Executioner turned toward Sampson again. “What’s your immediate future look like, John? Would you be able to take off a few days and work with us? It would sure help to have somebody who can speak Farsi.”
Sampson smiled. “Did I mention that I also speak Arabic and Hebrew?”
Bolan chuckled. “No,” he said. “But that’s two more gold stars for taking you with us. And your military experience won’t hurt, either. Can you swing it?”
Sampson smiled, showing a row of teeth every bit as white as his hair. “I’m a millionaire oilman,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”
“So, do you want to?” Bolan asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sampson shot back. “Just give me some firepower and point me in the right direction.”
“Then it’s settled,” Bolan said, looking back to Brognola again. “They should have the Lear almost loaded by now.” He started to rise.
“Where are you going to start?” Brognola wanted to know.
“I’d say that the state senator’s daughter in Georgia demands priority,” Bolan answered. “Especially since the other two hostages were murdered.”
Brognola nodded. “I’ll call ahead to the FBI field office in Atlanta,” he said. “Tell them to be expecting you.”
THE LEARJET WAS WAITING, with Jack Grimaldi behind the controls, by the time Bolan and Brognola helped the hooded Jessup and Sampson up into the passenger area. The Executioner buckled himself in, then said over his shoulder, “Buckle up. You can take the hoods off about five minutes into our flight.”
Grimaldi had been warming up the engine. But before he could start his takeoff, a figure appeared through the window, running toward them. Bolan turned to watch as John “Cowboy” Kissinger continued to hurry toward them, finally coming to a halt next to the door beside Bolan.
The Executioner opened it.
Kissinger was Stony Man Farm’s chief armorer, and a true master of weaponry and other equipment. He was constantly inventing, or improving, the equipment used by all of the counterterrorists who worked out of Stony Man.
Now, as soon as the door was open, he reached down into the front pocket of his faded blue jeans.
Bolan’s eyes followed Kissinger’s hand, and he watched as the armorer drew a pocket-clipped folding knife. “Check this out,” he told the Executioner, extending the knife in his hand.
Bolan took the folder and looked down at it. It was long and lean, and thicker at the hilt than at the tapered pommel. A thumb-stud opener was screwed into the blade next to a slight, half-moon indentation in the grip. Bolan flicked the stud with his thumb, and the blade sprang open.
The dagger-shaped blade looked to be a shade over four inches in length. But it was ground on one side only. The Executioner read the inscriptions on both sides of the steel. Caledonian Edge, San Mai III, and on the other side, Cold Steel, Japan.
“Looks like a good piece,” Bolan told Kissinger.
“Oh, it is, it is,” the armorer replied. “I polished the rocker a little bit more, but it really didn’t need much custom work. It’s custom-made in Japan already. The blade shape comes from the old Scottish sock knives.”
Bolan nodded and started to hand the knife back.
But Kissinger took a step away from him and shook his head. “Take it with you,” he said. “Then tell me how it stands up in the field. I’m thinking about offering them to everyone here at the Farm who wants one.”
“Will do,” Bolan said. “Always happy to risk my life as your guinea pig for untested products.” He was smiling when he spoke. The truth was, he had complete faith in Kissinger’s judgment.
Kissinger waved goodbye as Bolan closed the door. The Learjet was warmed up now, and Grimaldi began to guide it down the runway. Bolan sat back in his seat. The flight to Georgia would not take long, especially in the Learjet. But what little time it took could still be put to good use.
Flipping open a panel on the armrest nearest the door, the Executioner pulled up a folding work table and spread it across his lap. Next, he placed the file Brognola had given him on the table and opened it.
The only intelligence information he was interested in at the moment was in regard to the kidnapped daughter of the state senator in Georgia, and he found all of the reports held together by a paper clip on top of the rest of the information about the robberies and other crimes.
Behind him, the Executioner could hear Sampson and Jessup whispering softly. Grimaldi, to his side, took the Lear down the runway and into the air. When they had reached flying altitude, Bolan began shuffling through the pages.
Sarah Ann Pilgrim, eighteen, daughter of Henry and Myra Pilgrim, had been abducted by several men when she’d left her seat in the bleachers of a high school baseball field to visit the ladies’ room. Witnesses described her abductors as heavily armed with assault rifles and pistols, wearing green-and-brown Army clothes and black ski masks. The kidnappers had contacted Sarah’s parents the next day, demanding an immediate payment of a million dollars or they’d never see their daughter alive again. Henry Pilgrim, being an honest politician, had cried over the phone that he would never be able to raise that much money.
His tears had bought him an extra day. Nothing else.
Knowing that he was out of his league in both the financial arena and in handling terrorists and professional criminals, Henry had called in the FBI. One of the Bureau’s trained hostage negotiators was now in contact with whoever was on the other end of the phone calls, and doing his best to stall for more time. FBI technicians were also trying to trace the calls, but so far their attempts had been fruitless. The kidnappers were using a different cell phone each time they called, and evidently moving around Atlanta in some kind of vehicle. By the time the Bureau men could triangulate a call, they had moved to another area and were using a different phone.
The Executioner finished skimming the reports and closed the file. He closed his eyes, seeing the photograph that had been with the other paperwork now on the back of his eyelids. Sarah Ann Pilgrim was a cute little strawberry-blond girl who had all the earmarks of someday growing into a beautiful, mature woman. She was standing next to what looked like a ski boat of some kind in the picture, clad only in a bikini.
Bolan found his upper and lower teeth grinding against each other in silent anger. He could only pray that the kidnappers were nothing more than perpetrators of crimes for money. If there was a rapist among them—
The Executioner turned his thoughts away from such things. It would do no good to brood over the possibilities. He was already doing everything he could to locate and rescue Sarah Ann, and he would get her to safety as soon as possible.
The Executioner opened the file again and read through all of the reports, then found himself frowning. Shifting the reports regarding Sarah Ann’s abduction to the right side of the table, he began shuffling through the pages that dealt with the robberies. The frown grew deeper as he read on, occasionally referring back to the reports concerning Sarah Ann Pilgrim and the other two victims who had been abducted—and murdered.
The time frames concerning some of these crimes simply didn’t add up. If it was the same
