LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Up the street Gary Manning’s Ford Expedition locked its brakes with an angry squeal. Bolan swept up his MP-5 and fired at the plate-glass window. Spent shells clanged together as they rattled into his brass catcher.

      The window shattered and heavy shards of glass cascaded like icicles to burst against the concrete outside the window. Bolan slung the weapon as he raced forward.

      He heard pistol shots from behind him, but had no idea if they came close or not as he stepped off his lead foot and sprang into the air.

      He hurtled the bottom of the window like a track star and landed outside. He heard shouts coming from his left and risked a look as he landed in a crouch. He saw a squad of Toronto uniformed policemen, most of them on the ground and disorientated by the car bomb he had just detonated.

      One patrolman was sufficiently together to lift an arm and point, shouting out a warning as Bolan pivoted and began to sprint up the slushy sidewalk toward the Ford Expedition gunning straight for him. His breath billowed out in front of him in silver plumes as he charged forward. His breathing was loud in his ears, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

      He saw Manning clearly through the windshield of the Expedition. The Phoenix Force commando locked up the emergency brake, and the tires screeched in protest as he swung the back end of the SUV in a smooth bootlegger maneuver. Bolan dived toward the passenger door.

      Pistol shots rang out from behind him.

      He saw Manning lean across the front seat and open the passenger door. A bullet struck the rear windshield and pebbled the safety glass. Another round sparked off the bumper. Bolan reached the front of the SUV and threw himself inside.

      Manning didn’t wait for his passenger to close the open door but instead stood on the gas. Tires screamed, turning fast, digging for traction. Then they caught and the Expedition lurched forward like a bullet train leaving the station, throwing Bolan back into the seat.

      “Grimaldi ready?” the soldier panted.

      “Always,” Manning stated as he sent the SUV into a power slide that took the fugitive vehicle off the street and out of sight of the policemen firing on them. “He’s put the Little Bird down on the top floor of a parking garage six blocks over. We’ll be in the air in two minutes.” He looked down at a digital clock display. “One minute,” he corrected.

      Bolan nodded. He reached inside his jacket pocket and checked for Hadayet’s cell phone. If they moved fast, he thought, they just might have a crack at Scimitar.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      The Stony Man team switched out the Little Bird for a clean JetRanger at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport and proceeded south. In a reasonable amount of time the helicopter was following Skyline Drive along the backbone of the rugged Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. The base for the Special Operations Group was only fifty-odd miles southwest of Washington, D.C., and dawn was breaking as the aircraft approached the installation.

      A Chevy Blazer was waiting beside the landing strip where Jack Grimaldi put down the JetRanger.

      “You guys go on ahead,” he told Bolan and Manning.

      “I’m going to do some postflight checks.”

      “Thanks, Jack,” Bolan said.

      He and Manning ducked under the slowing props and crossed over to where Buck Green, chief of security, waited behind the wheel of the SUV. He smiled as the Stony Man commandos approached.

      “How was Canada?”

      “Chilly,” Bolan replied.

      “He warmed it up a bit,” Manning noted, his voice dry.

      “So they tell me,” Greene laughed. “Get in. Gary, you’ve got some time off coming. Later tonight David wants your help running an op-for exercise against the blacksuits,” Greene said, using the slang term for Stony Man’s security detail.

      Manning grunted. “What have you cooked up?”

      Greene grinned. “It’ll be good. I want to focus on the orchard approach to the compound.”

      Manning shrugged his acceptance and climbed into the back of the Blazer. If he’d wanted a life of leisure, he could have chosen a thousand other occupations. He was dedicated to the Stony Man cause without question. Even the covert action inside his homeland hadn’t bothered him. He’d operated surreptitiously under the nose of his host country, the U.S., on many occasions. Slaying dragons was a pannational vocation.

      “What about me?” Bolan asked.

      He climbed into the front seat and slammed the door shut. He gave a lazy salute to Grimaldi as Greene pulled the Chevy onto the narrow road leading from the airfields toward the central complex and the Stony Man farmhouse.

      The security chief snorted. “Oh, no rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

      “Hal?” Bolan asked, knowing the answer.

      “Yep, Hal’s here. He’s very interested to hear what you got in Toronto.”

      “I got time for breakfast? Maybe some coffee? Most of what we’ll decide will depended on what Aaron can get out of this cell phone I recovered.”

      Greene nodded and reached down to pick up the Blazer’s radio. “I’ll call ahead to Barbara,” he said. “She’ll make sure the kitchen gets you what you want.”

      Greene meant Barbara Price, the honey-blond mission controller and sometime Bolan paramour. She ran Stony Man with cool competence and considerable ability. If she gave the word, the Farm’s kitchen would prepare a feast. She was also the only one likely to keep Hal Brognola quiet about waiting.

      After the fall he’d taken from the skylight in Toronto, Bolan wanted nothing more than a long, hot shower and to eat a good meal before his debriefing. However, the link he had discovered to Scimitar was tenuous. Most high-ranking insurgents in the Iraq theater never stayed in one location for more than twelve hours.

      If Stony Man was going to have a shot at Scimitar, the clock was already ticking.

      B OLAN SAT in the War Room.

      The multimedia compatible meeting room was as secure as anything one could find at the NSA or CIA headquarters and as comfortable as a New York City law firm’s boardroom. It took up approximately one-half of the basement space of the main house, and Bolan knew the room intimately after all his years at the Farm.

      Hal Brognola sat at the head of the conference table, chewing on an unlit cigar. Price and Bolan occupied two other chairs, while Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman sat in a wheelchair off to one side. Nearby was a high-tech console that controlled the War Room’s media displays and lights.

      Bolan had brought his breakfast with him. He pushed his empty plate away and pulled a large mug of coffee closer.

      While eating he’d gone over the details of the Toronto takedown. Brognola acknowledged that an inquiry had been made to the Department of Homeland Security regarding an operation against Hiba Bakr. Official channels had been able to respond honestly that they had neither authorized such an illegal incursion nor were they aware of such an ongoing operation.

      Since Bolan had chosen to leave Bakr to Canadian intelligence, the CIA had requested that an agent join CSIS for the interrogations. Brognola had learned that the diplomat father of the Syrian youth had already filed a protest with the government in Ottawa and the UN regarding the arrest of his son. The company of known international terrorists notwithstanding, it was likely his request for release would be granted.

      “This means Scimitar could already be alerted. In fact we have to assume so,” Brognola said. “Carmen is running those cell numbers into Iraq right now, cross-referencing NSA databases. We’re hoping for a triangulation. When we’re done here I intend to fly back into D.C. and follow up on some things Barb has put into motion.” He looked over at Barbara Price whose face was carefully neutral, a sure sign of her displeasure.

Скачать книгу