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Carnage Code

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2019
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“Who taught your father?” Bolan asked.

“My grandpa.” Cassetti was frowning now, wondering what these questions were all about.

“And your grandfather was either in World War II or Korea, would be my guess,” the Executioner said.

“Both,” Cassetti told him, still frowning. “He was a lifer. OSS during World War II and a master sergeant when he retired shortly after Korea. He ended his career as a range instructor at Camp Perry.” The young man paused for a moment. “But what makes you ask all of this?”

“Because you’re shooting the right way,” the Executioner said. “And it surprised me.”

So Cassetti had a legacy of learning the best system of defensive shooting.

Bolan walked to the closet where he’d hung his sport coat. The shoulder had been ripped out by the bullet that had almost killed him during the initial fight, and he took the jacket down now, pulled his cell phone, his passport and several other items out of the pockets, then dropped the ruined jacket into the trash can next to the bathroom.

Taking a seat on the other bed, across from Cassetti, he tapped a series of numbers into the cell phone. Yes, he reminded himself, there was another possible avenue he could take to try to decipher the coded limerick. But his gut told him this was the one-in-a-million time it wouldn’t work. Still, it was worth a try.

When he had finished entering the number, Bolan leaned back on one arm, the phone still pressed to his ear. The instrument contained a scrambler that would turn his words into babble until they reached the party he was calling. And there was a scrambler on that end, too, in order to make sure the replies that came back to him in Sudan couldn’t be understood if captured, either.

But the security didn’t stop there, either. For additional protection against prying ears, the call would be bounced off three different dummy numbers on three continents before it finally reached Stony Man Farm, America’s top-secret counterterrorism headquarters and training grounds.

Ten seconds later, the call had gone from Sudan to Peru to Australia and then to America. Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, answered the call. “Hello, Striker,” she said, using Bolan’s mission appellation.

“Hi, Barb,” the Executioner said. “I need to talk to the Bear.”

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Price said.

Bolan heard a quick click as his call was transferred to Stony Man Farm’s Computer Room. As he waited, he thought about Price. He and the beautiful honey-blonde had an arrangement that seemed to suit them well. Both were totally dedicated to their work. But both were human, too. And on the rare occasions when the Executioner was between missions, and able to spend the night at the Farm, he usually wound up in Price’s bedroom.


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