head as the soldier took cover. He swung his weapon into target acquisition and triggered a few short bursts, but none hit the target, who darted from his place and headed toward concealment behind a long, stainless steel preparation counter.
Bolan snatched the NVD goggles off his face and set them at his feet. He then dropped to his belly and crawled along the back side of the counter, moving slowly and carefully to prevent making noise that would allow his enemy to pinpoint his location. They guy’s eyes had obviously adjusted, and there was enough gloom that the NVDs no longer gave Bolan a tactical edge. Stealth would be the key to securing a victory here, a truth that proved out a moment later when Bolan detected the shadowy figure emerging from his spot and heading directly toward his position. A dim hood light presented a silhouette, and Bolan quietly reached to his hip and withdrew his Desert Eagle. From that prone position he extended his arm, aimed center mass and squeezed the trigger. The proximity of the shot actually drove home with enough force to flip the target on to his back.
The ringing in Bolan’s ears took a minute or so to subside. He ignored it as he frisked the body for identification, lifted what papers he found, then set about the task of rigging the joint to blow. Being in the kitchen would make it simple enough. The Executioner located several propane storage tanks and packed them with C-4 plastique from his satchel. He primed the high explosive for detonation on a timer and set it to eight minutes, then made his exit out the rear and circled back to the spot between the two houses where he’d left his motorcycle.
As Bolan expected, the reinforcements arrived right on schedule—it looked to be a mix of civilian vehicles along with an Adak police vehicle. As the collection got out of their cars, the club suddenly went up in a massive blast and a whoosh of red-orange flame that had to reach heights of a hundred feet or better. Under the cover of the explosion, fire and secondary blasts, Bolan kick-started the motorcycle to life, and within thirty seconds he’d departed the area completely unobserved.
He’d sent his first message to Davis Haglemann. Now it was time to wait for the reply.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“THE RUSSIAN BUSINESS NETWORK?” When Barbara Price nodded, Hal Brognola shook his head. “I knew we hadn’t heard the last of them, but I didn’t think they had these kinds of capabilities.”
“Frankly, Hal, neither did I,” Bolan replied. “Godunov and his cronies demonstrated they had significant resources when they tried to take down Wall Street. But in order for them to pull off something like this, they’d have to be in bed with members of the Russian government. And they’re apparently in bed with Davis Haglemann, too. They come and go here on Adak as they please.”
“Barb,” Brognola said, “what’s the Russian government’s official position on the RBN?”
“Well, of course, they officially disavow any relationship with them, although they’ve never officially taken any sort of direct stance.”
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