THE MEN FROM DELTA FORCE were seething. Nearly all Delta Force commandos were chosen from the United States Army Ranger Regiment. The Rangers were the Army’s elite. That made Delta Force the elite of the elite. Delta Force commandos remembered their days as Rangers and knew with great pride that the Ranger Regiment was where they had launched their careers as Special Forces soldiers.
Now an entire squad of Rangers had been killed, beheaded and burned. The assembled Delta team was going hunting for some payback.
“All right, ladies!” The black lieutenant looked like an NFL linebacker who had been shoved through a trash compactor. He barely cracked five-six but he weighed 180 if he weighed an ounce, and his Afro pushed the limits of U.S. military hairstyle acceptability. Lieutenant Richard Dirk was “Dick Dirk” to his friends and equals in rank and affectionately known as “the Diggler” behind his back. The vertically challenged Special Forces officer had amassed a sizable legend for neutralizing the designated enemies of Uncle Sam on three continents and was currently working on his fourth. His voice was out of all proportion to his size. “Listen up! We’re going hunting tonight, and your Uncle Sam in his merciful compassion had been kind enough to send us an observer to make sure we don’t screw up!”
Groans and muttered expletives greeted the lieutenant’s announcement.
“So I would like you all to give a warm, Delta Force welcome to Mr. Matthew Cooper from the Justice Department!”
Mack Bolan walked into the tent.
A lanky blond commando named Sawyer drawled out his disgust with an accent straight out of the hills of Tennessee. “Christ, LT, who is this fucking cherry? I—” Sawyer leaned back in his seat as Bolan locked eyes with him. It took a lot to give a Delta Force commando pause, but whatever Sawyer saw behind Bolan’s blue eyes stopped him midsentence. “Shit, dude, don’t look at me like that.”
That wasn’t enough for Lieutenant Dirk. “You will shitcan that talk, Sawyer, or I will personally correct your cracker attitude for you! You read me?”
Sawyer recoiled before the wrath of his commanding officer. “Shit, LT! Yeah—I mean, yes, sir! I mean….” Sawyer regained some of his composure. “But what the hell, LT? Are we Commies now with political officers spying on our asses? What the hell is an asshole from the goddamn Department of Justice doing here? Makin’ sure we don’t commit no atrocities? I mean who sent him? The Supreme Court?”
Dirk seemed to grow and expand in rage and stature as he prepared to rain his wrath on Sawyer.
Bolan interrupted the dressing-down. “Permission to address your men, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Dirk continued to glare bloody murder at Sawyer. “Oh, by all means. Please do.”
“Who is the angry god of your universe?” Bolan addressed the tent at large.
Bolan had files on all the men present. A hulking Latino private in the back named Obradors shot up his hand. “Why, Mr. Cooper, we do dastardly deeds for the Diggler!”
Lieutenant Dirk rolled his eyes and mostly kept the benevolent smile off his face.
“Well,” Bolan conceded, “the lieutenant is the Messiah, but who is God?”
Special Forces operator opinions flew around the tent.
“Jesus?”
“Santa Claus?”
“Anheuser-Busch?”
Bolan shook his head. “No, it’s the big guy in the round room.”
The tent grew quiet as Bolan invoked the commander in chief.
“He’s taken a personal interest in your situation.”
Jaws set nervously and brows furrowed. That might be extraordinarily good or horrifically bad news. It was generally considered best not to have the Man’s attention at all except when he was handing out medals.
Bolan tapped the com-link clipped to his shirt. “Gentlemen, I am not here to observe you, usurp command or steal your thunder. I am here to deliver the thunder. The standard chain of command has been circumvented. We will not be going through the Pentagon or United Nations coalition command. I am here to make sure that fire support, extraction and real-time data are available as needed. Short of a nuclear strike, it is my job to make sure that you receive everything you need.” Bolan shrugged. “If you require a tactical nuclear strike, I can’t promise it, but I will ask the President of the United States for it directly. However, if my services aren’t required…”
“Oh, hell no!” Sawyer grinned delightedly. “Your shit is sacred, brother.”
“Fuckin’ ay,” Obradors agreed.
Bolan nodded to himself. The Delta Force commando team was leaning forward eagerly. Everyone loved divine intervention. “Captain Fairfax will brief you on the mission.”
“You heard the man!” Dirk bawled. “Now I would like you all to turn your kind attention to our friend and leader, Captain Fairfax!”
The commandos whooped for their commanding officer. Fairfax had been in Somalia and earned his officer’s stripes and the jagged scar along his jaw the hard way.
Lieutenant Dirk edged up to Bolan as the briefing began. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“By all means, Lieutenant.”
“No offense meant, but, uh, just who in the blue hell are you, anyway? Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice that the Man has taken an interest in our little situation, but why exactly are they sending me a Fed?”
“None taken, and I’m not a Fed.”
Dirk cocked his head suspiciously. “Well, you work for the Justice Department, don’t you?”
“No.”
Lieutenant Dirk blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“I was told you did.”
“That was a misinterpretation.”
“Well, we’re going out tonight, me and you.” The lieutenant’s eyes went hard. “So why don’t you illuminate my ignorant black ass?”
Bolan sighed. He had been a soldier, and there was nothing worse than strange, murky individuals suddenly popping up from stateside during an operation. It implied mission creep and goat screws of epic proportions. “I don’t work for the Justice Department. I have a working relationship with the United States government, and when I choose to take action, I liaise with the President through the DOJ.”
“A…working relationship, and when you choose to take action you talk with the Man?” That gave even Dirk pause.
“Yeah.”
“Directly?”
“Sometimes,” Bolan admitted.
“So…you’re a spook?”
“No, though I’ve been spooky.”
“Paramilitary?” Dirk tried.
The man was getting warmer. “I guess you could call me an operator of a sort.”
“You’re—” Dirk’s nose wrinkled in suspicion “—a merc?”
“Naw.” Bolan shook his head. “I don’t get paid.”
“You don’t get paid?” Lieutenant Dirk regarded Bolan like a primatologist who has just encountered a gorilla with wings. “So you’re a…volunteer, spookerator, with a direct line to the President who does this out of love?”
“Close,” Bolan conceded. “And payback. I’m pretty big on payback.”
Dirk suddenly grinned. “Well, hell, that’s all you had to say! Count me in!”
Bolan