“I’ll let you know what Duncan says.”
Mitchell was watching Bolan intently. “Well?”
Bolan lowered the cell phone. “My contact will get back to me when he has something.”
“So what do we do in the meantime?”
“What we were going to do. Only now we watch our backs.”
Mitchell leaned back in her seat, slowly shaking her head. The thoughts inside her head translated to the expression on her face. A particular thought had pushed its way to the surface.
“My God, you think Brewster has sold out. Right? Damn it, Cooper, you do.”
“Let’s say I have a doubt about him. A partner bugging out and allowing his teammate to go in alone. I may be wrong, and if I am I’ll be the first to say sorry. We let my people make contact. And we handle things my way.”
“Brewster? He’s sold out.”
“I only have a vague feeling at the moment. That’s why I wanted to check it out. I could just as easily be wrong, so we hold our judgment until confirmation one way or the other. Let’s say I have a suspicious nature. Reserve judgment until we have proof positive one way or the other.”
Bolan walked a few steps and waited for Mitchell to join him.
“Cooper, I hope you’re wrong,” she said.
“So do I.”
They retraced their way back to where Bolan had come up on Mitchell. A couple of minutes in and Bolan felt his cell vibrate in his pocket. He took it out and answered the call.
“Striker, Duncan has not had a call from Agent Brewster,” Kurtzman said. “He’s not a happy camper. What’s going on out there?”
“Nothing good. But at least the picture’s clearer. Thanks for the intel.”
Bolan cut the call. He felt Mitchell’s eyes on him.
“Brewster didn’t call Duncan.”
“Then you could be right about him,” Mitchell said. “Looks like he had me fooled. Had us all fooled.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Agent Mitchell.”
“Hey, if he didn’t call it in, what the hell has he been doing? Maybe he got taken himself. Have you thought about that, Cooper?”
“It crossed my mind. I won’t dismiss it as a possibility.”
Mitchell had the same hope. It didn’t quite add up though. The more she recalled her last conversation with Brewster she had to admit his attitude had been evasive. She hadn’t caught on because of her own eagerness to move on the location.
Bolan’s keen instinct for situations had him checking their position as they walked. And that instinct alerted him to a shadow of movement to their right, within the overhanging bushes by the tree line.
They weren’t alone.
The subdued gleam of metal reflecting light brought the Executioner full circle. The people out there were not showing themselves as being friendly. Bolan and Mitchell were being stalked.
A sudden acceleration in movement confirmed that notion. The figures were closing the circle, shortening the distance between them.
Not friends by any means.
Enemies.
“Down, Mitchell. Now,” he snapped, reaching out to give her a none-to-gentle push that took her off balance and to the ground. Bolan followed, sliding his Beretta 93-R from leather as he dropped, swiveling it to line up on the shooter who had emerged from the trees. Bolan heard the crackle of autofire, felt the hiss of slugs passing over his falling body. His finger stroked the 93-R’s trigger and the Beretta fired a triburst. Bolan had gone for the chest, but his fast release, as he dropped to the ground, was off target.
The 9 mm slugs struck the shooter in the upper left shoulder, creating a significant wound as they hit bone, shattering it as they flattened and tearing at muscle and flesh. The guy stumbled, crying out in pain as his shoulder was mangled severely, losing a flap of torn flesh and spouting blood. He lost all interest in the battle as he went to his knees, letting go of his submachine gun, his attention focusing on the pain that engulfed him. Incapacitated, he was an open target for Bolan to make his follow-up shot. The soldier drilled a 3-round burst into the guy’s head. This time Bolan’s aim was on target. The dead man flopped over onto his back, his skull split and bloody.
Mitchell’s tumble occupied her for the seconds it took her to hit the ground. She managed a clumsy recovery, her right hand automatically snatching at her holstered Glock, dragging it free. Her training kicked in. She threw out her left hand to take her weight as she pulled herself to one knee and focused on the area beyond where Cooper had been firing. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the first shooter falling and saw movement beyond that.
Two more gunners concentrated on their position. The closer man was hauling his weapon into the firing position.
She raised the Glock, two-fisted, and brought the muzzle on line, her finger easing the trigger back. She felt the reassuring kick as the pistol fired, repeating the gesture to launch a second slug. Both slugs hit center-mass, and the would-be shooter fell back, slamming to the ground. The moment she triggered the pair of shots, Mitchell pulled her Glock round to the second man, locked on him and fired another double tap.
Bolan had already resighted his 93-R and fired simultaneously. His slugs were a fraction behind Mitchell’s and hit within a half-inch of hers. Struck by the lethal combination of 9 mm and .40-caliber slugs, the guy went down fast and hard.
“You hurt?” Bolan asked.
“Only my pride,” Mitchell said. “Cooper, you picked up on those guys fast.”
“I have a suspicious nature.”
They fell into a team position, each checking opposite directions, tracking their weapons across the area. As they studied the area, they watched for further movement, easing into the cover provided by the trees.
“I hate to even think this,” Mitchell said, “but Brewster could have been directing those shooters.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, and pulled her deeper into the foliage.
They were heading directly for the Hegre stronghold.
The bulk of the house spread before them, partly obscured by the overgrown network of trees and undergrowth. The access road was little more than a rutted track. Two vehicles were parked in front of the building. Bolan and Mitchell crouched against the perimeter wall.
“Not exactly a Realtor’s dream property,” Mitchell whispered.
“Ideal for these guys,” Bolan said. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s somewhere they can carry out their work in safety.”
“I’m not sure I like what you’re suggesting. What work?”
Bolan checked his Beretta.
“No time for chitchat,” he said. “We can’t be sure we dealt with the whole of the search team back there. We need to go in now.”
Bolan led them across the low wall. They skirted the bulk of the house and pressed against the side wall. A number of boarded windows were set in the wall. With Mitchell at his back, the soldier moved to the rear corner, crouching to peer around. Thirty feet from the back of the house were more trees and a heavy spread of undergrowth that almost reached the rear of the building.
They observed more closed-off windows on ground level and the upper floor; a derelict outhouse; a single wooden door that would