on a deal to purchase the remaining weapons Jason Cummings and Mitch Brower had stored at their Sykesville facility. According to the informant, if Brower and Cummings didn’t drop their asking price, the AFM had already concocted a backup plan: to bolster its arsenal instead by stealing wares from the Capitol Partners Gun Show. The militia had already been linked to several similar thefts over the past two years. While casing the exhibit booths, Bolan had seen enough collective firepower to sustain a small army. He wanted to make sure the AFM didn’t wind up being that army.
Bolan wasn’t alone inside the panel truck. His longtime colleague Jack Grimaldi sat up front behind the steering wheel, his ball cap pushed back on his head. True, the wiry-haired pilot was more at home in an aircraft cockpit, but when the occasion demanded it, Grimaldi had proved he could handle ground vehicles with as much finesse as the most seasoned wheelman.
Crouched beside Bolan in the rear of the truck was John “Cowboy” Kissinger, a master weaponsmith familiar with nearly every handgun and rifle that had been on display at the exhibition. Kissinger had designed a few handguns of his own, including the multifunction palm gun Bolan had concealed in his boot during his short-lived assignment at the fantasy camp.
“My money says they’ll try a hijack instead of bringing their own truck,” Kissinger speculated aloud, blowing on his hands to keep them warm. The men had been on stakeout for nearly three hours, during which time the sun had gone down and the temperature outside the truck had dropped more than twenty degrees. Although Bolan seemed unfazed by the extended wait, Kissinger’s anticipation was almost palpable. He was like a coiled spring.
“No bet,” Grimaldi responded, cracking his knuckles to pass the time. “They pull a heist, they get what they’re looking for without having to waste time moving stuff from one truck to another. And judging from the intel we’ve got on these guys, their MO is ‘hit and run’ all the way.”
“We’re all on the same page, then,” Bolan said. He had out his Beretta 92-FS, safety thumbed off, firing selector set for 3-round bursts. Kissinger and Grimaldi were armed with standard-issue Colt Government Model 1911A automatic pistols. Also in the truck was a pair of M-16 A-2 assault rifles, one equipped with an M-203 grenade launcher. The hope was they could nab the would-be hijackers without having to resort to heavy artillery.
The Stony Man crew watched as two trucks—one a converted postal carrier, the other a twenty-foot bed rental—groaned their way out of the parking lot through the light snow and headed down the access road leading to MacArthur Boulevard and the Georgetown Reservoir. That left two semis, both backed up to the loading dock at the rear of the exhibition hall. Four uniformed rent-a-cops stood by watching as vendors wheeled dollies stacked with crated weapons to the dock. There, co-workers helped move the stock into the trucks. The whole operation had a look of practiced efficiency. Nothing seemed amiss.
“Could be we’re on a wild-goose chase,” Grimaldi ventured. “I mean, all we’re going on is a tip from some scumbag informant. Who’s to say he didn’t pull this whole thing out of a hat—”
“Hold it,” Bolan interrupted, signaling Grimaldi to be quiet. He cracked open the window closest to him, letting a cold draft whisper into the truck. Soon Grimaldi and Kissinger could hear it, too: the faint, high-pitched drone of single-cylinder engines. There were at least two of them, approaching from different directions.
“A little cold to be out on a motorcycle,” Kissinger murmured, reaching for the Colt tucked in his web holster.
“Not to mention the snow,” Grimaldi said.
The Stony Man trio wasn’t alone in suspecting the heist was about to go down. A walkie-talkie on the seat next to Grimaldi suddenly squawked to life. It was Mort Kiley, point man for a BATF field team positioned just around the corner inside an unmarked utility van. Kiley had originally intended to have his crew take the point position, but Bolan had pulled rank, using doctored credentials identifying him and his colleagues as special agents with the Justice Department. Kiley and his four-man BATF crew were playing backup.
“Got ourselves a party crasher,” Kiley’s voice crackled over the two-way’s minispeaker. “Guy on a dirt bike approaching at…Wait, he’s slowing down.”
As Bolan and the others listened, they suddenly heard—both over the walkie-talkie and out on the street behind them—the sounds of gunshots and breaking glass. Kiley shouted something unintelligible before being silenced by yet another round of gunfire.
“Not good.” Grimaldi cranked the panel truck’s engine to life.
“Go check it out,” Bolan told him as he threw open his door. “We’ll handle things here.”
The Executioner slipped out of the truck and hit the asphalt running. He’d exchanged the boots he’d worn at the fantasy camp for lightweight hiking shoes. The crepe soles muffled his steps. Kissinger was right behind him, the Colt pistol freed from his holster and held out before him, ready to fire.
Grimaldi, meanwhile, swung the truck around and fishtailed past the men, raising a fantail of road slush in his wake. By then, Bolan and Kissinger had crossed the street. The Executioner took cover behind a mailbox anchored to the sidewalk near a row of parked cars. Kissinger split off and raced toward a large sign propped on stanchions rising up through a planter box situated near the parking lot entrance.
From his position, Bolan could see most of the lot, as well as the road. In the distance a thick stand of elm trees separated the industrial park from a nearby housing development. It sounded to him as if one of the motorcycles was approaching from the direction of the trees. Those gathered behind the exhibition hall had heard the commotion, as well. The rent-a-cops and several of the vendors had drawn their guns and were looking out into the night, tracking the sound. Bolan and Kissinger both did their best to conceal themselves, not wanting to be mistaken for hijackers.
Moments later, a mud-encrusted Husqvarna 250 Motocross emerged from between the elm trees, lights off, knobbed tires churning up snow and dirt as it raced up a footpath leading to the street. The rider was dressed head-to-toe in black leather, wearing goggles and a stocking cap, but no helmet. He had both hands on the handlebar controls, but visible in a shoulder holster was an Uzi Eagle autopistol. Once he reached the street, he cut across both lanes, clearly bound for the parking lot.
Before Bolan could fix him in his sights, however, the biker suddenly veered to his right and yanked on his handlebars. Goosing the bike’s throttle, he brought up the front wheel and bounded cleanly over the curb. Bolan tracked the biker and was about to cut loose with his Beretta when someone fired at him from behind, creasing the mailbox just inches from his face.
Holding his fire, the Executioner instinctively dropped to the snow-covered sidewalk.
“Sniper on the roof!” Kissinger called out.
Bolan barely heard the warning; he was too busy scrambling clear of the mailbox. He took cover behind a pickup truck parked on the street. From his new position, he could see the biker clear the sidewalk and power through the sparse shrubbery that ringed the parking lot. By the time Bolan got off a shot, the biker had entered the lot and was speeding toward the loading dock.
When one of the vendors raised his gun, the biker slammed on his brakes, throwing the Husky into a sidelong skid. Once he’d laid the bike down, the rider jumped clear, avoiding the gunshot fired his way. The motorcycle’s momentum, meanwhile, sent it clattering across the asphalt.
The vendor let out a howl as the bike knocked his legs out from under him. His gun flew from his hand as he fell, sprawling, to one side. Before the vendor could react, the biker bounded to his feet, unleathered
