Fire Zone. Don Pendleton

of Hawthorne. There are two major gold producers there, but only one has a railroad line not owned by the mining company running alongside its property.”

      â€œHow long has the fire been burning?”

      â€œWe got a satellite view almost immediately. Lots of satellite recon resources are being retasked to watch the western states because of this. The fire hasn’t been burning longer than a half hour.”

      â€œCheck the tracks for moving freight trains. Watch for offloading and determine their destinations.”

      â€œIt’s being done as you speak, Striker. Only one train meets all the criteria,” Kurtzman said. “Its destination is Oakland, California. From the manifest, it carries container shipments headed for overseas ports. Made in America.”

      Bolan said wryly, “Stolen in the U.S. is more like it. I need transport to the Oakland shipyard.”

      â€œThere’s a problem with transport, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “The V-22 returned to its home base after you left so precipitously. Everything else is tied up fighting the fires. We can’t even get a spec ops team in for another six hours.”

      â€œNo reason to bring in the cavalry,” Bolan said. “The bad guys have already ridden into the sunset.” He looked west and knew that was the literal truth. The mercenaries had finished their work and moved on, leaving the forest ablaze around Boise. Trying to catch them near the fires in Nevada was also a fool’s errand. He would arrive too late to do anything more than tramp through forests turned to charcoal.

      â€œStriker, we have transport for you, but you’ll have to share the ride.”

      â€œWhen and where?” Bolan got his answer, but he didn’t like it.

      

      â€œSO WHO ARE YOU?” the small, wiry lawman demanded, coal-black eyes sharp and hard as they fixed on Bolan. He had a gray mustache waxed to sharp points and sported a ten-gallon cowboy hat with a snakeskin band straight out of some B western. He wore his sidearm in an Old West–style hard leather holster. From where he stood, Bolan could not see the make of the gun but thought it was probably a replica of the old .44 Peacemaker.

      â€œNames don’t matter.”

      â€œI didn’t ask your name. I don’t give two hoots and a holler about what you call yourself—or what somebody told you to call yourself. Who are you? Not FBI. They come waltzing in, lording it over everybody. First words out of their mouths are ‘I’m Special Agent Who Doesn’t Give a Shit,’ and you’re not local. Not with the pressure coming down on me. You can’t be CIA. They don’t operate inside the country. So, I’ll ask again, not quite so polite this time. Who the hell are you?”

      â€œI’m the cargo you’ll get to Oakland, Marshal Phillips.”

      â€œClosemouthed,” the U.S. marshal said. For the first time a small smile curled the corners of his mouth. It didn’t last long. “You’re taking me off my assignment, you know.”

      Bolan had walked miles and finally had reached a spot where he jumped onto a freight train to ride into Boise. From the rail yards he had gone directly to the U.S. marshals’ office, as Kurtzman had told him to do.

      â€œWe’re on the same team,” Bolan simply said.

      â€œA good thing since you’re bigger ’n me. Not that I haven’t had to deal with that problem most of my life. Danged near everyone’s bigger ’n me. I’m only five-foot-eight. Didn’t keep me outta the SEALs, though. Never weighed over one-fifty, either.”

      â€œIs that with or without the mustache?”

      Phillips laughed with some obvious enjoyment at the verbal riposte. Then his face went hard, and he pushed past Bolan to look into the outer office.

      â€œNo time to lollygag, mister. Our ride’s ready.” As Phillips strode through the office, men and women thrust things into his hands. He glanced at a couple folders and dropped them back onto desks. He kept several others and tucked them under his arm. Bolan followed in his wake, ignored by the deputies. That suited him fine. It gave him a chance to glance at the manila folders Phillips had discarded. All carried the Department of Homeland Security logo and dealt with recent terrorist activities.

      Bolan barely settled into the backseat of a standard-issue black SUV with tinted windows as the driver floored it. He was pressed back into the seat beside the marshal.

      â€œHere, read this,” Phillips said, passing over the files he had kept after his quick exit from the office. “What more can you tell me about the sons of bitches who set those fires?”

      Bolan had started to dismiss the man again but took a closer look at what he had been handed. Two of the files were jackets on the pair he had dispatched before they had blown up the truck. The third file carried a picture of someone he had seen before in a Top Secret file at Stony Man Farm.

      â€œDon’t know these two, except I killed both of them. This one’s a known commodity. Jacques Lecroix. Did wet work in Algeria for anyone who paid his price. He dropped off the radar screen two years ago.”

      â€œYou know your PMC recruits, mister.” Phillips didn’t miss a beat. “Is there anything more current you know about him?”

      â€œHe worked for a private military company out of Paris before he disappeared.” Bolan worked through all the threads of memory connected to Lecroix. “Africa. That’s all I remember. He might have been seen last in South Africa.”

      â€œWe got a lead on him from some wino along the Boise skid row. Not sure what Lecroix wanted, but it was obvious even to a whiskey-besotted derelict that he was being recruited as cannon fodder. I suspect Lecroix wanted to send a few of Boise’s less fortunate into the rail yard to flush out the security.”

      â€œHe could reconnoiter himself and not leave a trail,” Bolan pointed out.

      â€œHe was behind schedule, at least that was the impression. If he is hanging out with men like these two—” the marshal tapped the other files “—he’s not into finding locals to do the real dirty work for him. One was an explosives expert. The other worked for a PMC in Iraq until six months ago when he upped and disappeared. His boss thought he might have gotten a better offer and just left without giving notice.”

      Bolan nodded. Allegiances were bought and paid for, and some former employers might not look favorably on anyone leaving their service for a competitor. He scanned Lecroix’s file again, trying to piece together the unrelated bits. Chances were good the mercenary had gone to work for a PMC in Africa, since his earlier training had been in the northern tier of the continent. But, as those things went, northern Africa was peaceful enough at the moment. Not more than a few abortive uprisings and rebel attacks that never amounted to anything had been reported in the past couple years. This was hardly the place for an ambitious soldier of fortune like Jacques Lecroix.

      He pulled out his satellite phone and called Stony Man. Aaron Kurtzman answered immediately.

      â€œI’m with Marshal Phillips on the way to the airport,” Bolan said, letting Kurtzman know he had to watch everything he said. “The marshal has identified the two I killed, along with Jacques Lecroix. What can you tell me about him?”

      â€œThe Katanga Swords,” came the measured answer.

      â€œI’ve heard of the group. A PMC,” Phillips supplied, making no effort to conceal his eavesdropping. Bolan’s estimation of him went up a little. The marshal wasn’t into playing games. He knew Bolan expected him to listen to everything said and didn’t pretend otherwise.

      â€œOut of the Democratic Republic