KILLER OFFENSIVE

One by one, European leaders are dying by assassination. And each of the victims opposed Russia’s attempts to gain increasing power. Determined to stop this wave of terror before it hits American shores, Mack Bolan uses the killers’ next attack to flush them out. But these assassins are inhumanly fast, impervious to pain and programmed with cutting-edge combat skills by a hard-line Soviet scientist.

Now Bolan is being shadowed by a ruthless Russian intelligence team racing to bury him along with this rogue military project. To save a summit of world leaders, the Executioner must play two brutal factions against each other...and send the assassins’ creator to meet his maker.

“I think it fitting that you die here.”

The assassin hadn’t moved far, and Bolan seized the opportunity. Raising his smartphone, he triggered its camera, setting off the flash. The bright light blinded his adversary, and he staggered backward.

Bolan charged forward, intending to tackle him and take him down, but the man spun aside as he brought his fist down on the back of Bolan’s head, driving him to the ground, stunned.

The assassin bent and flipped Bolan over onto the tracks, staring into his face. “You will never find us. You will never stop us.” Then he took off again, racing toward an oncoming train.

Bolan tried to push himself up, tried to crawl to the narrow space next to the tracks, but his body refused to obey his commands. The train’s headlight was blinding, the thunder of its approach drowning out everything.

The Executioner’s last thought before blackness took him was that this was not how he’d expected to die...

Combat Machines

Don Pendleton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Obedience to lawful authority is the foundation of manly character.

—Robert E. Lee

Human beings often need an ideology to give their lives meaning and purpose. But unquestioning obedience to any doctrine is just as dangerous as having none at all. It can lead to terrible crimes committed in the name of these beliefs. And when that happens, that sort of ideology must be stopped—by whatever means necessary.

—Mack Bolan

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

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

Legend

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Mostar, Herzegovina

July 6, 1992

The distant, steady whistle and crumpf of artillery shells landing in the city scarcely bothered Andreja Tomić anymore. When the siege had first begun three months ago, she’d spent many exhausted, sleepless nights waiting for the next shell to land on the building she was living in. Now, however, the barrage’s constant din and its incipient danger had been relegated to the back of her mind, acknowledged, but not dwelled on. Not when she had so much work to do. Now, she was mostly just exhausted.

Mostar had been the scene of a pitched battle for control of the city and the surrounding area since that spring. The Yugoslav People’s Army, or JNA, had invaded in early April and seized control of a large portion of the city. A sustained counteroffensive by the Croatian Defense Council, or HVO, had pushed the JNA forces out of the town, but they had retaliated with their ongoing artillery barrage, which the HVO was replying to in kind.

At first, Andreja had feared for those under her care, but the JNA had seemed to be directing their fire on more valuable targets, at least in their minds. She had her doubts about that. In the past few weeks, the seemingly endless rain of munitions had claimed a Franciscan monastery, the Catholic cathedral and bishop’s palace. The destruction wasn’t all carried out by the JNA. After retaking the city, the HVO had demolished the Serbian Orthodox Monastery, as well as the Orthodox Cathedral Church that dated back to the mid-nineteenth century.

But the Kriva Cuprija, the Sloping Bridge, one of Mostar’s oldest man-made landmarks, still stood, spanning the Neretva River as it had for the past four hundred years. Every morning, when Andreja awoke, she looked out through the smoke and dust of the previous night’s bombardment to see if the white stone arch still stood, and every day when she saw it, she breathed a little easier. In a way, the old bridge was a symbol of the town—as long as it stood, then so would Mostar.

When she was little, Andreja’s grandmother, Marica, had told her stories of the destruction that had ravaged their nation during World War II, when the Ustaše, the Croatian Revolutionary Movement, had carried out a genocidal war against the Serbian population as well as Jews and the Romani in their attempt to create a “pure” Croat nation. Andreja remembered the nightmares she’d had from hearing those stories, and the fierce arguments between her grandmother and her mother. The older woman had stated that the next generations had to be prepared for the violence that was sure to return, while Andreja’s mother had shaken her head and dismissed her own mother’s claims, preferring to look ahead instead of back to the past.

As a child, Andreja hadn’t believed her grandmother. Now, however, she found it hard to remember any peaceful time. If the devastation inflicted on the city was anything close to what her grandmother had endured, Andreja didn’t know how anyone had survived it.

Now she was enduring it, as well. The worst parts were the intermittent utilities and constant food worries. With the city cut off from foreign aid and supply convoys, electricity, working sewer systems, food and water were in short supply. So far, they had been hanging on, but with the siege showing little sign of ending anytime soon, Andreja dreaded the day they would eventually run out, and she would have to begin making the next series of hard choices in a life that had already been filled with so many.

But for now, she had to begin taking care of her charges, and do whatever she could to see them through a new day.

She used a scant half liter of her allotted water ration to wash her face and hands, and had to be content with that for now—a bath or even a brief shower was a luxury she could not afford. She dressed in her uniform of a dove-gray, ankle-length dress with a yellowed apron over that, and twisted her long hair into a tight bun and tucked it under her white cap. Then she left her small house on the hill and walked down the path toward the main building, keeping her head down and her shoulders hunched over in anticipation of an errant shell landing nearby. When she reached the corner of the building with no harm done, she relaxed a bit and looked up—only for her mouth to fall open in shock.

A truck was parked in the driveway, a relatively new one, with a driver sitting behind the wheel. She didn’t know to whom it belonged, or what its occupants were doing here, but she intended to find out.

She entered the building’s foyer to find her two assistants anxiously awaiting her. Luka and Nenad were barely out of their teens, and had been pressed into service here when their families had been either captured or killed in the fighting. Andreja had taken them in and trained them to handle some of the crushing workload she had been managing alone until then.

Upon seeing her, the two young women hurried over. “Thank goodness you are here, Andreja!” Luka said, her words echoing around the bare room.

“Keep your voice down!” Nenad scolded. “You’ll wake them!”

“All right, calm down, both of you,” Andreja said, raising her hands for peace. “Who are our visitors? We have no one scheduled until the end of the week.” That was when, supposedly, more supplies were supposed to arrive from the HVO. They made it through about 50 percent of the time.

“He said his name is Dr. Rostislav Utkin, and that he is a scientist from the Soviet Union,” Luka said.

“You mean Russia,” Andreja replied. Although the USSR had broken apart almost three years ago, old habits died hard in the areas surrounding the former empire.

“Yes, she does,” Nenad said with an exasperated huff. “He said he wishes to inspect the children.”

Andreja’s dark brown eyes narrowed at that. “To what end? Are you saying that he wishes to adopt?”

Luka threw up her hands in confusion. “All he said was that he wished to inspect the children, and that he would wait for your arrival.”

Andreja glanced at her closed office door. “Well, then, let me go in and meet this Dr. Utkin, and find out what he has to say for himself. You two go and make the children as ready as you can. If all seems in order, we will join you shortly.”

The two young women nodded and crossed to a pair of large double doors on the other side of the room. Opening them just wide enough to slip through, they disappeared into the room beyond.

Taking a deep breath, Andreja squared her shoulders as she strode to her office door and opened it.

The room on the other side was small, just large enough for her compact desk, wheeled, creaky office chair, and two others in front of the desk. A dusty, battered file cabinet sat in one corner, its top drawer open. A man sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, reading a file.

“What do you think you are doing?” she asked as she swept around the desk and snatched the limp manila folder from his hand. “These files are private. You have no right to read them.”

The seated man regarded her from behind wire-rimmed glasses. His light blue eyes appraised her, taking in everything from her simple dress to her drawn, pale face and the shadows under her eyes.

He spread his hands in a vaguely penitent manner. “Please excuse my intrusion,” he said in passable Bosnian. “I did not know how long I would have to wait, and well, I am afraid that my eagerness got the better of me.” He smiled, his thin, bloodless lips curving up and somehow softening the otherwise severe planes of his face. His white-blond hair was cut short enough that she could see his scalp through it.

“That is no excuse for barging in here and looking through whatever you wish.” She put the folder back in the cabinet and pushed the drawer closed, then walked around to stand behind her desk. “Now, why are you here, Dr. Utkin?”

“Straight to the point. I like that.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Why, to adopt some children, of course.”

Andreja blinked. “Children?”

“Yes, I’m looking for at least twelve if possible, assuming they meet my criteria. Of course, this is not the only orphanage in the country, but given the growing troubles near Sarajevo and Zenica, I felt this one might be the best place to start.”

“Why would you wish to adopt twelve children?” Andreja asked as she sat, alarm bells sounding in her mind.

Utkin peered at her for a moment, then nodded. “Ah, of course. You are thinking that because I am from Russia I am procuring children for some sort of medical experiments or something. It is nothing like that. The Ministry of Health has authorized a long-term program to raise children who otherwise might not have the opportunity to become productive members of society, and give them such advantages to become so, and study how they develop over the years.”

Now Andreja frowned. “The Russian Ministry of Health wishes to adopt children from our country to raise in yours?”

Utkin spread his hands again. “That is pretty much the idea.”

“But why our children? Surely your country has orphans of its own that need homes?”

A brief smile flitted across the doctor’s thin lips. “Your concern for my people is touching. While it is true that there are parentless children in our country, they often have mitigating circumstances that already impact their early development for good or ill. For the purposes of this extended study, we wish to find infants with absolutely no previous attachments to people or places. Blank slates, if you will pardon the expression. They will be very well cared for and have everything they need provided. They will receive a first-rate education, access to the best health care and a structured environment that will, hopefully, allow them to grow up to reach their full potential.”

“And you believe that you are taking these children from a negative situation and placing them into a more positive situation in your own country?”

He nodded. “Miss Tomić, I am aware of the circumstances under which the children in your facility were conceived. I know what kind of life they have to look forward to without intervention from somewhere—wards of the state, with mothers that reject them and unknown fathers. Shuttled from state facility to perhaps a foster home to another facility, never receiving the care and education they so desperately need—and which we are willing to provide.” He leaned forward and smiled, the expression lighting up his severe expression. “You need help here. We are willing to help. Please...let us help you.”

It was that last part that finally removed Andreja’s resistance—the feeling that he truly cared about what would happen to these children. “Why don’t we take a walk into the ward, and you can have a look at the babies?”

“I would like nothing more,” he replied as he rose to his feet.

Andreja walked with him out of her office and across the foyer to the double doors. She gently pushed them open and peeked inside.

Luka and Nenad were busy among the more than three dozen cribs, efficiently changing diapers. The rustling of their clothes and of the cloth diapers was the only sound in the room. None of the infants made a sound.

Dr. Utkin nodded pleasantly to her assistants, then focused on the four rows of children, ranging in age from six to eighteen months. He began walking up and down the rows, leaning over to examine this child or that.

A shell arced overhead with a scream, then detonated close enough to rattle the windows. Even then, not a single baby uttered a sound.

“I have heard of this, da?” Utkin asked. “Since the children do not get comforted when they cry, they learn to not cry, as it does them no good.”

“I’m afraid so,” Andreja replied.

“It sounds cruel, but this actually works better for our program,” Utkin said, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked. “We will be examining their ability to form relationships later on in life, after having those needs withheld as infants. It is said that the brain develops differently under such adverse conditions, and we will find out if that is so, and how it manifests later on...”

He turned to see the grim expression on Andreja’s face and reached out to touch her shoulder. “Of course, I did not mean that you and these young ladies are responsible for their development. You are doing all that you can, of course.”

“Yes...it is not easy,” she replied. “We should continue your tour.”

“Yes, of course.” Utkin walked up and down every aisle, looking at each child. At length, he came to the end of his inspection. “Are there any more?”

“No, thank heaven.”

“Very well. I have made my selections.” Utkin began walking up and down the aisles again, stopping briefly at a dozen cribs, each one just long enough for Andreja to note which one it was before he moved on to the next. In just a few minutes, the tall, lean scientist had chosen more than a quarter of her current children.

“Very well. They can be ready for travel by this afternoon.” Andreja cleared her throat. “I assume that you have brought the necessary supplies? We cannot spare anything to send with you.”

Utkin nodded. “I understand. We brought all that is necessary for their safe and healthy journey back to Russia. After all, they represent a substantial investment on the part of the motherland. It would be terrible if something happened to them before they arrived in their new home.”

“Well, while Luka and Nenad are preparing the children, you and I can head back to my office and begin the paperwork for all this. Twelve sets. I’m afraid you’re going to be here awhile.”

“That’s quite all right,” Utkin said with a smile. “I want to make sure everything goes smoothly for them from this point forward.”

* * *

FOUR HOURS LATER, with the paperwork completed and the dozen babies safely loaded into infant seats secured inside the truck, Utkin extended his hand to Andreja, which she took.

“Thank you for your assistance. Given the circumstances, I’m so very pleased that it went as easily as it did.”

“And thank you, Doctor. I certainly hope that you will be able to give them a better life. Although I would like to know how your experiment turns out, I will be content just knowing that they escaped this place.”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, together we have saved twelve lives today. They and I owe you our thanks.”

“No, it is you who has our thanks. They are the recipients of your generous offer, and I know they will do well by it.”

Utkin nodded even as he checked his watch. “I’m afraid, however, that we must be going. It will be difficult enough moving through the checkpoints, and exiting the country with twelve infant children that I didn’t have upon my arrival, we probably won’t get out of the country for a week with all the paperwork that will have to be examined.”

Andreja smiled and nodded. “Of course. Go with God, and safe travels.”

“Thank you.”

With that, the doctor climbed into the passenger seat of the truck as the driver started it up.

“Get what you came for?” the driver, Utkin’s assistant and bodyguard, asked around a cigarette he lit.

Utkin glanced back over his cargo, the twelve children sitting silently in their car seats. Any trace of the kindly social scientist had disappeared the moment he’d gotten into the vehicle. Now he regarded the children coldly, dispassionately, as if they were rats in a cage.

“Oh, yes, Dimitri,” he murmured. “They will do perfectly.” He turned to face the front of the vehicle again. “You radioed in the coordinates, yes?”

The driver nodded. “As requested. In fact, they should be reducing that building to rubble right...about...now.”

“Yes, with all records lost as a result of an unfortunate accident.” Utkin grinned, a wolfish smile with no humor in it whatsoever. “You are very fortunate, Dimitri. Not many people get to witness history being made firsthand.”

The other man grunted, jetting smoke out of his nose.

“Yes, for you see, the new vanguard of Russia’s soldiers is beginning today.” Utkin swept an arm back to encompass the dozen children. “And these will be the first of many.”

Chapter One

Ground Forces of the Russian

Federation Headquarters

Moscow, Russia

The present

Dr. Rostislav Utkin walked into the main building of the Russian army headquarters, presented his identification to the guards inside, submitted to the metal detector and physical search and checked in at the desk behind the checkpoint.

He hadn’t changed much in the past twenty-plus years. He was still tall, but now slightly stooped. His white-blond hair had receded from his forehead and had thinned all over, to the point where he now wore it cropped so close he might as well have been nearly bald.

He was also leaner than he had been two decades earlier. The stress of keeping the funding, equipment and staff together for his project through the intervening years had taken its toll, but it had all been worth it. Now, he was at last going to present the results of his program to Oleg Istrakov, the new colonel general. He was confident that when his superior saw the results of his program, he would renew his funding. Utkin hoped he might even authorize its expansion so they could begin locating and training the next generation of soldiers.

A lifetime of theories, of work and planning, favors bought and sold to keep his program running, all of it was about to pay off in the next few minutes.

Utkin took a seat outside the colonel general’s office and sat patiently, not distracting himself with a smartphone or newspaper, instead running over talking points, attempting to anticipate questions and objections, and rehearsing the best ways to either answer or counter them.

Istrakov’s schedule had to have been running smoothly, for the door opened after less than ten minutes and a black-haired, suited man stalked out, his expression glowering.

Utkin recognized Professor Sergei Mentov, a mechanical engineer who had been tasked with developing the motherland’s next generation of mechanized armor. The doctor didn’t envy his job. Between the government graft and constant cycles of budget cuts, it would be a wonder if the good professor could field an armored tricycle within the next decade. Given his demeanor as he strode past Utkin without acknowledging his presence, even that seemed unlikely.

“Dr. Utkin, the colonel general will see you now,” the secretary said from the doorway.

Utkin stood, checked himself over one last time to ensure he was presentable and walked into the small room adjacent to the man’s office. With a polite nod to the secretary as she returned to her desk, he continued into the colonel general’s domain.

The office was a reasonable size for the man’s position, neither too big nor two small. Istrakov’s desk was at the far side of the room, with two chairs facing it. A threadbare rug muffled Utkin’s footfalls as he crossed to the desk and stood waiting to be recognized.

With a soft grunt, Istrakov finally looked up. He was a pale, bloodless man, his eyes slightly magnified behind rimless glasses. Utkin felt unease start to stir in his gut—the man looked like an accountant, not a former battlefield soldier.

Istrakov blinked owlishly, and his first words did not generate any more confidence. “You are my 2:15, yes?”

Utkin blinked. He knew the man was new to his position, but such an impersonal address threw him a bit. “Yes, Colonel General, Dr. Rostislav Utkin, at your service.”

“Right. Please, sit.” Istrakov waved at the chairs in front of the desk. Utkin did as instructed, sitting on the edge of his seat as the man tapped keys on his computer.

“Utkin, Utkin, Utkin...ah, here it is.” Istrakov read something on the monitor, nodding as he did so. After a few moments, he looked at the doctor. “We are terminating your program. All funding will cease immediately, and you are to discontinue all current research, development and experiments.”

Utkin just sat there and blinked for a moment, scarcely believing what he had just heard. “Sir, I was given to understand that this was a progress review, not a funding meeting—”

Istrakov shook his head. “I am sorry you feel that you were misinformed about the purpose of this meeting. The latest directives from the Kremlin are to review and evaluate all programs deemed unnecessary to the current goals of the Russian Federation. After careful consideration, your program has been determined to be costing an exponentially large amount in comparison to its overall utility.”

Having gotten over the shock of the other man’s announcement, Utkin quickly rallied. After all, this wasn’t the first time his program had come within a hairbreadth of cancellation. “Sir, if I may, the units have only recently been brought on line in their full capacity. The field tests have been incredible, far exceeding even my wildest hopes. You cannot pull our funding now, not when we are ready to actually make the units available for real-world operations—”

“I can and will, Doctor. Such small-scale programs like yours, with such long gestational periods, are not what the Federation is looking to develop today.” He glanced back at the screen and his light brown eyebrows rose. “Frankly, I’m amazed that you’ve managed to keep the lights on all these years—an impressive accomplishment in itself.”

“Pardon my bluntness, but that is primarily because I kept your predecessors up to date about our progress, and to a person, they all agreed that my program was effective, worthwhile and, above all, necessary.”

Of course, it was a lot easier to push through the bureaucracy when the oil money was flowing, Utkin thought.

“If you would just take a closer look at what we’ve been doing, or perhaps a demonstration of some of the units’ various capabilities might convince you otherwise—”

“I admire your single-minded persistence, Doctor, but I have made up my mind.” Utkin opened his mouth to continue his attempt, but Istrakov shook his head. “Are you aware of just how many programs I have to evaluate in the next two weeks? I have reviewed your summaries, and in many areas, I must admit that the results you have achieved are impressive. But the training and preoperational period is completely unacceptable for the results you are claiming.”

“But we are now ready for true fieldwork, sir,” Utkin persisted. “Just find my units a mission and let them execute it. Then you will see what all that money and time has purchased.”

“At the moment, there is nothing that requires their specialized abilities. Your creations are not useful on the general battlefield, or training soldiers in Syria. They are highly specialized weapons, suitable only for things that we are not doing now.”

During Istrakov’s last comments, Utkin had run through several possible gambits in his head and evaluated the hazards of each. Like most good Russians working in the military and the government, he had a wide range of knowledge about things he probably shouldn’t have known about. Bringing any of them up, even in a roundabout way, might simply get him a quick trip to the gulag.

But after another second’s consideration, he decided to gamble on exposing a bit of what he knew—if he could just keep his program going another six months, it would be worth the risk. “Begging your pardon, I am aware of several initiatives that have been discussed at certain levels of our military that my units would seem tailor-made for. Particularly ones in the Far East, and in North America, as well.”

Istrakov’s brows narrowed. “Perhaps they would, but those various operations are all theoretical at best, and many are years from actual implementation. You are asking us to allocate millions of rubles a year to keep these units ready on the off chance that one of these programs might be enacted in the future. I’m afraid not, Doctor.”

Istrakov stared dispassionately at him. “I have my orders to cut the budget wherever I can, and your program is on the chopping block. It is that simple. You have two weeks to make whatever preparations are necessary for reassigning your personnel—”

“And exactly how do you suggest that I do that?” Utkin asked, letting his overall anger finally seep into his tone. “As you said yourself, these are not merely frontline soldiers, or even special forces personnel. They cannot simply be ‘reassigned.’”

“I understand. Your notes state that many of their internal systems can either be deactivated or removed. I suggest that you begin scheduling the necessary surgeries to make sure these units of yours will be able to function appropriately in their new assignments. Please be sure to follow proper procedures in doing so, including any letters of commendation or recommendation that would be required.” Istrakov leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Do you have any other questions, Doctor?”

Utkin just sat there for a moment, blinking. Istrakov stared back at him until the silence grew oppressive. “Doctor, are you all right?”

With a start, Utkin shook himself and nodded. “Yes, sir, my apologies. This is all rather sudden. You had said I have two weeks to wind the program down, correct?”

“That is correct.” Istrakov was already focusing on his monitor again. “Any further issues or questions that arise during that time can be sent directly to my office.”

It was clear that the meeting was at an end. Utkin slowly rose and walked out of the office like a man in a trance. With a polite nod at the secretary, he left, walked down the hall past the entry checkpoint and out the door.

Blinking in the sudden weak sunshine, Utkin stood to the side of the headquarters entrance for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Although a part of him had always known this day might eventually come, to be denied when they were so close to success was the bitterest pill to swallow.

Two weeks...two weeks to shut everything down, he thought while he walked down the broad avenue, oblivious to the other passersby.

He had gone a couple blocks when it struck him that perhaps he had been given two weeks to prove the efficacy of his program.

So, what if he were to show them what his program can do? The thought was so antithetical to his normal scientific mode of operation that it stopped him in his tracks. Several reasons came to mind—with his potential death factoring heavily in more than one—but he brushed them aside impatiently.

And once he removed any thought of personal survival versus what he hoped to gain—the continuance of his program—the reality of his situation was stark. Why not? He had nothing to lose anymore.

Overcome with the ramifications of the decision looming before him, Utkin looked around for somewhere to sit for a minute. He had wandered farther than expected while pondering his future, and now stood in an unfamiliar neighborhood of dingy shops interspersed with what looked like bars. Utkin frowned—he’d had no idea these places were so close to the military headquarters.

Selecting the nearest one, he stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming smell of stale cigarette smoke. He wasn’t a puritan, just not fond of the odor.

Sitting at the bar, he ordered vodka, and when it came, he reached for the shot glass and was about to knock it back when he stopped and stared at the drink in his hand, then set it back down.

No, he thought, if I am to do this, let it be my decision alone, unmodified by drink or anything else but my own conviction. He would use the remaining program funds for a series of missions.

Tossing some rubles on the bar, he left the full shot glass and walked back outside, now a man on a mission. Within another block, he found what he was looking for—one of the new payphones that allowed a user to access the internet, pay their utility bills, or even use Skype to call people.

With a surreptitious scan of the area, he picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

It rang twice before being picked up. “Da?”

“This is Father Time,” he said. “The alarm clock has gone off, repeat, the alarm clock has gone off. Please make sure that all students report to their assigned schools in time for the next semester. Confirm.”

“Understood, Father,” the voice replied. “All students are to report to their schools immediately and deliver their assignments.”

“That is correct,” Utkin replied. “I look forward to seeing their grades.”

“As do we,” the voice on the other end said before hanging up.

Utkin replaced the receiver, wiping it off with his sleeve. Now that the operation had been set in motion, he had a lot to do—starting with getting out of the city within the next twelve hours.

Chapter Two

Geneva, Switzerland

Two days later

Mustering every bit of her willpower, Kathri Brauer extricated herself from her lover’s embrace and rolled out of bed. “What is the rush, my beauty? You still have plenty of time to make it to work.” Alexei Panshin snaked a muscular, toned arm toward her leg. “Come back to bed for just a few minutes...”

Brauer looked down at him, nearly succumbing to her desire to just jump back into his arms. God, I could just stare at him all day, she thought, taking in his chiseled torso, strong legs and arms, and a face that could have graced the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Just the thought of how they’d been spending every night since they’d met five days ago almost made her knees buckle.

“That’s tempting, but I won’t be going anywhere if you keep that up.”

Before her resolve could weaken any further, she hurried around the corner to the marble bathroom. Forgoing the whirlpool tub, she headed for the glassed-in waterfall shower and turned it on, luxuriating in the hot needlelike jets of water pouring over her. As she washed up, she thought of her new lover.

Alexei Panshin was a midlevel representative of a large import-export firm out of Saint Petersburg, looking to expand its reach around the world. He’d come to Geneva on a fact-finding mission to investigate various banking methods that might better serve his superiors back in Russia. Brauer had met him at a networking gala held in the Four Seasons Hotel des Bergues. As good as he looked naked, he almost looked even better in a tuxedo.

From the moment their gazes had met, it was as if fireworks had gone off. Brauer was more than experienced, having had a marriage, a divorce and several lovers under her belt, not to mention rising in the cutthroat world of international trade.

With her penetrating intelligence, five-eleven height, Nordic good looks and white-blond hair, Brauer knew she often came across as intimidating on a first meeting. But Alexei Panshin hadn’t been intimidated in the least. When he first walked up to her bearing two glasses of champagne, the moment he opened his mouth, she was lost. The rest of the party fell away, and it was just the two of them, alone.

Several glasses of champagne later, they were making out in the back of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan Panshin’s company had provided to chauffeur him around the city. They’d ended up at his hotel, the luxurious Mandarin Oriental Geneva, and the rest of their time together had passed in a blur of incredible conversation, gourmet meals and mind-melting sex.

She got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a huge, fluffy towel. Checking the time, she figured she would just make it if she didn’t mind putting up with slightly damp hair on the way over.

Drying, dressing and applying her makeup in record time, she trotted out the door to find Panshin setting down his smartphone. He was sitting in front of two breakfasts on a tray—a full one for him, and a continental of croissants and fruit for her.

“That’s so sweet of you.” Even though it would put her behind, Brauer buttered a croissant. “Who called?”

“My company. They are impressed with what I have learned so far, and wish for me to stay in the city for a few more days—to better take advantage of the contacts I have made here.” He rose and took her hands in his, kissing pastry crumbs off them. “But we can discuss that this evening. As much as it pains me to say it, you should probably get going, yes?”

Damn!

“Yes, I’ve got to run.” She kissed him and turned to leave.

* * *

THE DRIVE TO the office seemed to take forever, and Brauer found it hard to concentrate on anything—paying attention to traffic, the emails she had her car’s built-in system read to her on the way, the project she was supposed to be briefing her boss on this morning—all of it paled in comparison to her new, white-hot relationship.

Pulling into the underground garage, she got out of her car and trotted to the elevator. As she was getting in, her phone vibrated.

Conference moved up. Go directly to 15th floor conference room, the text read. Brauer knew she was supposed to stop on the main level and go through the security checkpoint, but she was already running close to her scheduled conference start time as it was, and stopping there would make her late. Besides, she had been working at the WTO building for the past four years—she certainly wouldn’t risk destroying her career to smuggle in something. And no one else had gotten to her briefcase in all the time she’d had it, so when the elevator arrived, she got in and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor.

Grateful to find the elevator empty, Brauer took a few moments to run through the salient points of her presentation in her head, thanking her lucky stars she had been mostly done with it before she’d met Alexei.

The bell chimed, signaling she had reached her destination floor. Kathri stepped out and headed directly for the frosted glass conference room at the end of the corridor. She entered and blinked in surprise at seeing not only the CEO of the company, but also several board members.

“Ah, Ms. Brauer, so good to see you this morning,” her boss, Loïc Gilliard, greeted her as he shook her hand. He quickly introduced her to the other board members. “We’re looking forward to seeing what you have to show us today.”

“And I think you’ll be pleased with my recommendations, if you don’t mind my saying so,” she replied as she strode to the head of the table and set down her briefcase. “I’ll just need a few moments to set up—”

As she reached for the locks, she noticed a new scratch marring the brass finish on the left one—the same one that had popped open back at the hotel room. I’ll have to get that polished and fixed, she thought as she set the combination dials, undid the latches and opened the case. Or maybe just replace the whole damn thing—

The small bomb in her briefcase detonated with a force powerful enough to blow her face off. She was blasted off her feet, hitting the wall hard enough to crack the wood before crashing to the floor. She had no idea that the explosion blew out all of the windows in the room and set the fire alarm blaring.

The bank’s CEO, who had been walking over to stand next to Brauer, took the full force of the flying briefcase lid in the chest, pulverizing his ribs and stopping his heart. He was dead before he hit the floor.

With the blast directed more or less away from the board members, they escaped with their lives.

Amazingly, Brauer lived for one hundred twenty-two minutes after the blast. But as the paramedics were lifting her onto a gurney to take her to a medevac helicopter in a vain attempt to save her life, all she kept repeating was one word:

“Alexei...”

Chapter Three

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Twelve hours later

Head bobbing in time with the electronic dance music blasting through his earbuds, Akira Tokaido scanned the various monitors at his workstation. Although a genius computer hacker, the young man had quickly grown to love reviewing the endless data feeds. After all, what was data mining but searching for patterns in events and correlating the possible outcomes? In a way, he felt it was kind of like figuring out a program, but in real life.

However, real life was much more random and arbitrary. Just this morning, a bomb had gone off at the World Trade Organization headquarters in Geneva, Switzerland. Tokaido scanned the CIA summary document, learning that it seemed an employee had brought the explosives in with her, which explained how it had gotten by the main entry security. She had been killed in the blast, along with the current WTO chairman. Several board members had also been injured. No terrorist group had claimed responsibility yet, and police were pursuing all possible leads.

Tokaido flagged that as being of possible interest, then ran a search through domestic and international databases and law-enforcement files for acts classified as potential terrorism in the last thirty-six hours. More than eighty popped up, from a skirmish between the Sudanese People’s Liberation Army and what looked like the last of the Anyayna II resistance in the Sudan to a disarmed bomb planted by a radical anarchist splinter group in Iceland to a raid on a known militia headquarters in Montana.

Next, he refined his search to the European continent and the United Kingdom, getting a dozen hits. These ranged from the small—a flaming garbage bin in Leicester, England—to the much more deadly: an assassination of a midlevel government official in Brussels, Belgium.

The Stony Man hacker skimmed through that one as well, and learned the victim, Jean-George Belloc, was the country’s finance minister. He had been ambushed outside his home, shot in his car as he was heading to work. The suspect, driving a motorcycle, had worn a full-coverage helmet, and had made his escape before any eyewitnesses could get a good look at the assassin.

Pulling up recent quotes from the slain government official, Tokaido found he had been advocating taking a harder stance in trade negotiations with Russia, even suggesting the possibility of sanctions for its recent actions in the Ukraine, and its intervention in the Syrian civil war. Of course, that wasn’t really anything new—most of the countries in the European Union weren’t happy with Russia’s recent saber-rattling, but they apparently also weren’t going to speak too loudly about it, either, for fear of provoking the bear.

After all, look what happened to this guy, Tokaido mused.

On a hunch, he refined his search to potential terrorist acts with any links to Russia, adding his new target country to the list, in the event there had been any domestic incidents recently. His event list shrank to six: the Brussels event plus five others. Four of them he eliminated fairly quickly, although he did confirm that Polish authorities had finally captured a Lithuanian serial killer that had eluded them for the past decade. But the last one, occurring in Germany, made him frown as he studied it.

The percentage chance of this event being classified a terrorist act was small, but still viable. The body of a retired German army general had been found in his home the previous evening, apparently having died from a fall down his stairs. What made both him and the incident of interest was that he was a staunch opponent of friendly relations with Russia, and had written a book and several op-ed pieces critical of both his own government and Russia’s. He had also received death threats from fringe groups seeking to normalize relations between the two countries.

So that’s two with Russian connections...although the German one is thin at best, Tokaido thought. He returned to the first one, the Geneva bombing. More data had been aggregated on that case in just a past few minutes, including the last thing the woman said after the bomb had gone off. It was a man’s name: Alexei.

The young hacker blinked. It was probably just coincidence, right? He hacked into the security cameras outside the WTO headquarters until he found her car entering the underground parking level. He then scanned all of the perimeter cameras in a five-minute window around her entrance to see if anything unusual came up. He watched intently, then expanded the time window to ten minutes, but nothing out of the ordinary appeared on the monitors.

Then Tokaido tried to see if her car had a GPS program he could use to backtrack the route she had used to drive to work. He managed to hack into the car, but the GPS wasn’t activated. So he began backtracking her route by using the traffic cameras located on the main thoroughfares.

Even with the help of Stony Man’s computers, it took him more than forty-five minutes to plot the route using the available cameras. But at last he had her route plotted from start to finish. And she had started from the Mandarin Oriental Geneva.

Tokaido whistled, then muttered, “I suppose a midlevel NGO functionary could splurge on a night at a fancy hotel, but I doubt that’s what was happening.”

The rest was all too easy. A check of the guest registry revealed that one—and only one—guest named Alexei, an Alexei Panshin, had been checked in for the past week. Video footage showed him moving about the hotel—including with the bomb victim. In fact, from what was revealed by the hallway cameras, they seemed to be having a very close relationship. And what was even more interesting, he had checked out of the hotel within twenty minutes of the WTO employee leaving. Unfortunately, video footage did not show his face.

There was, of course, one more thing to check. A quick search of public documents indicated a decisive cooling of the WTO toward doing business with Russia, with several interviews with the now-deceased CEO pointing toward a definite distancing of the organization from the country, citing its continuing record of corruption and human rights abuses. And countries around the world typically took the WTO’s opinion on something—whether it was a trade agreement or an emerging country’s potential market viability—pretty seriously.

But even so, did any of this actually mean anything? Alexei was a common enough name, particularly in Russia and Bulgaria. It was simply possible she was mouthing the name of her lover right before she died.

A quick cross-check on Alexei Panshin revealed that he was an employee of Artus International, an import-export firm based in Saint Petersburg, and that he had been on what looked like a business trip to Geneva. All fairly aboveboard, from what Tokaido could tell. Even so, the nagging suspicion about these seemingly unrelated events still wouldn’t subside. It was possible that this man wasn’t the real Alexei Panshin.

Though hacking was Tokaido’s area of expertise, he had been encouraged to delve into data analysis. While training him in the cryptic art, his boss, Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, had stressed that it was as much art as science. “Connecting what seems like disparate events into a cohesive picture can often rely on your gut instinct as much as the hard data you acquire. The trick is knowing when to go with your feeling about a particular situation, and when to rely on the evidence as your primary lead.”

With a sigh, Tokaido saved his data and rose from his chair to go find Kurtzman. Even if he was wrong about all of this, it would be a good theoretical exercise for them to discuss, and he could get some pointers to refine his analytical skills.

He was just heading for the main doors to the Computer Room when they slid open and Kurtzman wheeled himself into the room.

“Hey, Bear, I—” was all Tokaido said as he popped an earbud out to talk before he was forced to step out of the way of the other man as he zoomed his wheelchair over to his workstation.

“Akira, have you got anything unusual on the Russians this morning?” Kurtzman asked without even a perfunctory greeting as he began looking over his own monitors.

“I...well, I don’t know if it’s unusual, but I did notice what looked like some Federation-based activity over the past twenty-four hours. Why?”

“I want you to have whatever you’ve got ready to present in five minutes. A US senator was just shot and wounded in Paris an hour ago, and the assailant seemed to be of Russian origin. We want to know what’s going on over there, and if it ties into anything larger, and if so, how.”

“I’m on it.” Tokaido ran back to his station and began typing with lightning speed.

* * *

“AND THOSE ARE the correlations between the various events, as I see them,” Tokaido said, hoping he didn’t sound too nervous.

Normally he served as support staff, assisting Mack Bolan or Able Team or Phoenix Force with their missions in the field. There, he was rock-solid, the calm voice in the team members’ earpieces giving them up-to-the-minute security intel, or defeating a security system from the other side of the world.

He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually been involved in presenting a briefing to the head of Stony Man Farm.

Currently, Hal Brognola was staring at him like a bulldog eyeing a particularly juicy steak. Tokaido didn’t take it personally—he knew the big Fed regarded anyone who had what he wanted in exactly the same way. The Justice Department honcho was director of the clandestine Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, and was Stony Man’s conduit to the White House.

Tokaido shifted his gaze to Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, the person who handled oversight of the Farm’s missions. She nodded at him and smiled, indicating he’d done a good job on his summary presentation.

That was confirmed by Brognola. “Nice work, Akira. Good to see Bear’s program is bearing some fruit.

“Okay, people, what does this seeming blitzkrieg of terror attacks mean? Are they really related, or are these just random acts that are occurring close enough together to draw our attention?”

“Given the increasing severity of the incidents, and the fact that Interpol, MI-5, and the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz have all gone to high alert internally, I don’t see how we can’t view this as anything but some kind of coordinated, if erratic, assault on the European Union as a whole,” Kurtzman replied.

“And the US, don’t forget.” Brognola snatched the soggy cigar from his mouth and jabbed the unlit end at Kurtzman. “I never liked that pompous ass Richard DiStephano, but no one deserves to be shot.”

“Says here that the assailant sped by on a motorcycle as DiStephano was heading to a meeting with his counterpart in the French government,” Price said. “The attacker fired at least two dozen rounds from a small submachine gun as he sped by, hitting DiStephano and killing his aide.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Kurtzman said. “What’s DiStephano’s prognosis?”

“Stable, although it was touch and go for a while,” Price answered. “They say one of the gendarmes providing security wounded the shooter, making him crash his motorcycle, but he still got away.”

Kurtzman grunted as he reviewed the data on the French attack. “DiStephano’s one of those hawks beating the drum for military intervention in Sudan, isn’t he?”

Brognola nodded sourly. “Yeah, mostly to counter what he feels is the increased Russian presence in the country. He’s amassed a small group of right-wing chuckleheads—mostly first-termers—and they’ve been trying to fire up a larger coalition to put a bill forward to send troops over there. Of course, they’re ignoring the very real threat of ISIS in the region, as well.” He shook his head. “The damn fools spend as much time putting their collective feet in their mouths in the media as they do actual governance.”

“Given the other attacks we’ve confirmed, this seems to link them all into a strong covert Russian operation,” Kurtzman said.

“But to what end?” Price asked. “Several of these obvious links—that one or more of the supposed perpetrators behind these incidents may be of Russian origin—are still so weak that they might be a sophisticated ploy to fool us into thinking Moscow is behind all of this. What if we’re looking at an elaborate false-flag operation meant to make us chase it back all the way to the Kremlin? With US-Russian relations so strained at the moment, we need to make absolutely sure that we’re correct about our intelligence pointing to whoever’s behind all of this.”

“Barbara’s absolutely right,” the fifth member of the conference said from the large monitor on the wall. “And the best way to do that is by putting some boots on the ground—mine.”

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was connected to the War Room via an encrypted satellite feed. He and Jack Grimaldi had been returning from a successful operation in northern Africa when this situation had arisen.

“Fortunately, we’re not too far from Paris,” Bolan said, “and I can begin my investigation there, since that has direct American involvement. Looks like we’re about four hours away from Charles de Gaulle, so I’ll have Jack drop me off, and I’ll see if I can pick up the assassin’s trail.”

The Executioner picked up a tablet computer and flicked through the data he’d been sent. “DiStephano had been on his way to a meeting when he was assaulted. Are there any other events in the next twenty-four hours I need to be aware of, especially ones with high-value targets? Even wounded, this assassin may try to strike again if the payoff is of high enough value.”

“Plus, given the timing of these incidents, we should assume we are dealing with at least three to five individuals,” Price said. “It is possible that the wounded attacker won’t even be there tonight but one or two of the others may be.”

“How about a visit from the Austrian president?” Brognola asked. “He’s in Paris, and what’s more, he put out a statement saying he’s not leaving until he’s concluded his business with the French government—and guess what that is?”

“A conference to discuss a coordinated response to the recent aggressive actions of Russia?” Bolan replied.

“Jesus, what do you have over there, the meeting itinerary?” Brognola asked. “That was almost word-for-word.”

The black-haired man smiled. “What can I say, Hal. I’ve been listening to you gripe about the Foggy Bottom boys and their BS for too long.”

“He just arrived this morning, and a welcoming dinner is planned at the Hôtel de Marigny, the traditional housing for visiting heads of state in France. It’s right next to the Élysée Palace, so security will be heavy regardless. The event is scheduled to begin at 1900 local time this evening,” Price told him.

“Well, considering we still don’t have a solid lead on any of these operatives, even with their previous assault, right now they still possess the element of surprise,” Bolan said. “And if they’re still in the area, the chance to take down a sitting president is something they probably won’t pass up.”

“We’ll make sure you’re added to the guest list and we’ll alert both Interpol and French intelligence, who will be overjoyed to see you, I’m sure,” Price said.

“As long as we can take down these bastards, I don’t care who I have to work with to get the job done.”

Chapter Four

Avenue des Champs-Élysées

Paris, France

Alexei Panshin drove the Renault sedan through the narrow streets with ease, staying within a few miles of the posted speed limit, following every traffic law, alert to the occasional uniformed police officer directing traffic through a particularly busy intersection. If he and his companions had been stopped, the officer doing so would have had a career-making arrest, given the various weapons and other illegal equipment inside.

Assuming he survived the encounter, of course.

As he drove, eyes flicking from one side of the street to the other, Panshin said, “You both have the plan and timetable down?”

“Yes, Alexei, we will be there with plenty of time to set up what we need,” the slender woman in the passenger seat replied. Of a similar build and general appearance to the man beside her, the woman, Amani Nejem, also swept her gaze across their surroundings, missing nothing.

Panshin looked into the small rearview mirror, and met the gaze of Nejem’s backup, Kisu Darsi, staring back at him. “Don’t worry about me, Alexei. I’m not even feeling any pain.”

The team leader’s eyes flashed. “You’re just fortunate we were able to get the bullet out. You are certain you can complete this operation?”

Still holding his gaze, Darsi raised his left arm until it was outstretched and level with his shoulder—something he shouldn’t have been able to do, given that three hours earlier there had been two bullets in his upper chest. But he evinced no sign of discomfort as he did so.

“All right, then. You both know where you are supposed to be,” he said as he pulled the car over in a neighborhood of converted apartment buildings. “I will see you both there.”

Panshin got out, and moments later Nejem was behind the wheel and the sedan was pulling away, heading toward the hotel that would host the state dinner. Casually looking around as he headed to a structure at the end of the block, Panshin made sure no one was taking any interest in him as he walked up the steps to a four-story apartment building and tried the electronically locked door. It didn’t budge.

Panshin thought about trying to contact his target through the intercom, but decided against it, as he didn’t want to risk spooking him. Instead, he pulled a trick he had been assured would work in neighborhoods like these, filled with students and young, working-class professionals. He simply ran his hand down the entire line of intercom buttons.

Within seconds, one of them buzzed the door, and he opened it and slipped inside. His target’s apartment was on the top floor, and Panshin took the stairs, not wanting to be seen by others in the building. He reached the floor quickly and started down the hallway until he found the door he was looking for. After glancing to the right and left to make sure no one was around, he knocked softly.

The muffled sounds of movement came from inside. “Who is it?” an annoyed voice asked in French.

“It’s Reynard,” Panshin answered, giving the name of one of the apartment dweller’s coworkers.

“Reynard?” A chain rattled on the other side, and the door cracked open. A young man peered at him. “What do you—Wait, who are you?”

By then it was too late. As the young man struggled to make sense of the man who was nearly a mirror image of himself, Panshin grabbed the edge of the door and pushed hard.

It wasn’t a big movement, but it was enough to tear the chain from the wall and shove the boxers-clad man back from the door, sending him stumbling into the high-ceilinged one-bedroom apartment. His butt hit the stained Formica counter that framed part of the kitchen, and he winced even as he threw up an arm to try to fend off this unknown assailant.

“Hey—” was all he got out before Panshin had closed the door and was on him, moving so fast his quarry appeared to be crying out in slow motion. One lightning-fast hand batted aside his upraised arm, and Panshin’s other hand, fingers curled into a tight ram’s head position, shot forward into the man’s throat, crushing his larynx.

The effect was immediate. Gasping, the young man grabbed his injured neck as his windpipe swelled and closed, cutting off the flow of air to his lungs. Mouth opening and closing helplessly, he sank to his knees, face reddening as his brain became starved for oxygen. He grabbed at Panshin, who sidestepped him and let the dying man fall to the floor, where he thrashed helplessly and clutched at his throat before falling unconscious.

A startled yelp alerted him to the presence of someone else in the apartment. Panshin looked up to see a young woman in a spaghetti-strap tank top and panties staring back at him, a look of openmouthed horror on her face. He cursed inwardly. All of their surveillance data indicated the target should have been alone today.

As he started for her, the woman whirled and darted back into the bedroom, slamming the heavy door in Panshin’s face. He hit it with his shoulder just as she turned the lock. Stepping back, he raised a leg and pistoned it into the doorknob, smashing it apart, but the door still held. Cursing, he hit the same spot again, this time shoving the door open hard enough for it to fly into the bedroom wall and smash a hole in the plaster.

Panshin shot inside and saw the open window in the larger dormer. Running to it, he saw the woman, now dressed in a leather jacket and combat boots, carefully moving across the roof toward the next building. A feral grin creasing his face, he stepped out and gave chase, cursing her for putting him behind schedule, knowing every second counted now.

She had a decent lead, but for him, walking the three-inch pathway around the sloped roof was as easy as walking across a street, and he soon closed the gap. She glanced over her shoulder to see him gaining fast, and that knowledge spurred her to greater speed—straight toward the narrow alley between that building and the next. Fortunately, she was running too hard to draw enough breath to scream for help.

Panshin ran faster as well, wanting to cut her off before she leaped, but he just missed her, his fingers brushing her jacket as she desperately soared through the air. She landed hard and rolled, losing one boot, but was up and running again within moments.

He backed up a few steps, then accelerated to his top speed, easily leaping the three-yard gap with a few feet to spare. Unlike his quarry, he landed on his feet and kept running, easily catching up to her.

When his right hand grabbed her neck, the woman opened her mouth to scream, but he quickly cut her off by the simple expedient of clapping his left hand over her mouth and nose. Already panting from fear and the chase, with her air cut off, she panicked completely, tearing and beating at his iron-like hands as he dragged her out of sight behind a large air-conditioning unit.

Already her struggles were weakening, but Panshin didn’t let his guard down, and made sure she didn’t reach his face with her nails by using the hand that had been holding her neck to pin her arms—anything out of the ordinary now could interfere with the mission. He maintained his hold until she passed out, then carried her to the back side of the building and peeked over the side.

As he’d hoped, it was a narrow backstreet filled with trash receptacles and piled bags of refuse. With a quick look around to ensure that no one was watching, he grabbed her by the legs and held her upside down over a section of alley that was clear of garbage, then let her go, not even waiting for the impact of her head on the pavement to reach him. Her death was a foregone conclusion.

At the edge of the building, he made sure to find the loose boot and toss it toward where he’d dropped the woman. At this point, it didn’t matter if it also fell off the roof or stayed where he’d tossed it. Now it was just a clue pointing toward a young woman committing suicide.

He jumped back to the other building, reentered the apartment, closing and locking the window behind him, and walked to the closet. Hanging in a black garment bag was his disguise for the evening. Quick searches of the nightstand and the body produced the final pieces—Yves Montauk’s smartphone, his billfold with his driver’s license, and a government identification badge that would allow Panshin access to the Élysée Palace and the Hôtel de Marigny.

Chapter Five

General Directorate for

Internal Security Headquarters

Levallois-Perret, France

“Look, we can sit around here for the next ninety minutes or so and argue jurisdictions and whatnot, but the evidence we’ve obtained—and already made available to your department—indicates that the Austrian president is at risk of an assassination attempt tonight, and I plan to be there, with or without your government’s approval.”

“Be that as it may, Agent Cooper, our security has already been doubled for the function,” Captain Bellamy Lambert, of the Terrorism Department of the Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure—DGSI—replied. “Our people are among the best in the world at what they do, and I have no doubt that the president and the rest of the guests will be safe under their watch.”

The brown-haired man cleared his throat. “And while we appreciate your government’s sharing of the data you have uncovered, as far as I know, you are here to investigate the attack on Richard DiStephano earlier today. So then, by all means, please do so, and let us handle tonight’s event. Your presence there would be unnecessary, and even detrimental to our own established security protocols. It would be as if we had showed up to your White House and demanded to oversee the security details for your own President—hardly acceptable, n’est pas?”

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