CHAPTER TWO
Cheyenne, Wyoming
Five days before he stepped out of the Cessna into Congo skies, Bolan had followed cowboy footsteps through the streets of what was once a wild and woolly frontier town. He dawdled past gift shops, a bookstore with a lot of history and Western fiction in the windows, glancing at his watch again to verify the time.
Almost.
He didn’t know that much about Wyoming—big-sky country, open range, the Rockies—but it didn’t matter. Dressing like a tourist didn’t make him one. Bolan had business here, and it was causing him a teaspoon’s measure of anxiety.
He was surprised to see a pair of middle-aged civilians pass, both wearing pistols holstered on their hips. No badges visible, and Bolan took a moment to remind himself that this was still the wild frontier, in certain ways.
His own sidearm, the sleek Beretta 93-R with selective fire and twenty Parabellum rounds packing its magazine, was tucked discreetly out of sight beneath a nylon windbreaker. He much preferred the fast-draw armpit rig and had no need to advertise that he was armed.
As long as he could reach the pistol when it mattered.
Bolan had two minutes left to wait, but it was getting on his nerves. That was peculiar in itself, considering that patience was a sniper’s trademark and a trait that kept him breathing, but he wrote it off to special circumstances in the present case. The message from his brother had surprised him and had kept him revved since he received it.
He wasn’t nervous in the classic sense, afraid of what would happen in the next few minutes, worried that he might not find a way to handle it. Bolan had outgrown such emotions as a teenager, had any remnants of them purged by fire as a young man. That didn’t mean he was immune to feelings, though.
Not even close.
He’d driven past the Chinese restaurant first thing, an hour early for the meeting, checking out the street. That part was instinct, watching for a trap. It made no difference that his brother would’ve died before collaborating with an enemy. Betrayal wasn’t even on his mind.
The drive-by was a habit, ingrained for good reason. Johnny would’ve taken care when calling, but that didn’t guarantee their conversation had been secure. What really was, these days? Each day, the NSA’s code breakers intercepted countless e-mails, phone calls, radio transmissions, television programs. Other ears and eyes were also constantly alert. There was a chance, however miniscule, that Johnny had been singled out, his message plucked from the air or off the wires and passed along to someone who would pay to keep the rendezvous.
For one shot at the Executioner.
The drive-by had been wasted, nothing on the street that indicated any kind of trap in place. That didn’t mean the restaurant was clean, simply that Bolan couldn’t spot a snare if one was waiting for him. Call it eighty-five percent relaxed as Bolan turned from the shop window he’d been studying, using the glass to mirror the pedestrians passing behind him, watching both sides of the street. His windbreaker hung open, granting easy access to the pistol if he was mistaken and a trap awaited him within the next block and a half.
The call from Johnny had been short and sweet.
“Val needs to see you, bro,” he’d said. “Can you find time?”
And it was wild, how a three-letter word could reach across the miles and years, clutching his heart in a death grip.
No, that was wrong. Make it a life grip, and it would be closer to the truth.
Val needs to see you, bro. Can you find time?
Hell, yes.
The day seemed warmer as he neared the corner where a left turn was required to reach the restaurant. Bolan could feel a sheen of perspiration on his forehead and beneath his arms. It wasn’t that hot, and the physical reaction made him frown.
It’s been a long time, he admitted. Then, as if to reassure himself, There’s nothing to it. Get a grip.
The nerves were partly Johnny’s fault. He could’ve spelled it out directly, or at least suggested why Val needed him. It had been years since they’d seen each other last, and she had been hospitalized, recuperating from one of those traumas that dogged Bolan’s handful of loved ones and friends. It was his final memory of Val, and he had no idea how well she had recovered from her injuries. What scars remained, inside or out.
At least she wasn’t one of Bolan’s ghosts.
Not yet.
Val needs you.
Why? Presumably she’d tell him to his face.
He cleared the corner, gave the street a final sweep and walked on to the Bamboo Garden, halfway down the block. The door made little chiming sounds as he pushed through it, brought a smiling hostess out to intercept him.
“One for lunch?” she asked.
“I’m meeting someone,” he replied. And as he spoke, he had them spotted. “Over there.”
The hostess bobbed her head. “Please follow me.”
As they moved toward the corner booth, he noted Johnny’s left leg sticking into the aisle, his foot and ankle fattened by a plaster cast. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall beside him.
Val was seated on the inside, next to Johnny on his right. Her raven hair was cut to shoulder length, framing a face with the exotic beauty of her Spanish heritage. Her smile seemed tentative, but what could he expect?
He sat, back to the door, and didn’t even mind. Johnny could watch the street. The hostess handed him a menu and retreated. Bolan knew he was supposed to read it, order food. He simply wasn’t there yet.
“Long time,” Val said. “You’re looking good.”
He wasn’t sure if that was true, but Bolan meant it when he said, “You, too.”
He turned to his brother. “What’s the story on that leg?”
Johnny looked suitably embarrassed. “It’s a classic,” he replied. “Stepped off a ladder, got tangled up and cracked a couple bones.”
“No marathons this season, then.”
“Guess not.”
That much told Bolan part of why Val had reached out for him. Johnny was benched for the duration, and whatever problem had arisen, Bolan guessed it couldn’t wait for him to heal.
“Bad luck,” he said.
“What brings you down from Sheridan?” he asked Val.
Her home was on the far side of the state, near the Montana border, some 330 miles north of Cheyenne. Bolan surmised that Val had picked the meeting place so that she wouldn’t have him on her doorstep.
Just in case.
Trouble had found her in Wyoming once already, and she wouldn’t want a replay. Not if she could help it.
“I thought we could eat first, catch up on old times,” Val said. “Then maybe take a drive and talk about the other when we’re done.”
Where waitresses and busboys couldn’t eavesdrop.
“Sounds all right to me,” said Bolan.
“Good.” Another smile, relieved.
Old times, he thought.
They seemed like bloody yesterday.
VALENTINA QUERENTE had been calling her cat the night Bolan had first seen her, in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. On the run and bleeding out from bullet wounds inflicted by a crew of Mafia manhunters, he’d staggered into Val’s life, literally on his last legs, bringing unexpected danger to her doorstep. She had taken Bolan in and nursed him back to health, no questions asked, and in the process