Firestorm

The other man laughed.

“Spare me,” he said. “If you’re smart, you’ll just shut up and walk away. Take your lady on a trip or something. Disappear. ’Cause maybe you can take me. Maybe. But you can’t take the people backing me.”

“You mean, Bly?”

“For starters. But he’s got friends. Ones who’d be only too happy to burn you down, if it meant fewer headaches for them. You can’t handle all that heat. By the way, what’s your girl’s name?”

“Go to hell!” Stephen shouted.

“I can make her disappear. You’ll never see the body. You’ll never see that baby she’s carrying. And I’ll have a good time doing it. It will be just like the war.”

Stephens clenched his jaw and he held his tongue.

“We understand each other?” Milt Krotnic asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you take that money and buy your lady something pretty.”

The phone went dead and Stephens stared at it for several seconds. He tossed it on the couch and sank onto the cushion next to it. Squeezing his eyes closed, he dropped his head into his hands. His mind reeled from the enormity of what he’d done. He’d betrayed his country, and he’d done it for no reason other than greed. He’d caused a half-dozen people to die.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to work, he thought. The way Krotnic had laid it all out to him had been different. The lying creep had assured him it’d be bloodless. Stephens would pass along the names of his teammates to the Serb who, in turn, would pass them along to Bly. The executive then would quietly ring up his contacts in Washington and tell them he’d identified their agents and that Langley should recall them. They’d go home, alive, and no one would be the wiser for his role in the whole thing.

And he’d walk away with some cash in a bank account in Zurich. Plenty enough cash for him to leave the cloak-and dagger crap and make a real life for himself. Now he had blood on his hands.

His stomach suddenly tightened and he launched himself from the couch, sprinted for the bathroom. Crouched before the toilet, his guts heaved violently and he emptied their contents into the bowl.

He thought of Eva, locks of lustrous black hair set against smooth brown skin. A chill raced down his spine as he remembered that she’d gone shopping. She’d be out in the open, vulnerable to Krotnic.

Stephens got to his feet and staggered to the sink. Setting his hands on either side of it, he leaned his weight on his arms to support himself as he leaned in close and studied his face in the mirror.

You gotta do something, he told himself. Get cleaned up, get out there and handle this.

A BALL OF NERVOUS ENERGY , Krotnic paced the room while he spoke to Bly on the speakerphone.

“He’s going to turn on us,” Krotnic said.

“Stephens? Well, do something about it, then,” Bly said.

“Sure,” Krotnic replied. “You got some guys I can use?”

“Of course.”

“Send them my way. I need maybe ten.”

“He’s not that good,” Bly said.

Krotnic laughed. “Hell no, he’s not. I just want to play it safe. He lives in an apartment building. I think we should do a little housecleaning, if you get my drift.”

“Are you crazy? That will draw all kinds of attention!”

“I’ve got it under control,” Krotnic said. “We drop a little cocaine in there, buy a couple of witnesses, maybe a local cop and it’s done. They’ll write it off as a drug-related killing. The locals won’t press too hard.”

“Where do I send them?” Bly asked.

Krotnic told him. “And send Doyle, too.”

“Why him?”

“Because he won’t fall apart if he has to kill someone.”

“None of my people will,” Bly replied, his irritation audible.

“I’m talking about a pregnant woman,” Krotnic said. “He won’t freak out about killing a pregnant woman. If his people won’t do it, then he’ll do it himself.”

Krotnic heard Bly sigh heavily on the other end. “Yes,” Bly said. “I suppose he would. I assume all this is necessary?”

Krotnic grinned to himself. “You going soft?”

“Ask me that again,” Bly said, “and you’ll learn what a stupid question that is.”

Krotnic felt his mouth go dry like a well-wrung sponge. “Sure,” he said. “Forget I asked.”

“Like hell,” the other man replied. “Give me two hours and you’ll have your people.”

B ROGNOLA PUNCHED HIS FIST into his open palm as he stood in Barbara Price’s office. He always worried when he sent his people on missions, always considered his decisions to send them into certain battles. The searing pain in his stomach and the onslaught of worst-case scenarios that raced through his mind told him this time was no different. The priorities in the field continued to shift as new intelligence flowed into the Farm. He glanced over at Price, who was seated at her desk. He knew she was combing through the various intelligence reports so she could prioritize and present them to him during a briefing that loomed a couple of hours away.

When the secure phone rang, it startled him. The big Fed hurried to it, snagged the receiver, raised it to his ear.

“Brognola,” he said.

“I need you to make a call,” Bolan said.

“What are the particulars?”

“I need Leo Turrin to run some traps for me,” the Executioner said.

“Sure, I’ll contact him. What’s the message?”

“The intelligence I have on Chiun is too spotty,” Bolan said. “I’m wondering if any of Leo’s less-savory friends might have some light they can shed on Chiun and his organization.”

“I’ll make the call,” Brognola said. “Tell me what to ask.”

Bolan recited his questions while the big Fed jotted them down on a canary yellow legal pad. When Bolan finished, Brognola said, “I’ve got other news.”

“Go.”

“Police found the team’s controller, Clark, a couple of hours ago. Dead. He was in some apartment in Bogotá. It wasn’t his, obviously. The CIA and FBI have already scrubbed the place down to the walls.”