Extreme Justice. Don Pendleton
“I didn’t come to hurt you,” Bolan told him.
“Right. I guess you’re with the neighborhood welcoming committee, then.”
“I’m not with these guys. If I was, why would I kill them for you?”
“I don’t give a shit. If you think I’m walking out of here before this place is full of uniforms, you need to have your head examined.”
“The police can’t help you now,” Bolan stated.
“I’ll just take your word for that, shall I?”
“I’d recommend it.”
“Sure you would. Why don’t I shoot myself right now? Spare you the trouble.”
“I was sent to bring you out of here alive.”
“To where?” Favor demanded.
Bolan took a chance. “Back to the States.”
The hidden fugitive barked laughter. “Thanks but no thanks. I don’t fancy serving thirty years.”
Bolan glanced at his watch, frowning. How long until the sirens wailed outside?
“I’d say you’re in a no-win situation, staying here,” Bolan replied. “The cops you bought and paid for won’t be watching when the next hit team shows up to finish this.”
“Who says I’ll be here?” Favor challenged.
“They’ll be waiting for you by the time the uniforms clear out tonight, if they’re not here already.”
“Pull the other one, my friend. I’m sitting tight.”
I don’t think so, Bolan thought, but he said, “Your call.”
“Damned right it is!”
Bolan unclipped the stun grenade and pulled its pin, ignoring Herrera as he moved in closer to the door that stood ajar, concealing Favor from his view. He’d have six seconds from the time he made the pitch, before his canister lit up the library.
“Hey!” Favor called out from the shadows. “You still there?”
I’m here.
The toss was easy, with a rebound from the doorjamb, putting it across the threshold. Favor blurted out a curse and started scrambling, but he had nowhere to go. Bolan dropped to a crouch, closing his eyes and clapping hands over his ears, hoping the lady would be smart enough to do likewise.
The blast was blinding, stunning, but not lethal. Bolan pushed into the smoky library and found Gil Favor writhing on the floor, convulsed and semiconscious. Once he’d kicked the shotgun out of reach, Bolan reached down and hoisted Favor to his feet, stood underneath the fugitive’s left arm—and found Herrera on his other side, gripping the right.
“We’re out of time,” he said. “Let’s go.”
She flashed a smile and said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
They half dragged Favor from the house, past corpses, out the front door and across the sloping lawn. Bolan could hear sirens in the distance as they reached the sidewalk.
Favor was stumbling, not quite helping, by the time they reached the rental car. Bolan stashed the duffel bags of weapons in the trunk, then shoved Favor into the backseat.
“You stay with him,” he commanded. “Keep him quiet.”
It was a relief to get no argument.
He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key and winced as sudden headlights made it high-noon bright from one end of the alley to the other.
In the rearview, Bolan saw no flashing colored lights atop the car behind him. Maybe not police, then. But—
The muzzle-flashes settled it.
He had been bluffing Favor on the backup murder team, but it was true, and they had found him.
Bolan slammed the rental car into gear and stood on the accelerator, tires smoking as he fishtailed from a standing start.
2
Near Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Monday, June 18
The helicopter pilot held his altitude near treetop level as he took the chopper southwest, following the track of Skyline Drive along the stark spine of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Hughes 500 chopper cruised at 137 miles per hour, making it a relatively short trip for the passenger who’d boarded in Washington, D.C.
Mack Bolan didn’t mind the lack of opportunity for leisurely sightseeing. He had made this trip before, with variations, covering the same ground time and time again. Once, he had fought and bled for some of it, but that was ancient history.
This day was business. He was not a tourist, didn’t need to get his money’s worth from every mile.
“Five minutes, sir,” the pilot said, alerting him.
Bolan made no reply, waiting to catch his first glimpse of Stony Man Farm.
It was a working farm, which meant that crops were sown and cultivated, harvested and sold.
The “farmhands” who performed the daily chores at Stony Man were soldiers—Special Forces, Army Rangers, Navy SEALs, Marine Reconnaissance—all sworn to secrecy regarding their assignments at the Farm. They knew it was some kind of sensitive facility, and nothing more.
The helicopter pilot started speaking rapidly into his microphone, exchanging codes, responding to inquiries, satisfying Stony Man security that he and his lone passenger were who and what they claimed to be.
Failure of that test would produce immediate, dramatic, frightening results. The Farm’s AH-1 Huey Cobra attack helicopter stood ready to deal with intruders on two minutes’ notice. The Farm’s defense system also included Stinger shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles and strategically located .50-caliber Gatling guns with a maximum cyclic fire rate of 2,000 rounds per minute. And that was a fraction of the armory.
Long story short, no aircraft of any description landed at Stony Man Farm without clearance.
Bolan’s chopper approached the helipad, fifty yards from the plain-looking farmhouse and equidistant from the nearest outbuilding. No casual observer would’ve guessed at what went on inside the nondescript buildings. Even the radio aerials and satellite dishes were cleverly concealed.
As they were touching down, Bolan saw Hal Brognola coming out to meet him. Barbara Price walked beside the man from Justice, on his left. Other Stony Man personnel would be hard at work inside on one thing or another. Bolan’s afternoon arrival wouldn’t cause the long-term regulars to miss a beat.
They dealt with life-or-death decisions every day.
“Something important,” Brognola had told him on the scrambled sat phone. “We can talk about it when you get here.”
Brognola’s summons wasn’t that unusual, although they sometimes met at other sites. A visit to the Farm didn’t suggest the matter on the table was more critical or dangerous than one they might discuss by telephone. It might, however, mean that Brognola required the Farm’s sophisticated AV gear to make his presentation.
The chopper settled and his pilot killed the engine, waiting for the twenty-six-foot rotor blades to slow, their tips drooping. Bolan unbuckled, thanked his pilot for the lift and disembarked.
“Glad you could make it,” Brognola said, pumping Bolan’s hand.
“No problem,” Bolan answered.
Price’s handshake was professional, the final squeeze a bonus, like her smile.
“I’ve got lunch and a presentation set up in the War Room,” Brognola explained. “We’ll head on down, unless you need to freshen up.”