“Good,” Bruns said. “Tell him it’ll be the same arrangement as the last time. As soon as the formalities are complete, we’ll make the transfer.”
“The formalities” meant the forged paper trail that Karga would create to “document” that the item was sold through proper and established channels. It was total bullshit, but Bruns had been burned before when he’d been ordered by US Customs and Border Protection to return a series of cuneiform stone tablets that he’d purchased without proper documentation. Now that things had settled down somewhat in the war zones in Iraq and Afghanistan, both the US and foreign governments were looking a lot closer at these transactions out of Geneva and Istanbul. The “transfer” referred to the actual exchange where the money would be wired to Karga’s special Swiss bank account, and the artifact would be turned over to Tragg for transport to Bruns. The mistake the rich son of a bitch had made the last time was transporting them directly to the United States. This time he’d arranged for them to come in the back door, via Mexico, which had in turn opened up the second, and secret, part of Tragg’s plan.
“There’s one more thing, sir,” he said as he placed a hand on the professor’s shoulder and pushed him toward the door. After the little man was shoved into the hall, Tragg closed the door behind him.
He studied the image of the fat man on the small screen. The twin creases between Bruns’s eyebrows were deep. “What’s going on?”
“It seems we may have a problem,” Tragg said.
“What?”
“There’s another bidder who’s interested.” Tragg waited a few seconds to heighten the tension. “And Hakeem seems to favor his offer.”
Stony Man Farm Virginia
Bolan crouched behind a large metal mailbox and waited for Grimaldi to move to the next cover point, the shell of an old Lincoln Continental. This was the third time they’d worked the Hogan’s Alley portion of the shooting range in tandem, and each time the targets had varied.
Bolan caught a sudden flash of movement in the second-story window of the faux building about thirty yards away just as Grimaldi began his run. The Executioner brought up his Beretta 93-R, acquiring target acquisition in a split second, and fired a quick burst.
Three holes dotted the center of the cardboard target of a scowling man in a black mask holding an AK-47.
Grimaldi completed his roll, taking cover by the rear fender, and held his SIG Sauer P-220 with arms outstretched.
It was Bolan’s turn to move.
As he did so, he caught another target moving in a doorway.
Grimaldi’s weapon cracked three times.
Bolan saw that this target was another bad guy. He dropped to his knees beside Grimaldi, who grinned.
“See? Another terrorist bites the dust, courtesy of yours truly and SIG.”
They were wearing GunSport–PRO electronic earplugs that allowed them to converse in normal tones, yet blocked out any sudden noise over 500 decibels.
“Better do a combat reload before we move,” Bolan said. “By my count, you’re down to your last two rounds.”
Grimaldi dropped the magazine from his gun and verified that Bolan’s assessment had been correct. A solitary round sat atop the magazine. “How the hell do you do that? I can’t keep track of my own rounds, much less my partner’s.”
Bolan said nothing, but they both knew the answer was training and practice. He slapped Grimaldi’s shoulder, signaling him to move across the street. “Go.”
Grimaldi grunted and tore around the rear of the Lincoln, staying low as he ran, his weapon held close to his chest with both hands, ready to shoot as he moved.
Another target popped into the doorway. Bolan couldn’t take the shot because Grimaldi veered left into the field of fire. The Stony Man pilot’s SIG Sauer barked numerous times and a plethora of holes pierced the target’s chest, but this time it was a woman holding a grocery bag. Grimaldi groaned and shook his head at the rare mistake, and his pace slowed as he completed the last few steps to take cover on the right side of the doorway.
Bolan was already moving to his next position, keeping the Beretta trained on the various openings on the building’s front.
No new targets popped up, and the Executioner got to the opposite side of the doorway.
Before they could enter the building, the buzzer sounded, indicating the session was over, followed by a loud Bronx cheer over the speaker system from the range master.
Grimaldi swore and jammed his pistol into its holster.
“All right, all right, so I shot an alleged noncombatant. But I’ll bet you a ten spot she had a big, old .357 hogleg hidden in that grocery bag.”
The range master’s laugh sounded over the speaker. “Not hardly, Jack. But considering what a lady’s man you are, why don’t you give her a nice kiss to see if you can bring her back to life?”
Bolan allowed himself a ghost of a smile as he holstered his weapon.
Grimaldi shook his head and smirked. “Nah, she doesn’t look like my type.”
“Make that a lady-killer, then,” the range master said. “Anyway, Hal called. Needs to see you, guys, ASAP.”
“Good,” Grimaldi said. “Maybe he’s got something for us. All this training is giving me a case of the ass.”
“Careful what you wish for,” Bolan said as he headed toward the exit pathway.
“Hey,” Grimaldi called. “Hold on a sec. I got something neat to show you.”
Bolan stopped and turned around.
Grimaldi reached into his pants pocket and took out a black rectangular object that was about the same size as a stack of credit cards.
“I got credit,” Grimaldi said. He held up the object, then with a quick move he pushed a latch and the bottom section flipped down displaying a trigger and a handle. Grimaldi pulled a small rectangular section back and whirled, pointing at the target.
A subdued pop sounded, and Grimaldi turned back to Bolan with a sly grin. “Told you I had credit.”
He held his hand out, and Grimaldi gave him the weapon.
“Just picked it up. It’s called a LifeCard .22LR. Single shot .22 long rifle. Stores four rounds in the handle.”
Bolan checked the action and then handed it back to Grimaldi.
“Don’t leave home without it,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later they were walking into the War Room in the main building. The huge wall screen had been lowered and muted images from a cable news show danced across it. Hal Brognola,
