“What about Jesús?” he asked. “You said the little bastard got away?”
“That’s what I was told.” Godfrey felt like going to the shower for a cool rinse himself, but decided to wait.
“I thought you sent Lassiter?” Hutchcraft said. “Didn’t you say he was one those GEMs you keep bragging about?”
“He is,” Benedict interjected. His mouth twisted in a frown. “He was the prototype.”
“Another triumph for SNPT Laboratories, a division of GDF Industries,” Hutchcraft said, affecting a deeply resonant tone. He wiped a handful of sweat off his forehead and flung the droplets toward the heating unit. “Well, don’t forget I was the one who steered the funding for that particular special program GDF’s way.”
“Before you start handing out cigars as the proud father,” Benedict said, “you should know he’s become something of a liability lately. He needs to be dealt with.”
“Oh?” Hutchcraft said. “What’s that story?”
Godfrey fidgeted. “It’s too complex to go into here. Suffice it to say, he’s outlived his usefulness. But that could work in our favor, as well.”
“How?” Benedict snorted. The heat was getting to him, too.
“Is your cleanup team ready to intercept the shipment tonight?” Godfrey asked.
“Of course.”
Godfrey cracked a smile. He could taste his own sweat now. It felt as if the steam was parboiling him. “With Jesús De la Noval on the loose, and angry at the overnight attack on his compound, it’ll seem logical that he’s behind the little retaliatory strike involving the shipment and the motorcycle whackos.”
Hutchcraft blew out another long breath. “I see your logic, Tony. But how does this benefit us?”
Godfrey rubbed his index finger and thumb together. “I’ve got another buyer lined up for the shipment. We simply take it away from the intended recipients, the Wolves, and then turn it around in a sale to our new interested party.”
“And who might that be?” Benedict asked.”
“Our old friend Dimitri Chakhkiev,” Godfrey said.
“That Russian son of a bitch?” Hutchcraft said. “I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”
“You’d better get used to dealing with him,” Benedict said. “If you want to be president, that is. Word is he’s on the Russian leader’s favorite persons list for building the new Russia.”
Godfrey had about all he could stand of the heat and his two companions. He stood and pulled the cord, giving himself a cool rinse, then reached for the door handle. “If we have no other pertinent business to discuss, I suggest we vacate this hellhole and wait until Greg receives verification that his cleanup team has taken care of Lassiter and his boys.”
“I’m expecting a call from Artie on that later tonight,” Benedict said. And it’s called a wet team, remember?”
“Whatever.” Godfrey started to pull on the door.
“You never did explain to me why you’re so anxious to get rid of Lassiter,” Hutchcraft said.
The senator was still laid out naked on his towel as if posing for some male nudie magazine. “I thought he was one of our best and brightest. Except for having been declared KIA a few years ago, that is.”
“He’s a walking dead man.” Godfrey looked at Benedict. “You explain it to him. I’m done here.”
He pulled the door the rest of the way open and stepped out of the oppressive heat.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Bolan crouched behind the remnants of a shot-up old Buick. In its day the car had probably been the apple of its owner’s eye. Now the front and back windows were pocked with bullet holes, as were the doors and fenders. He dropped the magazine in his Beretta 93R and tapped in a fresh one. The selector switch was set in 3-round-burst mode. Grimaldi was doing the same with his SIG Sauer P-221. He glanced at Bolan and nodded.
Behind them something clicked, and Bolan moved along the doors and extended his gun hand around the rear post panel. Downrange, two lifelike images flashed in front of a window: a man holding a woman before him. Bolan acquired a quick sight picture and double-tapped two rounds into the assailant’s face, then he sprinted to the next cover point, a solid metal mailbox.
Grimaldi was firing at the building as Bolan moved, then the soldier laid down some suppressing fire so his partner could move, as well. He’d set the Beretta to full-auto, firing at the building. Another target swung into a doorway: a man pointing a rifle. Bolan sent a 3-round burst into the target. Grimaldi was firing now, too, taking his place by the mailbox as Bolan moved to the next cover point, an old utility truck on the other side of the street. The Stony Man pilot joined him seconds later, huffing and puffing.
“Ready?” Bolan asked.
“I was born that way,” Grimaldi said.
They moved in unison again, one man laying down suppressing cover fire as the other ran. Two more hostile targets appeared, more men holding handguns. Bolan took out the first one, Grimaldi the second.
Three more buildings to go.
This portion was known as the Gauntlet. No cover—just a straight, shoot-on-the-run Hogan’s Alley, with targets popping up along the way.
Bolan went first, taking three strides before his first target appeared: a woman pushing a baby carriage. He held his fire. Seconds later another target popped up next to the woman. This one was definitely hostile: another man with a shotgun. Bolan put two rounds into the target, Mozambique style.
Another pair of targets popped up, both adversarial, both easily dispatched.
Three more running steps and Bolan reached the end of the course. He turned and watched his partner negotiate the same turf.
Grimaldi whirled as the first target popped around a corner: a wild looking guy extending a large semiauto pistol. The pilot put two bullets through the target. Another one popped out, this one holding a sawed-off shotgun. Two shots from Grimaldi, both “lethal.” Three more strides and he’d be done, as well.
Yet another target popped up, holding a gun. Grimaldi whirled, almost with casual indifference, and plugged the aggressor between the eyes, just as a final target appeared from around a corner. The pilot’s arm was already extended and he squeezed the trigger just as the bright blue of the target’s uniform and the silver image of the police badge became apparent. The round had gone through the cop’s heart, right next to his shield.
Grimaldi stopped, lowered his weapon and swore.
A voice came over the loudspeaker in a rebuking tone. “Shame, shame, shame, Jack. You shot a good guy.”
Grimaldi’s
