Something suddenly seized him from behind

Bolan was yanked to his feet and the tension in his throat and lower back made it obvious that his attacker was big, muscular and very strong. The Executioner tried to twist away from the headlock but his opponent’s muscle mass quickly cancelled the idea. Bolan had managed to hold on to his FNC, so he let his feet come off the ground as he rammed the stock between his legs. The grunt of pain was accompanied by a sudden loosening of the hold.

Bolan twisted inward and drove the stock into his opponent’s knee a second time. The blow caused the attacker to let go entirely. The Executioner didn’t wait to size up his assailant, instead swinging the weapon upward against the man’s chin.

Bolan produced the Desert Eagle in one fluid motion, and squeezed the trigger.

MACK BOLAN®

The Executioner

#245 Virtual Destruction

#246 Blood of the Earth

#247 Black Dawn Rising

#248 Rolling Death

#249 Shadow Target

#250 Warning Shot

#251 Kill Radius

#252 Death Line

#253 Risk Factor

#254 Chill Effect

#255 War Bird

#256 Point of Impact

#257 Precision Play

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

#303 Sea of Terror

#304 Soviet Specter

#305 Point Position

#306 Mercy Mission

#307 Hard Pursuit

#308 Into the Fire

#309 Flames of Fury

#310 Killing Heat

#311 Night of the Knives

#312 Death Gamble

#313 Lockdown

#314 Lethal Payload

#315 Agent of Peril

#316 Poison Justice

#317 Hour of Judgment

#318 Code of Resistance

#319 Entry Point

#320 Exit Code

The Executioner®

Exit Code

Don Pendleton

We can lose the world, one parcel of real estate after another, while we wait for a shot that may never be fired.

—Admiral Arthur W. Radford

1896–1973

There is nothing wrong with technology when used for the good of all. It is when terrorists pervert that technology to oppress the innocent that I will destroy those who abuse it.

—Mack Bolan

To all personnel everywhere in the armed forces of the United States of America—may God protect you as you protect us.

Contents

Prologue

Prologue

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Prologue

Afghanistan

Colonel Umar Abdalrahman stood at the top of a rise and stared at the smoldering ruins of his main operations center nestled in the mountains bordering the Khyber Pass.

His crack team of commandos—handpicked from an elite group among Abdalrahman’s various allies throughout the Arab inner circle—had not yet found the remains of his nephew, Sadiq Rhatib. Abdalrahman silently thanked Allah for that. It meant there stood a chance that Rhatib was still alive; if that was true, then he would find his nephew. His men hadn’t been able to gain access to the interior of what had once been their main encampment. Whoever had launched the assault against them had used explosives to blast apart the front wooden facade, and this had collapsed the inner structure. The cavernous remains would not be easy to clear, and Abdalrahman wasn’t sure he even wished to disturb what was certain to have become a tomb for many of his comrades.

The former mujiahideen warrior turned and studied his surroundings. Bodies were strewed across the neighboring hillside. Abdalrahman stood upon what had served as a helipad. The small attack helicopter they had left there was gone, and there were brass shell casings scattered everywhere. The bodies along the hillside had been stripped of their equipment.

It looked a lot like the handiwork of nomadic members from radical mujiahideen tribes, but Abdalrahman considered this move a bit too bold. His countrymen were not quite so confrontational; at least, not by their own choosing. They would not have planned such an attack against a numerically and technologically superior force without support.

Abdalrahman thought he knew exactly who had given them that support: the American named Cooper. What concerned Abdalrahman most was that if his nephew were not buried deeper within the confines of the rubble, then he had managed to escape and had gone into hiding, he had fallen into enemy hands. In either case, Abdalrahman wanted to know—he had to know. Everything in their plan depended on the safety of his nephew. If Sadiq was dead, it would be significantly detrimental to their plans.

One of Abdalrahman’s men approached—his second in command—and reported, “I do not know how much farther we can go without heavy equipment, Colonel.”

“Keep digging,” Abdalrahman replied with a wave of his hand. “I have neither the time nor the patience to await the arrival of heavy equipment. There were not a lot of explosives used. There has to be a gap somewhere.”

The man bowed slightly and walked down the hill to pass on the orders to his men. Abdalrahman looked around him one more time with disgust, and his heart was saddened by the sight. His men had died bravely; he wouldn’t have expected anything less. The New Islamic Front would not be scattered to the four winds as other groups had in the past. His men were different; different kinds of soldiers fighting a different kind of war.

Abdalrahman was a practical man, and his mentors and trainers had always touted him as a gifted soldier. He had a leadership ability that was exceeded only by his uncanny skill as a tactician. He hadn’t learned to fight the same way as conventional soldiers during his time battling the Soviet invasion of his homeland, neither had he taught his men to fight that way. Abdalrahman believed that the only way to gain victory against your enemy was to fight in a fashion they had never before encountered. Throughout military history—which he’d studied carefully at an underground university in Baghdad during the height of the Gulf War—armies had lost any battle or war where the tactics of the enemy were unlike any ever encountered by that army. The Crusaders had learned this about the Turks, the English about the Indians, and the Americans about the North Vietnamese.

And now, the Westerners were about to learn this about the New Islamic Front. Abdalrahman meant to teach that same lesson to the man named Cooper. And he would do it in such a way that it would never be forgotten. He would write it in the blood of the American people, as it ran into the gutters and streets of some of their greatest cities.

And that was exactly where it belonged.

Prologue

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Mack Bolan rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched in his chair, his combat hardened sinew and muscles pushing through the torn, dirty blacksuit.

Barbara Price watched him with concern, but he didn’t really acknowledge her attention. There was a time and place for more intimate contact, and Bolan knew that Stony Man’s mission controller understood that all too well. Besides, Bolan was pretty tired and stiff from his long journey. The Executioner had been unable to do more than doze on the flight from Pakistan, and the coffee he’d consumed had left him no more rejuvenated and with a sour stomach to boot. Even without having to worry about the NIF’s terrorist whiz kid—taken into custody at Peshawar and escorted back to the United States by CIA agents—Bolan’s job had really only just begun.

The situation still hadn’t stabilized such that Bolan could exit and let Stony Man handle the cleanup phase. Sadiq Rhatib was refusing to talk and unless they could get him to start squealing, they stood a snowball’s chance in hell of bringing down the roof on all of the participants. Still, there were a few players in the game dangling out there, and Bolan was thinking that if he couldn’t get Rhatib to roll over, maybe he could get someone else—someone less hardened by religious fanaticism and patriotic fervor—to betray the NIF’s real purpose.

One man topped that list. Nicolas Lenzini ran most of the numbers games along the East Coast, and his ties to organized crime were hardly a secret. Anybody who was somebody inside the law-enforcement community knew that it was Lenzini, or one of his immediate Family members, who had control over numbers activities in Washington, D.C. Knowledge wasn’t the problem; it was how to get inside the guy’s very tight circle of friends. There was only one man who had the kind of experience required for that.

Although he’d kept an eye on things, Bolan had let Lenzini’s activities slide, preferring to let the wheels of justice grind away until they got enough solid evidence to put him behind bars. But with the recent intelligence gathered by Stony Man that tied Lenzini and his crew to the New Islamic Front terrorist cell operating inside the United States, it was time to deal with the problem in the only way Bolan knew how: cover, role camouflage and—when the time was right—a full blitz. The rules hadn’t changed any since Bolan’s first campaign against the Mafia so many years ago, the same campaign that had kicked off his War Everlasting.

Bolan was about to open his mouth and speak to Price when Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman suddenly wheeled himself through the doorway, immediately followed by Harold Brognola, the Stony Man chief.

The team was gathering to discuss Sadiq Rhatib’s campaign for the NIF to seize control of the FBI’s Internet packet-sniffer, Carnivore.

“How’s it going, Striker?” Brognola asked, an unlit cigar jammed between his teeth.

As the Executioner rose and gripped the man’s hand in greeting, he replied, “I’ll let you know after a shower, change of clothes and some shut-eye.”

Brognola nodded as he pulled the cigar from his mouth and sat. “I know you need to rest, but I wanted to give you what we know so you can plan your next step.”

“I’m all ears,” Bolan replied.

“I assume Barb briefed you on the situation with Nicolas Lenzini.”

“A bit,” Bolan said, looking at Price, “Haven’t really had time to get more in-depth on it, but I do think there’s enough evidence to assume he’s heavily involved with NIF activities here in the States.”

“And abroad,” Brognola added, not missing a beat. “At least, it would seem that way. I’ll let Bear fill you in on that.”

As the lights in the War Room dimmed, Kurtzman punched a button on the remote keyboard and the overhead projector mounted into the ceiling displayed the image of a swarthy-looking character in a tailored three-piece suit. The photo image wasn’t the best, but Bolan immediately pulled the face from his list of mental files.

“Lenzini?” Bolan asked Kurtzman.

The Stony Man cybernetics expert nodded. “Age sixty-one, place of birth, Boston.” Kurtzman looked at Bolan, winked and replied, “A homeboy, Striker.”

“I feel so honored,” Bolan replied with an expression of mock humility.

Bolan’s remark produced smiles from the rest of the team. The Executioner had been born in the war-torn jungles of Vietnam, but his battle on the home front had begun in the small town of Pittsfield, Massachusetts.

“Six years ago, Lenzini started taking an interest in more than just the numbers rackets,” Price said. “He began investing in dot-coms all over the place, focusing particularly on the larger ones that provided Web-based services and Internet technologies to anyone requiring them. At first a large number of local law-enforcement agencies were convinced he was just using these companies to launder funds or take bets electronically. Nothing ever came of it though.”

“Why?” Bolan asked.

“They couldn’t build enough evidence to support a grand jury indictment,” Brognola said.

“So they just dropped it,” Bolan stated.

“You’ve got it,” Price continued. “After the attacks on the WTC, priorities suddenly shifted. Nobody figured it was worth their time because terrorists were the bigger fish to fry.”

Bolan shook his head. “The problem with that kind of thinking is that it doesn’t account for the real foundation of organized crime—greed. They obviously didn’t figure the syndicate might use that to their advantage, and even go as far as to crawl beneath the sheets with terrorists if it meant easy money.”

“True,” Price agreed. “And that, coupled with the collapse of dot-coms, left the FBI convinced that Lenzini had simply made a bad investment and lost enough to put to rest any ideas he had about maintaining his legitimate businessman charade.”

“But now we think differently?”

“Absolutely,” Kurtzman said. He tapped a key and displayed a 3-D map of the United States. The map showed a series of gold stars in various areas of the country, with dotted blue lines connecting those areas.

“Once I got into Lenzini’s network, I found quite a few interesting little tidbits.”

“Such as?” Bolan asked.

“Well, for one, his system has network-wide security protocols that very much mirror those Rhatib used to cover his tracks inside Carnivore.”

“I’d say that’s a pretty strong connection,” Brognola chimed in.

Bolan nodded.

“Additionally,” Kurtzman continued, “he’s got an infrastructure as large as the federal information system repositories, and damn near as large as Stony Man’s own network. This map shows only the connections within North America, but there are also hits in twenty-seven foreign countries, including a concentration in Europe, and scatterings throughout every remaining continent.”

Bolan couldn’t refrain from whistling his surprise. “Sounds like Lenzini’s been busy.”

“What bothers us most is that we didn’t catch it before now,” Price said. She sighed with a look of frustration.

“I wouldn’t get too down on yourselves,” Bolan replied. “Not even Stony Man can be everywhere at once. You can’t plan for every contingency.”

“That’s for sure,” Brognola added with a grunt.

“No, but we sure as hell can do something about it now,” Kurtzman continued. “My team is already working on a new detection program that can head off something like this in the future by allowing us to see it ahead of time. You see, every programmer and technologist has his or her own set of signature work. You could almost compare it to the signature of a bomb maker or arsonist.”

“Like a profile?” Brognola asked.

“Sort of, but it’s a bit more complicated than that. We do build a profile on them, without a doubt, but there are telltale signs they leave behind, and no two are alike. You could call it the electronic version of a fingerprint. Maybe it’s the particular system or combination of systems they use to build their infrastructure, maybe it’s their methods of programming. Whatever it is, we can hit upon it and expand the profile at an exponential rate. And if we can actually tie this information to the identity of that individual, just like we did with Rhatib, we’re one step closer to closing the holes in all of our information and defense systems.”

“But for the time being,” Price said to Bolan, “we need you to put an end to Lenzini’s operations. Basically, we need you to buy Stony Man some time.”

Bolan shrugged. “The only way for me to do that is to get a clearer understanding of how Lenzini’s work ties to the NIF. What’s the motivation here?”

“That’s what we don’t know,” Brognola said, cutting in. “What we can tell you is that Lenzini set up this network to get Rhatib access to specific areas, most of them defensive operational systems and defense networks belonging to the Defense Department.”

“Something’s wrong here,” Price said. “Why would the NIF go after defensive systems? You’d think they would want to get their hands on offensive weaponry, particularly nuclear or chemical.”

“That’s just what I was thinking as well,” Bolan said. “Unless they plan to launch some type of major offensive and use Carnivore to shut down defensive systems. That would render us vulnerable to just about any attack.”

“Precisely,” Kurtzman added.

“Your friend, Tyra MacEwan, was the one who really helped us to see how this works,” Price said. “She possessed key knowledge we didn’t have. About four years ago, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency started a program called the Next Generation Internet, or NGI, which they nicknamed SuperNet. The funding was sanctioned at the highest levels within the Oval Office and the Pentagon, and plans started immediately for its design, engineering and ultimately its implementation.” She smiled and then looked at Kurtzman. “But I’ll let Bear get into the technical details.”

“MacEwan wasn’t real anxious to give up the information during her debriefing,” Kurtzman said. “But I think she trusts you,” he said to Bolan.

Bolan nodded in understanding. He couldn’t really fault the woman for her reticence. Tyra MacEwan was patriotic, passionate and highly intelligent. Shortly after her appointment to DARPA, she was brought into the FBI on a joint special technology services project to work with Dr. Mitchell Fowler, a respected scientist for the FBI who wasn’t the least bit shy about verbalizing his reservations regarding the security of Carnivore. Fowler’s death from a sniper’s bullet had triggered the events of the past few days, and had nearly cost Bolan, Jack Grimaldi and Tyra MacEwan their lives.

“The concepts behind the NGI are pretty high-level still,” Kurtzman continued, “but there are a good number of technologies already in place to support it. First is the idea of multispectral sensors, such as radar and SAR, infrared and microwave. This would be used to increase bandwidth into the multi-TBPS level,” he said.

“Could you give that to me again?” Bolan asked.

“Sorry. TBPS is terabytes per second.”

Bolan nodded and then waved at him to continue.

“There’s also the engineering side of this thing, Striker.” Kurtzman tapped a key and the display showed a small, rectangular object—some sort of electronic chip—with a micrometer ruler above it that demonstrated the object was only three-quarters of a millimeter wide and less than one-tenth of a millimeter high. “This is a prototype of a laser array transmitter than can pass transmissions at two hundred gigabytes per second or faster.”

“God help us,” Brognola said, immediately followed by a sigh that told Bolan he was stunned by Kurtzman’s revelation.

Bolan had to admit that he could hardly believe it himself. “Where’s the project at right now, Bear?”

“Well, they’re telling the Senate appropriations committees that they’re a lot farther away from a fully functional system prototype than MacEwan thinks they are. She’s not sure why they’re hiding this information.”

“Okay, let me see if I can piece some of this together,” Brognola said. “The NIF recruits Rhatib to break into the DOD’s defensive electronic system, using Carnivore as a sort of gateway. The NIF contracts local help from Lenzini, probably for funding and to keep their cells inside the country, while Rhatib starts working the technical angles. And we’re exploring the possibility that the NIF has enough inside supporters to utilize this SuperNet program to control our defensive network? Seems a bit ambitious for a small terrorist group. Plus, I can’t see us giving them that kind of support.”

“I don’t think most Americans would, Hal,” Bolan said. “But it’s possible they’re doing it unwittingly.”

“What do you mean?” Brognola asked.

“Well, I’d imagine that most of the participants in this SuperNet program are either government contractors or very large corporations conducting business transactions worldwide on a daily basis. Right, Bear?” Bolan looked at the man for confirmation.

Kurtzman nodded emphatically.

“So it only takes one traitor inside a company to turn things around,” Bolan said.

“Right,” Kurtzman interjected. “All they need to do, really, is provide networking information to an outside source. They can leak enough that any good hacker could take it from there. Plus, Carnivore is virtually undetectable to those security systems. The FBI monitors information constantly across the Internet. It wouldn’t be any surprise to see the Carnivore fingerprints on everything. In most cases, companies will be apathetic about this because after all, it’s the federal government, and they have to do that to protect us from terrorism. Who’s really going to question it?”

“Nobody,” Bolan said. “And you’re right in thinking the NIF’s going to use that to their advantage.”

“I spoke with the President about the situation before you returned, Striker,” Brognola said. “He’s refusing to let us simply shut down Carnivore. He thinks now that we have Rhatib in custody, and MacEwan and Bear have things well in hand in closing the remaining security holes in Carnivore, that Lenzini’s the biggest threat.”

“In this case, I think the Man and I agree,” Bolan said, surprised even as he heard the words come out of his own mouth.

Over the years Bolan’s alliance with his government had been tedious and shaky at best. Some of the previous occupants of the Oval Office had supported his work, while others used him only when deeming it absolutely necessary. Bolan couldn’t deal with the bureaucracies. He was allowed to operate on his own, pursue whatever missions he chose, but he did so on his own and without the support of the very people he worked to protect.

Nonetheless, that deal was okay with Bolan. He wished there could have been a better relationship with his government, but Bolan understood that Uncle Sam had to operate by his rules, just as the warrior had his own. Though the relationship was tense at times, it wasn’t unfriendly. And Brognola would lend the support and expertise of any member within Stony Man whenever it was needed. That was enough for the Executioner, and it was actually his preference. He was always cognizant that Brognola pushed the envelope when he rendered assistance on missions outside the approval of the Oval Office, and Bolan was vigilant in insuring that support didn’t compromise Stony Man’s security.

“Okay, so I’ve got some idea of where this has gone,” Bolan said. “Now I need a starting point, and I think we can all agree Nicolas Lenzini is the best candidate.”

“We agree,” Price replied. “We know that Lenzini’s running the operation from Boston, and he’s got his two sons handling matters at the other major Internet portals in North America. Bear?”

Kurtzman put the map back on the screen. “Striker, the gold stars you see represent the major network trafficking hubs. They include Boston and Washington, D.C., on the East Block, and out West you’ve got San Diego, Los Angeles, Oakland, Portland and Seattle.”

“Sounds like I’m going to be busy.”

“You’re not joking,” Brognola replied. “We’ve got less than seventy-two hours to put this thing down.”

The Executioner pinned his friend with the icy blue stare and said, “That’s a tall order. It’s going to take me some time to get inside Lenzini’s organization, even if I go right to the source.”

“We’ve already set that up,” Price replied. “We have someone inside their system already that will be your contact.”

“Leo?” Bolan asked.

Price nodded. “We have word that the guy you shook up when you took down the Garden of Allah nightclub skipped out with quite a bit of Lenzini’s cash. His name is Gino Pescia, and word in the OC circles at the Justice Department is that he’s gathering up a crew.”

“We think when the time’s right,” Brognola said, “he’ll end the relationship between Lenzini and the NIF, carve out a niche for himself and retire.”

Bolan shook his head. “Make no mistake this could get ugly real quick. I’ve been up against the NIF firsthand, and I can tell you that if Pescia tries to pit a bunch of his thugs against them, it’ll turn into a bloodbath.”

“Lenzini’s put an open contract on Pescia’s head,” Price continued, “so it shouldn’t be hard to get you inside as a gun-for-hire looking for a new place to settle down.”

The Executioner could buy that. It was his hit on the Garden of Allah that first turned them onto the fact Nicolas Lenzini was working with NIF. He’d spared the life of Lenzini’s errand boy, Pescia—who had blubbered and quivered like a child when confronted by Bolan—and now it sounded as if the guy chose to split off and do things his own way.

Price continued, “We’re going to send you in with the Frank Lambretta cover. Thanks to Leo, word on you is that you’re known by the nickname Loyal Lambretta.”

Brognola added, “The cover story says you got the name working for the Giancarlo Family as a button guy until their collapse in Florida last year. This is your chance to make that rumor a reality.”

“And perhaps do a little looking around to see what I can find out about Lenzini’s ties with the NIF and just how deep this goes.” Bolan nodded. “Perfect.”

Price said, “Your recent history is you’re just out of Rikers, on a manslaughter beef. That will be confirmed on the inside if anybody checks, and the paperwork is already in place at New York State headquarters. We even opened an arrest record for you.”

“Sounds like something I can play with. Not too specific and not too vague. Nice job, Barb.”

Price smiled but didn’t bask in the moment—that wasn’t her style.

“Well, I’d better get cleaned up and catch up on a few winks before I leave,” Bolan said, pushing away from the table.

Brognola stood with him and shook his hand. “Sounds like a good idea. You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Bolan said.

“Any time. With Jack out of things for a while, we’ll have to make some alternate travel arrangements for you.”

“That’s fine. I imagine once I’m inside that everything else will be on Lenzini’s dime.”

The Executioner considered the irony of his statement. He’d pose as a tough guy, quickly get on Lenzini’s good side, and then topple the Lenzini network and use the old man’s money to do it. It was a different enemy now, with different rules, but Bolan knew that the basics hadn’t changed at all. They were still ignorant of those within their own ranks and they hadn’t been subjected to the skill of the Executioner in some time. Not much had changed in that regard, as far as Bolan was concerned. Yeah, the battle plan was still the same.

Infiltration!

Target Identification!

Confirmation!

Destruction!

2

As Mack Bolan, a.k.a. Frank “Loyal” Lambretta, stepped off the Greyhound bus in downtown Boston, he knew the two men waiting under the overhang weren’t the only ones watching him.

He’d spotted the tail in seconds, and his cursory glance marked the guy as a cop. Bolan immediately settled into his role as a tough veteran of the syndicate, just out of Rikers on a manslaughter beef that was beat on a technicality by a slick-boy attorney.

The two men waiting for him weren’t hard to spot, either. They were well-dressed, but their suits didn’t quite hang on them in a normal way; their clothes hadn’t been tailored for fashion but more for practicality. Yeah, they were definitely packing heat. Then there were their stances. To any trained expert how the men watched their surroundings was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t just mere curiosity or idle interest—they were looking for trouble, plain and simple.

Bolan ignored the rain that pounded the pavement and rolled off his old Navy pea coat. The Boston weather was a refreshing change to his past two weeks in the dusty climate and mountainous terrain of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Executioner had been to Boston many times before, but it had been a while since his last visit. And every time he stepped foot in Massachusetts it brought back some haunting memories. But Bolan was concerned only with the situation at hand.

The New Islamic Front had proved itself a formidable enemy in its own right, and Nicolas Lenzini had chosen to ally his family with the NIF for reasons still unknown. That gave Bolan a two-front war to fight, and that was never a good situation for a soldier. His body still ached where he’d pushed himself to the limits of endurance fighting the terrorists and destroying their camp in Afghanistan, but Bolan shoved that from his mind as a minor annoyance. He needed to be on top of things every moment. One misstep around these guys and it would be over. They would immediately suspect something was up and then try to take him when he least expected it.

Stony Man had plenty of intelligence on Nicolas Lenzini’s operations, but they didn’t have much on the guy’s personal life, so he’d have to play any direct interaction with Lenzini by ear. That was okay. He’d played this part many times, and while Bolan never made the mistake of underestimating his enemy, he had invented the concept of role camouflage and applied in it ways no other agent who’d ever penetrated the Mob had managed. Most agents either got caught up in the lifestyle, or they just plain got caught.

“You Lambretta?” the shorter of the two men asked.

Bolan nodded. “Are you with Mr. Lenzini?”

As the guy stuck out his hand and Bolan shook it without ceremony, he replied, “Yeah, I’m Serge Grano, the house boss.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of his larger companion and added, “This is Alfonse. We just call him Ape. We’re the welcoming party.”

“I don’t think you’re the only ones,” Bolan replied, flicking his eyes to his left.

Grano turned and looked at Ape. “You know what he’s talking about?”

“Nope,” Ape replied with a shrug.

Grano looked at Bolan again. “What are you talking about?”

“You guys are being watched,” Bolan replied. “By a cop.” Grano started to look around, but Bolan immediately stopped him by adding, “Don’t look for him or he’ll run scared. I’d play cool, wait until he’s where we can deal with it.”

Grano leveled a hard stare at Bolan. “You’re just off the boat, and you think you’re calling the shots—”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Grano,” Bolan replied quickly. “But the guy may be watching me, which means he’s watching you too, and I don’t want to put Mr. Lenzini in any type of a scrape. Okay?”

Grano smiled, obviously pleased by what he was hearing. Part of Bolan’s cover included stories of how he’d earned the name “Loyal.” He was supposedly fiercely dedicated to his employers.

“Sounds like you live up to your reputation,” Grano said. “I think you’re going to find that Mr. Lenzini appreciates loyalty. We all appreciate it.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m already feeling like I’m home again,” Bolan said. “Now, the only question is how you want to handle this situation, Mr. Grano.”

“You any good behind a wheel?” Grano asked.

Bolan nodded.

“All right then,” Grano said, turning to his companion. “We’ll let him drive, and we can deal with this cop.”

Bolan thought furiously. He’d hoped Grano would offer him the opportunity to take the guy out himself—make the new bull prove himself. This was no good. He’d have to act immediately, or there would be trouble.

“We go public with this,” Bolan said quickly, “we could have trouble with the cops.”

“Are you kidding?” Grano said with a chuckle, clapping Bolan on the shoulder. “We’ve got half the force in our pocket. We’d be out within the hour.”

“Maybe, but I’m not so sure we can afford that kind of attention right now. I’m still pretty hot on the list.”

Grano shook his head as he lit a cigarette and then offered one to Bolan, who declined with a shake of his head. “You got a better idea, I’m open to it,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Bolan replied. “I noticed the guy when I got off the bus. Now, if he’s here for me and I just walk away, he’s going to follow. That proves it’s me he’s interested in and I can certainly deal with him quietly. If I leave and he stays on you guys, then I’d suggest you go and I’ll cover your ass when he’s focused on you. Either way, we can meet after at some place of your choosing, with no fuss, no static. And we don’t draw unnecessary attention to ourselves.”

Grano appeared to consider Bolan’s plan for a long moment. At first, the Executioner wondered if the guy was going to go for it, but finally Grano let out a chuckle and a gust of smoke. He said, “Yeah, that sounds like a pretty good plan, Loyal. You ever been to Boston before?”

Bolan nodded.

“Good. You meet up with us at a place on Lexington and Ninth, little coffee shop there.” Grano handed him a business card that was generic and nondescript. “It’s only a few blocks from here. If you get lost, ask directions. We’ll wait for you.”

Bolan gave another nod then turned and walked purposely past the guy he’d marked as a cop. The man immediately lowered the paper he was pretending to read, turned and fell into step behind Bolan. The Executioner didn’t have to see the guy on his tail; his instincts told him he was being followed. Instinct had saved him more times than he cared to count.

The soldier led the cop from the bus station and immediately crossed the street in the direction of a department store. Despite the inclement weather, the streets were full of shoppers.

Bolan got across the sidewalk and immediately hurried into the store’s revolving glass door. He turned a hard left and slipped behind a display that didn’t expose his back to viewing from the outside but would allow him to reverse roles when his tail came through. He didn’t have long to wait.

The man entered and stopped just inside the doorway, causing a woman behind him to stop short and curse him for his unexpected move. The guy appeared to ignore her as the woman stepped around him, gave him the finger and then continued about her business. Bolan focused on his quarry. The man moved away from him and headed toward the escalator.

Bolan followed. The hunter had just become the hunted.

Amarillo, Texas

TYRA MACEWAN SIGHED with relief as she settled into the old-fashioned iron bathtub and let the hot, soapy water work its healing magic on her sore and tired body. It felt good to be home. She felt safe knowing her mother was downstairs. She could hear the woman humming some big-band tune while busying herself preparing dinner. It reminded MacEwan of a more innocent time: a time before the New Islamic Front terrorists and the penetration of Carnivore by Sadiq Rhatib; a time before she’d lost her innocence to the real horrors of terrorism; a time before she’d met a hotshot flyer named Jack and a soldier named Cooper.

MacEwan thought of the two men and smiled. The idea that men like that were keeping people safe was certainly a comfort. With their help, and the help of an electronics genius she knew only as “Bear,” MacEwan had managed to avert a world disaster. They weren’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. But if anyone could handle the problem, it was the people with whom MacEwan had forged a powerful alliance. MacEwan was especially concerned about Jack. She didn’t even know his last name, and it was probably better she didn’t, but she’d found herself immediately attracted to the strong, temperamental pilot with the quick wit and the sharp tongue. She knew a large part of Jack’s snappy sense of humor and Type A personality had to do with things from his past—things he couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t, talk about. And Cooper was even more closemouthed than his friend. He was a man of unprecedented talent as a soldier and involved in unspeakable brutality. Yes, Matt Cooper definitely had ghosts. Still, MacEwan could see a warmer side to him. It was one that he didn’t show much, because he couldn’t afford to let down his guard. He lived a life that few could live, and his world was filled with killing and bloodshed and danger. It was the kind of existence that MacEwan surmised would destroy most men in very little time. Then again, she had learned—just in those few short days she’d spent with him—that Cooper was not most men.

There was a sudden but soft rap at the bathroom door, followed by the sound of her mother’s voice. “Honey, are you almost finished? Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be right down, Mom,” MacEwan replied, looking at her watch on the nearby chair and realizing she’d been soaking for more than a half hour. She had to have dozed off because it felt as if she’d just settled into the very hot water that was now only lukewarm.

MacEwan pulled herself carefully from the old tub and stepped onto the carpet. She ran a large, fluffy towel against her firm body. She stopped for a moment in front of the full-length mirror mounted to the back of the bathroom door and studied her shapely curves as she ran the towel against her brown, curly hair.

You’re an attractive woman, plain and simple, she thought. Any guy who valued intelligence and sensitivity would think her a great catch.

MacEwan finished drying herself, and after slipping into jeans, socks and a pressed pink blouse, she headed down the creaking stairs to the kitchen. She found her mother bustling about, preparing dinner in her usual fashion, acting as if there weren’t a care in the world. Of course, she didn’t have any reason to worry. MacEwan had decided not to tell her mother what had really transpired over the past week or so. Despite the security risks, she saw no reason to worry the poor woman unnecessarily.

Sally MacEwan stopped what she was doing long enough to fix her daughter with an appraising look followed by the approval of a warm smile. She was a short, thin woman with pointed features. MacEwan wondered if she would look like that at fifty-nine. “That’s a nice outfit, dear,” she said.

MacEwan couldn’t help but laugh at her mother’s remark, but she immediately stepped forward and gave her a loving peck on the cheek. “I wouldn’t exactly call this old thing an outfit, Mom. But I’m glad you like it all the same.”

Her mother merely shook her head. “Still just a young smart aleck, aren’t you? You got that from your daddy. Now make yourself useful, girl, and finish setting the table.”

“Yes, ma’am,” MacEwan replied. She turned toward the cabinet where the glasses and plates were stored, and her mom swatted her on the behind with a towel before returning her attention to the stove.

As MacEwan retrieved the dinnerware, she looked out the kitchen window into the backyard of the house. The MacEwans had a lot of ranching acreage, the result of years of hard work by MacEwan’s father. That same work had sent her to a local university and subsequently to MIT. MacEwan hadn’t abused such a privilege, graduating top of her class and going to work almost immediately for the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. She’d been with their Information Processing Technology Office for only six months before capturing the attention of Dr. Mitchell Fowler, a genius and the subject of one of MacEwan’s college white papers on the security of the Carnivore system. It had been an honor to work with such a distinguished scientist. MacEwan had no idea it would turn into such a deadly proposition.

But she was taking some much needed vacation time and she didn’t have to worry about it anymore. At least that’s what she had hoped. Her time with Cooper had taught her to look for the unusual in everything, and she was almost positive she had just spotted one of those unusual things. She could see the setting sunlight reflecting off metal.

“Mom?”

“Hmm…Yes, dear?”

“Where are Daddy’s binoculars?”

The mother turned to look at her daughter, but MacEwan’s eyes were still focused on the metal reflecting light in the distance. She could hear her mother say something, but she couldn’t make out the words because of the sudden sound of blood pulsing in her ears. Her heartbeat quickened. Something wasn’t right. There were only maybe five or six people who knew where she was, and none of them would have any reason to keep the house under observation.

“Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Did you hear me?”

“No.” MacEwan blinked and turned to face her mother. “What did you say?”

“I said they’re in the study, bottom drawer of his desk.”

“Thanks.”

She left the dishes right where they were on the counter, ignoring her mother’s inquiries. She went straight to the study and opened in her father’s desk drawer. She hated this room every time she entered it. It hadn’t been the same since her father had died, and while her mother had tried to preserve things just the way they were, the place had taken on an eerie quality. It was like a damn morgue with her father’s strong, vital presence absent. Everything had seemed out of place in the room since his death.

MacEwan shook off the bad vibes, located the binoculars where her mother had told her they were and immediately returned to the kitchen. She brought the device to her eyes and adjusted the focus until she had the source of the reflection in sight. It was a nondescript sedan, coupe-style body, with four men inside. None of them looked like foreigners. In fact, they looked almost like government agents. Still, something wasn’t quite right.

“Mom, I need you to do me a favor,” she said calmly.

“What’s that?” her mother replied as she finished setting the table. “And what on earth are you looking at with those things? It’s almost time to eat, and I want to get finished before Jeopar—”

“Mom,” MacEwan snapped, “I need to borrow your car.”

“Right this minute? Why?”

MacEwan spun and faced her mother, trying to maintain her patience. “Because I need to go into town for something.”

Her mother made a sweeping gesture toward the table and kitchen cabinets. “We’ve got everything you need. You did the shopping with me. I—”

“Momma, I’m sorry but I can’t explain this right now. I need to borrow the car, and I have to go into town right now.”

Sally MacEwan started toward the window, yanking the binoculars from her daughter’s hands before she had a chance to stop her. “Are those people you work with watching you? Honestly, you’ve had a darn heck of a time already. Why don’t they leave you alone?”

“Mom, don’t.” MacEwan grabbed her mother by the arm and took the binoculars from her. “You’re right, there is someone watching the house, but I don’t know who. And I don’t want you involved in this. It’s bad enough I have to be involved in it.”

“In what?” Sally MacEwan asked, stepping forward and cocking her head to one side. “Are you in some kind of trouble? You’ve been so quiet and secretive since you got in yesterday morning.”

MacEwan shook her head emphatically. “No, I’m not in any trouble. But I don’t know who these men are, and I need to contact some people who I think could find out.”

“Why don’t they just leave you alone?” her mother asked again with rapid shake of her head.

“It’s not them bothering me, Mom. I have to go. Your keys are in the dish by the door?”

Her mother nodded, following quickly as MacEwan snatched the keys and pulled a light jacket from the closet.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Not long,” MacEwan replied, stepping forward and giving her mother a peck on the cheek. As she turned and headed out the garage door, her mother called after her, “Don’t dent up that car, young lady!”

“I won’t, Momma.”

3

Lorenz Trabucco sat in the front passenger seat of the car and slowly pried away the dirt from under his fingernails with a nail file. He hated waiting around, and he still couldn’t believe his damned bad luck. He loathed boring-ass assignments, and he sure as hell didn’t like Texas. He preferred his hometown of Boston any day of the week.

“I don’t know why Serge insists on sending me on these expeditions to shit-kicker land,” Trabucco complained to no one in particular. He looked to his wheelman and bodyguard, Lou Maxim, first then looked into the back seat where Mickey “Bronco” Huffman and Joey DeLama sat. The two were dozing off, and at first Trabucco felt like yelling at them to stay alert, but he opted not to. He figured there was no point in being a dick.

Trabucco returned to his manicure as he continued complaining, “It’s just that I think I’m beyond this stuff. You know what I mean, Maxi?”

“I know what you mean, boss,” the bodyguard replied.

“I shouldn’t have to babysit some techno-geek broad, I should be out enforcing.” He thumped the dash and then patted his chest for emphasis. “I’m a Trabucco. You know what I’m saying? I come from a long line of enforcers. I don’t—”

“Boss, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but it looks like she’s leaving.”

Trabucco immediately looked in the direction of the house. He could see the car being backed out of the driveway. What he couldn’t see was who was in it. “It’s too far away. Can’t tell if that’s her in the car or the old bat who picked her up at the airport. What do you think, Maxi?”

“Looks like her, boss.”

“All right, then follow her,” Trabucco said. “But you make sure she don’t see you. You got that?”

“I got it, boss.”

“Hey, you boneheads!” Trabucco shouted at the back-seat pair as Maxim started the car. “Quit your damn loafing and pay attention. The broad’s leaving.”

“Where’s she going, boss?” DeLama mumbled.

“What?” Trabucco said, reaching back and slapping DeLama’s face. “What the fuck do I look like to you, Joey? Do I look like Mumbo Jumbo the Mind Reader to you, or something?”

“No, boss, course not,” DeLama stammered, his face visibly reddened by Trabucco’s assault.

Trabucco looked at Bronco who was now fully awake and reaching beneath his jacket to check the load in his .45-caliber semiauto pistol. The guy was a strict professional and he loved to kill. The big son-of-a-bitch bruiser—bigger even than Maxim—with his pug nose and shaved head was the only one in the crew that actually intimidated Trabucco just a bit. There were a lot of opinions, mostly conjecture, as to where Huffman had earned the nickname of Bronco, but the widely accepted story was he’d gotten it from the ladies. Supposedly, they loved to ride him like a horse and they insisted he was hung like the same, and that he was a bucking bronco.

Joey DeLama was another story entirely. A young kid who was heir to a Newark crime Family, DeLama had been taken down a few notches because he’d been a big mouth and nearly brought down his entire Family. His father had decided that DeLama needed to go out and get some smarts, so he called his long-time ally, Nicolas Lenzini.

Serge Grano happily agreed to assign DeLama to Trabucco’s crew. He was a wet-behind-the-ears snot, too long spoiled by having a father who was one of the most powerful syndicate guys in Jersey, and yet he didn’t know shit. In Trabucco’s opinion, DeLama was capable of fucking up a wet dream, and the guy had little chance of becoming a made man, never mind heading up the Family business. Trabucco thought it would be better if old man DeLama just killed this spawn he’d sired, and try again.

But that was another story. For now, the important thing was for them to keep up with this government woman. Trabucco didn’t know much about her, beyond that; he didn’t even know her name.

“You don’t need to know her name!” Lenzini had barked at him. “You just need to keep on her ass. I’ve told you where she’s headed, and how to find her. You just make sure you don’t lose her, okay? You think you can handle that for me?”

“Yes, Mr. Lenzini,” Trabucco had said. “I understand perfectly, Mr. Lenzini. Consider it handled, Mr. Lenzini.”

It really jerked his chain that he had to kowtow, but he knew this was his station in life and he had no inkling he’d ever amount to being much more than a bull and at best someday, maybe a head bull. Yeah, maybe eventually he’d get Serge Grano’s job. At present, he was subjugated to lifelong service under a miserable half-breed like Lenzini. The old man’s father, Marcomo Lenzini, had been of pure Sicilian blood, but he’d never wanted to marry—feeling that his business was definitely a man’s business—and instead had chosen to dip his wick in anything that suited him, including one of the young Spanish maids cleaning his house. So in a sense, Nicolas Lenzini was illegitimate, and everyone knew it, but no other woman was able to give Marcomo a son, so he accepted this and made it official by marrying the maid, although they lived separately until Nicolas was born. The old man’s marriage proved short-lived; mother and child died during a second pregnancy.

Nicolas Lenzini was raised an only son, and he inherited his father’s empire when Marcomo Lenzini—a man among men and respected by all of his associates in la Cosa Nostra—died of lung cancer on the eve of his son’s eighteenth birthday. So it went, Nicolas Lenzini, barely out of diapers, took over the family business. He became a hard and embittered man, greedy and ruthless with his enemies. He was not temperamental; in fact, Trabucco never recalled Lenzini even raising his voice. Then again, he didn’t have to—when Mr. Lenzini talked, everybody listened or they’d wind up fish food in Boston Harbor.

“Where do you think she’s going, boss?” Maxim asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Trabucco replied, “but I’d guess into town. Maybe she’s shopping. Maybe she’s baking cookies and forgot something. Maybe she’s going to a bar to get drunk. Just drive, Maxi. Can you do that? Huh? Can you just drive and quit asking me stupid questions?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Maxim replied.

Trabucco knew he was being an asshole, but he didn’t care. He was in charge, and he could be anything he wanted. His men didn’t take it personally. They were still as loyal to him as ever. What really made him nervous about this whole thing was that what he’d been told about this woman. She was going to be instrumental to Mr. Lenzini’s plans, and they were there to insure that nothing bad happened to her. She was insurance, really, against retaliation by the rag heads.

Trabucco still thought that was a huge mistake. He couldn’t figure out why a guy with Lenzini’s clout needed to do business with a group like the NIF. Trabucco didn’t trust them, and he didn’t want to work with them. But Lenzini insisted that they could all get a lot richer and be a lot better off if they cooperated with them. Trabucco didn’t see it that way. He considered the NIF his bitter enemy, just as he considered the cops his enemy, and he wouldn’t hesitate to exterminate every one of them if he thought they were going to try to pull a fast one on the Family. This was his Family and his country, and he didn’t give a fuck about the foreigners and what they wanted. He was only doing this out of loyalty to his people.

So he’d sit and watch over this brainy broad and he’d do his job like a professional syndicate bull, and down the line he would hope there was some reward and appreciation for his work. Yeah, and also some damned consideration. There was nothing he hated more than when he didn’t get any consideration. He didn’t care how the rest of the plan fell out as long as Mr. Lenzini was successful. They had to make the boss look good, because when he looked good they looked good, and while he didn’t really think that much of Lenzini, the old guy did have a reputation for rewarding loyalty. And so Trabucco knew all he could do was his job. And then maybe, just maybe, he’d get some consideration. Yeah, that sure would be a treat.

TYRA MACEWAN PARKED her mother’s car in the lot of a large grocery store and climbed from behind the wheel. She slung her purse over her shoulder, feeling the added but comfortable weight of the .38-caliber Detective’s Special she kept in her bag.

She thought about her father as she walked toward the grocery store. He had taught her respect and appreciation for firearms, and given that a group of strange men were following her, she was all the more thankful for his training. She wished she could talk to him about her situation.

MacEwan also wished Jack or Matt Cooper were around. They would know what to do. She knew she could correct that with a single phone call, but she wouldn’t be able to do it from the store since the bank of pay phones was visible to the entire parking lot and that might look very suspicious to her followers. Cooper’s people had counseled her not to take her cell phone when she returned home, so she couldn’t use that, either. The only phone she’d brought was the emergency unit that allowed DARPA personnel to contact her directly, and she didn’t want to risk using it.

MacEwan got inside the store and immediately located a manager. A few seconds later, she had directions to the woman’s restroom—which she remembered was near a rear exit—and within minutes she was on the back side of the store and crossing a field overgrown with brush, garbage and beer cans.

MacEwan also knew there were an abundance of snakes and rusted metal from junked-out cars in the field. The area had been like this since she was a little girl, and the place really got little attention—except for the Friday and Saturday night police drive-bys—and it seemed the city and public in general had better things to do than worry about this freakish marriage of the natural with the man-made.

After crossing the field unscathed, MacEwan reached a pay phone on the wall of a gas station. She stabbed the buttons mechanically from the number Cooper had given her and ordered that she commit to memory. Within moments a deep, rich voice sounded a greeting in her ears—it was a strong voice.

“Is this Bear?” she asked.

“Yes. Is this who I think it is?” Aaron Kurtzman asked.

“Right,” she said. “Listen, I think there could be trouble. I caught someone…Well, several someones, watching the house. Did you or your people order any type of protection?”

“No,” Kurtzman replied firmly. “We believe the best way to protect people is not to draw attention to them. That’s why you don’t have six big dudes in suits and sunglasses walking around you every second.”

“Well, then, I could have a problem.”

“You recognize any of them?” Kurtzman asked.

“No.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Not even two days.”

“All right, then go about your business. Whoever it is doesn’t plan on harming you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’d already be dead,” he replied chillingly.

MacEwan nodded at the phone; he was right and she knew it. There was no way she’d still be breathing if those men were supposed to kill her. They could have taken her at any time, especially on her drive into town on the virtually empty road that led from her parents sprawling ranch into the city.

MacEwan trusted Cooper’s people, and she knew they were experts in their field. She only had to see the tall, dark-haired, icy-eyed war machine in action one time to know that much. “What are you going to do?” MacEwan asked.

“I’m going to send help. Just sit tight and act normal. I’ll have someone at your place within twelve hours,” Kurtzman said confidently.

“I understand.”

There was a click and the line went dead. MacEwan knew all she could do was wait as Bear had told her. And pray that the promised help came soon.

Boston, Massachusetts

MACK BOLAN DIDN’T HAVE long to wait before he managed to find a nice, private spot in the corner in the menswear area on the second floor. The place was not all that busy; it seemed as if the store catered primarily to a female clientele. The odor of wool, denim and leather permeated everything.

It was simultaneously puzzling and disconcerting to Bolan that someone could be onto him so quickly. It had been the same during his encounters with the NIF. He’d found MacEwan being tortured and beaten by terrorist thugs, and had subsequently joined the battle against NIF fanatics. MacEwan had worked with Kurtzman in the virtual world to match wits against the technical prowess of Sadiq Rhatib. And Jack Grimaldi had nearly lost his life. Through it all, it seemed like someone was onto him every minute, and he had no explanation as to why. Bolan was hoping this man might have some answers.

The Executioner waited until the man—oblivious to the fact he was being followed in his intense search to find his lost quarry—was aligned with an open dressing room before making his move. He quickly stepped forward, shoved the guy into the dressing room and shut the door behind them. The Beretta was now clear of shoulder leather and Bolan had the man on his knees, the muzzle of the Beretta inches from his forehead. Bolan wasn’t surprised to find a gun when he frisked the guy, and he quickly relieved him of the weapon.

“Talk,” the Executioner said.

“About what?” the man asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bolan replied nonchalantly. “How about the first thing that comes to your mind?”

“Well, I’d like to know why you’ve got a gun to my head,” the man said calmly.

Bolan showed him a frosty smile. “Maybe I can tell you that once you explain why you’re following me.”

“Because I was ordered to.”

“By who?”

“By the federal government,” the man said.

“Stop playing games with me,” Bolan replied, tapping the muzzle against the man’s forehead. “The federal government’s pretty broad. Get specific or get dead. I don’t care which, but decide now.”

“All right, all right,” the man said, putting up his hands to demonstrate he’d cooperate. “I’m a special investigator with the Defense Department. I was ordered to follow you by Dr. Shurish. You were supposed to report to work more than two weeks ago, and he hasn’t heard from you. He was concerned, so he filed a missing persons report with the FBI. When some Washington transit cops spotted you boarding a train for Boston, Shurish called me and asked me to find out where you were going.”

Bolan chewed on that for a moment. The story was probably true, although he didn’t completely understand it. Malcolm Shurish was head of the Information Processing Technology Office at DARPA. Bolan had first met him while posing as a scientist intended to serve as a temporary replacement until the authorities located MacEwan. Of course, Shurish hadn’t known that Bolan was really looking for MacEwan himself. And after the NIF tried to blow him up—and take half the IPTO office with him—he hadn’t seen Shurish again.

Shurish’s reaction seemed a bit much; Stony Man would have taken care of any questions about Bolan’s cover. It didn’t sound like the government was looking for him—Kurtzman’s systems would have immediately flagged and intercepted anything that came across official channels.

No, Shurish had to be operating on his own. And Mack Bolan wanted to know why.

“Here’s my advice to you,” Bolan snapped. “I would go back to your own business, disappear, whatever. But don’t follow me any more and don’t let on you found me.”

“You’re kidding,” the agent interjected with an amused expression. “Right?”

The warrior shook his head. “Just trust me when I tell you we’re working for the same side.”

“What am I supposed to tell my people?”

“Tell them you lost me. Tell them I gave you the slip, and you think I’m headed for Canada, so they’ll start looking for me everywhere but here. That will buy me some time to do what I have to do. And then I’ll be out of your life for good.”

“You don’t honestly think I’m going to go back and lie to my people on your word, just because you’ve got a gun to my head,” the man said.

The Executioner nodded. “Think a minute, man. Do you honestly believe if I wasn’t playing for the same team that you’d walk out of here alive?”

The man looked in Bolan’s eyes, and he saw two things: the truth was one, death was the other. Bolan could tell it was taking the agent some time to decide if he would buy anything he was being told.

The soldier knew that if he didn’t meet with Lenzini’s crew soon, it was going to get ugly.

“You’ve got five seconds left,” he said.

“All right,” the agent replied. “I believe you.”

“And you’ll do what I’ve told you to do?”

“Yeah.”

Bolan thought he could trust the man, so he handed back his pistol and stepped out of the dressing room. He looked across the store and immediately spotted a group of security officers led by a man dressed in plain clothes. Probably store security—obviously they had the dressing rooms under some type of surveillance. It was time to find a quick exit, which wouldn’t be an easy task under the circumstances. The whole store was probably under closed-circuit coverage.

Yeah, it was time to leave. And the Executioner fully intended to make haste in his exit. As he descended the escalator to the first floor, he realized that the six, dark-skinned men entering the store toting AKSU machine pistols had other ideas. Mack Bolan knew the moment of choice had come: fight or die.

The Executioner reached for his Beretta 93-R.

4

If the new arrivals were expecting trouble, they certainly weren’t expecting it to come from above.

The Executioner decided to keep his advantage by leaping over the wide divider between the descending and ascending escalators. As Bolan climbed back toward the second floor, he took the first gunman with two successive shots to the chest. The Beretta’s reports were not much louder than muted coughs as the twin 9 mm subsonic rounds punched holes in the guy’s torso and tossed him into a display.

Bolan got the second one with a clean shot through the skull before the rest of the crew realized they were taking fire from above. Blood and brain matter splattered across a glass counter, followed a moment later by the gunner’s body. The frame collapsed under the weight of the corpse and glass shattered with the impact. The contents of the case—dozens of bottles of cologne and perfume—broke and spilled their odiferous contents onto the counter base and floor, mixing with a rapidly forming pool of blood.

Bolan reached the second floor and started across the room, but he stopped short on seeing the government agent who’d tailed him surrounded by a cluster of security guards. The Executioner ducked between some racks of clothing and weighed his options as the numbers ticked off in his head. It was not likely the gunmen below were part of Lenzini’s crew, which left only one likelihood—they were NIF terrorists.

It didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t much matter because he didn’t have the time or luxury to stop and think it through. Without question, the department store security guards were trained to handle shoplifters and riotous customers, but were hardly in a position to handle armed terrorists. Not to mention the chance of innocents getting hurt were a gun battle to ensue between the security officers and NIF gunmen. No, the Executioner would have to handle the terrorists himself.

Bolan made his way back to the escalator. He dropped to his belly and crawled the remaining five feet to the descending stairway. He was betting the NIF crew would be headed up the escalator by now, and most likely they would move in pairs. He lay on his side, waiting until he was about three-quarters of the way down before jumping into view and picking targets. As Bolan suspected, the first pair of gunners were halfway up, crouched on the ascending stairway with their machine pistols held at the ready. The others were positioned to his immediate flank, and also positioned low.

Bolan took them without hesitation, noting that customers were still making for the exits while several employees were clustered around the first two dead gunmen and a manager was screaming into the phone. The Executioner jumped onto the divider, thumbed the selector to 3-round bursts and squeezed the trigger. A trio of 115-grain hollowpoint rounds ripped through the base of one terrorist’s skull. The 9 mm bullets nearly decapitated him, and the suddenness of his attack startled the second terrorist. Bolan shot the surprised NIF gunner through the throat, and blood spurted from the terrorist’s gaping wounds.

The remaining pair, almost reaching the top of the escalator, turned at the sound of the commotion. The looks on their faces told the story. They had made the worst mistake they could have in any battlefield scenario—they had severely underestimated the ingenuity of their enemy.

Bolan ended the surprised looks with another volley, this one more controlled as the Beretta recoiled in the Weaver’s grip had adopted. Both 3-round salvos were true, the first punching through the lungs and stomach of one terrorist who rose and tried to outshoot Bolan. The second terrorist took two of the soldier’s shots in his chest and shoulder. He screamed with pain as his finger curled on the trigger of his AKSU and sent a cluster of 7.62 mm bullets into the ceiling above Bolan’s head.

The falling debris missed the Executioner entirely, as he was already on the move and headed for the exit. The terrorist threat had been neutralized, and he saw no point in standing around and waiting for a slew of security guards to converge on him. He wouldn’t drop the hammer on a cop, whether a sworn peace officer or just a simple security guard. Those men and women had families, and they were simply doing their jobs.

Bolan traded out clips as he left the chaos of the store unmolested. He quickly crossed the street through the logjam of traffic created by the swarm of people reacting to the gun battle. He easily got lost in the crowd. He stopped at a nearby bistro and politely requested use of their bathroom. He splashed cold water onto his face, straightened his clothing and headed for the café where Grano and Ape were supposed to be waiting. Bolan found the coffee shop without much trouble and found the hoods waiting for him, true to Grano’s word.

They rose without a word and led him to a back alley where a midsized luxury sedan was waiting for them, engine running under the watchful eyes of a pair of large bulls. Ape climbed behind the wheel, and Grano ordered Bolan to take shotgun. He could feel Grano staring at the back of his head, and he knew the house boss wanted him up front where he could keep an eye on him. Yeah, “Loyal” or not, they didn’t trust him—at least not completely.

“So?” Grano asked, once Ape had gotten them out of the downtown area and merged with highway traffic leading toward the Boston suburbs. “What happened?”

“Not much, boss,” Bolan replied, trying to immediately settle back into his role. “I don’t know who the guy was, but I managed to lose him.”

“That right?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you weren’t followed?”

Bolan nodded. “I’m sure, Mr. Grano.”

“Good.” Grano settled back in his seat, and in the reflection of the front windshield Bolan could make out enough of his expression to tell the guy was satisfied. “And you can skip the formalities, Loyal. Call me Serge.”

“I’d like to, boss,” Bolan replied easily, “but it just doesn’t seem natural yet.”

“All right,” Grano said, slapping Bolan’s shoulder. “I guess I can understand that. Let’s just give it some time.” Then he added, “You’re gonna fit right in with us, eh? What do you think, Ape?”

“I think he’s pretty square so far,” Ape mumbled.

Bolan glanced at Ape’s profile a moment, and noticed the guy’s eyes hadn’t shifted from the road and his fingers were tightening on the steering wheel. Obviously, he thought of Bolan as a threat to his own place in the hierarchy. Bolan had met Ape’s kind before. They never went very high in the organization because they were big on brawn, but had little going on upstairs.

These days, mobsters were much more educated than in days gone by; in fact, many of them were college graduates holding a master’s degree and even a doctorate. It was a different kind of organized crime, called by the same name but doing its dirty deeds in a very different fashion. New mobsters came from the halls of places like William and Mary, Yale, Harvard and Stanford. They made their mark in the business world, and after they had amassed enough wealth, or reached positions on corporate boards, they struck like the venomous snakes they really were.

Yeah, the days of public hits in the downtown sandwich shops or dumping bodies into rivers were long gone. Now the Mafia controlled much of their business through legal means such as contracts, hostile takeovers, and mergers and acquisitions. Instead of moving their money through backroom laundering operations, they fronted high-dollar investments through pyramid schemes and paper companies. They were like catfish: bottom feeders. They made their move while the political focus shifted to corporate CEOs running once-legitimate companies before letting greed get the better of them. As political action groups and attorneys battled with Senate hearing committees over the ethics of big business, the syndicate continued its activities right under everyone’s noses.

As Bolan rode with the mobsters, he planned to insure the Lenzini clan didn’t continue operating. They had allied themselves with one of America’s greatest enemies, and the Executioner was going to sever the alliance. First he would amputate the hand of organized crime that had soiled itself by an offer of friendship with the New Islamic Front.

Bolan smiled briefly at the irony of it. In some of the Arab countries, when someone stole something, the punishment was to amputate one of the thief’s hands, thus teaching him a lesson while simultaneously marking him for life. And that’s exactly what Mack Bolan planned to do; the Mafia had stolen from the American people. Once the Executioner had finished marking the Lenzini crime syndicate as thieves, he would turn to their terrorist allies.

Except it wasn’t their hands he’d cut off, but their heads.

Washington, D.C.

COLONEL UMAR ABDALRAHMAN arrived in America without fanfare or celebration.

The former Afghanistani guerrilla whose military rank had been an honorarium bestowed upon him by the former Iraqi regime watched his troops take up a perimeter to protect him as he stepped from the yacht.

The transfer from the submarine to the sixty-five-foot yacht had gone off without a hitch. The crew had had a tense but brief run-in with the U.S. Coast Guard, but they quickly lost interest in inspecting the yacht when a call came through from a plane’s distress beacon. Abdalrahman was pleased with the decoy his men had created, and the fact he’d made it to American shores with relative ease didn’t really surprise him much. Despite the alleged additional precautions taken by the American government to protect themselves from the jihad, it wasn’t enough, and it would never be enough. It was a holy war now, and the New Islamic Front would continue to operate within the United States. They were on the brink of making history, and proclaiming victory against America for all of the blood it had shed. In one sense Abdalrahman felt there was justice in the thought that this country and people, whom he hated with every fiber of his being, had given birth to some of Islam’s greatest martyrs.

As Abdalrahman moved down the gangplank and stepped onto the dock, careful not to lose his balance on the slippery wood, he caught his first sight of Dr. Malcolm Shurish. He wasn’t sure if he was happy to see the man, or if he wished to strangle him. In some ways, he held Shurish personally responsible for the capture of his nephew. In fact, it was Shurish who managed to send word to Abdalrahman and let him know of Sadiq’s imprisonment. Abdalrahman had come to America immediately, bringing a crew of his best and most talented soldiers.

Abdalrahman stopped a few feet shy of Shurish, and when he saw the man bow low to him and then step forward and kiss his shoulder in traditional fashion, he let his anger melt away. There was no way Shurish could have stopped the American, Cooper, from going to Afghanistan and destroying everything Abdalrahman had worked so hard to achieve. Then again, he wondered, since Sadiq had been brought to the United States, how much Shurish had done to try to rescue his nephew from the American infidels. Only time would tell.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Colonel,” Shurish said. “I prayed Allah would bring you safely to us, and he has heard me.”

“It is good to see you, as well,” Abdalrahman lied. “Thank you for sending word so quickly.”

“When I heard of Sadiq’s whereabouts, I knew you would want to know he was alive.”

“Absolutely, and in this you have done right.” Abdalrahman began to walk toward the car he noticed was waiting for him. “What of our plans with Carnivore? How soon can we be ready?”

“I am not certain. Sadiq’s capture has caused serious delays,” Shurish replied, falling into step next to Abdalrahman’s quick strides. “I’m trying to decipher copies of his work, but I’m having trouble.”

“How much do the Americans know?”

“I can’t be sure.”

Abdalrahman stopped suddenly, turned and stared into Shurish’s equally dark eyes. “For a man with a formal education, who has served on this front as long as you have, you don’t seem sure about many things,” he said, barely containing his anger.

“I beg your forgiveness, Colonel,” Shurish said. “Although I don’t believe I have anything to apologize for. As I understand it, even your men fell under the tenacity of this man called Cooper.”

“Your remarks strike me as seditious and insolent,” Abdalrahman said with a warning expression before turning and continuing toward the car.

The silence was heavy until they were seated and riding toward Shurish’s suburban home in Arlington, which would serve as a base of operations for Abdalrahman’s men until he could decide what their course of action would be.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Shurish said quietly, “but I’m sure you can understand my position.”

“I’m sure I cannot, so why not explain it to me.”

“I’ve found Cooper,” Shurish stated.

Abdalrahman felt an immediate twinge of hope—hope for vengeance. “You have my interest. Go on.”

“I had him followed. Somebody in government tried to insert him inside DARPA as a spy. Fortunately, I figured it out and faked an assassination attempt. As it turned out, I believe Dr. Matthew Cooper, who obviously isn’t a real scientist—”

“Obviously,” Abdalrahman said, interjecting.

“—was looking into Tyra MacEwan’s disappearance.”

Abdalrahman shook his head with agitation. “Forget the woman for a moment. You said you know where Cooper is.”

“He’s in Boston. I sent men for him, but as yet I’ve not heard from them. Very soon, he will either be dead or our prisoner.”

“Very good, Shurish. I’m impressed. And what about the woman, MacEwan?” the colonel asked.

“Lenzini has her under surveillance. We must keep her alive.”

“Why?”

“I believe she’s the only other one who has the technical knowledge required to complete the work if we cannot retrieve Sadiq in a timely manner.”

“I’d think it difficult to convince her to help us,” Abdalrahman said.

“She can be troublesome,” Shurish said, nodding.

“Yes, she has already caused us many problems.”

“If there is anyone to blame for Sadiq’s capture, it would be her and not me.”

“I see. Did it escape notice that it was you who was supposed to keep her under control?”

“I tried,” Shurish said in protest. “It never occurred to me that she and Fowler would actually discover our work inside Carnivore. I thought allowing her to go work with Fowler would serve as a distraction.”

“That is the trouble, Shurish. You think too much and act too little. This is not proper for a soldier of the NIF.”

“But as you have succinctly pointed out on numerous occasions, Colonel, I am not a soldier.”

“Do not think yourself so clever as to be indispensable, Shurish,” Abdalrahman said. “Or so help me, I will cut off your head and grind you into meat for lions. Effective immediately, I am in charge of this operation.”

“You have no authority to—”

“I have every authority!” Abdalrahman could feel his face flush. “Weeks have gone by. Weeks! What have you done? Can you tell me that? Are our people in place? Has Lenzini finished his work? Are we ready to commence operations?”

“I need Sadiq’s help.” There was almost a whining tone in Shurish’s voice. “You must free him.”

“How? Can you tell me? Am I to commit my entire force to freeing him? My nephew is locked up in prison somewhere behind meters of barbed wire, concrete and iron. What would you propose I do? Do you think I’m so deluded that I envision myself just walking into this place and taking him from under their noses? He is guarded by well-armed and well-trained personnel, and I am quite certain the government has determined his value to us. They are no doubt subjecting him to horrors I cannot even imagine.”

“Phah!” Shurish countered. “They are civilized in my country.”

“Did I just hear you correctly?” Abdalrahman shouted.

Shurish’s expression revealed he was thinking very carefully before giving an answer. “While I do not agree with my government, I was born here and that makes me an American. This is my country and my people.”

“No, my friend,” Abdalrahman replied, forcing himself to stay calm. “You are mistaken. You chose to sell them out to us and for a very hefty price, as I recall. Because you realized that after our first major victory here you would never have the same chances as before. We are your country and your people, now, and this is something you should never forget. If you ever say anything like that again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

Abdalrahman watched with satisfaction as Shurish squirmed in the seat of the luxury sedan before swallowing hard and nodding. He dropped his gaze, not choosing to look at the terrorist leader. Yes, Shurish was definitely proving himself to be a liability. He wouldn’t live forever. He was not loyal to the cause of the jihad, and that meant he couldn’t be trusted. But for the moment, Abdalrahman needed Shurish, which meant he’d have to tolerate him.

Once the remainder of his forces had joined him and he’d rescued Sadiq and destroyed Cooper, then he would put an end to Shurish’s life. In the meantime, he had more important worries and challenges ahead of him. There would be plenty of time to kill Shurish later.

“For now, we will await word from your men about Cooper,” Abdalrahman said, “although I am not confident the news will be good. If they fail to destroy Cooper, then I will deal with him personally. And then we will finish our business with the Americans.”

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