System Corruption

“I see a big but coming.”

“It all blew out later. Apparently Ryan had mentioned to Francis that he had discovered some army personnel who were involved. They were part of a test unit that had been signing off on the faulty equipment. No way they would have missed the substandard quality.”

“Ryan must have been working overtime on this,” Brognola said.

“I said he was smart, Hal. He was angry, too. At the way American lives were at risk because of what Ordstrom’s company is doing. He was digging. Searching into everything he could. Gathering evidence.”

“And Francis?”

“I believe that when he learned the names of the military personnel involved he couldn’t stand back any longer. He was on leave from the army after his recent hitch in Iraq. As far as I knew he’d gone off on a vacation. I didn’t find out until later that he went to this base and did some snooping on his own. He told me when he came back. Hal, he must have tipped his hand. Three days later he was dead. Shot in the back. The police told me he was the victim of an attempted carjacking gone wrong. They said he had strayed into a bad part of town. That was crap. Francis would have no reason to do a thing like that. He knew Washington like his own backyard. And he was a combat vet. Not a damn raw recruit.” Nelson shook his head in disbelief at his own words.

“I pulled a favor with an old cop friend and he did some checking. The bullet they took out of Francis was military issue. Fifty caliber. Browning machine gun cartridge. The type they use in the M-107 sniper rifle. Since when do street gangs get their hands on that kind of specialist weapon?”

“You believe the people he’d been checking out got scared and arranged to have him stopped?” Brognola asked.

“It was all too convenient. Directly after Francis was killed I received a call from Ryan. He said he was sure OTG was on to him. He’d heard about Francis and blamed himself for getting him involved. I set him straight on that. Francis wouldn’t have ignored what was going on. He went in knowing the risk. The same as going into combat. It was part of his job. Ryan told me he was going to pull back—gather all his evidence before he did anything final. His last words were that he would be at the funeral. I might not see him, but he would be there. I did spot him for an instant during the ceremony. Well away from the main group. I knew he’d come.”

“Public opinion is pretty well divided over our involvement in the Middle East and Afghanistan,” Brognola said. “It would make a big noise if it came out our soldiers were deliberately being sent into combat with faulty equipment.”

“They already are, Hal. Francis must have pinned it down and paid the price. Maybe not in the field, but he was involved.”

Nelson lowered his eyes for a moment. “Hal, I didn’t know who else to speak to.”

“Hey, you know I’ll help. Leave this with me. You stay low. We need to talk, call me on this cell number.” He recited the number. “Don’t use your home phone or your office. Always find a pay phone,” the big Fed warned him.

They reached Nelson’s official car. A uniformed man sat behind the wheel.

“Chauffer driven now?” Brognola said.

“Goes with the desk at the Pentagon,” Nelson replied. He held out a hand.

Brognola gripped it. “Dane, you know how I felt about Francis. There’s no way this is going to be ignored.”

“Thanks,” he said and held out his hand to Bolan.

“Cooper, Colonel Nelson. Matt Cooper. I’ll be in touch about that matter.” Bolan raised his voice in case the driver was listening.

Nelson didn’t miss a beat. He nodded. “Grateful for your help, Mr. Cooper.”

The two men stood back and watched Nelson climb into the car. It eased away, following the curve of the road that led through the cemetery.

Still watching, Bolan saw a black SUV fall in behind Nelson’s car. He nodded at Brognola then retraced his steps and returned to his own parked car, a rental he had picked up from the airport when he had arrived earlier. He headed out and kept Nelson’s tail car in view. The dark SUV maintained its distance behind the colonel’s vehicle.

Following the tail car, Bolan knew it was not a coincidence. The black SUV stayed behind Nelson’s vehicle all the way across town. It had several opportunities to pass and drive on, but it held its position. Unobtrusive. Keeping at least two cars between it and Nelson. Bolan did the same, his curiosity aroused now.

Dane Nelson’s story of the death of his son replayed in Bolan’s mind. He felt for the man. Nelson’s pride in the way Francis had joined the military and served with distinction was evident. Bolan knew Nelson had done nothing to push Francis into a military career. He had allowed his son to make his own choice. A man chose the military because there was something inside him that needed fulfillment. The army life was not for everyone. For those who chose it the military offered a good life. Serving the nation was a calling. Francis Nelson had that calling. Once he put on the uniform of his country he became part of the family.

Brognola had told Bolan that Francis showed great promise, rising through the ranks in rapid time without favor from his father, who stood back quietly and watched his son’s progress. Francis earned his promotions the hard way. He picked up his experience by volunteering for combat duty whenever it presented itself and earned his officer status after a prolonged stay in Afghanistan. He commanded his own squad. Won their respect through sheer dedication and a caring attitude for his men. When he was posted to Iraq he went with his own squad and served a number of hitches that saw them involved in some hard fighting.

It had, Bolan thought, been typical of Francis Nelson to step up and involve himself in the OTG affair. Once the young man had been made aware that OTG’s deceptions were placing American soldiers in harm’s way he would have been eager to help Cal Ryan expose the deceit.

Now Francis Nelson was dead. Shot down in his own country after surviving the hell of Iraq. That was injustice in Mack Bolan’s eyes.

And if there was one thing the Executioner hated with a passion it was injustice.

2

Bolan kept a safe distance behind the car tailing Dane Nelson. Instinct warned him the occupants of the vehicle were not about to offer their belated condolences to the colonel. That time was already in the past.

Whoever they were, the colonel’s shadows knew enough to simply keep him in their sights until they had cleared the city and were on the interstate. Nelson had a house that stood in lush forested Virginia hills, overlooking a placid lake, with the closest neighbor at least a quarter mile away. The approach to the house was along a quiet road well off the main highway. Bolan suspected that would most likely be the place for any move they might make. It was also entirely possible the men in the car were from one of the agencies, maybe even military, simply keeping an eye on Nelson. He considered that and tucked it away until the occupants of the tail car decided to show their true colors.

That came fast enough.

Nelson’s car accelerated without warning, the driver arcing it around a bend and taking a side road that pushed into open country, with little more than open fields and acres of green trees on either side. Dust billowed up from the tires, misting the air as the car picked up the pace. The SUV put on a burst of speed, starting to swing out to run alongside Nelson’s vehicle.

Bolan slipped his right hand under his jacket, easing his Beretta 93-R from the shoulder rig. He worked the selector lever by touch, setting the pistol on single shot. Then he swapped hands. Right on the wheel, his left gripping the auto pistol. Bolan powered down the driver’s window, pushing his own foot down on the gas pedal, and felt the powerful engine respond smoothly. The car closed in on the SUV.

A figure leaned out of one of the SUV’s left side windows, a squat submachine gun in his hands. The muzzle was aimed toward Nelson’s car.

Too close, Bolan thought, and triggered his weapon, driving a shot through the SUV’s rear window. His intention was to distract those in the vehicle. As the glass shattered, the exposed shooter threw a swift glance in Bolan’s direction. Judging Bolan to be the bigger threat, he opened up with his weapon. Bolan felt the slugs whine off the rental car’s roof. He didn’t allow the shooter the chance to realign his weapon. Swinging his car to the right he gained a view of the shooter. Bolan flipped the selector to tri-burst mode and braced his elbow on the window frame and tracked in with the Beretta. He stroked the trigger and fired off half the magazine. With the rocking motion of the car and the erratic travel of the SUV, accurate fire was difficult. Bolan managed to place a couple of shots close enough to force the shooter to retreat back inside.

Nelson’s driver used Bolan’s intervention to step on the gas, taking the car away from the SUV. Ignoring any kind of safety precautions he throttled hard, the heavy car bouncing and swaying along the narrow track. The maneuver worked only for as long as it took for the SUV’s driver to regain his own line of travel. As the SUV drew parallel with the colonel’s car the shooter opened up, raking the vehicle at window level. The car veered, clipping the SUV’s front bumper before angling away in an erratic swerve. It left the road and bounced its way across the uneven ground, the SUV following and moving to close in again.

Bolan slammed down hard on the gas pedal. He closed the gap and cut across the front of the larger vehicle. Dust billowed as the SUV driver stood on his brakes, bringing the heavy vehicle to a skidding stop.

Bolan shoved open his door and stepped from the car, his Beretta already lining up as the SUV’s back door opened, disgorging the shooter and his submachine gun. As the guy made to step around the open door Bolan hit him with a tri-burst to the chest. The shooter fell partway back inside the SUV. The moment he fired Bolan changed position, crouching and circling the SUV, catching the second shooter to emerge. They exchanged shots, the SUV man firing from behind his open door. Bolan had a clear field and he punched holes in the shooter’s lower legs. The shooter sank to his knees, clinging to his auto pistol. Bolan triggered a final burst from the Beretta and the man went backward with a chest full of 9 mm slugs weighing him down.

Bolan ejected the magazine from the Beretta, snapping in a fresh one from his pocket. He turned swiftly back toward the SUV. He caught a glimpse of the driver fumbling with a weapon through the window, raised the Beretta and fired, shattering glass and hitting the man. He fell away from his driving position.

The moment he had delivered his shots Bolan climbed back into his own car and fell in behind Nelson’s vehicle. The military car was slowing, lurching, as the driver obviously struggled to keep it under control. Bolan saw the car come to a sudden stop. He braked and climbed out, crossing to check it out. He yanked open the rear door and saw Nelson curled up on the seat. There was evident blood spatter. Up front the driver, the back of his uniform holed and bloody, was clawing at his door handle.

“Take it easy, soldier,” Bolan said. “We’ll get help.”

“How’s the colonel? How is he?” the driver asked.

“Alive,” Nelson said, pushing himself up off the seat. He turned and saw Bolan’s face bending over him. “You get them?”

“It needs finishing,” Bolan said. “You able to deal with this first?”

Nelson, a hand clutching at his bloody shoulder, nodded.

Bolan helped him out of the car and led the colonel around to the driver’s door. They got it open and eased the wounded driver onto the ground. The man was still losing blood and had lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Do it,” Nelson said and saw Bolan turn and walk away.

As Bolan approached the SUV he saw the rear passenger door swing open, and a bloodied figure half tumbled from the vehicle. The shooter still had his hands clutched around the submachine gun. When he saw the Executioner he started to lift the weapon. Bolan hit him with a pair of 9 mm slugs in the chest. The force slammed the man against the side of the SUV, pinning him there until gravity took over and he toppled facedown in the dirt. Closing on the SUV, Bolan saw movement from the driver’s seat. The man raised his head and looked at Bolan through the shattered window. He grabbed for the pistol holstered under his jacket, blood-sticky fingers slipping on the grips. He shouldered the door open, twisting around to face his enemy. A 9 mm slug took away his final thoughts, along with a portion of his skull, and spattered the steering wheel with bloody debris.

Bolan checked the SUV’s interior. As expected, the vehicle was clean. He went through the pockets of the dead men. There was nothing to identify the men or the SUV. Their fingerprints might give some clue to their identities, but that was out of Bolan’s hands.