Rogue Force Read online

  "A pleasure, Colonel Phoenix."

  "That's ex-colonel. You can call me John."

  And Bolan was surprised at just how easily it all came back — the cover name, the easy banter with his troops. Except that they weren't his troops, not anymore. He had divorced himself from Stony Man and SOG forever, kindling his bridges into flame deliberately with the white heat of his rage. The fire had faded over time, reduced itself to glowing embers, but it wouldn't do to think of this as home. The Executioner was merely passing through en route to Hell.

  Before the lady could respond to Bolan, Kurtzman intervened. "I've got some business to discuss with Fearless Leader, Barb," he said, ignoring Hal Brognola's pained expression. "Would you show the colonel to his quarters for me? He's in number seven."

  Hesitating for the barest fraction of an instant, Barbara Price responded with a smile. "Of course." She turned to Bolan, and the smile remained in place, although it looked a little strained. "Can I have someone get your luggage, Col… I mean…"

  "I travel light," he told her simply. "This is it."

  "Well, then, if you'll just follow me…"

  He did, across the dining room and toward the entryway and its ascending staircase.

  "We have elevators," she informed him, "but they're at the far end of the house. The stairs are closer to your room."

  "I know."

  She hesitated on the landing, glancing back at Bolan in surprise. "You've been at Stony Man before?"

  "A time or two."

  "I'm sorry, I assumed… that is… well, dammit, I don't know exactly what I mean."

  They shared an easy laughter, and the soldier pulled himself up short again before he could allow himself to feel at home inside those walls.

  "You thought I was some kind of drop-in VIP," he offered lightly, "kissing up to Hal for help on some pet project."

  "Something like that," she agreed reluctantly, and Bolan saw the color rising in her cheeks. "You've found me out."

  "Relax. I know the feeling. Amateurs get in the way, regardless of their good intentions. You don't strike me as an amateur."

  They reached the door of number seven, and she lingered on the threshold while he checked the room, as if the act of entering might somehow have committed her to something more.

  "We keep the bathrooms stocked with various necessities," she told him. "But you know that. If you think of anything at all that you might need…"

  "I'm fine," he told her. "Thank you," he added, knowing he dared not face her as she closed the door behind her.

  It wasn't the room that he had previously occupied, the bed where April Rose had come to him on nights when neither one of them could bear to be alone. He offered up a silent word of thanks to Kurtzman for the kindness. There were ghosts enough around the farm without inviting them to lie beside him in the darkness.

  Bolan checked the closet and found a pair of uniforms already hanging there. They were his size: one khaki, one in olive drab. He smiled and closed the door again, then retraced his steps along the silent corridor and down the stairs to exit through the front this time. He needed time to think, and he made a circuit of the big house, lingering beside the tractor barn for several moments, listening to distant sounds of battle in his mind. For just a moment he could almost smell the gunsmoke, hear the small arms crackle as his men regrouped behind the barn and drove the enemy before them into bloody death. For just a moment he could almost feel the deadweight of a slender body in his arms.

  Enough!

  The Executioner had laid those ghosts to rest in fearful dreams that churned with smoke and fire until he'd woken up drenched in perspiration, fingers knotted in the sheets as if around the throat of some undying adversary. He had journeyed home to Pittsfield in his search for answers, finding some, but only on the razor's edge of death itself. The past had the power to haunt him still, but he wouldn't allow the ghosts to rule his life.

  He heard the helicopter well before its silhouette was visible against the crystal sky. Company was on the way, but Bolan saw no need to second-guess identities. If it was Phoenix Force or Able Team, some others yet unknown to him, the Executioner would meet them in due time as their involvement in the mission was revealed. Brognola like to stage his introductions, and the Bear had already upstaged him once, with Barbara Price. It wasn't Bolan's place to write the script this time. He might have some revisions farther down the line, a few surprises up his sleeve for all concerned, but he wasn't about to tamper with Brognola's introduction of the cast.

  All ghosts behind him for the moment, Bolan turned and started back in the direction of the house to meet the new arrivals. As he walked, he was surprised to find that he was looking forward to it, as a quarterback looks forward to the kick-off in a major game, as warriors in the midst of desperate battle eagerly await the chance to face their opposition.

  8

  It was Phoenix Force, arriving on a shuttle flight from Dulles with their gear. The sunburned warriors were unloading from a transport van when Bolan spotted them, and he descended from the ranch house porch to meet the team halfway. The gruff Israeli, Yakov Katzenelenbogen, an unaccustomed smile already brightening his weathered face, saw Bolan first. His good left hand was reaching out for Bolan's as the Executioner drew up beside the van.

  "Brognola told us he was hoping you'd be in on this," Katz said. "I didn't think he'd pull it off."

  "I didn't think so, either."

  "Welcome back."

  "We'll see."

  He moved among the others, shaking hands and reaffirming bonds of militant camaraderie. The Cuban, Rafael Encizo, smiled so broadly that his face appeared in danger of exploding. Gary Manning, the Canadian ballistics and explosives expert, seemed relieved to find the Executioner on board. The former SAS commando, David McCarter, was reserved as usual, but his pleasure at their meeting was no less sincere. The newest member of the team was Calvin James, a burly soldier with the ebony complexion of his warrior ancestors. Bolan wondered briefly whether it was Calvin's relative position on the ladder of seniority or something else that made him seem so distant.

  James had come aboard as a replacement for the only Phoenix warrior killed in battle to the present time. Keio Ohara had combined a martial artist's expertise with something close to wizardry in electronics. He had been trained in demolitions and as a paracommando… but none of that had made him bulletproof. His death in combat had surprised and shaken the survivors of the team; aware that it could happen anytime, to any one of them, the sudden shock of grim reality had given pause to Katzenelenbogen and his fellow warriors.

  There had been no rivalry, no obvious resentment, when Brognola had selected James as Keio's stand-in. The Executioner had heard of Calvin James, the guy had proved himself repeatedly in battle, and there had been no complaints from any of the veteran Phoenix warriors.

  Not your problem, Bolan told himself, and put the matter out of mind, returning to the manor house with Katzenelenbogen and the others. Kurtzman and Brognola were already waiting on the porch to greet them. Bolan caught a glimpse of Barbara Price beyond the open doorway, but she was obviously busy with other business, and she disappeared without a backward glance.

  "We've got a big convention coming," Kurtzman told them. "Salesmen from Topeka. Some of you will have to double up unless you want to try the barracks."

  "What?" McCarter feigned surprise. "No penthouse suite?"

  "No penthouse, period," the Bear replied. "I've got you booked as follows: Manning and McCarter, number one, Cal and Rafael, next door in number eight, and Katz, you're alone in number two."

  "How'd that work out?" McCarter asked.

  "RHIP," James told him with a grin. "Rank has its privileges."

  "That's bloody rank, all right."

  "If you need any help with gear, feel free to lug it up yourselves," said Kurtzman. "All our porters are on strike, as usual."

  "Last time I book this joint for a vacation."

  One by one the Phoenix
warriors disappeared inside until Mack Bolan, Kurtzman and Brognola were alone.

  "That just leaves Able in the wind," Hal said. "I got a telex that their flight out of Los Angeles was held up on a technical. They'll be in late tonight or first thing in the morning."

  "Lyons probably connected with some sweetheart," Kurtzman said.

  "I wouldn't put it past him."

  Silence spun its fragile web between them for a moment until Bolan broke the clinging strands.

  "You've done a good job, Aaron."

  "Nothing to it. After all the smoke cleared, we had money up the ying-yang for a while. The CIA was so embarrassed that they were offering to let us tap their secret fund carte blanche."

  "It took a damn sight more than money, and you know it."

  "Well… I had some help."

  "Damned little," Hal put in. "The rest of us were marking time until they posted him for active duty," he informed the Executioner. "If something works around this place today, this guy is probably responsible."

  "Go and pull the other leg," Bear said. "It couldn't hurt."

  "I'm serious, goddamn it!"

  "Well… I did have help. Keio and Gadgets helped me with schematics and the wiring. Everybody got his two cents in on hardware and security. I won't say that we're fail-safe, but we're tighter now."

  "And will remain so, with any luck," Brognola told him, glowering. "The last damned thing we need is another raid on the farm."

  "Agreed. But still, you never know…"

  "Allow me some illusions, will you? Just this once I'd like to make believe things work the way they're supposed to."

  "Sure, why not?"

  "Where did you pick up your assistant?" Bolan asked the Bear.

  "Who? Barb? She's MIT with honors, class of '84. If it has circuits and a keyboard, she can make the sucker walk and talk, I guarantee."

  "How long's she been aboard?"

  "Six months or so. She's clean, don't worry."

  "Say again?"

  "Her background check. We found a second cousin on her mother's side who got thrown out of Greenpeace in the seventies for advocating violence, but the family doesn't even talk to him these days. I trust her like she was my own."

  "That's good enough for me."

  The Bear appeared to have a sudden flash of revelation, staring hard at Bolan for a moment. "Hey, but if you'd rather she took a leave of absence for a day or two, I'll set it up."

  "No need."

  "Well, I just thought…"

  "That was your first mistake," the soldier told him gruffly, but he couldn't hide the grin for long.

  "So, everybody's a comedian these days. I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to get a job done in this three-ring circus."

  "Take two Valium and call me in the morning," Hal suggested.

  "I'd prefer to take a six-pack and forget the call."

  "Sounds reasonable."

  For the second time that afternoon, an aircraft engine broke the primal stillness of the valley, droning like an insect in the distance, drawing closer as they stood and scanned the far horizon.

  "There," Brognola said, pointing toward a speck that had appeared above the distant treetops.

  "I thought Able was delayed," Bolan said.

  "They are," Brognola agreed.

  "Could be some yokel trying out his toy," Kurtzman suggested.

  "It doesn't feel right," Hal said. "Call up condition yellow."

  "Way ahead of you," the Bear told him. "We stand on yellow from the moment we detect a possible intruder."

  They could see the vaguest outline of the aircraft now, a single-engine prop. It had already crossed the farm's perimeter and had begun to circle over the protected airstrip.

  "Let's go," Brognola snapped, but Bolan was already off the porch and circling the house with loping strides. He reached the Chevy first and was already seated when Brognola scrambled in behind the wheel. The engine caught on the first try, and they were digging for a moment, rear tires spewing gravel as the man from Justice powered from a standstill with the pedal on the floor.

  "Goddamn it, if some local yokel picked today to be a smartass, I'll personally break his joystick off and shove it in his ear."

  "That should be educational," Bolan quipped.

  "You bet your ass."

  Brognola covered the three-quarters of a mile in something under sixty seconds, rocking to a halt on the grass beside the east-west runway. Bolan noticed that the farmhand from the gate had fixed his pickup truck in record time, and he was with them now, parked near the juncture of the airstrip's runways with his door wide open and the Uzi visible across his knees. From somewhere in the trees, two men on horseback had emerged from different directions, closing on the private landing field, their carbines clear of saddle holsters by the time they reached ground zero.

  Bolan slipped a hand inside his jacket, fingers curled around the grips of his Beretta, drawing comfort from the weapon's solid weight beneath his arm. He didn't clear leather, not yet, although Brognola had his snubby .38 in hand, half hidden on the seat beside him. They could see the aircraft clearly now — a Cessna Mescalero. With a thirty-six-foot wingspan, it was used primarily for air force training exercises. Capable of seating two, the plane was almost certainly unarmed… but even if it had been stuffed with high explosives, it was coming down too far from any target to inflict real damage on the farm.

  And if the pilot was a local yokel, he was in for some unpleasantness, the Executioner reflected. Violating federal airspace was a felony, but prosecution was the least of it. The guy would be confronting half a dozen guns and one infuriated Hal Brognola. Of the choices offered, Bolan knew that he would personally have preferred the guns.

  The Mescalero's pilot touched down lightly, throttled back at once and was taxiing before he reached the midpoint of the east-west runway. Bolan took his time in exiting the Chevy, anxious for its cover if the Cessna proved to be a kamikaze, but Brognola was already homing on the plane, his .38 held close against his leg and out of sight. The others took no pains to hide their weapons, covering the cockpit fore and aft, alert to any sudden, hostile movements by the pilot.

  Even with the tinted windows, Bolan realized that they were dealing with a single man. The second seat was empty, and unless the pilot had a backup gunner lying on the floor, he was alone. As Bolan watched, the human silhouette unbuckled safety harnesses, shut down the engine and retreated toward the exit hatch. Brognola was already waiting for him on the ground when he emerged.

  "Goddamn it! Will you look at this, for pity's sake?"

  "I'm looking," Bolan told him, closing rapidly to shake the outstretched hand of Jack Grimaldi.

  "Bet you thought I wasn't coming to your party."

  "Last I heard," Brognola said, "you weren't invited."

  "Technicalities. How are you, Sarge?"

  "I'm hanging in. And you?"

  "The same."

  Grimaldi had been Bolan's wings in the early days of his one-man war against the Mafia. A veteran of Vietnam who had sold his talents to the highest bidder and become embroiled with members of the syndicate, Grimaldi had been more than ready to defect when Bolan had come along and offered an alternative. For months he had served as Bolan's eyes inside the Mob, reporting on the travels of assorted gangland VIPs. When the Phoenix team was organized at Stony Man, Grimaldi was among the charter members, and his expertise with aircraft had seen Mack Bolan through a number of his worst campaigns against the savages.

  "I understand we're cooking up big medicine," Grimaldi said.

  "I'd like to know where that came from," Brognola growled in answer.

  "Yeah, I'll bet you would."

  "Goddamn it, Jack…"

  "Hey, mellow out. I'm here, okay?"

  Brognola scowled. "Okay."

  "That's the spirit. Nice of you to offer me a lift."

  "I ought to let you walk."

  "Ah, but you won't."

  "Get in the car."

&nb
sp; Brognola stowed his .38 and slid behind the wheel. They made the short drive back in silence and found Kurtzman waiting for them on the porch.

  "Hey, Jack," he called. "I wondered when you'd get here."

  Hal was glaring back and forth between them, but the look was losing some of its ferocity. "You called him in?"

  "Seemed like the thing to do," Bear answered. "What's a family reunion without the black sheep?"

  "Is that some kind of ethnic slur?" Grimaldi asked.

  "Christ, I give up." Brognola was already clumping up the stairs when laughter hit him like a wave. He hesitated, glanced from one brave warrior to the next and finally joined them, a bemused expression on his face as if he couldn't quite believe himself. "Well, now that you're here," he said at last, "we'll have to find some quarters for you."

  "Got it covered," Kurtzman interjected. "Jack, you're booked in number four."

  "Surrounded by conspirators," Hal grumbled, and that set the laughter off again. It broke at last when Barbara Price emerged onto the porch, a curious expression on her face.

  "Is everything all right?" she asked.

  "I wonder," Hal replied offhandedly. "Come on, Jack. Let's go up and get you settled."

  "Thought you'd never ask." Grimaldi winked at Barbara as he passed, causing her to blush.

  When they were alone, she turned to Bolan hesitantly. "I'm afraid I owe you an apology."

  "Oh?"

  "I didn't recognize your name."

  "No problem. I do that myself, sometimes."

  "No, honestly… I should have put the two together. Colonel Phoenix, as in Project Phoenix."

  "It's still John," he said. "No point in hashing over ancient history."

  "We study your campaigns, you know. As training when we enter SOG."

  "That must be tedious."

  "Oh, not at all… I mean…"

  The color had returned to Barbara's cheeks, and Bolan let her off the hook. "How long have you been interested in computers?"

  "All my life, I guess. I got a small one for a birthday present when I was in grade school. It was just a toy, of course. You asked it certain questions, and a little voice would answer. But it got me started."