Silent Arsenal. Don Pendleton

pace, however, flying along, whipping past other vehicles, oblivious or indifferent to potential speed traps. It left Blancanales to wonder if they’d been made, where they were really going, what, if anything, they had to hide. Somehow the Stony Man warrior maintained a quarter-mile distance to their target.

      It was a juggling act, no mistake, manning the wheel, shooting through town on I-395, rocketing next down Route 1, needle pushing eighty, slipping on the custom-webbed rigging to carry the mini-Uzi, wondering which asp would bite first. There was Lyons on the tac radio, snarling out the game plan, which was about as simple and crazy as it came; crash the suite’s door, bull-rush inside, no fix on numbers, but if it was armed, it went down.

      Then there was Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, someone they didn’t want on their ass if this night went to hell. Her calm but cold voice still chimed its potential death knell in his head as she laid down the law in no uncertain terms—back to the Farm in three hours sharp, not even bug splatter on the windshield, do not get nabbed by police. She left the threat of consequences—regarding their AWOL status and return of the War Wagon in mint condition—open to the imagination. This, as bizarre coincidence had it, as he shot them past Arlington National Cemetery.