Читать книгу Face Of Terror - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Bolan watched the flames leaping in the rearview mirror as he drove the Hummer back toward the highway. Next to him, Jessup had turned sideways in his seat and watched as the three exploded pickups, the dead mafiosi and a half-million dollars of cocaine burned. “Well, Cooper,” he said finally, turning back to face the front. “That’s certainly a lot easier than bagging it all for evidence and transporting it for safekeeping until the trial—which won’t be necessary now anyway.” He paused and took a deep breath. “You sure we aren’t going to have to answer for this? I mean, calling this unorthodox behavior for a law-enforcement officer would be the understatement of the century.”

“Don’t sweat it, Jessup,” Bolan said. “Yes, I’m in charge of this operation. But I’m not a law-enforcement officer.”

The DEA man threw his head back against the neck rest atop his seat. “Oh, that’s great,” he said. “So you’re a spook. CIA? Department of Defense? Homeland Security?”

“Uh-uh,” the Executioner said. Ahead, he could see where the dirt rose up to the two-lane highway leading from Guyman to Boise City. “None of those.”

“Okay,” Jessup said. “I’ll quit wondering exactly who you are or who you work for. It doesn’t matter. You’re one hell of a…” He stopped talking for a second, looking for the right words. When he didn’t find them, he continued, “You’re one damn fine fighter. You immediately adapt to whatever situation presents itself.” Across the front seat, the Executioner saw him frown. “But do you not have to answer to anyone? Anyone at all?”

“Just the President,” Bolan said. “And we get along just fine.” He withdrew his scrambled satellite phone and tapped in a number. A few seconds later, Jack Grimaldi answered the summons.

“Yeah, Striker,” the ace pilot acknowledged. “What’s up?”

“We got the dope but missed the money,” Bolan told him. “We’re headed back to Guyman now to meet you.”

“You can do that if you want,” Grimaldi said, “but there’s no need to. I took a little recon flight an hour or so ago. Spotted your bright yellow vehicle on the road. But the important thing here is the terrain I saw. It’s so flat, I’d have to try hard to find a place where I couldn’t land.” He stopped speaking for a second so Bolan could take it all in, then said, “Want me to come to you? It’ll be a lot faster.”

“Sounds fine,” the Executioner said. He pulled off the highway onto the shoulder and threw the Hummer into Park. The entire roadway was asphalt, pocked with holes the size of volcanoes and, in general, rougher riding than the cow pastures had been. Pulling a small handheld Global Positioning Unit—GPU—out of his shirt pocket, he read the Hummer’s coordinates to Grimaldi. “When you start smelling smoke and seeing flames below, you’ll know you’re close.”

“That’s affirmative, big guy,” Grimaldi said. “I’m revving her up now. See you in a few.”

Bolan heard a click in his ear and folded his phone back before dropping it and the GPU into his pockets again. Then he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “You never know when we’ll get another chance to rest once this mission gets off the ground,” he told Jessup. “So I’d suggest you take advantage of it now.”

IT SEEMED THAT BOLAN had just closed his eyes when he was awakened by the distinctive sound of twin Pratt & Whitney PW305 turbofan engines. He turned to Jessup, grabbed the DEA agent’s arm and gently shook him to consciousness.

Bolan smiled when the pilot landed and brought the Learjet 60 to a halt less than twenty yards away. His friend controlled whatever craft he was flying as if it were an extension of his body. Aircraft were to Grimaldi what firearms and other weapons were to the Executioner.

When Jessup was awake, both men got out of the Hummer, walked down and then up across the bar ditch, then climbed over the fence. The Executioner found the door to the Learjet already open when he reached it, and Jack Grimaldi grinning at him below his sunglasses.

A second later, Bolan had strapped himself into his seat next to the pilot and Jessup took the seat behind Grimaldi. The ace pilot revved the engines, and the plane began to pick up speed again in preparation for takeoff.

The Executioner withdrew his sat phone and tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm, America’s top-secret counterterrorist headquarters. Bolan maintained an arm’s-length working relationship with Stony Man, and his and the Farm’s missions often coincided.

Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, didn’t answer until the fourth ring. “Sorry, Striker,” she said. “I was busy transferring some data to Bear.”

Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman was in charge of the banks of computers and personnel who gathered the Farm’s electronic intel. Kurtzman spent most of his life in front of a computer. Once a strong bear of a man, he had been paralyzed from the waist down during a gun battle years ago and was now confined to a wheelchair.

And he was the best. There were simply no programs into which he couldn’t hack if given enough time, and there was no computer that came close to the power of his own brain. He had proved invaluable to Bolan and the other teams that worked out of the Farm.

“So what’s new on the western front?” Price said.

“We got the Mafia scum and the coke,” Bolan told the honey-blond mission controller. “Just missed the sellers.”

“Did you hear any of them speak?” Price asked.

Under normal conditions, the question would have sounded straight out of left field. But Bolan knew why Price had asked him. “Uh-uh,” he said. “We never got close enough to hear voices. They spoke to us with bullets and a bazooka.”

“A bazooka?” Price said.

“That’s right,” the Executioner said. “They missed.”

“Obviously,” Price said. “You need to talk to Hal?”

“Yeah,” the Executioner said. “Put him on.”

Bolan heard a click in his ear as Price put him on hold and went about her search for Hal Brognola, the Farm’s director. But he was also a high-ranking official within the U.S. Department of Justice. High enough, at least, that no one questioned his frequent and unexplained absences from Washington, D.C., during which time he manned the reins of Stony Man. He was also Bolan’s link to conventional law enforcement, and could get most things done with a simple phone call.

The Learjet continued to gain altitude, then leveled off as Bolan waited. A few minutes later, he heard the voice of another old friend.

“What’s happening, big guy?” Hal Brognola said into the phone.

“Just finished with the coke deal. Killed the bad guys, exploded the dope. There may be a few hundred cattle who get wired if the wind blows in the right direction, but that should be the only damage.”

Brognola laughed. “Better them than humans,” he said. “Barb already told me. Sounds like you came close to catching the pushers, too.”

“Yeah. Too bad we weren’t playing horseshoes.”

“Any idea who they were?” Brognola questioned. “Any chance they were this Islamic terrorist group that’s been robbing banks and creating other forms of havoc all over the place?”

“Hard to say, Hal,” the Executioner replied. “We didn’t get close enough to really get a good look at them. And as I suspect Barbara already told you, we couldn’t hear them speaking.”

“So tell me what your hunches are, big guy,” Brognola said. “They usually turn out to be as accurate as anything that can be proved.”

“My guess is that they’re the same bunch that hit the bank in Kansas City yesterday. They drove two pickups and a Jeep to the scene but had a helicopter waiting for them to make their getaway. I’d guess the chopper is theirs, which makes the Oklahoma panhandle only a hop, skip and a jump from K.C. The other vehicles I suspect they stole locally. And recently. There haven’t been any such theft reports come out over the police-band radio.”

“Anything else?” Brognola asked.

“Just that they were well trained. Either in one of the Middle-Eastern terrorist-training camps or some country’s armed forces. They worked with a certain military precision that I can’t quite put my finger on. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The guy who fired the bazooka at us—there was something about him I can’t put my finger on. But my gut tells me he’s no more Arabic than you or me.”

“Why’s that?” Brognola asked.

“I can’t say for sure. Maybe something about the way he moved. I really don’t know.”

“You sound like you’re leaning away from the radical-Islamic-terrorist theory,” Brognola said.

“Not entirely. But I’m certainly questioning it.”

“When you think about it, these guys have done a lot of things to make it look like their crimes were for religious and political reasons,” Brognola said. “Almost gone out of their way to convince people of it.”

“That’s what I’m beginning to think,” the Executioner said. “Stop and think about it, Hal. There’ve been three kidnappings and a little over a half-dozen bank robberies attributed to these men. The only witness left alive was that pregnant woman yesterday. She said they spoke Arabic. But do you think she could tell Arabic from one of the other Middle-Eastern languages? Like Farsi, maybe?”

“I doubt it,” Brognola said. “In fact, I’m not sure half of my own agents could.”

“Right,” the Executioner said. “I’m not saying they aren’t radical Muslims of some sort. Just that we can’t be sure yet.”

“So what can I do for you at this point?” Brognola asked.

Bolan glanced to Jessup in the backseat. The DEA man was sitting forward again, straining to hear every word that Bolan said. Turning his attention back to the phone once more, the Executioner said, “I’d like you to pull whatever strings you have to in order to get Jessup assigned to me for the duration of this mission. Think you can pull that off?”

“All it’ll take is a phone call,” Brognola said. “What have you got planned next?”

Bolan glanced behind him, toward the Learjet’s storage area. He had come straight to this mission from another strike in Australia, and was running low on ammo and other equipment. It was definitely time to restock.

“I’m coming in,” the Executioner told Brognola. “We’re running short on supplies.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Brognola said, “You still have Jessup with you, right?”

Bolan knew what the pause had meant. Stony Man Farm was a top-secret installation. From the road, it looked like a regular working farm in the Shenendoah Valley. Knowledge of its location, as well as its function, was strictly on a need-to-know basis. And Jessup didn’t need to know.

“I’ve got him but I’ll take care of it,” the Executioner said. “Talk to you later.” He hung up.

Reaching under the seat next to Grimaldi, the Executioner pulled out what looked like a black cotton sack. But a small hole right in the middle would have raised the eyebrows of anyone seeing the bag for the first time.

Bolan turned around to Jessup. “I’m sorry to have to do this, Jessup,” he said. “But it’s necessary that you ride the rest of the way to my base of operations wearing this.”

Rick Jessup just shrugged. Then, taking the hood from Bolan, he pulled it down over his head and positioned the hole over his nose so he could breathe.

Then Jessup settled back in his seat, and Bolan turned back and did the same.

AS SOON AS HE’D PUNCHED the proper code buttons on the panel next to the steel door, Bolan heard the buzzer and pushed the door open. The Executioner held the door for Jessup, ushering the still-hooded man inside. He then loosened the cord around Jessup’s neck and removed the hood.

Hal Brognola was already seated at the head of the long conference table in Stony Man Farm’s War Room. A manila file was open in front of the Justice man on the table, and the stub of an unlit cigar was clenched between his teeth.

Seated to the Stony Man director’s left was a distinguished-looking man wearing a navy-blue business suit. Although obviously older, he had a full head of medium-length white hair and a short beard and mustache of the same snowy hue.

Bolan had never seen him before in his life.

“Come in, come in,” Brognola said, looking up briefly from the papers in his file. “Take a seat, both of you.”

The Executioner dropped down onto the padded chair to Brognola’s right. Jessup blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to adjust to the new light, as he took the seat next to Bolan. He continued to squint as Brognola looked up, frowning slightly at Bolan.

“Where’s Jack?” the big Fed asked.

“I put him in charge of overseeing the Lear’s restocking,” Bolan answered.

“You can fill him in while you’re in the air,” Brognola said.

Brognola glanced at the man with the white beard and hair. “First, I’d like to introduce Mr. John Sampson.”

Sampson leaned across the table and shook hands with both Bolan and Jessup. Bolan introduced himself as Matt Cooper. Jessup used his real name.

Brognola spoke again. “Mr. Sampson’s reason for being here, and his role in this mission, will become apparent as we go.” He looked back down at the open file in front of him and said, “So far, this group we’re interested in has been responsible for seven bank robberies in the Midwest, three kidnappings—with two of the victims found dead even though the ransom was paid—and they appear to have a Mexican connection for both cocaine and heroin. That deal you just broke up, it was—”

“I wouldn’t say we broke it up,” the Executioner interrupted. “The guys with the money got away.”

“At least the dope won’t hit the street,” Brognola said, using almost the identical words Jessup had chosen back in the Oklahoma panhandle. He cleared his throat and then continued. “The third kidnap victim is the daughter of a Georgia state senator,” he said. “The FBI’s negotiating her release even as we speak.”

“A release that won’t happen until she’s dead,” Bolan said.

“That’s what the two earlier kidnappings would suggest,” Brognola came back.

“How much are they demanding, Hal?” Bolan asked.

“An even million.”

Jessup let out a high-pitched whistle.

“Are we sure that all these crimes—the drug deals, robberies, kidnaps—can be attributed to the same group of men?” Bolan said.

“Reasonably sure,” Brognola said. “In all of the bank jobs they wore Nam leaf cammies and black ski masks. There’s enough similarities in their method of operation inside the banks to tip the scales that way, too. Some variance in height and weight descriptions, skin color on their hands and such. But that’s to be expected.”

The Executioner nodded. He knew that if a hundred people watched the same crime go down, you’d get a hundred different versions of the story. The human mind played tricks on the average citizen who encountered the unusual life-or-death situation, and investigating officers had to take such things into account.

“The primary link, though, is that everyone at the banks—and I mean everyone— agreed that they spoke a foreign language when communicating with each other. Most thought it was Arabic but weren’t sure.”

“Arab terrorists are always the first to come to mind these days,” Bolan noted. “It doesn’t mean that they aren’t Arabs. But it doesn’t mean that they are, either.”

All of the heads around the table nodded their agreement. Then Brognola said, “And when they shouted out orders to the customers, it was in broken English and heavily accented.”

“Broken English is easy enough to fake, too,” Bolan said. “Not that I’m discounting the possibility that they’re Arabs of some kind. Just playing the devil’s advocate here.”

“I know,” Brognola said, nodding.

“What about the negotiations on the kidnappings?” Jessup asked.

“Same thing,” Brognola said. “All done in broken English, with a heavy accent of some kind. There’s another kind of strange aspect to these abductions, though,” he added.

“And it is?” the Executioner said.

“They haven’t warned the parents about going to the police. Fact is, they’ve ordered them to. Told them they wouldn’t negotiate any ransom or releases with anyone except the FBI.”

“That does sound a little off the wall,” Jessup said.

“Maybe not,” Bolan said, shaking his head. “These men—Arabs, Iranians or whoever they actually are—were trained someplace and trained well. So far, I’d put their skills right up there with our own Special Forces.”

Brognola looked a little surprised. Bolan, he well knew, was former Army Special Forces himself, and now he was comparing these robbers, kidnappers and murderers to other men like himself.

Bolan directed a weary smile at his old friend. “Don’t take that wrong, Hal,” he said. “All I’m saying is that as well as being more-than-competent fighters, they’re smart. And they know that while the FBI will be trying to catch them, the Feds won’t pull anything stupid that puts the victim in further jeopardy. They’ll ask for an FBI agent to deliver the money, too, is my guess. Because the Feds’ first concern is getting the girl back safe and sound. Fathers—now, that’s a different story. They aren’t trained for situations like this, and holding up under this kind of pressure is just flat-out impossible for most men. The kidnappers know if they deal with a father or husband, or any other family member, they’re dealing with a loose cannon. Their behavior is completely unpredictable while the FBI agent’s isn’t.”

The room went silent for a few seconds, then Brognola turned toward the man with the white hair and beard. “Now, let me tell you exactly where Mr. John Sampson fits into all this.”

“You want to cut out that ‘Mr.’stuff, please?” Sampson said. “We’re all in this together, and I don’t see any of us wearing military uniforms anymore.”

Brognola gave the man a weary smile. “John was 101st Airborne in Nam,” he said. “Served two tours. Then he went to work in the oilfields of Iran for two years—that was back when the shah was still running the show—before coming back here and starting his own oil company. He sold the oil company a few years ago and became a professor at George Washington University.”

“So what do you teach, John?” Jessup asked. “Geology or something?”

“Not even close,” Sampson said. “Linguistics.”

“John noticed some discrepancies in the way some of the bank robbers spoke,” Brognola cut in. “He just happened to be one of the customers in one of the banks when it was robbed.”

Sampson nodded. “What I did learn, and what I can tell you, is that they weren’t Arabs. Or at least they weren’t speaking Arabic. It was Farsi. Most definitely Farsi.”

Bolan studied Sampson’s penetrating stare. Finally, the man with the white beard sat back in his chair again. “And I can tell you another thing,” Sampson said. “Farsi was a second language with them.”

“How could you know that?” Jessup asked.

Bolan knew the answer, but he let Sampson explain it for Jessup’s benefit.

“Because,” Sampson said, “while they were fluent in the language, a lot of it was what I’d call textbook Farsi. Way too formal for actual speech. You know how people who learned English in a classroom instead of growing up with it talk? It was sort of like that.”

“Iran and Iraq are next-door neighbors,” Bolan said. “It’s not that unusual for people from both countries—especially along the border—to speak both languages.”

“You’re right,” Sampson said, turning back to the Executioner. “But these bank robbers all had really strange accents—the likes of which I never heard when I was living in that part of the world. And believe me, I traveled all over Iran. I still couldn’t place their accents.” He paused long enough to lean back in his seat and cross his arms. “And there’s one other thing,” he said.

Bolan, Jessup and Brognola waited for him to go on.

“When they spoke English, they had these phony-sounding Arabic accents.”

Bolan continued to study the man with the white beard. He appeared to be in decent physical condition, and he was obviously intelligent and well-spoken. In both English and Farsi.

He might just become invaluable during the rest of this mission.

Looking back to Brognola, Bolan said, “When you put all of the facts together—bank robberies, kidnappings for ransom, drug deals—it all comes down to money. Whoever these guys are, they’re trying to get together as much money as they can. And what do you do with money?” he asked.

“Buy things,” Jessup said.

“Exactly.” Bolan nodded. “But they’re hitting so hard and so fast that they don’t have any time to spend any of what they take in. To me, that means they’re getting ready to purchase a specific item that is expensive. There’s something out there that these guys want to buy, and they’re working toward that goal.”

“What do you think it is they want?” Jessup asked.

“I don’t know,” Bolan said. “At least not for sure yet. But I’ve got an idea.”

“What’s that?” Brognola asked.

“Hal,” Bolan replied, “I’d rather not say quite yet because I could be wrong. And I don’t want to unduly prejudice anyone else’s ideas as we go about tracking down these guys.”

Brognola just nodded.

The Executioner turned toward Sampson again. “What’s your immediate future look like, John? Would you be able to take off a few days and work with us? It would sure help to have somebody who can speak Farsi.”

Sampson smiled. “Did I mention that I also speak Arabic and Hebrew?”

Bolan chuckled. “No,” he said. “But that’s two more gold stars for taking you with us. And your military experience won’t hurt, either. Can you swing it?”

Sampson smiled, showing a row of teeth every bit as white as his hair. “I’m a millionaire oilman,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”

“So, do you want to?” Bolan asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sampson shot back. “Just give me some firepower and point me in the right direction.”

“Then it’s settled,” Bolan said, looking back to Brognola again. “They should have the Lear almost loaded by now.” He started to rise.

“Where are you going to start?” Brognola wanted to know.

“I’d say that the state senator’s daughter in Georgia demands priority,” Bolan answered. “Especially since the other two hostages were murdered.”

Brognola nodded. “I’ll call ahead to the FBI field office in Atlanta,” he said. “Tell them to be expecting you.”

THE LEARJET WAS WAITING, with Jack Grimaldi behind the controls, by the time Bolan and Brognola helped the hooded Jessup and Sampson up into the passenger area. The Executioner buckled himself in, then said over his shoulder, “Buckle up. You can take the hoods off about five minutes into our flight.”

Grimaldi had been warming up the engine. But before he could start his takeoff, a figure appeared through the window, running toward them. Bolan turned to watch as John “Cowboy” Kissinger continued to hurry toward them, finally coming to a halt next to the door beside Bolan.

The Executioner opened it.

Kissinger was Stony Man Farm’s chief armorer, and a true master of weaponry and other equipment. He was constantly inventing, or improving, the equipment used by all of the counterterrorists who worked out of Stony Man.

Now, as soon as the door was open, he reached down into the front pocket of his faded blue jeans.

Bolan’s eyes followed Kissinger’s hand, and he watched as the armorer drew a pocket-clipped folding knife. “Check this out,” he told the Executioner, extending the knife in his hand.

Bolan took the folder and looked down at it. It was long and lean, and thicker at the hilt than at the tapered pommel. A thumb-stud opener was screwed into the blade next to a slight, half-moon indentation in the grip. Bolan flicked the stud with his thumb, and the blade sprang open.

The dagger-shaped blade looked to be a shade over four inches in length. But it was ground on one side only. The Executioner read the inscriptions on both sides of the steel. Caledonian Edge, San Mai III, and on the other side, Cold Steel, Japan.

“Looks like a good piece,” Bolan told Kissinger.

“Oh, it is, it is,” the armorer replied. “I polished the rocker a little bit more, but it really didn’t need much custom work. It’s custom-made in Japan already. The blade shape comes from the old Scottish sock knives.”

Bolan nodded and started to hand the knife back.

But Kissinger took a step away from him and shook his head. “Take it with you,” he said. “Then tell me how it stands up in the field. I’m thinking about offering them to everyone here at the Farm who wants one.”

“Will do,” Bolan said. “Always happy to risk my life as your guinea pig for untested products.” He was smiling when he spoke. The truth was, he had complete faith in Kissinger’s judgment.

Kissinger waved goodbye as Bolan closed the door. The Learjet was warmed up now, and Grimaldi began to guide it down the runway. Bolan sat back in his seat. The flight to Georgia would not take long, especially in the Learjet. But what little time it took could still be put to good use.

Flipping open a panel on the armrest nearest the door, the Executioner pulled up a folding work table and spread it across his lap. Next, he placed the file Brognola had given him on the table and opened it.

The only intelligence information he was interested in at the moment was in regard to the kidnapped daughter of the state senator in Georgia, and he found all of the reports held together by a paper clip on top of the rest of the information about the robberies and other crimes.

Behind him, the Executioner could hear Sampson and Jessup whispering softly. Grimaldi, to his side, took the Lear down the runway and into the air. When they had reached flying altitude, Bolan began shuffling through the pages.

Sarah Ann Pilgrim, eighteen, daughter of Henry and Myra Pilgrim, had been abducted by several men when she’d left her seat in the bleachers of a high school baseball field to visit the ladies’ room. Witnesses described her abductors as heavily armed with assault rifles and pistols, wearing green-and-brown Army clothes and black ski masks. The kidnappers had contacted Sarah’s parents the next day, demanding an immediate payment of a million dollars or they’d never see their daughter alive again. Henry Pilgrim, being an honest politician, had cried over the phone that he would never be able to raise that much money.

His tears had bought him an extra day. Nothing else.

Knowing that he was out of his league in both the financial arena and in handling terrorists and professional criminals, Henry had called in the FBI. One of the Bureau’s trained hostage negotiators was now in contact with whoever was on the other end of the phone calls, and doing his best to stall for more time. FBI technicians were also trying to trace the calls, but so far their attempts had been fruitless. The kidnappers were using a different cell phone each time they called, and evidently moving around Atlanta in some kind of vehicle. By the time the Bureau men could triangulate a call, they had moved to another area and were using a different phone.

The Executioner finished skimming the reports and closed the file. He closed his eyes, seeing the photograph that had been with the other paperwork now on the back of his eyelids. Sarah Ann Pilgrim was a cute little strawberry-blond girl who had all the earmarks of someday growing into a beautiful, mature woman. She was standing next to what looked like a ski boat of some kind in the picture, clad only in a bikini.

Bolan found his upper and lower teeth grinding against each other in silent anger. He could only pray that the kidnappers were nothing more than perpetrators of crimes for money. If there was a rapist among them—

The Executioner turned his thoughts away from such things. It would do no good to brood over the possibilities. He was already doing everything he could to locate and rescue Sarah Ann, and he would get her to safety as soon as possible.

The Executioner opened the file again and read through all of the reports, then found himself frowning. Shifting the reports regarding Sarah Ann’s abduction to the right side of the table, he began shuffling through the pages that dealt with the robberies. The frown grew deeper as he read on, occasionally referring back to the reports concerning Sarah Ann Pilgrim and the other two victims who had been abducted—and murdered.

The time frames concerning some of these crimes simply didn’t add up. If it was the same men perpetrating all of these crimes, they had kidnapped another girl in Boston, and fifteen minutes later robbed a bank in Wilmer, Minnesota.

Not even Jack Grimaldi could get you from Massachusetts to the southern Minnesota town of Wilmer that fast.

Other bank robberies had gone down during the periods that these camo-clad men had had their kidnap victims in custody and still alive. The parents of the girl from Boston, as well as those of a young man from Albuquerque, had spoken to their children.

So who was keeping an eye on them while the others went running around the country robbing banks? Now the furrows on Bolan’s forehead deepened even further. There had to be at least two factions of this gang or terrorist cell using the same MO. Were they together in this, or separate? Together. They had to be.

The similarities were simply too many to be coincidence.

The Executioner closed the file again as Grimaldi spoke into his microphone, gaining clearance for their landing in Atlanta. The Learjet began its descent, and a few minutes later they were taxiing toward an aluminum-sided hangar reserved for private aircraft.

“Jack, you mind taking care of the paperwork?” the Executioner said as a dark black Chevrolet sedan made its way toward them. It had so many antennae extending up from the hood and trunk that it could only have been a police vehicle of some kind.

“No problem,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll stay here with the plane.”

Bolan opened the cargo door and began removing black nylon cases that, in addition to clothes, held weapons, ammunition, extra magazines and other equipment. Bolan, Jessup and John Sampson lifted their luggage and walked to where the black sedan had parked next to the hangars. The door opened, and a man wearing an expensive suit, a white shirt and black sunglasses stepped out. He wore his black hair in a short flattop cut, and his hairline was just beginning to recede.

“You Cooper?” he asked Bolan in short, clipped syllables. It was obvious that he wasn’t glad to be where he was, doing what he was doing, as he got out of the sedan and walked to the rear of the car, inserting a key into the trunk.

“I am,” Bolan told him. He pointed to Jessup and started to say, “This is Rick—”

“Jessup,” the FBI agent interrupted. “DEA. And the guy with the Santa Claus hair and beard must be the linguistics specialist your man at Justice told us about when he called down earlier.”

By now the bags were in the trunk and the four men found seats in the sedan. The FBI man took the wheel again, Bolan rode shotgun and Sampson and Jessup got into the back. “You haven’t told us your name yet,” Bolan said.

“I’m Special Agent Wilkerson, in charge of the Atlanta office,” came the reply in the same clipped tone.

“Ah, the special agent in charge has come to greet us himself,” Jessup said from the backseat.

Bolan felt his jaw tighten slightly. The competition between the DEA and FBI was legendary. He just hoped Jessup and Wilkerson didn’t let it get out of hand.

If they did, the Executioner would have to come down on them both, hard and fast. Such rivalries did nothing but get in the way on a mission like this.

Before Wilkerson could reply, Jessup went on. “We’re a pretty informal group, you’ll find,” he said.

Wilkerson threw the automobile into Drive and started toward an exit.

The DEA man continued talking. “What’s your first name, Wilkerson?”

“Special,” Wilkerson said with even more venom in his words than he’d already shown.

“Cute,” Jessup said. “Very cute. So I suppose that would mean you’ve got three middle names? Agent, In and Charge?

“That’s right, DEA man,” Wilkerson said.

“Mind if I ask you one more question?” Jessup said.

“Go right ahead.”

“Who stuck the broom handle up your ass?” Jessup asked quietly and calmly.

Bolan had not entered into the conversation because, so far, his words hadn’t been needed. But now it appeared that the anger Wilkerson was exhibiting went far and above the usual interagency squabbling. It was time to nip it in the bud.

By now, the sedan had left the airport, navigated a cloverleaf entrance ramp and was on the divided highway leading into Atlanta. But as soon as Wilkerson heard Jessup’s remark about the broomstick, an angry snort shot from his nostrils. He twisted the Chevy’s wheel hard to the right, pulling it over onto the shoulder of the highway before throwing it violently into Park.

Turning, he rested one arm on the back of the bench seat that both he and Bolan occupied. “Okay, you want to know why I’m pissed off?” he said. “I’ll tell you. We—the Atlanta FBI office—already have everything under control. We don’t need your help, and we particularly don’t like having you guys thrust down our throats by whoever the bigwig friend of yours in Justice is. But you want to know the worst thing of all?” Now he looked directly at the Executioner. “It’s being told we all—even me, the SAC—have to take orders from this Cooper character who none of us has ever met or even heard of.”

Bolan surprised him by letting a friendly smile encompass his face, then saying, “I don’t blame you. I’d be mad if I was in your shoes, too. But you don’t have the whole picture of what’s going on.”

Wilkerson looked confused as his eyes locked with those of the Executioner. Bolan’s was a response he hadn’t counted on, and the look on Jessup’s face told the Executioner that it wasn’t the feedback he’d have gotten if the DEA man had had a chance to answer the accusation.

“And you have the whole picture?” Wilkerson asked in the semisurly voice Bolan had grown to expect out of the man.

“No,” the Executioner said. “If we had the whole picture, all this would be over and the bad guys would be in jail or dead. But let me say—and I say this with all due respect to you and the rest of the Atlanta FBI—while we don’t have all the pieces to this puzzle yet, we’ve got more than you guys do. So let’s work together, okay?”

There was only a trace of anger left in his voice as Wilkerson pulled the black FBI sedan back onto the divided highway. Several minutes went by in silence as they made their way into the city. Then, suddenly, Wilkerson blurted out, “Greg.”

Bolan turned in his seat. In the corner of his eye, he could see the two men in the backseat were as puzzled as he was. “What’s that mean?” Bolan asked. “Greg who?”

“Greg,” Wilkerson said again. “Short for Gregory. It’s my first name.” He glanced up into the rearview mirror and his face lifted in a genuine smile. “And I’ve only got one middle name, just like most people.”

“What is it?” Jessup asked.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag that out of me,” Wilkerson said as the outskirts of Atlanta appeared in the distance.

“I think I like the first name you gave us earlier better,” Jessup said. “Special. Has a nice ring to it.”

The look on Wilkerson’s face betrayed his confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” he said.

“Tell you what,” Jessup said. “Why don’t you start off our newfound friendship by telling us where we’re going, Special?”

Now, all of the rest of the warriors in the car got the joke and laughed.