with the financial resources and political connections had found haven from American justice within its borders.
One such man was Peter Taterczynski, former State Department intelligence analyst and Department of Defense contractor. Two years earlier he had ended two decades of public service after his wife walked out on him, taking the children and sixty percent of his income in alimony and court-mandated child support. His hard drinking and prolific affairs had stalled his career at the middle-management level and ruined his domestic life. He had brought his own ruin upon himself.
In response he had used a hidden camera to procure copies of sensitive documents from the National Archives, including counterintelligence files listing active U.S. agents in a host of former Soviet republics and Middle Eastern countries. He had fled with this information first to Munich and then on to Sarajevo.
Between the sales of the sensitive information and his ability to produce American end-user certificates for international arms sales he had made a tidy sum. He had used some of his newfound money to secure a patron in the Bosnian foreign ministry. This protection, married to the lack of an extradition treaty, had put him beyond the reach of traditional law enforcement and diplomatic resources.
In Syria alone thirteen agents were exposed and murdered as a result of his treason. Although Peter Taterczynski remained beyond the reach of the law, beyond the reach of justice, he was not beyond the reach of the Executioner.
After arriving at the international airport, Bolan headed to the concierge’s desk to pick up a key left under an alias that matched his passport. The pretty woman in a Sarajevo Airlines uniform smiled at him and checked his ID. Her eyes flitted across the cut of his nondescript but expensive suit.
“Are you in Sarajevo for business or pleasure?” she asked.
“Business, I’m afraid,” Bolan replied.
“Well, I hope your trip is successful,” she answered, handing him the envelope containing the little key.
“Thank you.”
The key belonged to a small storage locker in the luggage area. Inside was a parking slip and ignition key to Bolan’s mission vehicle, a black Lexus. The Lexus had been upgraded with a diplomatic protection kit that included a V8 engine, tinted and bullet-resistant windows, body armor, self-sealing tires, a satcom uplink phone with encryption device and GPS unit.
Bolan programmed in the coordinates to the target site that he had memorized after removing a Beretta 93-R from the glove box and attaching the sound suppressor. He set the deadly pistol on the passenger’s seat beside him and pulled out onto the road.
Fifteen minutes later he was ready and in position.
THE TAUPE MERCEDES ENTERED the underground garage, rolling forward down the ramp on fat, high-performance tires with its high beams on. Bolan slid the silenced Beretta 93-R behind his back. The Mercedes rolled to a stop and the driver killed the lights. The two luxury vehicles sat facing each other with twenty yards of parking lot between them. After a moment the door to the Mercedes popped open and a tall thin man in an expensive suit climbed out.
Bolan opened the door to his car and did the same. He walked out from behind the open door to his vehicle and regarded the Iranian intelligence agent. The man was bald with a neatly groomed beard and mustache showing patches of gray. In his hands was a burgundy leather attaché case.
“You are not Taterczynski!” the Iranian swore.
He dropped the attaché case to the concrete, where it made a loud, flat slapping sound. The Iranian’s hand flew inside his suit jacket and under his arm. Bolan reached around behind him and grabbed the smooth butt of his machine pistol.
Bolan was dropping down to one knee as he pulled his weapon free and he saw the Iranian produce a Glock 19. The Executioner fired and the Beretta jumped in his fist delivering a 3-round burst. Spent shell casings tumbled out and bounced off the concrete.
The Iranian stumbled backward and blossoms of scarlet appeared on his white-linen shirt over his chest. His leg caught the corner of the still-running Mercedes and he went down, arms windmilling.
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