Dark Waters

A group of homegrown Scottish terrorists guns down an American businessman in the name of their cause—free Scotland from England, whatever the cost. But something more sinister lurks below the surface, and Mack Bolan is called in to stop them before they strike again.

There is only one way to bring this group to its knees—destroy whoever is funding them. But before justice can be served, Bolan will have to penetrate the benefactor’s heavily guarded fortress overlooking Loch Ness.

Whatever the risks, this band of extremists and their puppet master must fall, and the Executioner is determined to be the last man standing.

A shotgun blast shattered the banister

The Executioner ducked out of sight as more bullets peppered the walls and ceiling overhead.

Barging through the first door on his right, he found himself inside what looked like a guest room. Directly opposite the doorway where he stood, a sliding door opened onto a narrow balcony that faced the yard and street beyond. It was a drop of twenty feet, and then a run of twenty yards across the lawn. He would be wide open to the shooters in the house—and any who were quick enough to follow him.

One step at a time.

Bolan kicked the bedroom door shut, locked it and crossed to the window. He opened it and waited for the angry voices to resume from the hallway. If they went straight, he had a chance to make the drop unnoticed. But if they searched room by room…

The doorknob jiggled, and Bolan stitched a double 3-round burst across the paneling, and was rewarded with a squeal of pain. A second later, he was on the balcony, one leg across the rail.

As small-arms fire ripped through the room’s door and eastern wall, Bolan took his leap of faith.

Battle Cry

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In the mind and nature of a man a secret is an ugly thing, like a hidden physical defect.

—Isak Dinesen 1885–1962 Last Tales

Some secrets are best left buried, with the men who keep them.

—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

Epilogue

Prologue

Glasgow, Scotland: 9:18 a.m.

Galen Lockhart checked his Rolex Oyster Perpetual Milgauss watch and discovered that, against all odds, he was ahead of schedule. His hangover was fading slowly, and he knew it was a mere illusion that he still heard echoes of the music that had hammered him the previous night for hours, at the Barrowlands. After his steaming shower, there was no way he could still smell What’s-her-name’s perfume.

What was her name? Something vaguely exotic, he recalled. Finela or Grizela? Maybe Annabella?

Screw it.

She’d been gone when Lockhart had received his jarring wake-up call from the Hilton Glasgow’s concierge. His wallet was still intact, and that was all that mattered. If he hurt a little here and there, it only meant they’d had a damn good time.

“A bonny day, this is,” his guide declared.

Lockhart had never seen Craig Stewart when he wasn’t smiling. Could it be some kind of surgical enhancement? Maybe he’d had a nip-tuck in the cheek muscles to lift the corners of his mouth in perpetuity?

Or was he just another jolly Scot?

Whatever, he was right about the day. Bright sunshine and a clear blue sky over the city, as their limo rolled along Cathedral Street toward Stirling Road. From there, it would be out of Glasgow proper, into Springburn, where the ground breaking was scheduled to begin at ten o’clock.

The factory would mark SenDane’s first move outside the States. Lockhart had bucked the tide of outsourcing as long as possible, but now the time had come to ride the wave, before he wound up drowning in red ink. And if the move got him some good publicity, well, what was wrong with that?

“Your parents must be proud,” Stewart said through his smile.

His ancestors had gambled on a one-way ticket to America during the twenties, started out in New York City but wound up in Philadelphia and prospered there. Each generation built on what the last had done, took full advantage of technology as it evolved and learned to play the games that made success, if not a lead-pipe cinch, at least a reasonable expectation.

“They’ll be here for the grand opening,” Lockhart replied. “Next June, if we don’t run afoul of any snags.”

“You’ll be snag-free,” Stewart assured him. “Everything’s been taken care of, top to bottom.”

Meaning politicians, unions and whatever else might slow construction if the wheels weren’t greased with cash. Once they were up and running, Lockhart would recoup his bribes in spades, but at the moment, every penny counted.

“The Lord Provost is coming?” Lockhart asked.

“Aye,” Steward said. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world. And we’ve got five out of the seven MPs coming in.”

“Sounds good.”

“A bonny day,” Steward repeated. “Everybody happy as a pig in shite.”

“WE’RE IN THE SHITE if anything goes wrong,” Patrick Whishart said, huddled in the backseat of a blue Ford Focus stolen from the long-term parking lot at Glasgow International Airport, its license plates switched with a junker from a Paisley wrecking yard.

“So, don’t let anything go wrong, then,” Bobby Tennant answered from the shotgun seat, not bothering to turn and face Whishart. “We do the job and get the hell away. All right?”

“He’s got no cover, then?” Hugh Ferguson inquired from the backseat.

“To watch him dig a hole?” Tennant was scornful. “Just the copper you see sittin’ over there.”

One uniform sat inside his panda car, watching reporters square away their cameras and microphones. The VIPs hadn’t arrived yet, but they would be turning up within the next few minutes if they meant to start the show on time.

And if they didn’t, Tennant’s team would wait.

Reaching between his knees into a paper shopping bag, Tennant withdrew a Sterling L2A3 submachine gun and a curved double-column magazine holding thirty-four rounds of 9 mm Parabellum hollowpoint rounds. Keeping a cold eye on the policeman in his car, Tennant snapped the magazine into the SMG’s receiver and racked a round into the chamber.

Behind him, he heard his two other men priming their weapons, an Uzi for Ferguson and an Armalite AR-18 assault rifle for Whishart. Their driver, Duncan Nilsen, had an Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol in his lap, but he was staying with the Focus when they made their move, to have it ready when the hit went down.

“Remember,” Tennant said, “go for the targets first and leave the copper be unless he makes a run at you. We know he’ll use the radio. Don’t sweat it. Hit the Yank and anyone who’s fawning over him, then get back to the car. Hear me?”

They heard him, and they’d heard it all before, at least a dozen times during their planning sessions for the strike. It was a relatively simple job, but still important to the cause. Outsiders had to know they couldn’t make a fortune on the backs of honest Scots, even if they had ancient roots in local soil.

“Here comes a limo,” Nilsen warned them.

Tennant turned in his seat to eye the limousine, a black Rolls-Royce Ghost. The license plate on its front bumper showed the Scottish government’s royal coat of arms. Dark tinted windows hid its passengers from view, but Tennant recognized the car and knew who was inside.

“Take him or leave him,” he advised the others. “Tag the Yank for sure, then drop his lackeys if it doesn’t slow you down.”

“Another limo,” Nilsen said. “And two more coming up behind it.”

“Council members, maybe some MPs,” Tennant suggested. “Careful with them, when it starts. We have some friends there, and it wouldn’t do to mess them up.”

“They take their chances, kissing Lockhart’s arse,” said Ferguson.

“Just follow orders,” Tennant cautioned him. “Don’t feck this up by thinkin’ for yourself.”

“ALL READY, from the looks of it,” Craig Stewart said.

The politicians had arrived ahead of schedule, jockeying for face time with the television cameras, grabbing their sound bytes before all eyes and lenses focused on the American whose symbolic homecoming meant jobs and a boost for the city’s flagging economy. Every politician who turned out for the ground breaking would be claiming credit for it, getting in another bid for votes.

“You brought the shovel, right?” Lockhart asked. “Christ, I never thought of it till now.”

“It’s in the trunk,” Stewart assured him. “Sterling silver, bright and shiny new.”

The spade was silver-plated, and had cost a pretty guinea, even so. Once jabbed into the dirt, it would be mounted on a placard and retired. A souvenir for someone, probably the Lord Provost, to join the case of eighteen-year-old single-malt Glenlivet whisky he’d received as Lockhart’s token of appreciation for a quarter of an hour on the dais.

Moments later, they were out and moving toward the stage, with Stewart carrying the shovel. Lockhart had his short speech memorized, the usual spiel about returning to his roots and honoring his heritage. He thought to himself that if anyone was dumb enough to think of SenDane as a philanthropic charity, more power to them.

On the dais, shaking hands, Lockhart could feel his hangover trying to reassert itself, but he suppressed it, plastered on a smile to match Stewart’s and stepped up to the microphone.

The turnout wasn’t large and didn’t have to be. The cameras were what counted, catching every second of the show.

“My friends and fellow Scots—”

A ripple in the small crowd caught his eye, distracting Lockhart as he saw three men advancing, rudely shoving past the others who’d arrived before them, pressing toward the stage. He didn’t recognize the guns at first, until the nearest one was pointed at his face.

“Look out!” somebody shouted from below. Too late.

Lockhart began to turn, raising the spade as if it could protect him, hearing screams and curses from the crowd. Then, all he heard was thunder.

All he felt was pain.

Chapter 1

Glasgow: 10:05 a.m.

Mack Bolan’s flight from New York City landed more or less on time. The jumbo jet had lifted off from JFK eleven minutes late yet somehow beat the captain’s own best estimate for crossing the Atlantic. They’d traveled more than thirty-two hundred miles overnight, across five time zones, and Bolan had done it in coach.

It was good to stretch his legs again, to work the kinks out of his neck and lower back.

He took his time passing along the jetway, following the signs to Immigration and Passport Control. Upon arrival at their destination, Bolan’s fellow travelers formed lines, according to their nationality. The fast lanes were for British subjects, residents of nations in the European Economic Area, and the Swiss. All others joined the lines requiring more detailed interrogation by authorities.

Bolan was ready with his landing card and passport, this one in the name of Matt Cooper from Los Angeles. Mr. Cooper was on holiday with nothing to declare.

The immigration officer who beckoned Bolan forward was a woman, pale and red-haired, with just the barest hint of freckles on her nose. He would’ve had to guess about her figure, since she was wearing body armor underneath her uniform, and her gunbelt had numerous black, bulky pouches.

She checked his face against the passport’s photo, inquired as to the purpose of his visit even though it was already indicated on his landing card, and asked for an address where he’d be staying while in Scotland.

Serving up the truth for once, Bolan replied, “No address. I’ll be traveling and stopping where the spirit moves me, hoping there’s a room available.”

She frowned, then said, “Good luck with that” and slammed a stamp into his passport.

“Next!”

Glasgow International Airport, located eight miles southwest of the city’s center, served more than seven million travelers per year. Most international arrivals passed through the main terminal, where two al Qaeda wannabes crashed a flaming Jeep Cherokee into the main pedestrian entrance on June 30, 2007. The Jeep failed to explode, but one of the men set himself afire and subsequently died in agony. His sidekick was arrested near the scene and pulled a thirty-two-year sentence for attempted murder.

So, security was tighter in the terminal these days. En route to claim his check-through suitcase, Bolan passed by teams of uniformed police in jaunty caps, with H&K MP-5 submachine guns slung across their chests. None of them paid particular attention to him, and he felt no sense of apprehension as he followed more signs to the baggage carousels on a lower level.

It wasn’t cops who posed the main threat to his life from this point on.

His black, generic suitcase took another thirteen minutes to appear, but no one checked his luggage tag as Bolan headed for the kiosk where a hired car should be waiting for him. There, another woman with red hair—younger and more cheerful than the officer who’d stamped his passport—welcomed Bolan, found his reservation and received his California driver’s license with a Platinum Visa, both once again in the name of Matt Cooper.

Bolan replied to the obligatory questions, lying where he needed to and staying vague about the rest. He took the lady up on her insurance offer—Bolan’s rentals sometimes took a beating on the road—and opted for the prepaid “discount” refill of his gas tank when, or if, he managed to return the car.

There was, he thought, no reason why the rental company should eat the cost if something happened to their car while in his possession. The Visa card was solid, false name notwithstanding, and his debts were always paid on time, in full.

The ride selected for him was a gray Toyota Camry with a five-speed manual transmission, front-wheel drive, with a two-liter inline-four engine. Bolan put his suitcase in the spacious trunk and remembered that the driver’s seat was on the right, the stick shift on his left.

As he left the car rental parking lot, with traffic rushing toward him on his right, Bolan quickly got the feel of it, his muscle-memory kicking in from other trips abroad, and he was on his way.

So far, so good. But Bolan couldn’t leap into his mission as he was.

For starters, he was naked—or, at least, he felt that way, without a single weapon close at hand. Airline security made packing weapons on commercial flights unfeasible, and Bolan couldn’t very well comply with standing rules for shipping lethal hardware in the baggage hold. Most of the gear that he relied on was legally off-limits to civilians in the States and the United Kingdom, so he’d traveled light, unarmed except for hands, feet and vast experience in taking life, up close and personal.

But he needed guns, perhaps explosives—and some information, too.

Thankfully, Bolan knew exactly where to find them in the heart of Glasgow, day or night.

IAN WATT WAS a respected businessman. Although he was a product of Gorbals—Glasgow’s toughest slum, located on the south bank of the River Clyde—he’d risen far above his humble roots, like others he could name.

Gorbals owed its name to the Lowland Scots word for lepers, locally housed at Saint Ninian’s Hospital in the fourteenth century and granted begging rights on nearby streets. Alumni of the district included some of Glasgow’s most notorious characters, good and bad.

He had grown up on the streets, in essence, with the likes of Tam McGraw and Frank McPhee, both gone to their rewards now with a host of others who had battled through the ice cream wars and other skirmishes for turf across the years. Watt chose a slightly different path, fencing hot items through a pawn shop that had prospered and expanded into two, then four, then seven citywide. Most of his merchandise was perfectly legitimate.

Most, but not all.

Old friends and new acquaintances still had selected items that required a broker, and they needed other items to defend themselves from competition or the police. Firearms regulation in the British Isles had gone from bad to worse after the Dunblane massacre of 1996, in which sixteen children were killed in kindergarten class by a shooter who then killed himself. But life went on, and hardmen needed shooters all the same.

In Glasgow, many of them bought their wares from Ian Watt.

He had to watch out for the undercover filth, of course, but honestly, how hard was that? A few bob handed over, here and there, bought Watt a warning when the dogs were prowling in his neighborhood, and risks were minimized by dealing mainly with a trusted clientele.

Mainly.

Needless to say, there were exceptions to the rule, but all of them came recommended from another customer who’d dealt with Watt in other situations, with no comebacks. Like the fellow from America he was expecting for a nooner on this very day, referred to Watt by someone who knew someone else, and so it went.

And who was Watt, a thriving businessman, to turn away a foreign visitor in need?

Watt didn’t care what use was ultimately made of any items he procured and sold on to the street. None of the weapons could be traced to him, either by registration numbers or the fancy stuff you saw on TV crime dramas. Watt never touched a piece or cartridge with his bare hands, damn sure never left his DNA on any item from his arsenal, and wouldn’t take a fall for anything unless the coppers somehow found his basement arsenal.

Which wasn’t very bloody likely, he thought.

At half-past eleven on the stroke, Watt put the Closed sign on his door and sent his pretty helper, Flora, off to lunch. She always took her time about it, likely making out with her boyfriend from the pizzeria down the street, but what of it? He’d hired her as eye candy, primarily, and got his money’s worth when punters were distracted by her cleavage while he talked them down on loans, or jacked them up on retail prices. Best of all, she never questioned being sent out on some pointless errand or released ahead of closing time, as long as she was paid up for the day.

A perfect front, he thought, in all respects.

He smiled, amused as always by his own wry wit.

Watt didn’t know exactly what his new customer had in mind, as far as shooters were concerned, but his inventory was extensive. Something for everyone, down in the basement—and twenty years to think about it at HMP Barlinnie, if he was caught with that kind of hardware on hand.

Unless, of course, he struck a deal to shift the burden somewhere else.

A dicey proposition, that was, if you thought about his customers. All men of honor, in their own eyes, meaning that they punished traitors harshly but might sell out their mothers if there was any profit in it.

Most of Glasgow’s current so-called gangsters couldn’t hold a candle to the old breed. They were tough enough, all right, but you could never tell when one of them might crack under interrogation. Once they got to thinking about prison and the things they’d have to do or do without inside, a lot of them would spill and put their best mates on remand.

Watt was a different sort, and anyone who mattered knew it, going in. It was a point of honor, and he knew what could become of those who snitched, even when they were certain that they’d gotten away with it. Watt, himself, hoped to die at ninety-something in a trollop’s arms, rather than screaming on a rack somewhere.

When he had seen the back of Flora, Watt threw down a double shot of Royal Brackla whisky and felt the heat spread through his vitals, relaxing him from the inside out. First-timers always put his nerves on edge a little, but the whisky mellowed him like nothing else.

All ready to do this, he thought, and watched the big hand creep around toward twelve.

THE SHOP ON Dalhousie Street, in Garnethill, was closed when Bolan parked a half-block south of it, but he had been forewarned of that. A knock on the glass door produced a slim man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back from a craggy face that had absorbed its share of blows, and then some. His suit was Savile Row, though Bolan didn’t know enough about the London fashion scene to peg a tailor.

The proprietor beamed a smile at Bolan through plate glass, then unlocked and opened the door. “Mr. Cooper, you would be?” he inquired.

Bolan nodded and said, “Mr. Watt?”

“In the flesh, sir. Come in, won’t you please?”

Bolan scanned the merchandise while Watt secured the door behind him, checking out the street. He stocked a bit of everything, it seemed, from jewelry and musical instruments to antique silverware and china. Clearly, there was money to be made from someone else’s disappointment.

“Just in from America, you’d be,” Watt said as he returned, no longer asking questions. “And looking for some tools of quality.”

“Assuming that the price is right,” Bolan replied.

“I take it that you understand our situation here. We haven’t got a constitutional amendment giving us the right to carry guns, and all. The scrutiny is fierce.”

“And yet.”

“And yet. Of course. Just so you realize that heat increases costs for merchants and their customers.”

“The money’s not a problem,” Bolan said.

“In that case,” Watt replied, “please follow me. The merchandise you’re looking for is kept downstairs.”

He trailed Watt through a minioffice to a storage space in back, then down a flight of stairs concealed behind a steel door labeled Private—No Admittance. Watt turned on a bank of overhead fluorescent lights as they started their descent, bleaching the basement arsenal’s beige paint and striking glints from well-oiled pieces of his secret stock.

The climate-controlled room measured right around three hundred square feet, running twenty feet long east to west, and fifteen wide, north to south. Within that space, Watt had collected an impressive cache of automatic weapons, shotguns, pistols and accessories for every killing need.

There was a .460 Weatherby Magnum for would-be elephant poachers, and a .50-caliber Barrett M-82 semiautomatic antimaterial rifle for hunters who wanted to bag an armored personnel carrier.

Speaking of big guns, Watt also stocked a 40 mm Milkor MGL 6-shot 40 mm grenade launcher, a Czech SAG-30 semiauto launcher for smaller 30 mm grenades, and a South African Vektor Y3 AGL that required a tripod or vehicle mount for its full-auto spray of 280 grenades per minute.

“Much call for that in Glasgow?” Bolan asked his guide.

“If someone asks,” Watt said, “I aim to please.”

The remainder of his inventory was more convention, including various assault rifles, submachine guns and sidearms manufactured in Europe. Price tags were nowhere to be seen.

Bolan’s first choice was a 5.56 mm Steyr AUG, the modern classic manufactured in Austria and carried by soldiers of twenty-odd nations, and by agents of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Its compact bullpup design, factory-standard Swarovski Optik 1.5x telescopic sight, and see-through plastic magazines all made for a convenient, reliable combat rifle.

For backup and variety, Bolan next chose a Spectre M-4 submachine gun, manufactured at the SITES factory in Turin, Italy. Feeding 9 mm Parabellum cartridges from a four-column casket magazine, the Spectre carried fifty rounds to the average SMG’s thirty or thirty-five. Its double-action trigger mechanism allowed safe carriage while cocked, and its muzzle was threaded for a suppressor, which Bolan added to his shopping cart.

Last up, for guns, he chose another Italian: the same selective-fire Beretta 93-R pistol that he favored in the States. It was no longer in production, but the piece Watt had acquired was brand-new in appearance, and a quick look proved it fully functional. In essence, with its muzzle brake, folding foregrip, and 20-round magazines, the 93-R gave Bolan a second SMG to play with. He picked a fast-draw shoulder rig to carry it, with pouches for spare magazines, and started shopping for grenades.

His choice there was the standard British L109 fragmentation grenade, a variant of the original Swiss HG 85 that had replaced the older L2A2 in the early 1990s. Each grenade weighed one pound and had a timed fuse, with a Mat Black Safety Clip similar to those found on American M-67 frag grenades.

Bolan bought an even dozen, just in case, added a KA-BAR fighting knife on impulse and decided he was done.

With ammunition, extra magazines and gun bags to conceal his purchases, the total was a flat eight thousand pounds. Say thirteen grand, in round numbers.

“I have a counteroffer for you,” Bolan said.

“Not quite the way it works, friend,” Watt replied.

“You haven’t heard it, yet.”

“Go on, then. Make me laugh.”

Before Watt reached his pocket pistol, Bolan had the KA-BAR’s blade against his throat.

“A name and address for your life,” he said.

IT DIDN’T QUITE work out that way. Watt thought about it for a minute, then gave up the information Bolan needed, but it went against the grain. He could’ve simply spent the afternoon in handcuffs, in his soundproofed arsenal, but something in the Gorbals sense of “honor” made him try his hand against the Executioner, and Bolan left the KA-BAR stuck between the man’s ribs to dam the blood flow, while he took another to replace it from the dealer’s stash.

He left the shop with two gym bags, locked the door and dropped Watt’s keys into a curbside rubbish can. Someone would come to look for Watt, sooner or later, and eventually they would find him with his basement cache of arms.

Or not.

It made no difference to Bolan, as he loaded the rental car with tools for the continuation of his endless war and left the neighborhood of Garnethill behind him, heading west along New City Road to Bearsden.

A slightly richer neighborhood, that was, and Bolan thought about the name while he was driving. He had no idea if there had ever been a bear in the vicinity, or if its den was anywhere nearby, but he was looking for a predator among the stylish homes that lined attractive streets, all redolent with history.

The target’s name was Frankie Boyle. He’d dominated Glasgow’s rackets for the past decade or so, his interests covering the normal range of gambling, prostitution, drugs, extortion, theft and loan-sharking. Through Ian Watt and several others like him, Boyle also controlled a fair piece of illicit trafficking in arms for Glasgow and environs, which, as Bolan understood it, covered most of Central Scotland east of Edinburgh.

It was the weapons trade that sent Bolan in search of Boyle this afternoon. Or, more specifically, some of the people who were purchasing his wares. A group of homegrown terrorists whose war, though dormant for a time, had flared to life again in recent weeks with grim results.

Bolan would happily have turned the tap to halt on illegal weapons sales worldwide, but that would never happen, realistically. One major reason was that most of the world’s industrial nations—the United States included—constantly sold guns and bombs to other countries who were ill-equipped to make their own. Official sales were perfectly legitimate, but once a load of hardware was delivered, the security surrounding it depended on a cast of human beings who were fallible at best, malicious and corrupt at worst.

Add in the thefts from military arsenals and legal shipments, and you had a world armed to the teeth, with an insatiable craving for more guns, more ammunition, more grenades and rocket launchers.

Arms trafficking was the world’s second-largest source of criminal revenue, after drugs, and Bolan was a realist. He couldn’t disarm a square block in New York or Los Angeles, much less a city the size of Glasgow. Cleaning up a state or country? It wasn’t realistic.

But he could stop one specific trafficker, and thereby slow the flood of killing hardware for a day or two, until the top man was replaced and pipelines were reopened. Bolan could take out selected buyers and make sure that they never pulled another trigger.

If his targets didn’t kill him first.

Boyle’s street was nice, its houses big and old enough to rate respect. Not mansions, in the sense you might expect for Texas oil tycoons or dot-com billionaires in Silicone Valley, but cruising past them in a humble rented car, you knew the wealth was there.

No walled estates or obvious security devices here. Bolan drove slowly, as if looking for an address—which he was, in fact—and saw no lookouts posted on the street near number 82. No curtains flickered as he passed; why would they? he thought. Boyle would take the usual precautions: sweep the place for bugs, use prepaid cell phones for his business calls and speak in code, stash any serious incriminating items well away from his home, and pay off whichever cops would take your money and agree to drop a dime before a raid went down. Or fudge an address on a warrant, so the search was bad and anything collected would be inadmissible in court.

Friends taking care of friends.

Greed was another problem Bolan couldn’t fix, and he had sworn a private vow to keep his gunsights well away from law-enforcement officers. He’d helped to put a few in prison, but if push came down to shove, there was a line he’d rather not cross.

So Glasgow’s Finest, even those who weren’t so very fine, had nothing to fear from Bolan. Racketeers like Frankie Boyle, however, were another story altogether.

If he’d known what was about to happen to him, to his little urban empire, Boyle would likely have been quaking in his boots. Or, maybe he was too far gone for that, a stoned psycho who never gave a second thought to fear.

Suits me, Bolan thought. Crazies died like anybody else.

He scoped the house and then drove on. Still daylight.

And the Executioner had time to kill.

Chapter 2

Glasgow: 3:35 a.m.

Frankie Boyle wasn’t drunk, but he was working on it. He’d been up and out since early afternoon, showing himself and being seen at the familiar haunts, checking accounts at different operations on a random basis, so the boys he’d left in charge would never know whose books might be examined next.

This night, he had surprised Joe Murray at Night Moves, one of the five strip clubs Boyle owned through paper fronts in Glasgow. One of Murray’s girls—Boyle’s girls, in fact—had beefed that Murray helped himself to tips beyond the standard fifty-fifty split Boyle had imposed on dancers in his joints.

That was a minor problem, which could have been resolved with just a quiet word, but Murray had been rolling certain customers, as well. Just two or three so far, but Boyle knew it would be bad for business if the word got out and customers stayed away. Worse yet, if it brought the police sniffing after Boyle.

And adding insult to the injury, Murray hadn’t shared the loot he’d stolen with his boss.

Major mistake in Boyle’s book.

Boyle had strolled into Night Moves at a quarter past eleven, with a couple of his boys, and put the smile on everyone in sight. He bought a round for the house and accepted the grateful applause in return, then took Murray to the soundproof office for a private chat. Murray reckoned everything was fine until he saw the ball-peen hammer, then he started bawling like a baby, blubbering and pleading innocence while Boyle got down to work.

Knuckles and walnuts sounded the same when they were crushed.

Boyle had considered smashing Murray’s feet as well, but changed his mind and took the greedy bastard’s shoes instead, along with keys to his brand-new Mercedes-Benz, and tossed him out the back.

Adding, “Oh, by the way, you’re fecking fired,” before he slammed the door.

The dancer who had tipped him off received a healthy tip and was invited to see Boyle at home after she got off work. When she’d arrived, a little after two o’clock, he’d thanked her properly. And twice more in the time since then, leaving her limp and snoring softly on his king-size bed.

No worries there, Boyle thought. He had no wife to scold him, and no kids to barge in without knocking first. After he’d satisfied his thirst, he might go back and thank the lady one more time. It would be fine if she woke up; if not, so be it.

Boyle was all about the gratitude.

Pouring his third straight double shot of Glenmorangie whisky, he thought about Murray again. In the old days, say ten years ago, he’d have likely killed the man for the money he’d stolen. Things had been tight back then, relatively, but now Boyle could dabble in mercy.

Unless Murray was stupid and tried to make trouble.

Boyle didn’t mind if he stayed in Glasgow. Murray could serve as a living example of what befell those who screwed with the boss. Telling the story to selected listeners was also fine, as long as Murray was straight about it, laying out his sins. But if he started agitating, or considered talking to the filth…

Boyle sipped his whisky, savored it, deciding he could always have the boys drop Murray in the Clyde or take him for a ride onto the moors if there were indications of his acting up. Until then, there was no point second-guessing his original decision.

One more shot before he went back to the dancer?

Boyle considered it, weighing the pleasure against any possible decline in his performance, and decided it was worth the risk. These days, it took a fair amount of booze to get him blootered, and in his opinion, he still bounced back in good time for a man his age.

Forty and counting. Who in hell would’ve believed that Frankie Boyle would last so long? he wondered.

Smiling, he took the shot glass with him. Back to thank his friend once more, before he sent her home.

BOLAN HAD USED the day to get his bearings, gather information and to follow Frankie Boyle at a discreet distance. He’d noted the addresses that, given the length of time Boyle spent at them, he had to have an interest in beyond having a drink or watching strippers work a pole.

Mapping the darker side of Glasgow, one stop at a time.

He had been parked a block away from Night Moves, south of Bath Street, when a weeping man had lurched out of a nearby alley, cradling hands that looked like shattered bird’s nests. Bolan let him go and wished him well if he deserved it.

Either way the man turned on Pitt Street, he would find help waiting for him. Go south for police headquarters, north to reach the nearest hospital ER. Both stood within a quarter mile of where Bolan had parked his rented car to wait for Boyle’s next move.

As it turned out, that was the highlight of his evening, until he followed Boyle home and started getting ready for his unexpected meet with Glasgow’s unofficial boss. The city council and police would angrily dispute that title, naturally, but the fact remained that Boyle controlled a major portion of the city’s underground economy.

This night, that would be coming to an end.

Bolan was dressed in black street clothes with sturdy boots, and he wore a light raincoat to hide the Spectre SMG slung underneath his right arm, muzzle-heavy with its sound suppressor in place. He always came prepared for trouble. Bolan didn’t know how many men Boyle had inside his great pile of a house, or how they would be armed.

Ideally, he would have a private moment with the boss and persuade Boyle to give up his terrorist contacts. But that was looking on the rosy side. Things rarely went that way for Bolan, and he guessed that Boyle would be the usual tough nut to crack.

If he had to ice the boss and squeeze somebody else, he’d do that. Ian Watt had named Boyle’s number two as Erik Heriot, presumably well versed on all of Boyle’s big deals. If one nut wouldn’t crack…

Bolan had picked his time deliberately. Countless studies had revealed that human beings generally hit a slump at 4:00 a.m., no matter how much sleep they’d had. Reflexes lagged, distractions were routine. In hospitals, statistics showed a spike in births and deaths.

It was the Hour of the Wolf.

Or, in this case, the Hour of the Executioner.

The closest place he’d found to park was four blocks northeast of Boyle’s place, but the neighborhood had alleys where the well-to-do could leave their garbage cans for pickup without ruining the trim look of their streets. Taking the back way cut his hike by half and gave Bolan a chance to come at Boyle’s house from behind, instead of strolling under streetlights to the tall front door.

The backyard was surrounded by a seven-foot brick wall, but Boyle hadn’t bothered to spike it or set up motion detectors. Bolan scaled the wall and lay on top of it to whistle softly, calling any dogs that might be lurking in the shadows down below, but none responded to the call. No gunmen, either, indicating that the Boss of Glasgow didn’t know that he was under siege.

There had been nothing on the radio about police discovering Watt’s body in the pawn shop, nothing about weapons found or anything related to them. Bolan knew police could keep things under wraps if they collaborated with the media, but unsolved homicides normally rated coverage, even if details were suppressed to weed out false confessions.

So, he had no reason to suspect that Boyle was on alert. All systems go.

Bolan rolled off the wall and dropped into darkness, landed in a crouch and struck off toward the house.

ERIK HERIOT LIT his fortieth cigarette of the day, spent close to a half-minute coughing, then expelled the smoke from his lungs with a sigh or relief. Ought to quit that, he thought, then smiled at the old game he played with himself every day.

He wasn’t ready for a life change at the moment, whether it was swearing off the coffin nails, taking a pledge on booze, or looking for a so-called honest job to fill his time from nine to five.

He had one life, and this was it. He’d come a long way from the borstal time he’d served as a delinquent kid, serving these days as second in command to Frankie Boyle. Hard men all over Strathclyde knew his name, and Heriot could name a few in London who regretted crossing him.

The ones who were alive.

His life was damn near brilliant, when he thought about it, but if there was one thing he could change, it would’ve been the idle waiting that he had to do while Boyle had himself a frolic with a fancy bit. It was a waste of time for Heriot, in his opinion, when he could just as well be shaking down a debtor, say, or getting into some young lovely’s panties himself.

Still, Heriot knew better than to bitch about it, which would certainly rebound against him. It was better if he just—

Now, what in hell was that? he thought in response to the sound he’d just heard.

It was a scuffling noise of some kind from the kitchen, he realized. The last thing that he needed was a couple of his boys banging the pots and pans around like Gordon Feckin’ Ramsey on the telly. If they had to scuffle, he thought, they could do it in the yard. Or, better still, hold off until their shift was over and go down to Rory’s gym. Decide the matter in the ring, where anyone could get a bet down and enjoy the show, Heriot reasoned.

Fuming and trailing smoke, he made his way to the kitchen, ready to unload on anyone who was dumb enough to start a row inside the boss’s house. He cleared the doorway and stopped dead, surprised at seeing Billy Cutler laid out on the floor.

His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and what seemed to be a bucketload of blood was pooled around his head. He saw the gun lying next to Billy’s limp right hand, and knew there should’ve been the louder racket if he’d shot himself.

So, wha—?

Warm steel made contact with his skull behind his left ear. Heriot froze where he stood, wondering how much it would hurt to have his brains blown out. Instead of pain and sudden darkness, though, a voice half-whispered to him.

“Let’s go see your boss,” it said.

THE BACK DOOR had been unlocked for some reason. Maybe one of Boyle’s attendants had planned to take out the trash, or perhaps it was simple negligence. Whatever the scenario, it happened, and the ones most likely to relax their guard were people who had been in charge so long that they’d begun to treat the opposition with contempt.

It was a critical mistake.

Bolan had entered with the 93-R in his hand, leaving his Spectre on its sling for the moment. The pistol left his spare hand free for doorknobs, light switches, whatever came along requiring manual dexterity.

He was inside, closing the door behind him, when he realized that there was someone in the pantry, off the kitchen proper to his left. Bolan was gentle with the door, but it still clicked as it was closing, and the soldier in the pantry had good ears.

“Whozat?” the man asked, and had his pistol drawn before he showed himself. Not bad, Bolan thought, risking embarrassment to hold the fort. But whoever had left the door unlocked also had signed his death warrant.

One shot from twenty feet was all it took, sinking a hole between the shooter’s raised eyebrows, just a hair off center. Dying on his feet, the guy still managed two more lurching steps and fell against the stove, left arm outflung to catch the handle of a skillet, flip it once end-over-end and send it clattering across the floor as he went down.

The house was quiet, otherwise, though lights still showed in several of the windows. Bolan had to think the noise would draw somebody to investigate, and he was right. No more than thirty seconds later, when he’d nearly reached the exit to a formal dining room, he heard footsteps approaching at an urgent pace.

Bolan stepped back into a corner where the door would cover him as it was opened. Any SWAT team officer or soldier trained in urban combat would have entered in a crouch, slamming the door back to the wall and stunning anyone who might be crouched behind it, but a little racket in the kitchen didn’t rate that kind of do-or-die response.

So he was ready when the new arrival entered in a cloud of cigarette smoke, gaping at the body sprawled before him. And before the second man could twitch, much less sound an alarm, Bolan had kissed his neck with the Beretta’s warm suppressor.

“Let’s go see your boss,” he said.

The Scotsman almost nodded, then thought better of it. When he turned, it was a slow dance move, away from Bolan, waiting for the gun and whoever was holding it to go along with him. He caught the door before it closed, with his right hand, and stepped across the threshold with the same care he might exercise if he was walking on light bulbs.

“How far?” Bolan asked, not quite whispering.

“Upstairs. First floor, end of the hall.”

“First floor,” in the UK and most of Europe, meant what would’ve been the second story in the States. On this side of the water, the American first floor was called the “ground” floor, logically enough.

“You lead. Stay cool.”

“As ice,” his prisoner replied. Then added, “I suppose ye know yer in the shitebag now.”

“You’d better hope not,” Bolan told him. “If it hits the fan, you’re first to go.”

“Oh, aye. Ah figgered that.”

They’d reached the stairs, and Bolan’s captive started up them, taking each step with leaden strides.

“Faster,” Bolan instructed.

“Och, I wouldn’t wanna get me arse shot off fer runnin’, now.”

Before Bolan could answer, two men suddenly appeared above him, on the first-floor landing. Both scowled down at him, then reached for pistols tucked into their belts. He reached around his hostage, winged the shooter on his right.

And then all hell broke loose.

FRANKIE BOYLE was half asleep when sounds of gunfire yanked him back to consciousness. He tumbled out of bed, naked, his first instinct being to save himself if shooters were about to crash his bedroom door. Another second told him that the noise was buffered by a few more walls, which he figured meant he had at least a little time.

Job one: retrieve the Browning Hi-Power semiauto pistol from the top drawer of his nightstand and be ready to defend himself.

Job two: while covering the door, hit speed-dial on his cell phone for his houseman, to find out exactly what in bloody hell was happening.

Job three: put on some clothes.

The woman from Night Moves had begun to squeal and wouldn’t shut it when he snapped at her, so Boyle reached up and banjoed her with the 9 mm pistol. He thought he heard her nose crack, but had no time to consider it.

The phone rang three times and was going into number four when houseman Davey Bryce answered, breathless. “Yeah?”

“What’s all the feckin’ racket, then?” Boyle demanded.

“Someone’s got inside. I dunno—”

And the line went dead.

Boyle squeezed and shook the cell phone, all in vain. He thumbed redial, waited forever, just to hear a robo-voice say that his party wasn’t answering.

“No shite!” he snarled, and disconnected. He pressed another button with his thumb and waited through two rings before a gruff voice answered.

“Yeah, so?”

“Is ya feckin’ deaf or what, then? We’re gettin’ shot to tatters while you’re whackin’ off. Get yer ass over here right now!”

Boyle cut the link without waiting for a response and scrambled toward the nearby closet on his hands and knees. His private dancer was still wailing from the bed, likely to bring the home invaders down on top of them unless she shut it, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoot her.

Not in his own bed.

Boyle reached the walk-in closet, crawled inside and only then stood up. For all he knew, a bullet might come punching through one of the walls and find him there, but he felt safer, anyway.

And he still had a wild card up his sleeve.

The neighbors didn’t know—or else, pretended not to—that he owned two houses on their precious tree-lined street. One that he lived and partied in, and one next door, immediately to the north, where shooters slept in shifts, ready to scramble in a heartbeat if their boss was threatened. Boyle had built a gate into the fence that separated his two properties, so troops could pass without alerting any watchers on the street.

Not that he gave a damn for stealth tonight, though, with some bastard shooting up his house. His neighbors would be calling up the police by now, he thought. Boyle only hoped that he could meet one of the bastards face-to-face, before the police rolled in.

And maybe get the hell away from there, as well.

But just in case, once Boyle had pulled his trousers on, he made another call. To his solicitor, this time. He figured that for what he charged per hour, the old prick could damn well haul his fat ass out of bed and meet Boyle at the lockup.

Just in case.

FOR SIX OR SEVEN seconds, there was chaos on the staircase. Bolan’s first shot clipped one shooter’s left biceps and staggered him, but both of Boyle’s men still had their guns in hand an instant later, unloading in rapid-fire. Bolan hunched down behind his human shield, felt the man taking some hits while other bullets sizzled past him, then returned fire with his autoloader set for 3-round bursts.

The wounded gunner took a round in the upper chest and sat down hard, then toppled forward, tumbling down the stairs in jerky somersaults. His partner tried retreating, nearly lost his balance with a misstep, throwing out one hand to catch himself. Before he could recover, Bolan’s Parabellum rounds sheared off the right side of his face and sprayed the wall behind him with gray matter.

Done.

Bolan charged up the stairs, taking three at a time, hoping he’d find the first-floor hallway clear between himself and Boyle. He needed time to squeeze the boss and get the information he required, before police came rolling in to spoil the probe.

And failing that…then, what?

No sirens, but he heard a crash downstairs as someone forced a door, then half-a-dozen voices, maybe more, were clamoring for Boyle, advancing toward the stairs. None of the new arrivals bothered to identify themselves as cops, and when he glanced over the railing, Bolan saw that they were reinforcements for the home team, closing in to help the man who signed their paychecks.

Say a dozen guns down there, at least, he figured. Where had they come from? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Only the fact of their existence mattered, and the weapons in their hands.

One of them fired a shotgun blast at Bolan, shattering the banister as he ducked back and out of sight. More bullets followed, peppering the walls and ceiling overhead. Retreating, he could see the door to Frankie Boyle’s bedroom, but Bolan knew the room could be a death trap. Boyle could pin him on the threshold, while his men came up behind and finished Bolan with a spray of lead.

Forget it.

Barging through the first door on his right, he found himself inside what he supposed had to be a guest room, with a queen-sized bed immediately to his left, an en suite to his right. Directly opposite the doorway where he stood, a sliding window faced the yard and street beyond across a narrow balcony.

Call it a drop of twenty feet, and then a run of twenty yards or so across the gently sloping lawn, wide open to Boyle’s shooters in the house and any who were quick enough to follow him. Bolan would still be four blocks from his car, and he wasn’t sure that he could risk running directly to it, with a pack of gunmen on his heels.

So, take it one step at a time.

Bolan kicked the bedroom door shut, latched it, then crossed to the window. He opened that and hesitated, waiting for the sound of angry voices to resume from the hallway. If they went straight for Boyle, he had a chance to make the drop unnoticed. If they started searching room by room…

The doorknob jiggled, and he stitched a double 3-round burst across the paneling, rewarded with a squeal of pain. A second later, he was on the balcony, one leg across the rail, as small-arms fire ripped through the guest room’s door and eastern wall. Artwork exploded, tumbling, and the furniture was taking hits as Bolan made his leap of faith.

He landed in a crouch and rolled once, bouncing to his feet as he came out of it. He sprinted for the sidewalk on a long diagonal, trying to gain ground in the general direction of his rental car while he had a chance. Hurdling a low fence meant to keep trespassers off the grass, he hit the sidewalk running, as a low-slung car roared up and swung in to the curb.

His piece was up and tracking toward the driver’s face and locked there, as the woman at the wheel asked him, “Care for a lift?”

Chapter 3

Washington, D.C., two days earlier

Parking was easier in Washington the farther you got from the White House. Not easy, but easier, as in, you only had to drive around the block four or five times for a space with marginal security.

Bolan motored north on Sixteenth Street, leaving the monuments and barricades behind, letting the flow of morning traffic carry him along. Most people who had jobs would be at work by this time. But Washington was not only the capital of paper shuffling, but also of people on the move: between office blocks, en route to courthouses and libraries; filing writs and motions; carrying messages that couldn’t be trusted to phones or encrypted e-mails.

The soldier avoided Washington—or Wonderland, as he had learned to think of it during his long and lonely war against the Mafia—whenever possible. He had no business there, per se, since he did not officially exist. His death in New York City was a matter of public record, literally carved in stone.

How often did a soldier get to visit his own grave?

Still, Hal Brognola worked in Washington, at the Justice Department’s headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue. There were times he couldn’t get away to Stony Man Farm in Virginia for a face-to-face with Bolan, and on those occasions the Executioner used his knowledge of the teeming city’s streets to good advantage.

On this day, they were meeting at a new spot: the Supreme Council of the Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, in the 1700 block of 16th Street, Northwest. Bolan wasn’t a member of the lodge, and he had never seen Brognola sporting a Masonic ring, but he assumed that the big Fed had chosen the location for a reason that would soon become apparent.

Meanwhile, Bolan had done his homework online. He knew that the Scottish Rite branch of Freemasonry had been founded in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1801. Its best-known promoter and primary architect of lodge ritual was Albert Pike, a Boston native who moved south and later wound up fighting as a Confederate brigadier general in the Civil War. Some conspiracy theorists named Pike as a founder of the original Ku Klux Klan, but most historians dismissed that claim as false.

Beyond that, Bolan knew the lodge had thirty-three “degrees” of membership, with titles advancing from “master traveler” to “inspector general” at the pyramid’s apex. Much of the lodge’s dogma was cloaked in secrecy, but its public face included extensive work on behalf of dyslexic children and maintenance of two first-rate pediatric hospitals, in Dallas and Atlanta.

Bolan reached his destination—an imposing edifice known as the House of the Temple—and motored past in search of available parking. He found it two blocks farther north, pulled his ticket out of a machine and walked back in the warm sunshine.

He already knew that the House of the Temple was open for tours between 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m., September through February.

Bolan had a jump on some of the other tourists approaching the House of the Temple that morning. He’d already taken a “virtual tour” of the complex, and so knew what to expect. Steps rising in groups of three, five, seven and nine brought him to the main entrance: a bronze door flanked by two limestone sphinxes and thirty-three columns, each thirty-three feet tall. The sphinx to the right of the door had its eyes half-open, symbolizing wisdom, while its partner was wide-eyed, representing power.

The soldier entered through the tall polished doors, passing into an atrium that served as the central court of the temple. He had exact change ready for the ticket, palmed it and scanned the spacious chamber with its marble floor and benches, eight huge Doric columns carved from granite and bronze plaques on the walls displaying various Masonic symbols. Overhead, bronze chandeliers with alabaster bowls provided light.

Bolan drifted toward the central feature of the atrium, a table wrought from Italian marble, supported by double-headed eagles that served as the lodge’s insignia. From the temple’s website, he knew that the Latin inscription—Salve Frater—translated into English as “Welcome Brother.”

Bolan had nearly reached the table when a gruff, familiar voice behind him said, “You’re right on time.”

HAL BROGNOLA LOOKED the same as always, stylish in a rumpled sort of way, frowning a little, as if carrying a load of worry on his shoulders. Which, on any given day, he was.

Each time they met, Bolan wondered about the secrets locked inside Brognola’s head: the threats that he’d been called upon to deal with, orders he had issued in response, the missions he’d directed that would place good men and women in harm’s way. They only talked about the jobs he had for Bolan, but the story didn’t end there. Never had, and never would, as long as Brognola stayed at his post.

“I aim for punctuality,” Bolan replied to the big Fed’s remark.

“And always were a marksman.” As they shook hands, Brognola said, “I suppose you’re wondering about this place.”

“I did some research on the internet,” Bolan said. “Nothing too mysterious, except your choice of meeting places.”

“I was going for a theme,” he said. “Let’s walk.”

They passed a pair of Egyptian-style statues inscribed with hieroglyphs. From his virtual tour, Bolan knew they were carved out of marble quarried at Lake Champlain, New York. The inscriptions referred to wise men and the glory of God.

“It’s not about the Masons,” Brognola advised him.

“I didn’t think it was.”

“But I was in a Scottish state of mind.”

“Okay.” He waited for Brognola to spill it in his own good time.

They left the atrium behind, to enter the temple’s executive chamber. The grand commander’s throne sat facing the doorway, under a plush canopy, while thirty-three empty chairs awaited members of the supreme council. A gold-inlaid ceiling topped heavy plaster walls with intricate accents of black leaves and vines, with dark walnut woodwork throughout.

“You heard about the incident last week in Glasgow?” Brognola inquired.

“The basics,” Bolan said. “Ground breaking for a factory. Somebody shot it up and killed the CEO, along with others.”

“Which includes an unarmed cop,” Brognola said. “Long story short, the shooters got away, but they claimed credit.”

“Oh?”

“That only made the local news, maybe a blurb in London. Nothing to compete with talk-show crap and Jersey-liquor nonsense over here.”

“Who pulled it off?” Bolan asked.

“It’s a homegrown outfit called the Tartan Independence Front,” Brognola said. “Some kind of spin-off from the Tartan Army, if you still remember them.”

“It rings a bell,” Bolan replied.

One corner of Brognola’s mouth twitched with the bare suggestion of a smile. “Word is, they didn’t want to sound like copycats, so when they started up, they called their gang the Scottish Independence Front. But changed it pretty quickly, when they got wind of the reaction to their tagged initials.”

“SIF?” Bolan said. “I imagine so.”

“What self-respecting revolutionary wants to be confused with a disease?” Brognola asked.

Climbing marble stairs to reach the temple’s banquet hall, they reached the middle landing and paused to admire the Pillars of Charity alcove, a “light well” of stained glass framed by bronze. The pillars themselves were jet-black and polished to a mirror shine.

“So, you’ve got Scotsmen mad at England,” Bolan said. “What else is new?”

“This isn’t Braveheart or Rob Roy,” Brognola said. “Try Baader-Meinhof in a kilt and tam-o’-shanter.”

Bolan almost laughed aloud at that, but caught himself in time. “Okay,” he said. “It sounds like something for SO15.”

Meaning the former Special Branch of Scotland Yard, which had merged with the Metropolitan Police Anti-Terrorist Branch in 2006, to create a new Counter Terrorism Command. The “SO” stood for Special Operations. Where they got the “15” would be anybody’s guess, Bolan thought.

“It would be,” Brognola replied, “but we’ve got pressure over here because the latest victim was American.”

“One of the victims,” Bolan said.

“You’re right. But he was rich and influential, with at least a dozen friends in Congress, one of them a senator.”

“All squeaky wheels,” Bolan said.

“And yours truly is expected to supply the grease,” he said.

“Won’t the locals be all over it?” Bolan asked.

“Locals, officials from London, they may even call in some talent from MI5 and the SIS.”

Britain’s Security Service and Secret Intelligence Service.

“Sounds like I’d have more badges on my hands than terrorists,” Bolan observed.

“You’d have to watch your step,” Brognola said, “but I think it’s doable.”

“Why don’t you drop the other shoe,” Bolan suggested.

“Damn. Was I that obvious?”

“If this was just about a CEO and pacifying congressmen, Justice would send an FBI team out to help the Brits.”

“They’re doing that,” Brognola said.

“More badges. Great. Let’s hear the rest.”

They’d reached the temple’s library, billed as the oldest open to the public in D.C. There were a quarter of a million books on hand, including some printed by Benjamin Franklin a decade before the American Revolution.

“The TIF is marginal,” Brognola said. “Maybe a thousand members total. But they’re getting cash and arms from somewhere, out of all proportion to their size and overall importance in the scheme of things.”

“What are you thinking? Eastern Europe? China?”

“Possibly,” Brognola answered. “But it feels closer to home. The guns aren’t hard to find. The cash…that’s something else.”

“So, I’d be looking for the source.”

Brognola took a CD from an inside pocket of his tailored coat and handed it to Bolan.

“Have a look at this,” he said, “and tell me when you’re good to go.”

BOLAN CHECKED into a Days Inn on the Clara Barton Parkway, near Glen Echo Park in Maryland. He took a single room, no frills, and didn’t bother to unpack. Set up his laptop on the rooms lone table, by a window facing the parking lot, and slipped Brognola’s disk into the CD drive. He opened its single file, then cracked a soda from the minibar and settled down to read.

The Tartan Independence Front had organized five years earlier, based on the information gleaned by Scotland Yard from interviews, wiretaps and other sources. Its founders were admirers—some said ex-members—of the old Tartan Army, a group supporting Scottish independence from the UK that had carried out a string of bombings and other terrorist acts from the early 1970s until a mass roundup and trial of identified members twenty years later. Despite their best efforts, they’d never come close to rivaling the IRA.

But it seemed that someone was ready to try again.

The TIF’s supposed leader was Fergus Gibson, an Edinburgh native born in 1976, whose father had been implicated in—but never charged with—one of the Tartan Army’s bombings in Manchester, England. Examining his face in photographs, Bolan supposed that maybe rebellion ran in the blood. There was a set to Gibson’s jaw, a frown that seemed to be perpetual. Or was it simply that surveillance photos had been snapped when he was in a dour mood?

Gibson had finished three semesters at Edinburgh Napier University before dropping out, without explanation, at age twenty. While it lasted, he’d majored in engineering. His employment record showed stints as a trucker, construction worker and operator of heavy equipment. As far as anyone could tell, he’d never voted in his life, and never voiced any political opinions prior to cofounding the TIF with the guy who reportedly served as his second in command.

Graham Wallace was a year older than Gibson, but there was no indication that he’d ever tried to run the show. A Highlander from Inverness, he’d never been to college but had gone the hard-knocks route, including multiple encounters with the justice system. Five arrests were on record, two of which resulted in convictions. Wallace had served nine months at HM Prison Aberdeen for assaulting a policeman, followed by two-and-a-half years at HM Prison Barlinnie for second-degree arson. The target in that case had been a police car. Intoxication and a psych exam had dropped the charge from first degree.

Since its inception, the TIF had been linked to bombings in Glasgow, Edinburgh, Abderdeen, Dundee and Inverness. Each blast—and two bombs that failed to explode, in Aberfoyle and Lockerbie—had targeted shops or factories owned by English investors. Recently, suspected TIF bombers had left their home turf to detonate charges in Manchester, Leeds, York and London. None of the attacks had claimed a life.

Until Glasgow.

The TIF—if it had done the Lockhart job, which Bolan had no cause to doubt—was stepping up its game. Warnings were out; bloodshed was in. And if Brognola was correct, which normally turned out to be the case, the new aggressive attitude was being fueled by fresh infusions of cash, source unknown.

There’d been a time when Bolan would have looked to Moscow first, but Russia was a mess these days, nearly bankrupt, ruled by a decadent kleptocracy that was too busy stealing to foment some crackpot revolution in the West. The Russians might sell guns to Gibson and his crew, but the days of free hardware and lavish donations to leftist guerrillas were gone.

Who else was in the business of supporting terrorism? China focused mainly on the Far East, and was having trouble with its homegrown dissidents, as well as agitation over the long-running occupation of Tibet. Cuban agents kept their hands in with Latin American activists and some outposts in Africa, but Europe had proved to be sterile ground for Castro-style radicalism.

That left the Middle East, but terror’s financiers in that region generally confined their support to Islamic extremists, or at least to die-hard enemies of Israel. Iran, Syria and Saudi Arabia had no more in common with the TIF than with the IRA in Belfast or the Ku Klux Klan in the United States.

Call it a mystery. It wouldn’t be the first Bolan had cracked by application of strategic pressure. And, with any luck, it wouldn’t be the last.

With the critical information committed to memory, Bolan hit the CD’s drop-down menu and ordered his laptop to Erase This Disk. It took about a minute, then he double-checked, extracted the CD, snapped it in two and dropped it in the small trash can beside him.

Done.

Bolan booked his flight from JFK to Glasgow International online, showered, set his alarm for 6:00 a.m. and went to sleep.

AFTER AN EARLY breakfast at the motel’s coffee shop, Bolan drove north from Washington to Newark, New Jersey, arriving just after 10:30 a.m., with six hours left before check-in at JFK.

By 11:15 a.m., Bolan was crossing the Goethals Bridge to pick up the Staten Island Expressway, making good time heading toward Brooklyn where he’d drop the rental car.

Ace Storage stood on Flatbush Avenue, between Marine Park and Floyd Bennett Field. A cyclone fence topped with razor wire surrounded ten ranks of fifty storage units each, which rented by the month or year. Bolan’s was number 319, secured with a combination lock that packed a two-gram high-explosive wallop if you failed to get the numbers lined up properly in two attempts.

Bolan had similar facilities across the country in various places. Each held weapons, ammunition and assorted other items that might be of use to him in an emergency. The rental fees were paid by credit card, through Stony Man, on active accounts maintained under half a dozen false names. Each straw man had a Grade-A credit rating. None appeared in any law-enforcement registry or other database maintained by state or federal government. Their addresses were local mail drops, but the bills were paid online. If anybody stole one of the bills and tried to scam the card’s owner—which hadn’t happened yet—the consequences would be suitably severe.

Bolan spent fifteen minutes in his storage unit on the early afternoon of his departure from the States. He left behind one of his four Beretta 93-R pistols, with its shoulder harness, and an MP-5 K submachine gun that he’d kept beneath the hired car’s shotgun seat. Also abandoned for the moment was a Gerber automatic knife with four-inch tanto blade, serrated over half its cutting edge—a modern switchblade, in effect.

Opening a compact fireproof safe, Bolan removed a passport, California driver’s license, credit cards and other basic ID matching the “Matthew Cooper” name on his flight reservation. Name and address aside, the items were legitimate, concocted from originals secured through Brognola’s Stony Man team. The phone number displayed on Cooper’s driver’s license would ring through a relay in Los Angeles, to a voice-mail system at Stony Man Farm, in Virginia. Bolan, as Cooper, could check his messages from anywhere on Earth, but didn’t have to answer.

After all, he was on vacation.

It was a short drive from Ace Storage to JFK International Airport via Shore Parkway and the Nassau Expressway. He dropped his rental car at 1:05 p.m., ate an overpriced lunch in Terminal 4, and took his time checking in for his 6:30 p.m. flight. Security was slow, as always, with the standard questions, pat downs, and inspections of a thousand shoes.

Bolan passed through the metal detector, raised his arms for an up-and-down pass with a handheld security wand, then waited for his shoes and carry-on to clear the X-ray machine. No weapons there, and nothing to excite the watchers even if they sought a closer look, but he was passed on without opening his bag.

The rest came down to waiting at the designated gate until his flight was called, reading a travel guide to Scotland that he bought at Hudson News. A detailed map of Glasgow was included.

By the time a disembodied voice announced the start of boarding for his flight, Bolan was more than ready to be on his way. A patient man by any standard, trained to lie in wait for days behind a sniper scope if need be, he still chafed inside at the inevitable downtime between his acceptance of a mission and the moment when he hit the ground running, embarking on yet another gamble with the Reaper.

Every time he took a job from Brognola, his life was on the line. Bolan accepted that, but didn’t like to sit around and think about it, when he could be taking action to resolve the issue on his own terms, carrying the battle to his enemies.

Rising to shuffle forward with the other passengers, when his row was called to board, Bolan looked forward to an opportunity for sleeping on the flight. Once he arrived, there might be no rest until he was finished with his job.

Or until the job had finished him.

The thought was there and gone, dismissed as unproductive and defeatist. Bolan always planned to win and to survive. Someday, when he ran out of time like every other human on the planet, he would meet his fate with eyes wide open, fighting back against the darkness.

And he damn sure wouldn’t go alone.

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