“Registration?”
“The truck was reported stolen in Charlottesville yesterday,” Price said, “and now it’s wearing a set of stolen license plates swapped from a similar Chevy S-10, also in Charlottesville.”
“Coincidence?”
“There’s that word again,” Price echoed.
“I’m on it,” Bolan said. “Out.”
It took him another fifteen minutes to reach the address, guided by the GPS directions in his phone. When he was close to the location, he stowed the phone and slowed, doing his best to stay inconspicuous. He found the motel and reconnoitered as quietly as he could, cruising around and hoping his interceptor and its missing side mirror wouldn’t scream “law enforcement presence” to Baldero if the man were watching and had reason to fear legal interference. Bolan was not a police officer, of course—he was a soldier. Baldero would not know that, though. To the fugitive Baldero, Bolan would represent the law, and any man running from so many shooters would either welcome rescue or fear capture. The situation would be very tense until the Executioner knew which way Baldero would break.
There was no sign of the advance field team. They would have pulled out to some discreet distance once word got out that a Stony Man operative was on the way. The team’s job was not combat and its mission was to remain undetected, to go unnoticed as long as possible. Getting drawn into a firefight was not its purpose; the unnamed, faceless analysts who had sent so much after-action intelligence Bolan’s way thus far could only continue to do so if they stayed out of the way. That was fine with the Executioner. He preferred to work alone, whenever possible, and if there was a firefight to be had, he was content to bring it to the enemy.
He found the truck right where he had been told to expect it, hidden in the lee of a pair of industrial-sized trash containers behind the motel. He parked behind it, blocking it in, nose-out in case he needed to put the Crown Victoria into action quickly.
The truck’s engine was still ticking. It had not been parked for long and was still shedding excess heat from what had to have been a breakneck drive. Bolan could smell burning brakes and hot rubber, the unmistakable odors of a vehicle that had been pushed to its limits.
He had his canvas war bag slung over his shoulder. Before he moved on the motel, he paused to open the bag’s large cover flap. Inside was the mini-Uzi he had first noted when making a cursory inspection of the care package from Kissinger. He withdrew the weapon, loaded one of the 30-round box magazines from the bag and placed the weapon on the hood of his vehicle.
He recounted the other explosives and lethal surprises in the bag, as well as taking stock of the loaded magazines for the Uzi. Kissinger had thoughtfully provided several 20-round box magazines for the Beretta 93-R, its 9 mm ammo compatible with the Uzi. There were a handful of loaded mags for the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, too, and a few boxes of ammunition for both weapons.
Finally, he withdrew a small item he had at first overlooked. It was a rosewood-handled boot dagger in a leather sheath with a metal spring clip. He withdrew it, examined the four-inch, double-edged blade and resheathed the knife with a mental nod. Then he clipped the sheath inside his waistband in the appendix position, where he could draw it with either hand readily enough. His windbreaker covered it, barely, as it concealed his other hardware in their holsters.
As he went to pick up the mini-Uzi from the hood, a slip of paper fluttered from his sleeve, where it had been caught following his reach into the bag. Bolan scooped it up quickly, checking to make sure he was still unobserved from his vantage behind the garbage containers. Then he unfolded the paper.
Wear them in good health, it read in handwritten print. Stay alive. It was signed, simply, “Cowboy.”
Bolan shoved the slip of paper deep into his pocket. He picked up the Uzi and, holding the weapon low against his leg, moved in on the motel. Once he was in the shadow of the building itself, he took out his phone and texted a message to the Farm’s quick-contact number, which would display on a readout in the Computer Room, asking for room number intel.
Almost immediately, the responding text message came back, probably typed by Price herself: “Bear says man matching Baldero’s description checked in room 112. Grnd floor, East.”
That would mean the Farm, or someone on the advance team reporting to the Farm, had checked with the front desk. Whether overtly using government authority, or covertly using some ruse, the Farm had determined that a man who looked like Baldero had checked into room 112, which Price was informing him was located on the ground floor of the east wing of the double-winged building.
He made his way there, watching the doors and room numbers tick past in descending order as he went by. He was doing his best to ignore the gun held against his thigh. It was an old trick of role camouflage; if the gun wasn’t anything he noticed, a bystander might not notice it either. While there were always exceptions, Bolan knew from experience that most people simply didn’t look at the individuals around them. The majority of people walked through life in what one late, famous self-defense expert had called “condition white,” a state of blissful unawareness of their surroundings. Bolan was counting on that. It wouldn’t do for some particularly aware citizen to notice his weapon and call the police, perhaps tipping off Baldero that he had been located.
He found room 112 and pressed himself against the wall next to the door. Reaching out with one hand, he rapped on the door quietly, using the back of his left fist.
“Yeah?” came a voice from inside.
“Housekeeping,” Bolan said. “You want fresh towels?”
There was no reply from inside. Bolan could hear the occupant, presumably Baldero, shuffling around within. If it wasn’t his man, no harm would be done. If it was, however, he needed to take control of the situation right now. If he could get Baldero to open the door without causing a scene, he could quietly remove the man from the premises and take him into custody. Getting Baldero under wraps was the first step in stopping the shootings that were causing so much trouble, and in unraveling the mystery regarding why the shootings were happening.
“Sir?” Bolan asked again. “If you’ll just open the door—”
Just then a shotgun slug tore a hole the size of a quarter through the heavy motel door.
4
Straddling an upholstered wooden chair with his arms resting on the chair’s back, Yoon Jin-Sang focused the binoculars for a better view of the large, dark-haired man who had just entered the shelter of the motel’s second-floor overhang, sticking to the shadows. The man moved with unmistakable, deadly grace, like a panther. Yoon suppressed a shudder. He thought perhaps it was as they had feared, and the dreaded night-killer rumored in the reports trickling slowly down from military intelligence were true. If they were, he could believe that this man, the man he had just glimpsed in the binoculars’ view, was the night-killer. He did not say so. He knew the feelings of Kim Dae-Jung on the subject and did not wish to agitate his “superior.” When he spoke, he was careful to keep his tone subdued.
“He is here.”
“The large American?” Kim’s voice was too casual, almost indolent. The large, muscular man leaned back in his chair and paused to stare at the ceiling, as if he did not care.
“Yes, the same man,” Yoon said. “He is approaching Baldero’s room.”
Kim did not reply. Yoon banished the sigh before it could escape his mouth. His true superiors in military intelligence had given him his orders in no uncertain terms. He was to do his best to see to it that Kim carried out the mission with which he was tasked. Given Kim’s dangerously unstable nature, that might prove difficult, but it was not, they emphasized, considered impossible. Kim had been selected from the ranks of intelligence’s disgraced