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“We’ve run Doug Buchanan’s name through the military computer banks, and all we come up with is a blank. It’s like he never existed. And Aaron detected some kind of a trace string. It tried to get into his system, but he blocked it.”
“Meaning someone got interested when he flagged up Buchanan’s name?”
“Aaron is trying to follow the trace back to its source. In the meantime the rest of the cyber team is doing what it can to find something about Doug Buchanan from other data banks.”
Bolan filed the information away. Interest in Doug Buchanan seemed to be the flavor of the day.
“Anything on the incoming call from Buchanan?”
“Not yet, but we won’t give up on it.”
“Okay.”
“You find anything at your end?” Brognola asked.
“Picked up something on the people who attacked Jack and took Jess Buchanan. I need a little more time down here before I come home.”
“Striker, are you seeing more than a simple abduction here?”
“Let’s say I’m starting to become curious. I’ll be in touch.”
Bolan cut the connection. He moved to stare out the window at the passing traffic, raising his gaze to the sunlight sparkling on the water of Nassau Harbour.
He took the sheet of paper from his pocket and checked the address of the car-rental agency Earl had written down for him. Using the room phone, Bolan spoke to the desk and asked for directions to the rental company. The desk clerk told him it was no more than a few minutes’ walk from the hotel.
Bolan slipped on his jacket and picked up his keycard. He left the room, took the elevator to the lobby and left the hotel. It was early evening. The sun was warm. A breeze drifting in off the harbor made the day comfortable. Bolan eased into the crowds thronging Bay Street, which ran parallel with the harbor. The crowds were from the great cruise ships that called in at Nassau, disgorging their souvenir-hungry passengers. The vacationers surged up and down the thoroughfare, eager to spend their money and stare at the pink-and-white buildings that were part of Nassau’s appeal.
If Bolan had been so inclined, he might have been envious of the simple needs of the crowds. He simply wished them well and moved on, his agenda somewhat deeper than which gaudy trinket was the best bargain.
The crowds began to thin around the time Bolan found his side street. It took him away from the harbor front, up a slight incline, then a spot where the street widened and he found himself confronted by the rental agency. The logo above the entrance also bore the telephone number Earl had written on the paper. To the left of the building was a lot where the rental vehicles were parked. Farther back was a medium-sized workshop. Bolan crossed over and took a cursory glance at the half-dozen parked cars, spotting the one he had seen on the security video.
Bolan stepped into the office. The woman behind the counter glanced up as he entered. She was dark skinned, her black hair worn in a short style that accented her striking features. Pinned to the front of her pale blue blouse was a name badge. Karen.
“May I help, sir?”
“Well, that depends,” Bolan said, keeping his tone friendly. “I need some information about a recent rental.”
The woman frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m an agent with the U.S. Customs Service,” Bolan said. “Agent Mike Belasko. Right now I’m working undercover, tracking a group of people we believe are committing crimes around the islands. They were in Florida before they moved here. A few days ago they rented a car from you.”
The woman continued to stare at Bolan, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Sorry to drop it on you like this,” Bolan said. “The problem with working undercover is I don’t get much time to warn people I’m coming. Right now I’m under pressure to keep up with this group. They could move on at any time.”
“We only rent out cars,” the woman said. “I don’t know anything about these people.”
Bolan smiled, reassuring her. “I understand that. I’m just trying to pick up some information.”
“Shouldn’t I ask to see some identification? I mean, how do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“I don’t carry anything because I’m working undercover. But I can give you a number you can call. My base in the U.S. They’ll confirm anything you want to ask. If there’s a problem, I can come back with some paperwork. The trouble is, it takes time and by then these people will have moved on. Look, I don’t want to make a fuss. I need your help, Karen. I really do.”
The woman bit at her lip. She studied Bolan. He maintained his casual attitude, his eyes fixed on her.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Any details they might have put on their rental form. I’m just trying to get hold of something we can use to track them. They rented that car.” Bolan pointed to the vehicle.
Karen made a decision. She turned and went to a metal cabinet. Opening a drawer, she riffled through the files and pulled out a sheet of paper that she placed on the counter in front of Bolan. He slid the sheet toward him, checking the details.
Bolan scanned the information. He took a pen from his pocket, then used the sheet of paper Earl had given him to copy down some of the details. Once he had what he needed, he slid the rental form back to the woman. As she reached for it, Bolan laid his big hand over her slim one, putting on a little pressure.
“I appreciate this, Karen. You’ve been a great help.”
“I hope you catch them.”
“If I do, it’ll be because of you.”
Bolan left the office and turned toward the harbor front. He needed to get back in touch with Stony Man. From the rental form he had picked up two items that might provide some information on the people who had taken Jess Buchanan and attacked Jack Grimaldi: driver’s license and credit card details.
If they had anything to offer, Kurtzman and his team would drag it to light. It was time to leave Nassau and get back to Stony Man. Bolan needed input before he moved any further on this.
Back in his hotel room he packed his few belongings, then called the desk to ask if someone could book him a seat on the next available flight back to the U.S. He made it clear he didn’t mind the type of flight. The desk called him back less than ten minutes later to say he could take a charter flight leaving in two hours. It was a tourist economy flight, which meant no frills. Bolan told the clerk to book it and have his room bill ready.
CHAPTER TWO
Bolan’s plane touched down in Washington, D.C., in the early hours. A quick call to Stony Man had Barbara Price on the line.
“You back on home ground?” she asked without preamble.
“Just got in. I need a ride to base.”
“On its way to the usual pickup spot,” she said. “I thought of coming out myself.”
“That would have been nice.”
Price laughed. “Then I figured you probably wouldn’t have time to buy me a meal, so I decided to wait here for you.”
“So it comes down to me being just a meal ticket?”
“Girl has to look after the priorities.”
“You’re a hard woman.”
“Really? I always thought of myself as pretty accommodating.”
“Some day we’ll have to define your interpretation of ‘accommodating.’”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Price told him, a smile in her voice.
Bolan ended the call and left the terminal. As he slid the cell phone into his pocket and turned toward the rendezvous area, he felt the prod of a gun muzzle against his spine.
“I don’t give a damn if you die now, or in a couple of hours, Belasko. I’d prefer you stayed alive long enough to answer some questions, but just give me the option.”
Bolan remained still. He calculated the odds and decided he needed to wait. The carry-on slung from his shoulder would hamper his movements, so any action against the gunman would have to come later. For the time being the Executioner did what he was told.
“A car is going to stop right here,” the gunman said. “We climb in. You keep both hands where I can see them. Bag on your lap.”
The car rolled into view, a Dodge Intrepid, swinging in to pull up directly in front of Bolan. The insistent prod of the gun warned the Executioner that his captor meant business. Bolan opened the rear door and slid inside the car, moving across to sit directly behind the dark bulk of the driver. The man with the gun moved quickly, crowding in against Bolan, pulling the door shut with his free hand.
“Let’s go,” he said to the driver.
The car eased away from the pickup point and pulled into the lane of traffic heading away from the airport. The soldier felt an experienced hand move over his body, checking for weapons. The gunman found nothing. The cell phone Bolan carried was plucked from his pocket and tossed to the floor of the car. Satisfied, the gunman pulled back from his captive, making space between them. He kept the muzzle of his pistol, a .45-caliber Glock 21, pointed in Bolan’s direction.
“You make yourself hard to find, Mr. Belasko,” the gunman remarked. “Almost missed you back there. Makes me figure this isn’t something new to you.”
Bolan didn’t reply. He decided to let the other man do the talking if that was what he wanted.
“I prefer to deal with professionals,” the man went on. “Get yourself a damned civilian, and they’re likely to fall apart once you show them a gun. You know what I mean? Hell, sure you do.”
Still no response from Bolan. The Executioner was making an evaluation. Making sense of the armed pickup. His mind clicked through the elements of the situation. This had been done professionally. Quick, clean, with little chance for even Bolan to react. The transition to the car had been timed to the second, making these men something more than street hoods. No, these guys were…Bolan recalled something Jack Grimaldi had said about the men who had confronted him and Jess Buchanan, something about their having military training. Precise, practiced execution of their maneuver. Even in his injured condition the Stony Man flier had been able to recall the way his attackers had operated, and Bolan accepted Grimaldi’s assessment. The man was too much of a professional himself to have made a mistake.
“Don’t say much, do you, friend? Suit yourself. There’ll be time to talk once we hit base. Plenty of time. And incentives.” The gunman chuckled to himself. “Like whether you want to stay alive.”
Bolan fixed his gaze on the back of the driver’s head. The man had a close haircut. Near to the skull. Even from where he was sitting Bolan could see enough of the driver’s neck and shoulders to know he was looking at a big man. The guy was into weight training and body development with a vengeance. He sat behind the wheel as if he were at attention. Bolan realized why the military imagery kept coming to mind.
The car swung around a vehicle ahead, the driver having decided to speed up.
“Hey, ease off the gas pedal, Buchinsky. Remember what the man said. Low profile. Don’t attract attention. Remember? Piss off the enemy in this town and the mothers give you a speeding ticket and ask all kinds of questions.”
“And the answers would have to be pretty damned good to explain asshole back there.”
“No need to insult our guest,” the gunman said. “He could turn out to be important.”
“Looks like a shit nobody to me,” Buchinsky said. “Give you odds he won’t have a thing to tell us. Waste of time picking him up. We should dump him in the Potomac right now.”
“Just do what I tell you, Buchinsky.”
Buchinsky muttered to himself, flexing his massive shoulders.
Bolan watched the city slip by. He wasn’t certain where they were. Buchinsky was ducking and diving, moving about the road system with ease. Taking side roads and sometimes seeming to double back on himself. The trip lasted almost twenty minutes. Then Buchinsky slowed and rolled the car down a ramp that led to a basement parking area beneath a large office building that displayed For Rent signs on the outside. As the car cruised across the parking area, Bolan glanced out the side window. The place was deserted except for a couple of cars standing near an access door at the far end. Buchinsky parked near the other vehicles.
The gunman climbed out and walked around to Bolan’s side. He opened the door and indicated for him to get out. The soldier dropped his bag on the seat and stepped out.
“Stay here and keep an eye out. We don’t want any surprises,” the gunman said to the driver.
“Suits me,” Buchinsky said.
The gunman guided Bolan to the access door. They went through and found themselves confronted by stairs and an elevator door.
“Elevator,” the gunman said.
Bolan pushed the button and heard the elevator start its descent. The door opened and he stepped in with the gunman close behind. Once they were inside, the soldier was instructed to push the button for the eighth floor.
THE LARGE OFFICE SUITE held a desk and a few plastic chairs. Three men stood at the room’s wide windows, looking out through the glass at the rainy night. They turned as Bolan and his escort entered the office.
“This him?”
Bolan had already identified the speaker. He was exactly as Grimaldi had described, from his physical size down to the bruise on his left cheek. He moved away from the others, his gaze fixed on Bolan, checking him out and making a swift assessment of the Executioner.
“He say anything?”
The gunman shook his head. He stood a few feet back from Bolan, the handgun held steady, making no concessions even though they were no longer alone.
The blond man paused in front of Bolan, his hands clasped at his back.
“You know why you’re here, Belasko?”
“Maybe you’d better tell me.”
“Questions. You’ve been asking questions. At the charter strip. Talking to the gate man. Then the car-rental agency. Now why would you want to do that?”
“I don’t know. Why would I?”
“Maybe you’re looking for someone. Same as us. Douglas Buchanan? Or maybe you know where he is and your job is looking out for him.”
“Sounds more likely,” one of the other men said.
Bolan glanced across at him. He had a cut lip that looked very sore. Jack again.
“Ask him if he knows where Buchanan is.”
“Fair question.”
Bolan remained silent.
“So what’s the answer?”
The blond man’s lips tightened against his teeth. He sucked in his breath, glancing over his shoulder at the gunman who had brought Bolan in. The Executioner picked up the sound of rustling clothing, heard the gunman grunt and knew that a blow was being aimed at him from behind.
Bolan held for the briefest of moments, then bent at the waist, felt the rush of air as the gunman’s swing passed over his shoulder, then lunged upright. He saw the gunman’s arm blur into view as it passed harmlessly over his shoulder. He made a grab for it, twisting and jerking down so that the arm was brought across the top of his shoulder. Pushing to his full height, Bolan snatched the Glock from his adversary’s fingers, then yanked down hard on the man’s arm with enough force to break the bone. The gunman’s scream of agony was cut off abruptly when the muzzle of the Glock was jabbed against his chest and a .45 round drilled through his heart. The moment he pulled the trigger, Bolan dropped to a crouch, the Glock tracking in on his next target.
A lean guy, sporting a blue sport coat over a tan shirt, hauled a handgun from a hip holster. He raised the weapon in a two-handed grip, seeking Bolan, but the Executioner had already changed position and his newly acquired pistol fired first. The .45 slug caught Blue Coat in the throat, taking away a large chunk of flesh. The wounded gunner flopped backward, striking the window behind him. The glass bowed slightly under the impact, then threw the dying man facedown on the carpet.
Bolan had already located his next target, seeing Blue Coat’s partner clawing for his own weapon. He placed two .45 slugs in the guy’s lower torso, driving him to the floor in a spray of blood and a lot of pain. A third shot to the head put him out of his misery.
The blond man had already moved, turning, ducking as he lunged for the door. He went through a fraction of a second before Bolan could track and fire, and by the time the Executioner cleared the door the corridor beyond was empty.
