Don Pendleton - Zero Option

“May I help, sir?”

“Well, that depends,” Bolan said, keeping his tone friendly. “I need some information about a recent rental.”

The woman frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m an agent with the U.S. Customs Service,” Bolan said. “Agent Mike Belasko. Right now I’m working undercover, tracking a group of people we believe are committing crimes around the islands. They were in Florida before they moved here. A few days ago they rented a car from you.”

The woman continued to stare at Bolan, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Sorry to drop it on you like this,” Bolan said. “The problem with working undercover is I don’t get much time to warn people I’m coming. Right now I’m under pressure to keep up with this group. They could move on at any time.”

“We only rent out cars,” the woman said. “I don’t know anything about these people.”

Bolan smiled, reassuring her. “I understand that. I’m just trying to pick up some information.”

“Shouldn’t I ask to see some identification? I mean, how do I know you’re who you say you are?”

“I don’t carry anything because I’m working undercover. But I can give you a number you can call. My base in the U.S. They’ll confirm anything you want to ask. If there’s a problem, I can come back with some paperwork. The trouble is, it takes time and by then these people will have moved on. Look, I don’t want to make a fuss. I need your help, Karen. I really do.”

The woman bit at her lip. She studied Bolan. He maintained his casual attitude, his eyes fixed on her.

“What is it you want to know?”

“Any details they might have put on their rental form. I’m just trying to get hold of something we can use to track them. They rented that car.” Bolan pointed to the vehicle.

Karen made a decision. She turned and went to a metal cabinet. Opening a drawer, she riffled through the files and pulled out a sheet of paper that she placed on the counter in front of Bolan. He slid the sheet toward him, checking the details.

Bolan scanned the information. He took a pen from his pocket, then used the sheet of paper Earl had given him to copy down some of the details. Once he had what he needed, he slid the rental form back to the woman. As she reached for it, Bolan laid his big hand over her slim one, putting on a little pressure.

“I appreciate this, Karen. You’ve been a great help.”

“I hope you catch them.”

“If I do, it’ll be because of you.”

Bolan left the office and turned toward the harbor front. He needed to get back in touch with Stony Man. From the rental form he had picked up two items that might provide some information on the people who had taken Jess Buchanan and attacked Jack Grimaldi: driver’s license and credit card details.

If they had anything to offer, Kurtzman and his team would drag it to light. It was time to leave Nassau and get back to Stony Man. Bolan needed input before he moved any further on this.

Back in his hotel room he packed his few belongings, then called the desk to ask if someone could book him a seat on the next available flight back to the U.S. He made it clear he didn’t mind the type of flight. The desk called him back less than ten minutes later to say he could take a charter flight leaving in two hours. It was a tourist economy flight, which meant no frills. Bolan told the clerk to book it and have his room bill ready.

Bolan’s plane touched down in Washington, D.C., in the early hours. A quick call to Stony Man had Barbara Price on the line.

“You back on home ground?” she asked without preamble.

“Just got in. I need a ride to base.”

“On its way to the usual pickup spot,” she said. “I thought of coming out myself.”

“That would have been nice.”

Price laughed. “Then I figured you probably wouldn’t have time to buy me a meal, so I decided to wait here for you.”

“So it comes down to me being just a meal ticket?”

“Girl has to look after the priorities.”

“You’re a hard woman.”

“Really? I always thought of myself as pretty accommodating.”

“Some day we’ll have to define your interpretation of ‘accommodating.’”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Price told him, a smile in her voice.

Bolan ended the call and left the terminal. As he slid the cell phone into his pocket and turned toward the rendezvous area, he felt the prod of a gun muzzle against his spine.

“I don’t give a damn if you die now, or in a couple of hours, Belasko. I’d prefer you stayed alive long enough to answer some questions, but just give me the option.”

Bolan remained still. He calculated the odds and decided he needed to wait. The carry-on slung from his shoulder would hamper his movements, so any action against the gunman would have to come later. For the time being the Executioner did what he was told.

“A car is going to stop right here,” the gunman said. “We climb in. You keep both hands where I can see them. Bag on your lap.”

The car rolled into view, a Dodge Intrepid, swinging in to pull up directly in front of Bolan. The insistent prod of the gun warned the Executioner that his captor meant business. Bolan opened the rear door and slid inside the car, moving across to sit directly behind the dark bulk of the driver. The man with the gun moved quickly, crowding in against Bolan, pulling the door shut with his free hand.

“Let’s go,” he said to the driver.

The car eased away from the pickup point and pulled into the lane of traffic heading away from the airport. The soldier felt an experienced hand move over his body, checking for weapons. The gunman found nothing. The cell phone Bolan carried was plucked from his pocket and tossed to the floor of the car. Satisfied, the gunman pulled back from his captive, making space between them. He kept the muzzle of his pistol, a .45-caliber Glock 21, pointed in Bolan’s direction.

“You make yourself hard to find, Mr. Belasko,” the gunman remarked. “Almost missed you back there. Makes me figure this isn’t something new to you.”

Bolan didn’t reply. He decided to let the other man do the talking if that was what he wanted.

“I prefer to deal with professionals,” the man went on. “Get yourself a damned civilian, and they’re likely to fall apart once you show them a gun. You know what I mean? Hell, sure you do.”

Still no response from Bolan. The Executioner was making an evaluation. Making sense of the armed pickup. His mind clicked through the elements of the situation. This had been done professionally. Quick, clean, with little chance for even Bolan to react. The transition to the car had been timed to the second, making these men something more than street hoods. No, these guys were…Bolan recalled something Jack Grimaldi had said about the men who had confronted him and Jess Buchanan, something about their having military training. Precise, practiced execution of their maneuver. Even in his injured condition the Stony Man flier had been able to recall the way his attackers had operated, and Bolan accepted Grimaldi’s assessment. The man was too much of a professional himself to have made a mistake.

“Don’t say much, do you, friend? Suit yourself. There’ll be time to talk once we hit base. Plenty of time. And incentives.” The gunman chuckled to himself. “Like whether you want to stay alive.”

Bolan fixed his gaze on the back of the driver’s head. The man had a close haircut. Near to the skull. Even from where he was sitting Bolan could see enough of the driver’s neck and shoulders to know he was looking at a big man. The guy was into weight training and body development with a vengeance. He sat behind the wheel as if he were at attention. Bolan realized why the military imagery kept coming to mind.