Agent Of Peril. Don Pendleton

      Mobilization, perhaps, in the wake of discovery?

      Bolan went over the layout of the place, running it against the digital photographs that Rust had taken and transmitted to the Executioner. It was Rust’s discovery of strange cargo that drew the Executioner in the first place. This was the first time Bolan was viewing the compound personally, and the fencing alone—two kinds of barbed wire and “flycatcher” barbs—told him all he needed to know. The perimeter was only the first part. Bolan could see a second, shorter fence, and this was on the other side of a dog run. Even now, a pair of Dobermans were racing along the channel between the two fences.

      Bolan respected any guard animal.

      Usually they were trained to a frenzy point through abuse and just enough malnutrition to cause blood lust, but not to impair the killing power of the predators.

      It wasn’t the first time Bolan would face jackals who cowered behind wolves.

      Darkness descended as the soldier advanced across the scrub-and-stone-covered terrain around the perimeter fence. By the time he reached the compound, the countryside was a murky dusk. The compound’s lights were slow in activating, allowing Bolan a chance to slip into their shadows before they burst into blue-white brilliance. Dropping to a crouch, he brought up the binoculars again and swept the compound. Activity was concentrated at the far end of the facility.

      Bolan hoped that the constant motion and sound would draw the attention of the patrol dogs. Sweeping to his left, he realized he had no such luck as they came racing toward him. The Executioner lowered the binoculars and brought his hand to the silenced Beretta, drawing it swiftly. The sleek pistol came up to firing position in a reflexive heartbeat.

      As much as the soldier hated hurting animals, the dogs would raise too much alarm. These were trained missiles of flesh, rocketing at him at nearly twenty-five miles an hour, and would slash him to ribbons the moment he tried to breach the fence. They would never allow him a moment’s peace. As it was, Bolan planted his first shot in the lower jaw of the first dog. The Doberman folded over, tumbling like a soccer ball and slamming into the fence.

      The fence shattered where the dog slammed into it, and the Executioner and the remaining dog were both taken off guard, turning to see tinkling chain link come apart like delicate crystal. Both soldier and guard dog returned their gazes to each other then broke for the gap in the fence. Someone had started to make a hole to get into the base themselves.

      Now, the Executioner and the animal were in a race to see who would get to the hole first. Bolan tapped off single rounds at the dog, but it was moving too quickly. The Doberman leaped and twisted, and finally, it was at the hole, hopping and doing a twist in midair. With a single push of its powerful legs, it would be through the hole and at the Executioner’s throat in mere heartbeats. Bolan dropped to the ground, elbows striking the dirt and he fired three fast rounds. The Doberman bounced through the hole, charging, but an explosion of crimson slowed the dog by a couple steps. Bolan triggered another round, this one striking the center of the sleek, black-furred mass, and the dog crumpled.

      Bolan slipped through the fence and into the dog run, pausing to look at a piece of the chain link. It was as he’d suspected—someone had weakened the fence. With a quick scan of the area he saw a spray can under a shrub. He slipped back and picked it up.

      Still full. He tried a test squirt at the branch of the plant it was under and watched as the wood and leaf whitened and snapped as a breeze blew past it.

      Liquid nitrogen. It made sense—after years in the heat, suddenly supercooled metal would snap apart. Balancing the weight of the spray can in his palm, Bolan realized its owner had to be inside the compound somewhere. He squeezed through the hole in the fence again, taking the liquid nitrogen with him. It was a tight squeeze. The original user had to have had a smaller frame than Bolan.

      The soldier moved to the other side of the dog run and sprayed a larger circle of brittle chain link for himself. He pushed it through, watching the fence part before him, grabbing the falling section and pulling it back through the hole before it could clatter on asphalt and alert his enemy. A quick crawl, and he was on the other side, crouched and scanning.

      His brief conflict with the dogs, and the breaking of the fence hadn’t sent enough sound to alert anyone at the far end of the compound. Nearby, presumably empty trailers and boxcars sat on their jacks. The Executioner kept to the shadows, crawled under a trailer and brought up his binoculars again.

      A cab for an eighteen-wheeler was rolling out of a warehouse and making a crawl toward the trailers. He saw it was a Mack truck. A small smile crossed his face as he figured out the way to get closer. Turning away from the truck with his name on it, as Bolan swept the compound some more, he saw a small commotion. Two men were pulling along a woman toward a loading dock.

      Focusing the binoculars tighter, he managed to make out her features. Her hair was dark, either auburn or having a tint of some red keeping it from being otherwise black. She was also compact. Not tiny and fragile, but small and toughly built, yet still maintaining a decidedly feminine form. Her eyes were covered by the checkerboard pattern of a kaffiyeh, her wrists knotted together. Even with the binoculars, he couldn’t make out what language she was cursing in, but she was talking up a storm.

      Bolan knew this had to have been the person who used the liquid nitrogen. She was the right size.

      The Mack truck finally rolled up and made its hairpin turn to start backing into one of the trailers. Bolan knew it was now or never to try to get the woman out in one piece.

      Bursting from his hiding spot, he surged forward, Beretta leading the charge this time. The driver paused, looking over and starting to cry out, but Bolan was up on the running board, gripping the door handle and shoving his suppressed Beretta through the window.