Don Pendleton - Infiltration

“All right,” the Executioner replied. “I’ll check it out.”

So Bolan had made his way to Boston via an early commercial flight. His forged credentials identified him as an intelligence analyst with Homeland Security. Bolan knew how to play the role, just as he did so many others. He had practically invented the technique beginning as far back as his war against the Mafia. He called it role camouflage, a method by which he could “appear” to be who he was by acting as people would expect him to act. He’d used these methods many times before, with considerable success.

So it came as a surprise when Bolan picked up on the fact that someone was following him, leaving him to wonder if the RBN’s eyes and ears might actually have extended inside the federal government. Bolan figured staying in role and not letting on he knew these unknowns were tailing him was the best tactic. Besides, he couldn’t take the offensive without risking innocent bystanders, and it wouldn’t avail him anything. Better to pick a time of his own place and choosing.

Yeah, he’d deal with them if and when they proved hostile.

BOLAN MADE the downtown offices of the FBI at One Center Plaza in less than thirty minutes.

The soldier parked his vehicle in a parking garage so he could observe the entrance through the rearview mirror. He waited long enough to spot the sedan as it cruised past. Bolan smiled and removed his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather. He expertly checked the action, then holstered it and made his way toward the elevators. The parking garage was one area that lent itself as a suitable place to take them if he had to. For now, he’d let them stew.

Bolan rode the elevator to the sixth floor and eventually pushed through the heavy glass door marked with the U.S. Customs logo. A receptionist at the desk smiled at him, but she had a no-nonsense glint in her eye. Bolan passed her his forged credentials and announced his business with Lutrova. The woman nodded before returning his badge and ID, along with a visitor pass. She suggested he take a seat, then picked up the phone.

The Executioner declined the seat, instead opting for a quick session with a water cooler in one corner of the reception area. As he crossed the room and helped himself to one of the paper cups, he looked over his shoulder to scope the hallway visible through the all-glass entryway. This was only one of two large federal office buildings at One Center Plaza. City Hall, City Hall Plaza and some county courthouses—as well as a major interchange station overseen by the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority—occupied remaining areas in the government center.

Any criminal organization, even one as vast and bold as the Russian Business Network, would have been insane to try anything in here. Apparently, the RBN fell into that category, because as Bolan tossed back the cold water and dropped the paper cup into a waste can, the four men in suits stepped off an elevator, each of them toting a machine pistol.

“Down!” Bolan yelled.

The receptionist seemed dazed, but got the message as Bolan cleared his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather and went prone. The gunmen opened up simultaneously with their machine pistols. The glass entrance shattered under the assault, and dangerous shards flew in every direction, while others rained onto Bolan and the secretary, who was now under the cover of her desk. Hot lead burned the air above the soldier’s head before it shattered more glass or punched through the plasterboard walls to leave heavy, choking dust in its wake.

Bolan sighted on the surest target and loosed a double-tap. The weapon bucked in his grip as two 185-grain 9-mm hollowpoint rounds traversed a path to one gunner’s chest. The impact drove him into a large potted plant and carried him over the other side. The heavy ceramic pot teetered and landed on top of him, spilling soil everywhere.

The first man going down distracted the one next to him, and Bolan seized the advantage. He triggered another pair of shots. The first one went low and to the left, but the second struck the man’s hip. The guy screamed and his weapon flew from his fingers. His hands went to his shattered bone and he dropped to his knee on his uninjured side. Bolan sent a third round downrange, which struck the target in the forehead. The top of the enemy’s skull came away with devastating effect, and he toppled prone to the carpet.

The remaining pair got wise to the fact that their numbers were halved, and quit firing to find cover from the Executioner’s bullets. As one guy dived for a chair in the hallway, Bolan caught him with a slug to the left side. The bullet went clean through, narrowly missing the heart and instead ripping through shoulder muscle. The clip brought a cry of pain from the gunner, but it wasn’t lethal.

The injured man’s partner managed to get behind a support beam jutting from the wall, but the thin plasterboard proved hardly adequate to stop Bolan. The warrior flicked the fire selector switch to 3-round burst mode and triggered two volleys. The first trio of rounds punched through the flimsy wall. One of them grazed the gunner, and he twisted away, straight into the line of the second 3-round burst. The bullets drilled through the man’s ribs and shoulder, one of them puncturing both lungs before the man sprawled into the hallway on his back.

The surviving gunman broke cover and swept the area with his muzzle, trying to keep his head down as he reverse-stepped toward the elevator bank. Bolan switched out magazines in a heartbeat and leveled his pistol. He triggered another 3-round burst, and then a second, and all six rounds hammered his opponent. The impacts drove him backward, causing his arms to windmill, and making him stagger like a drunken puppet until he crashed into the far wall. He slid to the ground and left a gory streak in his wake.

The echoes of gunfire hadn’t even died when a half-dozen Customs and Homeland Security officials, accompanied by a near equal number of FBI agents, fanned into the room with their weapons drawn. They spotted Bolan and began to yell at him to drop his weapon. The Executioner knew that, in the heat of the moment, anything other than compliance would be suicide, so he laid the weapon on the ground and kept his hands where he could see them.

One of the agents stepped forward and retrieved the pistol quickly, while a second bent to put handcuffs on him. Too far.

Bolan grabbed the man’s wrist. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Stop resisting!” the man said.

The Executioner whirled onto his back so fast the agent didn’t have time to react. Next thing he knew, Bolan had a forearm around his neck and his legs wrapped against the man’s hips, effectively pinning him in place.

“I said, that’s not going to happen,” Bolan repeated. He looked at the other agents, all of whom had guns pointed at him, and added, “you have my weapon and that means I’m no longer a threat. But I’m on your side and there’s no way you’re going to handcuff me like a criminal.”

“Okay, okay!” one of them replied. He holstered his pistol and gestured at the others to back off. “Put them down for now, boys. Everybody just take it easy.”

When they had complied, Bolan released the agent who had tried to cuff him, and got up, before hauling the dazed man to his feet. The agent stepped a respectful distance away as he rubbed his neck and eyed the soldier with venom. Bolan didn’t let it affect him, instead turning to the balding man who seemed to possess the air of command among the others in the group.

Bolan indicated that he was going to reach for his credentials, and once he got a nod from the head agent, he flipped them out and held them high. The agent stepped closer, quickly inspected them and then nodded with a satisfied expression.