper. Why couldn’t she get the guy out of her head? For the first time in a while she found herself unsure of what to do next. She supposed she could issue a BOLO, but if he found out she had people looking for him he might get spooked. Then again he didn’t really have any reason to run anywhere if he was legit.

The sudden squawks of activity over a dash-mounted scanner demanded her attention. She listened carefully for what lay behind the general tones of panic underlying the radio traffic. Something major had just gone down over on Lincoln Boulevard, a few blocks from Fox Hills Mall in Culver City.

Amherst knew immediately what it meant. Whoever had taken the heat to Pratt had just unleashed some more on the smaller Hispanic gangs neighboring Ladera Heights—gangs that had close ties to the fabled La Eme.

Amherst turned her SUV around and headed straight for Lincoln Boulevard.

4

Mack Bolan had never intended to bring war to the gangs of Los Angeles.

Kurtzman’s intelligence had pointed to gang activities in Culver City, and after Bolan’s investigation of Antoine Pratt didn’t reveal much, the Executioner opted to look elsewhere for his answers. The enemies Bolan now faced were clearly members of the Thirteenth Street Gang, an up-and-coming group with purported ties to the famous La Eme. An acronym for La Muerta, La Eme had grown into the largest Hispanic prison gang in the country with outside connections to Hispanic gangs in major cities like Los Angeles, Miami and Chicago.

It stood to reason only a major gang could coordinate such mass shipments of opium into the country, but so far Bolan’s intelligence hadn’t pointed to any specific gang. The slaughter of those on the yacht coupled with the reluctant attitude of leaders high in the ranks of local government, told Bolan the shippers were getting major cooperation. Most of the gangs in L.A. depended on violence and intimidation, and of late Americans had not taken lightly to the general attitude that law-abiding citizens were just a pushover. It hadn’t worked for terrorists and it wouldn’t work for gangs.

The battle had been joined just minutes after Bolan left the tavern hangout of Javier Nuñez, the number-one guy inside the Thirteenth Street Gang who used the local watering hole as a base of operations. Bolan had solicited no more cooperation from Nuñez than he had from Pratt, and in this case the gang leader had the extra muscle to back his claims on most of the Culver City territory. Not that it mattered. Bolan didn’t recognize Nuñez’s reign over Culver City any more than he recognized Pratt’s over Ladera Heights. Los Angeles belonged to its law-abiding citizens, and if Bolan had to take a brief timeout from his mission to teach that lesson to Nuñez, then that was just the hand he’d been dealt and he’d play it any way he could.

At the moment, however, the numbers were running off in his head. He’d been in town for six hours now, and come no closer to discovering the source of the drugs flooding the market. All he’d encountered so far were thugs bent on murder and destruction. But his trip hadn’t been entirely for naught. He’d come to an assured conclusion the L.A. gangs were not behind the drug shipments.

Nuñez’s crew had followed Bolan out of their home neighborhood, and then a chase ensued down Lincoln Boulevard before eventually terminating in the parking lot of a major mall. Bolan had learned a few things in his years of soldiering experience. One of those lessons involved securing a strategic holding position when preparing to launch an assault against an enemy of superior numbers.

Tonight had proved no exception.

From the limited cover of his vehicle, the Executioner swung the FN FNC into target acquisition on one of his gangland targets and squeezed the trigger. The weapon chattered as a flurry of 5.56 mm NATO rounds zipped through the young banger’s chest and ripped exit holes in his back. The youth left his feet and his body slammed into the Lincoln “ghetto-cruiser” behind him. This impact broke the side mirror of the black, flashy Lincoln, and he left a gory streak on the window.

Bolan turned to his next target, a hood with a teardrop tattoo and twin pistols clutched in his fists. The warrior grimaced a moment as the kid didn’t look more than sixteen or seventeen. It was hardly Bolan’s preference to shoot teenagers and misguided youths, but he also knew the gang member knew right from wrong and had chosen a path. And whether the Executioner liked it or not, the gleaming. 45-caliber semiautomatics clutched in his fist were real, and Bolan had to assume they were loaded with real bullets. Bolan triggered a second short burst from the FNC. The rounds cut a deep swathe in the gangbanger’s gut and dropped him to the pavement.

Another gangland cruiser pulled up and Bolan decided to go EVA. He’d parked his car in a strategic position in the dark, deserted parking lot of the mall, which would give him the angling room he needed to deal with this new threat. The thudding in his ears of exertion drowned out the sounds of his boots slapping the serpentine sidewalk that wound through the exterior landscape of the mall. Bolan could barely make out the sounds of pursuit.

To the casual observer it would have appeared the quartet of gang members that bailed from the second vehicle were chasing down their quarry, but, in fact, Bolan had a plan. He would draw them into an ambush and turn the tables on them when they least expected it. Bolan quickly located a point near the main entrance doors of the mall that would provide adequate cover but take his pursuers by surprise. He didn’t have to wait long. The foursome rounded the corner, and Bolan let loose with the FNC.

The first one to fall took two full bursts, one in the stomach and the other in the chest. The high-velocity rounds threw him into the gangbanger at his heels and the two violently thrashed about. The other pair began to run in circles, the shock and unbelief apparent on their faces, which glowed with ghostly pallor even in the poor lighting from faraway streetlights. Bolan caught the pair with a controlled, sustained firestorm from the FNC. The two gang members twisted and screamed with the repeated impact of slugs in tender flesh.

Bolan dropped the nearly spent magazine from its well and loaded a fresh one. He put the FNC in battery and heard the scuffle of feet behind him. The warrior dropped as he turned and swung the muzzle of his assault rifle to deal with any threat. Bolan’s eyes tracked to the source of the noise as he started to squeeze the trigger. He let off just in time to keep from gunning down Captain Rhonda Amherst.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

Bolan noticed she hadn’t lowered her pistol so he didn’t let the FNC waver. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I’m responding to a call.” She cocked her head. “Are you the call?”

“Probably,” he replied in a grim tone.

She gave a curt nod and finally lowered her sidearm. “I think we better talk.”

“Sure, but right now my hands are full.”

She shook her head and jabbed her thumb in the direction of her SUV. “I have a scanner. There won’t be any more trouble. Two of our units just stopped a car headed this way filled with Thirteenth Street Gang reinforcements.”

Bolan lowered his own weapon now. “Fine. My car’s back there.”

“Leave it. This place will crawl with both my people and LAPD in less than a minute.”

“So what?”

“They’re going to have questions. You want to be around here to answer them? I don’t. And I sure as hell can’t keep you being here quiet if you’re going to draw this much attention to yourself.”

Bolan got to his feet. “It wasn’t by design.”

“Maybe not, but it is what it is.”

He couldn’t argue with her logic. Bolan said, “Let’s go.”

Amherst nodded and then led him to her SUV. Bolan took shotgun. Amherst had just cleared the parking lot on the north side of the mall when they heard the first reports from units arriving at the scene of the Executioner’s conflagration with members of the Thirteenth Street Gang. One of officers called in a make on the license plate of Bolan’s rental less than a minute later.

Amherst cleared her throat as she rolled under the interchange and merged onto Slauson Avenue. “You mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

“I told you today why I’m here,” Bolan said, deciding to play his cards close to vest. He liked her, but he didn’t yet trust her.

“Yeah, I know. I got the party line about truth, justice and the American way. Listen, Cooper, if you want my cooperation you’re going to need to start leveling with me. Do you really work for the DEA?”

Bolan smiled coolly and looked at her in the illumination from the dash lights. “Even if we were to say hypothetically that I don’t, you know I couldn’t tell you the truth.”

“You could if you trusted me.”

“I never said I didn’t,” Bolan said.

“You never said you did, either,” she fired back.

The Executioner sighed. Okay, so he couldn’t easily fool her. Amherst had been around awhile and he didn’t have time for games. His instincts told him she wouldn’t let up. She wouldn’t interfere but she had enough intelligence and spunk to try digging into this thing without his confidence, and that wasn’t something he could afford this early in his mission.

“Okay, here it is,” Bolan said. “I work for people you don’t know anything about, and trust me when I say it’s better we keep it like that. As to why I’m here, it’s simple. The kind of drugs you’re talking about means major players are involved. I know one of the deceased on that boat was Kara Lipinski, and I also know everyone thinks these drugs are about gang rivalries and control over distribution territories. Given the recent number of successes you’ve had with minimizing gang activities, the last thing your higher-ups want to do is draw attention. But after what I learned tonight, I think you’re way off.”

“About what?”

“This isn’t about gangs or local politics. This goes deeper…way deeper.”

“Deeper how?”

“I don’t know yet. What I do know is the gangs of Los Angeles don’t have anything to do with it.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Simple,” Bolan said with a shrug. “Neither of the two bigwigs knew anything about the drugs. They were genuinely surprised when I mentioned pure heroin and opium.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t all an act?”

“I’ve been in this business awhile, lady,” Bolan replied. “And that’s not ego talking, it’s fact. I’ve learned to read people pretty well, and I have an instinct for liars.”

“So it was you who hit Antoine Pratt’s place.”

Bolan nodded and pressed his lips together in a grim mask. “I’m not trying to turn this town on its ear.”

“Could have fooled me,” Amherst said. She did nothing to hide the sarcasm in her voice. More gently, she added, “Although, that part of Ladera Heights you hit isn’t within my jurisdiction, so it’s no skin off my nose.”

“How did you find out about Pratt?” Bolan asked.

She laughed. “I have ears all over L.A., Cooper. One of Pratt’s men described a guy dressed, oh…a hell of a lot like you are right now. What I don’t get anymore is exactly what you are doing here. You told me this afternoon Washington sent you here to run down the source of all this opium and heroin. You say you don’t want me to tell my superiors you’re here, but then you start firing up major gang leaders with explosives and automatic weapons, no pun intended. Just what’s your angle?”

“You think I owe you an answer.”

“I think I’m entitled.”

“Not really, but your question’s fair enough. I’ve been trying to decide if you’re trustworthy.”

“You haven’t left me a whole lot of choices, either,” she challenged.

“You want the truth, fine. I’m here to find out where these drugs are coming from. My guess is somewhere in Micronesia.”

“Are you sure?”

“I will be as soon as I check out one more angle. The only question that remains after that is why the sudden rush.”

“That’s a good question,” Amherst interjected. “Someone opened the flood gates and their timing’s impeccable. It’s not like I don’t have enough problems on my hands. I’m short staffed right now due to budget cuts, and I have backlogged cases stacked as tall as Magic Johnson. To add to my worries, I have one mysterious DEA agent running around playing soldier.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Bolan countered. “I’m not playing.”

“Neither am I,” she said. “I won’t keep pulling your bacon out of the fire, Cooper. DEA agent or not, fellow cop or not, this is your only freebie. Please don’t ask me to continue keeping my mouth shut while you go around shooting up half the city. My loyalties to duty only extend so far, and I can’t protect you forever even if what you’re doing is right.”

A tough mask fell across the Executioner’s face. “I don’t remember asking for protection. And I don’t need your permission. You seem like a good cop, Amherst, but understand I have a job to do and that takes precedence.”

“Look, I don’t—”

“Someone’s following us,” Bolan cut in.

“What?” The Executioner saw her eyes go to first her rearview mirror and then her side mirror, but she didn’t move her head. “How do you know?”

“Part of that instinct I mentioned earlier.”

“Who do you think it is?”

“I can’t be positive but I think I have a pretty good idea,” Bolan replied.

“What do you want to do?”

“Turn right at the next intersection,” Bolan replied. “We need some running room.”

“D AMN IT , B ART !” Howard Starkey exclaimed. “They told us to lay off this guy. We should be back at the apartment watching TV or something.”

Bart Wikert dragged a greasy palm across his face and cursed the heat. The air conditioner in their loaner unit had broken two days earlier, and their assignment hadn’t permitted them time to wait at the Bureau’s downtown offices while the motor-pool guys fixed it. Now he had to sit in this infernal metal sauna while listening to his partner bitch incessantly.

“Christ! This is great weather…if you’re a fern.”

Starkey chuckled at that and shook his head. “You’re not very resilient to the heat, pal.”

Wikert stared incredulously at his partner behind the wheel. “I’m from Vermont, moron! What’s the big surprise?”

Starkey didn’t reply, instead focusing on the road ahead, and Wikert decided to let it rest. The encounter with their alleged DEA cohort earlier in the day hadn’t exactly left him in the spirit of cooperation. The ass-chewing he took from Wonderland earlier that day had put him in this foul mood. Who was Cooper that they should just stay out of his way? The events of the day, coupled with this heat, made him feel downright irritable enough to shoot the first stranger to piss him off. Wikert reconsidered the point and shook it off, almost laughing aloud at his ruminations.

“You know, buddy, this whole thing’s ridiculous,” Starkey said, intruding on his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Wikert mumbled. “But I’m not going to accept we should just sit back and twiddle our thumbs. I don’t give a damn what the DDO says.”

The deputy director of operations for Homeland Security had instructed them to back off in no uncertain terms. “Don’t rock the boat,” he’d said, and that had been that. And all because somebody in the Oval Office had apparently called him within an hour of their meeting Matt Cooper and threatened to stick a hot poker into a private and uncomfortable place if they got another phone call. Well, Bart Wikert had nearly fifteen years with the FBI and he knew when something stank. This thing had one big odor.

“Listen, Bart, all we’ve done for the past six hours is watch Cooper run around this city and break practically every law known to man. Well, I for one am not going to just sit on my ass and do nothing. If the guy actually does hold legitimate employment with one of our agencies, then he’s not following protocols. And if he works for the CIA, then he’s operating illegally because we know they can’t do shit within U.S. borders. So let’s actually do something useful for once, get off our collective asses and get into the war.”

“I didn’t know we were fighting a war,” Starkey replied quietly. There were moments that soft-spoken mannerism seemed so out of place on a guy of Starkey’s size. In fact, it seemed almost feminine against that six-foot-four, 250-pound frame squeezed behind the wheel.

“Keep your eyes on them—they’re turning onto that side street,” Wikert replied. Then he continued, “It’s a war as far as I’m concerned. This Cooper is breaking all the rules. So he has some clout with someone in D.C., so what! He obviously thinks he’s a law unto himself and can break all the rules. Well, pride goes before the fall and I’m going to make sure we’re there when he trips up.”

As soon as they rounded the corner, Starkey had to stand on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the SUV they’d been tailing. The sudden stop nearly sent Wikert through the front windshield, since he would only wear a seat belt during high-speed pursuits. Wikert threw his right hand forward and caught his body with the dash, then let out a yelp of pain when he sprained his wrist.

Cooper emerged from the shadows of a commercial building with a pistol in his fist. He lowered the weapon as soon as it became apparent he recognized the pair. Wikert quickly recovered and rolled down his window when Cooper rapped his knuckles against it and gestured in a downward motion.

“What are you doing?” Cooper asked.

“What does it look like, asshole?” Wikert said. “We’re tailing you.”

“I thought we already settled this.”

“Maybe you settled it. It’s not settled for me yet. Not by a long shot.”

“You’re biting off way more than you can chew, pal,” Cooper said. “If you’re looking to borrow trouble, you’ve come to the right place. I know you have orders to keep out of my way, and I’d advise you to follow them.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“I won’t repeat this,” Cooper said. “Back off.”

With that, he turned and got into the SUV, and the vehicle drove away.

“Should I follow them?” Starkey asked.

Wikert said something under his breath but shook his head. There were other ways.

5

“What was that all about?” Amherst asked as she drove away.

“Some old friends,” Bolan replied. He saw her check her mirrors again. “Don’t worry. They won’t follow us.”

Amherst nodded. “So what’s next?”

“Like I said before, I have one more thing to check out.”

“I think I hear a but coming,” she interjected.

“You do,” the Executioner replied. “I need you to get me on that boat.”

She let out a whistle. “You don’t ask much, do you? Well, just so you know, I don’t think I can get you onto that boat. It hasn’t been fully processed by our crime-scene people, and as such it’s considered to be in evidentiary lockup. I could only gain access now with a court order.”

“Look, you’ve probably figured out by now I could make a phone call and get verbal authorization to get on that boat within ten minutes. But that would mean involving your superiors, and if they’re in on this I don’t want them knowing someone other than locals are involved. It would jeopardize my mission, and it would put you in a compromising position, too. So let’s say we do this my way.”

“Okay, but it isn’t going to be easy. It’s under constant guard. Even if my people agree to let me on board, they sure as hell aren’t going to let you past, federal badge or not.”

Mack Bolan grinned. “Who said anything about asking them?”

T HE LUMINOUS GREEN NUMBERS on the digital wall clock read 3:23 a.m.

Although Barbara Price had perused Kurtzman’s intelligence four times in preparation for briefing Hal Brognola, it still frustrated her. The mission controller shook her head as she scrolled through the data displayed on the twenty-three-inch LCD monitor in the Computer Room of the Annex at Stony Man Farm.

Price got frustrated when she couldn’t seem to put her finger directly on something, even though she knew the answers were staring her in the face. Bolan, and the others in the field, Able Team and Phoenix Force, relied heavily upon her assessments. As mission controller, she gave the orders, after all. She had less of a hand where it concerned the Executioner—he called his own shots and they had an agreement on that particular subject—but he relied on Stony Man for his support. They couldn’t mandate what missions Bolan could take or not take. The choices were utterly his. Yet he never hesitated to lend a hand when called upon, and so at the very least they owed him good, solid intelligence when he asked for it.

“How’s it going?” a deep voice asked behind her.

Price jumped, then whirled in her chair. She felt her face flush. “What the hell is wrong with you? You scared the be-jeebers out of me!”

Aaron Kurtzman drew back his head and raised his arms. Her uncharacteristic reaction didn’t dawn on her immediately, but when it did she reeled back her temper and offered him an apologetic smile. She hadn’t meant to bark at him like that. Kurtzman had turned out to be her closest friend and confidant, which wasn’t surprising, since they spent many hours together at the Farm.

Kurtzman noticed her sheepish grin and accepted it as her way of apologizing. “My, my…Someone’s jumpy.”

“Not jumpy,” she replied, shaking her head. She looked back at the screen and sighed. “Just frustrated that I can’t figure this all out.”

“Well, I just came in to let you know Hal’s back from Wonderland, and he’s chomping at the bit.”

“Probably more like chomping at his unlit cigar,” Price said as she rose and scooped the computer printouts from the desk.

Kurtzman chuckled, then moved his wheelchair aside so Price could walk past. The click-clack of her heels reverberated off the walls of the hallway that eventually led to the underground tunnel connecting the Annex and the farmhouse. An electric car facilitated a faster transit time, but Price elected to walk the distance to clear her head, as well as to visit with Kurtzman.

“Any word from Striker?” she asked.

“Not since I talked to him earlier tonight.”

“Actually, that was last night,” Price reminded him with a wry grin.

“Touché.” Kurtzman cleared his throat. “I take it the data I sent you wasn’t that helpful.”

“It’s not the data, Bear,” she replied. “It’s my interpretation skills that seem to be off on this one. I can’t make heads or tails of this thing.”

“Well, maybe once you get it all out we can come up with something solid enough for Mack to work with.”

Her voice seemed weaker as she replied. “Maybe.”

They made the remainder of the trip in silence and within five minutes they were seated with Brognola in the War Room. The atmosphere actually made Price feel a little better, but it also caused her to realize how exhausted she really was. She hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours.

The Stony Man chief smiled at her, but she could see something deeper beneath the surface. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Brognola said. “At least nothing I want to get into right now. What have you got?”

“I wish I could say lots, but unfortunately I don’t know how much more I can tell you than you probably already know from reading Aaron’s intelligence.”

“Just lay it out for me and let’s see where it takes us,” Brognola said.

“Sure. Well, to start with it would seem Striker was right about the Golden Triangle as being our most likely source for this opium and heroin. Its opium production exceeds four thousand metric tons annually, and Myanmar remains the largest contributor to that overall. In fact, Myanmar could probably satisfy the majority of world demand for heroin, which equates to about two hundred metric tons uncut.”

Kurtzman whistled his surprise. “That’s some serious dope.” When Brognola and Price cast askance glances at him, he added, “No pun intended.”

Price continued, “Opium production was pretty much a closed market based on geography up until about a decade ago.”

“What changed?” Brognola asked.

“Mostly?” She shrugged. “Profit motive, I’d say. The various producers who had control of their regional territories decided they could all make more money if they pooled their resources in shipment and distribution. Since most of the north Asian and Middle East countries took second place when it came to places like Myanmar, they opted to defer to the Triangle for help and let them call the shots. Most of the product is now shipped into Taiwan and Vietnam, or smuggled south to Indochina, where it’s processed, packaged and exported. Mostly to the West.”

“Not that Southeast Asia doesn’t have its share of heroin addicts,” Kurtzman interjected.

“Of course,” Brognola said. “But the difference is many of the users there who get hooked are the same ones actually helping pick the crop. It’s how they make their living.”

“And others manage to make their living by getting our kids and politicians and educators hooked on the stuff,” Price said. “Like Hal said, it’s mostly an economic way of life for those people. Third World countries regionally cultivate poppy with scant interference from legal or political entities, and in some cases no interference. Central and South American countries, and places like Lebanon, are no longer the up-and-comers of poppy production like most people believe. Vietnam, for example, cultivates more than three thousand hectares of opium poppy plants regularly. Only because they don’t have the distribution system to support it do they have to funnel the majority of the product up through Taiwan and out of China.”

“Okay, so I’d hazard a guess and say it’s safe to assume Striker’s on the money about the source of these drugs,” Brognola said.

“I would agree with him one hundred percent,” Price replied with a nod.

“Any ideas on who’s behind it?”

“That’s been sort of the gotcha,” Price said. “There are any numbers of known overlords running the drug trade in the Golden Triangle. They’re all big names and, as of late, all seem to remain untouched by any form of recognized law enforcement over there.”

“Well, we’ve pretty much come to the consensus that the drugs are sourced in Myanmar. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who’s running things there and give that intelligence to Striker so he can act on it.”

“That’s the trouble,” Price said. “We don’t know whose operation it is anymore. Sung Suun was the man in charge up until about a year ago when he was killed during a police raid of his business holdings in downtown Pyinmana. Many of his competitors guess Suun’s own underlings actually murdered him, at his request, because he didn’t want to allow the authorities to capture him.”

“Nice,” Kurtzman said. “How did they cook up that theory?”

“I remember that,” Brognola answered. “Our own intelligence people figured it was probably a publicity stunt more than anything else. They figured his little drug empire would hold together better if he went down as a martyr.”

“And unfortunately,” Price added, “nobody was left to contradict the stories of his ‘heroic sacrifice,’ since the punishment for drug trafficking over there is death. As soon as a trafficker’s convicted, they take him out and put a bullet in the back of his head.”

“Sounds like we could learn a lesson or two from Myanmar’s government,” Kurtzman replied.

“Hardly,” Brognola replied with a snort. “Most of the public officials over there are just as corrupt as the dealers and drug lords.”

Price nodded. “It’s true. Whether anybody wants to admit it or not, drugs are a huge source of revenue for these people. They’ll never get fair prices from the majority of the countries to which they export legitimate goods and services, and most American companies who farm out cheap labor to that side of the world do so because the standards for work conditions and facilities aren’t nearly as stringent as they are here.”

“That almost sounds liberal, Barb,” Kurtzman said. “I’m surprised. I always took you for a conservative.”

“I’m for the truth, which is what that is…right, wrong or indifferent.”

“Okay, so Suun’s dead,” Brognola said with irritation evident in his voice. “What’s our alternative?”

“That’s where I’m totally stumped,” Price said. “Under normal circumstances we would have discovered who Suun’s replacement was and had our contacts keep tabs on him. But with the civil unrest that’s taken place over there the past couple of years, we’ve had to cope with distractions on a wider scale. That’s overshadowed our operations and made it much more difficult to keep our finger on the pulse of what’s actually happening in Myanmar.”

“Alternatives?” Brognola asked.

Price cleared her throat. “Well, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to bring this up, but I figure it can’t hurt to put anything and everything on the table at this point. One explanation might be that Myanmar is no longer the central point of production and distribution.”

“Explain,” Brognola replied quietly, furrowing his eyebrows.

Price reached to the printouts she’d brought and went right to a document halfway through the stack. “According to DEA statistics for just last year, America has a heroin-user population of more than two million people. That kind of demand has caused a sharp increase in opium imports. The primary crackdown area as far as the DEA is concerned has always been South American countries. Thus, most of our budget goes to operations there. That leaves the Southeast Asian heroin market wide-open. Most of drugs from the Golden Triangle come in through either maritime smuggling, mules over commercial flights or mail. The volume is simply too much for U.S. Customs agents to handle alone, and they aren’t getting much support from other agencies.”

Kurtzman shook his head. “Seems these days everyone’s way more worried about bombs and anthrax coming through the mail than dope.”

“Agreed,” Brognola replied. “So where do you think we should focus our efforts, Barb?”

“Well, a good number of those export maritime operations come out of places like Borneo, Sumatra and so forth. That accounts for almost fifteen percent of our total oil and gas, electrical appliances, textiles and rubber imports. Hardly anything comes from Myanmar. For lack of any other evidence, I think we should be looking at Indonesia, specifically Jakarta.”

“All right, start seeing what you can do about getting Striker a contact there.” He turned to Kurtzman. “Bear, touch base with Cowboy and see if he has any friends left who might be able to help us out. I’d prefer not to go through official channels if we don’t have to.”

“I’m on it,” Kurtzman said, and immediately wheeled himself out of the room.

Price and Brognola sat in silence a minute before Price said, “You want to let me in?”

“On what?” Brognola replied. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, withdrew a cigar and stuck it between his teeth.

“Don’t be coy,” Price replied. “What’s going on, Hal?”

“Nothing, just a usual earful from the President.” Brognola shrugged. “I guess he wasn’t entirely happy about all the noise Striker’s making. Apparently, he stepped on pretty big toes when he ran into that pair from Homeland Security.”

“Striker can handle himself,” Price reminded the Stony Man chief. “I don’t think he considers them much of a threat.”

“No, but the President’s a bit close to this one because Simon Lipinski’s daughter was killed. He wants results and he wants them quick, and he especially doesn’t want to have a discussion about it. The last thing I need is for him to rag on me about Striker’s thunderous, albeit effective, methods.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Hal,” Price said as she rose from her chair. “Striker’s there to get the job done and he’ll come away with results. Whether the President likes it or not is irrelevant. We go through this almost every time. I’ve never seen you quite this affected by it. Did something else happen?”

“There are…Damn.”

Price watched as something fell in Brognola’s countenance. His face went pale, the expression morose, and light playing on those gaunt features and ghostly complexion aged him a good twenty years in the blink of an eye. Price had never seen him look more drawn and defeated than just in that moment, and it caused her heart to feel as if it might leap right up to her throat and lodge there.

Price swallowed hard. “My God, Hal. What is it?”

“The President received several official recommendations from members within his staff that he cease all sensitive operations outside of those conducted by sanctioned federal agencies.”

“The President would never do that. I’m sure you can see that. I couldn’t count on my fingers and toes the people who know about the Farm. Even the blacksuits aren’t entirely aware of what goes on here. And how would these individuals even know about Stony Man anyway?”

“I don’t think they do know,” Brognola said. “Call it an educated guess, a fishing expedition. Maybe it’s just a reactionary move, a political reach for lack of any other real control on the Oval Office. My guess is they’re little more than lackeys riding on the coattails of some oversight committee member, and they’re jockeying for position by calling out any discrepancy they can find.”

Price shrugged and took her seat. “It all sounds like the standard cutthroat politics of Washington, D.C. I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it.”

“Mainly because the Man said he’s officially giving the proposal serious consideration.”

Price caught her breath. “What?”

“It’s true,” Brognola said. “I had it checked out with my best sources.”

“You have ears inside the White House?”

“Unfortunately, espionage is a necessary evil in this business.” He lowered his voice, and added, “You of all people can probably understand that. We live in a time where you have to know where you might have enemies. While our operations remain mostly clandestine, there are occasions where Stony Man’s security has been compromised. In those cases the lives of our people can become forfeit, and I won’t allow that to happen. We’ve had our operations compromised before and it resulted in terrible, terrible losses. I won’t let it happen again if it’s at all in my power.”

“But why?” Price asked. For the first time she could remember in a very long time, she felt helpless. “We haven’t given him any reason to disband Stony Man.”

“He’s the President. He doesn’t need one.”

Price swallowed hard. “This doesn’t make any sense, Hal.”

“None of it makes sense,” Brognola replied. “For now, I want you to keep this quiet. Nobody’s to know we had this conversation, including Striker. At least not until I’ve had some time to think about it. Is that clear?”

“It’s clear.” Price stood once more. “I’d better get to work. We need to put together some additional intelligence. We should be hearing from Striker soon.”

She started to turn, then thought better of it, stopped and put her hand gently on Brognola’s forearm. “This will all turn out okay, Hal. Trust me.”

6

“This isn’t going to work,” Rhonda Amherst told the Executioner.

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