"I am disappointed, Mr. Hanley. I had hoped you would be more cooperative. This is very unfortunate."
"Go to hell," Hanley said. His teeth were clenched against the pain, but his captors had no trouble understanding him. Otto pressed harder with his foot.
"This could have been so much easier for you, Mr. Hanley. But now..." He shook his head. "Otto, Mr. Hanley's papers are in a mess upstairs. Perhaps you should gather them up. There is a briefcase beside the desk. Put them in it and bring it down." Otto nodded, but didn't remove his foot from the small of Hanley's back. "Now, Otto. We have to hurry." Reluctantly Otto climbed the stairs.
Hanley could hear the rustle of the papers as Otto swept them together. He looked at the intruder, trying to decide whether he had seen the man before. It might not make any difference now.
Still, for some reason he now looked familiar.
Otto was back, a briefcase in his hand. He stood to one side, docile as a dog at heel.
"Otto, take the papers out to the car and wait for me. I won't be long," the intruder said as he looked directly into the terror-glazed eyes of Robert Hanley.
4
Mack Bolan hated flying into Dulles. The convenience never made up for the noise. But when a man was in a hurry, Bolan knew he couldn't always have it his way. And Mack Bolan was in a hurry.
He had some questions for Robert Hanley. Hard questions. The incident at Dunford made it obvious that something was very wrong with American nuclear security.
And the files Brognola had shown him were frightening; their implications were even more frightening.
When Brognola had flown back to Washington, Bolan had spent the night in Idaho. There had been a great deal he wanted to know, and Rachel Peres was the only one who could tell him.
Rachel Peres had said nothing to reassure him.
For the past several months, she had been working her way into the heart of one of the more radical antinuke groups. Like most fringe movements, it was loosely allied with several others, to the point of having a few members in common. But there had been more. If Rachel Peres was right, somebody was orchestrating a nightmare, and the incident at Dunford was just the overture. The curtain was about to go up on the deadliest grandstand play Bolan had yet encountered.
And when that somebody phoned home, they were picked up in Moscow.
Peres had gotten involved because of the interest shown by Arab terrorist organizations in U.S. protest groups. There was no doubt that some of the support money was coming from the more rabid OPEC countries. And still more from a couple of countries that thought OPEC policy was too tame. Mossad no longer pulled her strings, she said, but she was still a patriot. Brognola believed her, but Mack Bolan didn't buy it.
He'd go along, for reasons of his own, but the Executioner was calling the shots on this one. Starting now.
* * *
As the big 747 circled for its approach into Dulles, Bolan considered his options. The first stop had to be at Robert Hanley's. His files were extensive, but some of the material was too technical. Bolan wanted to ask some straight questions, and he needed simple answers. Too much was riding on this one. He couldn't go off half-cocked.
And time was tight; the enemy was obviously ready to strike. He couldn't afford a wild-goose chase. One mistake might be all he'd have the chance to make. Once the plane had landed, Bolan made his way to the car rental counter, where he picked up the keys to a Camaro. He wanted wheels with a little muscle. Something told him he was going to need it. It was already seven-thirty, and he wanted to get to Hanley's before the scientist went to bed. The hour drive would take him to Chantilly, in the northwest corner of Fairfax county, where Hanley lived.
Once behind the wheel, Bolan felt better.
At least he was moving. He drove as fast as he dared, keeping to a solid seventy. Twice he had to slow to avoid attracting the attention of a state police patrol car that he'd spotted hiding on the far side of two underpasses. Dusk soon changed to darkness as he drove farther into the countryside. The open fields were broken by stands of trees, and the Camaro's throaty rumble echoed off the woods as he barreled through. At 8:25 he entered Chantilly. Hanley's place was two miles on the far side of the small town. Bolan gassed up to make sure he'd have a full tank for the drive back, asked the way to Morgan's Turnpike and pulled out in a hurry.
At the entrance to the tree-lined drive leading to Hanley's renovated farmhouse, Bolan paused. Something seemed wrong. His sixth sense told him Hanley wasn't the only one there. The outdoor floodlights burned brightly and everything seemed serene, but Mack Bolan knew such scenes could explode without warning. He left the Camaro on the road and entered the driveway on foot.
As he neared the house, he thought he heard a scream, but he was too far away to be sure. He opened his jacket and slid the solid comfort of his Beretta 93-R into his hand. Avoiding the crisp gravel of the driveway, Bolan swiftly slipped into the trees to his left and approached the house. At the edge of the broad lawn cover vanished. There was no way to cross the expanse of greenness without being seen. He'd have to waste time now to circle the house. He had to know what, and whom, he would be up against. The lighting was more subdued along the side and toward the rear of the two-story fieldstone building. A quick look in the garage revealed only one car, Hanley's, if the government parking sticker meant anything. He was sorry now that he hadn't called from the airport, but it was too late for second-guessing. If anyone was in the house with Hanley, he had gotten there on foot or he'd come with the scientist.
The rear patio was dimly lit, and Bolan slid against the house. Pressing himself flat, he edged up to the nearest window and listened. This time there was no mistaking it. There were voices, a thump and then silence. Whoever had called on Robert Hanley was not a friend. Bolan reached above his head to unscrew one of the two floodlights aimed on the patio.
Falling to his knees, he crawled beneath the windowsill to the far side and then doused the second.
Pressing his face to the window from the darkness, he could see through to the entrance hall. Bolan could make out the figures of three men, two near the front door and one at the top of the stairs.
They were talking, but the words were too soft to be intelligible. There was no way in through the back that would give him the element of surprise, and he couldn't risk a shot through the glass until he knew who was who. The only other way in was through the front. Swiftly Bolan made his way back along the side of the house, rounding the corner in time to see a huge, bald man carrying a briefcase enter the trees. Probably going to get the car, Bolan thought.
The big man would go first. He was already outside, and taking him out was the least risk to Hanley. Once he was no longer a threat, Bolan could go one-on-one against the remaining man. Unless there were others waiting in the car, who would come running at the first shot. Quickly Bolan crossed the front porch and followed his quarry into the trees. The woods of Virginia were no match for a man who had survived the jungles of Nam. The woods were dark, and there was heavy underbrush just a few yards into the trees.
Bolan could hear the big guy crashing ahead like a bull elephant. After they had traveled about seventy yards, the brush thinned a little, and moonlight filtered through the branches. Bolan could make out the bulky shape of his prey as he passed among the trees. Suddenly the big guy was in open meadow. Bolan was about twenty yards behind and closing the gap. Fast.
Across the open field, Bolan could make out a large Buick. The big guy waved the heavy briefcase high in the air. There was backup. That changed things a little. How much would depend on how many goons there were. The Executioner, with practiced ease, threaded a sound suppressor snugly onto the Beretta and checked the action. There could be no screwups now.
Hanley's life might depend on how well Bolan handled this end of things. It wasn't possible to follow the hulk into the open without giving away his presence. Bolan dropped to one knee and waited for the right moment. It came quickly.
As t
he large man lumbered ahead, the ground began to slope sharply downward. At the start of the lug's descent, Bolan fired a burst. Three dry coughs, no louder than a gentleman clearing his throat, and a small, tight triangle of death smashed into the big man's skull. The rainbow of blood and bone was quickly gone. Without a sound, he fell like a poleaxed steer. If Bolan got lucky, the guy in the Buick would think he'd tripped. When the hulk didn't get up, the other guy would come to see what happened. And the Executioner would be waiting. Bolan didn't have to wait long.
The dome light winked on and off as the second man left the car. Bolan could see his shadow, dark against the side of the car. The man hesitated, uncertain whether to climb the split-rail fence around the meadow.
Finally the guy made his move. He climbed through the fence and walked cautiously toward the bottom of the slope. He looked back toward the car once, as if trying to decide whether to go back and wait or to push on into the dark meadow. Bolan heard him as he called for his friend Otto. Otto didn't answer him.
He called again, this time as he began to climb the slope. Still no answer, and the guy was getting nervous. He was carrying a machine pistol, sweeping it back and forth in front of him as he advanced.
If he didn't get a little closer, it would be a tough shot with the Beretta. Bolan slipped the smaller gun back into its holster and unslung Big Thunder. He'd have to risk a shot from the skullbuster and hope the guy back at the house was too busy to notice.
Otto's pal was now halfway up the slope, and he knew something was wrong. He looked around helplessly, then crouched as he continued up the grassy rise. Suddenly he froze. He must have seen Otto's body. Big Thunder bucked, and the 240-grain slug tore a hole the size of a quarter in the guy's chest wall. He went down like two hundred pounds of dead meat. Bolan watched the car down at the road. Nothing moved. He pushed through the remaining shrubbery and out into the meadow, crouching just in case. When he reached Otto's body, he turned it over. There wasn't enough of the big creep's face left to identify. The other gunner lay on his back. His face registered a look of surprise.
* * *
The intruder was not a patient man.
Otto was slow. Hanley was uncooperative. It had been rather an annoying evening so far. And then he heard the gunshot.
At its sound, he bent forward, using the barrel of his pistol to brush aside the wet hair plastered to Hanley's forehead. It was almost a caress. The cold metal barely made contact with the skin.
Hanley shuddered. He knew what was coming. The gun barrel swayed before him like a cobra waiting to strike. Then it was over. Robert Hanley felt nothing as the bullet blasted through his forehead. It was over so quickly that he didn't hear the shot that killed him.
The killer straightened and looked distastefully down at his victim, nudging aside a few skull fragments with the toe of one Italian Loafer. He wiped the blood on Hanley's shirt, then slipped through the door, leaving it open in his haste.
* * *
Bolan bent to retrieve the briefcase, and sprinted back through the trees toward Hanley's house. When he reached the main lawn, he noticed that the front door was wide open.
Approaching it carefully, Bolan paused to place the briefcase against the base of a tree. He slid the Beretta out of its holster and sprinted to the broad stone porch.
Creeping softly, the gun extended, Bolan reached the doorway and spun through it. The house was deathly silent. Bolan watched the stairwell in front of him as he stepped deeper inside.
Hanley's body lay off to one side. Keeping an eye on the stairs, he knelt to feel for a pulse. There was none. The ugly hole in Hanley's temple told Bolan all he needed to know.
Bolan stepped back to the doorway. He strained to peer into the darkness of the trees. Whoever killed Hanley might still be out there.
Waiting. For him. He could be anywhere in the trees, just sitting on a clear shot. Bolan wouldn't give him one.
He bolted to the top of the stairs and stepped into a bedroom. It was full of stuffed animals. A kid's room. And the kid's father lay dead at the bottom of the stairs. Somebody would pay for that. Those two guys dead in the meadow weren't enough compensation.
Bolan wanted the guy who had pulled the trigger downstairs.
Bolan could see nothing moving as he peered through the window. If there was anyone out there, he was awfully patient. Good, Bolan thought. Let him wait.
Sprinting back down the stairs, Bolan searched for the floodlight switches. He found what had to be them behind the open main door. With a single swipe of his hand, the outside plunged into darkness. Now let that son of a bitch look out.
Bolan rushed to the rear door, slid the bolt back and stepped into the darkness of the patio.
Swiftly he crossed the rear lawn and melted into the trees. Moving silently, he circled back toward the front, stopping every few yards to listen.
If there was anyone in the trees, he could move only when Bolan moved. To keep the guy off-balance, Bolan staggered his pauses. He had nearly reached the driveway that marked the halfway point in his circuit of the house.
As he stepped into the clearing to cross the driveway, a slug whistled past his ear. Down at the bend in the driveway, where it swept to the left before meeting the road, Bolan saw a car. It was gone in an instant, but it looked like the Buick. The guy must have run for the car, then sneaked back while Bolan had been in the house.
The Executioner knew it was useless, but he snapped a burst through the trees at the end of the drive. The squeal of peeling rubber told him he had missed. He sprinted for his own car, knowing there was no way in hell he could catch the killer. There were too many roads winding through the woods and farms. The guy would be gone before Bolan had even reached the end of the drive. But he couldn't stay here. It was too late to do anything for Hanley, and there were other things to do. His own car was still where he had left it. He slipped in, keyed the ignition and... silence. Releasing the catch, he got out and opened the hood. Everything was intact.
Everything that was there. The distributor cap lay back like a dead octopus. The rotor was gone.
The killer was home free. Angry and dispirited, Mack Bolan walked back up the driveway to the house. He knew he had to call Brognola anyway, so he might as well do it from Hanley's. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation. He was looking forward to something else, though. Retribution. The bastards who had killed Hanley had done it for one of two reasons: either they enjoyed it or Hanley had known one of them.
Otherwise, there was no point in killing the man. Not when they'd gotten the papers they'd come for. Not when the guy didn't have a gun and couldn't defend himself.
Nope. This one was going to eat at him until he found the men responsible.
For Hanley.
And for the kid who collected the stuffed animals.
5
Paydirt, at long last. Rachel Peres was about to attend a meeting, one she had tried to be invited to for nearly a year. Working her way into the bowels of the antinuke movement had been tedious.
So many times, just as she thought she was about to reach the inner circle, she had come up against another wall. The movement was like an onion. The more she peeled away, the smaller it got. But there was always another layer, and another. But now she had made it.
Her feelings were contradictory on the eve of victory. She had met several people she liked, and some she didn't. Like any loose coalition, the movement was constantly shifting. People came and went.
Some saw and heard things they didn't like and formed splinter groups. Others simply never returned.
The one thing she was sure of was the constancy of a small group who never seemed to lose faith. And they never seemed to need money, despite the fact they didn't work for a living. If Peres could find out where their backing came from, she knew she'd have the lead she was searching for. And now she had it. The engraved invitation to become part of their inner circle.
Don Patterson, the man she had become the closest to,
had set it up for her. The minute he'd opened his mouth, she'd known what was happening.
Don was a hanger-on, always at the fringe. But he knew everybody. He was innocuous enough, and he never lacked enthusiasm. That made him useful as a messenger and a gofer. Don was the ultimate tool. Whether he realized it or not, Rachel didn't know. She was sure it wouldn't matter to Patterson anyway. He only wanted to see and be seen, to get coffee for the movers and shakers. He couldn't have cared less if his exploitation were announced in a full-page ad in the New York Times. Rachel, too, had used Patterson. But her reasons were impersonal, even noble. Patterson was the key, and she had to unlock that final door before she could blow the whole business out of the water. Last night Patterson had called.
He had asked her if she wanted to meet Malcolm Parsons. She had jumped at the chance, but had kept her cool. Parsons was the heaviest antinuker around. He seemed to be everywhere at once. Not a week went by when his picture wasn't in the papers. He was always giving speeches, leading demonstrations, going to jail or getting out of it.
If she could get next to Parsons, she would be in a position to learn everything. Sure, she had hunches, suspicions, guesses. But Peres knew she couldn't put anybody away with that kind of ammunition. And if she was right, Parsons was dangerous. He was a manipulator. Parsons had organized several of the most disruptive demonstrations in the past year, including a thirty-four-day sit-in at the gates of the Willham power plant on Long Island. He had been behind a break-in at the NRC regional offices in New York City, during which low-level radioactive waste had been strewn around the offices and dumped into the file drawers. And that was when Peres had gotten suspicious. If Parsons had access to that kind of material, what else could he get his hands on? And how?
The meeting was set for a party, celebrating Parsons's release from jail after leading a flotilla of small boats into the path of a U.S. nuclear carrier. It had been all over the television for three days. One of the antinuke sailors had been killed when he'd fallen overboard and was struck by a Coast Guard cutter escorting the big flattop. One man was dead, and several others were still in jail.
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