out in a torrent, “and this is New York, for Christ’s sake! Whack me if ya want, but screw those Afghan dirtbags and the hairy-ass camels they rode in on.”
For one of the very few times in his turbulent life, Mack Bolan found himself caught absolutely by surprise. Then he looked hard into the man’s sweaty face and saw it was the truth. Incredible.
“You sold fake missiles to terrorists,” Bolan repeated slowly.
Filled with the bravado that comes in the face of inevitable death, Tyree gave a snort. “Yeah, fuck him, and fuck you, too!” he retorted, rubbing his aching shoulder. “Go ahead, shoot me! Get it the fuck over with!”
“Not today,” the Executioner said. “Maybe we can cut a deal.”
Hope flared in his eyes and Tyree glanced at the bar.
“Not for cash,” Bolan countered, keeping the weapon level but shifting it off center. “But I’ll trade information in exchange for your life.”
“Done,” Tyree agreed quickly. “What do ya want to know?”
Smart fellow. No wonder he seized control of the East Coast weapons traffic from the Jewish mob. “Some Brazilian muscle is smuggling weapons into the country,” Bolan said, deliberately being as vague as possible. He’d give more details if necessary, but only what was necessary. “Big stuff, small package. Who would they approach to broker a sale? I want a name.”
Gingerly massaging his upper arm, Tyree listened to the thumping on the armored door for a while, but said nothing, deep in thought.
Was he cooking a lie or digging for a name? Bolan wondered. He sincerely hoped the man was going to play it straight, because there was nobody else to ask. This was the end of the line, which was why he had opted for a stunt like swinging in through the window instead of ambushing the man in the elevator.
“Brazilian,” Tyree said slowly. “So it’s the Commies, the rebels, or the S2? Right?”
Bolan nodded.
“The Communists and the rebels ain’t got shit to sell. They’re buyers, but so broke they can’t afford anything important, so that means it’s the S2,” Tyree said at last. “Okay, there’s a guy, lives out in Belmore, Long Island. Deals a lot with those assholes. Name is Michael Prince. Fat guy, silk suits, uses a cigarette holder.”
Yeah, Bolan knew the name, but not much more. Michael Prince, the self-proclaimed Prince of the City. So he was handling weapons now. The rope suddenly had some extra length.
“Call anybody, and I’ll come back,” Bolan said, tucking the Beretta into its holster. “Only next time, we don’t talk.”
“Hey no problem.” The man smiled weakly. “Time for me to retire anyway.”
Attaching the safety belt as a prelude to rapelling down the side of the building, Mack Bolan paused at the window to glance over a shoulder.
“Dummy missiles?” he said, giving a brief hard smile.
“What the hell.” Tyree sighed, looking past the Executioner at the distant Manhattan skyline with a noticeable gap in the line of towering skyscrapers. “It’s a new world.”
Richmond, Virginia
EVENING WAS starting to fall across the lush Virginia countryside as the dark gray sedan rolled off the highway and into the suburbs of Richmond. The streets were astonishingly clean and lined with old trees, the front lawn of each house wide and immaculately maintained, with dogwood flowers sweetly scenting the air. Every car was in a garage or parked on the driveway; nobody was using the street.
“Jeez, it’s like something out of a Disney movie,” Cliff Maynard complained from behind the wheel. “I keep waiting for the music to swell and credits to roll.”
“Got to be a tough commute to D.C. every day,” Eliza Linderholm replied, checking the power-pack in her Taser. Tucking the electric stun gun away, the CIA agent pulled out a Glock 21 pistol and carefully threaded on a sound suppressor. Mr. Osbourne wanted the woman alive, undamaged if possible, but that wasn’t carved in stone.
“Maybe Dupont likes the peace of the countryside,” Cliff continued, reaching under his jacket and snapping off the strap of his shoulder holster. “It’d drive me crazy.”
“Amen to that, brother.” Linderholm smiled. “I’m a big-city girl and plan to stay that way.”
Back in Langley, the Agency was at its most busy when the place was quiet. Casual conversations and laughter meant that nothing important was happening in the world, an uncommon event. To any CIA agent, peace and quiet always meant trouble.
“This must be it,” Maynard said, checking the map on the dashboard display. He turned off his navigational computer and it folded back out of sight.
“You sure this is the right address?” Linderholm asked, sliding a medical pack into her skirt pocket. The boss had sent her along in case Helen Dupont was found in the shower or the agents had to strip search for weapons. After the debacle in London, the Agency was toeing the line on every government regulation. At least, for the present conflict.
“Got it out of her personnel file,” Maynard said, parking the sedan on the street a few houses away. Down the block, a old man watering his lawn studied the strange car in frank disapproval, then turned his back on them to concentrate on the weeding and fertilizing.
Pulling out a monocular scope, Linderholm swept the vicinity for anybody standing guard. The house was a modest two-story. Fake wooden shutters sat alongside the windows for purely artistic effect, which was ruined by the addition of a plastic gnome in the flower garden. Returning the scope to her pocket, the black woman shrugged at the sight. At least it was better than those racist Civil War lawn jockeys.
“Looks clean,” she reported.
“Good enough,” Maynard said. “Then let’s go catch a traitor.”
A low-level G4 clerk in the records department of the Agency, Helen Dupont was rather plain-looking, but known for getting overly friendly on the weekends. Fair enough. Nobody cared about sexual peccadilloes, as long as they were discreet. Consenting adults, and all that. However, a routine security check revealed that Dupont seemed to only be going to bed with people in the technical repair department. And the technicians had been among the very first people told about the plan to recover the Zodiacs so that they would be ready to safely disassemble the bombs.
However, in the opinion of Special Team Leader David Osbourne, that sounded suspiciously like sexual backpay. A crude spy would offer sex in exchange for secret information. Sometimes that worked, mostly it didn’t. On the other hand, a good spy would have sex with the target several times, hundreds of times over many years if possible, to build a good rapport and then have emotional leverage on the victim. Now the requested intel seemed more like a favor, with the implied threat of ending the affair if denied. The Agency did that themselves, and the ploy worked more often than not. To discover it was being done to them was extremely disturbing.
New rules for sexual conduct were already being drafted, but that wasn’t the pressing problem at the moment. Plain, sweet, sexually repressed until the weekend, Helen Dupont had left the office complaining of a migraine headache exactly when the Scion had stolen the truckload of Zodiac bombs.
It
