this latest turn of events. Bolan thought it bitterly ironic that the very precautions OPP had tried to take to safeguard its personnel—at great expense in customizing an already state-of-the-art train—had made it possible for the hostage situation to come about.
Standard procedure, were the hostages under the direct sway of the terrorists, would be to treat them as already dead, or at least potentially so. As harsh as that might seem to the uninitiated, it actually increased the array of options available for counterterror response. An operation planned with that cold, hard fact as its premise could focus on the most expedient method for neutralizing the terrorists, taking into account the possible rescue of innocents. Once the threat was resolved, any hostages rescued alive would be a bonus.
In the case of the OPP train, the hostages were confirmed alive and likely to remain so. While Hyde and his skinhead scum were doubtless angry to be cut off from their victims, the presence of the OPP employees was serving the same purpose from the terrorists’ perspective. In point of fact, the reality of the train’s passenger compartment served Hyde better than if he had guns to the hostages’ heads. Force response to the hijacking had to take into account the fact that the employees were thus far unharmed and could be released if the train was taken intact. Any action that might damage the train and kill the hostages would be deemed unacceptable…unless and until the conscious, deliberate decision was made to sacrifice those men and women.
Bolan would do whatever was in his power to prevent that from happening. Innocents didn’t die on his watch; not if he could help it. That didn’t mean that bystanders and allies, friends and loved ones, the innocent and the guilty alike, hadn’t died before him and beside him.
He had learned hard lessons; he had made hard choices. More would lie before him before the mission was done.
His thoughts returned to the assault on the second safe house. Knowing who they faced, or why—that was the most challenging aspect of the current hunt. Quantified, defined problems, even big ones, were easy enough to solve, either with force, intelligence, or both. The unknown…that couldn’t be resolved until it was faced, and rarely could it be faced until it was defined.
So. That was the question.
Who did he face, and why?
CHAPTER SIX
Nuevo Laredo
Russell Troy sat on the edge of the sagging motel bed, squeezing a red rubber ball. The cracked and worn sphere was small enough to fill his palm. To squeeze it until its largest cracks touched required all the strength in his left hand. The first three fingers of that hand were numb. They always would be.
The last two fingers were missing.
They had told him at the rehabilitation facility in California that the nerve damage was severe and permanent. He was lucky, they had informed him, to retain any function in the hand at all—function that could be improved through the exercises they prescribed. There was no reason, they had assured him, that he couldn’t go on to live a reasonably normal life.
They were welcome, he thought, to go straight to hell.
They had given him a ball to squeeze. It wasn’t white. It wasn’t gray. It wasn’t really anything. It was, in fact, the exact same color of the walls of his room, the same institutional not-quite-beige that some smug puke with multiple degrees in psychology had probably determined was the least offensive to the most number of people.
Except that the residents of the San Diego rehab center weren’t people at all. Not anymore.
They were treated with something that wasn’t kindness but never quite dipped into indifference. The staff members were mildly solicitous of his well-being and of the well-being of his fellow…inmates was the word that came to mind. The creaking and many-times-converted old house was an asylum, a sanitarium. It was a kind of holding tank, as he saw it, for people who were neither dead nor alive.
Most of them had been, as he had, undercover operatives. Their departments and branches of service varied; at least one of the worst cases was a former Special Ops soldier who, somewhere in Afghanistan, had run afoul of the counterinsurgents he was training to fight the Taliban. They’d taken his tongue and his eyes, among other things. He sat slumped in a wheelchair on the front porch most days, indifferent to the sun on his scarred face.
There were half a dozen others, although two or three were rarely in residence, spending time in and out of the hospital for continuing reconstructive surgeries. There was a woman everyone called Jane but whose real name was Karen. She had told him that much, from amid the bandages swathing her face and arms. From acid, poured over her as she sat strapped in a metal chair, in some godforsaken garage.
Karen was with the Bureau and had worked a Mob case in Philadelphia. They had found her and taught her a permanent lesson. She spoke rarely, but seemed to find Troy easy enough to talk to.
The smile was stillborn on his face. Of course he was a good listener. He never talked. He hadn’t spoken a word to any of them—not the staff, not the patients and not to his sister when she came to visit from Salt Lake City. Liz hadn’t known what to do with him, hadn’t known how to react to what he had become. She had fussed over him, had made small talk. Finally, she simply sat with him quietly and held his right hand as they looked out the second-floor window. She had told him he was welcome to come live with her and Paul.
“Whenever you’re finally ready to come home,” was how she’d put it.
Home. Now he did laugh. It was a miserable bark, a sardonic, bitter bleat that bore little resemblance to mirth. There was no home for him. There never would be again.
He flexed the ball, over and over. The anger lent him strength. The cracks in the rubber skin touched. He flexed them further. The knuckles of his three remaining fingers were white. His fingertips were blue.
They had made him watch. They had videotaped it. They played it for him, explaining to him in exquisite detail exactly why everything they were doing to his wife was his fault, was payback for his betrayal. It had to be a video, for by the time they showed it to him, it was far too late. They wanted nothing from him; they sought no information; they were interested only in making him suffer before he died. His last thoughts were to be of loss and impotence and astonishing shame.
He hadn’t been there in person because it had happened while he was being beaten a hundred miles away, while his hand was being clenched in a shop vise at the back of the decrepit garage where…where…
He stopped. It was happening again. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember their names. Couldn’t remember the men who had been working with him, who had been part of his undercover team. It was an ambitious operation with a large budget; he remembered that. He was given unprecedented free rein, the authorization to conduct his cover and to bend, judiciously, the laws as he saw fit. He had done his best to blend in. He had taken drugs. He had beaten other gang members, sometimes close to death. He had rutted with the whores the Twelfth Reich vermin kept around. He had lived his cover, had been one of them. Even now, he could mouth the words of their hate, read the lines of his script as if he truly despised all the “mud people” Hyde and his zombie acolytes so feared and loathed.
They had given him literature to read, at first. It was mindless drivel, written by people who were barely literate themselves. One was a charming piece of claptrap, a novel about a man whose hobby was shooting interracial couples. Another was the book reportedly the inspiration for major terrorist bombings, complete with formulas for making explosives. Still another was one he recognized, an anarchy handbook long ago
