to the ground. A black veil of unconsciousness settled over him.
CHAPTER ONE
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was the last to arrive at the War Room. When he entered, he found Hal Brognola, his sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, a tattered cigar clenched between his teeth, already seated at the table. Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s honey-blonde mission controller, was also seated at the table. She was setting a coffee carafe on the table, and judging from the steam wafting from her mug had just filled it with coffee. Her full lips turned up in a warm smile, which Bolan returned.
Brognola, who’d been staring into the contents of his coffee mug, his brow furrowed, looked up at Bolan and gave him a tight smile. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of Stony Man Farm’s cyberteam, shot the big Fed a look. When he spoke, he laced his voice with mock indignation.
“What the hell, Hal?” he said. “You’re looking at the coffee like you expect the Loch Ness monster to pop out of there.”
“I don’t think Nessie could survive in this swill,” Brognola retorted.
“Where is the love?” Kurtzman replied.
Bolan found his seat and, against his better judgment, poured himself of a cup of Kurtzman’s coffee. Once the soldier got settled in, Brognola turned to him, his face grim.
“We’ve got a lot to discuss, Striker,” the big Fed said.
“I expected as much.” Bolan leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. His old friend slid a folder across the tabletop and it came to rest inches away from Bolan. The soldier opened the folder and leafed through the contents, which included several top-secret intelligence reports, several printouts of news stories from newspaper websites and half a dozen or so pictures. Bolan picked up the pictures and scanned through them one at a time. The image of a Caucasian man with ruddy cheeks, blond hair and pale blue eyes stared back at him.
“His name’s Terry Lang,” Brognola said.
“The journalist?”
“Among other things. There’s more to this guy than meets the eye. Lots more.”
“Meaning?”
Brognola turned his gaze in Price’s direction. “You want to field this one?”
Price set down her coffee mug. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and scanned several papers arrayed in front of her before looking up and meeting Bolan’s gaze. “What Hal means is that Mr. Lang has one hell of a freelance gig going on the side.”
Bolan scowled. “You two aren’t making a lot of sense.”
“You’re right,” Price said. “We really aren’t. Sorry.”
“I know Lang is a reporter for the London Messenger. He writes mostly about energy and foreign policy. Occasionally he writes about nukes and nonproliferation issues, too. Works out of the Middle East a lot, I guess because of the energy coverage.”
Price seemed impressed. “When do you have time to read anything other than top-secret dossiers?”
“His articles have been in more than one of my mission packets,” Bolan said. “Occasionally he publishes a clunker or two. But most of his stuff seems to track with what I’ve seen. I always guessed he either had impeccable sources or he was a spook.”
“Give the man a cigar,” Brognola said.
“So he really is a spook?”
Price nodded.
“He works for the Central Intelligence Agency. He operates in a nonofficial cover capacity, and he tracks nuclear proliferation and smuggling for them. Or he did.”
“Did?” Bolan said. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“It gets even worse,” Brognola interjected. “Lang relocated to Dubai several months ago. It gave him a better perch to watch for any illicit shipping of nuclear technology or radioactive materials. Despite all the glitz, the country has become a hotbed for arms and drug smugglers and their fellow travelers. That’s included nuclear smuggling, too.”
Bolan nodded.
“Lang has lots of sources,” Brognola continued. “Some damn fine ones. White hats and black hats. And he could consort with them easily because of his cover. With all that information coming in, he had a lot of irons in the fire, a lot of cases working. The guy dug up loads of good information.”
Bolan arched an eyebrow. “And the problem is?”
“He went missing about forty-eight hours ago,” Brognola said. “Bam, just disappeared. That’s not necessarily a big deal, considering the nature of his cover. But he was supposed to check in with his handlers in Langley and never did. According to the CIA, Lang never, and I mean ever, misses a check-in call. He always made his contacts, except this time.”
“And now everyone’s worried.”
“Yes.”
“He clean?”
Brognola nodded. “Best we can tell. The counterintelligence people are poring over their files. They want to make sure they haven’t missed anything. According to what the President has told me, though, the Agency has yet to come up with anything bad on the guy.”
Bolan considered what he was being told. “You need what from me?”
“Go to Dubai,” Brognola said. “Find out whatever you can. Frankly, there doesn’t look to be any good outcomes here. If the guy has disappeared of his own accord, it’s probably because he’s gone rogue. If he’s vanished because he’s been kidnapped, that could be even worse. Regardless, we need to know what happened to him. You game?”
“How soon can Jack fire up a plane and fly me to Dubai?”
CHAPTER TWO
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
The C-37 jet airplane stood on the tarmac at Dubai International Airport, parked near a hangar that housed government-owned planes. Heat rose from its engines and caused the air above them to shimmer. The craft’s side door popped open and a small stairwell dropped from the plane.
A tall figure, his eyes obscured behind aviator-style sunglasses, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder, disembarked from the craft’s air-conditioned interior. He scowled involuntarily as he collided with a wall of scorching heat. A sheen of perspiration formed on his forehead almost immediately. Dry heat, my ass, he thought.
The Executioner descended the steps, walked onto the tarmac and swept his gaze over his surroundings. The soldier spotted a black sedan parked perhaps a dozen yards away. A short slender man, with hair trimmed down to stubble, stood next to the vehicle, his arms crossed over his chest. Light gleamed off the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses.
When Bolan reached the car, the man bent his head a bit and peered over the rims of his glasses at Bolan.
“You Cooper?” he asked Bolan, referring to
