Killing Trade. Don Pendleton
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ago.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Bolan said grimly. “I’m not going to have much fighting room left. What about Justice intervention?”
“Hal is working the NLI front,” Price said, “but they’re stonewalling. Blackjack’s reps won’t speak with anyone. They’ve pulled up the drawbridges. Unless we can get some leverage on them, there’s little to be done.”
“I’ll deal with them in turn, then,” Bolan promised.
“Good hunting, Striker.”
“Thanks, Barb.” Bolan hung up.
As he secured his phone in a pocket of his blacksuit under his duster, three men entered the detention-center foyer. One, a slight man with thinning hair and round-framed spectacles, wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase, was obviously a lawyer. The second was a thickset Hispanic man wearing wraparound shades and a sport jacket that didn’t hide the bulge of the gun under his left arm. He was obviously hired muscle, probably a bodyguard. Between the lawyer and the larger man was someone Bolan recognized from the intelligence files the Farm had transmitted.
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