“What’s all this racket?” the woman demanded. Obviously she was hard of hearing.
Stezhnya turned and continued for the exit, instructing his men to follow and ignore her, but then they heard a shout. Several more of the terrorists emerged from the apartment and toted hardware of various makes.
The Apparatus reacted just as their repetitive training mandated. They fanned out, brought their weapons into play and opened up on the newcomers with sustained bursts. Stezhnya tried to warn them to utilize discretion, but at that range chances were abysmal the old woman wouldn’t be hit. Fate wasn’t on her side, and a moment later she toppled with the terrorists under the onslaught of automatic weapons fire.
“Damn!” Stezhnya barked at his men. “Damn it to hell, you just killed her for nothing! Now shag your asses! Move!”
There wouldn’t be a second chance, because now the hallway was filled with onlookers—some of them big and armed with an array of implements—and murderous intent raged in their faces. Stezhnya continued sounding retreat. Obviously some people in the crowd seemed determined that Stezhnya and his group were not leaving. After all, they had just gunned down a helpless old woman.
“You all brought your shit into the wrong place, whitey!” shouted one hulking black man with a baseball bat.
The man started toward them, and a few exchanged glances among the rest in the crowd was enough evidence for Stezhnya that they weren’t going to get out of this easily. The crowd rushed them and as Stezhnya backpedaled for the exit, he roared at his men to retreat. They tried, but the hallway proved too narrow for any type of orderly departure. Tufino and Jamo opted at the same moment to open fire with their weapons, probably more in the desire to drive back the crowd than to kill anyone. It didn’t have the desired effect, and even though the team rushed for the exit, they continued a covering barrage that proved lethal.
Stezhnya pushed through the exit door and descended the steps, the ghostly images of more bystanders falling on the firestorm of 9 mm stingers etched into his conscience. He could now hear the shouts of excitement mixed with fear from his men as they quickly followed. It was anything but a calculated retreat, but they managed to reach the back of the small apartment building without further incident and immediately made haste for the waiting van.
Stezhnya reached down and withdrew a tactical radio clipped to his belt. It took him a moment to notice it had stopped raining.
“Alpha One to Bravo Six.”
“Bravo Six, sir.”
“We’re out. Make for your rendezvous point.”
“Understood.”
Stezhnya replaced the radio and continued along the escape route, his men now in position around him. He couldn’t feel anything in his legs. In fact, he couldn’t feel much throughout his body. Stezhnya couldn’t say he was proud of everything he’d done in life, but he could affirm he’d never engaged in atrocities as a soldier. Tonight had been nothing short of murder. In all likelihood, Garrett Downing would be furious with him. One simple mission and they’d blown it all to shit. Without question, he’d impose some form of punishment. His men had committed an atrocity, but Stezhnya would be held responsible as their leader.
Yes, there would be hell to pay.
CHAPTER ONE
Mack Bolan breathed deeply, appreciating the fresh, mountain breeze that whistled through a stand of trees. He enjoyed the solitude but was ever watchful for some change in the current climate. He knew blacksuits were patrolling the grounds, perhaps even a couple observing him at that moment. But Bolan rarely let his guard down, no matter how safe the environment. Even here at Stony Man Farm.
Bolan’s week-long vacation to Stony Man Farm drew nearer the end, and it had proven his only safe haven. Just about anywhere else in the world he could think of would have been too dangerous. Bolan could hardly expect to enjoy some down time if he had to spend it looking over his shoulder, and the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia proved as good a rest spot as any. Sometimes Bolan took only the bare basics in a day pack and headed into the mountains for a couple of days. Those were times where he could reflect on the past, charge his mental batteries before rejoining his War Everlasting.
For the moment, though, Bolan would enjoy his R and R in Virginia. He knew it wouldn’t last much longer.
Recent intelligence revealed a group calling itself the New Corsican Front had established an underground for getting French-Islamic terrorists into the country. He didn’t have much to go on, but Bolan knew enough to believe the operation existed beyond speculation. Actually, he’d been waiting for additional intelligence, but his contact had missed their rendezvous in Atlanta. The Executioner wouldn’t typically have worried about something like that; it might not have meant anything. But the fact ex-NSA analyst Roger Neely hadn’t followed standard procedure bothered Bolan. It had never happened before, and he couldn’t think of any reason for it to change now.
A pager clipped to his belt signaled it was time for his meeting.
Bolan emerged from the trees and headed for the farmhouse. The Farm had gone through some renovations in the recent past, adding a new dimension to its layout. The addition—simply referred to as the Annex—boasted some of the most advanced electronic surveillance and counterintelligence equipment in the world. The modern subterranean facilities were camouflaged on the surface by a wood chipping mill. Call it pure nostalgia, but Bolan preferred the warm, charming surroundings of the old operations center secreted beneath the farmhouse to those of the modern, sanitary Annex. Meetings in the old War Room seemed cozier and somewhat less impersonal. Able Team and Phoenix Force espoused similar sentiments, so to keep the peace Brognola deferred to majority rule.
The Executioner entered the farmhouse and descended the stairs two at a time. He reached the basement and entered the War Room, expecting to find Brognola, Barbara Price and Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman waiting. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Striker,” Brognola said. He got to his feet and shook Bolan’s hand. “It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise, Hal,” Bolan said. As they took their seats he added, “I assume you have something for me.”
“Indeed.” Brognola looked at Price.
Price nodded and then turned to Bolan. “At your request, we started a full inquiry into Roger Neely. You aren’t going to like what we found.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, he’s hiding. Or at least he thinks he is. He’s taken up residence in a small apartment in Manila with a native woman.”
Bolan’s eyebrows rose. “The Philippines? Well, if I didn’t have reason to be concerned before, I do now. That doesn’t sound at all like the man I know.”
“You would think a man with Neely’s training and experience could do better than that,” Brognola said. “Maybe he wants to be found.”
“Or he knows I can find him there and no one else can,” Bolan replied.
“We think we might know why he’s there,” Price continued. “It seems to have everything to do with the New Corsican Front. You said before he was working on getting some more intelligence for you?”
“Yeah,” Bolan replied. “Neely got word their underground was smuggling French-Islamists into the country. He was supposed to get back to me with something more solid but he blew the meet. That’s why I called you.”
“Well, that was the angle we worked from. There’s been a buzz in certain circles within the CIA and NSA. In fact, the American intelligence community suspects the NCF is actually a cover for this smuggling operation. You see, officially the NCF exists as a special interest to protest the treatment