Code Of Honor. Don Pendleton

White nodded. Besides Misters Mauve and Green, another operative had been killed in the Redmond assassination, and three more had retired. They were down to only six, and she knew that Mr. Indigo preferred their fighting strength to be an even dozen.

      “Who is this new man?”

      They entered the cabin, and Mr. Indigo led her to a laptop, which had a generic screen saver running on the monitor. Mr. Indigo touched the button under the track pad, causing the screen to change to that of a U.S. Marine Corps dossier on a gunnery sergeant. His name was blacked out—a standard Black Cross security protocol.

      “He’s a former jarhead,” Mr. Indigo explained, “and he’s been a merc since then. Sharpshooter. He’s had trouble finding work lately because he’s too brutal.”

      “I wasn’t aware that you could be too brutal for the Marines.”

      Giving her the tiniest of smiles—which was as emotional as he ever got—Mr. Indigo said, “There’s a first time for everything. He has a tendency to kill people regardless of whether they’re supposed to be killed, which irked his superiors in the Corps. After that, he became a merc, and that same tendency irked a few of his employers, too.”

      “I can imagine,” Ms. White said. “We have no such compunctions, though.”

      “Indeed not. Galloway has him set up for his interview tomorrow. I want you to pick the talent for it and supervise the process.”

      Ms. White blinked. That was something usually left to operatives with more experience than her. “Why me?”

      “I’d say you’ve earned the promotion.” Mr. Indigo stared at her with those intense eyes. “You’ve been my best operative since you were hired six years ago. With Mr. Red, Mr. Brown and Ms. Violet retiring, and losing Mr. Green, Mr. Mauve and Ms. Yellow, you’re the one I trust the most right now.”

      Unsure if she was being complimented, or if she was simply the best of a series of bad choices, Ms. White instead just asked, “Where is the interview to be held?”

      “Valley Forge. Find a half dozen or so from the usual sources and get them set up at eleven tomorrow. The interview’s at noon.”

      Ms. White winced. That was all the way across the country, which meant she’d need to leave immediately to have time to set things up.

      However, Mr. Indigo wasn’t one to give compliments lightly. If he was going to trust her with such an operation, it meant good things for her. Specifically, it meant more pay—which was, after all, her primary motivation—given his use of the word promotion. The idealistic college student who’d thought she’d be doing some good in the world had long since died. The realities of life beat that idealism right out of her.

      Mr. Indigo opened another window on the laptop. “There’s an e-ticket in the name of Alma White at Eureka/Arcata for a flight to Denver, and then a connecting flight to Philadelphia. You’ve got one hour.”

      Just enough time to shower and change her clothes. She wanted to get the smell of the blond man off her anyhow.

      4

      Bolan drove the Ford Escort down North Gulph Road to the location on the greasy slip of paper given to him the previous day by Galloway. North Gulph was one of many roads that led through Valley Forge National Historical Park.

      The Executioner thought it repugnant that someone like the Black Cross—if it was indeed behind all this—would sully the heroic sacrifice of the soldiers who fought against tyranny on this ground in the eighteenth century with their “job interview” of a potential assassin. That they happily accepted commissions to murder retired government operatives like Redmond, Bethke, Grosso and Lang just made it worse.

      Bolan brought the Escort to a halt and turned off the ignition. He was about five minutes early for his appointment with Galloway, which was just enough time to check over his armament.

      Unburdened by the security of a gun show, the Executioner was fully armed with a Mark XIX .357 Magnum Desert Eagle pistol, a 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 handgun and an RRA Tactical Entry 5.56 mm rifle. He checked the clips of all three in succession, making sure they were fully loaded and that he had spare ammo for all three.

      Of course, if his recon of the park earlier that morning was any indication, he wouldn’t be given much opportunity to reload.

      The Executioner wasn’t surprised that the Black Cross’s notion of a job interview was to send several people to try to kill him. If they succeeded, he wouldn’t get the job, and as an added bonus, what little he knew about them would die with him.

      If they didn’t succeed, he was worthy of being an elite assassin. From the perspective of the Black Cross, it was win-win.

      Bolan assumed that the six people hiding in the nearby trees, whom he’d noticed during his earlier recon, were there to perform that task. They likely weren’t actual Black Cross assassins—Bolan couldn’t imagine that they’d stay in business long if their top assassins’ lives were being so easily thrown away on something like this—but mercenaries hired to see if Michael Burns was Black Cross material. Three were up in the trees, the others on the ground.

      While Bolan didn’t kill innocents, he didn’t think anyone who killed a stranger for pay qualified as such.

      Though it was sunny and warm, it was still a bit chillier than it had been the day before, a cold wind coming in off the Delaware River, which worked in the Executioner’s favor. He was able to holster the rifle on a strap sewn inside the right-hand side of his fleece jacket, which he left unzipped. A similar strap on the left secured the Desert Eagle, with the SIG-Sauer in a Safariland 1060 shoulder holster that fit snugly next to the Kevlar bulletproof vest.

      Opening the door of the Escort, Bolan climbed out and closed the door behind him, but didn’t lock it. One of the modifications Stony Man had arranged to have made to the vehicle was a bulletproof body and windows. He wanted the option of being able to open the door and use it as a shield once the firing started, as it inevitably would.

      Bolan took up position against the car’s hood, waiting for Galloway to make his appearance.

      For a brief moment, he simply enjoyed the quiet, the smell of the freshly cut grass, the feel of the light breeze, the warmth of the sun on his stubble-covered face. For years Bolan’s life had been dedicated solely to the pursuit of those who broke the law while sitting from a lofty place above it, avoiding judgment for their acts. His life as Justice’s proxy left him with little time for indulgences such as enjoying a warm spring day.