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      CHAPTER SIX

      Slipping through the door of the Mexican jail, Bolan rushed the room firing as soon as he had clear lines of sight to his new targets. Three of the black-clad men in the room had their backs turned to him, so the guy behind the desk with the surprised look on his face was targeted.

      The man still looked surprised when he took a 3-round burst in the chest from the Beretta and pitched backward in his chair.

      The others were turning to face their unexpected guest when a sustained burst from the H&K swept across the room at chest level.

      That served for two of them, but the third man was faster than his comrades and dropped out of the line of fire as he fumbled for his piece.

      Bolan tracked him with the Beretta and touched off another silenced trio that dropped the gunman flat. The soldier stepped past the bodies and hurried behind the desk. A quick search of the guy who’d been sitting there produced a key ring with a plastic lock card, as well as several large numbered keys. The biggest key unlocked the sliding, barred door leading into the holding area.

      The doors on the cells had regular locks, as well as electronic. In fact, when the power was cut, the mechanical locks worked as a fail-safe.

      Hal Brognola was in the second cell Bolan checked out. The security light inside was dim, but there was no mistaking that huddled, sleeping form. The soft snoring told him that he was alive.

      Bolan keyed the lock and opened the door. “You ready to go home, Hal?”

      Brognola opened one eye. “’Bout goddamned time you showed up here, Striker,” he growled.

      The big Fed didn’t look too much the worse for wear for his short imprisonment. He was rumpled, bleeding from one eyebrow, had a few bruises and badly needed a shower followed by a shave. But, at first glance, he didn’t look to have sustained any major physical damage.

      Bolan grinned broadly. “I got hung up going through airport security. I had to strip down to my shorts, ’cause I kept setting off the metal detector. You okay?”

      “I’m fine now.” Brognola sat up and reached for his jacket. “How bad is it?”

      Bolan didn’t have to ask him what “it” was. For a man who lived and breathed taking care of the nation’s troubles, he could only mean one thing. “Have you been able to get any information down here at all?” he asked.

      “The asshole in charge showed me some video clips of a Mexican mob storming the border crossing at Tijuana and some kind of small boat assault on a beach somewhere in Florida, but that’s about it.”

      “That’s pretty typical of what happened the first two days,” Bolan confirmed. “There were also border town assaults in Texas, Arizona and New Mexico and they turned nasty real quick. We’ve got hundreds of police and firefighter casualties and the looting and arson damage in places like El Paso and Phoenix is extensive.”

      “How’s the Man handling this?” Brognola asked.

      “He’s got everyone in uniform he can get on it,” Bolan reported, “and they’re starting to contain the intrusions. The damage to the border towns and southern Florida is running in the millions, but it’s not spreading as fast as it was. For one thing, the citizens are taking this as a foreign invasion and armed home defense is a real popular topic right now. Neighborhood militia units are being sworn in to back up the police forces.

      “If you’re ready to go,” Bolan went on, “let’s do it. It’s going to take a couple of hours for us to work our way back out to the PZ.”

      “Hold on, Striker,” Brognola growled. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

      Bolan had pretty much expected this response from his old friend and comrade-in-arms. Brognola had never been one to run from a fight no matter the odds. However, he had specific orders from the President of the United States. Brognola’s input was sorely needed in this current crisis, and his orders were to get him back to Stony Man Farm ASAP.

      “Hal, the Man told me in no uncertain terms that he wants you back at the Farm immediately to help him with this.”

      “The President’s a good man,” Brognola said, grinning, “and I know that he only has my best interests at heart, but the hell with him. I’ve got work to do here. That bastard Garcia’s going down big-time.”