Blood Vendetta

Bolan lowered himself into a chair that stood in front of Blair’s desk. McCarter took the seat next to him. Leaning forward, Blair laced his fingers together and set them on the desktop.

“Welcome to our fair city, Mr. Cooper,” Blair said.

“Matt,” Bolan replied.

“David says you’re looking for information.”

Bolan nodded.

“You want information on the Nightingale.”

Bolan nodded again.

“Man of few words, eh?” Blair said. “Well, not sure what I can offer you. As you can understand, we can’t—and I won’t—tell you specific sources.”

“Sure.”

“And the Americans probably have a lot of the same raw intelligence on this as we do. So I’m not sure what I have to add.”

Bolan crossed his legs, right ankle balanced on left knee.

“Fair question,” the big American said. “And, you’re right, our two countries probably have a lot of the same information, since we share so much. But you have two advantages. One, you’ve been following this individual for—what?—a couple of years now. And, two, you actually are on the ground. The shootings happened in Bayswater, just a stone’s throw from here. I’m guessing you’ve seen all the latest information on the shooting, including any police reports and other intelligence gathered. You know the area. You might have some insights into Nightingale’s behavior that a guy like me, someone who just parachuted into town, would miss entirely.”

Blair grinned. “So you can speak, eh? Okay, fair enough. What questions can I field for you two?”

The Executioner noticed the other man didn’t promise to actually answer the questions, but let it slide.

“What’s your take on the Nightingale?” Bolan asked.

Leaning back in his chair, Blair glanced at the ceiling and rubbed absently at his throat for a moment, apparently collecting his thoughts.

“She—our psychologists believe she’s a woman—she’s lost something. More likely she’s lost someone, maybe even several people, and she’s enraged. Probably so enraged she no longer feels or notices it. It’s like an arthritic joint. Bugs you all the time, affects how you move, maybe your choice in activities and lifestyle. But you’ve become so accustomed to it, you barely pay attention to it. Or you only do so on a limited basis.”

“I don’t buy it,” McCarter said. “How can someone be that bloody angry and not know it?”

“Pot meet kettle,” Blair said

“Don’t put me on the shrink’s couch,” McCarter growled.

“Above my pay grade.”

“She’s angry,” Bolan interjected.

“Enraged. Enraged, but conflicted. She obviously feels some guilt over what she does. That means she’s going against her grain by stealing.”

“Our analysts guessed the same thing,” the Executioner added.

Blair nodded. “That’s all low-hanging fruit. The real question is what does it all mean? And what is it about her that makes her handle her anger this way? A lot of people have bad things happen to them, things that change their lives and their perspectives. But this made her, well, a little daft. Not insane in the classic sense, mind you, but it knocked her off course. Our shrinks believe underneath all the rage and activity lies a lot of guilt.”

“For?”

“Whoever got hurt, she probably feels—or felt—responsible for them. Not for the action that hurt them, but for not being there to save that person. Maybe even for not being killed, too.”

“You mean survivor guilt,” Bolan asked.

“Sure. And a little bit of that is normal, especially with a tragedy. But this—starting a whole new life, going underground—smacks of someone trying to atone for something. Not just wondering why a bullet or a bomb didn’t take them instead. But really trying to atone for something done or, hell, not done for that matter.”

“That being?” McCarter asked.

Blair shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

“Thanks for crystallizing it, lad,” McCarter said.

Blair’s neck and cheeks turned scarlet. “Sorry, didn’t realize I was supposed to do all your damn thinking for you.”

Uncrossing his legs, Bolan leaned forward.

“You’re a smart guy,” Bolan said, his voice even. “You have a theory.”

“Lots of theories. That’s how I spend my days, collecting information and spouting theories. When it comes to this young lady, though, it seems pretty damned easy actually.”

Bolan gave what he hoped was an encouraging nod. Apparently it worked.

“If we have traced her history back far enough—and it’s a big bloody ‘if’—her first two strikes occurred less than five years ago. Hit the money men for al Qaeda in Mesopotamia, the Iraqi branch. Pretty nice piece of work, that. From what we know their IT crew came straight from Saddam’s government, a Sunni who studied computer science at Oxford. Once we knocked Saddam out of power, this guy suddenly found himself out of a job, got pissed off and joined al Qaeda. Lots of Sunnis did that in those days.”

“Got a name?” McCarter asked.

“He does,” Blair replied. “Khallad Mukhtar. Not that it matters. The Americans took him out years ago. Hit his car with a Hellfire missile while he was tooling ’round Tikrit. Took out three other al Qaeda guys, his security detail, in the process.”

“Good show, that one,” McCarter said.

“Indeed. But here’s my point, Nightingale already hit him months before that. She also hit two guys in London, a couple of Saudis, couple of fire breathers. They collected all kinds of money from sympathizers, not just in the Middle East, but also Europe, and funneled it back to al Qaeda’s operations in Iraq and Saudi Arabia. One of those assholes got deported back to his own country. Saudis put him into a government-sponsored rehabilitation program. When he reappeared six months later, he was a changed man, denounced al Qaeda and the Jihad.”

“A real beacon of light,” McCarter said. He took a swig from his Coke and swallowed loudly.

“An organic change of heart to be sure,” Blair said, allowing himself a dour smile.

“So she went after Islamists from Iraq,” Bolan said. “You thinking she’s related to a soldier killed in Iraq?”

“That was my original thought,” Blair said. “But that didn’t sit well with me. Not entirely, anyway.”

“Because?”

“Originally, it was a gut feeling. But I started piecing this thing together more and found another common strand between our first targets.”

Turning slightly in his chair, the analyst’s left hand disappeared below the desktop and the soldier heard a drawer being pulled open. Blair hummed and Bolan heard papers rustling. When Blair’s hand came back into view, he had a photograph and a couple of newspaper clippings in his hand. He tossed the items on the desk. Bolan and McCarter leaned forward and studied the items.

The picture was a still photo of carnage. The crumpled remains of a train car on its side, its silver skin scorched black, the interior belching oily smoke. It apparently had been ripped from between two other cars and thrown from the tracks. The soldier saw firefighters armed with hoses dousing the car with water. An officer from London’s Metropolitan Police pointed at something unseen, mouth open in a yell, while two other officers ushered civilians away from the wreckage.