him protection.”
“But the shooter made a mess of the attempt,” Brognola said. “Hit Turrin instead of Sherman.”
“He tried to clean up by taking more shots as Sherman ran,” Kurtzman said. “He just made things worse, killing civilians, including two children.”
“I haven’t forgotten about the loss of those innocents, especially the kids,” Bolan rasped.
The deaths of the children would be in his thoughts for as long as it took to make things right. And he would. There had to be a reckoning for the indiscriminate slaughter of people who were merely collateral damage for a killer out to make a buck. Bolan would not forget those deaths.
Or the injury to Leo Turrin.
“What have you got on Sherman?” Bolan asked.
“Harry Sherman,” Kurtzman said. Another image flashed onto the monitor. “Thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. Pure and simple? A money man. He ran the accounts for Conte. Kept track of all the cash coming in and never took a wrong step until nine million dollars disappeared. We don’t have all the details, but it looks as if Sherman’s the fall guy for someone snatching the money.
“Sherman has a sister, Gwen Darrow,” Kurtzman went on. “She lives in Des Moines. She’s a lawyer with her own practice in the city. She’s a widow with two kids. Laura is in college. Carl is in the military. He’s on active service right now.”
He brought up a picture of a handsome woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. There were two more images. One of Darrow’s son, Carl, in uniform, and one of her daughter, Laura, who was an attractive, younger version of her mother.
“Good place to start looking for Sherman as any,” Bolan said.
“I’ll make travel arrangements for you,” Price advised, gathering her file and leaving the room.
“Aaron, will you download the intel you’ve gathered to my sat phone?”
“You’ll have it shortly.”
The meeting broke up after another half hour. Bolan made his way to the room he used when he was in residence at Stony Man and packed a bag. Then he dropped by the armory where he chose the weapons he’d need for the mission: a Beretta 93-R and several magazines loaded with 9 mm ammo. He also chose a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, as well as a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife and holsters for both handguns.
He liaised with Price, who set him up with his travel pack. Jack Grimaldi, the Stony Man resident pilot, would fly him to Des Moines.
“Pick up your vehicle at the airfield,” she said. “A Chevy Suburban is being delivered as we speak. Try not to return it to the rental agency full of holes.”
“That’s happened before?” Bolan asked with a grin.
“Take a look at our insurance premiums,” Price quipped and then winked.
“You ready, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.
“Let’s move out.”
As Grimaldi turned and headed for the door, Price leaned forward and kissed Bolan.
“Stay safe, soldier,” she said.
Outside Des Moines, Iowa
GRIMALDI TOUCHED DOWN at a private airstrip a few miles from the main airport. The ace pilot had contacts across the country when it came to safe landing spots. He was friendly with a large number of independent operators and those contacts came in handy when he needed an out-of-the-way place to land. Grimaldi was a sociable man, and when he made friends, those friendships tended to be strong and long-lasting. It was no secret that many of his acquaintances were of the female variety. He was the land-based version of the sailor with a girl in every port.
Bolan took his carry-all and placed it in the rear of the Suburban. He stowed his 93-R and shoulder rig in the glove compartment, within easy reach. He placed the bag holding his other weapons in the trunk.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Grimaldi said as Bolan slid behind the wheel and fired up the Suburban’s engine. “Try not to cause trouble.”
Bolan glanced up from logging Gwen Darrow’s address into the navigation system.
“Do I ever go looking for trouble, Jack?”
Grimaldi grinned. “You said that with a straight face.”
He watched as Bolan drove out of the airstrip and picked up the road for the city.
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