“What do you want me to do?” Bolan asked.
“The Farm has compiled, leveraging the Bureau’s past intelligence, a priority list of targets for you. Some of them are places we think Hyde may go to ground. Others are potential targets. We’ve isolated two of the former, a pair of safe houses located very close to each other in New Mexico, as Priority Alpha. One of these is Shane Hyde’s most likely base of operations. We want you to hit them both, and we want you to find Hyde.”
“Find and eliminate?”
“No,” Brognola said. “That’s the problem. He has intelligence that could put us ahead of the terrorist networks in Europe. We need to know what’s inside his brain. We need you to take him alive.”
Bolan considered that for a moment. “That’s not going to be easy.”
“I know, Striker,” Brognola said. “There are few men I would ask even to try. But we need him breathing and able to tell us what he knows. The Man is getting a lot of pressure from agencies here and abroad. Strings were pulled to make sure we’re on point in this, which means we’re running interference with the National Security Agency, Department of Homeland Security and the FBI to keep them out of the mix.”
“They don’t like not knowing who’s handling it,” Bolan offered.
“Yes,” Brognola said. “It’s our job now, but there are plenty of people who’d like to take it from us. The Man himself was very clear about this. The President needs this problem resolved before it starts to seriously hinder his credibility with the international law-enforcement community.”
“The logical thing to do,” Bolan said, “would be to send blacksuits to each target. Simultaneously.”
“I can’t give the order not to fire on Shane Hyde to that many men,” Brognola said. “They’ll be walking in there with their hands tied behind their backs. They’ll either hold off too long and get shot up, or they’ll be too quick to fire, and a stray bullet or a miscalculated shot will take Hyde out for good. There’s also the fact that we need to do this more or less discreetly because we’re doing it extralegally. We don’t have enough hard evidence on Hyde and Twelfth Reich, not to justify an operation as decisive as this. We’ve been ordered to cut out a cancer. I need a surgeon. I need you, Striker.”
“Understood,” Bolan said. “What about support?”
“We may be able to draw a certain amount of backup from DHS or the Bureau,” Brognola said. “It will mean admitting that Justice is in charge, which will get my phone ringing. That’s nothing I’m not used to doing whenever you’re in the field. But again, discretion is called for…if not simply because the Man needs this done quickly and quietly.”
“Or he looks as if he’s not in control of the situation,” Bolan said.
“Exactly.”
“And if I don’t find Hyde at this Priority Alpha? Follow-up is going to have to be fast, Hal, if I can’t count on simultaneous containment. Frontal, hard assault will get Hyde’s attention. When word gets out that I’m rattling cages, he and his men will hunt for cover and dig in. I’ll have to run them down site to site.”
“I know,” Brognola said. “I’m transmitting files to your phone now. Jack has orders to report to your location. He’ll bring suitable transportation, something fast with decent range.”
Bolan nodded, though Brognola could not see him. Jack was Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi, a man whose war against society’s predators dated back almost as far as Bolan’s own. “Have him bring me something that goes bang.”
“I’ll make sure the armory sends along a care package.”
“Then I’d better go,” Bolan said, as his phone vibrated under his hand, signaling receipt of Brognola’s data files. “I’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on.”
“You do, at that,” Brognola had said. “Good hunting, Striker. I realize I’m dropping you into a meat grinder. I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option.”
“Yeah,” Bolan said.
“And…Striker?”
“Yeah?”
“You could say no. You always have that option.”
“I know that. Do you?”
“I do,” Brognola had admitted. “You’ve made it very clear that what you do occurs on your own terms.”
“Then you also know why I won’t refuse,” Bolan said. “Striker, out.”
That had been mere hours ago. Now Bolan’s boots were on the ground in New Mexico, his familiar Beretta was in his hand and dead terrorists were already assuming ambient temperature in his wake. A double-edged Sting combat knife rode in a custom Kydex scabbard inside his waistband behind his left hip; a massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle rode in a similar Kydex holster behind his right. Over the shoulder of his formfitting combat blacksuit he wore an olive-drab canvas war bag, which carried the other munitions and tools he might need. He had not yet deployed his subgun, but he would need it only too soon.
The promised care package had turned out to be the FN P-90, Belgium’s contribution to the world’s most innovative submachine guns. The lightweight bullpup weapon, no longer than the width of Bolan’s shoulder blades, fired 900 rounds per minute of 5.7 mm cartridges to an effective range of 200 meters. Equipped with a tritium-illuminated reflex sight, the weapon fired from a closed bolt for maximum accuracy. It was one of the quietest weapons of its type Bolan had ever fired, with superb ergonomics. Its horizontal magazines were loaded with fifty rounds each.
It was time to knock on the door.
Bolan made sure his Beretta was set to 3-round-burst mode. He reached into his war bag, grabbed a flash-bang grenade and popped the pin with his thumb. Counting silently, he pushed the grenade through the corner of one of the windows, where the Plexiglas didn’t completely cover the gap. Then he quickly made his way across the front of the building to the opposite side of the front door, opened his mouth wide and shut his eyes.
His quick surveillance of the building prior to making his run had told him there was only one entrance. Unless they threw themselves from the windows, the skinheads would have to flee through the—
The flash-bang detonated. The explosion, even contained within the house, was almost loud enough to hurt. The flash left afterimages in Bolan’s vision through his eyelids. The screams and cries from within were immediate and not surprising. The warped wooden door at the entrance was thrown open, and it banged against the front of the building.
The skinhead who stumbled out carried a .45 automatic pistol in one hand. His eyes were clenched shut and streaming tears. He was moaning, producing no words but making a lot of noise. He had probably been near the door when the flash-bang went off. He had obviously taken some of the worst of it. Bolan raised the Beretta and squeezed off a 3-round burst into the center of the man’s chest. He fell, hard, and did not move.
Moving smoothly, with deliberate, gliding strides, the Executioner made for the doorway. He held the Beretta 93R in a firm, two-hand grip as he crossed the threshold. Within the main area of the house, thin plywood walls had been erected to create a warren of tight, mazelike rooms beyond the central party area in which he now stood. Thermal imaging from Stony Man Farm’s satellite photos had told Bolan everything he needed to know about the layout.
There were two skinheads, writhing on the floor, a revolver and a sawed-off shotgun nearby. When the pair heard Bolan’s footfalls, they clawed