Exit Code

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan proceeded. A few stray shots bounced near him, but the white smoke was quite effective in masking his movements. The warrior nearly walked into another Mafia crewman. The guy’s head exploded under the sudden pressure of close shots, and his mangled corpse spun wildly before falling to the ground accidentally killed by one of his own.

  Bolan continued his offensive, catching another hood off guard and shooting him in the stomach. The FNC was a fantastic weapon. While it was a high-velocity assault weapon, it was lightweight and compact enough to use with the same effectiveness as a pistol. The fact it chambered heavy caliber, high-velocity ammunition seemed only a plus in these circumstances.

  The Executioner broke through the smoke and saw two guys moving into position on his right, obviously trying to determine if it was possible to come in behind him. It was a poor attempt at a flanking maneuver. Bolan dropped to one knee, raised the FNC to his shoulder and sighted on the pair. He took the first one in the chest with a 3-round burst, the slugs punching through the man’s heart and one lung. The second he caught a bit higher, only one of the three rounds landing on target, punching through his chin and shattering his jaw. The force of the bullet ripped away flesh and bone, and tore away most of the lower part of the guy’s face and neck. Bolan followed up immediately with a double tap to the stomach.

  Something suddenly seized him from behind, jarring the weapon from its position. Bolan was yanked to his feet, and the tension in both his throat and lower back made it immediately obvious that his attacker was big, muscular and very strong. The Executioner tried to twist away from the headlock, but his opponent’s muscle mass quickly canceled that idea. Bolan had managed to hold on to his FNC, so he let his feet come off the ground as he rammed the stock between his legs. The grunt of pain was accompanied by a sudden loosening of the hold.

  Bolan twisted inward and drove the stock into his opponent’s knee a second time. The blow caused the attacker to let go entirely. The Executioner didn’t wait to size up his assailant, instead swinging the weapon upward against the man’s chin. The guy was big—damn big—but his head snapped backward with the impact, his teeth clacking together audibly. Bolan produced the Desert Eagle in one fluid motion and immediately squeezed the trigger. The slug punched a dime-sized hole through the big mobster’s chest and left an exit hole the size of a fist, taking a good chunk of the guy’s spine with it. The force lifted him off the ground, and he landed in the doorway from which he’d emerged in a crumpled heap.

  There were more shouts of confusion, and men were now running away from the area, no longer interested in sticking around. That was okay with Bolan. They didn’t pose a threat as long as they didn’t have time to regroup, and since he’d be keeping an eye on their fearless leader, Bolan didn’t think that would happen for some time. He continued going through each of the rooms, methodically eliminating any of the opposition who had chosen to stay and fight rather than get the hell out.

  Less than five minutes elapsed before Bolan had completed inspecting each room, periodically dumping an incendiary grenade on a bed. The flames were beginning to come through the roof in some areas by the time Bolan headed back toward his vehicle. It wouldn’t take long for someone to spot the smoke and call the fire department, but by the time they got there Bolan surmised there wouldn’t be much left for them to find.

  That was okay. He’d completed his mission here in San Francisco—at least part of it. He’d taken out Pescia’s men; next on the list was Lenzini’s little electronic operation nestled in the heart of the city. Once he’d dealt with that, Bolan would move on to the next location in Los Angeles, and finally to Seattle. Then he’d go back to Boston or Washington, or wherever Lenzini was holed up, and he’d chop off the head of the operation. By that time, he expected all of the players would be in place, including those in the NIF.

  Yeah, it would be their final exit.

  8

  Washington, D.C.

  “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful,” Tyra MacEwan said. “But is this really necessary?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied the guy called Ironman. “It’s absolutely necessary.”

  “I thought the danger was over,” she said, pressing.

  He shrugged, and while the gesture seemed almost nonchalant, MacEwan could see the concern in the man’s hard blue eyes. “We did too, but it would seem there’s some new players involved. Now, we’ve got guys downstairs…good guys. They’ll keep an eye on you until we can find out what’s going on.”

  “But I don’t want to stay here,” MacEwan protested. “I want to go back home.”

  He shook his head. “Look, Tyra, I can understand your frustration, believe me.”

  She put her hands on her hips and looked at him, raising one eyebrow to signal her skepticism. “Can you?”

  “Hell, yeah,” he replied with a genuine tone. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to be cooped up in this hole. Still, orders are orders. Listen, some very important people want me and my partners to make sure the air keeps moving in and out of you. When this is cleared up, you can go wherever the hell you want for as long as you want. Okay?”

  MacEwan sighed, but knew she didn’t have much choice. She knew the big stranger was only doing his job, and it wasn’t for kicks. If MacEwan had learned anything about Matt Cooper, it was that he didn’t waste his time with idle tasks. She didn’t think his friends would be any different in that regard. No, if they really thought there was something to this, then that had to be enough for her.

  “My mom will be safe?”

  The man nodded and smiled as he headed for the door. “Yeah, we made sure of that. Anybody gets within a hundred feet of her, and they won’t know what hit them. In the meantime, I’ve got to split. Lock and bolt this door behind me.”

  She nodded and followed him to the door. As she started to close it behind him she said, “Hey, uh—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Listen, just wanted to say thanks. And when you see Matt and Jack, tell them I said hi.”

  He winked. “You got it.”

  Then he was gone, and MacEwan locked herself up tight just as he’d instructed. She looked around at the sparse apartment nestled in the northern downtown area of D.C. Well, she hadn’t planned to come back from vacation so damned soon, but that was the breaks. Her mother was safe, and that was the most important thing to her.

  MacEwan went over to a desk in one corner of the room where Ironman had told her she’d find everything she needed. It was too bad she didn’t know what that meant, since she wasn’t even sure what was going on yet. Damn it! So just what was she supposed to do, sit here and twiddle her thumbs? Surf the Internet? She’d thought Cooper’s people had pulled everything they needed from her so they could straighten out this mess, and now here she was once again—just as a week ago—locked away in secret hoping to stay alive. Well, this just wasn’t—

  The ringing phone on the desk startled her from her daydreaming. She looked at it a moment, letting it ring a couple of times and wondering if she should answer it. Well, it wasn’t going to answer itself. She cautiously picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss MacEwan?” The tone of the voice that greeted her was gruff and resolute.

  She didn’t recognize it, and almost immediately she replied, “I’m afraid you have the wrong number, sir. There’s—”

  “Miss MacEwan, it’s okay. I know it’s you because I’m the one who arranged to put you there. I’m a close friend of Matt Cooper’s.”

  “Well, then that’s another story entirely,” MacEwan began with a purposeful tone, absently putting her hand on her hip as if the caller could see the disgust. “Do you have any idea what you people have put me through? Why aren’t Matt or Jack around to—”

  “Miss MacEwan, I don’t have time to explain all of the details right now,” the voice continued, but the tone was gentler. “Now, I know you’ve been through a lot, but we need your help.”

  “I think I’ve help
ed enough already.”

  “Yes, yes you have. And I wouldn’t dispute that with you for a minute.” There was a pause and MacEwan wasn’t sure if she should reply or not. “But I’m afraid we’ve hit a snag, and I think you’re one of the few people who can help us.”

  MacEwan shook her head and sighed deeply. Once again, she was allowing herself to be talked into the middle of something, and she didn’t have the first clue what that something was. “I guess I should hear you out. Frankly, I owe my life and the life of my family to you people, and especially to Cooper and Jack. I guess if you tell me that this is serious, I’m inclined to believe it.”

  “It is very serious. When you had discussions with our technical advisors here, you indicated that there was some sort of program, if you will, that allowed us to back the NIF out of our system.”

  “That’s right, and I showed them the programs and algorithms required to do that,” she replied. “What’s happened?”

  “Someone’s overridden your work, and they’re rapidly undoing everything we’ve done.”

  “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. The people I talked to were sharp as tacks, especially Bear. They knew as much, if not more, about these kinds of large systems than any particular group I’ve worked with. Surely they possess the expertise—”

  “Expertise isn’t the problem,” the man replied. “The problem is much larger than that. Listen, I’m going to put you on our speaker system with Bear and our team. I’ll let him describe the issue to you.”

  “Okay.” MacEwan began humming some long-forgotten country song, but her wait wasn’t long enough to finish the first verse.

  “Tyra, this is Bear.”

  “Well, Bear,” MacEwan replied, actually glad to hear the warm, deep voice; it was a voice that possessed such soothing and confident tone. “Listen, I forgot to thank you for helping me out before.”

  “Don’t mention it. But there’s a way you could return the favor.”

  “So I hear. What’s the story?”

  “We’ve managed to isolate the network Rhatib created for Nicolas Lenzini, but it would seem that someone else is trying to manipulate the system and get control of Carnivore again. The algorithms look similar to Rhatib’s, but—”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” MacEwan interrupted. “He’s in custody.”

  “Exactly,” Bear said. “Which tells us that somebody else is running the show now, somebody with the technical know-how and the ability to manipulate this network system,” he said.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  There was a long pause—one that MacEwan sensed was purposeful—and then a chilling sense of foreboding washed over her in that moment. “What’s going on? Please…tell me,” she said.

  “We think it’s Dr. Shurish.”

  “Malcolm?” MacEwan resisted the urge to slam the phone into the cradle. Instead, she said, “Ridiculous! I’ve known Malcolm Shurish ever since I started with DARPA. He’s a brilliant and dedicated scientist, not to mention the fact he’s been a good friend and mentor to me. What proof do you have?”

  “None yet, but we have it on pretty good authority that he sent someone to follow Cooper.”

  “Okay, so what?”

  “Shurish met him once, at which time someone tried to kill both of them,” Kurtzman said.

  “Precisely,” MacEwan said, “someone did try to blow them up. You’re suggesting that was Shurish? He rigged this whole thing to make it look like he was an intended target?”

  “We don’t know for sure that he had anything to do with that,” Kurtzman said, “but that’s not the issue. The issue is that he sent a Department of Defense investigator to find Cooper. He didn’t have any reason to do that. Cooper was a contracted scientist. He wasn’t an official employee of DARPA, and he wasn’t on any type of watch list. Since he’d never even been inside the system, Shurish had no reason to put a tail on him. Most people would have accepted the explanation from the powers-that-be—an explanation by the way that came directly from the Pentagon—but instead he went out on his own. That doesn’t make any sense to us.”

  “So because he does something crazy you automatically suspect him of espionage and computer fraud?” MacEwan was struggling to control her anger.

  “Tyra, listen to me for a moment,” Kurtzman said quietly.

  “All right,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. This whole thing was becoming rather ridiculous. How was she supposed to keep her patience in this thing? Less than two weeks had passed since she’d met Cooper, and since that time she’d been kidnapped, bound and gagged, beat up, shot at, and generally moved around the world like a freight package. Now she was being told by Cooper’s people—people she’d come to trust—that one of the few friends she thought she had left was possibly working for a known member of organized crime and possibly even the New Islamic Front.

  “You and I both know that every criminal leaves a signature.”

  “Like a bomb maker,” MacEwan interjected. “Okay, I’m with you so far.”

  “They know we shut them down. If we try to go back in there, they’re going to see us immediately and shut us out. You, on the other hand, they aren’t familiar with you. Rhatib’s the only one who knows your computer fingerprints, and he’s locked up as tight as a drum.”

  “So, you want me to go inside the system and see if I can figure out who else may be buried in Carnivore.”

  “Actually, we have Carnivore under full surveillance. It’s not even that difficult. We want you to get inside Lenzini’s networks because that’s the source of this trouble. It’s a chance to close that end of the hole, and to catch whoever’s behind this.”

  “I don’t know,” MacEwan said. “You’re asking an awful lot. I love my country just as much as the next person, but—”

  “Look at it this way. It will give you a chance to prove Shurish is innocent. If he is, he’s got nothing to worry about.”

  MacEwan finally agreed. “All right, I’ll do it. Okay?”

  “Thank you. Trust me when I say, Tyra, it’s all going to work out.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said. “Then why do I feel so terrible?”

  Jonesville, Virginia

  THROUGH THE BINOCULARS Abdalrahman scanned the road that led from Lee Penitentiary, then checked his watch.

  He sighed with anticipation. Through some type of electronic black magic, Shurish had managed to glean information that a “high-profile” prisoner was being transferred from Lee to a place called Marion, which Shurish advised was in Illinois. The transfer was approved by Homeland Security, which immediately flagged it as extremely sensitive and indicated the prisoner occupied a central role in terrorist activities. Abdalrahman immediately suspected the prisoner was his beloved nephew, and this presented an opportunity to recover his only surviving blood relative before he passed forever beyond their reach.

  Abdalrahman was definitely ready for some action; it had been awhile since he’d operated in the field and been able to taste victory against his sworn enemy. The colonel was convinced that it was Sadiq they were transferring, but if he was wrong then they would simply kill the prisoner and cut their losses. Shurish didn’t possess the same level of expertise as Sadiq, but he was good enough to complete the work. And when the time came, Abdalrahman would insure Shurish died right along with Nicolas Lenzini and his cronies. Still, while it was a risk to attempt to free his nephew, it was a calculated risk.

  Abdalrahman had brought the very best of his small force for this mission. Like him, they were all dressed in camouflage fatigues and equipped with AK-47 assault rifles. They also had half a dozen HE grenades and one disposable rocket launcher, a variant of the U.S.-made M72A2 LAW. They were ready to face a small army, if necessary, and Abdalrahman had no doubts that Sadiq would be under heavy guard.

  The former mujiahideen soldier pressed the binoculars to his eyes once more, and a smile formed as he watched light reflect off metal. In the distance, he could see the
convoy approaching. According to the intelligence Shurish had gathered, they were transporting the prisoner to a nearby airport. Sending a chopper into the prison was too risky, since it was quite easy to shoot down a helicopter. Stopping a heavily armed escort of vehicles was more risky, particularly since the road to the airfield was only three miles. Not much time to launch an ambush, and the escort was very close to reinforcements.

  What this group obviously hadn’t counted on was the skill and expertise of Abdalrahman’s men, and the resolve of the NIF. Not only was Sadiq important to Abdalrahman personally, he was also the technical genius behind their plans to seize control of American defense systems. They would use those defense systems against the Americans in a way never before imagined. A rescue attempt was worth the risk.

  Thus, while the distance between the prison and the airfield was short, there was an imperfection in the defense, a flaw in their thinking that Abdalrahman meant to work fully to his advantage. On the road to the airfield, the convoy would have to cross a small, covered bridge with width and length restrictions that only permitted one vehicle to cross at a time, and in only one direction.

  Abdalrahman shifted slightly in the tree, moving his legs some to work the blood through them. He’d been sitting in position for several hours, his disciplined mind refusing to let his body move more than an inch or two in any direction as he watched and waited for the right moment. It was now approaching in the form of the escort convoy. The convoy consisted of a Humvee, a Ford Bronco in the middle—which would contain their prisoner—and a trailing sedan. The road would wind its way through the gentle rolling hillsides of southern Virginia, and eventually they would pass directly under Abdalrahman’s vantage point.

  Abdalrahman lifted a walkie-talkie to his lips and said, “Units stand by, the targets are approaching.”