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  “It appears this woman has a habit of escaping justice,” Taharun said.

  “I keep losing her,” Bolan admitted.

  “Outcomes to situations do not always offer us complete solutions.” Taharun looked at Bolan. “I am sorry about your companion. Let us hope her recovery is swift, and that you will find this Delaware.”

  “I will. It’s a debt that will be collected,” Bolan said.

  “Your friend will be looked after, Mr. Hamilton. I promise you that. Will you want her returned to America when she is strong enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “That will be arranged,” Taharun said. “Now we come to you, Mr. Whoever-you-are. Seminov has told me you have worked with him before. That your background is as mysterious as the contents of a bottle of Russian vodka. But he says you are a man to be trusted. So I will trust you. If you leave Kazakhstan, this whole business can be written down as a clash between local criminals and this Hegre group. We will do our best to avoid linking it to Iran because that would only cause friction with their government, which we can do without at the present. I believe this to be a case of the least said the better.” Taharun hesitated. “Are we agreed?”

  He held out his hand. Bolan took it without hesitation.

  “Thanks, Captain Taharun.”

  “Iztak, to my friends. Perhaps some day you will come back under more pleasant circumstances.”

  He turned to Seminov. “I will arrange for your Arkady Greshenko to be buried. It seems the wrong people are dead, Valentine.”

  “It happens, my friend.”

  Taharun offered a knowing smile.

  “I knew your friend. On a casual basis.”

  “Knew?” Seminov was surprised.

  “Yes. That he worked as a messenger for your country?” Taharun inclined his head. “He passed me information from time to time. It was a convenience for us both.”

  Seminov shook his head at the incongruity of the admission.

  “It is time, I believe, for us to go.”

  “Iztak, there’s a handgun in my hotel room safe,” Bolan said.

  “Take it with you to the airport and one of my officers will collect it from you.”

  Iztak stood, then held out his hand in farewell.

  “To better times,” he said, turning away and leaving Bolan and Seminov alone.

  “What do you make of that?” Seminov said.

  “I’m trying not to think about it too much.”

  Before they left the hospital, Bolan and Seminov returned to Mitchell’s room. Her condition had not changed. Bolan stood and watched her still, pale figure. He felt Seminov’s big hand on his shoulder.

  “Iztak will keep me informed of her condition, and I will let you know when she can be flown home.”

  “This has to be finished,” Bolan said. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  * * *

  AT THE AIRPORT Bolan handed over the Steyr, in a padded envelope, to the uniformed cop from Taharun’s office.

  Bolan and Seminov flew back to Moscow.

  Seminov pulled strings and arranged to have Bolan on a flight back to the States the next morning.

  Along with Dimitri, subdued since he heard about Mitchell, Bolan had a meal with Seminov in a small local restaurant.

  “I do not like to have to say this, tovarich, but when you leave, Moscow will become peaceful once again. I hope.”

  He had a wide grin on his face. He topped up Bolan’s glass, Then raised his own.

  “To our friendship.”

  “Long lasting,” Bolan said.

  “To our friendship,” Dimitri agreed. “And to Sarah Mitchell, as well.”

  Seminov and Dimitri accompanied Bolan to his departure gate. When the flight was called, they watched his tall figure merge with the other passengers. Seminov waited until Bolan vanished from sight.

  “So, young Nikolai,” he said. “When are you going to introduce me properly to your beautiful Irina? I am sure she will be interested in some of the things I could tell her about you.”

  * * *

  MACK BOLAN, SEATED in business class, reclined his seat and tried to sleep. It was a long time coming. The images in his head refused to give him peace. Since the moment he had first teamed up with Sarah Mitchell, a trail of death had followed them.

  It had reached a bloody conclusion and had ended with the destruction of the uranium cargo.

  The escape of Lise Delaware taunted him.

  Yet Bolan finally slept.

  When he awakened, they were only halfway through the ten-hour flight. Bolan welcomed the food and drink the flight attendants were handing out. He found he was hungry. He managed three cups of coffee.

  “Would you care for anything stronger?” the attendant asked as she cleared away the tray.

  Bolan declined. He wanted to keep a clear head. He had a lot to do once he reached Stony Man. The lack of communication on board the aircraft was frustrating. Despite his lack of contact, he knew the Stony Man team would be working on the Hegre problem, seeking information so Bolan would have the most up-to-date information on the organization.

  The soldier would need that data.

  Once back in the States he would be concentrating on the final part of his mission.

  When the Executioner touched down, he would be initiating a full-on Bolan Blitz against Hegre. The organization would be taken down once and for all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Three days had passed since Bolan’s return to Stony Man Farm. He had been on site ever since, organizing equipment and absorbing all the data available on Hegre, preparing to leave and drop off the radar.

  It meant only one thing.

  The Executioner was back in action, on a mission that would involve no one else.

  He was making the final act a personal one. He would not ask for help or take any direction. He would locate his target and home in for the strike.

  Hal Brognola, as head of the SOG, knew enough to stand down. The day Bolan struck his deal with the President, it had come with an unbreakable proviso. That Bolan could initiate and carry out individual missions. When such a mission was activated, Mack Bolan stood alone, acted alone and accepted the consequences of his actions.

  It was how Bolan had started his long campaign against the enemies of civilized society. In those far gone days he had been completely alone, pursued by his enemies and on the wanted lists of America’s law-enforcement community. He had the Mob issuing vast rewards for his head. The FBI and nationwide police chased him from city to city. In those times Bolan was truly alone. Yet he began to gather a number of individuals who had respect for his ideals, who sometimes turned a blind eye when they realized the depth of his beliefs.

  When Stony Man Farm was created, Bolan gathered a tight and faithful group around him, true people who understood his selfless way, who stood by him through dark days and seemingly overwhelming odds. They’d emerged victorious from countless encounters, moving on to fight the tide of enemies intent on destroying America and her allies. It was ongoing, something that had gained a life of its own. It had a motion that kept it alive, a single purpose that would never be extinguished.

  Even with that strength around him, there were times when Bolan had to go solo, to walk that extra mile without assistance from Stony Man. He chose those times when only the Executioner’s particular brand of justice would serve. When he meted out what he considered true justice to the enemy.

  Judge.

  Jury.

  Executioner.

  * * *

  IN HIS PRIVATE quarters Bolan had prepared himself for battle. A bag held his combat blacksuit and a pair of lace-up boots, as well as a change of civilian clothing. He was dressed in a light shirt and tan chinos, ca
sual shoes and a brown leather bomber jacket.

  The business at hand would bring about a final resolution—either Hegre’s—or his own. Mack Bolan had no kind of death wish. Life was important to him. Despite putting himself on the line many times over, he maintained a healthy respect for life. He refused to allow any trace of morbidity to shadow him. He accepted that his chosen path in life drew him toward violence and sudden death. That was something he had taken on board the day he initiated his first strike against the Mob. He understood then that for however long it lasted, his campaign of cleansing the world of evil, he was going to have to participate in a great deal of bloodletting. He did not relish the thought, but he knew it would be part of his life.

  “Hey, mister, got a minute for a friend?”

  Barbara Price stood in the open door of his room. Clad in jeans, a roll-neck sweater, and classic Western boots, the Stony Man mission controller and Bolan’s sometime lover waited as he turned. She tried to hide her concern, but her eyes betrayed her true feelings.

  Bolan went to her, slid his arms around her body and drew her into the room, nudging the door shut with one foot.

  Price smiled. “Cool move, pal.”

  “I know a few more,” he said.

  Bolan breathed in the warm scent of her. His lips brushed her cheek.

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “There are things better left for more appropriate times.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Pushing back the thoughts crowding her mind, Price eased away. Whatever their relationship allowed, this was not the time. Bolan had matters on his mind that took precedence and she would not let herself distract him. She returned his kiss with one of her own, touching his lips briefly.

  “Business, soldier,” she said. “Your transport is ready. I have your paperwork, too. Standard pack. Cards. Expense money. And Kissinger is ready for you in the armory.” Kissinger was John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man Farm’s top armorer.

  “Very efficient as always.”

  “We aim to please.”

  “And you do that really well.”

  Price’s reserve snapped off and she backed off a little.

  “Do you have to do this without backup?”

  “Yeah, and you know why. People who work with me end up getting killed. I’m going in alone, and I’m going to take down Hegre. If I don’t, Hegre is going to carry on, business as usual. You’ve read the files, and the current report on what happened out there. Too many good people have died because of that organization. FBI agents. Cops in Moscow. Seminov’s friend in Aktau. Others we haven’t identified yet...”

  “And Sarah Mitchell,” she said. “I know you still feel bad about what happened. But she’s alive, Mack. And, thank God, back home at a top hospital. Sarah’s going to recover. Slowly, but she will get better. Hal’s keeping a check on her progress.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened if...”

  “If what, Mack? If you hadn’t had her with you? She’s a trained FBI agent. She wanted to do her job. You said yourself she’s one hell of an agent. From what I’ve read in your report she proved it.”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Aaron and the team turned up quite a file on Hegre,” Price said. “Since your involvement, with Mossad’s input, and all the other sources, we’ve got more intel on the organization. I read up on them the other day. Mercenary doesn’t quite cover what they’ll do for money.

  “They must be really pissed at you for messing up their operations. You took away their diamond hoard. And destroying that uranium meant they couldn’t complete the deal with the Iranians. So no payday for Hegre there.”

  “I do my best.”

  “I don’t think they’ll see it quite like that.”

  “So no welcome mat when I go calling?”

  “I guess not,” Price said quietly. “Hey, Kissinger is still waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They went out into the corridor. Price swung right, Bolan left.

  “I’ll see you before I move out.”

  “You’d better, soldier.”

  * * *

  THE WARM AIR held the smell of gun oil. Bolan walked into the armory and saw Kissinger bent over his long workbench. A number of weapons were laid out across the surface.

  “How goes it, Mack?”

  “What can I say. Never dull?”

  Kissinger laughed, turning from the bench. He wore khaki combat pants and a black T-shirt, laced up Wolverine boots. His hair was slightly mussed and he stroked a strong hand through it in an unconscious gesture.

  “Heard about your partner,” he said. “Is she going to make it?”

  Bolan nodded. “So I’m told.”

  “Good to hear,” the armorer replied. “I guess you’ll be needing a full assault kit.”

  “That’s about right.”

  Kissinger led the way over to a second bench.

  Bolan saw a Beretta 93-R, a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, his longtime favorite SMG—a 9 mm Uzi—and a sheathed Cold Steel tanto knife. Kissinger had loaded a lightweight harness with full magazines for each weapon, and there were a half dozen more to go in Bolan’s carryall.

  “You want to test fire anything?”

  Bolan picked up the Beretta, his hand curling firmly around the grips.

  “You said you’d serviced them.”

  A Kissinger service meant each weapon would have been fired, stripped and cleaned again.

  “I did.”

  “Then they’re fine.”

  “What do you reckon you’re going to be up against?”

  “That’s the question of the day. An organized mob crew. These days that could mean anything short of battle tank.”

  “Better go in ready then.”

  Bolan stood back and watched as the armorer selected and stacked up an assortment of ordnance that included fragmentation and flash-bang grenades.

  “Is this going to be a long strike or a ‘hit and git’?”

  “I want it over as fast as I can make it,” Bolan said.

  “No compound explosives and timers?”

  Bolan shook his head.

  “I’m not expecting an extended campaign.”

  “Short and sharp then.”

  Kissinger stowed the ordnance in a sturdy carryall.

  “You want me to sign for it?” Bolan asked.

  Kissinger chuckled.

  “That’ll be the day, Mack.”

  They shook hands, and Bolan headed out.

  * * *

  BOLAN MADE HIS way to the Annex and Kurtzman’s cyberlair. The crew was all there. The quiet hum of electronics filled the air. The rich smell of Aaron Kurtzman’s quietly bubbling, and legendary, coffee percolator was there, too. His infamous brew had the strength to strip paint off the side of a battle tank, so the story went.

  He placed his carryall by the door and walked into the Computer Room.

  Carmen Delahunt, redheaded ex-FBI, was crossing the floor, documents in her hand. She was as vivacious as she was talented.

  “Hey, the wanderer has returned,” she said. “We were sorry to hear about Sarah.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you bring us any souvenirs from your global trip?” Akira Tokaido asked, removing his earbuds to let them hang around his neck.

  “They were confiscated by customs,” Bolan said.

  Kurtzman swung his wheelchair around, a sat phone clutched in a large hand. “I heard you lost your other one.”

  “You know what it’s like in the field.”

  “Yeah? Well, that damn field must be pretty well choked up with lost phones and other pieces of equipment you scatter around.”

  Bolan took the phone, examining th
e sleek lines.

  “Full spec on that,” Kurtzman said. “GPS. Email downloads. Messages. Camera and video. It will provide worldwide coverage via satellite. The power pack has triple performance.” He handed Bolan a charger unit. “I would say try to hang on to it but there’s no point.”

  “Still no digital radio?”

  Kurtzman shook his head, chuckling to himself as he tapped his keyboard.

  A couple of the large wall screens fired up and presented images in high-definition.

  “Julius Hegre,” Delahunt said. “The man himself. He runs the Hegre Corporation, which is the legal side of his empire. The truth is the guy is a good businessman. The companies he controls are successful. They make money. Spread across the globe, too. So why does he need to also head a criminal organization that deals in everything illegal and downright ruthless? It’s the opposite of his day job.”

  “The old question,” Hunt Wethers said. “Maybe he just gets off on playing a bad guy. Not enough excitement in his other role.”

  “Now Hegre has some hotshot legal people on its books,” Delahunt said. “The top man is this guy. Dominic Melchior. He’s Julius Hegre’s legal brain and his counselor. He’s been with Hegre a long time.”

  “Something about him tells me I wouldn’t trust him from the moment I met him,” Tokaido said. “Just a feeling.”

  “Keep that thought,” Bolan said.

  Delahunt ran through a number of images Stony Man had culled from various other agency files.

  “We are slowly logging faces and names of people associated with Hegre. Once we had a toe in the door, things started to come together.”

  Bolan indicated a pair of faces he recognized.

  “Cross that pair off your list,” Bolan said. “Permanently retired in Kazakhstan.”

  “Retired as in...?”

  “As in dead.”

  “Just so we’re clear.”

  “You need to see Delaware again?” Kurtzman asked.

  “No. That’s one image I’m not liable to forget.”

  “Hegre’s corporate offices are in Philly,” Delahunt said about the next image. “This is his main residence outside the city. There is also an office complex in New York and a couple of smaller properties in California. He keeps homes in Paris and Switzerland, and has a boat moored at Marina del Ray. He even has a private plane on semipermanent standby at a strip outside Philly. And there are a number of helicopters for personal transport.”