Grave Mercy

“That doesn’t mean that the local gangs aren’t helping in some manner,” Price said. “Someone would have to provide ingredients to the chemical cocktails that set off the berserkers.”

“Calvin and I will look into that if we get a chance,” Bolan told her. “I’d prefer to have him working with me here in the islands because he fits in better than I do.”

“That’s part of the reason why Calvin is riding a Tomcat to the carrier out of Langley AFB,” Price said.

“He’s not on hand yet?” Bolan asked.

“By the time your helicopter drops you off, he’ll be on deck,” Price replied. “They caught a tailwind off the coast of Georgia. Do you want any other help?”

Bolan shook his head. “If the President doesn’t think this situation warrants my attention, I’m not going to pull in any more official Stony Man personnel than Cal. And how did he get free?”

“He took some time to meet with an old SEAL buddy,” Price replied. “Building more unofficial relations, so to speak.”

“What does the buddy do now?” Bolan asked.

“Security firm,” Price said. “So now, Phoenix Force has more friends in the New York area…just in case.”

Bolan nodded with approval. “Shame to interrupt that.”

“Cal made the call to me that he was going down to meet you,” Price replied. “One helicopter transfer to Langley…”

“I’ll be sure to tell him I appreciate this,” Bolan said. “I hear the chopper coming.”

“Striker.” Price spoke up, her voice grown soft, losing its hard business edge for a moment.

Bolan looked into the web cam, knowing that it was the closest that he could get to looking into her eyes over their cybernetic link. “Barbara?”

“I’m sorry that your…time off…had to end this way,” she said.

“No need to feel sorry for me,” Bolan returned. “You may want to spare some concern for the men who caused the deaths of children.”

Price looked down. She’d heard the icy grating in his voice, like a whetstone over a combat knife.

Mack Bolan was on the hunt.

CALVIN JAMES pulled off the oxygen mask and flight helmet before he crawled out of the rear seat of the F-14 Tomcat. The Mach 2 fighter had torn through the skies like a guided missile, delivering the former SEAL to the aircraft carrier in time to meet up with the Executioner. The pilot of the plane had pointed out Bolan’s chopper, looking as if it were hovering still in the air compared to the breakneck pace of the long-range jet.

James was glad to be out of the cockpit. He was two inches too tall for the Tomcat at six foot two, and his legs and head had been squashed in on the supersonic flight. The aircraft had traveled for an hour at full speed, but an hour in the claustrophobic backseat was just too much for him. The only consolation was that James had ridden in planes too small for him before and had learned how to bend and twist so he wouldn’t end the flight with muscle cramps.

That’s what he’d told himself as he rubbed his neck, wincing as sleepy shoulder muscles protested at the excessive stretching.

A crewman withdrew James’s duffel from its small storage locker just behind the seat. There wasn’t much inside it other than for a case containing his personal Beretta 92-F, two of his favorite knives and a Glock 26 backup pistol, with holsters and accessories for everything. Price had informed James that clothing would be provided at the other end of the flight, so his combat gear would be all he needed.

The captain, Timothy Bannon, was waiting across the deck, observing as his crew tended to the newly arrived Tomcat. With a simple turn, Bannon would be only moments from the bridge in case of an emergency. This carrier was his responsibility, and he hovered over it as if he were guarding his own toddler. Bannon was six feet even, with broad shoulders, and his baseball-style cap couldn’t conceal the clean-shaved sides and back of his head. Blue eyes, looking out from blond, nearly invisible eyebrows, scanned the tall black man who approached him.

“Calvin Farrow,” James introduced himself, using one of his cover names. “Permission to come aboard.”

Bannon extended his hand. “Permission granted. The Justice Department needs my ship?”

“Just a small part, sir,” James returned. “We have a man coming in by helicopter, and I need to take a look at the blood samples he collected.”

“So you’ll use our sick bay, rather than take up room on a hospital ship,” Bannon surmised. “We’re not doing anything on board, but we do have a good phlebotomy laboratory. Sadly, it’s something that’s needed in the modern Navy.”

“Mandatory drug testing, among other things,” James said. “I know the kind of stuff that people get into on duty on a carrier. Amphetamines to stay on extra duty when coffee stops working…especially for pilots.”

James could tell that he’d struck a sore point with Bannon, but the former Navy SEAL had also struck a chord that resonated with the Captain. Both were Navy, and James’s understanding of the unfortunate zeal of their fellow personnel was a salve to that soreness. “Here comes the chopper.”

“The communiqué said that Stone is, well, was U.S. Army,” Bannon noted. “Is he a good man?”

“There’s not a lick of interservice rivalry in his entire body,” James replied. “You won’t find a more staunch supporter of the military in the world.”

“A real supporter? Or a war hawk?” Bannon asked.

James looked at Bannon. “Real. He didn’t earn his colonel rank because of an accident of birth or a lot of money.”

Bannon’s broad shoulders relaxed. “Good. You see these ex-military contractors, and you start to wonder where their real sympathies lie.”

“He’s his own boss. This way, he gets to work without a lot of red tape sticking to him,” James said.

The helicopter settled down, and Bolan stepped off. His black BDU top didn’t match the digital camouflage BDU pants he wore, but the effect was a sharp blend, and the darker fabric was better at concealing the handles and bulges of his sidearms. If James hadn’t known that the Executioner rarely went unarmed, he wouldn’t have known that the man had at least two handguns and an assortment of other tools tucked away in pockets on his person. Bolan gave Bannon a sharp salute, then shook James’s hand.

“I’ve got your presents,” the soldier said.

James took the small cooler, giving its plastic side a soft slap. “Permission to head to your lab, sir.”

Bannon nodded. “Granted, Farrow. Ensign, escort him, and get him there double time.”

The ensign that Bannon addressed snapped to, and James turned, leaving Bolan and the carrier’s captain to talk.

BANNON HADN’T exaggerated about the extensive technology in the lab. James not only had an assortment of regular and electronic microscopes, but there were centrifuges and spectrometers for looking at the chemicals within the bloodstream. The final item that James had brought on the flight, aside from his personal weapons, was his personal laptop, which had the spec-profiles of hundreds of drug and toxin combinations.

The Phoenix Force medic was also familiar with the kind of alchemy practiced by the “zombie lords” of the Caribbean, and thus would be able to direct the search for the kinds of atomic chains left behind in the blood samples. Fortunately, the blood hadn’t been kept so cold that ice crystals had formed in its water content, making separating it into test tubes easier.

James knew that he was in for the long haul, and looked forward to the intellectual challenge ahead. He blanked the origins of the blood sample from his mind, burying his emotions over the violence the berserkers committed so that he could focus on the biochemical mysteries in front of him.

Once he narrowed down the origins of the maniacal tourist murderers, then James would switch into Phoenix Force commando mode and assist the Executioner in bringing hot lead and righteous retribution down on the murderous manipulators.

For now, the lab machines would hum and do their job.

CHAPTER SIX

Fortescue handed over the folded bills to the informant. The man who’d been staying at the surf camp had been named Brandon Stone, and the informant had noted that a U.S. Navy helicopter had arrived to pick him up.

Morrot had been correct about the “professional soldier” description. One didn’t get a quick ride from a Navy bird off a beach in Jamaica without some pull within the military. Fortescue recalled the speed and skill with which the man had dispatched five machete-wielding attackers while never once going to the razor-sharp scuba knife that he’d worn on his calf. There wasn’t a military force on Earth that would have begrudged one of their own dealing with more heavily armed superior numbers with deadly force, even a club or picking up one of the fallen marauders’ machetes. It was telling that Stone charged against them and used only enough force to render them harmless. Sure, some of the injuries on the dead, drugged minions had been long term—spiral fractured arms would have never healed even if their hearts hadn’t exploded after they were rendered unconscious.

Fortescue remembered his hand-to-hand training, bought by his father and given to him at the hands of a former Spetsnaz commando. His reactions had been quick, his grace natural, strength remarkable, making the way of the empty hand easy to come by. The Russian had also taught him the use of the knife and skill with the gun, talents he’d honed as he’d worked long and hard for local crime gangs.

As such, Fortescue could tell the speed and power displayed by Stone was nothing short of elite, easily one of the most deadly human beings on the planet. Only one bit of extra force had been utilized, and that was on an attacker who had cut down a man in front of Stone’s eyes. The clothesline strike was the kind of move that could have shattered the neck of the strongest man, and the way the woman had flipped and smashed into the sand, never to rise again, it was an attack that had been fueled by anger.