it worth it?” Bolan asked.
The dead man stared up at him, unseeing. He would never answer that or any other question.
The Executioner shook his head. They fought for money, and they died for nothing. He had seen it countless times.
Shaking his head again, the soldier shouldered his weapon and hurried back to his vehicle. There was much more work to be done.
CHAPTER SIX
Mack Bolan found the Ford Explorer waiting at the pickup and drop-off area just outside the terminal of Kansas City International Airport. He carried his heavy weapons and gear in a large duffel bag, while his canvas shoulder bag was slung under his field jacket. His personal weapons were concealed within the jacket. Flying Air Grimaldi had its benefits; he could, between the private plane and his Justice credentials, bypass any and all security in the airport. It wouldn’t do to have some overeager TSA official discovering automatic weapons and grenades on Bolan’s person and in his carry-on.
Agent Jennifer Delaney was prettier than her photograph. She was dressed in a silk blouse, a pair of jeans with hiking boots and a well-cut brown leather jacket that almost hid the bulge of the sidearm on her belt. Bolan looked her over as he stowed his gear on the rear seat of the truck. As he climbed in, she was programming the GPS unit.
“Where to, Soldier?”
Bolan stopped short and eyed her.
“Oh, come off it.” Delaney smiled, flashing white, even teeth. “It practically radiates from you. If you’re a Washington desk-rider or even a legal eagle, I’d be very surprised. You’re military or ex-military.”
Bolan pulled on his seat belt, looked over at her and stuck out his hand.
“Matt Cooper,” he said. “Justice Department.”
“Uh-huh,” Delaney said. She smiled again. “Have it your way, Cooper. Agent Jennifer Delaney, FBI.” She shook his hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “So, Agent Cooper. Or is it…Captain? Major? Colonel?”
“Agent will be fine,” Bolan said, almost laughing despite himself. He hadn’t been read so easily in a long time. Delaney’s head was screwed on right, that much was certain. “You and I both know it’s probably better if you don’t pry too deeply.”
“Which is why I’m getting my digs in now,” Delaney admitted. “We can continue this witty banter on the road. Where to?”
Bolan rattled off the address. “We’ll want to take 152.”
Delaney finished entering the address on the GPS. “That’s not too far. But far enough out of the city that we may have more privacy than we might like.”
“Privacy is good,” Bolan said. “Cuts down on people who might get caught in the cross fire.”
“‘Cross fire’?” Delaney shot him a sidelong glance as she drove. She guided the Ford easily through the busy traffic exiting the airport.
“You were informed of the nature of this operation?” Bolan countered.
“I was told Justice is conducting an investigation into Trofimov, and that there’s evidence Gareth Twain is working with Trofimov in some sort of terrorist campaign.”
“That about sums it up,” Bolan told her. “Officially, the government can’t just break down Trofimov’s door and waterboard him until he talks.”
“Sure it could,” Delaney countered.
The soldier paused, watching the traffic rush past. Delaney drove well, moving in and out of the available openings with efficiency and purpose. “Well, all right,” Bolan admitted, “but if that happens too soon, we run the risk of getting to the bottom of everything Trofimov is doing. To shake the tree, we have to leave the roots alone…for now.”
“Which means?”
“Which means, as you’ve probably been told already, I have a list of targets. I intend to visit each of those targets in turn. At those locations, I intend to break things. When enough important things get broken, Trofimov and those working for him, including Twain, will get agitated and expose themselves. Then I take them down and put an end to whatever threat Trofimov represents.”
“‘Break things,’” Delaney said. “You’re running a series of armed raids.”
“Yes.”
“Who’s your team? Will they be meeting us?”
“We are the team,” Bolan said. “Unless you want to back out now. I’m going to warn you, Agent Delaney. Things are going to get hot.” He turned from the window and gave her a hard look. “Are you prepared for that?”
She returned his gaze evenly. “If it means I get Gareth Twain, then yes.”
“He’s not my priority,” Bolan told her. “But I’ve already faced one of his people, according to the man’s background file. Twain’s past, his method of operation, it fits. If he’s here at all, it’s likely we’ll encounter him eventually. When we do, he’s going to be gunning for us.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’re armed?” Bolan asked, knowing the answer.
“Of course,” Delaney said quickly. She shot him a look. “Glock 23, .40 caliber.”
“It’s a start,” Bolan said. “What can you handle?”
“Name it,” Delaney said. “Every department has its gun nut. I guess I qualify.”
“Good,” Bolan said.
They traveled in silence for a while. Finally, Delaney said, “So. Are you going to tell me what outfit you’re really with? Or were with?”
“No.”
Delaney sighed. “All right, Cooper. Keep your secrets. I don’t care, as long as I get Gareth Twain.”
“Fair enough,” Bolan echoed. “It sounds personal.”
“It is.” She looked at him again, then back to the road. “Gareth Twain killed someone who meant a great deal to me. The Bureau wants him, but I want him more. I’ve stayed on the case for that. Hell, I’ve stayed in the Bureau for that. I’d have left otherwise. I had to call in a lot of favors and burn all my bridges to do it. They wanted me off and I had to fight to stay with it, fight to get justice. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” Bolan said. “I can.”
“I have to get him, Cooper. I have to bring Twain in, or take him down. I know your investigation of Trofimov is the real focus—”
“It’s not an investigation from my perspective,” Bolan interrupted. “It’s intelligence. Intelligence for a war, a counterwar, against whatever terrorist operations Trofimov is running.”
That silenced Delaney for a moment. “I…” she started. “I know that’s more
