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  Jang would never allow himself to face such disgrace. He had family at home, extended relatives who cared for him and were counting on him. Commander Choi had shared this knowledge of his leader’s wrath for one reason: to impress upon his subordinate how very important it was that they fulfill the man’s expectations.

  Jang vowed he would not fail.

  Commander Choi exited the “convenience store”—even the Westerner’s names for their wealth managed to sound self-congratulatory, as they celebrated even the smallest displays of consumerism—with a worried look on his face.

  Jang put his coin away, straightened to full attention and waited for his commander to speak.

  Choi was looking at the tracking device they had brought with them. It was a small box, roughly the size of one of the Westerners’ phones, but with a ruggedized case and physical buttons.

  Something on the screen of the tracking device was cause for concern, Jang gathered. He cleared his throat.

  Choi looked up and shook his head. “The signal from Octavios’s phone has not returned. We are reduced to a single means of tracking his movements. It is less reliable, more subject to signal blockages.”

  “But it works, Commander?” Jang asked.

  “It does. For now. We will have to move more quickly. We cannot allow the target to escape us. If we lose the second signal, we will have no way to acquire the man again.”

  Jang’s spine stiffened and he fired off a salute. “I understand, Commander!”

  “Stop that, you fool,” Choi said. He looked around, making sure no one had seen. “We are undercover. You are not a military man. You are a tourist from South Korea. These idiots cannot tell the difference between one Asian and another. Keep it that way.”

  “Sir,” Jang said, nodding.

  “Let us gather the men. Now that we have full tanks of fuel, we may pursue again. I wish to intercept Octavios while we have the signal. No more wasting time...” His words trailed off and Jang followed his commander’s gaze. A single police car was pulling into the station. There were two officers inside. They stopped at one of the few available pumps and got out of the police cruiser. One started walking for the station, while the other took note of Jang and Choi and began moving toward them.

  “My weapon is in the vehicle,” Jang whispered.

  “Do nothing,” Choi instructed. “I will speak with them. They have no reason to suspect anything.” He stopped talking, as the officer was now close enough to overhear. Choi could speak in Korean, of course, but that would make the officer suspicious. People were made uncomfortable by conversations they could not understand.

  “Hello, Officer,” Choi said brightly. “Lovely day, is it not?”

  “Sorry to bother you both,” the officer stated. He, too, smiled. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many of the same car at once. You guys part of a traveling auto show?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Choi told him. “We are tourists. We are visiting Canada and the United States.”

  “Well, welcome to the USA,” the officer said. His partner emerged from the station, took stock of the situation and remained where he was. Jang noted that the second officer’s hand moved closer to his holstered weapon. The first officer had his thumbs hooked in his duty belt. The weapon in his holster was a Glock 17, very common among law enforcement in North America. “Do you mind if I look a little bit more closely? I promise I won’t touch anything. It’s just that these are really slick cars, and I’ve always kind of wanted one.”

  “I see no problem with that,” Choi said.

  Jang began to angle around to his own vehicle, one of the silver sedans. Inside was his submachine gun. He intended to be ready. They could not be taken by law enforcement. Choi shook his head, making eye contact with Jang.

  “Say, uh...” the officer began, staring into the very sedan in which Jang’s Daewoo K-7 was lying in full view on the passenger seat. The cop’s hand went to the grip of his Glock.

  Choi drew his CZ-82 pistol from his waistband and aimed for the back of the officer’s head. When the cop turned, he was staring into the barrel of the little pistol.

  “Wait—” the officer said.

  Gunfire cut the air, but it was not Choi’s pistol that fired. A woman, standing not far from the entrance to the convenience store, had drawn a pistol that Jang recognized as a compact Jericho 941. She laid down covering fire, causing Choi to dive for the pavement.

  Jang broke into a run and circled the vehicle, clawing for the door to retrieve his weapon.

  The police officers wasted no time shouting orders. The one closest to the convenience store—and the mystery woman with the gun—broke into a run, drawing his Glock and spraying bullets toward Jang and Choi as he made for his police cruiser. Once inside, he started the vehicle, brought it around, and nearly rammed Choi and Jang’s Mercedes as he picked up his partner. Then the two were circling the station again, lights and sirens going, as one of them shouted commands through a loudspeaker built into the vehicle.

  Jang reached his K-7 as the woman with the Jericho noticed him. She dropped to one knee, her pistol still in a two-handed grip, and began firing. He was able to get the Daewoo into action, firing in her direction and driving her back behind the corner of the convenience store.

  Who was she? She was small, lithe, with very black hair cut short at her shoulders. He did not recognize her. A woman that striking would have made an impression in their mission briefing.

  Was she an American civilian? It was widely known that all Americans carried guns. Their barbarous nation was awash in death as their citizens killed each other in the streets over the smallest of slights. What a people so rich had to argue about was anyone’s guess. Jang gathered that it had something to do with tensions among the nation’s many ethnic subdivisions, a concept he found incomprehensible.

  If this were an interloping American, he would kill her and be on his way. The police would, even now, be summoning reinforcements. There would be too many of them, even for trained SSD operatives. The thought made him very uneasy.

  “Jang!” Commander Choi shouted. “Get in the car!”

  Choi climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, while Jang positioned himself as gunner in the passenger side. He rolled down the window and began spraying the police car with bullets. That caused the cops to pull back, putting distance between their vehicle and the station. The mystery woman, meanwhile, peppered the silver Mercedes with several rounds while Choi led his convoy of vehicles back onto the road.

  “Radio Pae and Kwak. Tell them to engage the police.”

  Jang nodded. He took his General Mobile Radio Service—GMRS—radio from his pocket and gave the orders. The last of the Mercedes sedans, one of the black ones, braked and turned, heading back toward the police vehicle.

  “They were good men,” Jang said.

  “They are good men.” Choi contradicted him. “If they die in service to the Supreme Leader’s orders, then they die. They do so in order that we may escape. Honor them.”

  Jang nodded.

  The SSD convoy was now moving at a good clip through the streets of Buffalo. Choi pointed to the glove compartment and Jang nodded. There was a portable police scanner inside. He took it out, somewhat awkwardly with only one hand free, and switched it on. He began scanning the local bands.

  Choi, meanwhile, was driving with one hand, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror as he watched the tracking device with the other. He turned as required, sometimes at the last minute, forcing the other cars to maintain the same breakneck pace.

  “Your error has cost us,” Choi said.

  Jang forced himself not to tremble with shame. “I am sorry, Commander.”

  “We switched out the car for one that had no perceptible damage precisely to avoid raising suspicions. Then you leave an automatic weapon in full view.”r />
  “I am aware.” Jang felt his face growing hot.

  “Now I have lost two of my team,” Choi continued. “The police have been alerted to our presence. That officer was merely curious. They believe groups of Asians roam everywhere taking pictures. He would have believed our cover story. Now, everything is more difficult.”

  “I beg your forgiveness for my error,” Jang said quietly.

  “Do not beg my forgiveness. Instead, vow to perform, and to fight, as you never have before. The Supreme Leader was very clear in his mandate to us. I spoke with Intelligence before we departed Pyongyang. They warned me that if the Canadians transferred custody of Octavios to the Americans, the United States would likely assign one of their most ruthless and effective agents.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I am yet again, now against my better judgment, sharing information with you that I should not,” Choi said. “I do this so that you may better and more effectively serve our cause. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Commander.”

  “There have been rumors for years now. Rumors of American agents operating well outside the rules of engagement for their nation’s other forces. We call them the Ghost Squads. Trained killers. Men who appear and disappear seemingly at will, carrying out assassinations in the name of the hated United States.”

  “You believe we face this?”

  “At least one,” Choi admitted. “Possibly more. You will need to be on your guard for these ghosts. Strike fast. Be effective. Show no hesitation.”

  “I understand, Commander. I will not fail you.”

  “See that you do not,” Choi warned. “Or both our lives will be forfeit when we return to Pyongyang.”

  The American police were chattering animatedly now. The gunfight at the gas station was drawing considerable attention. Jang cursed himself. He would have to fight harder than he ever had in his life to win back Commander Choi’s confidence. He glanced at the side mirror.

  “What is that?” he said aloud.

  “What?” Choi queried, looking up from his tracking device and back to the road.

  A small vehicle was moving up fast, eating up the road. The sound of gunfire reached their ears. As first one, then another, of the Mercedes sedans in the convoy spun out, Jang realized what was happening. The occupant of the car was shooting out tires in passing.

  “No!” Jang shouted. “Commander, accelerate! Accelerate!”

  Choi didn’t waste time asking questions. He floored the gas, driving the Mercedes on. An intersection loomed and he was forced to slow, running the red light. There was much honking. As they slowed through the curve, the pursuit vehicle—a bright red sports car of a model Jang could not identify—continued to gain ground. There were more shots, more destroyed tires. One by one, the driver of the sports car was immobilizing the SSD convoy.

  “Kill that man!” Choi roared.

  Jang nodded. He brought up the K-7, swapping out the magazine for a fresh one. He had a pile of the loaded magazines under the seat. Chambering the first round, he rolled down his window and prepared to douse the pursuing sports car with bullets.

  The driver, seeing Jang lean out of the vehicle, suddenly accelerated.

  Jang fired, but his shots went wide, clipping one of the sports car’s fenders but doing no damage. He had never seen a vehicle accelerate that fast. The low-slung red car shot past...but not before the driver put a bullet through the driver’s-side front tire of the Mercedes.

  Choi cursed, struggling to keep from losing control. He managed to bring the Mercedes to a halt.

  “Lamborghini,” Jang said.

  “What?” Choi demanded.

  “That is what it said on the side of the car. I could not hit it fast enough.”

  “Worry about that later,” Choi told him. “We must flee. Radio the others, tell them to assemble on me. We must find other transportation, and quickly, before the police find us.” He examined the street. It was a commercial area. He saw people watching from the shop windows. A single pedestrian ran from the scene of the gunfire. “Did you see the driver? What did he look like?”

  “It was not a ‘he’ at all. It was the woman,” Jang said. “The woman with the black hair, from the gas station.”

  Choi cursed. Jang tucked his weapon awkwardly under his shirt.

  The men of the SSD ran, searching for vehicles to steal.

  Chapter Eight

  Outside Buffalo, New York

  “Striker here,” Bolan said, answering his encrypted smartphone.

  “Striker, is Octavios listening in?” Barbara Price asked.

  “Only sort of. He’s in the trunk.”

  “I take it he’s not enjoying the ride.”

  “Neither was I,” Bolan said. “He’s in time-out. Tell me something, Base. What do you know about the device implanted in Octavios’s chest? Could it be producing a radio signal of some kind? Something trackable?”

  “Not that we know of,” Price replied. “Bear has full specs from the Canadians, who did a thorough analysis while he was in their custody. We’ve also got a satellite tracking you, looking for passive signals. We haven’t found anything yet, although Bear says he hasn’t checked every possibility on the spectrum. He needs time, he informs me.” Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman was the head of Stony Man’s cyberteam.

  “Have him keep at it,” Bolan said. “Something’s not right here. Octavios had a phone on him, and I’m pretty sure that’s how his people were tracking us. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re still being tailed, even though I’ve destroyed the phone.”

  “Just a feeling?”

  “Yeah. Just. But I don’t like it. He’s hiding something. Every instinct I’ve got tells me he’s holding something back.”

  “Well he is the world’s foremost data thief and troublemaker,” Price reminded him.

  “I get it. But it’s more than that. I’ve got that feeling that I’m headed into an ambush, and I don’t like it.”

  “We’ll do everything we can,” Price stated. “I’ll—” She stopped in midsentence. “Wait. I’ve got something coming in on the emergency band. There’s a major gun battle. Based on your location data, you’re heading right for it.”

  For this mission the Farm tracked his whereabouts using his secure phone. That was the point of the encryption, custom-designed by Kurtzman’s team. It prevented enemies from tracking Bolan’s whereabouts in the same way that Octavios’s location had been tracked. It also gave the Farm the ability to coordinate operations like this, keeping tabs on how far Bolan was from his destination. Routing support to him, should he require it, would be relatively easy...but was a last resort. Stony Man Farm was a covert operation, and the people in charge preferred its operatives leave as small a footprint as possible.

  Gun battles, while rare, did happen. They could, and often were, explained in the media as gang battles, thanks to the intercession of Brognola’s office. The big Fed spent a lot of time pressuring various law-enforcement entities—not to mention elements in the media—to make sure public panic wasn’t created. If the general population had an inkling of even a small percentage of the ongoing operations taking place on United States soil, there would be an uproar. That kind of public outrage would directly interfere with the Farm’s mission.

  In other words, while it was always possible to call in Jack Grimaldi and a gunship, or heavy artillery brokered through one of the special operations branches in the government, using that kind of equipment on American soil created potential security risks. Bolan could, for the most part, handle his problems himself, doing as little damage as possible.

  His definition of “as little damage as possible” might differ considerably from Brognola’s, but the Executioner always did his best to not create new problems. The various stomach issues the big Fed had experienced over the years
probably belied that point. Bolan, though, was a firm believer in getting things done however he had to do them. The Justice man would adapt; he always had.

  “I need you to arrange something for me, Base,” Bolan said. He took the phone away from his head, found the draft message he’d prepared previously and hit Send.

  “What’s this?”

  “Coordinates and diagrams. I need you to see if you can arrange for some earth-moving equipment. It’s got to happen quickly. All the explanations are with my attachments.”

  “We’ll do everything we can, Striker,” Price said. “We have assets in the area.” She paused for a moment, her attention drawn to something else. “More and more reports are coming in. The local authorities are going absolutely nuts. It sounds like a war has broken out on the streets of Buffalo. At least, that’s what they’re saying when they describe it.”

  “No less than the Canadians did, I assume?”

  “Don’t remind me,” Price said. “Hal’s been trying to keep the Canadians calm all morning.”

  “Tell him to use the rogue agent angle,” Bolan suggested. “We’ll just need to issue me a different identity the next time I’m up north.”

  “I imagine he’s been leaning on that hard already,” Price stated. “I can’t really blame them. Where you go, things always get...interesting.”

  “I’d prefer them to stay very, very boring. But we can’t always get what we want. The good news is, the car is intact, Octavios is alive and I’m still on course.”

  “Did you forget the part where you’re driving into a war?”

  “‘Sufficient unto the day,’” quoted Bolan, “‘is the evil thereof.’ Besides, I don’t think I’ll have much choice but to brazen it out. They’re still tracking Octavios somehow. I’d put real money on it. Let me know if Bear finds anything. I’m going to have my hands tied getting Captain Hacker Pants back there safely to where we want him.”