Infiltration

“You think RBN operations overseas are short of cash?” she asked.

“Why not?” Bolan said. “It makes complete sense based on the intel.”

“Given the state of the world economy, it’s likely they’re starting to see a rapid depletion of funds. They need to get more money from their investors or find new ones. But I’m thinking the latter would take too long.”

“Which means they’d need to get all the financial data they could on those financiers,” Brognola concluded.

“Striker, do you think Godunov’s looking to crack that list?” Price asked.

“I think he plans to have Lutrova crack the New York financial network and suck it dry.”

Other titles available in this series:

Executive Action

Killsport

Conflagration

Storm Front

War Season

Evil Alliance

Scorched Earth

Deception

Destiny’s Hour

Power of the Lance

A Dying Evil

Deep Treachery

War Load

Sworn Enemies

Dark Truth

Breakaway

Blood and Sand

Caged

Sleepers

Strike and Retrieve

Age of War

Line of Control

Breached

Retaliation

Pressure Point

Silent Running

Stolen Arrows

Zero Option

Predator Paradise

Circle of Deception

Devil’s Bargain

False Front

Lethal Tribute

Season of Slaughter

Point of Betrayal

Ballistic Force

Renegade

Survival Reflex

Path to War

Blood Dynasty

Ultimate Stakes

State of Evil

Force Lines

Contagion Option

Hellfire Code

War Drums

Ripple Effect

Devil’s Playground

The Killing Rule

Patriot Play

Appointment in Baghdad

Havana Five

The Judas Project

Plains of Fire

Colony of Evil

Hard Passage

Interception

Cold War Reprise

Mission: Apocalypse

Altered State

Killing Game

Diplomacy Directive

Betrayed

Sabotage

Conflict Zone

Blood Play

Desert Fallout

Extraordinary Rendition

Devil’s Mark

Savage Rule

To be prepared for war is one of the most effective means of preserving peace.

—George Washington

1732–1799

My battle plan remains a constant: that I be prepared to wage war until a threat is neutralized. I don’t see peace breaking out anytime soon.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

A tail could make any number of mistakes, and Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, knew most of them.

This time his followers had been in a hurry not to lose him in Boston’s morning rush hour, and they got too close in the sudden logjam of traffic caused by road construction. Bolan had spotted the vehicle with two men in the front seat as he left the rental agency at Logan International. But what made him suspicious was when a second vehicle identical to the first, occupied by two different men, came up behind him. With their suits and sunglasses, all four were either government types or trouble.

Bolan bet the latter.

Fortunately, it didn’t come as much of a surprise to him. A request from Hal Brognola at Stony Man Farm had brought the soldier to Boston. The President of the United States deemed it of some importance, a fact Brognola had pointed out when briefing Bolan less than eight hours earlier.

“The man we’re interested in is Bogdan Lutrova,” Brognola had said.

“Who’s he?”

“He’s a Russian citizen who was caught by Customs agents attempting to enter the country under a false identity,” Barbara Price, Stony Man mission controller, had answered.

“And what we know about him,” Brognola continued, “is much less than what we don’t.”

“Meaning?” Bolan asked.

Brognola pulled an unlit cigar from his mouth, an old habit that wouldn’t seem to die, and sighed. “We suspect that Lutrova is a member of the Russian Business Network. You’re familiar with this organization, I presume.”

Bolan nodded. Yeah, he was more than familiar. The RBN was a multifaceted enterprise with its hands into just about every form of cybercrime imaginable. They ran child porn sites, botnets, spam scams and virtually any other internet fraud money could buy. The RBN had been elusive, nearly impossible to destroy, given their size and wealth. A large number of intelligence sources were keeping tabs on the RBN’s operations, but none ever seemed solid enough to get close to its heart. For some time now, Bolan had considered launching a full-scale blitz again the RBN, but he knew it would have required the full resources of Stony Man, not to mention weeks or even months of surgical strikes against key sites. When Brognola called and hinted at the possibility he might have an alternate way to get at the group, Bolan jumped at the chance.

“We don’t have any proof Lutrova was here on a mission for the RBN,” Brognola stated.

“What else might have brought him here?” Bolan asked.

“Well, it’s possible he’s on the run and he came here looking for sanctuary,” Price said.

“At least that’s the song and dance he gave Customs officials,” Brognola added. “Lutrova fed them some story about business associates who were unhappy with him. He demanded legal representation and asylum. In return for information, of course.”

“But since he’s not an American citizen,” Price said, “Customs agents were only required to assign him a liaison from INS.”

“Which really just means an interpreter,” Bolan said. “So why not deport him and make it a public show? If the RBN is after him, as he claims, you’ll know soon enough whether it’s true.”

“We considered that. Unfortunately, some analyst in the CIA picked up on the fact that Lutrova had been caught trying to enter the country illegally, and immediately filed a special report that wound up in the President’s daily brief. That, in turn, filtered down to a request by the Man that we investigate Lutrova’s claims.”

Bolan shrugged. “So you want me to go to Boston to question him? That sounds more like a job for Justice Department types. I’m not sure how I can help in this.”

Brognola sighed. “Striker, you’ve been telling us for a while now that the RBN is becoming bigger and more dangerous by the day. After this latest incident, I’m inclined to agree with you. And I’ve told the President as much on more than one occasion. Now, it could be that Lutrova’s just jerking our chain, and if that’s the case then there’ll be hell to pay. But there could be more hell to pay if we don’t give this a closer look. In either case, I can’t think of anyone who can get to the bottom of it faster or better than you.”

“Not to mention you’ve been studying this group,” Price said. “You’re the closest thing we have to a subject matter expert. Not even our contacts at the NSA could give us any definitive answers.”

“All right,” the Executioner replied. “I’ll check it out.”

So Bolan had made his way to Boston via an early commercial flight. His forged credentials identified him as an intelligence analyst with Homeland Security. Bolan knew how to play the role, just as he did so many others. He had practically invented the technique beginning as far back as his war against the Mafia. He called it role camouflage, a method by which he could “appear” to be who he was by acting as people would expect him to act. He’d used these methods many times before, with considerable success.

So it came as a surprise when Bolan picked up on the fact that someone was following him, leaving him to wonder if the RBN’s eyes and ears might actually have extended inside the federal government. Bolan figured staying in role and not letting on he knew these unknowns were tailing him was the best tactic. Besides, he couldn’t take the offensive without risking innocent bystanders, and it wouldn’t avail him anything. Better to pick a time of his own place and choosing.

Yeah, he’d deal with them if and when they proved hostile.

BOLAN MADE the downtown offices of the FBI at One Center Plaza in less than thirty minutes.

The soldier parked his vehicle in a parking garage so he could observe the entrance through the rearview mirror. He waited long enough to spot the sedan as it cruised past. Bolan smiled and removed his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather. He expertly checked the action, then holstered it and made his way toward the elevators. The parking garage was one area that lent itself as a suitable place to take them if he had to. For now, he’d let them stew.

Bolan rode the elevator to the sixth floor and eventually pushed through the heavy glass door marked with the U.S. Customs logo. A receptionist at the desk smiled at him, but she had a no-nonsense glint in her eye. Bolan passed her his forged credentials and announced his business with Lutrova. The woman nodded before returning his badge and ID, along with a visitor pass. She suggested he take a seat, then picked up the phone.

The Executioner declined the seat, instead opting for a quick session with a water cooler in one corner of the reception area. As he crossed the room and helped himself to one of the paper cups, he looked over his shoulder to scope the hallway visible through the all-glass entryway. This was only one of two large federal office buildings at One Center Plaza. City Hall, City Hall Plaza and some county courthouses—as well as a major interchange station overseen by the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority—occupied remaining areas in the government center.

Any criminal organization, even one as vast and bold as the Russian Business Network, would have been insane to try anything in here. Apparently, the RBN fell into that category, because as Bolan tossed back the cold water and dropped the paper cup into a waste can, the four men in suits stepped off an elevator, each of them toting a machine pistol.

“Down!” Bolan yelled.

CHAPTER TWO

The receptionist seemed dazed, but got the message as Bolan cleared his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather and went prone. The gunmen opened up simultaneously with their machine pistols. The glass entrance shattered under the assault, and dangerous shards flew in every direction, while others rained onto Bolan and the secretary, who was now under the cover of her desk. Hot lead burned the air above the soldier’s head before it shattered more glass or punched through the plasterboard walls to leave heavy, choking dust in its wake.

Bolan sighted on the surest target and loosed a double-tap. The weapon bucked in his grip as two 185-grain 9-mm hollowpoint rounds traversed a path to one gunner’s chest. The impact drove him into a large potted plant and carried him over the other side. The heavy ceramic pot teetered and landed on top of him, spilling soil everywhere.

The first man going down distracted the one next to him, and Bolan seized the advantage. He triggered another pair of shots. The first one went low and to the left, but the second struck the man’s hip. The guy screamed and his weapon flew from his fingers. His hands went to his shattered bone and he dropped to his knee on his uninjured side. Bolan sent a third round downrange, which struck the target in the forehead. The top of the enemy’s skull came away with devastating effect, and he toppled prone to the carpet.

The remaining pair got wise to the fact that their numbers were halved, and quit firing to find cover from the Executioner’s bullets. As one guy dived for a chair in the hallway, Bolan caught him with a slug to the left side. The bullet went clean through, narrowly missing the heart and instead ripping through shoulder muscle. The clip brought a cry of pain from the gunner, but it wasn’t lethal.

The injured man’s partner managed to get behind a support beam jutting from the wall, but the thin plasterboard proved hardly adequate to stop Bolan. The warrior flicked the fire selector switch to 3-round burst mode and triggered two volleys. The first trio of rounds punched through the flimsy wall. One of them grazed the gunner, and he twisted away, straight into the line of the second 3-round burst. The bullets drilled through the man’s ribs and shoulder, one of them puncturing both lungs before the man sprawled into the hallway on his back.

The surviving gunman broke cover and swept the area with his muzzle, trying to keep his head down as he reverse-stepped toward the elevator bank. Bolan switched out magazines in a heartbeat and leveled his pistol. He triggered another 3-round burst, and then a second, and all six rounds hammered his opponent. The impacts drove him backward, causing his arms to windmill, and making him stagger like a drunken puppet until he crashed into the far wall. He slid to the ground and left a gory streak in his wake.

The echoes of gunfire hadn’t even died when a half-dozen Customs and Homeland Security officials, accompanied by a near equal number of FBI agents, fanned into the room with their weapons drawn. They spotted Bolan and began to yell at him to drop his weapon. The Executioner knew that, in the heat of the moment, anything other than compliance would be suicide, so he laid the weapon on the ground and kept his hands where he could see them.

One of the agents stepped forward and retrieved the pistol quickly, while a second bent to put handcuffs on him. Too far.

Bolan grabbed the man’s wrist. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Stop resisting!” the man said.

The Executioner whirled onto his back so fast the agent didn’t have time to react. Next thing he knew, Bolan had a forearm around his neck and his legs wrapped against the man’s hips, effectively pinning him in place.

“I said, that’s not going to happen,” Bolan repeated. He looked at the other agents, all of whom had guns pointed at him, and added, “you have my weapon and that means I’m no longer a threat. But I’m on your side and there’s no way you’re going to handcuff me like a criminal.”

“Okay, okay!” one of them replied. He holstered his pistol and gestured at the others to back off. “Put them down for now, boys. Everybody just take it easy.”

When they had complied, Bolan released the agent who had tried to cuff him, and got up, before hauling the dazed man to his feet. The agent stepped a respectful distance away as he rubbed his neck and eyed the soldier with venom. Bolan didn’t let it affect him, instead turning to the balding man who seemed to possess the air of command among the others in the group.

Bolan indicated that he was going to reach for his credentials, and once he got a nod from the head agent, he flipped them out and held them high. The agent stepped closer, quickly inspected them and then nodded with a satisfied expression.

Bolan stuck out his hand. “Name’s Cooper. I’m with the intelligence sector of Homeland Security.”

The man nodded again and took his hand. “Scott Hampton, deputy chief of U.S. Customs, New York. You’re here about Lutrova?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said with a nod.

Hampton looked in the direction of the four deceased. “You always bring this kind of entertainment to the party?”

Bolan couldn’t help but crack a smile, wondering if he might get along with Hampton, after all. “I like to keep things lively.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me…” Hampton’s voice dropped off suggestively.

“Not a clue,” Bolan said. “But if I had to guess, I’m betting they’re Russian.”

“You think they were after Lutrova?”

“Right.”

“Any idea how they might have known about you? Maybe how they managed to follow you?”

Bolan shook his head. “I spotted them tailing me the moment I left Logan.”

“And you came here anyway?”

“Look,” Bolan said, putting a little edge in his voice, “I didn’t think they’d actually storm this place with guns blazing.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a wad.”

“Let’s just focus on finding out who they are and who sent them, Hampton,” Bolan said. “We can worry about blame later.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“If they were here to punch Lutrova’s ticket, it’s logical we start with him. Especially since that’s why I’m here to begin with, and they latched on to me instead of one of your people.”

“Christ,” Hampton replied under his breath, rubbing his temples.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he told Bolan. “It’s just I feel a migraine coming on. Along with a whole hell of a lot of paperwork.”

BOGDAN LUTROVA didn’t come off as particularly special. He didn’t seem all that bright, either, but Bolan knew appearances weren’t trustworthy. Lutrova’s long, blond hair hung in unkempt and dirty strands. Brown eyes, deeply set and lined with circles, peered with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity at Bolan’s imposing form entering the room.

Bolan met the look with frosty indifference as he stood opposite Lutrova, who was seated at a gray metal table in one of the U.S. Customs holding rooms.

“Who are you?” Lutrova asked in a heavy Georgian accent.

“Shut your yap,” Bolan said, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis. “Four of your friends out there just attempted to kill me.”

Lutrova scoffed mockingly. “What friends? I have no—”

The Executioner reached across the table and one-armed Lutrova out of the chair. He dragged the Russian computer hacker across the table and pushed his head down so that the edge buried itself in a painful nerve just under Lutrova’s chin. The man squealed something in Russian, but Bolan doubted the outrage would have been intelligible even in English.

“Let’s start again,” Bolan said with a steady increase of downward pressure. “We’re not going to play games right now because I’m not in the mood for them. You’re also not going to play the victim, since we both know better than that. You know where I’m coming from now?”

The man made some additional sounds the Executioner couldn’t understand, but the furious movement of Lutrova’s head made it apparent he understood the new terms of their relationship. Bolan nodded in satisfaction and released his hold, propelling Lutrova into his chair with a shove. The door opened and Hampton entered—followed by a short, swarthy man Bolan recognized as the guy that had earlier attempted to cuff him—in time to see Lutrova’s scrawny form land hard in the seat.

“I see you’re getting along,” Hampton said with a smirk.

“I was just explaining the rules to Mr. Lutrova,” Bolan said.

Hampton nodded, gestured for the other agent to close the door behind them, and then sat on the edge of the table to one side of Lutrova, dropping a thick manila folder in front of him. It hit with enough force that Lutrova jumped in spite of himself. A red divot had formed on his chin, a lasting reminder of Bolan’s “explanation.”

“You’re in deep shit, Lutrova,” Hampton said. “You know what’s in that folder? It’s a list of names, the names of the hit team sent to kill you and anybody else who got in their way. It seems your friends in the Russian Business Network don’t like you too well.”

Lutrova didn’t say anything at first, but a slight movement of Bolan in his direction made him quickly change his tune and throw up his hands. “Wait! Wait! Don’t touch me. I’ll tell you what I know. But you must protect me.”

“No way,” Hampton said. “Your associates out there just tried to kill a bunch of my people. And the fact that they’re foreigners here on American soil, attacking American federal buildings, makes that an act of terrorism. Which means you’re not entitled to any protection.”

Lutrova looked at Bolan, who was staring at him, his arms folded. When he looked back at Hampton, who raised his eyebrows to indicate he was serious, Lutrova’s defiant expression transformed into defeat. They had him dead to rights and he knew it; worse yet, Lutrova knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. And that’s exactly where the Executioner wanted him.

“You can see, Lutrova, you don’t have many options,” Bolan said. “You can take a risk with us, spill everything—”

“And we mean everything,” Hampton interjected.

Bolan continued without missing a beat, “Or you can take your chances with your friends in the RBN. But you should know, if you don’t already, that whoever you’re working for has the means and connections to make you dead very quickly.”

“We put you in protective custody, you might have a chance,” Hampton said, taking Bolan’s lead. “But you’re definitely a dead man if you go inside the system.”

“And what do you wish in return?” Lutrova asked.

“Everything,” Bolan replied.

“Which is?”

“All information you have about your comrades in the Russian Business Network, including why you entered the country illegally and why they want to kill you.”

“I keep telling you, I don’t know—”

“Don’t play games, Lutrova,” Bolan said, putting an implicit edge in his voice. “You’ve already spilled the fact you’re in bed with the RBN, and I know all of your qualifications.”

Lutrova sneered. “Like?”

“You were formally trained at the Moscow Power Engineering Institute, top of your class. After that, you dropped off the face of the earth for ten years. For the past three years, the RBN cybercrime network activities have increased a hundredfold or more. And then you suddenly show up here and now.”

Hampton folded his arms. “So once more, what’re you doing here?”

Lutrova took a deep breath and a hint of resignation appeared in his expression. “I was sent here by Yuri Godunov. You know this man?”

Bolan scanned his mental files but couldn’t recall the name.

“What about Godunov?” he prompted.

“He is perhaps one of the greatest leaders we have ever known. He is connected to people in nearly every country, and extremely elusive. There is nothing you can do to stop him now.”

“What’s the angle?” Hampton asked.

“What do you mean by this angle you speak of?” Lutrova asked in turn.

Bolan put both palms on the table. “He means what’s Godunov’s plan?”

“Mr. Godunov does not reveal his plans to me. I only know that he sent me to break into the New York banking sector. I was ordered to fly in through Boston, and once here I was to then take a rental car to New York. I was to meet him there. But now that you have taken me, I am a liability to him. He will come after me and kill me, and there is nothing you can do to stop him.”

Bolan couldn’t be sure they were getting the truth. He’d have to run Yuri Godunov’s name through Stony Man Farm’s data banks to get more intelligence. If anyone could come up with something on Godunov, it would be Aaron Kurtzman and his team. Meanwhile, he would be forced to sit on Lutrova—keep the Russian computer hacker on ice—while he waited to find a way inside Godunov’s organization.