Don Pendleton - Extreme Justice

The blast was blinding, stunning, but not lethal. Bolan pushed into the smoky library and found Gil Favor writhing on the floor, convulsed and semiconscious. Once he’d kicked the shotgun out of reach, Bolan reached down and hoisted Favor to his feet, stood underneath the fugitive’s left arm—and found Herrera on his other side, gripping the right.

“We’re out of time,” he said. “Let’s go.”

She flashed a smile and said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

They half dragged Favor from the house, past corpses, out the front door and across the sloping lawn. Bolan could hear sirens in the distance as they reached the sidewalk.

Favor was stumbling, not quite helping, by the time they reached the rental car. Bolan stashed the duffel bags of weapons in the trunk, then shoved Favor into the backseat.

“You stay with him,” he commanded. “Keep him quiet.”

It was a relief to get no argument.

He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key and winced as sudden headlights made it high-noon bright from one end of the alley to the other.

In the rearview, Bolan saw no flashing colored lights atop the car behind him. Maybe not police, then. But—

The muzzle-flashes settled it.

He had been bluffing Favor on the backup murder team, but it was true, and they had found him.

Bolan slammed the rental car into gear and stood on the accelerator, tires smoking as he fishtailed from a standing start.

Near Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Monday, June 18

The helicopter pilot held his altitude near treetop level as he took the chopper southwest, following the track of Skyline Drive along the stark spine of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Hughes 500 chopper cruised at 137 miles per hour, making it a relatively short trip for the passenger who’d boarded in Washington, D.C.

Mack Bolan didn’t mind the lack of opportunity for leisurely sightseeing. He had made this trip before, with variations, covering the same ground time and time again. Once, he had fought and bled for some of it, but that was ancient history.

This day was business. He was not a tourist, didn’t need to get his money’s worth from every mile.

“Five minutes, sir,” the pilot said, alerting him.

Bolan made no reply, waiting to catch his first glimpse of Stony Man Farm.

It was a working farm, which meant that crops were sown and cultivated, harvested and sold.

The “farmhands” who performed the daily chores at Stony Man were soldiers—Special Forces, Army Rangers, Navy SEALs, Marine Reconnaissance—all sworn to secrecy regarding their assignments at the Farm. They knew it was some kind of sensitive facility, and nothing more.

The helicopter pilot started speaking rapidly into his microphone, exchanging codes, responding to inquiries, satisfying Stony Man security that he and his lone passenger were who and what they claimed to be.

Failure of that test would produce immediate, dramatic, frightening results. The Farm’s AH-1 Huey Cobra attack helicopter stood ready to deal with intruders on two minutes’ notice. The Farm’s defense system also included Stinger shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles and strategically located .50-caliber Gatling guns with a maximum cyclic fire rate of 2,000 rounds per minute. And that was a fraction of the armory.

Long story short, no aircraft of any description landed at Stony Man Farm without clearance.

Bolan’s chopper approached the helipad, fifty yards from the plain-looking farmhouse and equidistant from the nearest outbuilding. No casual observer would’ve guessed at what went on inside the nondescript buildings. Even the radio aerials and satellite dishes were cleverly concealed.

As they were touching down, Bolan saw Hal Brognola coming out to meet him. Barbara Price walked beside the man from Justice, on his left. Other Stony Man personnel would be hard at work inside on one thing or another. Bolan’s afternoon arrival wouldn’t cause the long-term regulars to miss a beat.

They dealt with life-or-death decisions every day.

“Something important,” Brognola had told him on the scrambled sat phone. “We can talk about it when you get here.”

Brognola’s summons wasn’t that unusual, although they sometimes met at other sites. A visit to the Farm didn’t suggest the matter on the table was more critical or dangerous than one they might discuss by telephone. It might, however, mean that Brognola required the Farm’s sophisticated AV gear to make his presentation.

The chopper settled and his pilot killed the engine, waiting for the twenty-six-foot rotor blades to slow, their tips drooping. Bolan unbuckled, thanked his pilot for the lift and disembarked.

“Glad you could make it,” Brognola said, pumping Bolan’s hand.

“No problem,” Bolan answered.

Price’s handshake was professional, the final squeeze a bonus, like her smile.

“I’ve got lunch and a presentation set up in the War Room,” Brognola explained. “We’ll head on down, unless you need to freshen up.”

“I’m good,” Bolan assured him.

“Good,” the big Fed echoed. “Good is good.”

Bolan found Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman waiting to greet him in the soundproofed, air-conditioned War Room.

Bolan met the Farm’s technical wizard halfway to the conference table, stooping slightly for their handshake since Kurtzman was in his wheelchair. Paralyzed by bullet fragments in his spine the day a band of renegade commandos raided Stony Man, Kurtzman had left intensive care with grim determination to never let the shooting slow him down.

Those who were standing settled into chairs, Brognola at the table’s head, Bolan and Price flanking him. Kurtzman took his traditional position at the AV console.

“Right,” Brognola said. “Let’s get this party started.”

The big Fed cleared his throat and waited for the first slide to appear onscreen behind him.

Half-turned to face the screen, Brognola saw a full-face mug shot of a swarthy man, black hair combed back from an aristocratic forehead, eyes nearly as dark pointed like twin gun barrels toward the camera. The face, though full, tapered to a decisive chin. Its mouth seemed nearly lipless, like a razor slash. The nose had once been broken, then reset with fairly decent skill. Less care had been applied to mend an older wound beside the left eye, pale scar tissue trailing onto the cheek.

“Antonio Romano,” Brognola announced, “described by certain tabloid writers in New York as ‘the last Don.’”

“I wish,” Bolan replied.

“Romano heads what used to be the Marinello Family. You remember Augie, I suppose?” Brognola asked the Executioner.

Bolan nodded. “I had to kill him twice.”

“Romano’s not that durable, but he’s been lucky,” Brognola continued. “Until two months ago, that is. A federal grand jury in Manhattan slapped him with a couple dozen racketeering charges, this and that, then hit him with the clincher—two counts of conspiracy to aid a terrorist attack on the U.S., collaborating with the Sword of Allah.”

“That’s a new one,” Bolan said.

“Damned right. If he goes down for that, he’s gone for good. Maybe the needle, if the prosecution proves his link with a September bombing near the UN building.”

“How’s it look?” Bolan asked.

“It was looking great,” the big Fed said, “until last Thursday night.”

“What happened?”

“Basically, the roof fell in.”

Brognola nodded for another slide. Romano’s frowning visage was replaced with two faces side by side. The face on the left had a weasely look, long and lean, while the other was softer, more cultured. The weasel had long, greasy hair. His companion was going bald and wore a pair of gold-rimmed trifocals.