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So, yeah, Bolan was hunting a jackal this night. The bastard’s blood-drenched résumé was more than enough to make him a legitimate target, but Dumond also had made the mistake of grabbing Jennifer Rodriguez, an American federal agent, which kicked him up a few more notches on the soldier’s hit parade.
Bolan and Turrin had arrived there ready to take on the Frenchman and his crew of gunners. Beneath a light black windbreaker, Bolan carried a pair of Beretta 93-R pistols in a double shoulder harness. The pistols were able to fire either single rounds or in 3-round bursts of 9 mm Parabellum ammo. With a foregrip in front of the trigger guard, the pistol could to fire 1,100 rounds per minute.
The soldier also had procured another of his old standbys. The 44 Magnum Desert Eagle Mark VII rode on his left hip in a cross-draw position. Outfitted with the six-inch barrel, the hand cannon’s magazine carried eight rounds.
Bolan’s other tools of war were sealed in the trunk. There he had stashed a Heckler & Koch MP-5 fitted with a sound suppressor, and a small duffel bag loaded with additional magazines for the submachine gun as well as an assortment of fragmentation, flash-bang and smoke grenades.
Turrin, on the other hand, had opted for a Benelli M-4 Super 90 shotgun. Manufactured by Benelli Armi SPA, an Italian company, the shotgun could be loaded with one 12-gauge round in the chamber and seven more in the tube. Like Bolan, Turrin was carrying a Beretta 93-R. He wanted the weapon because of its sound suppressor and its ability to fire multiple rounds with a single trigger pull. But he also was armed with a .38-caliber Colt Cobra that was holstered in the small of his back. The short-barreled pistol’s aluminum-alloy frame made it light to carry and it was easily concealed.
Bolan eased the Jaguar to the curb, turned off the lights and killed the engine. He popped open the door and stepped into the warm night. Turrin had stepped out of the passenger’s side and both men made their way to the trunk.
Bolan raised the lid, reached in, hefted the duffel bag and slid its strap over his shoulder. The bag’s weight caused its strap to pull taut until he could feel it dig into the muscles of his left shoulder. Next he pulled out the MP-5 and checked its load. Turrin had pulled out the Benelli and was looping the strap over his right shoulder.
Reaching back into the compartment, Bolan pulled a rope with a grappling hook.
“You realize it’d be easier to go through the front gate,” Turrin said.
“Sure,” Bolan replied. “No one would notice two guys shooting two other guys and then busting through a wrought-iron fence.”
“I’m just making a point.”
“Rope climbing a little too strenuous for you, Leo?”
“No comment.”
Grinning, Bolan turned and looked back at the wall surrounding the estate. Inside the wall, Dumond usually had anywhere between four and six gunners patrolling the grounds, especially when he was entertaining high-end clients, most of whom also were prone to violence. And, according to his dossier, the arms dealer also sampled some of his own wares, carrying a pair of Detonics .45-caliber pistols beneath his well-tailored jackets and at least one combat blade.
Bolan keyed his throat mike.
“Striker to Base,” he said.
“Go, Striker,” a female voice replied. It was Barbara Price, the mission controller for Stony Man Farm. Bolan and Turrin were connected with the Farm’s ultrasecret facility thanks to satellite links.
“We’re EVA,” he said, “and ready to hit the town.”
“You’re clear,” Price told him.
“Did they crash the party?”
“They” was the Farm’s cyber team, which had been working to hack into the computers that controlled Dumond’s lighting, security system and other critical infrastructure ever since Bolan and Turrin had left the United States.
“Party crashed. Once we saw you stop outside the target, we set the outside surveillance cameras on a loop. If anyone’s monitoring the cameras, all they’ll see is the same empty street they saw three minutes ago.”
“Which is fine,” Bolan said, “until they realize they’ve seen the same car or dog walker pass by eight times in the last couple of minutes.”
“Guess you’ll have to move faster than they can think,” Price replied.
“Are you getting any good intel otherwise?”
“Satellites indicate four guys walking the grounds inside the wall,” Price said. “Two smaller animals, probably dogs, moving separately from them. That’s all in addition to the thugs at the gate. Looks like another moving around on the rooftop.”
“Okay,” Bolan replied.
He returned to the trunk and popped the lid again. Pulling aside a blanket, he revealed a rectangular box, covered in faux leather, which was about four inches thick.
He opened the box and from its interior removed a CO2-powered dart pistol. Breaking the weapon open, he slid a tranquilizer dart into the barrel and snapped it closed. He slipped a smaller box filled with extra darts into his jacket pocket.”
“Still won’t shoot dogs, huh?” Turrin asked.
Bolan turned toward him and shook his head. “The dogs don’t know what they’re doing,” he said. “They just do as their told.”
Turrin nodded his understanding. “You always did like your rules.”
“It’s what separates me from Dumond,” Bolan said.
“Yeah, that and his massive bank account in the Cayman Islands.”
Bolan allowed himself a grin. “There’s that.”
Shutting the trunk for a second time, the soldier slid the dart pistol into the duffel bag and moved toward the fence. If the cyber team had done its job, the motion detectors and other security devices should be disabled without actually registering on Dumond’s IT systems.
They had considered shutting down the electricity remotely, but had decided against it.
Dumond had to expect someone would come for the missing federal agent, even if he’d done his best to move her around. If they shut down electric power to the estate, it would alert Dumond that something was about to happen. His security teams probably would retreat to the house and form an iron ring around Dumond and Rodriguez, making them harder to reach. Besides, it was a safe bet the facility was outfitted with backup generators that would fire to life shortly after the power went out.
Bolan figured it was better for them to take out as many of the exterior guards as quickly and quietly as possible. They still had surprise on their side, and the neighborhood around them had no idea of the mayhem about to erupt. The longer the Stony Man warriors could maintain their advantage, the better.
Bolan scaled the wall. The muscles of his arms, shoulders and thighs bunched and released, starting to burn as he reached the top ledge and pulled himself onto it. He lay across the top of the wall, MP-5 clutched in his right fist, ice-blue eyes scanning for threats, while he waited for Turrin to finish his ascent.
The little Fed reached the top of the wall, his breath coming in labored gasps, sweat pouring down his face.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
Bolan held up a finger to silence him, then jerked his head slightly to the left. Two of Dumond’s hardmen had fallen across his line of sight. The submachine-gun-wielding thugs were less than thirty yards from the Americans, walking a few yards apart from each other.
Bolan raised himself onto his elbows, like a cobra lifting its head from the ground. He lined up a shot on the closer hardman.
Turrin had filled his hand with his sound-suppressed Beretta and was maneuvering his body so he could put a shot into the second guard.
The Executioner caressed the MP-5’s trigger. The weapon coughed out a burst. Bolan had tried to catch the guy in the chest. In the instant the soldier squeezed the trigger, the man turned. The bullets ripped into his right shoulder and lanced into his ribs, caused him to yelp in pain and shock. As he stumbled back, his partner spun toward the commotion and was searching for a target with the muzzle of his SMG. Before he could trigger his weapon, Turrin cut loose with a triburst. The Parabellum manglers ripped a ragged line across the guy’s chest. He stumbled back a couple of steps before falling to the ground in a boneless heap.
Repositioning the grappling hook, Bolan dropped the rope down the wall. Letting the MP-5 fall loose on the strap, he gathered the rope in both hands and rappelled to the ground while Turrin covered him. When he touched down, the soldier dropped into a crouch and scanned the area for more attackers while Turrin made his way down the rope. Holding the MP-5 in his right hand, Bolan unzipped the duffel bag and withdrew the dart pistol. In the meantime, Turrin was kneeling next to one of the dead men. He plucked a bud from the dead man’s ear and, reaching under the guy’s coat, pulled the cord, tracing its length until he found the radio.
Bolan watched as Turrin slipped the bud into his own ear and listened for several seconds.
“They keep calling out names,” he said, speaking in a whisper. “I assume it’s these chuckleheads.”
The soldier nodded and slowly rose into a crouch. As Turrin began to uncoil from the ground, Bolan looked just over his old friend’s shoulder and spotted a shadow emerging from a copse.
Bolan’s hand snaked out and he struck Turrin in the right biceps. The impact knocked the man sideways. At the same time Bolan was able to aim the pistol’s barrel at the shape launching itself from the ground. He could see the German shepherd dog’s black face, jaws open, saliva-soaked fangs bared and gleaming as it hurtled toward him. The soldier triggered dart gun. The missile buried into the muscle of the animal’s shoulder. If the sting of the dart registered with the dog, it gave no outward signs. Bolan whipped to the side, the animal’s body hurtling past him, striking the ground, rolling once before springing up from the earth and turning back toward the humans.
A growl escaping its throat, the animal raced toward the Stony Man warriors. It leaped at Bolan, who was closer. Its jaws snapped at empty air. The soldier shoved his forearm out, and the dog’s jaws clamped down on it. Bolts of pain radiated from Bolan’s forearm, but he ignored it. The force of the dog striking him hammered Bolan from his feet and knocked him onto his back. He felt the animal’s jaws loosen and by the time he hit the ground, the soldier was able to push the dog away with a hard shove. It wheeled back in his direction. Mouth open, it stared at Bolan, but its stance had grown unsteady and it seemed to stare at Bolan without focusing on him. Whimpering, its legs grew rubbery and it dropped to the ground, panting.
Bolan turned away from the animal, certain it would be all right once the tranquilizer wore off. A quick scan of the sleeve of his windbreaker revealed torn fabric and punctured flesh, but nothing he couldn’t tolerate.
Turrin gathered the dart pistol from the ground and handed it to the soldier. Bolan took the pistol, broke it open, slid another dart into the breech and snapped the weapon closed.
“Bullets,” Turrin said. “Faster, more effective.”
“No,” Bolan replied.
“Figured as much.”
The Executioner gestured in the direction of the house with his chin.
“This way.”
He brushed past Turrin and moved in a crouch toward the mansion. A long expanse of land, much of it covered by a well-manicured lawn, lay between them and the massive structure. Several large oak trees rose from the ground, each of which would provide decent cover in a firefight. A driveway wound in from the front gate and carved out a semicircle in front of the house. A large circular pool stood in front of the building. In the center of the pool stood a statue of a woman dressed in flowing robes, a pitcher gripped in both hands. Water spurted from a hole in the pitcher and arced into the pool.
After a few seconds Bolan spotted three more guards moving in a ragged line in his direction. He shot Turrin a look. With a nod the little Fed acknowledged that he saw them. One of the towering oak trees stood several yards away. Bolan gestured for Turrin to circle it and catch the guards from the side while Bolan moved head-on at them. He nodded once to signal his understanding and headed toward the trees.
Bolan had returned the dart pistol to his combat bag. A group of halogen outdoor lights bathed the yard in white light. The lights had caused the trees’ canopies of leaves to cast fairly big shadows over the sprawling lawn, which provided them with additional cover.
The soldier knelt and brought the MP-5 to his shoulder. He flicked his gaze to the right and could see Turrin’s shadow melt into a nearby tree. The man’s location would position him within a couple dozen yards of the approaching hardmen.
“You have a clear shot?” Bolan asked.
“Yeah,” Turrin replied.
“On three,” the soldier said.
He whispered the three-count into his throat mike. When he reached the final number, he squeezed the trigger on the subgun. The volley of rounds sliced through the air between him and his targets as he dragged the SMG in a tight arc. At the same time, Turrin began firing the Beretta from Bolan’s right. The sustained volley tore through the guards, whipsawing them as both fighters unloaded their weapons.
Within seconds all three guards lay on the ground, dead.
Getting to his feet, Bolan ejected the H&K’s magazine, slammed a new one home and kept moving.
* * *
TWO DAYS EARLIER Bolan had walked into the War Room, part of the Stony Man Farm facility in Virginia, and taken in the activity buzzing around him.
Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, was seated at the large briefing table. A stack of folders stood at his right elbow. One was fanned open and its contents—papers and photos—spread in front of him on the tabletop. His tie was pulled loose from his throat and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
Barbara Price was seated next to Brognola, studying the contents of one of the folders.
“There he is,” a voice called to his right.
Bolan turned and saw his old friend, Jack Grimaldi, grinning at him. The pilot, his slim frame togged in olive-drab coveralls, stood at the coffeemaker, a carafe clutched in his right hand. The other two hadn’t noticed Bolan until Grimaldi spoke. They lifted their eyes from the files.
Brognola greeted Bolan with a tight smile and a nod. “Striker,” he said, using Bolan’s code name.
Price flashed Bolan a warm smile, the curve of her full lips telegraphing a hint of invitation. When the soldier stayed at the Farm, he often shared a bed with Price. Though they had mutual respect for each other, their physical relationship revolved around satisfying a mutual need and not a deeper emotional commitment.
“Glad you’re back,” Price said.
“But don’t unpack the toothbrush,” Brognola added. “We have a priority mission that’s cropped up. You don’t have to take it, but you’re the best option we have.”
“No pressure,” Bolan said.
“Your country needs you,” Grimaldi said. “But don’t let that sway you, you goldbricker. Let me pour you some coffee so you can relax.”
“Did you ever think of becoming a military recruiter?” Bolan asked.
He looked at Brognola and nodded at the color photo the man held. “So, is she the problem?”
“Yes,” Brognola said, “and no.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bolan replied.
Brognola grinned. “What I mean is, she’s the reason you’re here. But she’s one of the good ones. Jennifer Rodriguez has been with the FBI for a decade. Lots of arrests. She worked counterintelligence for a long time. More recently, though, the Bureau put her undercover tracking weapons dealers. Does a damn good job of it, too, from what I can tell.” Brognola paused and sipped at his coffee. “Unfortunately we lost track of her a couple of days ago. She was supposed to check in with her handler. She didn’t make the contact. By itself that’s not a big deal. They had a backup time in place, just in case she got waylaid. But that time came and went—”
“And still no word from Rodriguez,” Bolan said.
“Right.”
“Where was she?”
“Monaco,” Price said.
“Because?”
“She was tracking someone for the Bureau,” Price told him. “Ever hear of Jacques Dumond?”
Bolan thought about it for a few seconds before the name clicked with him.
“Weapons dealer,” he said. “French.”
“Right,” Price said. “He’s got a pretty impressive record. Sells a lot of weapons in the Middle East and Asia. His semiofficial client list includes North Korea, Iran and Venezuela. The non-state groups include Hezbollah as well as a couple of minor al Qaeda-inspired groups.”
Brognola leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Obviously we’re interested in all those clients,” the big Fed said. “With the large countries, it was at least a little easier to track the purchases. Not easy, but easier. Plus, those countries are a little more cautious about how they use those weapons.”
“A little,” Bolan agreed.
“But the radical Islamist groups? The U.S. had almost no information about Dumond’s transactions with them. We knew he was selling weapons. But what types of weapons was he selling them? In what quantities? We had no idea. You can imagine how happy that made us.”
“And Rodriguez was checking into this.”
“Right,” Brognola replied. “It was supposed to be low-impact. She wasn’t supposed to infiltrate too deeply. She was supposed to set up a couple of purchases, make a few contacts, pass along what she found and move on. The FBI set up a front company for her a few years ago to give her cover for some of her activities. It’s really just a shell. But it gives her some kind of base to use when she knocks on doors.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Bolan leaned back in his chair. Grimaldi slid into the seat next to him.
Brognola continued. “A lot of the work she does is monitoring the sales of high-tech weapons and large military weapons systems. Since she was involved in counterintelligence, she’s usually looking for Americans who are selling bad stuff to other countries or terrorist organizations.”
“But,” Price interjected, “Dumond likes the ladies, so the U.S. figured it might be good to have a pretty woman with lots of cash knocking on Dumond’s door. He might be a little more receptive. And it never hurts to cloud a target’s judgment with a little sex.”
“A French guy’s who’s also a skirt chaser?” Grimaldi said. “What are the odds of that?”
“Did she learn anything?” Bolan asked.
Brognola shook his head slowly. “We don’t know for sure, but considering how little time she was there, it’s highly unlikely.”
“We think Dumond had made her as an FBI agent before she ever arrived. We’re not sure how he did that. She’s worked in deep-cover operations for years, under another name. It’s all in the dossier we gave you. But anything she knew, she had learned from existing FBI files.”
“Maybe Dumond has a mole in the FBI,” Bolan said.
Brognola, who’d been digging in his pants’ pocket for a packet of antacids, heaved a sigh. “It’s possible,” he said. “The Bureau is investigating, just to make sure they didn’t miss anything on that front.”
Bolan leaned forward in his chair and fixed his gaze on Brognola. “I assume we aren’t just shooting the bull here?”
The big Fed was peeling the foil away from the roll of antacids. He glanced up at Bolan and shook his head.
“I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have stomach problems. You know that?”
“At least you quit smoking.”
“Well, I suppose chewing on a cigar doesn’t count.”
“To each his own.”
“To answer your question, no, we’re not just shooting the bull. This whole thing’s got the attorney general spooked. Unfortunately, FBI agents go missing sometimes. It’s not that. It’s the fact that someone apparently had outed her before she ever stepped foot in Monaco. Also, she has a head full of secrets. A lot of them concern Dumond’s competitors and our country’s efforts to curb illegal weapons trafficking. She also has an expertise in al Qaeda, Hezbollah and some Pakistani Jihadist groups. It was something she developed as part of her undercover work. Unfortunately, for her and us, that’s valuable information, information a lot of bad people would pay for.”
“He could use her like a Pez dispenser full of classified information,” Grimaldi said.
“Not the image I was expecting, Jack, but thanks for that,” Brognola said. “Bottom line is I’m asking you to swoop into Monaco, find the lady and get her the hell out of there. Or, God forbid, if she’s dead, find out who killed her and burn them down. I’m a big believer in letting the underworld know messing with American agents will only get you dead. I know you feel the same way.”
Bolan nodded his agreement, but stayed silent. He kept an arm’s-length relationship with the U.S. government. That meant he undertook missions on behalf of his country, but only the ones he agreed with. As much as he loved his country, he wasn’t an employee of its government, its military or its intelligence services. He rarely turned down Brognola’s requests for help, though he had a few times when something about the mission didn’t feel right.
This was not one of those times, though.
“I’m in,” he said.
* * *
THE FLIGHT FROM Washington, D.C., to Monte Carlo, Monaco, took about nine hours. Bolan slept the first six hours while Grimaldi piloted the aircraft, a Gulfstream executive jet. On paper, the jet was owned by an import/export company with its headquarters in Alexandria, Virginia. In reality, the DEA had seized the aircraft from a Colombian drug kingpin, given it a new tail number and registration and put it back into service for undercover operations.
After he woke up, the soldier downed a cup of coffee and pulled a brown valise from the seat next to his. Setting the case in his lap, he popped it open and withdrew a sealed mission folder that Brognola and Price had prepared for him.
Tearing open the seal, he pulled out a handful of papers and began leafing through them. He found a biography on Jennifer Rodriguez first. The picture of the FBI agent that Bolan had seen in the War Room was pinned to the front of the packet. The woman was a stunner. Her black hair spilled well past her shoulders in loose waves. Her eyes were a deep brown, and bore a striking intensity. She obviously was a beautiful woman, but Bolan had no trouble imagining a man twice her size squirming under her gaze.
The soldier removed the paperclip holding the papers and the picture together. He set aside the picture and studied the file. Rodriguez was a first-generation American, the daughter of a Mexican couple who had moved to the United States a year before her birth. Her father, Vidal, had moved to the U.S. to take a high-level job as an industrial chemist while her mother worked as an accountant for the same company.
As Rodriguez grew up, she proved to be a natural athlete and highly intelligent. She ran track while also making dean’s list as a pre-law student. Once she was accepted to law school, she quit competitive sports and focused on her studies.
Her parents had hoped she’d focus on corporate law. Instead she’d joined the FBI. With her ability to speak English and Spanish, she’d been assigned to the Los Angeles office, where she was mentored by Fred Gruber, that office’s special agent in charge. Gruber, who was on the cusp of retirement, and his wife, Kate, had taken the young woman under their respective wings and provided her with a surrogate family. The report noted that Gruber, who’d retired a few years later and started a second career as a private detective, had been killed in Monaco three months ago in a mugging.
Bolan didn’t believe in coincidences, especially in his line of work. He guessed that Gruber’s death had, on some level, played a role in Rodriguez volunteering for her latest undercover assignment. The soldier didn’t necessarily believe she’d come here looking to avenge Gruber’s death. Judging by her record, the woman was a pro and focused like a laser on her mission. There was always the chance, though, she’d visited the location of Gruber’s murder or some other landmark associated with his last case so she could connect with him, some way, one last time. It was a very human thing to do. Had it been the thing that had tripped her up and betrayed her identity? It was possible. Maybe Bolan would have a chance to ask Dumond.