Don Pendleton - Blood Testament

"Goddammit, I don't know. But if my source is right about Lee Farnsworth's crowd still hanging on at Langley, you can pick your motives by the dozen."

" If your source is right, okay. So, how reliable's this Mr. X? How highly is he placed?"

"He's at the top. They don't come any higher." Hal Brognola's eyes had bored into her own, and something passed between them. Susan knew that he was handing her the story of a lifetime, and she knew that most — or all — of it would never see the light of day. She had already sworn herself to secrecy, the price of being granted entry to their huddle in the first place, and she would not break her word to Bolan. The man meant more to her than that, although her feelings were demonstrably irrational, perhaps insane.

She would attempt to use her contacts in the Company to learn if any of Lee Farnsworth's bosom friends were still around, still in position to conduct a covert operation of the sort that had embroiled Brognola's family. If she could unearth any solid evidence, then she could...

What?

Crank out a series that would cinch her for the Pulitzer?

Produce a book that would expose the inner workings of the secret government?

Susan Landry was committed to a course of action diametrically opposed to every instinct. Rather than exposing crime, corruption and the rest of it, she was collaborating with a wanted criminal — a murderer, no less — and helping to select his future targets. Rather than attempting to exonerate Brognola through the media, by showing up the shoddy frame for what it was, she was involved in dark guerrilla warfare with the Mob — and possibly with renegades inside the very government that both of them were seeking to protect.

The secret witness angle was a story in itself, but once again she knew that it was out of bounds. Already one of Hal's important contacts had been murdered, and before he reached the others on his list, they might be dead, as well. She could accomplish nothing positive by publishing their names while they survived. But as for those who had been sacrificed...

The germ of an idea had taken root in Susan's mind and it was growing rapidly. There just might be a story, after all, provided she could get the facts to back it up. A story of the men and women who had given everything they had to strike a blow against the savages, and who were paying for it now in blood. If she could write that story — from the viewpoint, say, of an informant who had been found out and executed by the mob — there was a chance that she could turn another spotlight on the syndicate, give Gianelli and his cohorts reason to remember her.

Before they killed her.

A chill had wormed its way beneath her scalp, but the woman kept herself from trembling with thoughts of Bolan. If the soldier's plans worked out, there would be no more Nicky Gianelli for her to expose, no renegades at Langley, no more threat to Hal Brognola's family.

If Bolan's plans worked out.

And if they didn't, then she would be honoring his last request for an obituary, dammit, putting heart and soul into the lines that summarized a valiant life. She couldn't do him justice on the printed page, but she would do her best, and Susan knew that Bolan would have counted that as fair enough.

But she was hoping that she would not have to write those lines. Not yet. Not here and now. Not while there was so damned much left to say.

They had removed her watch upon arrival at the safe house, but Helen Brognola knew that there was less than ninety minutes left. Her information had been gathered from the muffled conversation of their captors, from her internal clock that marked the passing hours faithfully, if imprecisely. It was past ten-thirty now.

The meeting had been scheduled for the stroke of midnight, Helen knew that much. She also knew that Hal would be on time, or early. He had not been late for anything in years, and he would not start now with so much at stake. But Helen wished that she could warn him, prevent him from appearing at the rendezvous. She could have saved him, given a chance, but there wouldn't be another opportunity.

She idly wondered how long they would live past midnight once the thing was done. Long enough, perhaps, to find a makeshift weapon, seek some measure of revenge against the animals who were already moving to destroy her world. If there was nothing she could do for Hal, there might be something that she could accomplish for the children, even with her death.

And death was coming.

Soon.

There had been little hope from the beginning. She had realized it when none of their abductors took precautions to disguise themselves. And having understood that she, Jeff and Eileen were not expected to survive and testify in court, the only question still remaining dealt with time. At first, she thought, it had been Hal who saved them, doggedly insisting that they each speak to him by telephone before he would consider the demands of their abductors. Later, once the snatch team got their orders from outside, their deaths had taken on the status of a planned event, the intervening hours finite.

If there was any doubt at all, the bits and pieces of a conversation gleaned by listening at the door had wiped all hope away.

"What are we waiting for? Let's get it over with."

"We're waiting 'cause we got our orders. I'll tell you when we go."

"We're wasting time."

"You're getting paid, man. Settle down."

"The cops..."

"Don't have a frigging idea where we are. Besides, another couple of hours, and they'll all be busy out at Arlington."

"The meet still set for twelve?"

"It's set. They're looking at a clean sweep."

"Then we can get this over with?"

"We're waiting for the call."

"Suppose they're late?"

"Suppose they are. You got a date or something?"

"Tell you what I wouldn't mind, and that's a piece of what we got in there."

"She's half your age, you horny bastard."

"So? I like 'em young."

"You like 'em any way that you can get 'em."

"True. So true."

"Well, you can keep it in your pants until we get that call."

"And then?"

"We'll see."

Helen kept the certain knowledge of annihilation to herself, and started looking for a weapon once again. They had already scoured the room, found nothing but the furniture itself, the chairs on which they sat, and those would stand small chance against the automatic weapons carried by their captors.

It was not the thought of death so much that frightened her. The startling concept of her own mortality had been uniquely driven home at thirty-three, when doctors had removed a pea-sized nodule from her breast. They had determined it to be benign, but in the interim she had prepared herself for painful, wasting death, and having faced her fears up close, she knew they had no power in themselves. You were alive until you died, and after that... well, she would have to wait and see.

It was the threat against her children, the apparent threat to Hal, that worried Helen now. Her husband was a man accustomed to the dark side, long conditioned to a world where murder was routine. He would protect himself as best he could, and given any opportunity at all, he would survive. It would be difficult, of course. The odds would be against him, but Helen knew what he could do. At home he seldom spoke about his job, and never brought the bloodshed with him when he left the office. But she knew that he had killed on more than one occasion, stopping men who meant to take his life, the lives of others. He was strong and as hard as nails when he was angry, though the family had seldom seen that side. She knew him as a man of grim determination, and she knew that given half a chance he would survive.

A lump formed itself in Helen's throat as, for seemingly no rhyme or reason, she remembered the skinny young law student whom she had fallen in love with. And after marriage, through births, tottering steps and painful puberty he had been at her side, her children's, wincing silently and feeling the pain as Jeff and Eileen resolutely bore the ravages of growing up. The strength they showed then was a testament to the Brognola blood.