Extreme Justice. Don Pendleton
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“And these would be illegal tools?”
“I haven’t brushed up on the local statute books,” he said, “but probably.”
“I think I know the man you seek.” She spoke a name and cocked one stylish eyebrow.
Bolan nodded. “That’s the guy.”
“You’re right about his hours,” Herrera said. “He operates a pawnshop as his—how you say it?—front.”
“That’s how we say it.”
“Very good. Unfortunately, he does not open for business until nine o’clock in the morning. Can you do your other business then, as well?”
Bolan considered it. “It would be better after nightfall,” he replied.
“Then you are graced with a free day in San José,” she told him, putting on a smile that seemed a trifle forced. “If you allow me, and you have the energy after your flight, I’ll be your tour guide.”
“Sounds good,” Bolan said, keeping both eyes on the road. “We’ll start with target zones and access routes, then hit the culture afterward, if we have time.”
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