Code Of Honor

“Yes,” Brognola said reluctantly. “There’s virtually no evidence at any of the crime scenes. No hairs, no fibers, no fingerprints save those of the victims, no biological residue for DNA save those of the victims, no shell casings or bullets at the scene or in any of the bodies despite the presence of bullet wounds, and almost all the blood traces that aren’t compromised by liberal application of bleach are also the victims’.” Brognola called up several more files, which were also digital photos. “Any number of killings over the years have matched this total lack of evidence. The FBI has a file a mile long on these—I know, ’cause I’m the one who started it. Of course, some of those are your executions, but the ones that aren’t…”

“The rumors about the Black Cross go back to my Army days,” Bolan said. “An elite group of assassins made up of the best of the best.”

“I know. And I know that there’s nothing to support it.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, just because the theory fits the evidence—or lack of same—doesn’t mean it’s right. And we’ve got nothing solid, except for the fact that local police were completely stymied. They kicked it up to FBI, and they brought it to me.”

Bolan scratched his chin thoughtfully. “When you referred to the evidence, you said ‘virtually’ and ‘almost.’ What’s different about these crime scenes from all the other ones you think are Black Cross?”

Brognola actually smiled at that, pleased that Bolan noticed how carefully he’d chosen his words. “Not ‘these,’ just the one. Bethke was killed in the Mohonk woodlands in New York. Two distinct sets of blood evidence were bleached far away from Bethke’s body—but there were a few drops of blood that weren’t bleached, and didn’t belong to Bethke. DNA identifies it as belonging to a former sharpshooter in Baltimore City PD’s Quick Response Team named Bert Hanson. He retired after only nine years on the job and then fell off the grid.”

“You think Black Cross recruited him?” Bolan asked.

“Makes sense. If I was looking for assassins, the QRT would be on my list of possible recruiting sources. Hanson had been a model cop—several decorations, no bad notes in his jacket. And then, out of nowhere, he quits, no reason given, and he’s not been heard from since—until he bled on the ground at Mohonk.”

“So what does that get us?”

In response, Brognola double-tapped another graphics file, which called up the face of a walleyed man with a thick beard, a large nose and curly hair. “I did a little digging into Hanson’s departure from the BPD. This is somebody who met with him at BPD’s Western District headquarters shortly before he quit. They talked in an interrogation room. He signed in as a lawyer, so there’s no audio of their meeting, but the name he signed in with doesn’t match any lawyer in the Maryland State Bar Association. So I ran his face through the database and eventually got a hit.”

Double-tapping on yet another file brought up another picture of the same man, but with the beard shaved off and thick-lensed glasses over the walleyes. “The only name we have for him is Galloway, and he’s been seen with a wide variety of dodgy personalities. Terrorists, arms dealers, assassins, you name it. But nobody’s ever been able to pin anything on him, or even find out his first name.”

“You think he’s recruiting for the Black Cross?”

Nodding, Brognola said, “Yes. And he’s a regular attendee of the Valley Forge Gun Show. He doesn’t have a booth, he just attends as a citizen. That show runs three or four times a year, and one of them is this weekend.”

“Hence your rush?”

“Yes. You think the Black Cross would be interested in gaining a new member?”

Bolan took a sip of his coffee. “Only one way to find out.”

“Good. We’ve already created a new identity for you.”

Raising an eyebrow, the Executioner asked, “Why not simply use the Matt Cooper ID?”

“He fits the profile, but this op risks burning that ID completely, and it’s too useful.” Brognola minimized all the files so the desktop was revealed once again, and this time he double-tapped another folder.

Several files became visible in the window, and Brognola called up several of them. One had a recent picture of Bolan, with a caption that read Michael Burns. Another had a U.S. Marines dossier that revealed Burns was a rifleman who served in the first Gulf War, but was dishonorably discharged due to insubordination—specifically for killing a prisoner after being told to bring him in alive.

“I see Bear’s been busy,” Bolan said, referring to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert.

“I had a feeling you were going to say yes to this one, Striker.”

“I know how important the Black Cross is to you, Hal.”

Brognola waved him off. “I don’t care about that—I just want these people stopped.”

“Redmond and the others served their country with honor and deserved a quiet retirement. I will take down whoever killed them.”

Nodding, Brognola said, “Well, Michael Burns should be a good fit for them. He’s got the skills, and he was kicked out of the Marines for killing someone. He’s been working as a mercenary for a few years, but he’s had trouble finding work because he uses excessive force regardless of the circumstances.”

“Just what a group that deals only in excessive force would be looking for.”

“And Bear’s made sure that any background check will come up solid. Only one of his old COs in the Corps is still alive, and he’s a friend of mine, so he’ll vouch for ‘Burns.’”

Peering at the screen, Bolan said, “He’s from Alabama?”

“Yes. Tomorrow’s the last day of the gun show, so you can get a good night’s sleep, and you can head up to King of Prussia in the morning.”

The Executioner stood up, shook Brognola’s hand, then headed out of the meeting room to get that shower the head of Stony Man had offered.

While Bolan was still skeptical of the existence of the Black Cross, he also knew that, if they did exist, they needed to be shut down. For them to have been successful for so long spoke to an organization that was responsible for murder on a truly massive scale.

Bolan intended to make sure they would be stopped once and for all.

2

After a four-hour drive up I–81 and across I–76 in a specially modified Ford Escort owned by Stony Man, the Executioner arrived in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, and the Valley Forge Convention Center for the last day of the Valley Forge Gun Show. The convention exhibit hall was filled with booths run by sports shops, gun stores, and dealers who sold weaponry and assorted accessories.

Before entering, Bolan was frisked and put through a metal detector. The gun show had very specific regulations: all firearms had to be checked and rendered inoperable and no loaded firearms were permitted inside the convention center during the open hours of the show. Rather than ever be forced to relinquish any of his weaponry, Bolan chose to do so voluntarily by simply leaving everything in the car. It was a strange feeling walking around without weapons on his person, but he took solace in the fact that he wasn’t alone in that.

After paying his nine-dollar admission fee, Bolan walked the floor, inspecting some of the firearms, knives and accessories. There was nothing here he wasn’t already intimately familiar with, especially since he often had access to weaponry that wasn’t yet ready for the open market. Still, he pretended to be interested as men in ballcaps enthusiastically waxed rhapsodic on the subject of their particular items and why they were better than those of the guy across the hall.

Bolan played along, asking the types of questions that a civilian might ask, and he noted at least three occasions where the booth jockey in question exaggerated the ability of the weapon he was trying to sell.

He found himself spending some time at one booth, where an old man with a thick white beard was selling an impressive collection of knives. “This,” the man said in a scratchy voice, “is what you really want, my friend.”

The old man slid the glass off a wooden case and tilted it upward. Reaching around, he grabbed a black-colored folding knife. The blade itself was also obsidian in color, and had a stylized logo etched into the flat of the blade.

“This here’s an Emerson Commander BTS,” the old man said as he held it handle out to Bolan. “Down in Atlanta, they voted this best overall knife of the year.”

Bolan knew of the honor bestowed by the International Blade Show, and also knew the answer to the question he posed as he took the knife from the dealer. “How’s it different from the CQCs?”

“Oh, the CQCs’re fine for your average use, but lookin’ at you, I’m thinkin’ you’re more the combat-knife type.”

“I thought the CQCs were combat knives.”

“They are—but if you want the best, you want the Commander. Lasts longer, flips open faster and is just tougher. Sure, the CQCs are good—the Commander’s better.”

The weight, Bolan noted, was good.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the knife back to the man.

“Not interested, huh?” A smile peeked out from the old man’s thick beard. He replaced the knife, set down the Emerson case and slid back the glass. Then he pointed at another one, containing Masters of Defense Beshara knives. “How ’bout these?”

Bolan let himself be lectured on the relative merits of the old man’s knives, all the while taking glances around in search of Galloway. At one point, he put on a shamefaced tone, and said, “Sorry, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here, and he’s late. Can I see the XSF-1?”

Eventually, he thanked the old man and excused himself, continuing to walk the floor, but still no sign of Galloway after several hours.

Just then, the Executioner saw a short man with curly hair and walleyes heading toward a gun-shop booth. He was wearing a pair of thick-lensed glasses, though different from the set in the picture Bolan had seen at Stony Man. He had also grown back the beard, though it wasn’t as full as it had been in the older picture, and had flecks of gray in it now. Galloway was wearing a denim jacket that had seen better decades over a stained white T-shirt, and frayed blue jeans with a hole in the left knee and another in the rear left pocket.