LITMIR.BIZ

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you, mister. See, I can’t afford most of the firearms hereabouts. Hell, I can’t even afford none of the food beyond this here pop. Good thing it’s only nine bucks to get in.”

      “Things are tough all over,” Galloway said, swallowing his pizza and grabbing his own soda.

      “Don’t I know it. Man with my skills I ought to be able to be drownin’ in work, but the damn Marines had other notions.”

      “You served?”

      “You betcha. Rifle company Baker two-niner. Was a gunnery sergeant, till they kicked me out, anyhow. Served in the Gulf the first time.”

      “Discharged?”

      “Yup. And not the honorable kind, neither. Thought the notion was to kill the enemy, not coddle ’em.” Bolan sipped his soda, then set it down and held out a hand. “Sorry, my momma raised me better than this. Name’s Michael Burns.”

      Galloway accepted the handshake but did not return the introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Burns.”

      Bolan noticed that Galloway’s handshake was clammy and greasy, the latter no doubt from the pizza. “Been almost fifteen years since anybody called me that, mister. Just call me Michael.”

      Breaking the handshake, Galloway said, “You can call me Galloway. You looking for work, Michael?”

      “Well, I’m gainfully employed, if that’s whatcha mean, but it ain’t nothin’ that makes use of my skills, if you follow me. Still in uniform, but it’s the type where they issue you a mop and bucket ’stead of a sidearm and holster. Been a few years since I got me that kinda work—man’s work—man’s work.” He shook his head. “Goddamn Marines.”

      “Well, Michael, I might be able to help you out. You have a card?”

      Bolan snorted. “You’re kiddin’, right? Kinda business I’m in—”

      Galloway held up a hand. “Of course. How long are you in town?”

      “Due back at my job tomorrow—’less, of course, I got me a reason to call in sick?”

      “I’d say you do.” Galloway reached into his denim jacket pocket and pulled out a small spiral notepad and a pen. He wrote something down and ripped the page out of the notepad. Handing it across the table, Galloway said, “Come to this address tomorrow at noon. Consider it a job interview.”

      Bolan hesitated, staying in character. “Job interview? Hang on a sec, mister, we’re just talkin’ here. I mean, I was just lookin’ for some conversation, if you follow me. I ain’t trollin’ for—”

      “Maybe not, but if you’re what you say you are, the people I represent might be interested in you—especially since we had a couple of job openings recently.”

      Drawing himself up, and still not taking the paper, Bolan said, “The hell you mean, what I say I am? You callin’ me a liar, Galloway?” He also noted the line about job openings. If he really did represent Black Cross—or whoever killed those retired operatives—then it was likely that the bloodstains at Mohonk Mountain represented dead bodies, not just wounded ones. If so, the Executioner was impressed that Bethke had been able to take down one or two of his killers—though it was small comfort.

      Holding up his hands, the paper flapping with the motion, Galloway said, “No, Michael, I’m not calling you a liar, not at all. But some soldiers have been known to exaggerate their accomplishments a bit.”

      Surprised that someone who worked with ex-military types would make such a blunder, confusing an Army soldier with a Marine, Bolan said, “Look, they may’ve discharged me, but I’m a Marine, not a soldier. We don’t lie—we leave that to the soldiers an’ sailors an’ airedales.”

      “Fair enough,” Galloway said quickly. “Look, let’s just call this a fortuitous coincidence, all right?” He held out the paper again.

      Bolan snatched it. It was stained with pepperoni grease, but it provided an address on North Gulph Road.

      “That’s in the park across the street,” Galloway said.

      Nodding, Bolan said, “I know it, yeah.” It was the Valley Forge National Historical Park, which commemorated the famous Revolutionary War battle fought in this area in the winter of 1777–1778.

      “Good. Maybe we can do business.”

      “Just came here for pleasure, Galloway—but hey, if business comes out of it, I ain’t gonna complain.”

      Popping the last of his pizza into his mouth, Galloway said, “Sometimes things work out.”

      “Reckon they do, yeah.” Bolan placed the slip of paper into his pocket. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, Galloway, huh?”

      Galloway got to his feet, holding his cup of soda and gathering up the empty plate and paper napkin. “I hope so, Michael.”

      He went to the nearest garbage can and dumped the plate and napkin, then headed toward the restroom.

      The Executioner finished his soda, dropped it into the same garbage can, then headed straight for the exit. He needed to find a place to stay for the night. The convention center had two hotels attached to it, and since this was the last day of the show, there were likely to be rooms available.

      Next day, he would start his quest to see if the Black Cross was real. And if it was, it wouldn’t be for much longer.

      3

      The woman who killed Albert Bethke sat by the pool in a Cayman Islands resort, watching the men watch her. She was wearing as skimpy a bikini as she could get away with, along with large sunglasses and a straw hat to protect her from the tropical sun. Bobby pins kept the hat secure on the red-haired wig she wore, as the trade winds occasionally blew through with particular force, funneled by the two thirteen-story towers of the resort hotel. The hat had a purple band with a large flower on the side. She kept her hotel room key inside that band.

      The remnants of a margarita sat next to her. The bartender had put salt on the rim of the glass, despite her specifically requesting it without.

      She’d enjoyed her vacation—salted margarita notwithstanding. It was also business related, as her bank account was down here, and she preferred to check on her money in person rather than online. There was something satisfying about checking it in person, being able to touch your own money, so to speak.

      She was born in Russia with the name Ida Kaprov, but nobody had called her that name for six years. At the age of ten, she and her family emigrated to the U.S., living in suburban New Jersey. She attended UCLA and was recruited by the Los Angeles Police Department, which was trying to bust a crime ring that was using Eastern European immigrant women for online sex shows, prostitution, strip clubs and escorts—and also as drug mules.

      The bust was a success, in large part due to her efforts. She’d proved herself a natural at undercover work, and had continued to work undercover, first for the LAPD, then for the FBI. Her ability to speak Russian combined with her stunning good looks and hourglass figure made her a valuable asset. Men in particular were susceptible to her charms.

      In addition, she was a crack shot, having scored the highest rating of any woman in LAPD history on the shooting range. She’d even considered applying for the SWAT team, but her superiors convinced her that she was better off as an undercover agent.

      Ida quickly grew disillusioned with law enforcement, however. The institutionalized sexism was stifling, and the very qualities that made her good undercover also made her a target for her Neanderthal colleagues. Plus, she found the restrictions to be far too binding. Most of the people arrested in her cases didn’t deserve to wait for trial, they simply should have been shot between the eyes, ridding the Earth of their filth once and for all.

      The straw that broke her back was seven years after she’d first been recruited. She found herself infiltrating another online sex-prostitution-stripper-escort

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