“You’ve walked into something bigger than you ever figured.”

A sudden burst of confidence boosted Janssen’s ego. “One call and you’re history, Colonel. My employer can get you busted down to buck private.”

“You still don’t get it,” the Executioner said. “I don’t give a damn. You can’t touch me. I’m not in the system. Civilian or military.” Bolan moved his hand so Janssen could see the Beretta. “And this is all the backup I need.”

“So who are you working for?”

Even as the words left Janssen’s mouth his skull blew apart, filling the air with a hazy mist. As Janssen fell the distant bang of the shot reached Bolan’s ears. He was already dropping to the ground, Janssen’s shuddering corpse following him down.

Looking back over his shoulder, Bolan checked out the hole in the armory wall. Big. The bullet had punched through with ease.

A powerful and deadly weapon in the hands of a skilled shooter.

And now Bolan was a target.

System Corruption
Don Pendleton

The Executioner®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The principal foundations of all states are good laws and good arms; and there cannot be good laws where there are not good arms.

—Niccolò Machiavelli

1469–1527

The Prince

I will use all of the weapons at my disposal against those who decide they are above the law. Justice will prevail.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Prologue

The background hum of electronics faded to silence as Frank Carella read through the columns of figures on the wide monitor screen. He reread sections, confirming in his mind what he had just seen, because as reality hit home he found it almost impossible to digest and accept what he was seeing. He leaned an elbow on the console desk and rested his head in his hand, aware that he was trembling—not with excitement, but from sheer disbelief. Studying the scrolling tables, the lines of test results and the conclusions reached, he spent the next ten minutes going over the data, until he finally admitted to himself that his initial reaction had been correct.

The Ordstrom Tactical Group, the company he worked for, had taken negative test results for high-impact armored steel plates used in combat vehicles being supplied to the United States military and had passed those false results into the production system. Carella saw, too, that the specifications had been signed off by one of the company’s heads of quality control, and had been countersigned by Jacob Ordstrom, the CEO. The man not only owned OTG but also ran it like his personal fiefdom.

Carella had stumbled over the specifications by pure accident. He had been inputting fresh data into the company’s massive mainframe computer, working on information drawn from other computers around the manufacturing complex. A momentary power spike had caused a blip, forcing the backup system to shunt Carella’s current work into a safety file. It was standard operating procedure, a decision made by the online computer itself. Carella waited until he received the go-ahead to resume work, keying in the commands that would restore his data. When the file was restored to his monitor he saw a huge amount of extra data that had attached to the end of his string. Carella isolated his own data and saved it to a separate file, then returned to check out the mystery information.

The first thing he noticed was that he had been presented with data from a deletion cache. Someone had dumped a massive file, expecting it to be erased completely, but had neglected to key in the final code that would ensure no trace would be retained. Carella found himself intrigued by the large amount of data. His curiosity made him look further and that was where he found something that pinned him in his seat, staring at the document header. The file names rang a bell at the back of his mind. He tapped in more commands and began to scroll through the data. A sudden chill of unease enveloped him. He cross-referenced the data, moving back and forth, checking and rechecking. The more he dug the colder the chill became.

He brought up the current specs for the armor plating—the one being used in production. He applied a split screen, laying both sets of specifications side by side, and scrolled through the text. It only took him a dozen pages to confirm that the test failure spec was identical to the one being used to make the plating. Headings and dates had been altered, so the failed equations and tables were online as a successful development.

Carella froze, staring at the twin images on the large monitor.

What the hell was going on?

It was deception on a huge scale. Someone had made a conscious decision to push through the below-standard specifications as the genuine article, and the inferior armor plating was being manufactured and fitted to combat vehicles.

Why would OTG let itself be compromised? Carella wondered.

He knew the company had been struggling to meet contract deadlines. They were in tough competition with rival companies within the armaments business. There had been serious complaints from stockholders who were dissatisfied with results and had put Jacob Ordstrom under pressure.

That knowledge pushed its way to the forefront of Carella’s thoughts. He found he was having difficulty believing Ordstrom would allow himself to risk his integrity by doing such things. Yet he realized he couldn’t conjure up any other logical explanation.

His next thoughts were tinged with anger. Anger at the thought of American soldiers being put at risk. Wasn’t it enough that they were already at risk every day in the combat zones of Iraq and Afghanistan. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be accepted.

He had to do something.

But what?

Carella slid open a drawer and took out a pair of flash drives. He slid the first into the USB port, then set the computer to make a copy of the files he had on-screen. He retained the split-screen function. It took the computer a few minutes to download all the data. Carella then made a second copy. He capped the drives and dropped them into his jacket pocket. He reconfigured the two data sets and logged back on to his original task, completing the operation. He saved the data to the appropriate file, logged out, gathered his paperwork and pushed back from the desk.

He made his way out of the computer vault, using his security card in the reader to open the steel door. Stepping into the brightly illuminated outer walkway Carella realized he was sweating uncomfortably as he made his down to the security gate. He recognized the guard on duty and nodded to him.

“Late shift, Mr. Carella?” the man asked.

“Seems they’re becoming the norm, Lyall,” Carella said with a forced smile.

Carella placed his hand flat on the palm reader, feeling the soft vibration as the machine scanned his fingerprints. A subdued buzz gave him the all clear and he stepped through into the main corridor.

“You feeling okay?” Lyall asked, noticing the sheen of sweat on Carella’s flushed face.

Carella loosened his tie and opened the top button on his shirt. “Temperature’s up a little. Feel a little feverish.”

“You need to take something for that before it kicks in. Shot of whiskey and a good night’s sleep.”

Carella grinned, nodding. “Now that’s good advice, Lyall. Just what I need.”

Carella made his way through the Product Development Division, passing through two more checkpoints before he stepped outside. He made his way to the employee parking lot and into his car, where he sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and waiting for the tremors to pass. He passed a hand over his dry mouth. He really was ready for that shot of liquor right now.

He started the car and reversed out of his slot, swinging around and driving along the plant perimeter to the main gate, where he had yet another security check to endure. Clear of that he finally drove away from the sprawling site. OTG was like a small city, covering a massive acreage. It had, apart from development and the huge production facility, its own small hospital, restaurants and sports facilities. There was even a small bank on-site and a few stores. And of course the security division headed by Arnold Hoekken. The South African had a reputation as a hard man. He ran SecForce like his own private army. His dedication to the job came second only to his loyalty to Jacob Ordstrom.

Carella had heard the rumors about Hoekken. That he had left South Africa under a cloud after working for the state police. His work for Ordstrom was similar. Again, there were rumors about the way he zealously guarded his employer’s privacy and had no time for anyone who went against company regulations.

That made Carella remember the flash drives nestled in his pocket. If his actions were discovered Hoekken would come after him like a heat-seeking missile.

Carella didn’t allow himself to become complacent just because he was clear of the facility. He knew OTG’s reach went far beyond the outer perimeter. What he had done was with the best intentions—to expose what he saw as a betrayal of the American military. He did not regret that action for one second, but he did accept he had probably placed himself in danger.

Carella picked up the road home, the drive easy because it was late and he had missed rush hour. The farther he got from OTG the stronger his unease became. He found he was checking his mirrors more than normal, expecting to see…

“Come on, Frank, what the hell do you expect to see? A big black four-by-four tailing you?”

He felt a wry smile curl his lips as he attempted to brush off the paranoia. He didn’t succeed. He did become aware of his sweating palms. A sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He forced himself to think rationally. He glanced at his watch. It was just over an hour since he had logged off the computer and left the facility. How would anyone know what he had discovered? That thought only raised his concerns. He had never thought about it before, but what if OTG security had a way of registering individuals using the mainframe computer?

“Frank, you have to use your code to log on,” he reminded himself.

The mainframe held the company’s most sensitive material, so there had to be a way they could monitor who accessed it. It was common sense. OTG’s complex manufacturing base covered a wide range of military product. So they had to protect it.

“Idiot. You dumb-ass idiot.” His shout of frustration was contained inside the car, but Carella felt sure it could have been heard across the highway.

With the realization he had probably left what amounted to an identifying signature on the OTG computer records, Carella fell into a deep mood swing. He was screwed. No doubt about it. Once the record of his session was scanned and the material he had been viewing exposed, he would really be in trouble. The digital readout would more than likely show that he had also downloaded the data onto removable flash drives. The assumption would be that he had walked off-site with those drives. Once that fact was exposed Carella would become a hunted man.

He thought about turning around and returning to OTG. Handing over the data and admitting what he had done. All he had to do was come clean to Ordstrom. After all it had been nothing more than a mistake. He hadn’t gone looking for the data. It had been revealed to him because of a genuine computer glitch. A brief spike had put the information on his monitor without Carella even having to look for it. Surely even Ordstrom would see the innocence there.

“The hell he would,” Carella said out loud. “Come on, Frank, how do you talk away the fact you downloaded the damned information and walked off-site with it in your pocket?”

That was the thing. He had viewed the altered specifications and had then copied the data. Ordstrom wasn’t going to accept that had been a mistake, because it couldn’t be. Copying the files had been a deliberate act. Not a good thing.

And whatever else he had done, the fact remained that Frank Carella had read those files. He knew what had been hidden. Changing the specifications was a criminal act. There was no getting away from that. OTG would be in deep trouble if the facts were released. And Jacob Ordstrom, being the head man, would catch the fallout. As big as he was, Ordstrom would have a hell of a job explaining away such a deliberate fraud.

So Frank Carella had dealt himself into a game that was about to have its stakes hit the roof. He needed to stay calm—to assess the situation and the possible repercussions. Because there were certainly going to be repercussions.

He spotted the lights of a diner ahead and, without thinking, pulled in to the parking lot. He switched off the motor and sat in the shadows, staring out of the windshield at the garish illuminations over the door of the diner. He looked at the lights but saw nothing after a while. When he moved he felt the flash drives in his pocket. For a moment he wanted to take them out and crush them underfoot. Destroy them. Get rid of the evidence.

The roar of a passing diesel rig snapped him out of his immobility. Carella climbed out of the car and crossed to the diner. He went inside and chose an empty booth. He ordered coffee. Through the dusty window he could see his own car, beyond it the highway. He was expecting that big, black 4x4 to show up. He would watch it cruise alongside his car before the occupants stepped out and headed for the diner…

“You want a top-up…oh, you haven’t even drunk that yet.”

Carella glanced up at the waitress, who was standing by his table with the steaming coffeepot in her hand. She was attractive, and the smile on her face was genuine.

“I’m okay,” he said.

“Honey, you look like you got a load of trouble on your shoulders. Bad day at the office?”

Carella managed a grin.

“You could put it that way,” he said. “But I got it figured now. Hey, how about a piece of pie to go with the coffee.”

The woman nodded and left.

Perspective had returned. Carella knew what he was going to do. True, he was in deep. OTG was not going to walk away and forget him. And he was not about to let them get away with their deception. If he had put himself on the spot, he was damned if he was going to give up without a fight.

1

The ending could have been marked down as inevitable but for the intervention of one man.

His name was Mack Bolan.

The Executioner.

It began for Bolan on a warm day at Arlington National Cemetery, watching with an old friend as a man buried his only son.

It began with the shadow of betrayal hanging over the proceedings.

With the taint of deceit and the cloak of a cover-up.

It began out of despair. With the plea of a grieving father turning to the only man he knew who could— who would —help.

Bolan, dressed soberly in black, stood a distance away from the main group, as Hal Brognola consoled his friend. That was the only incentive Bolan needed.

Colonel Dane Nelson was the reason for his attendance. It would have taken a miracle of denial to have kept Brognola away, and especially so on such a tragic occasion. Bolan was here for his friend. Dane Nelson was here because he was saying goodbye to his son. The military funeral was in respect for a young man who had served his country with distinction. Brognola, Bolan, Nelson and his son were all linked by an unbreakable bond that needed little verbal expression.

Nelson’s request had reached Bolan via Brognola through a telephone call filtered through various links until it registered on the unlisted cell he carried. Mack Bolan had a small list of people he regarded as friends in an increasingly hostile world. His life cast him as a transient figure, moving in and out of the shadows, waging his unending war against those who regarded the world as their personal playground on which to act out their evil. Bolan never bemoaned his self-appointed status. He considered himself a fortunate individual, able to strike out against the injustice that plagued so many. They were in no position to fight back. The Executioner acted on their behalf. It cast him as a loner, having to stand aside from normality , so any connections he had with his small gathering of real friends were cherished.

Nelson’s request had been, true to the man’s nature, brief and succinct. He gave the date and location of the funeral, asked Brognola to attend, adding that he had something to discuss that wouldn’t keep. Brognola, in his role as Director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group, had his suspicions about what his old friend wanted to discuss.

So Bolan was here, waiting in respectful silence as the crack of the honor guards’ rifles brought a reminder that while he no longer wore the uniform of his country, he still affirmed his legacy toward its military. He had worn his own uniform with pride, had fulfilled his term and still felt the loss when he was aware of any American who died for the cause. He’d seen pictures of Nelson’s son, Francis, over the years. Brognola told stories of the young man who was a carbon copy of his father. The last time had been just after Francis had donned the uniform. Nothing had been said but Bolan had seen the quiet pride in Brognola’s eyes as he spoke of the young soldier heading out on his first deployment.

Now they were here, watching the boy being buried, and Bolan knew that the father would carry more than just grief in his heart.

Bolan stayed where he was until Brognola and Nelson were alone at the graveside. Nelson’s head bowed, his broad shoulders starting to sag a little. The Executioner walked across the green lawn and joined them, taking his own silent moment to offer his thoughts.

“Thanks for coming,” Nelson said. “Francis would have liked it that you were here,” he said to Brognola.

“Goodbye, Francis. I’ll keep watch over you,” Nelson said. He reached out to lay a hand on Brognola’s shoulder. “We need to talk, Hal. I need your help.” He looked at Bolan, who simply nodded.

As they walked the peaceful ground, surrounded by the silence that lay over America’s fallen, Nelson pushed himself erect again. He was as tall as Bolan. Older. In full dress uniform, displaying the campaign ribbons and medals he had won over the years, Dane Nelson was an imposing figure. Still lean and fit, only the graying hair and the faint pattern of lines in his face betrayed his age. Bolan had noticed the lack of shine in his eyes. The death of his son had sucked out some of his pride.

“I need your help,” Nelson repeated.

“Just ask, Colonel,” Bolan said.

“No rank here. Just old friends.” The voice faltered a little as he smiled sadly at Brognola. Then Nelson sharpened his tone. “They killed him. He was murdered, Hal. I know it.” Nelson paused, checking Bolan’s expression. “No questions?”

“I never doubted your word in the past. No reason to start now. What happened?” Brognola asked.

“Francis was investigating some kind of fraud that originated from the Ordstrom Tactical Group. You’ve heard of it?”

“Big corporation, heavily into military ordnance. Jacob Ordstrom is the president. Word is he has the ear of the main people in politics and the military,” the big Fed replied.

“OTG manufactures everything from flak jackets up to armored vehicles. Ordstrom is a heavy hitter. His eye is fixed on the dollar signs in every contract he gains. Met him once, years ago, and I didn’t like him then. Something about the man that made my skin crawl.”

“You always were a good judge of character, Dane,” Brognola said.

Nelson’s brief smile had a bitter twist.

They moved across the carefully tended lawns. Nelson seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bolan and Brognola allowed him his silence until Nelson was ready to speak.

“A few weeks ago Francis was contacted by a friend. Cal Ryan. They had known each other for a number of years. Ryan is a respected journalist. An astute reporter. A smart man. After Francis spoke to Ryan he called me, said we needed to meet. When we did he told me Ryan had discovered anomalies within OTG design specifications. Test results had been doctored and ordnance put into production. Ryan made the first discoveries and began to look deeper. There were similar flaws in other items. When he checked them out he realized that OTG was falsifying test results and putting these specs into production. It appeared that by doing this OTG was saving millions on production and development costs, enabling them to complete contracts well ahead of time.”

“Wasn’t Ordstrom already making enough money?” Brognola asked.

“Ryan told Francis that OTG had gone through a lean patch. Ordstrom needed to keep his cash flow going, so the shortcuts were activated. Ryan made more discreet investigations and found the company was maintaining the deception even after their finances evened out.”

“Ordstrom got a taste for it,” Bolan said.

“Ryan said the man has a lot of palms to grease. Officials in the government’s procurement departments. With all the military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan the need for equipment is ongoing and vast.”

“And the guys on the front line get issued with low-standard equipment,” Bolan said.

Nelson nodded. “That’s the bottom line. It’s more, really. Ordstrom has connections with government, contractors. He’s done some deals for the CIA. Worked with some suspect regimes. Ryan tapped in to sources that hinted at Ordstrom’s covert dealing with illegal backdoor dealing.”

“So how did Francis take it when he heard about the substandard equipment? I’d guess he was pretty upset,” Brognola said.

“You knew his feelings for the military. He had a great relationship with the men he had commanded.”

“Just like his father, if I recall.”

“Francis wanted to blow the lid off the whole thing. He was ready to go rip Ordstrom’s throat out. He took a great deal of convincing to take it carefully. Even Ryan made him promise to back off until he gathered enough material evidence.”

“I see a big but coming.”

“It all blew out later. Apparently Ryan had mentioned to Francis that he had discovered some army personnel who were involved. They were part of a test unit that had been signing off on the faulty equipment. No way they would have missed the substandard quality.”

“Ryan must have been working overtime on this,” Brognola said.

“I said he was smart, Hal. He was angry, too. At the way American lives were at risk because of what Ordstrom’s company is doing. He was digging. Searching into everything he could. Gathering evidence.”

“And Francis?”

“I believe that when he learned the names of the military personnel involved he couldn’t stand back any longer. He was on leave from the army after his recent hitch in Iraq. As far as I knew he’d gone off on a vacation. I didn’t find out until later that he went to this base and did some snooping on his own. He told me when he came back. Hal, he must have tipped his hand. Three days later he was dead. Shot in the back. The police told me he was the victim of an attempted carjacking gone wrong. They said he had strayed into a bad part of town. That was crap. Francis would have no reason to do a thing like that. He knew Washington like his own backyard. And he was a combat vet. Not a damn raw recruit.” Nelson shook his head in disbelief at his own words.

“I pulled a favor with an old cop friend and he did some checking. The bullet they took out of Francis was military issue. Fifty caliber. Browning machine gun cartridge. The type they use in the M-107 sniper rifle. Since when do street gangs get their hands on that kind of specialist weapon?”

“You believe the people he’d been checking out got scared and arranged to have him stopped?” Brognola asked.

“It was all too convenient. Directly after Francis was killed I received a call from Ryan. He said he was sure OTG was on to him. He’d heard about Francis and blamed himself for getting him involved. I set him straight on that. Francis wouldn’t have ignored what was going on. He went in knowing the risk. The same as going into combat. It was part of his job. Ryan told me he was going to pull back—gather all his evidence before he did anything final. His last words were that he would be at the funeral. I might not see him, but he would be there. I did spot him for an instant during the ceremony. Well away from the main group. I knew he’d come.”

“Public opinion is pretty well divided over our involvement in the Middle East and Afghanistan,” Brognola said. “It would make a big noise if it came out our soldiers were deliberately being sent into combat with faulty equipment.”

“They already are, Hal. Francis must have pinned it down and paid the price. Maybe not in the field, but he was involved.”

Nelson lowered his eyes for a moment. “Hal, I didn’t know who else to speak to.”

“Hey, you know I’ll help. Leave this with me. You stay low. We need to talk, call me on this cell number.” He recited the number. “Don’t use your home phone or your office. Always find a pay phone,” the big Fed warned him.

They reached Nelson’s official car. A uniformed man sat behind the wheel.

“Chauffer driven now?” Brognola said.

“Goes with the desk at the Pentagon,” Nelson replied. He held out a hand.

Brognola gripped it. “Dane, you know how I felt about Francis. There’s no way this is going to be ignored.”

“Thanks,” he said and held out his hand to Bolan.

“Cooper, Colonel Nelson. Matt Cooper. I’ll be in touch about that matter.” Bolan raised his voice in case the driver was listening.

Nelson didn’t miss a beat. He nodded. “Grateful for your help, Mr. Cooper.”

The two men stood back and watched Nelson climb into the car. It eased away, following the curve of the road that led through the cemetery.

Still watching, Bolan saw a black SUV fall in behind Nelson’s car. He nodded at Brognola then retraced his steps and returned to his own parked car, a rental he had picked up from the airport when he had arrived earlier. He headed out and kept Nelson’s tail car in view. The dark SUV maintained its distance behind the colonel’s vehicle.

Following the tail car, Bolan knew it was not a coincidence. The black SUV stayed behind Nelson’s vehicle all the way across town. It had several opportunities to pass and drive on, but it held its position. Unobtrusive. Keeping at least two cars between it and Nelson. Bolan did the same, his curiosity aroused now.

Dane Nelson’s story of the death of his son replayed in Bolan’s mind. He felt for the man. Nelson’s pride in the way Francis had joined the military and served with distinction was evident. Bolan knew Nelson had done nothing to push Francis into a military career. He had allowed his son to make his own choice. A man chose the military because there was something inside him that needed fulfillment. The army life was not for everyone. For those who chose it the military offered a good life. Serving the nation was a calling. Francis Nelson had that calling. Once he put on the uniform of his country he became part of the family.

Brognola had told Bolan that Francis showed great promise, rising through the ranks in rapid time without favor from his father, who stood back quietly and watched his son’s progress. Francis earned his promotions the hard way. He picked up his experience by volunteering for combat duty whenever it presented itself and earned his officer status after a prolonged stay in Afghanistan. He commanded his own squad. Won their respect through sheer dedication and a caring attitude for his men. When he was posted to Iraq he went with his own squad and served a number of hitches that saw them involved in some hard fighting.

It had, Bolan thought, been typical of Francis Nelson to step up and involve himself in the OTG affair. Once the young man had been made aware that OTG’s deceptions were placing American soldiers in harm’s way he would have been eager to help Cal Ryan expose the deceit.

Now Francis Nelson was dead. Shot down in his own country after surviving the hell of Iraq. That was injustice in Mack Bolan’s eyes.

And if there was one thing the Executioner hated with a passion it was injustice.

2

Bolan kept a safe distance behind the car tailing Dane Nelson. Instinct warned him the occupants of the vehicle were not about to offer their belated condolences to the colonel. That time was already in the past.

Whoever they were, the colonel’s shadows knew enough to simply keep him in their sights until they had cleared the city and were on the interstate. Nelson had a house that stood in lush forested Virginia hills, overlooking a placid lake, with the closest neighbor at least a quarter mile away. The approach to the house was along a quiet road well off the main highway. Bolan suspected that would most likely be the place for any move they might make. It was also entirely possible the men in the car were from one of the agencies, maybe even military, simply keeping an eye on Nelson. He considered that and tucked it away until the occupants of the tail car decided to show their true colors.

That came fast enough.

Nelson’s car accelerated without warning, the driver arcing it around a bend and taking a side road that pushed into open country, with little more than open fields and acres of green trees on either side. Dust billowed up from the tires, misting the air as the car picked up the pace. The SUV put on a burst of speed, starting to swing out to run alongside Nelson’s vehicle.

Bolan slipped his right hand under his jacket, easing his Beretta 93-R from the shoulder rig. He worked the selector lever by touch, setting the pistol on single shot. Then he swapped hands. Right on the wheel, his left gripping the auto pistol. Bolan powered down the driver’s window, pushing his own foot down on the gas pedal, and felt the powerful engine respond smoothly. The car closed in on the SUV.

A figure leaned out of one of the SUV’s left side windows, a squat submachine gun in his hands. The muzzle was aimed toward Nelson’s car.

Too close, Bolan thought, and triggered his weapon, driving a shot through the SUV’s rear window. His intention was to distract those in the vehicle. As the glass shattered, the exposed shooter threw a swift glance in Bolan’s direction. Judging Bolan to be the bigger threat, he opened up with his weapon. Bolan felt the slugs whine off the rental car’s roof. He didn’t allow the shooter the chance to realign his weapon. Swinging his car to the right he gained a view of the shooter. Bolan flipped the selector to tri-burst mode and braced his elbow on the window frame and tracked in with the Beretta. He stroked the trigger and fired off half the magazine. With the rocking motion of the car and the erratic travel of the SUV, accurate fire was difficult. Bolan managed to place a couple of shots close enough to force the shooter to retreat back inside.

Nelson’s driver used Bolan’s intervention to step on the gas, taking the car away from the SUV. Ignoring any kind of safety precautions he throttled hard, the heavy car bouncing and swaying along the narrow track. The maneuver worked only for as long as it took for the SUV’s driver to regain his own line of travel. As the SUV drew parallel with the colonel’s car the shooter opened up, raking the vehicle at window level. The car veered, clipping the SUV’s front bumper before angling away in an erratic swerve. It left the road and bounced its way across the uneven ground, the SUV following and moving to close in again.

Bolan slammed down hard on the gas pedal. He closed the gap and cut across the front of the larger vehicle. Dust billowed as the SUV driver stood on his brakes, bringing the heavy vehicle to a skidding stop.

Bolan shoved open his door and stepped from the car, his Beretta already lining up as the SUV’s back door opened, disgorging the shooter and his submachine gun. As the guy made to step around the open door Bolan hit him with a tri-burst to the chest. The shooter fell partway back inside the SUV. The moment he fired Bolan changed position, crouching and circling the SUV, catching the second shooter to emerge. They exchanged shots, the SUV man firing from behind his open door. Bolan had a clear field and he punched holes in the shooter’s lower legs. The shooter sank to his knees, clinging to his auto pistol. Bolan triggered a final burst from the Beretta and the man went backward with a chest full of 9 mm slugs weighing him down.

Bolan ejected the magazine from the Beretta, snapping in a fresh one from his pocket. He turned swiftly back toward the SUV. He caught a glimpse of the driver fumbling with a weapon through the window, raised the Beretta and fired, shattering glass and hitting the man. He fell away from his driving position.

The moment he had delivered his shots Bolan climbed back into his own car and fell in behind Nelson’s vehicle. The military car was slowing, lurching, as the driver obviously struggled to keep it under control. Bolan saw the car come to a sudden stop. He braked and climbed out, crossing to check it out. He yanked open the rear door and saw Nelson curled up on the seat. There was evident blood spatter. Up front the driver, the back of his uniform holed and bloody, was clawing at his door handle.

“Take it easy, soldier,” Bolan said. “We’ll get help.”

“How’s the colonel? How is he?” the driver asked.

“Alive,” Nelson said, pushing himself up off the seat. He turned and saw Bolan’s face bending over him. “You get them?”

“It needs finishing,” Bolan said. “You able to deal with this first?”

Nelson, a hand clutching at his bloody shoulder, nodded.

Bolan helped him out of the car and led the colonel around to the driver’s door. They got it open and eased the wounded driver onto the ground. The man was still losing blood and had lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Do it,” Nelson said and saw Bolan turn and walk away.

As Bolan approached the SUV he saw the rear passenger door swing open, and a bloodied figure half tumbled from the vehicle. The shooter still had his hands clutched around the submachine gun. When he saw the Executioner he started to lift the weapon. Bolan hit him with a pair of 9 mm slugs in the chest. The force slammed the man against the side of the SUV, pinning him there until gravity took over and he toppled facedown in the dirt. Closing on the SUV, Bolan saw movement from the driver’s seat. The man raised his head and looked at Bolan through the shattered window. He grabbed for the pistol holstered under his jacket, blood-sticky fingers slipping on the grips. He shouldered the door open, twisting around to face his enemy. A 9 mm slug took away his final thoughts, along with a portion of his skull, and spattered the steering wheel with bloody debris.

Bolan checked the SUV’s interior. As expected, the vehicle was clean. He went through the pockets of the dead men. There was nothing to identify the men or the SUV. Their fingerprints might give some clue to their identities, but that was out of Bolan’s hands.

He made his way back to Nelson’s car. The colonel had located the first-aid box and was doing what he could to staunch the blood flow from his driver’s wounds.

“How is he?” Bolan asked, crouching beside them.

“Couple in the back. Listen, Cooper. I called it in. Police and ambulance are on their way. You should get out of here. No point you getting involved.”

“Colonel, I am involved. How’s your shoulder?”

Nelson smiled. “I’m fine. Now haul ass, mister. I’ll handle the flak on this one. You’re better out there on your own. Last thing you need are the cops on your tail. Hal told me you were the right man for this.”

“You have Hal’s number. If you get anything from the cops that might help, pass it along.”

Bolan refused to leave until he had fashioned a temporary pressure pad that he bound to Nelson’s shoulder. He made the colonel sit with his back to the car.

“No moving around, Colonel.”

“I won’t. Now go. And stay loose, soldier.”

Bolan stood. “You sure you can hold on until they get here?”

Nelson was pale, obviously in pain. “I have to. I buried my son today, Cooper. I owe him justice for what happened.”

“We both do, sir, and he’ll get it.”

“Stay on this road about a mile. Take a right and it’ll take you back to the main highway.”

Bolan returned to his car and drove off. He saw Nelson’s car shrink as he gained distance.

However he looked at the situation he was definitely involved. Fate had decreed Mack Bolan’s participation and he would not shy away from his responsibilities.

3

Frank Carella recalled something a friend had said to him some weeks back. It was a passing remark during a social evening out with friends. One of those friends, Cal Ryan, was a feature writer for one of the Washington news groups. He’d mentioned to Carella that he was working on an article that was going to expose shady deals within the armaments industry. Ryan had joked about OTG being one of his targets. He hadn’t said anything more, moving on to another of the group, leaving Carella with the casual remark.

By the time the evening was over and Carella was on his way home with his girlfriend, Ryan’s words were lost in the slight alcoholic haze that had settled over Carella’s thinking process. He had forgotten completely by the following morning, and back at work the next morning it was business as usual.

Until now.

In his apartment he fed the flash drives into his home computer and sat reviewing the data. A couple of hours passed. Realization hit home. Carella slumped back in his seat. He took his eyes from the monitor, the on-screen information a blur. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a mug of coffee. He stood in the doorway looking across the room at the monitor, trying to decide what to do.

And it was then he remembered what Ryan had said about looking into the armaments business. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Ryan since that evening. It was not unheard of for the journalist to vanish into the woodwork when he was working an assignment. The man threw himself into his work, moving around as he dug for facts.

Carella picked up the phone and speed-dialed Ryan’s home number. The phone rang no more than a couple of times before it was picked up.

“Cal? Frank Carella.”

“Frank.”

Carella immediately picked up on Ryan’s monotone response. “Cal, you okay?”

“To be honest, no. I went to a funeral yesterday. Guess I’m still not over it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Family?”

“You remember my friend Francis Nelson?

“Sure. In the military. Was in Iraq a while ago. He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened, Cal? Was he overseas again?”

Ryan’s short laugh had a bitter edge to it.

“He was home. Isn’t that a bummer. The kid was helping me out on an assignment. Looking into irregularities at an army base in Texas. Camp Macklin. Sorry to tell you, Frank, but it was to do with your company.”

“OTG?” Carella shook his head at the coincidence.

“Francis was found dead here in Washington shortly after his visit to Texas. A bullet in his back severed his spine. He was alone in his car. Police said the bullet clipped his main artery and he just bled out because the bullet had paralyzed him.”

“Jesus, Cal, I’m sorry. He was a good kid. I remember him from the times we met. Lesley will be upset. She liked him.”

There was a brief silence before Ryan spoke again.

“Why did you call me, Frank?”

“Would you believe it has to do with OTG? Something that will fit what you’re looking into.”

“Serious stuff?”

“High as it can go. Files on altered production specs for combat vehicles OTG builds under contract. I copied it all onto flash drives and walked out of OTG with it.”

“I’ve been uncovering similar deals. Poor quality body armor for combat troops. Flak jackets. Below specification items. And I have a few names, too. Some government, some military.”

“You think Francis was killed because he got too close?”

“Yes.”

“His father must have taken it badly.”

“He did. But he promised me further help if I needed it.”

“This information I have, Cal. I came across it in a dump cache. Looked as if someone was supposed to have deleted it but they didn’t complete the operation. These files should add to your evidence. What do you want to do?”

“Grab them with both hands, Frank. Listen, if OTG gets a sniff you’ve got this stuff they’ll come after you. I know they killed Francis. That should tell you all you need to know. Jacob Ordstrom is a mean son of a bitch. I’ve learned enough about him to be wary. He has connections that go a long way up the ladder in Washington and the military. I need to get hold of that stuff and lose myself before OTG picks up on it.”

“Will your paper print it? I mean, if Ordstrom has such clout, will it reach as far as your bosses?”

“Good question, buddy. Let me do a little thinking. I’ll get back to you. Frank, I’m not trying to scare you but don’t trust anyone from the cops on up. If Ordstrom realizes what you have he’ll use any means to get it back. And that means he’ll pull in everyone on his payroll. Just let me work on this. In the meantime, lay low. Don’t let those files out of your hands. Stay by a phone.”

“You’ve got my home and cell numbers?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t take too long coming up with your master plan.”

“I won’t.”

Carella completed the call. He stood with the phone in his hand, wondering whether to call his girlfriend. In the end he decided against it. Ryan’s news about the way Francis Nelson had died rang warning bells. If Francis had been murdered to silence him, OTG would employ the same strategy if they discovered what he had walked off with. The very thought terrified him. He admitted that outright. Frank Carella was no hero. Just a man who had unwittingly been presented with information he could not, in all conscience, ignore. The accidental discovery of the hidden files on the OTG computer system had most likely made him a marked man.

4

Jacob Ordstrom’s office covered enough floor space to house an average family. Ordstrom was ultrawealthy and liked to surround himself with the full set of trappings. A tall and classically handsome man in his mid-forties, his thick dark hair starting to streak with gray, Ordstrom considered himself to be above ordinary people, indispensible and existing on a higher plane. That he was disliked by most of the people around him was common knowledge to Ordstrom, but his wealth and position afforded him the ability to stand above the criticism. He walked in hallowed circles, being on first-name terms with leaders in the government and military. Ordstrom played on his popularity, used his imperial clout to gain favors and was never behind the door when it came to exploiting his influence.

OTG ranked high when it came to assessing companies who supplied the U.S. military. The products offered by OTG were sought after by the procurement arms of the military. And often there were inducements that went from hand to hand. Inducements went in both directions. Ordstrom had his own mouths to feed. He was, by nature, a highly competitive animal. He would, and did, deal with anyone, foreign or national, who came up with the finances. The word scruples did not exist in Ordstrom’s world. He went after business opportunities with single-minded dedication. He had no equals when it came to the chase. Ordstrom had an innate capacity for seeing problems and dealing with them before they were fully formed.

Dealing with them. Crushing them. Whatever was necessary.

When Arnold Hoekken walked into his office, crossing to confront his employer, Ordstrom smelled potential trouble. He recognized the look in Hoekken’s eyes. The South African security specialist was not known for his sense of humor, or his laid-back attitude. He was a consummate professional and he took his responsibilities seriously.

“Arnie,” Ordstrom said—he was the only person Hoekken allowed to use the abbreviated name—as the six-foot-six blond-haired figure neared him. “Arnie, you’re giving me that ‘I’m pissed about something’ look.”

Hoekken towered over the desk, and glanced briefly beyond Ordstrom, taking in the wide view of the facility from the large picture window dominating that wall of the office.

“I need your permission to act immediately on a security breach. If we don’t come down on this fast we are all going to be in serious trouble.”

“Well, it must be serious if you’re asking my permission. Haven’t we established that as security head you work on your own initiative?”

“This goes beyond my purview.”

The hard edge to Hoekken’s voice alerted Ordstrom to the gravity of the matter. He pushed forward from the comfort of his soft leather executive chair.

“Christ, Arnie, now you are worrying me.”

“Frank Carella was working at the hub. There was a minor spike in the power and the computer initiated a safe mode to grab his input. When Carella went back into his file it had imported the entire ASP22 document.”

Ordstrom didn’t react. He simply stared across the desk at his security head. Hoekken waited until his chief spoke.

“That’s impossible. The file was deleted after Clarence adjusted the format.”

“It should have been deleted, but it wasn’t. Now Carella has seen it. The security cameras showed him working at the computer. The access log shows what he was looking at and also that he made copies. He was clear of the building before his intrusion was spotted. We need to find him before he gets religion and uses that information to bury us.”

Ordstrom slammed his fist down on the desk. “The last thing we need is negative publicity with the oversight conference coming up in the next couple of weeks.”

“Agreed,” Hoekken said. “We need to clean this up now.”

“Reading my mind again, Arnie?” Ordstrom grimaced as streams of thought crowded his mind. “That fucking computer. You know what we did wrong? We let the suppliers make that damned thing too smart. It should have completely erased all traces of ASP22. Instead it puts the file in a dark corner and sits on it. I’ll sue that company for every penny it’s got.”

“We can do that later,” Hoekken said, dismissing the notion and moving on. “Right now Carella has that file. He’s out there running free. We have to corner that little shit and stamp him into the ground.”

“You came in here asking for permission to go after Carella. Okay, you have it, Arnie. Find him. Do whatever it takes but make sure he doesn’t get the chance to get righteous on us.”

“Whatever it takes?”

Ordstrom nodded. “Wipe out his family if you have to. As long as it doesn’t point the finger back at us. Use whoever you need. Hire whoever you need. Any problem there?”

“No. I have my contacts.”

“Open checkbook on this, Arnie. Use the special fund. Christ, if this goes public it won’t just be us going down.”

Hoekken understood.

The suppression of ASP22 was crucial. Ordstrom knew the project encompassed both government and military individuals. Money, favors and promises of continuous cooperation with OTG had brought in more members of the illicit maneuvering. Any disturbance would quickly expand to bring down the entire house of cards. He did have protection from high levels, but any hint of scandal that might taint them would be frowned on.

Jacob Ordstrom, who had started his monolithic empire in a tin shed, meant to remain in his current position. There was too much to lose. He had used violence and double-dealing during his rise to power. It would lose him no sleep to have to use them again.

“Do you think Carella will turn the file in?” he asked his security man.

“No doubt there, sir. Carella is a decent man. That won’t allow him to ignore what he’s found. It’s why he made those copies.”

“Maybe he’s going to blackmail us. Ask for money.”

Hoekken shook his head. “Not Carella. Not his style.”

“Fuck his style, Arnie. Make his new one dead . Get it done.”

Before Hoekken had reached the door Ordstrom was reaching for his private phone. He had to make some calls. The sooner he alerted certain people, steps could be taken to keep the situation under wraps.

He heard the phone ringing, heard the soft sound as it was picked up. Ordstrom swiveled his chair around so he could stare out through the window.

“Morning, Clarence,” he said. “We need to meet. Right away. Fine, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

I N HIS OWN OFFICE , down the hall from Ordstrom’s, Arnold Hoekken was making calls of his own. He had contacts who were on retainer. Now was the time they could start to earn that money. Hoekken’s calls were to disposable, unregistered cell phones presented to the contacts against the day their services would be required.

Like now .

He finished his calls and received one of his own. Ordstrom summoned him back to his office.

“C OME ON IN , A RNIE ,” Ordstrom said.

Hoekken stepped inside and closed the door. He acknowledged the pudgy-faced man sitting in front of Ordstrom’s desk.

“Clarence is the reason for the problem we have. He was supposed to delete ASP22. It was one of your assignments, Clarence, but you made a mess of it and now we are in trouble.”

“Why?” Clarence Mitchelberg asked.

“Why?” Ordstrom smiled at the other’s naiveté. “Because if the data falls into the wrong hands and we find ourselves being investigated they might uncover our other activities. Like the backdoor arms sales to unfriendly regimes. The financial deals we’ve handed out to foreign undesirables. Oh, let’s not forget the money laundering operations we run through OTG’s books for our foreign customers. All extremely lucrative and all of them fucking illegal. As well you know. Plus the manufacture of below-specification protective plating.”

“It won’t happen, Jacob,” Mitchelberg said. “This can be smoothed over to protect you.”

Ordstrom leaned forward, anger blazing in his eyes.

“ You protect me? ” he snapped, jabbing a finger at Mitchelberg. “It’s because of your ineptitude we are in this mess. You were responsible for deleting those files. You made a fuck job of it. Instead of following through you let the computer finish off so you could go home early. You, Clarence, are an asshole. A fucking joke. Right, Arnie?”

Hoekken nodded. “He’s right, Clarence.”

It became very quiet in the room.

Mitchelberg sank back in his armchair, looking as if he wanted it to swallow him.

“I believe we’ve said all we need to. Arnie, would you arrange for Clarence’s car to be brought to the front. I think he’s ready to leave for the day. He seems to have something on his mind. Clarence, go home. Keep out of my sight until I send for you.”

After Mitchelberg had left the office Ordstrom leaned back in his seat. “Early retirement?” he suggested.

Hoekken nodded. “Very early,” he agreed.

The following day Clarence Mitchelberg’s body was found at the side of the road, close to his home. As far as the police investigation could make out, Mitchelberg was the victim of a hit-and-run. There were no witnesses.

5

“Colonel Stone, Special Agent, Army CID,” Bolan said, showing the holder carrying the badge and his ID card. “Here on official business, Corporal Huston. This is an unannounced inspection.”

The sentry at the gate of the Camp Macklin Texas military base checked the ID and the man sitting at the wheel of the gleaming black Crown Victoria. The ID stated that Brandon Stone was indeed a colonel in the Army Criminal Investigation Division. Carl Huston knew enough about the investigators from CID not to screw around with the man…. On the other hand he also knew they expected professional conduct from anyone who came into contact with them. Huston threw a sharp, by-the-book salute. One look at the grim-faced colonel and Huston knew the guy was for real.

“So you are not expected, sir?” he asked.

Mack Bolan took the ID back, giving the sentry a cold stare.

“If I let everyone know I was coming I’d never catch them in the act, would I, Corporal?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s why it is designated as an unannounced inspection. You go about your duties, Huston. I’ll inform those who need to know that I’m here.” Bolan nodded in the direction of the barrier and waited until Huston pressed the button to raise it. “Carry on, Corporal.”

Huston watched the car drive onto the base. He lowered the barrier as he stepped back inside the hut. His hand reached for the phone, then drew back. If he let the base commander know CID was on the way, Stone would know. Colonel Bosley was a good CO, but he was no gung-ho hard man. Bosley liked things to run quiet and smooth. And he was no actor. The moment Stone walked into his office Bosley would give himself away. Bosley might give Huston a dressing down later. That was preferable to upsetting a hard-ass like Stone, and definitely preferable to getting on the CID’s list as not being trustworthy.

B OLAN FOLLOWED THE marked signs that showed the way to Camp Macklin’s HQ building. It had been some time since he had set foot on a military base. It had been a longer time since he had been in the service himself, but the feeling was still there—the sense of belonging to the extended family that permeated the base. It never left a man once he had worn the uniform.

Bolan studied the buildings, the neat layout of the place. In the distance he picked up the sound of men being drilled, the instructors’ commands carrying across the base. Time moved on but the very essence of military life remained constant. When he parked alongside the other vehicles outside the HQ building and stepped out, Bolan stood and let the ambience wash over him. Then he turned and strode toward the building, affecting the ingrained stance of a military man, despite being dressed in a civilian suit, white shirt and dark tie, the day-to-day uniform of a CID agent.

Walking into the outer office Bolan caught the attention of the army clerk behind one of the desks. The office was empty save for the young soldier.

“Colonel Stone, CID, to see Colonel Bosley,” Bolan snapped. He held out his ID. “Is he in?”

“Yes, sir, Colonel Stone.”

“Show me the way, Curtis,” Bolan said, reading the name tag on the man’s uniform.

Private Curtis sprang to his feet, saluting, then moved with surprising speed. He led Bolan along the passage to the door at the end. He knocked and entered on command.

“Colonel will see you now, sir,” Curtis said when he ducked out again. He held the door for Bolan to enter, then closed it quietly as he stepped back outside.

Colonel Bosley was around fifty and starting to show the effects of his easy command—a noticeable bulge at the waist beneath his crisp uniform shirt. His thinning hair was gray. He pushed to his feet as Bolan crossed to face him over the desk.

“Take a seat.”

When they were seated Bolan passed his ID across to the colonel. Bosley examined it and passed it back.

“I suppose surprise visits are to be expected,” Bosley said, his tone easy. “What can I do for you, Stone?”

“I need to talk to certain of your people here. Because of circumstances surrounding an ongoing investigation I can’t give you much detail. Let’s just say this is a major investigation with possible far-reaching implications.”

“Not trying to be flippant, Colonel, but you make it sound serious.”

“It is. Command is trying to keep it low-key until we gather more evidence. They don’t want word getting out that might alert suspects. That’s why I need your cooperation, Colonel.”

“Of course. Anything I can do?”

“Just let me conduct my investigation unhindered. I’ll try and keep it as quiet as possible and try not to upset anyone I don’t need to.”

“If anyone refuses to help refer them to me, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Colonel Bosley. I’ll make sure Command gets to hear of your cooperation.”

Bolan rose and shook Bosley’s hand.

“Just one other thing, Colonel,” Bolan said, opening his jacket. “I am armed.” Bolan wore his standard issue Beretta M9 in military shoulder rig. He would have preferred his 93-R, but this masquerade demanded he follow protocol and CID colonels would not walk around displaying a specialized Beretta.

“As you said, Colonel, a serious investigation,” Bosley said.

“Would you direct me to the test area,” Bolan said.

Bosley found it hard to conceal his surprise at the request. Whatever he might have been wondering about the surprise visit from CID, he had been hoping the base test and assessment section would not be on any list. He kept questions to himself, pushing to his feet and crossing his office to the large wall map showing the layout of the base.

“This is where we are.” He indicated the location as Bolan joined him. “The test area is here, three miles north. You need to take this route. Once you clear the main base it’s the only road. Just stay on it and you’ll reach the area.”

“Any testing taking place at the moment?”

Bosley shook his head. “Nothing scheduled for a couple of days, so the area will be quiet. Just the permanent staff on duty.” Bosley turned to his desk and checked a document. “There’s a civilian representative from OTG, one of our main contractors, on-site.”

“Thank you, Colonel Bosley.”

“They’re pretty tight on security out there,” Bosley said. “You have any problems just get someone to pick up the phone and call me. I’ll clear any queries. In the meantime tell Private Curtis to issue you with a clearance pass.”

O N THE WAY OUT the Executioner stopped at the private’s desk and was handed a laminated tag that he clipped to his jacket. Back in his car he cranked up the air-conditioning and let cool air wash over him. He slipped on the aviator shades he’d left inside the car and drove away from the HQ building, following Bosley’s directions. He picked up the route and drove through the base until he found himself on the northbound road. The base fell behind him. In his rearview mirror all he could see was the pale cloud of dust rising in his wake.

Bolan stopped once, taking out the Beretta and checking the magazine. He slid it back in, worked the slide and fed the first 9 mm into place. He made sure the safety was off before he reholstered the weapon. It was a natural reaction to a potentially difficult situation. Mack Bolan had survived for this long by treating every unknown quantity as potentially life threatening. Any venture into new territory carried its own particular possibility of threat. If someone thrust a cocked gun in his face it was far too late to ask for time to prepare his own weapon. It wasn’t from a feeling of paranoia, more a simple survival reflex, and it had served the Executioner well. And, he decided wryly, he was too old to change his ways.

Around him the terrain had taken on a wilderness aspect—mostly flatland, with a few shallow depressions and humped ridges. Much farther to the north the hazy rise of low hills could be seen. There was scarce vegetation, dusty scrub, a scattering of skinny trees. He saw slight movement caused by a hot breeze, heard the scratchy hiss of gritty dust striking the sides of the car. He passed a few signs warning he would soon be entering a test area.

A long slope ahead showed Bolan the beginning of the area proper. There were a number of long huts. Workshops. An enclosed area that would likely hold munitions. He saw an open communications bunker, with a radar dish and aerials. Vehicles were in evidence. All military except for one civilian car.

The road ended at a checkpoint. Bolan watched as an armed sentry stepped out and planted himself in front of the car. Bolan braked and powered down his window, waiting. The sentry strode around and stared at Bolan, who had his ID out and in full view.

“Out of the car,” the sentry snapped.

“Read the ID, soldier, then address me by my rank.”

The sentry leaned forward and scanned the ID. When he realized he was in the presence of a colonel and a CID agent, he pulled back.

“Sorry, Colonel, sir. Just following procedure, sir.”

Bolan stepped out of the car, taking off his aviator shades. He checked out the sentry’s name tag.

“No problem with that, Conner.” Bolan tapped the security tag on his jacket. “If you need verification call Colonel Bosley. I was just with him.”

Conner shook his head. “Your pass gives you clearance, Colonel.”

“Who’s in command here, Conner?” Bolan asked.

“I am…sir,” a voice said.

Bolan glanced around and got his first look at Master Sergeant Thomas K. Randisi. The man was as tall as Bolan. Broad, erect. Every inch the professional soldier. Even in the dry, dusty heat his uniform looked as if it had just been pressed. His gleaming boots defied dust to settle on them.

As Bolan confronted him, Randisi slid off his dark glasses. His gray eyes held a gleam of defiance. He was deeply tanned, his high-boned features weathered. Down his left cheek was a slight pattern of pale scars. The man was military from his boot tips to the top of his close-shaved head, and he was showing Bolan that he was not in the least intimidated by a colonel, even one from CID.

“Master Sergeant Randisi,” Bolan said. “Just the man I want to talk to.” He flashed his ID at Randisi. “Just so we get off on the right foot.”

“What can I do for you, Colonel?”

“A few questions first.” Bolan glanced at the sentry. “Dismissed, Conner.”

Bolan did not miss the questioning glance Conner shot in Randisi’s direction. There was no flicker of unease in the master sergeant’s eyes. He simply nodded curtly, and Conner returned to his post.

“Questions, sir?” Randisi asked. “Why would CID be interested in us?”

“I ask the questions, Randisi. That’s how it works.” Bolan kept his tone light but with enough authority to keep Randisi wondering. “Let’s go and check out your civilian presence here.”

“Mr. Janssen has full clearance,” Randisi said as they strode in the direction of the main building. “He’s a regular visitor. Monitors our assessment and testing of OTG products.”

“That’s wise considering the current situation, Master Sergeant,” Bolan said out of the blue, leaving Randisi staring at him, unsure what was being suggested.

The interior of the long hut was fitted out as a control center and office. A balding, lanky man in civilian dress was turning from a water cooler as Bolan and Randisi entered. The man looked past Bolan to Randisi.

“Stefan Janssen, isn’t it?” Bolan said briskly. “I seem to be meeting all the names on my list at the same time.”

“Colonel Stone is from Army CID,” Randisi said, jumping in quickly.

“Criminal investigation,” Bolan said. “We handle policing for the army.”

The paper cup in Janssen’s hand jerked, spilling water that splashed his shirt front.

“Nervous, Mr. Janssen?” Bolan asked.

Janssen’s flushed face gave away his feelings. He brushed at the spilled water. “No. Should I be?”

Bolan gave him a tight smile. “You tell me, Mr. Janssen. I just got here.”

Janssen’s pitiful glance at Bolan might have been an attempt to draw sympathy. Bolan wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He held Janssen’s uneasy stare for long seconds.

“As I explained, Colonel,” Randisi said from behind Bolan, “Mr. Janssen is here courtesy of the army. He’s a guest.”

Janssen seemed to draw strength from Randisi’s endorsement. He swallowed the contents of the paper cup.

“You should know, Colonel Stone, that my company, OTG, is held in great esteem by the Pentagon. We have supplied ordnance for a long time. My employer, Jacob Ordstrom, has highly placed contacts within…”

“Two things, Janssen,” Bolan said, dropping the niceties. “CID is not interested in who your employer is in bed with. I’m here to investigate serious irregularities regarding equipment supply and supposed testing of said equipment. Don’t try and impress me with name dropping, sir. I am not impressed. I am not intimidated. And it appears that when you mentioned Ordstrom I feel sure I’ve seen his name on a list, as well. It would appear, Mr. Janssen, I’m having a better day than I anticipated.”

Bolan sensed movement behind him. He stepped to one side, turning, and saw that Randisi had stepped to one side of the hut, close to a desk where an unholstered sidearm lay in clear sight. “Just what is it CID is interested in, Colonel?” he asked.

“I was hoping you could provide me with some answers there, Randisi. The information we have makes tenuous links between the death of a young army officer and a missing employee from OTG.”

“I don’t understand, Colonel,” Randisi said calmly. “You said an army officer?”

“Lieutenant Francis Nelson. My information is that he visited this camp a short time ago. He was killed on his return to Washington.

“Killed?”

“To be specific, he was murdered. I tracked down the police forensic report and it appears he was hit by a .50-caliber bullet. The type they use in the M-107 military sniper rifle. Like that one in the rack over there.”

Bolan crossed to inspect the rifle. He studied it closely, listening as Randisi walked across to stand behind him.

“Your specialty, Master Sergeant, by the sharpshooter insignia you’re wearing.”

“That’s correct, Colonel. A sharpshooter’s badge. You take a walk around camp, you’ll see a few more. I’m not the only one who has that distinction.”

Bolan turned around to face Randisi. He held the master sergeant’s unflinching stare.

“I have one myself, Randisi. And I keep my hand in. You never know when it might come in useful.”

“That you don’t, sir.”

Bolan smiled briefly, then stepped around Randisi and joined the nervous Janssen. The OTG man was standing at the open door, and Bolan had the feeling the man was close to making a run for it. Wet patches showed under Janssen’s armpits and his face gleamed.

“Gets really hot in this part of the country, Mr. Janssen. You feeling the heat right now?” the Executioner asked.

“I’m fine.”

“The OTG man I mentioned earlier was named Frank Carella. Do you know him, Mr. Janssen?”

“You realize how large OTG is, Colonel? There are people there I wouldn’t know if they walked in here right now.”

“I take that as a no?”

“You can…”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” Randisi said quickly. “You will have to make allowances for Mr. Janssen. He hasn’t taken to our climate too well.”

Bolan held his stare on Janssen. He wanted the man to be uncomfortable. He sensed a weakness in his makeup. He felt Janssen might talk if he was pushed hard enough. It was time to let the man consider his position. Walking away would leave Janssen wondering what was going to happen next.

“Fine, Randisi. That will do for today. But make yourselves available tomorrow. We will need to talk again.”

6

The Sunbird Motor Court sat alongside the highway, next to a long diner and adjacent to a gas station, ten miles from the camp. An oasis in the scrubland. To the side of the gas station was a flattened patch of land that served as the parking lot for the big rigs and cars that traversed the highway. It was a dusty setup, not helped by the semipermanent, arid breeze that was as much part of the landscape as the brittle grass and spiky scrub.

Bolan’s cabin overlooked the highway and the terrain beyond. It would never win any prizes for the most pleasing aspect from a motel window, but that wasn’t Bolan’s reason for the occasional glance through the dusty glass.

He had a feeling his visit to Camp Macklin had generated enough unrest to warrant a response. Bolan couldn’t prove out his feeling. It was just a natural response to the situation. Standing at the cabin’s window, cup of coffee in his hand, he turned to look at the Beretta 93-R and the Desert Eagle lying side by side on the bed.

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