LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Who are you?” Bolan asked.

      “I could ask you the same thing,” the man said. “Place the gun on the ground very slowly.” He was just under six feet tall, solidly built, wearing cargo pants and a denim shirt under a tan photographer’s vest. Bolan noted his footwear, which weren’t work boots at all, but tan combat boots with tanker straps. On his face the man wore wraparound smoked shooting glasses. His prematurely gray hair was cropped close to his skull in military fashion.

      Bolan glanced to Burnett again as he placed the Beretta carefully on the walking trail. There was no one close by; it was unlikely anyone would see what was happening and call for help. The gunman gestured Bolan back and then picked up the Beretta, his Glock never wavering. He tucked the Beretta into his waistband behind his back.

      “He’ll live,” the man told him, jerking his head at Burnett. “Answer my questions and you might, too.”

      Bolan just looked at him.

      “I want your name and the agency you’re working for,” the man said. He stood carefully out of Bolan’s reach.

      “You seem to have misplaced your rifle,” Bolan said. He didn’t know for a fact that this man was the sniper, but the look on the gunman’s face told him he’d guessed correctly.

      “This weapon,” he said, his eyes flickering to the Glock, “will punch through a dozen of you single-file. The caliber’s different, but the ammo’s the same. Now, answer my question.”

      Bolan eyed him hard. He was considering the lunge needed to reach the man when Razor Ruiz suddenly pushed up and attacked, screaming, a knife blade flashing in his fist.

      The Glock went off. The gunman yelled in pain as Ruiz slashed deeply into the wrist of his gun hand, kicked him low in the shin and followed him down with the blade, stabbing again and again with sewing-machine strokes.

      Bolan grabbed Ruiz by the head and peeled him off, twisting and hurling him sideways. Ruiz shook it off and wheeled on the soldier, his bloody knife held before him.

      “Now, you bastard,” Ruiz hissed, “now I carve off a piece of you!”

      Bolan drew his SOG Pentagon knife left-handed. Ruiz narrowed his eyes as he took in the double serrated blade. The soldier crouched low, the knife reversed in his hand. “You don’t have to do this,” he told Ruiz. “That man—” he nodded to the fallen gunman “—is the shooter who killed your boss.”

      “I know!” Ruiz spit. “And I have taken revenge for him!”

      “You have,” Bolan said evenly. “You’ve even done me a favor.”

      “And now,” Ruiz said, advancing with his blade before him, “I shall kill you and then the policeman, for luring us into this ambush.”

      “I don’t know how they knew to take out Caqueta,” Bolan said, slowly circling as Ruiz rounded on him, “or who they were protecting to do it. You can help.”

      “Help?” Ruiz laughed. In the distance, the first sirens wailed. “Why would I help you?”

      “Your boss was going to help us find the source of the DU rounds,” Bolan told him. “He knew it was in his best interests.”

      “He was wrong!” Ruiz lunged with the knife. Bolan sidestepped and slashed, scoring Ruiz lightly on the arm. The cartel killer snarled and backed off a couple of paces. “He never should have trusted the police. You see where it got him!”

      Bolan could see the first uniformed officers closing on them through the park. He was running out of time. Ruiz glanced back and then to Bolan again. “They will take me,” he said, “but not before I take you!”

      When the thrust came, Bolan was ready. He slapped Ruiz’s wrist with his right hand while drawing the Pentagon’s blade over the top of the man’s forearm, slicing deeply through the arm. Ruiz howled as Bolan followed up, slapping and trapping to the outside, moving to his opponent’s right outside his weapon. With a stomp he broke the killer’s ankle under the heel of his combat boot. Ruiz folded, wailing.

      “Don’t move! Drop the knife!” The uniformed officers were closing in, guns drawn.

      For the second time in as many days, Bolan slowly raised his hands and did as he was instructed.

      5

      Mack Bolan sat on the bed in his hotel room, lacing up his combat boots. He wore his combat blacksuit, which to the casual observer would look like a black mock turtleneck and black pants tucked into his boots. The slit pockets of the blacksuit bore some of his gear, leaving room for much more. On the floor before him was a large shipping crate, delivered by special courier from Stony Man Farm early that morning. The Executioner was in the process of unpacking the crate when his secure phone vibrated.

      “Striker,” he said.

      “Good morning, big guy,” Barbara Price said brightly. “I take it you got Cowboy’s special delivery?”

      “Unwrapping it now,” Bolan told her. “Did Bear and his crew have any luck with the photos I sent?”

      “Transmitting now,” Price confirmed. “The shooter in West’s apartment was Basil Price, forty-eight. British, with a sheet that goes back a ways. A veteran merc with two years in Rhodesia, SAS, to his credit.”

      “Just the sort of person a private security firm might employ?” Bolan said.

      “Possibly,” Price said. We’ve queried NLI and their contractor, Blackjack Group. If they’ve got anything in their files, it’s squirreled away where Bear can’t crack it. Officially, Blackjack never heard of the man.”

      “Not surprising,” Bolan said.

      “It gets more interesting,” Price said. “Your other body is John Paul Reynolds, thirty-six. Gulf War veteran, Marines, with some contract security work after that.”

      “And?”

      “The work was with Blackjack Group,” Price told him, “and it was while he was in Blackjack’s employ that he died on the job, supposedly, a year ago in Baghdad.”

      “So he’s been off the books for a year, playing dead, most likely doing black ops for Blackjack.”

      “Seems so,” Price said.

      “Then NLI is involved up to its board members’ necks,” Bolan concluded. “They’re actively trying to sever links leading back to them, using Blackjack as muscle.”

      “Striker, if they took out West and sent someone else to destroy his records, then somehow keyed into your meet with Caqueta, they’ve got the city wired or they’ve got someone inside, maybe both.”

      “The thought occurred to me,” Bolan said grimly. “Any luck with the hard drive I got from West’s apartment?”

      “Not much yet,” Price said. “Bear has Akira working on it, but he says it’s in pretty sorry shape.”

      “Have him keep at it,” Bolan said. “It’s the only lead I’ve got after Ruiz, who isn’t going to talk on his own. Listen, Barb, I need you to contact Hal for me and let him know it’s going to get heavier. I’ll need him to run interference for me so I can do this my way. I’m done playing it subtle. I’ve got to put a stop to this. It’s going to get a lot bloodier before it gets better.”

      “I’ll tell him. And, Striker?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Watch your back.”

      “I will.” He closed the connection.

      From the closet where he’d left his windbreaker the previous evening, Bolan took his long, charcoal-colored canvas duster. The lightweight overcoat was perfect for the autumn temperatures, so he wouldn’t be too conspicuous. More importantly, the long coat would hide a multitude

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