Final Judgment. Don Pendleton

out.”

      “Understood,” Bolan said. He began rummaging through the shredded remains of his canvas bag, sorting out the undamaged equipment and munitions from the rest. He found several of his plastic zip-tie cuffs and used these to secure the deafened terrorist’s wrists and ankles.

      In the little time he had left, the soldier redistributed everything he could from the ruined war bag to his web. Fortunately, most of his loaded magazines had survived the assault. A few pieces of electronic and countermeasures gear were destroyed. Finally, he found the item that had saved his life: a slim netbook computer, sheathed in a Kevlar skin designed by John “Cowboy” Kissinger. The tiny computer was wrecked, bent into a V-shape from the fist-size punch of heavy shot at close range. It was the point of that V that had bruised Bolan’s gut, as brutal as any spear-hand blow to naked flesh.

      He heard footsteps echoing from the courtroom beyond the anteroom. His company was here.

      “Freeze!” someone shouted.

      “Don’t move!” another man roared.

      Bolan was suddenly very aware of the many rifles and shotguns pointed at him.

      “We have him,” shouted one of the members of the Special Response Team. They were wearing Kevlar helmets and body armor and wielded MP-5 machine pistols.

      “Federal agent,” Bolan said, standing and holding his arms out at chest height, palms open.

      “He’s armed for bear, sir,” one of the SRT operatives said.

      “I can see that.”

      “Cooper,” Bolan said. “Matthew Cooper. Justice Department. My credentials are in my pocket.”

      “Let’s see them, Cooper,” the first man said. His subdued name tag read Reynolds.

      The soldier produced his identification, provided for him by Stony Man Farm. He offered it to Reynolds and was very careful to make no moves that could be construed as hostile. His weapons were all in position about his body, the M-4 at the end of its sling. The SRT team was as aware of this as Bolan was.

      The neo-Nazi on the floor moaned. One of the SRT men jerked an MP-5 on track to cover him.

      “Who’s that?” Reynolds demanded.

      “One of Nitzche’s men,” Bolan said.

      When the SRT men looked at each other, he added, “One of the terrorists.”

      Another contingent of armed, armored SRT personnel arrived at the entrance to the anteroom. The lead man’s tag read Reed.

      “Sir,” Reed said. He spared Bolan a wary glance. “The building is cleared. We have emergency personnel on-site and sweeping the building for stragglers.”

      “There are men on the roof,” Bolan said.

      “Active hostiles?” Reynolds asked.

      “Neutralized,” Bolan replied. “Like him.” He jerked his chin to the terrorist on the floor.

      “What’d you do to him?” Reed asked, bending to check the fallen man. “His ear is gushing blood.”

      “He wouldn’t listen,” Bolan said.

      Reynolds eyed the Executioner disapprovingly. He handed over the identification. “So you’re the one.”

      “Sir?” Reed asked.

      “His people at Justice have been jerking my chain all morning,” Reynolds said. “They aren’t happy about the decision to let the chopper through. Seems Captain Go-It-Alone here has an attack chopper up there whose pilot doesn’t listen to local authority very well. Maybe he’s hard of hearing, too, Cooper?”

      “I was told I would have full authority,” Bolan said. “Your men let the terrorists escape with live hostages. My air support and I could have prevented that.”

      “We all answer to somebody, Cooper,” Reynolds said. “My orders come from the top of the chain here in D.C.”

      “I doubt that,” Bolan said.

      “To go higher you’d have to go to the President, tough guy,” Reynolds stated. When Bolan didn’t blink at that, he looked less sure of himself. “Had you interfered, they might have started killing hostages.”

      “Had we cut off their escape,” Bolan said, “killing hostages wouldn’t have done them any good. They’d have traded their own lives for the lives of the captives.”

      “I guess we’ll never know,” Reynolds said. “Whatever authority you think you have, Cooper, I’m not interested. Nitzche is gone, and so is your reason to be here. Get out of my crime scene.”

      Bolan turned to leave. He paused when Reed looked up. “Strange,” the SRT man said.

      “What?” Reynolds asked.

      “I wouldn’t have pegged them for the suicide type,” Reed said, searching the pockets of the terrorist’s camouflage fatigues. “That’s not really the profile of…” He stopped. “Hey. What’s this?”

      Reed had lifted the hem of the terrorist’s BDU blouse, probably to check for weapons at the waistline. The terrorist was wearing another uniform shirt underneath the fatigues. Reed ripped the BDU open, popping buttons. The logo on the chest of the uniform shirt was unmistakable.

      “DCFD,” Reynolds said. The terrorist was dressed as a District of Columbia Firefighter.

      “Oh, shit…” Reed said.

      Bolan was on the move before the SRT men could think to stop him.

      Of course the neo-Nazis weren’t ready to give up their lives. It wasn’t their style; it wasn’t how they did things. If Nitzche had left men behind to cover his escape, he would have provided for them a plausible means of escape. It wouldn’t matter to him if the escape plan actually worked or not. It only had to seem workable to the men staying behind in the courthouse.

      It was possible the shooters from the chopper had planned to exit the helicopter at the last moment regardless of resistance offered. That made sense: ensure Nitzche’s escape, then remain behind to counter any last-minute resistance by the locals.

      It also made sense that there would be one or two terrorists hiding somewhere in the building to serve as a rear guard. They would have waited for the worst of the battle to pass them by, then blended with the inevitable mop-up chaos—simply by shedding their paramilitary uniforms.

      Taking the steps two and three at a time, Bolan ran past startled emergency personnel working their way through the corridors. He hit the street, and the crush of vehicles and bystanders, at a dead run.

      Someone screamed.

      Bolan looked left, then right. He spotted the fire department vehicles, and then, in the opposite direction, a pair of men dressed as DCFD.

      “Federal agent!” Bolan yelled. “Down!”

      He brought his carbine to his shoulder and fired.