Don Pendleton - Meltdown

"She left a few minutes ago. With Mr. Glinkov, Malcolm."

Achison laughed, and Parsons turned to him.

He stepped toward the larger man, his fists clenched.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Malcolm," Achison said.

Bert laughed out loud.

"This just ain't your night, Malcolm," he said.

He laughed again and walked back out of the kitchen. The others could hear him chuckling as he mounted the stairs.

Parsons was about to say something when the door opened with a bang. A small athletic-looking man stumbled through the open door and collapsed at the foot of the table. His face was badly bruised, his clothes torn and dirty.

"My God, what happened to you?" Parsons shouted, kneeling by the fallen man.

"Ambush," the fallen man mumbled. "Somebody jumped us. They got the stuff."

"Who? Who was it?" Parsons demanded.

"You already know that," Achison whispered. "Bolan."

"Who the devil is this Bolan? Everybody talks about him as if he were the Angel of Death or something. You all sound like a bunch of superstitious savages."

"Take my word for it, Parsons, you don't want to know. And if you ever do meet him, I dare say you'll write a few prayers of your own. If you have the time."

"Forget that now. Help me get him upstairs." Parsons turned the now unconscious man over and took him by the shoulders. Achison grabbed his feet, and together they strained to lift him. He was slight, but the deadweight was a challenge. They passed through the door and navigated the broad hall.

At the foot of the stairs, Parsons laid him down.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll go get Bert. We'll never make it by ourselves."

Parsons mounted the stairs two at a time, returning with Bert a moment later. The big man effortlessly hoisted the prostrate form and reclimbed the stairs.

"Poor guy looks like he's had a rough time. Who is he?" Achison asked.

"A new addition to our little family. He was one of the West Virginia team. His name's Eli Cohen."

Pacing back and forth, Hal Brognola waited anxiously for Mack Bolan. He was not looking forward to telling Bolan the latest news.

Rachel Peres had disappeared. She had missed her last two check-ins. She had not been back to her apartment. No one had seen her.

Brognola knew Bolan had become fond of the young woman despite the short time he had known her.

Bolan talked about her in a way he hadn't talked about a woman in a long time. It was couched in terms of professional appreciation, of course. But there was something else. Something in his voice, something approaching affection.

And now she was in trouble. Brognola knew that she was too good not to get word to him, somehow, if she was going to miss a meet. That could only mean she hadn't been able to. Either she was a prisoner or... The big Fed didn't want to think about the other possibility. Rachel Peres's disappearance also meant that a year's work was in danger of going down the tubes. And if Rachel's instincts were right, they were getting close to something, something a lot bigger than they had expected. Parsons was going to make a move. That much was certain. It was going to be big, and it was going to endanger a lot of people. There were too many possibilities, too many places to cover. Brognola knew he needed Rachel's help. Where the hell was she?

Where the hell was Bolan?

The big guy entered the office on cue. Mack Bolan took a seat and watched Brognola expectantly.

"What the hell are you staring at, Mack?"

"At someone who obviously doesn't want to say what's on his mind, but knows he has to."

Brognola tried to smile. "You don't make it any easier. You know that?"

"The day it's easy, is the day you don't need me anymore."

"I guess you're right."

"So tell me."

"We've lost Rachel."

Bolan held his breath before asking, "What do you mean, lost her?"

"I don't know. She missed her last two check-ins. Nobody's seen her. Not for three days."

Bolan stood, sat down, then stood again. He crossed the room to pull open the heavy drapery.

His back to Brognola, he watched the empty street for several minutes. The white-knuckled hand on the drapery told Brognola all he needed to know.

"Tell me what you do know, then." The voice was husky. Brognola hadn't heard him sound like that in a long time. The voice wasn't Mack Bolan's. It belonged to the Executioner.

The big Fed sighed. There was so little to say that it made him feel inadequate, stupid. There was no excuse, and he offered none. He sketched the details in a dull monotone, his eyes riveted to Bolan's broad back. When he finished, he sat on the sofa and waited.

"It must have been West Virginia. They must have figured it out. How else could they have gotten onto her?"

"I don't know. But what could we have done? We couldn't let that stuff out of the country."

Bolan turned to face him. "I know." Turning back to stare down at the empty street, he continued, "Why didn't you tell me about Eli Cohen?"

"Who?"

"Eli Cohen. Who is he?"

"You tell me. I've never heard of him."

"Hal, you don't play with me. I know the games you guys play. I've been there, remember?"

"I swear I don't know what you're talking about. Help me out. Tell me something I can use."

"He was there, at the cave. Said he was part of the team on the inside. When it got a little rough, he threw in with me. Led me into the cave through a back route. When it was over, he was gone, but he left his Kalashnikov. Why didn't you tell me you had a man on the inside?"

"Because we don't have a man on the inside. It's that simple. I have no idea who he is. Or who he works for."

"Then how did he know who I was?"

Brognola shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, Mack. You have to believe me."

"Yeah, I do. Look, I'm wasting time. Where is Parsons? He's the guy to start with."

"That's just what they want you to do. You understand that, don't you?"

Bolan ignored the question. "Has there been any word at all, from anybody? Anything that suggests they're trying to set me up? Just tell me what I want to know. And don't tell me I'll blow her cover. It's already blown. And I'm sure as hell no secret, either."

"All right."

While Brognola talked, Bolan listened with half an ear. His mind was already sorting through options, discarding the complicated and the improbable.

Direct action was the best. Take it to them. Hard.

Hit them where they breathed.

Before Brognola finished, the Executioner already knew what he was going to do. Tonight.

Bolan left Brognola's office, and by the time he reached the George Washington Bridge, he knew what he had to do. He owed it to her. And he was going to pay up. In spades.

The Palisades Parkway was beautiful at night. The moon was almost full, the trees bare, ghostly in the silver light. As he drove farther away from the city, the Hudson's shimmery glow replaced the fading lights of the town.

By Exit Fourteen, it was solid country, nothing but trees and open fields. A startled deer froze at the sound of the rented Camaro's engine and then hightailed it to the safety of the forest. The trees were covered with a thin, icy glaze, and they sparkled when the headlights hit them. Huge boulders, left behind by glaciers, glittered under the ice, their cold fires reflections of the hellfire that blazed in Bolan's eyes. It was cold and clear, the kind of night when death went walking. And it would, if the Executioner found the scum responsible.

Parsons's hideaway was in the country near Middletown. Country living must appeal to him, Bolan thought, and the people of the area had seen it all: Moonies from Harvard, hippies from San Francisco, even groups that practiced witchcraft. Parsons and his friends wouldn't even rate a raised eyebrow. Comings and goings were regular events. The farmland was rich. Apple orchards and horse and dairy farms were numerous. And late-nineteenth-century estates were cheap. Too far from the city for an easy commute, they were now maintained as country homes by the wealthy or turned to more profitable use by small businesses. Or converted to retreats by dozens of cults, movements and activist groups. As he neared Goshen, Bolan could almost smell the nitrate he knew would soon fill his nostrils. It was a smell that would violate the clear, cold air, which was free of car exhaust and factory smoke. The country road was rough. Wary of patches of ice formed by snowmelt runoff, Bolan slowed the car. At the turnoff to Parsons's place, he left the Camaro in a small clearing that had been plowed flat and rutted by heavy use. The road, little more than twin ruts among the snowy weeds, wound through the trees.