Dark Alliance

“Thanks.”

“Anything for the Feds, Agent Cooper.”

“SO WHERE TO NOW?” Brognola asked.

Bolan was behind the wheel again, heading out of the city. His only lead was the origin of the package Maggie Connor had mailed to Sebring.

“Riba Bay. Have Bear check the place out. See if there’s anything Maggie might have been interested in. And tell him I’m going to download the contents of the memory card and flash drive as soon as I can.”

Bolan ended the call.

He saw a shopping mall and eased off the highway, taking a parking spot close to the entrance. He made his way through the mall until he saw a computer store. Inside he asked for the manager. When the man arrived, looking all of sixteen years old, Bolan showed his Justice identification and explained what he wanted. Minutes later he was seated at a work station in the manager’s office, downloading the memory card and flash drive to send to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, the communications expert for Stony Man Farm. An acknowledgment e-mail came through saying the material had been received. Bolan erased it. He found the store manager, thanked him for his cooperation and returned to his SUV.

He had been driving for just under thirty minutes when he spotted the car tailing him….

3

The Executioner was at least an hour from Riba Bay. All he had to go on was the postmark on the package Maggie Connor had sent to Sebring. It was hardly much in itself, but it wasn’t the first time Bolan had started out with almost nothing. But now he had company.

He spotted the tail car again in his review mirror, watched it as it narrowed the gap and kept edging closer.

Too close.

He checked the road ahead. For the past few miles he hadn’t seen another vehicle. The road was clear in both directions. Bolan checked that his seat belt was secure, then hit the gas pedal and sent the big SUV surging forward. The force pushed Bolan back in his seat. He saw the tail car recede.

That wouldn’t be the end of it, Bolan knew.

He was on a straight road, with no discernable turnoffs. There was no way out of this, except to keep driving and wait for something ahead to change things.

That something did show up a few miles along the road. But not in the way Bolan had hoped. He saw a distant configuration spanning the blacktop. At the speed he was traveling it only took a short time before he was able to identify it.

A full-size fuel tanker was stopped across the width of the road, blocking it completely. The road on either side dropped away into drainage ditches, offering no avenue of escape.

The tail car was coming up behind him, relentless in its pursuit.

Bolan realized someone was panicking enough to set up the roadblock. They were desperate enough to step out in public in order to stop him.

What, he wondered, had Maggie Connor uncovered?

He eased off the gas, stepped on the brake and steadied the SUV as the tanker loomed larger. Armed figures stepped into view. There were three. One opened up with a submachine gun. Slugs scored the asphalt in front of the SUV. A second gunman started firing. Bolan saw sparks as bullets skidded off his hood. One hit the windshield, leaving a spiderweb crack. Bolan worked the wheel, the SUV rolling back and forth across the width of the road, tires squealing. A glance in the mirror showed the tail car maintaining a discreet distance now that the shooting had started. A small bonus.

The firing got heavier. One of the door mirrors exploded in a shower of plastic and glass.

Bolan stood on the brake, turning the wheel to bring the SUV around in a hard slide, broadside to the tanker. He thought for a moment that the vehicle might flip over. He switched off the ignition, cutting the power, pulled out his Beretta and, as the SUV came to a jarring stop, he slid across the seat and opened the passenger door. He rolled out and dropped to the road, crouching, before moving around the front of the vehicle.

Footsteps sounded nearby. Bolan picked up the first shooter as he moved into sight. The Beretta 93-R punched out a triburst that hit the man chest high and put him straight down. Maintaining his aggressive stance Bolan moved again, half rising as he cleared the front of the SUV and met the two remaining shooters head-on. His cool appearance, seemingly oblivious to the threat of the pair of armed figures, gave him a psychological advantage, and though it was only for a brief moment it was enough. Bolan triggered three-round bursts in a continuous volley, hitting both shooters before they acquired their target. They tumbled to the ground in agony, riddled by the 9 mm bursts.

The Executioner ran forward and snatched up one of the fallen weapons—an H&K MP-5. He checked the action and moved behind the SUV as the tail car fishtailed to a stop. An armed figure was leaning out the passenger door. Bolan raised the MP-5 and laid down a long, damaging burst that raked the front of the vehicle and blew the windshield out. The Executioner maintained his deadly fire, emptying the remainder of the magazine into the cab of the vehicle. When the MP-5 locked on an empty chamber he dropped it and returned to pick up one of the other discarded weapons.

There was no movement inside the tail car. As Bolan carefully checked it out he saw two bloody forms sprawled across the front seat. He turned back and crouched beside the other dead shooters. He removed the weapons he found. All five men were Hispanic. The only useful evidence he found was a cell phone on one of them. He dropped it in his pocket.

Bolan slid a fresh magazine into the Beretta, walked to the front of the tanker and climbed up to check the cab. He found a lone figure slumped behind the wheel. The rig’s driver. Someone had put a couple of bullets in his body but he was still breathing. Bolan used the truck’s radio to call for help. He located the first-aid box and did what he could to help the wounded trucker. Once he had the man settled as comfortably as he could Bolan used his own phone to call Hal Brognola.

“Sounds as if you’ve stirred somebody into action,” the big Fed said.

“Panic more likely. Setting up an ambush in broad daylight on a public road says overreaction.”

Brognola sighed. “What did Maggie stumble on to?”

“They didn’t want me to get to Riba Bay. Maybe that’s where I’ll get some answers.”

“Striker, I just got feedback from Bear. He has some results from the data you sent him. Riba Bay is your target.” He read out an address. “Belongs to Raul Manolo, a suspected Colombian gunrunner. We’re still analyzing the rest.”

“Enough for me to go on,” the Executioner said.

The wail of approaching sirens cut the air. Bolan saw vehicles in the distance.

“That the cavalry arriving?” Brognola asked.

“Yeah. I’ll get back to you when I can.”

As Bolan finished the call he saw a couple of Florida State Trooper cruisers rolling to a stop. Behind them was an ambulance. He stepped forward to meet the armed officers, showing his badge. A paramedic ran up behind the troopers.

“There’s a man in the truck who needs medical attention,” Bolan said. “He’s been shot.”

The medic nodded and waved his partner in. They went directly to the rig. One of the troopers took a look around. He stared at the sprawled bodies.

“Damn,” he said. “We’ll be filling in forms for a week on this one. You want to tell me what the hell has been going on here, Agent Cooper?”

4

Colombia

The Executioner wasted no time. He couldn’t be sure how far the sound of the shots might carry.

He turned to Ricco and unlaced the combat boots he was wearing. Then he loosened the belt holding the man’s olive-green fatigues in place. Bolan stripped them off and pulled them over his own legs. He notched the belt tight around his waist. He sat down and pulled on the combat boots. They were near enough to his own size. He took his time with the laces, making sure the boots were secure before dragging the bloodied shirt from the body and pulling it on.

Crouching over Noriamo he freed the Uzi from around the dead man’s neck, looping the cord over his right shoulder. He checked the body for extra ammunition and found a single clip in the man’s back pocket. Stepping to where Santiago lay Bolan flipped open the blood-drenched linen jacket and saw the man had been carrying a 9 mm Beretta in a hip holster. The holster was held in place on Santiago’s belt. Bolan freed the belt and slid the gun and holster off. He transferred it to his own belt. He took the Beretta out and checked the magazine. Full. He cocked the weapon and returned it to the holster.

He stood beside the cell door, breathing deeply as he looked at Maggie Connor.

He would not forget her.

And the men who had ordered her cruel death would not be forgotten.

Bolan opened the cell door and eased it back just enough to check the passage. It was deserted. At the far end a partially open door let bright sunlight pierce the gloom. That was his objective—reach the exit, then make another assessment. He slipped through the door, the Uzi ready in his hands. He broke from his stance and traversed the passage quickly. Flattened against the inner wall he peered out the open door.

He saw a rough-hewn compound, three crude huts. A stream ran across one side of the clearing. Dense green jungle pressed in on all sides. Bolan saw a flicker of movement to his right. An armed man in fatigues came into sight from behind one of the huts. He crossed the compound, lighting a thin cigar as he walked. An AK-74 dangled from a shoulder strap. The man looked relaxed. He was making his way in the direction of the cell block.