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  Bolan came up to the side of the barn, and as he pressed against the timber, he picked up the subdued murmur of voices coming from inside the structure. There were also the unmistakable sounds of someone being struck—the meaty thwack of flesh being pounded.

  Bolan checked the MP5, a final, automatic gesture that ensured the weapon was ready for use. He clicked the selector to 3-round burst.

  A man screamed in pain.

  It was a sound ripped from the very soul, and it galvanized Bolan into action. He made the final move from the side of the barn, crossing to the front and searching for access. The high doors were not fully closed, allowing Bolan to peer inside.

  The generous interior was empty except for the men grouped around the captive. He had a rope looped around his chest, leading up to the thick cross-beam where he was suspended with his feet a few inches from the floor. His jacket and shirt had been stripped from his body, and his hands were still tied behind his back, leaving him powerless to avoid the leather-clad fists of one man who was systematically beating him around the face and body. Next to him, a man Bolan hadn’t yet seen was wielding a slim-bladed knife. The blade was streaked with blood—showing it had been used—and the bloody wound in the victim’s torso showed where.

  Bolan slipped in through the gap in the doors, pressing tight against the wood to cover his back. The man wielding the knife moved forward, the gleaming blade catching light as he waved it back and forth.

  “Put down the knife,” Bolan ordered.

  Every head turned at the sound of his words. All save the man with the blade. He ignored Bolan’s command, and his arm moved as he prepared to strike again.

  He’d been warned.

  The MP5 moved, and its muzzle locked on to its target. Bolan stroked the trigger and put a three-round burst into the knife-wielding man’s lower back. The trio of 9 mm slugs severed his spine, and he pitched forward onto his face, flopping around until his shattered body lost control and he lay still.

  The others spread out, moving away from their prisoner. One man reached for the pistol worn at his waist, hauling the auto weapon clear as he began to turn in Bolan’s direction. He caught Bolan’s triple burst in the chest, the tight grouping ravaging his heart and dropping him to the barn floor.

  The tall man, moving surprisingly fast for someone of his size, dropped to a crouch as he pulled a large auto pistol from under his coat and squeezed off shots in Bolan’s direction.

  But speed did not always mean accuracy. The heavy slugs ripped chunks out of the barn door inches from Bolan. He felt a flying piece of timber clip his cheek, drawing blood.

  The Executioner stood his ground, tracking the gunman and hitting him with a triple-burst that opened the man’s skull. The yellow hair was briefly streaked with bright blood before the head broke apart and spilled flesh, bone and brains. The man’s eyes widened with the shock as he went down.

  The group was down to two.

  The man in his shirtsleeves flicked blood from his arm as he appraised the silent, menacing figure wielding the MP5. He had the look of someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed, and he faced Bolan without a tremor.

  “I suggest we talk this over before anyone else gets hurt,” he said.

  “I suggest you cut that man down before you start giving orders.”

  He turned to his remaining crewman and gave a sharp nod. Bolan watched, unmoving, as the hurt man was lowered from the beam and his hands freed.

  “Move over here,” Bolan said and watched the freed captive cross the barn. When he was standing next to him, Bolan told him to pull the barn doors shut and secure them.

  When he’d completed Bolan’s request, the man leaned wearily against the closest door, one hand pressed to the knife gash in his torso.

  “You should get him to a hospital before he bleeds to death,” Shirtsleeves said.

  “Suddenly, you’re concerned,” Bolan said. “Might restore my faith if I thought you meant it.”

  The man standing next to Shirtsleeves muttered something. His remark drew a harsh laugh from Shirtsleeves.

  “Vince here wants me to distract you so he can shoot you,” Shirtsleeves said. “I figure that would only get us both killed.”

  “Let him take his best shot,” Bolan said. Then he added, “Vince, take out the gun and toss it.” The MP5 covered the scowling man. “I don’t ask twice.”

  Vince complied, throwing his auto pistol across the barn floor.

  “Now the man’s shirt and jacket.”

  The victim’s clothing was rolled in a bundle and thrown across the barn. It landed a few feet from the injured man. He stepped slowly forward and retrieved the clothing. Bolan slid a hand into a pocket and drew out his lock knife. He passed it to the bleeding man.

  “Cut some strips and tie a pad over the wound. Tie it tight, and it might slow the bleeding.”

  “All very touching,” Shirtsleeves said, “but you should be worrying about the others in the house. If they heard the shooting they’ll be wondering what’s going on. There are a couple of outside guys, too...”

  “You had guys outside,” Bolan said.

  “Tsvetanov is hiring smarter help these days.”

  Bolan made no effort to correct the man.

  The injured man completed his makeshift bandaging and pulled his jacket back on.

  “Best I can do.”

  “You able to hold a gun?” Bolan asked him.

  The man nodded, and Bolan handed him the pistol he’d acquired.

  Crossing the barn, Bolan used the discarded rope to secure the pair of Marchinski men. He led them to the far corner of the building, tied their feet and sat them down.

  “Hey, this could be useful,” Bolan’s new ally said.

  He offered his already cut shirt. Bolan took it and used his knife to sever the sleeves. He bound them around the two Marchinski men’s mouths, gagging them firmly.

  Then Bolan led the way to a small rear door, cracking it open and checking before he moved outside. They walked to the edge of the barn and looked at the house. There didn’t appear to be movement, but Bolan didn’t assume they were safe yet.

  He turned to look at the man he had pulled out of trouble.

  “What’s your story?” Bolan asked. “What did you do to upset them?”

  “Name’s Tom Parker. ATF. I was working undercover until I gave myself away. It was my own fault. A rookie mistake.” He touched his bloody mouth, wincing at the pain. “I paid for that mistake. If you hadn’t shown up, it would have been worse. I owe you...”

  “Cooper.”

  “From? Karev figured you work for Tsvetanov. He got it right?”

  “He was wrong.”

  “Then you’re an Agency guy? FBI? Cop? I know you’re not ATF.”

  “Let’s just say if this were an old Western, I’d be wearing a white hat.”

  Parker managed a swollen smile. “Lone Ranger type, huh?”

  “But don’t expect the cavalry to charge to the rescue. I don’t have backup on this.”

  “Hell, when you work undercover there never is a last-minute rescue.”

  Bolan agreed with that heartfelt sentiment. Over the years, on countless lone-wolf missions, Bolan had never expected help to arrive at the crucial moment. He operated on a keen knife edge, orchestrating his incursions with a single-minded purpose and never anticipating the bugle call to say help was on its way. It was one man against the enemy, and there were times when those odds went over the top.

  In the end, Bolan had only himself to depend on. He chose that path and would never regret taking it. He lived or died by his own game plan. Times were he came out by the narrowest of margins, often bruised and battered, but each time he walked away, he knew he had stepped ever closer to the edge.

  “I ta
ke it you’re not a fan of Marchinski and his business.”

  “His organization is in my sights. So is Tsvetanov’s.”

  “Past time they were all taken down.”

  “So why don’t we test the water, Agent Parker,” Bolan said.

  They cleared the barn and headed in the direction of the house.

  A hunched figure came into view on the far side. The distance didn’t prevent Bolan from recognizing the sentry he had put down using the MP5 like a club. The man’s face was bloody, the lower half pushed out of shape. His damaged knee slowed him to a pained shuffle, but he broke into a run when he spotted Bolan and Parker. Closer to the front entrance he gave a yell, going up the steps to the shallow porch.

  “No surprise, after all,” the ATF agent said.

  The front door swung open and a pair of armed figures appeared. The sentry waved frantically in Bolan and Parker’s direction.

  “Definitely no surprise,” Parker said and brought his pistol into position.

  Gunfire blanketed any more words.

  The pair of Marchinski soldiers cut loose, the SMGs in their hands crackling harshly. The expended slugs chewed at the dusty yard, kicking up geysers of stones and dirt, falling only inches away from Bolan and Parker.

  Bolan stood his ground, raised the MP5, acquired his target and stroked the trigger. He felt the vibration as the SMG fired. His three-round burst caught his target in the chest, knocking him backward. He struck the front of the porch wall, hanging motionless until his own body weight pulled him down.

  In the seconds it took for Bolan to fire, Parker had double-fisted the Glock, picking his moment before he released three close shots—so close they sounded like one. The man on the receiving end tumbled down the porch steps and curled up.

  The sentry broke into movement and snatched up the SMG that had been dropped on the porch. He was swinging it around for target location as he pushed upright.

  Bolan put a three-round burst into his left side, the slugs splintering ribs as they chewed into his body. He slammed against the house, dropping to his knees, and the SMG slipped from his limp fingers.

  “Hell of a neighborhood,” Parker said. “There I was believing the countryside was clean and healthy.”

  He followed Bolan across the yard, where they cleared all the dropped weapons from the downed men.

  Without a word, they flanked the open front door. The hallway inside was in half shadow. No sound. No movement.

  “No more rats to drive out?” Bolan said. “Let’s make certain.”

  They stepped inside, checking the house using a series of search-and-clear moves. Each downstairs room was breached and cleared, then the upper floor.

  No people.

  No Abby Mason.

  But there was enough illegal material to keep the ATF in business for a good while. Agent Parker looked over the stacked drugs, a half-dozen cases of MP5 SMGs and sealed cartons of ammunition.

  “I might not have come across these the way I wanted,” Parker said, “but I’m not complaining.”

  “Call it in, Parker. Get your people here before the Marchinski boys show up.”

  Parker spotted a few cell phones on a table, including his own. He picked it up and tapped in a number. As his call was answered, he wandered out of the house and stood on the porch.

  Bolan picked up a second phone and entered the number that would connect him to Stony Man. When Price came on, Bolan asked to be transferred to Kurtzman. He told the cyber chief to download the cell’s contents.

  “What are we looking for, Striker?”

  “Anything I can use,” Bolan said. “I need a lead. Call me back on my own cell.”

  “You got it,” Kurtzman said.

  “When you’re done, wipe the contents on this one. Everything.”

  Bolan didn’t want anything left on the cell that might be picked up by the ATF.

  There was a silence while Kurtzman locked his powerful equipment online, pulling the data on the cell Bolan was holding.

  “I have it all. Now put the cell down because it goes dead any second.”

  Bolan glanced at the screen and saw it was clear. He switched off the cell and dropped it back on the table, knowing it was as clean as the day it had been purchased.

  Parker entered the room, holding up his phone.

  “This place will be swarming with an ATF crew in thirty minutes, Cooper. I get the vibe you’d rather not be here when they arrive. Would I be right?”

  “What I’m looking for isn’t here.”

  “Maybe I could help if I knew what it was.”

  The two men locked eyes for a moment and then Parker shrugged, realizing he would get nothing from Bolan.

  “The old need-to-know clause?”

  “Something like that. All I can say is an innocent life is at stake. I can’t afford the holdups I’d get from your people. Too many questions I don’t have the time to answer.”

  Chapter 11

  Washington, D.C.

  It was the same metallic voice. Just listening to it sent a cold chill down Larry Mason’s spine. He knew this was the man who had his daughter. The threat of death was hanging over his child. Even though he had been prepared for the call, it still tore through him.

  “What do you have to tell me, Mason?”

  Mason steeled himself and said, “Show me Abby first. Prove she’s still alive and unharmed. If you don’t, I take my chances and end this call.”

  The man laughed. “Still playing tough.”

  There was a pause, then a hesitant flicker and Mason saw Abby. She was sitting on a chair, holding up a copy of a newspaper. The image grew larger and Mason was able to read the date on the edition. The image drew back and now he could read the headline. It showed a current event.

  Mason hoped the trace Brognola had set up was working correctly, and he was getting the same image and sound.

  “Can she hear me?” he asked.

  “No,” the voice said. “But she can hear me. Nod for your father, Abby.”

  The child slowly nodded her head as she lowered the paper, staring fixedly into the camera. The expression on her pale face made Mason want to cry out.

  The image vanished.

  “Now we have established Abby is alive and unharmed, tell me what you have achieved so far. And remember, I have ears and eyes watching you. Do not play games with me, Mason.”

  “I’m trying to arrange for Marchinski to be moved from his current location to another facility. If I can do that, you’ll have the chance to intercept him during the transportation and free him.”

  “That could be risky for us.”

  “There’s risk for all of us. I risk losing my daughter. I risk being exposed and arrested for what I’m doing. You think this is a damned walk in the park for me?”

  “Getting hostile is not gaining you any favors.”

  “Well, the hell with that,” Mason said. “You put me in this position. Do you think I’m obliged to like it? I’ll do what I can to carry out my side of this bargain. I have to believe you’ll let Abby go if Leo Marchinski is freed. That’s all I have to go on.”

  “Keep thinking that way, Mason.”

  “When I have more details, I’ll give them to you. I can’t push too hard or someone might start questioning my reasons.”

  “Just do it. And remember, the clock is ticking.”

  “When you call again, I’ll be expecting an update on my daughter’s condition. No Abby, no deal.”

  The voice held back for a moment. Then, “You keep pushing, Mason. Don’t push too far.”

  “We already covered that. You need my input on this as much as I need my daughter alive. Just remember that.”

  The call ended.

  Mason felt s
weat running down his face. It slid under his collar, cold and clammy. He stared at the cell phone in his hand, fingers threatening to crush the thing. Mason took long breaths to steady himself.

  When he felt calmer, Mason picked up the cell Cooper had given him and scrolled to the number for Brognola. His call was answered after the second ring.

  “We got it all,” Brognola said.

  “What happens now?”

  “I get the call analyzed. See if we can track the source of the signal. Have the voice run through specialist equipment. Try to break it down.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’ll get instant results.”

  “I won’t lie, Larry. These things take time. But the people on it are the best. If there’s an answer, they will find it.”

  “Have you heard from Cooper?”

  “He’ll call in when there’s something to tell.” Brognola cleared his throat. “I understand you must be feeling pretty isolated right now. Probably wondering what the hell is going on. Larry, we’re not sitting on this. I promise.”

  “I know. Don’t think I’m not grateful, Hal. It’s not being able to do anything...”

  “I can’t tell you anything to make it easier right now. Mind a suggestion?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do whatever you can to give the impression you have the Marchinski break in the pipeline. These people say they have ears in your organization, so give them something that can be passed on. If they imagine you’re working on Marchinski’s release, it should give you more time.”

  Chapter 12

  Marchinski Residence

  “Well?” Sabaroff said. The single word held enough of a threat to make the three men cower inwardly.

  Lazlo Sabaroff’s physical presence was often enough to subdue most men. At six feet tall, he was broad, with a deep chest and wide shoulders. His shaved head completed the picture of a man possessed of brute strength coupled with an intimidating presence. He was an ideal second in command, able to carry out Leo Marchinski’s orders to the letter.