“Hey, mine was bad enough, thanks very much.”
“The good news is, you have them worried,” Bolan told her.
“Great. They want me dead now and they almost pulled it off, first try.”
“It wasn’t even close,” Bolan replied.
“Were you and I at the same party?” Falk inquired. “They shot the hell out of my car.”
“And we all walked away,” Bolan reminded her. “Their side sent twelve men out to do a job and lost eleven. I’d say we’re ahead.”
“Except that now we’re fugitives,” she said.
“That’s only if police are looking for you,” Bolan said. “We’re going underground. There is a difference.”
“Care to explain it, Mr. Cooper?”
“Call me Matt, if you feel like it,” Bolan said. “As for the difference, a fugitive is always running, hiding, constantly on the defensive. When you’re underground, you have a chance to be proactive. Bring the war home to your enemies.”
“When you say war—”
“I mean exactly that,” Bolan replied. “The men who staked you out today were there to kill us. They don’t know me, but they thought a public hit was worth the risk to keep you from revealing what you know to an outsider.”
“Maybe it was just supposed to be a snatch, before you started shooting,” she replied without conviction.
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “You think they planned to warn you off or question you, then let you go?”
Instead of answering, Falk asked, “So, then, what’s your plan?”
“I told you—take it to the enemy. Rattle their cages. Disrupt operations. Blow their house down.”
Falk was staring at him now. “You mean, just go around and shoot them, like some kind of hit man?”
“I imagine there’ll be more to it than that,” Bolan replied. “But understand, before you take another step that I’m not here to serve warrants. You’ve already tried that route, and you can keep on trying if you like. Just tell me where to drop you off.”
She spent another moment staring at him, then replied, “Screw that. I’m in.”
“And you?” Bolan met Barialy’s dark gaze in the rearview mirror.
“With misgivings,” the Afghan said, “it appears that my best prospects for survival rest with you.”
“Okay, then,” Bolan said. “The first thing that we need to do is see about my gear.”
Vanguard International Branch Office, Kabul
“L ET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. You ran away?”
Clay Carlisle’s voice carried no hint of animosity, despite the seething anger that he felt inside, the acid churning in his stomach.
“I withdrew,” Red Scanlon said, “and broke off contact with the enemy in order to report, so you would know what’s happened, sir.”
“I’d know when the police called me to view your body at the morgue,” Carlisle replied.
“That wouldn’t help you, sir. A corpse can’t give you any information.”
“Right, then. Enlighten me, by all means. Share the information that entitles you to leave your men behind.”
“My men were dead before I left. I saw them drop.”
“Dead, but identifiable,” Carlisle replied. “You’ve put me in an awkward spot with Eddie Franks. I have to disavow him now, and still pay off his family to keep their damned mouths shut.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’m waiting,” Carlisle said.
Scanlon swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then pressed on. “I saw who Falk was meeting, sir. In fact, he set the whole thing off.”
“Explain.”
“Two of our men stepped up to brace him, and he shot them both, then popped two others in the car before they could defend themselves.”
“He’s no procrastinator, then.”
“Some kind of pro, no question,” Scanlon said. “He took a couple AKs from the first two that he dropped. Without that extra firepower, we would’ve had him, sir.”
“I wonder.” Carlisle studied Scanlon’s face and said, “I understand that one of those this man of mystery gunned down in Shahr-e-Khone is still alive. Not talking, I presume?”
“He can’t talk, sir. Shot in the face. I’m taking care of it.”
“And this bitch from the DEA. We’ve found her car?”
“Abandoned, sir. The GPS tracker was still in place, but by the time I called up reinforcements—”
“She and her playmates had disappeared.”
“Yes, sir. They got another Fed mobile then dropped that one after a couple miles. They’re getting wise.”
“I’d say they were already wise enough to run rings around you,” Carlisle observed. “The question now is, whether you’re entitled to a second chance, or if I ought to cut my losses. Starting with your throat.”
Carlisle had no fear of the younger man seated across from him, with nothing but a teakwood desk between them. Scanlon was unarmed, defeated, a spent force. He also had to have known that any move against his boss would bring an armed security detachment charging into Carlisle’s office through the door immediately to his left.
“I saw the shooter, sir. I can identify him, and you know I’m motivated.”
“Motivation’s good,” Carlisle replied. “But he’s already kicked your ass. You lost eleven men and barely got away alive. That kind of failure is expensive and embarrassing.”
“Yes, sir,” Scanlon replied through clenched teeth. “Let me make it up to you.”
Carlisle considered it, then said, “Call me a sentimental fool. I’ll give you one chance to clean up your mess, but use it well. And do it quickly. If you fail a second time, you would be well advised to die trying.”
“Yes, sir!”
Scanlon rose from his chair, snapped to attention and saluted before leaving Carlisle’s office. Carlisle watched him go and wondered if he’d made a critical mistake by letting Scanlon live.
No sweat.
That kind of error, if it was an error, could be easily corrected any time he had the
