SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
A tail could make any number of mistakes, and Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, knew most of them.
This time his followers had been in a hurry not to lose him in Boston’s morning rush hour, and they got too close in the sudden logjam of traffic caused by road construction. Bolan had spotted the vehicle with two men in the front seat as he left the rental agency at Logan International. But what made him suspicious was when a second vehicle identical to the first, occupied by two different men, came up behind him. With their suits and sunglasses, all four were either government types or trouble.
Bolan bet the latter.
Fortunately, it didn’t come as much of a surprise to him. A request from Hal Brognola at Stony Man Farm had brought the soldier to Boston. The President of the United States deemed it of some importance, a fact Brognola had pointed out when briefing Bolan less than eight hours earlier.
“The man we’re interested in is Bogdan Lutrova,” Brognola had said.
“Who’s he?”
“He’s a Russian citizen who was caught by Customs agents attempting to enter the country under a false identity,” Barbara Price, Stony Man mission controller, had answered.
“And what we know about him,” Brognola continued, “is much less than what we don’t.”
“Meaning?” Bolan asked.
Brognola pulled an unlit cigar from his mouth, an old habit that wouldn’t seem to die, and sighed. “We suspect that Lutrova is a member of the Russian Business Network. You’re familiar with this organization, I presume.”
Bolan nodded. Yeah, he was more than familiar. The RBN was a multifaceted enterprise with its hands into just about every form of cybercrime imaginable. They ran child porn sites, botnets, spam scams and virtually any other internet fraud money could buy. The RBN had been elusive, nearly impossible to destroy, given their size and wealth. A large number of intelligence sources were keeping tabs on the RBN’s operations, but none ever seemed solid enough to get close to its heart. For some time now, Bolan had considered launching a full-scale blitz again the RBN, but he knew it would have required the full resources of Stony Man, not to mention weeks or even months of surgical strikes against key sites. When Brognola called and hinted at the possibility he might have an alternate way to get at the group, Bolan jumped at the chance.
“We don’t have any proof Lutrova was here on a mission for the RBN,” Brognola stated.
“What else might have brought him here?” Bolan asked.
“Well, it’s possible he’s on the run and he came here looking for sanctuary,” Price said.
“At least that’s the song and dance he gave Customs officials,” Brognola added. “Lutrova fed them some story about business associates who were unhappy with him. He demanded legal representation and asylum. In return for information, of course.”
“But since he’s not an American citizen,” Price said, “Customs agents were only required to assign him a liaison from INS.”
“Which really just means an interpreter,” Bolan said. “So why not deport him and make it a public show? If the RBN is after him, as he claims, you’ll know soon enough whether it’s true.”
“We considered that. Unfortunately, some analyst in the CIA picked up on the fact that Lutrova had been caught trying to enter the country illegally, and immediately filed a special report that wound up in the President’s daily brief. That, in turn, filtered down to a request by the Man that we investigate Lutrova’s claims.”
Bolan shrugged. “So you want me to go to Boston to question him? That sounds more like a job for Justice Department types. I’m not sure how I can help in this.”
Brognola sighed. “Striker, you’ve been telling us for a while now that the RBN is becoming bigger and more dangerous by the day. After this latest incident, I’m inclined to agree with you. And I’ve told the President as much on more than one occasion. Now, it could be that Lutrova’s just jerking our chain, and if that’s the case then there’ll be hell to pay. But there could be more hell to pay if we don’t give this a closer look. In either case, I can’t think of anyone who can get to the bottom of it faster or better than you.”
“Not to mention you’ve been studying this group,” Price said. “You’re the closest thing we have to a subject matter expert. Not even our contacts at the NSA could give us any definitive answers.”
“All right,” the Executioner replied. “I’ll check it out.”
So Bolan had made his way to Boston via an early commercial flight. His forged credentials identified him as an intelligence analyst with Homeland Security. Bolan knew how to play the role, just as he did so many others. He had practically invented the technique beginning as far back as his war against the Mafia. He called it role camouflage, a method by which he could “appear” to be who he was by acting as people would expect him to act. He’d used these methods many times before, with considerable success.
So it came as a surprise when Bolan picked up on the fact that someone was following him, leaving him to wonder if the RBN’s eyes and ears might actually have extended inside the federal government. Bolan figured staying in role and not letting on he knew these unknowns were tailing him was the best tactic. Besides, he couldn’t take the offensive without risking innocent bystanders, and it wouldn’t avail him anything. Better to pick a time of his own place and choosing.
Yeah, he’d deal with them if and when they proved hostile.
BOLAN MADE the downtown offices of the FBI at One Center Plaza in less than thirty minutes.
The soldier parked his vehicle in a parking garage so he could observe the entrance through the rearview mirror. He waited long enough to spot the sedan as it cruised past. Bolan smiled and removed his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather. He expertly checked the action, then holstered it and made his way toward the elevators. The parking garage was one area that lent itself as a suitable place to take them if he had to. For now, he’d let them stew.
Bolan rode the elevator to the sixth floor and eventually pushed through the heavy glass door marked with the U.S. Customs logo. A receptionist at the desk smiled at him, but she had a no-nonsense glint in her eye. Bolan passed her his forged credentials and announced his business with Lutrova. The woman nodded before returning his badge and ID, along with a visitor pass. She suggested he take a seat, then picked up the phone.
The Executioner declined the seat, instead opting for
