the attempt,” Brognola said. “Hit Turrin instead of Sherman.”
“He tried to clean up by taking more shots as Sherman ran,” Kurtzman said. “He just made things worse, killing civilians, including two children.”
“I haven’t forgotten about the loss of those innocents, especially the kids,” Bolan rasped.
The deaths of the children would be in his thoughts for as long as it took to make things right. And he would. There had to be a reckoning for the indiscriminate slaughter of people who were merely collateral damage for a killer out to make a buck. Bolan would not forget those deaths.
Or the injury to Leo Turrin.
“What have you got on Sherman?” Bolan asked.
“Harry Sherman,” Kurtzman said. Another image flashed onto the monitor. “Thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. Pure and simple? A money man. He ran the accounts for Conte. Kept track of all the cash coming in and never took a wrong step until nine million dollars disappeared. We don’t have all the details, but it looks as if Sherman’s the fall guy for someone snatching the money.
“Sherman has a sister, Gwen Darrow,” Kurtzman went on. “She lives in Des Moines. She’s a lawyer with her own practice in the city. She’s a widow with two kids. Laura is in college. Carl is in the military. He’s on active service right now.”
He brought up a picture of a handsome woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. There were two more images. One of Darrow’s son, Carl, in uniform, and one of her daughter, Laura, who was an attractive, younger version of her mother.
“Good place to start looking for Sherman as any,” Bolan said.
“I’ll make travel arrangements for you,” Price advised, gathering her file and leaving the room.
“Aaron, will you download the intel you’ve gathered to my sat phone?”
“You’ll have it shortly.”
The meeting broke up after another half hour. Bolan made his way to the room he used when he was in residence at Stony Man and packed a bag. Then he dropped by the armory where he chose the weapons he’d need for the mission: a Beretta 93-R and several magazines loaded with 9 mm ammo. He also chose a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, as well as a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife and holsters for both handguns.
He liaised with Price, who set him up with his travel pack. Jack Grimaldi, the Stony Man resident pilot, would fly him to Des Moines.
“Pick up your vehicle at the airfield,” she said. “A Chevy Suburban is being delivered as we speak. Try not to return it to the rental agency full of holes.”
“That’s happened before?” Bolan asked with a grin.
“Take a look at our insurance premiums,” Price quipped and then winked.
“You ready, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.
“Let’s move out.”
As Grimaldi turned and headed for the door, Price leaned forward and kissed Bolan.
“Stay safe, soldier,” she said.
Outside Des Moines, Iowa
GRIMALDI TOUCHED DOWN at a private airstrip a few miles from the main airport. The ace pilot had contacts across the country when it came to safe landing spots. He was friendly with a large number of independent operators and those contacts came in handy when he needed an out-of-the-way place to land. Grimaldi was a sociable man, and when he made friends, those friendships tended to be strong and long-lasting. It was no secret that many of his acquaintances were of the female variety. He was the land-based version of the sailor with a girl in every port.
Bolan took his carry-all and placed it in the rear of the Suburban. He stowed his 93-R and shoulder rig in the glove compartment, within easy reach. He placed the bag holding his other weapons in the trunk.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Grimaldi said as Bolan slid behind the wheel and fired up the Suburban’s engine. “Try not to cause trouble.”
Bolan glanced up from logging Gwen Darrow’s address into the navigation system.
“Do I ever go looking for trouble, Jack?”
Grimaldi grinned. “You said that with a straight face.”
He watched as Bolan drove out of the airstrip and picked up the road for the city.
Cash Cushman was driving. His partner, Billy Riker, was slouched in the passenger seat, his blank stare focused on the scene outside. They were in a stolen van, taken from a parking lot a couple of hours earlier. Once the job was done they would abandon the van and pick up their own car, which they had parked a couple of streets away. The van was dark blue, with no company logo, and they had fixed false plates in place of the originals. Both men wore dark coveralls and ball caps, a simple enough disguise for what they had to do.
The hit had been set up quickly, with little time to make more secure arrangements. It was not the way they liked to do things, but a fast response had been ordered, so they’d had to improvise.
They drove through the city, staying well within the speed limit and locating the target house without difficulty. Des Moines was a city they knew well. For them it was a simple enough contract. Locate the target, get the information they needed and pass it back to the principal. It would net them a tidy fee. In fact it was a nice, easy job despite having to wing it.
The street was quiet. It was midmorning and most residents were at work. Only a couple of cars were parked in driveways as Cushman rolled along, counting off the houses until he spotted the target. A small red Volkswagen Beetle was parked beside the house.
Cushman slowed and made a turn, pulling up behind the Volkswagen. He shut off the engine, got out of the van and went to the rear where he opened the door and slid out a package and a clipboard. He made a show of checking the clipboard before dropping it back inside the van and closing the door. While he did that, Riker slid over to the driver’s seat and sat waiting. Cushman carried the package and walked up the driveway, bypassing the Volkswagen and walking to the back of the house.
He barely glanced at the rear yard, moving directly to the back door and tapping on the glass panel. He waited and tapped again. He heard movement inside then, through the frosted glass, saw a blurred figure approach the door. The door was opened on a security chain and a young woman’s face appeared.
“Delivery for Gwen Darrow,” Cushman said, a friendly smile on his face. He juggled the package and used his left hand to pull a folded sheet from his pocket. “I just need a signature, miss.”
“My mom isn’t at home.”
“You can take the parcel,” Cushman said. He waggled the sheet of paper. “I just need you to sign, is all.”
The young woman hesitated then eased the door closed so she could remove the chain and open it wider.
“Mom
