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  “MacEwan wasn’t real anxious to give up the information during her debriefing,” Kurtzman said. “But I think she trusts you,” he said to Bolan.

  Bolan nodded in understanding. He couldn’t really fault the woman for her reticence. Tyra MacEwan was patriotic, passionate and highly intelligent. Shortly after her appointment to DARPA, she was brought into the FBI on a joint special technology services project to work with Dr. Mitchell Fowler, a respected scientist for the FBI who wasn’t the least bit shy about verbalizing his reservations regarding the security of Carnivore. Fowler’s death from a sniper’s bullet had triggered the events of the past few days, and had nearly cost Bolan, Jack Grimaldi and Tyra MacEwan their lives.

  “The concepts behind the NGI are pretty high-level still,” Kurtzman continued, “but there are a good number of technologies already in place to support it. First is the idea of multispectral sensors, such as radar and SAR, infrared and microwave. This would be used to increase bandwidth into the multi-TBPS level,” he said.

  “Could you give that to me again?” Bolan asked.

  “Sorry. TBPS is terabytes per second.”

  Bolan nodded and then waved at him to continue.

  “There’s also the engineering side of this thing, Striker.” Kurtzman tapped a key and the display showed a small, rectangular object—some sort of electronic chip—with a micrometer ruler above it that demonstrated the object was only three-quarters of a millimeter wide and less than one-tenth of a millimeter high. “This is a prototype of a laser array transmitter than can pass transmissions at two hundred gigabytes per second or faster.”

  “God help us,” Brognola said, immediately followed by a sigh that told Bolan he was stunned by Kurtzman’s revelation.

  Bolan had to admit that he could hardly believe it himself. “Where’s the project at right now, Bear?”

  “Well, they’re telling the Senate appropriations committees that they’re a lot farther away from a fully functional system prototype than MacEwan thinks they are. She’s not sure why they’re hiding this information.”

  “Okay, let me see if I can piece some of this together,” Brognola said. “The NIF recruits Rhatib to break into the DOD’s defensive electronic system, using Carnivore as a sort of gateway. The NIF contracts local help from Lenzini, probably for funding and to keep their cells inside the country, while Rhatib starts working the technical angles. And we’re exploring the possibility that the NIF has enough inside supporters to utilize this SuperNet program to control our defensive network? Seems a bit ambitious for a small terrorist group. Plus, I can’t see us giving them that kind of support.”

  “I don’t think most Americans would, Hal,” Bolan said. “But it’s possible they’re doing it unwittingly.”

  “What do you mean?” Brognola asked.

  “Well, I’d imagine that most of the participants in this SuperNet program are either government contractors or very large corporations conducting business transactions worldwide on a daily basis. Right, Bear?” Bolan looked at the man for confirmation.

  Kurtzman nodded emphatically.

  “So it only takes one traitor inside a company to turn things around,” Bolan said.

  “Right,” Kurtzman interjected. “All they need to do, really, is provide networking information to an outside source. They can leak enough that any good hacker could take it from there. Plus, Carnivore is virtually undetectable to those security systems. The FBI monitors information constantly across the Internet. It wouldn’t be any surprise to see the Carnivore fingerprints on everything. In most cases, companies will be apathetic about this because after all, it’s the federal government, and they have to do that to protect us from terrorism. Who’s really going to question it?”

  “Nobody,” Bolan said. “And you’re right in thinking the NIF’s going to use that to their advantage.”

  “I spoke with the President about the situation before you returned, Striker,” Brognola said. “He’s refusing to let us simply shut down Carnivore. He thinks now that we have Rhatib in custody, and MacEwan and Bear have things well in hand in closing the remaining security holes in Carnivore, that Lenzini’s the biggest threat.”

  “In this case, I think the Man and I agree,” Bolan said, surprised even as he heard the words come out of his own mouth.

  Over the years Bolan’s alliance with his government had been tedious and shaky at best. Some of the previous occupants of the Oval Office had supported his work, while others used him only when deeming it absolutely necessary. Bolan couldn’t deal with the bureaucracies. He was allowed to operate on his own, pursue whatever missions he chose, but he did so on his own and without the support of the very people he worked to protect.

  Nonetheless, that deal was okay with Bolan. He wished there could have been a better relationship with his government, but Bolan understood that Uncle Sam had to operate by his rules, just as the warrior had his own. Though the relationship was tense at times, it wasn’t unfriendly. And Brognola would lend the support and expertise of any member within Stony Man whenever it was needed. That was enough for the Executioner, and it was actually his preference. He was always cognizant that Brognola pushed the envelope when he rendered assistance on missions outside the approval of the Oval Office, and Bolan was vigilant in insuring that support didn’t compromise Stony Man’s security.

  “Okay, so I’ve got some idea of where this has gone,” Bolan said. “Now I need a starting point, and I think we can all agree Nicolas Lenzini is the best candidate.”

  “We agree,” Price replied. “We know that Lenzini’s running the operation from Boston, and he’s got his two sons handling matters at the other major Internet portals in North America. Bear?”

  Kurtzman put the map back on the screen. “Striker, the gold stars you see represent the major network trafficking hubs. They include Boston and Washington, D.C., on the East Block, and out West you’ve got San Diego, Los Angeles, Oakland, Portland and Seattle.”

  “Sounds like I’m going to be busy.”

  “You’re not joking,” Brognola replied. “We’ve got less than seventy-two hours to put this thing down.”

  The Executioner pinned his friend with the icy blue stare and said, “That’s a tall order. It’s going to take me some time to get inside Lenzini’s organization, even if I go right to the source.”

  “We’ve already set that up,” Price replied. “We have someone inside their system already that will be your contact.”

  “Leo?” Bolan asked.

  Price nodded. “We have word that the guy you shook up when you took down the Garden of Allah nightclub skipped out with quite a bit of Lenzini’s cash. His name is Gino Pescia, and word in the OC circles at the Justice Department is that he’s gathering up a crew.”

  “We think when the time’s right,” Brognola said, “he’ll end the relationship between Lenzini and the NIF, carve out a niche for himself and retire.”

  Bolan shook his head. “Make no mistake this could get ugly real quick. I’ve been up against the NIF firsthand, and I can tell you that if Pescia tries to pit a bunch of his thugs against them, it’ll turn into a bloodbath.”

  “Lenzini’s put an open contract on Pescia’s head,” Price continued, “so it shouldn’t be hard to get you inside as a gun-for-hire looking for a new place to settle down.”

  The Executioner could buy that. It was his hit on the Garden of Allah that first turned them onto the fact Nicolas Lenzini was working with NIF. He’d spared the life of Lenzini’s errand boy, Pescia—who had blubbered and quivered like a child when confronted by Bolan—and now it sounded as if the guy chose to split off and do things his own way.

  Price continued, “We’re going to send you in with the Frank Lambretta cover. Thanks to Leo, word on you is that you’re known by the nickname Loyal Lambretta.”

  Brognola added, “The cover story says you got the name working for the Giancarlo Family as a button guy until their collapse in Florida last year. This is your chance to m
ake that rumor a reality.”

  “And perhaps do a little looking around to see what I can find out about Lenzini’s ties with the NIF and just how deep this goes.” Bolan nodded. “Perfect.”

  Price said, “Your recent history is you’re just out of Rikers, on a manslaughter beef. That will be confirmed on the inside if anybody checks, and the paperwork is already in place at New York State headquarters. We even opened an arrest record for you.”

  “Sounds like something I can play with. Not too specific and not too vague. Nice job, Barb.”

  Price smiled but didn’t bask in the moment—that wasn’t her style.

  “Well, I’d better get cleaned up and catch up on a few winks before I leave,” Bolan said, pushing away from the table.

  Brognola stood with him and shook his hand. “Sounds like a good idea. You look like hell.”

  “Thanks,” Bolan said.

  “Any time. With Jack out of things for a while, we’ll have to make some alternate travel arrangements for you.”

  “That’s fine. I imagine once I’m inside that everything else will be on Lenzini’s dime.”

  The Executioner considered the irony of his statement. He’d pose as a tough guy, quickly get on Lenzini’s good side, and then topple the Lenzini network and use the old man’s money to do it. It was a different enemy now, with different rules, but Bolan knew that the basics hadn’t changed at all. They were still ignorant of those within their own ranks and they hadn’t been subjected to the skill of the Executioner in some time. Not much had changed in that regard, as far as Bolan was concerned. Yeah, the battle plan was still the same.

  Infiltration!

  Target Identification!

  Confirmation!

  Destruction!

  2

  As Mack Bolan, a.k.a. Frank “Loyal” Lambretta, stepped off the Greyhound bus in downtown Boston, he knew the two men waiting under the overhang weren’t the only ones watching him.

  He’d spotted the tail in seconds, and his cursory glance marked the guy as a cop. Bolan immediately settled into his role as a tough veteran of the syndicate, just out of Rikers on a manslaughter beef that was beat on a technicality by a slick-boy attorney.

  The two men waiting for him weren’t hard to spot, either. They were well-dressed, but their suits didn’t quite hang on them in a normal way; their clothes hadn’t been tailored for fashion but more for practicality. Yeah, they were definitely packing heat. Then there were their stances. To any trained expert how the men watched their surroundings was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t just mere curiosity or idle interest—they were looking for trouble, plain and simple.

  Bolan ignored the rain that pounded the pavement and rolled off his old Navy pea coat. The Boston weather was a refreshing change to his past two weeks in the dusty climate and mountainous terrain of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Executioner had been to Boston many times before, but it had been a while since his last visit. And every time he stepped foot in Massachusetts it brought back some haunting memories. But Bolan was concerned only with the situation at hand.

  The New Islamic Front had proved itself a formidable enemy in its own right, and Nicolas Lenzini had chosen to ally his family with the NIF for reasons still unknown. That gave Bolan a two-front war to fight, and that was never a good situation for a soldier. His body still ached where he’d pushed himself to the limits of endurance fighting the terrorists and destroying their camp in Afghanistan, but Bolan shoved that from his mind as a minor annoyance. He needed to be on top of things every moment. One misstep around these guys and it would be over. They would immediately suspect something was up and then try to take him when he least expected it.

  Stony Man had plenty of intelligence on Nicolas Lenzini’s operations, but they didn’t have much on the guy’s personal life, so he’d have to play any direct interaction with Lenzini by ear. That was okay. He’d played this part many times, and while Bolan never made the mistake of underestimating his enemy, he had invented the concept of role camouflage and applied in it ways no other agent who’d ever penetrated the Mob had managed. Most agents either got caught up in the lifestyle, or they just plain got caught.

  “You Lambretta?” the shorter of the two men asked.

  Bolan nodded. “Are you with Mr. Lenzini?”

  As the guy stuck out his hand and Bolan shook it without ceremony, he replied, “Yeah, I’m Serge Grano, the house boss.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of his larger companion and added, “This is Alfonse. We just call him Ape. We’re the welcoming party.”

  “I don’t think you’re the only ones,” Bolan replied, flicking his eyes to his left.

  Grano turned and looked at Ape. “You know what he’s talking about?”

  “Nope,” Ape replied with a shrug.

  Grano looked at Bolan again. “What are you talking about?”

  “You guys are being watched,” Bolan replied. “By a cop.” Grano started to look around, but Bolan immediately stopped him by adding, “Don’t look for him or he’ll run scared. I’d play cool, wait until he’s where we can deal with it.”

  Grano leveled a hard stare at Bolan. “You’re just off the boat, and you think you’re calling the shots—”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Grano,” Bolan replied quickly. “But the guy may be watching me, which means he’s watching you too, and I don’t want to put Mr. Lenzini in any type of a scrape. Okay?”

  Grano smiled, obviously pleased by what he was hearing. Part of Bolan’s cover included stories of how he’d earned the name “Loyal.” He was supposedly fiercely dedicated to his employers.

  “Sounds like you live up to your reputation,” Grano said. “I think you’re going to find that Mr. Lenzini appreciates loyalty. We all appreciate it.”

  “That’s good to hear. I’m already feeling like I’m home again,” Bolan said. “Now, the only question is how you want to handle this situation, Mr. Grano.”

  “You any good behind a wheel?” Grano asked.

  Bolan nodded.

  “All right then,” Grano said, turning to his companion. “We’ll let him drive, and we can deal with this cop.”

  Bolan thought furiously. He’d hoped Grano would offer him the opportunity to take the guy out himself—make the new bull prove himself. This was no good. He’d have to act immediately, or there would be trouble.

  “We go public with this,” Bolan said quickly, “we could have trouble with the cops.”

  “Are you kidding?” Grano said with a chuckle, clapping Bolan on the shoulder. “We’ve got half the force in our pocket. We’d be out within the hour.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not so sure we can afford that kind of attention right now. I’m still pretty hot on the list.”

  Grano shook his head as he lit a cigarette and then offered one to Bolan, who declined with a shake of his head. “You got a better idea, I’m open to it,” he said.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Bolan replied. “I noticed the guy when I got off the bus. Now, if he’s here for me and I just walk away, he’s going to follow. That proves it’s me he’s interested in and I can certainly deal with him quietly. If I leave and he stays on you guys, then I’d suggest you go and I’ll cover your ass when he’s focused on you. Either way, we can meet after at some place of your choosing, with no fuss, no static. And we don’t draw unnecessary attention to ourselves.”

  Grano appeared to consider Bolan’s plan for a long moment. At first, the Executioner wondered if the guy was going to go for it, but finally Grano let out a chuckle and a gust of smoke. He said, “Yeah, that sounds like a pretty good plan, Loyal. You ever been to Boston before?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Good. You meet up with us at a place on Lexington and Ninth, little coffee shop there.” Grano handed him a business card that was generic and nondescript. “It’s only a few blocks from here. If you get lost, ask directions. We’ll wait for you.”

  Bolan gave another nod then turned and walked purposely past the gu
y he’d marked as a cop. The man immediately lowered the paper he was pretending to read, turned and fell into step behind Bolan. The Executioner didn’t have to see the guy on his tail; his instincts told him he was being followed. Instinct had saved him more times than he cared to count.

  The soldier led the cop from the bus station and immediately crossed the street in the direction of a department store. Despite the inclement weather, the streets were full of shoppers.

  Bolan got across the sidewalk and immediately hurried into the store’s revolving glass door. He turned a hard left and slipped behind a display that didn’t expose his back to viewing from the outside but would allow him to reverse roles when his tail came through. He didn’t have long to wait.

  The man entered and stopped just inside the doorway, causing a woman behind him to stop short and curse him for his unexpected move. The guy appeared to ignore her as the woman stepped around him, gave him the finger and then continued about her business. Bolan focused on his quarry. The man moved away from him and headed toward the escalator.

  Bolan followed. The hunter had just become the hunted.

  Amarillo, Texas

  TYRA MACEWAN SIGHED with relief as she settled into the old-fashioned iron bathtub and let the hot, soapy water work its healing magic on her sore and tired body. It felt good to be home. She felt safe knowing her mother was downstairs. She could hear the woman humming some big-band tune while busying herself preparing dinner. It reminded MacEwan of a more innocent time: a time before the New Islamic Front terrorists and the penetration of Carnivore by Sadiq Rhatib; a time before she’d lost her innocence to the real horrors of terrorism; a time before she’d met a hotshot flyer named Jack and a soldier named Cooper.