Firestorm

With loud gulps, Wallace guzzled down more water.

“A few hours ago, someone contacted him. An American. The guy was looking for weapons. It was a stupid move on his part, too. He wanted a couple of handguns and an Uzi. This place is lousy with that kind of stuff. But he called the Brit who was more than happy to sell him the guns. And then he immediately called me and passed along the information.”

“For a price,” Grimaldi said.

A weary smile spread across Wallace’s features. “Friend, nothing comes free in Colombia. Anyway, Richardson assumed that I’d want more information on this American even before we spoke. Once he sold him the weapons, he put a tail on him so we know where he’s going. He also gave me a picture.”

He punched a key on his laptop, turned it around so Bolan and Grimaldi could see it. Bolan saw a pair of photos positioned next to each other on the screen. In one, the soldier observed the grainy image of a man wearing a baseball cap. The second depicted a close-up shot of the man’s face. It was a Caucasian with a flat, wide nose and thick black eyebrows and dull brown eyes.

“Michael Stephens,” Wallace said.

“What do we know about him?” Bolan asked.

“Drifter, of sorts. He used to be with U.S. Army intelligence. According to his file, he was sharp. But he couldn’t stand to take orders from anyone. He took a swing at his sergeant over something petty, like a bad evaluation. The guy repaid him with a busted nose and a dishonorable discharge. He blew a twelve-year career over something stupid. He scrounges around for information, occasionally comes across something that he can sell to us, the Colombians, the rebels, whoever might buy it. Most of what he learns is penny ante stuff, including things compiled from foreign newspapers that he rewrites into intelligence reports. I buy it anyway, just to keep some goodwill with him. Occasionally he comes across something I can use or pass along to someone else. But we have to watch him. He’s a backstabber.”

“You have an address?”

“Yeah,” Wallace said. “And that info’s on the house.”

“So who’s he arming himself against?” Bolan asked.

“Hard to say,” Wallace replied. “Maybe you guys.”

“Not too many people know we’re here,” Grimaldi said.

“Then maybe something else scared him,” Wallace offered. “Maybe his erstwhile employers parted company with him. Or he just pissed somebody off. From what I know about this little turd, there’s no shortage of people who’d happily snap a cap on his ass for free. Hell, a couple might even pay for the privilege.”

“Which means that someone else is going to be heading out there to talk with him,” Grimaldi said.

Wallace nodded again. “Probably. By the way, Hal gave me a shopping list. I have your gear packed in a helicopter and ready to take you wherever you want to go.”

A smile ghosted the Executioner’s lips. “Thanks,” he said.

“W HAT IS GOING ON ?” Eva asked. Her voice was marked by fear. “Why are you doing this?”

Stephens shot her a withering look. “Shut up and pack,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ve asked me three times, and it’s the same damn answer every time. So do as I say.”

Anger flared in her eyes, and her lips tightened into a thin line. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared after him for a few minutes while he packed. Stephens could see at least part of this from the corner of his eye, but ignored her, knowing she’d give up quickly.

After several tense seconds, Eva spun on her heel and headed for the bedroom to pack.

Once she was gone, Stephens pulled his shirttails from the waistband of his pants and let them drape around his waist. He reached inside his nearby briefcase, rooted around inside it for a moment until he found his newly acquired Glock still sheathed in a nylon holster. Lifting his shirttails, he clipped the weapon to his waistband and let his shirt drape over the weapon’s butt. He’d already stowed the second pistol in an ankle holster before Eva had returned home. He didn’t want her to see the weapons. He knew she’d panic and bombard him with questions he didn’t want to answer. Maybe he’d tell her more when they got to the United States. Maybe not. But he’d make that decision later. Right now, getting the hell off the bull’s-eye was the main priority. And, if she had any gratitude, she’d shut her mouth and let him handle the situation. He was, after all, doing all this for her and the baby, which was all she needed to know.

He checked his watch and muttered a curse.

“Eva,” he shouted, “get moving! We’ve got to go.”

“Why do we have to go?” she shouted from the bedroom.

“Shut up. Pack. No questions!” he shouted.

The phone on his belt trilled. He cursed again and answered it.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Hello, Mike,” Krotnic said.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Do you like the guns you bought? Do you think they’ll keep you safe?”

Unconsciously, Stephens’s hand dropped to the Glock moored to his hip. “What do you want?”

“I asked you a question,” Krotnic said.

“Why don’t you come up here and I’ll answer it.”

“Sorry,” Krotnic said. “I can’t make it. But I sent some friends over for a visit. I hope you’re a good shot. There are a lot of them.”

The phone went dead.

4

Doyle pulled open the van’s rear doors to reveal five men seated in the back. The gunners, all togged in street clothes, stared at him, awaiting their orders. He stepped away from the door and gestured for them to disembark.

“Look alive, ladies,” he said. “Got no time for you to be back there, darning your socks, for pity’s sake.”

Silently, the men filed out of the vehicle. Doyle swept his gaze over the whole crew.

Each carried a duffel bag strapped over his shoulder. All the bags contained an identical weapon, a Ruger MP-9, and extra clips. They also carried Beretta 92 pistols fitted with sound suppressors. Every last one of them hailed from a military background, and they were veterans of some of the world’s worst killing fields. This particular group consisted of three South Africans, an Israeli and a Russian, each formerly from the special forces of his respective country.

When it came to technical proficiency, each was a top-notch fighter, unafraid to mix it up with anyone. However, they all had little discipline and even less desire to develop what they did have. They were fighting for money, not cause or country. Doyle knew that made them inherently weaker than traditional soldiers.

A second van rolled in behind them, bits of gravel popping as it approached. The driver guided the vehicle left and parked it next to the first van. A second group of mercenaries joined the first. Doyle had split them into two teams. One would hit the building from the outside. The second would scour the inside for their targets.

“We need to take out the bastard,” Doyle said. “He’s starting to make noises, ones we don’t like. Sounds like he’s starting to have pangs of a conscience.”

A couple of the gunners shot Doyle a knowing smile. He ignored them.

“We find his change of heart unacceptable,” the Irishman said. “Another important point. Your target has a housemate, a young woman who’s carrying his child. We want no witnesses, period. Zero. Variation from that plan is unacceptable. She takes a bullet. If anyone’s too squeamish to drop the hammer on her, speak now or forever shut up. The last thing I need is for one of you nancy boys to choke when you get that stupid wench in your gunsights. Clear?”

He fell silent and slowly dragged his eyes over the motley assortment of hired guns lined up before him, made sure his expression telegraphed heavy doses of disdain for each of them. He wanted them to know that, while they got paid handsomely for their work, he had no personal regard for them. More important, he didn’t fear them or care what happened to them, as long as the mission succeeded.

“You also need to go from apartment to apartment,” he said. “Take out anyone unlucky enough to be home tonight. Do we all understand?”

A couple of them nodded, while others fixed their thousand-yard stares somewhere over his shoulder, like they’d heard enough.

“No questions? Fine, then get your damn asses in that building and raise some hell.”