Don Pendleton - Justice Run

Bolan didn’t believe in coincidences, especially in his line of work. He guessed that Gruber’s death had, on some level, played a role in Rodriguez volunteering for her latest undercover assignment. The soldier didn’t necessarily believe she’d come here looking to avenge Gruber’s death. Judging by her record, the woman was a pro and focused like a laser on her mission. There was always the chance, though, she’d visited the location of Gruber’s murder or some other landmark associated with his last case so she could connect with him, some way, one last time. It was a very human thing to do. Had it been the thing that had tripped her up and betrayed her identity? It was possible. Maybe Bolan would have a chance to ask Dumond.

Right before she’d gone off the grid, Rodriguez had contacted her mission controller. The guy, a Fed named Peter Kellogg, said she’d used her secure phone to call him from her hotel a few hours after she’d arrived in Monte Carlo. It was twenty-four hours before she’d been set to meet with Dumond for the first time. She’d planned to get some sleep and then have a look around Monte Carlo, maybe hit the beaches, since she wasn’t a gambler.

When she missed her next check-in call, Kellogg had gotten worried and eventually realized she’d disappeared.

Bolan set down the papers and drank more coffee. It was possible, he supposed, that Dumond hadn’t been involved in her disappearance. Maybe she’d fallen victim to a random crime, a robbery or rape turned to murder, for instance. It was also possible, the soldier realized, that she’d turned on her government. Those theories were plausible. The way Bolan saw it, though, the smart money still was on her being nabbed by Dumond for some reason. That made finding the Frenchman Bolan’s first priority once they hit the ground.

The guy apparently had done well for himself. According to a CIA file, he had not one but three houses sprinkled throughout Monaco. Two agency psychologists had labeled him as moderately paranoid, which explained why he moved between the various houses on almost a daily basis, never sleeping under the same roof more than a single night. It also might mean the guy had become suspicious of Rodriguez with little reason other than a chronic short circuit in his brain that made everyone look like an enemy.

Shifting in his chair, Bolan again pushed aside his questions about why Dumond did anything. Getting into the arms merchant’s head and understanding his behavior only benefitted Bolan to the extent it helped him find the missing FBI agent. Anything beyond that was distraction, one that could lead him down a wrong path and cost Rodriguez her life.

Price had checked with some of her former colleagues at the NSA. Dumond and his lieutenants apparently had gone silent within the past twenty-four hours. No calls or emails via the guy’s known numbers or email addresses. The key word, Bolan knew, was “known.” If he had an encrypted line the various intelligence agencies didn’t know about, it was possible he’d circumvented their surveillance.

Bolan skimmed the rest of the intelligence report. Dumond’s organization apparently was fairly big. In Monaco alone, he kept a fairly large contingent of muscle, at least a couple dozen.

The arms dealer had maintained enough contacts in the French government to buy himself a pass with the authorities in Monaco.

The French connection didn’t surprise Bolan much. Nearly half the population of that country, located on the Mediterranean Sea on the southern coast of France, was French and French was the official language. Bolan guessed Dumond was greasing palms in the French and Monacan governments. That was a key to building a criminal empire—put the government in one pocket and the business community in the other, and pillage at will.

Bolan noticed what he was thinking and a smile ghosted his lips. At times, he had to remind himself that most people were decent and honest, good people trying to get by. He spent so much time hunting the savages of the world—mobsters, rogue spies, corrupt dictators—it was easy to forget who he was fighting for.

He didn’t consider himself an idealist. But he was a soldier, a defender. As such, he needed to know he was fighting for a just cause. Otherwise he became a hired gun, a violent man, running from fight to fight, without reason. He would become a murderer instead of a soldier and Bolan couldn’t stomach that.

The soldier believed in what he did. He made no apologies for his methods. In his experience, brute force needed to be met with brute force. He needed to find the arms trafficker and free Rodriguez. The numbers were falling fast; hours had slipped away.

So he’d hit Monaco with a vengeance and accomplish his mission. Or go home in a body bag. In his life, in his War Everlasting, those were the only two options for Bolan.

* * *

WHEN BOLAN ARRIVED at the safehouse, he found Agent Peter Kellogg waiting for him.

Bolan had met a lot of FBI agents and none looked like the man who answered the door. By the soldier’s reckoning, the guy stood a few inches under six feet tall and looked wiry. However, he answered the door clad in torn jeans, a black T-shirt and cowboy boots. His long silver hair was pulled back from his face in a ponytail, and his salt-and-pepper beard was long and unkempt. The handle of a Glock 19 peeked above the waistband of his jeans.

Before Bolan could ask, Kellogg showed him his FBI credentials. The soldier flipped open a leather wallet containing a forged Justice Department ID featuring his Matt Cooper alias. Grimaldi, who was traveling as Jack Williamson, also showed the guy an alias ID.

Kellogg nodded, stepped back from the door and gestured for the men to enter the house.

“Well,” Kellogg said, “now that we’re done sniffing each others’ ass, you guys want some coffee?”

Both men said they did. Kellogg gestured with his chin at a door. “There’s the living room. Your buddy is here already if you want to hang out with him. Coffee’s in there. Let me get two more cups.”

The living room was huge, with polished hardwood floors, a fireplace and luxurious furniture. They found Leo Turrin standing at a shelf full of books, apparently reading the titles. He turned to them as they entered and made a face.

“Some tightass must buy all the Bureau’s books,” he said. “There’s nothing but international law texts and some history books about France and Monaco.”

Grimaldi snorted.

“Wow, did you read the titles all by yourself?”

“Screw you, fly boy,” Leo Turrin said.

“Got a headache from all that reading? Need to lie down?”

“Be careful,” Turrin said, “I have friends in low places. One phone call and I can have you rubbed out.”

Kellogg entered the room, a coffee mug in each hand. He looked at Bolan who’d been silent. “They carry on like this all the time?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said.

“Jesus, I ask Washington for help and they send me this.”

“Look, Easy Rider,” Turrin said. “No need to be a jerk.”

Kellogg smiled coldly. “Son, when I’m being a jerk, you’ll know it. I just want to make sure I have some people who can do the job. As for the clothes, they’re part of my cover.”

“As what? A clerk in a gay porn shop?” Turrin asked.

“Son of a...”

Kellogg took a step forward.

Bolan put a hand on his shoulder and said, “At ease.” He turned to Turrin. “He’s been working deep cover in an American motorcycle gang. It’s been branching out overseas, looking to set up shop in Paris and Berlin. Agent Kellogg is here to help the gang get a foothold in Europe. He’s also been funneling the information back to the FBI. Am I right, Agent Kellogg?”

“Well, at least one of you isn’t a damn buffoon,” Kellogg replied. “Yeah, that’s the short version of my cover. The guy who should’ve been running Rodriguez’s operation retired three months ago. I was filling in for him. Needless to say, I wish they’d had someone else do it.” He slurped some coffee. “Okay, is that enough about yours truly?”