Don Pendleton - Orange Alert

Bolan opened the driver’s door and, while kneeling next to the car and leaning in, wedged his combat knife between the accelerator and seat so that the gas pedal was pushed to the floor. As the engine raced, he pressed down on the brake with all his strength and shifted into Drive, holding the car’s horsepower in check with one arm. Keeping his eyes riveted to the reflection in the mirror he had placed in the middle of the road, he held steady while beads of sweat broke out across his brow.

The kill would be quick, one way or the other. The SUV would come tearing around the corner. If Bolan was fast enough, he’d release the Land Rover’s brake, allowing his vehicle to bolt from the cutout and crash into his pursuers as they came abreast, knocking them over the side. It was a desperate plan that required perfect timing.

The Land Rover lurched forward an inch, and Bolan pressed harder on the brake pedal, his muscles cramping under the strain. Drops of stinging sweat trickled into his eyes as he waited patiently for his enemies. Despite the agony that screamed from within his arm and shoulder, he willed himself to push harder, controlling the car that surged under his hands like an energy-charged Thoroughbred at the starting gate.

The SUV suddenly appeared in the mirror, coming fast around the curve. A split second later, it was in front of the grotto, its engine racing against the elevation. Bolan released the brake and fell backward as his vehicle surged forward, smashing into the SUV’s passenger side.

Shrieks of twisting metal and screaming tires filled the air. The Land Rover roared forward, pushing the SUV sideways. The vehicle’s driver reacted to the surprise crash by hitting his brakes, which had the effect of giving the Land Rover better leverage as it thrust forward, back tires spinning and smoking, propelling the vehicle toward the edge of the cliff.

When the entwined cars reached the brink, they balanced precariously above the void, as if deciding whether to go over the side. In the SUV’s backseat, two men, their faces reflecting the terror of their situation, began scrambling over each other in an attempt to find the door handle on the side not smashed by the Land Rover. But, before they could grasp it, the laws of physics intervened and the two vehicles plunged over the side, falling through the air for three or four long seconds before crashing onto the rocks below. There was a brief silence before both cars exploded, generating sound waves that merged and echoed as one across the Irish countryside.

Bolan rose from his position and peered over the edge. He was sweaty and breathing hard, but he had bested the enemy. Sliding his hand into his shirt pocket, he fingered Oxford’s molar and the three medals he had taken from the men at the ambush site.

He had won this particular battle, but the Executioner had no doubt that this war was just beginning.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Less than twenty-four hours after returning from Ireland, Mack Bolan sat with Hal Brognola at a conference table in the War Room, one level below Stony Man Farm. Also with them were Carmen Delahunt and Akira Tokaido—two-thirds of Aaron, the Bear, Kurtzman’s cybernetics team.

While waiting for the rest of the group to arrive, Bolan scanned his copy of the message Agent Steven Oxford had Morse-coded minutes before his death into the microchip implanted in his molar.

“Hot off the press,” Delahunt said, nodding toward the transcript. “Good job, Tokaido, decoding it before they even gave us the key.”

Tokaido shrugged while snapping his ever-present bubble gum. “No challenge,” he said while tonguing the pink wad into the space between his teeth and right cheek. He stared into space, head nodding slightly to the rock music blasting through his earbuds, and added, “CIA,” in a derisive tone that conveyed his disdain for what he considered inferior programming and encryption.

“This was their first mention of going after the CIA?” Bolan asked, without looking up from his reading.

“According to Oxford it was,” Brognola answered. “But let’s wait until the others get here.”

As if on cue, the doors to the elevator built into the corner of the room slid open on a silent cushion of air and an attractive woman, who Bolan judged to be in her early thirties, stepped out. She was about five foot nine with jet black hair that fell straight to her shoulders, framing an ivory-pure angelic face. An off-white silk blouse tucked into pleated black slacks hugged her slender curves in an attractive but not provocative way. The woman’s sparkling blue eyes swept quickly across the War Room, settling for a moment on Bolan before moving on to the others.

Aaron Kurtzman was right behind her, holding the door back with one hand for the woman to exit the elevator ahead of him while he gripped a cup of his lethally strong coffee with the other, ever the gentleman, despite being confined to a wheelchair.

Last off the elevator was Huntington Wethers, the distinguished-looking ex-UCLA professor whose academic approach to research was a perfect complement to Tokaido’s natural hacker skills and Delahunt’s methodical common-sense methods.

“Katey,” Brognola said, rising from his chair as the woman approached.

“That’s quite the confidentiality contract you’ve got, Hal. Twenty-five years in Leavenworth for even a minor violation? And the President endorsed it.” The woman shook her head in disbelief.

“It’s in the best interest of national security. Now, have you met everyone?” Brognola asked.

Her eyes fell again on Bolan, who stood and extended his hand.

“Matt Cooper,” he said, using the cover name he’d recently acquired.

“Katey Adams.”

Her grip was firm, and the way she moved made Bolan suspect she probably had an athletic background.

She had, in fact, been one of the most ferocious field-hockey forwards ever to graduate from MIT, but her most significant athletic achievement during her four years at the institute—and the one that initially caught the interest of the CIA recruiters—was her performance on the school’s pistol team for which she earned All-Ivy honors her senior year.

“Katey is on loan to us from the White House Protocol Section,” Brognola said while everyone got settled. “Until last year, when Edmund Fontes took over, she was head of the CIA’s Irish operation, a post she held for eight years. As such, she’s their foremost expert on Ireland. Katey?”

She began by asking, “Have you all had time to read Agent Oxford’s transcript?”

There were nods around the table.

“Have Randolph’s agents been warned?” Bolan asked.

“Too late for that,” she answered. “Marie Johnston was killed this morning in Pamplona at about two o’clock our time. We just didn’t get the molar soon enough. Taylor and Buckley were both hit yesterday. Randolph has been warned. He’s back at his home base in Stuttgart after taking a few days of leave.”

Wethers emitted a low whistle. “Where were the other two killed?” he asked.

“Taylor in London, Buckley in Paris,” Adams replied.

“Is it possible the killings aren’t connected?” Tokaido asked. “A coincidence of three, even with the communiqué, doesn’t equate to zero probability.”

Bolan thought he could hear a tinny sound coming from the hacker’s earbuds and wondered how the man could follow a conversation above the racket.

“Ballistics confirmed that the same weapon killed all three,” Adams answered. “There was also an orange scarf left with each body.”

“They want us to know it’s them,” Brognola said. “Clearly, the group who sent Fontes the communiqué is the same one killing Randolph’s agents.”