Don Pendleton - Neutron Force

Keeping pace with the other guard, Kushner checked his Glock, then his pepper spray and stun gun. Whenever possible, the TSA preferred to take troublemakers alive. However, Liptrot and Kushner enjoyed being the wild men of the TSA. They always pushed the limits on rules and regulations, and caught more drug smugglers and would-be hijackers than the rest of the TSA, on-site FBI and city blues combined. Half cousins, the grim men considered Logan their private property, and God help anybody stupid enough to try to harm the place.

“We talk first,” Kushner stated, climbing into the Jeep.

“Naturally,” Liptrot said, starting the engine. “However, if he—”

“Or she.”

“Or she, refuses to cooperate, then the kid gloves come off.”

“Yee-haw,” Kushner muttered, turning on his radio.

“Unit Nine to Control, we have a possible fuel leak in area thirty-seven…”

MERGING WITH THE MADNESS of Boston traffic, Carl Lyons checked the digital map display on the dashboard and took a secondary road to head for Braintree. The land went from industrial to suburbia, and then stately homes with low stone fences and tall oak trees older than Columbus. The area looked like something out of a movie.

“You know, Braintree is the ancestral home of John Adams,” Blancanales announced.

“I heard he was obnoxious and disliked,” Schwarz said without looking up, thumbing HEAT rounds into a clip for his assault rifle.

Checking the house numbers, Lyons found the correct apartment building. It was a neat, five-story house that had been converted into apartments: brick walls, green shutters, a wooden porch with a swing. A dog slept on the driveway and a birdbath sat in the front yard.

Lyons drove past the building and parked a few houses down. He used field glasses to study the area to see if they were under surveillance. Nothing moved in the whole neighborhood. A television blared from across the street, and Indian music could be heard softly playing from inside the apartment building. That’s right, Lyons remembered. Himar had been born in New Delhi. The tune was catchy, but the words were unintelligible.

“The place looks clean,” Blancanales said, tucking the NSA identification into a breast pocket. Then he pulled a .380 Colt pistol from a shoulder holster and dropped the clip to check the load. Easing the clip back inside, he clicked off the safety and worked the slide to chamber a round. He wasn’t expecting any trouble here. This was a simple data hunt. But no soldier went into danger without a loaded weapon.

“So let’s get going,” Schwarz said, tucking electronic items and plastique into a black nylon gym bag. There might be a wall safe to blow. But they had to stay lowkey. These people might just be civilians. Unless Himar’s “family” was actually his private army of mercenaries. Schwarz briefly inspected his own 9 mm Beretta and threaded on a sound suppressor. Better safe than sorry.

“Wait a second,” Lyons advised, adjusting the focus on the field glasses. “Something’s wrong here.”

Instantly the other two men were alert and reached for the M-16 assault rifles hidden in the false ceiling of the van.

The Able Team leader surveyed the apartment building and lawn again, the hairs rising on his nape. Something about the area had triggered a warning bell inside his head, and the former L.A. cop was trying to spot what was wrong. A few of the windows were open, admitting the cool morning air. But New Englanders had a love of cold that the rest of the nation found puzzling. Just like getting a tan in California, it bordered on a mania. There was nobody moving in the bushes or in the backyard…. That’s when it hit him. There was nobody moving at all. That dog wasn’t asleep, it was dead. And there were tiny dark shapes floating in the birdbath. Wrens?

Turning, Lyons swept the whole block. Nobody was moving around any of the other homes, either. No leaves being raked, no mail being delivered, no dogs barking, no birds in the trees. Several houses away, a man was smoking while lying in a hammock. Focusing the field glasses, Lyons saw that the fellow had once been smoking, but now his shirt was smoldering. A cigar laying on the blackened ruin of his chest.

“Get hard, people,” Lyons ordered, tucking away the field glasses. Reaching down, he pulled the Atchisson autoshotgun from the bag on the floor. “We’re the only people alive on this street, possibly in the whole damn town.”

“Why would Himar beam his own house?” Schwarz said, frowning, working the arming bolt on the assault rifle. “Unless…”

“Unless Himar really is dead, and somebody else also wants his files on Prometheus before we can get them,” Blancanales conceded, thumbing a fat 40 mm round into the M-203 grenade launcher. “Mighty easy to rob a place if everybody is dead.”

Just then the happy Indian music was cut off and a window on the fifth floor of the apartment house closed, a dark shape moving behind the curtains. In a house of the dead, somebody was still moving.

“Where did Himar live?” Lyons demanded, shrugging out of his suit jacket.

“Fourth floor, but his office was on the fifth,” Schwarz said, passing out the NATO body armor. “I’d say that we’ve got hostiles inside.”

“Could just be a street cop checking the place out,” Blancanales warned, strapping on his light-weight bulletproof vest. “Or maybe a survivor who was taking a bath. You know, safe under the water.”

Lyons clicked the safety off the Atchisson and stepped to the curb. “Let’s go find out.”

Moving across the lawn, the Stony Man operatives headed for the house, each trying not to think about the deadly satellite in space possibly pointing directly downward at their location. If the neutron cannon attacked, they would never know it, and so the soldiers banished the consideration from their minds and concentrated on the task at hand. Get in, get the files and get out.

“Stony Base, this is Einstein,” Schwarz said into his throat mike as they passed the birdbath. “Our twenty may have been neutralized. If you don’t hear from us in an hour, consider this a hot zone. Out.” It took a moment for the message to be condensed, then the radio gave a short beep as the transmission was burst back to the Farm. Unless the enemy was listening to the precise frequency, at exactly the correct moment, Schwarz knew they would never be able to detect the microsecond radio pulse. Much less break the encryption created by Kurtzman and his team.

The world seemed unnaturally still to the Stony Man operatives. Traffic could be heard in the distance, and a jet liner rumbled overhead toward Logan International. But it was almost as if they were moving through a dream. No voices, no laughter, not even birds in the trees.

“We want them alive,” Lyons whispered curtly. “But retrieving those files is more important.”

The other men nodded, their eyes sweeping for danger.

Moving onto the brick porch, the Able Team leader saw a bearded man in slippers lying crumpled behind the laurel bushes, a folded newspaper still clutched in his hand. Lyons stopped and pried it loose. It was an afternoon edition. The attack had only happened a short while ago.

The front door was closed, but unlocked, and the three men eased inside, their weapons at the ready.

The foyer was empty. There was a grandfather clock softly ticking, and a coatrack with an attached bench that Schwarz recognized as an antique from before the Revolutionary War. A brass umbrella stand was in the corner and a ceramic bowl on a small table contained car keys.

Blancanales made a noise and gestured to the left.

In the living room, the shapely legs of a teenage girl stuck out from behind the couch in the living room. A cat lay lifeless next to a ball of yarn, a goldfish floated upside down in a glass bowl. But more importantly, there was a ten-gallon can of fuel sitting in the middle of the living room with a radio detonator attached to the side.