Tallin shook his head. "No, but seeing this guy in the back reminded me of something."
Bolan followed him to the rear of the vehicle.
Tallin knelt and picked up the dead man's left arm. "This tattoo," the security chief said. "The guy who pitched the deal to the old man had one of these on his arm, too."
Bolan studied it. The tattoo was on the inside of the forearm, closer to the elbow than the wrist, detailing some kind of hawk presented in profile with its wings askew, one forward and one backward as if it were swimming rather than flying. "You're sure?" he asked Tallin.
"Yeah. You don't see something like this every day. I figured it for some kind of military thing, but I didn't know who."
Lights flared over the top of the road as a limousine wheeled into view. The driver was barely able to avoid the wrecked Ferrari.
"My guys," Tallin announced as they stood up together.
Bolan nodded. "Get somebody on this. I want the local police kept out as much as possible, and I want you to find out what you can about these guys and that tattoo." He glanced back at the dead man's arm, knowing he had no choice about the orders he had given the security chief. An Ace wouldn't have wanted outside interference in Family business. Hell, that was what he was supposed to be seeing Madrano about. And he doubted whether the local law-enforcement agencies would have as much access to intel as Tallin did. A Family as old as Patrizio Madrano's would have information-gathering tentacles spread in many areas, and more than a few most agencies wouldn't be able to reference. Maybe they could come up with another piece of the puzzle.
"Anything else?" Tallin asked as they walked back to the road.
"Yeah." Bolan holstered the Beretta and looked at the twisted wreckage of the sports car. "It looks like I could use a ride."
8
A spotty cloud cover hung threateningly over the Washington, D.C., area when the Stony Man jet touched down. After securing a rental car using the Belasko identity, Bolan placed a call to Kurtzman on an outside pay phone. He turned up the collar on his leather jacket as protection against the drifting mist that swirled across the airport while he waited for the connection to be made.
Kurtzman answered on the third ring.
"Aaron?"
"That you, Mack?"
"Yeah. I took the chance you might still be up."
"I was going over some of the stuff we turned up tonight, making sure there wasn't anything we'd overlooked. I've also been running a little interference and gathering information for Hal. He's still at the scene of the office building hit where you and Leo kicked the ball into play. Security nets are tightening all over the city."
"The Russians have been informed of the situation?"
"Yeah, but the meet is still on. Gorbachev and the Man agree that too much time and too much publicity have already been put into this thing to back out now."
"But it's going to be a hell of a tense situation while they're here."
"I'd say that was a safe bet."
Bolan studied the dark clouds sweeping the pale yellow moon from sight and wondered if they might be serving as some kind of omen. He was certain there was more to the recent murders in D.C. than just killing for hire. Maybe there wasn't any factual evidence that proved it, but the present state of affairs grated against the keen edge of his warrior's senses. Why go into business in D.C. now, when security was sure to be the most restricted? The hits themselves came too quickly on the heels of one another, as well. There had to be another team that negotiated the transactions in order to allow the strike team free time to set up the termination. It would have been interesting to find out how many of the hits were actually sanctioned by Family members, and if any of them had been done for nothing. So, yeah, considering all of the factors that chafed at his finely tuned strategist's mind, he felt sure he had only touched the tip of the iceberg on an operation much more critical than just a very efficient mere team operating within the boundaries of the nation's capital.
"Mack?"
"Yeah, Aaron. I was just turning some things over in my mind."
"And found out it was totally unproductive, right?"
"For the moment."
"That's what I've been getting on this end."
"I came across something at Madrano's that might lead somewhere, though." Quickly Bolan outlined the events that had taken place at the mafioso's estate, describing the tattoo in detail. When he finished, he asked, "Does the tattoo ring a bell in your mind?"
"I can't place it, but then I don't have the military background you have."
"I don't know if it fits into the military yet," Bolan said. "I haven't been able to place it if it does. Unless it's something new that one of the specialized branches has started."
"Then why should it ring any bells with me?"
"Because you've seen it. Do you still have Dwight Hooker's file?"
"Yeah."
"Punch it up onto your screen and flip through the pictures on Hooker doing civic duty. The third or fourth photograph. The one where Hooker is talking to the kids at a local Just-Say-No chapter."
"Got it."
"Do you see it?"
"I don't even know what I'm looking for." Kurtzman sounded puzzled.
"Use the image enhancer and blow up Hooker's left forearm. In that position the inside of the arm will be presented to you." Bolan waited, fixing the image in his own mind. He was pretty confident of what he remembered, but he wanted Kurtzman's affirmative.
"Son of a gun," Kurtzman said hoarsely. "I completely missed that."
"I didn't catch it, either, until I was on the jet back here. And I wasn't completely sure it was there until now."
"It's the same bird you described to me, right? Presented profile with the wings bent like it's windmilling or something?"
"That's the one."
"So now we have a tie between the hitters and the bug that was placed on your car. But why would they be interested in you? As far as anyone knows, you're attached solely to the security team protecting Gorbachev and his entourage."
"Curiouser and curiouser," Bolan said wryly.
Kurtzman grumped. "But instead of narrowing the question of who these guys are, this has only opened up more possibilities."
"As well as stepping up the urgency on this thing."
"Yeah, Hal's going to be real happy to find out about this."
Bolan wiped collected moisture from his face with a big hand. Behind him the windshield wipers on the rented car swacked out a slow metronome. "Let me add a new wrinkle. Check Hooker's police record."
"Got it."
"Is there any mention of the tattoo?"
"No, which means the guy got it after he joined the force."
"Right. It might be interesting to find out when he got it if we can. It could possibly correlate a few other things."
"I'll still check on the military angle, though. This operation seems too well organized to not have those connections somewhere."
"Agreed," Bolan said. "When you go through your files, check on American paramilitary groups as well as whatever we have on those operating out of European theaters."
"I've got a guy in Europe I can reach tonight who might be able to turn us onto something if these jokers are coming from that direction."
"I don't think the team lives there," Bolan said as he considered what Johnny Tallin had told him earlier. "These guys fit in too easily to the American way of life. They know a lot of behind-the-scenes crime stats, some of them years old. This isn't a fly-by-night project. But there may be some European financing."
Kurtzman sighed, and Bolan could hear the big man's chair squeak as it shifted. "The thing that bothers me is why someone has initiated this operation now. If it's going to be a play against the Prez and Gorbachev, how can they hope to succeed with all the security involved in this meeting?"
"I don't know," Bolan replied. He shifted and felt cold water run down his back under the jacket.
"Hal wanted me to ask you when y
ou were planning on showing up this morning."
"Tell him I'll be there in plenty of time to help with the security situation."
"Okay."
Bolan shrugged inside the jacket, feeling the wet spot between his shoulders as he resettled the combat harness. Then he asked for Dwight Hooker's home address.
* * *
Bolan left the rental car parked at the curb two buildings down from his objective. He crossed the sidewalk and claimed the shadows that still hugged the walls of the apartment building complex.
He made his way through an open breezeway, maneuvering around kids' bikes, patio furniture and charcoal grills. The swimming pool in the center of the complex was a shallow kidney shape whose surface rippled slightly with the light rain that had followed the Executioner into Fairfax.
Morning noises echoed around him as he moved — television voices covering the day's agenda of news so that the viewers would be better informed, and grumpy, low-pitched voices of parents as they carried on conversations in an attempt to keep from waking the children.
Bolan stepped out of the breezeway and headed for Dwight Hooker's building at an oblique angle, staying away from the windows. According to what Kurtzman had been able to pull from the files, Hooker lived alone in a second-floor apartment, number 23920.
The Executioner walked through the small curtain of rain leaking from the upper walls of the building. He reached inside the jacket and touched the butt of the Beretta, making sure the breakaway holster was positioned correctly for a fast draw.
He took the metal stairs leading up to the second floor of the neighboring building, taking care to move quietly. A door opened at the end of the hallway, sending Bolan's hand streaking for his gun. He checked the motion immediately when he saw a guy step from the apartment carrying a metal lunch box and a red thermos. Bolan gave the man a friendly nod as they passed in the breezeway.
After the man had disappeared from sight, the warrior braced himself against the wall and stepped up on the black metal railing at the edge of the building. He gripped the eave in both gloved hands and arced his body to the rooftop.
He remained prone for a moment, letting the shadows absorb him as he got his bearings. Dwight Hooker's building was to his left. The smell of wet tar clogged his nostrils, and the odor of wood burning in a fireplace wafted to him on a slight breeze.
Keeping low, Bolan moved toward his target, stopping at the edge of the roof. Air-conditioning units pulsed a steady hum behind him as air fans suctioned the exhaust from the building. The shrill screams of a child crying shattered the heartbeat of the normal morning noises, then quickly subsided. The sluggish crank of a starter sounded from the direction of the parking lot, then exploded into a throaty roar as the engine caught.
The lights in Dwight Hooker's apartment were off. Bolan sat in silent contemplation of the target area, trying to get a feel for the place, searching through the sometimes tangled impressions his combat senses relayed to him. Even if reports of the New York attempt hadn't filtered back through whatever chain of command was keeping the merc team together, what were the chances Hooker would be at home now? They couldn't know he had found the bug on the car bumper, but his appearance at the office building hit had to have let them know something had gone awry. So had they assumed Hooker would be untraceable, or had the man been left as bait in a trap?
He scanned the other rooftops, trying to separate the shadows from the tar surfaces. Something tugged at the fringe of his conscious mind, and he used his peripheral vision to make another pass. This time he identified the two snipers lying on rooftops, covering the front of the breezeway that led to Hooker's apartment. The angle of their placement had prevented them from seeing him reach the rooftop.
After mentally marking the snipers' positions, Bolan eased back to the edge of the rooftop in the other direction. He swung back down to the second-story breezeway and dropped quietly to the floor. He moved at a sedate pace in a circle outside the perimeter of the building where one of the men waited.
The warrior used the balcony of the apartment at the back of the building to reach the first man, hauling himself up first one story then the next. He paused at the edge of the rooftop to free the Beretta from its leather, then pushed himself onto the pebbled wet tar surface.
The sniper whirled, flushed from hiding. The big bore rifle cradled loosely in his arms rose like a striking cobra. The weapon cracked and the Executioner could hear the impact as the slug plowed into a nearby wall.
The Beretta, locked in 3-shot mode, coughed twice, six 9 mm hornets exploding into the assassin. The rounds shattered the man's chest, then tracked up toward his face. The corpse fell backward and the rifle clattered to the rooftop.
Bolan threw himself behind the protective bulk of the air-conditioning unit as the sniper on the other rooftop opened up. Metal screamed when the high powered rounds scored through the thin shield protecting the refrigeration unit.
Reaching from behind cover, Bolan snagged the pant leg of the man he'd shot and pulled the body toward him. He whipped the hood of the sniper's black raincoat back and examined the guy's face only to find it unknown to him. He pushed back the sleeve of the man's left arm and found the tattoo.
Shots drummed into the air-conditioning unit in a final burst as the sniper's weapon ran dry. Bolan was in motion at once, flinging himself up and charging forward. He didn't pause at the edge of the roof, grabbing for the outside post of the balcony with his left hand as he let his feet slide over.
A volley of lead thundered through the reinforced sheet metal that covered the balcony area, echoing hollowly across the apartment complex. Bolan felt at least one of the bullets strike the pine four-by-four he hung from by one hand. Gritting his teeth against the roughness of the abrasive wooden surface, the Executioner let himself fall full-length against the balcony railing, then dropped to the ground.
A startled face peered at him frantically from the double glass doors of the lower apartment, then the closing curtains swept it away. Powering his legs like a four-hundred-meter hurdler on an Olympic record run, Bolan sprinted for the other building, hoping to catch the other man before he could make good his escape. He slammed into the wall with his left hand, rolling toward the breezeway as he raised the 93-R to shoulder level.
A man stepped out of an apartment with a confused look on his face. Bolan motioned him back inside. "Police," he announced in an authoritative voice. "Call the Fairfax PD and let them know I need a backup."
The man nodded and quickly vanished.
Bolan wiped the moisture from his eyes and eyebrows, listening intently. Heavy thumping from overhead echoed inside the breezeway. Hoping the guy would make the phone call to the police department so that the uniforms would know there was a friendly in the war zone, Bolan traced the thumping to the other end of the building. He paused, rainwater sprinkling across his forearms as he held the Beretta in a Weaver's grip.
A muffled curse reached his ears, followed by a loud crash.
Wheeling around the corner of the building, Bolan saw a figure struggling to rise from the shattered remains of a balcony. The thin metal sheeting had evidently given way beneath the sniper's weight and spilled him onto the aluminum furniture below.
The shock of blond hair above the dark raincoat told Bolan that his quarry was Dwight Hooker. Wanting to take the man alive, Bolan leathered the Beretta and raced for the second-story balcony. He hurled himself into the air as Hooker's head snapped around in his direction. His Fingers curled around the metal railing, and he struggled to pull himself up.
Hooker found the dropped weapon the same moment Bolan threw a leg over the railing. The man swung up the rifle, and a pair of bullets pulverized the double balcony doors. Glass flew in all directions. Bolan felt something hot-cool touch his chin and knew the trickling warmth on his skin was blood.
Then he was kicking out with both feet as he brought the rest of his body weight across the railing. He hit Hooker in the sternum and felt somet
hing break.
Hooker smashed into the railing behind him, and the rifle flew from his hands to the sidewalk below. Growling with rage, the big man rushed the Executioner with balled fists.
There was little room to maneuver. Bolan felt himself carried along with Hooker's rush until he smacked into the restraining metal behind him. A heavy-knuckled fist caught him on his left temple, and for a moment his vision went black.
Hooker's fingers locked around his throat as the bigger man pinned him against the railing and started to bend him backward.
Blood throbbed in Bolan's temples as he fought the other man's strength without the leverage he needed. With agonizing slowness, he curled his spine and forced Hooker back, ignoring the punishing pressure at his throat. Black comets swirled sickeningly before the Executioner's eyes, becoming dark holes that threatened to suck him away.
Once he had position back, Bolan released the railing with his right hand and brought his forearm up and over Hooker's arms, sweeping them away. His left fist darted in and tagged a mouse over the man's right eye. Bolan followed it with another left, then a right to the rib cage as Hooker tried to cover his face. He managed to rock Hooker's head with another combination before the bigger man screamed in sudden fury and tried to duplicate the earlier rush.
Ducking under the man's outswept arms, Bolan grabbed the front of the raincoat and added his impetus to Hooker's, bouncing the man into and over the railing. Without waiting, Bolan flung himself over the side of the balcony as well and landed between Hooker and the rifle.
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