Exit Code. Don Pendleton
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was his Family and his country, and he didn’t give a fuck about the foreigners and what they wanted. He was only doing this out of loyalty to his people.
So he’d sit and watch over this brainy broad and he’d do his job like a professional syndicate bull, and down the line he would hope there was some reward and appreciation for his work. Yeah, and also some damned consideration. There was nothing he hated more than when he didn’t get any consideration. He didn’t care how the rest of the plan fell out as long as Mr. Lenzini was successful. They had to make the boss look good, because when he looked good they looked good, and while he didn’t really think that much of Lenzini, the old guy did have a reputation for rewarding loyalty. And so Trabucco knew all he could do was his job. And then maybe, just maybe, he’d get some consideration. Yeah, that sure would be a treat.
TYRA MACEWAN PARKED her mother’s car in the lot of a large grocery store and climbed from behind the wheel. She slung her purse over her shoulder, feeling the added but comfortable weight of the .38-caliber Detective’s Special she kept in her bag.
She thought about her father as she walked toward the grocery store. He had taught her respect and appreciation for firearms, and given that a group of strange men were following her, she was all the more thankful for his training. She wished she could talk to him about her situation.
MacEwan also wished Jack or Matt Cooper were around. They would know what to do. She knew she could correct that with a single phone call, but she wouldn’t be able to do it from the store since the bank of pay phones was visible to the entire parking lot and that might look very suspicious to her followers. Cooper’s people had counseled her not to take her cell phone when she returned home, so she couldn’t use that, either. The only phone she’d brought was the emergency unit that allowed DARPA personnel to contact her directly, and she didn’t want to risk using it.
MacEwan got inside the store and immediately located a manager. A few seconds later, she had directions to the woman’s restroom—which she remembered was near a rear exit—and within minutes she was on the back side of the store and crossing a field overgrown with brush, garbage and beer cans.
MacEwan also knew there were an abundance of snakes and rusted metal from junked-out cars in the field. The area had been like this since she was a little girl, and the place really got little attention—except for the Friday and Saturday night police drive-bys—and it seemed the city and public in general had better things to do than worry about this freakish marriage of the natural with the man-made.
After crossing the field unscathed, MacEwan reached a pay phone on the wall of a gas station. She stabbed the buttons mechanically from the number Cooper had given her and ordered that she commit to memory. Within moments a deep, rich voice sounded a greeting in her ears—it was a strong voice.
“Is this Bear?” she asked.
“Yes. Is this who I think it is?” Aaron Kurtzman asked.
“Right,” she said. “Listen, I think there could be trouble. I caught someone…Well, several someones, watching the house. Did you or your people order any type of protection?”
“No,” Kurtzman replied firmly. “We believe the best way to protect people is not to draw attention to them. That’s why you don’t have six big dudes in suits and sunglasses walking around you every second.”
“Well, then, I could have a problem.”
“You recognize any of them?” Kurtzman asked.
“No.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Not even two days.”
“All right, then go about your business. Whoever it is doesn’t plan on harming you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’d already be dead,” he replied chillingly.
MacEwan nodded at the phone; he was right and she knew it. There was no way she’d still be breathing if those men were supposed to kill her. They could have taken her at any time, especially on her drive into town on the virtually empty road that led from her parents sprawling ranch into the city.
MacEwan trusted Cooper’s people, and she knew they were experts in their field. She only had to see the tall, dark-haired, icy-eyed war machine in action one time to know that much. “What are you going to do?” MacEwan asked.
“I’m going to send help. Just sit tight and act normal. I’ll have someone at your place within twelve hours,” Kurtzman said confidently.
“I understand.”
There was a click and the line went dead. MacEwan knew all she could do was wait as Bear had told her. And pray that the promised help came soon.
Boston, Massachusetts
MACK BOLAN DIDN’T HAVE long to wait before he managed to find a nice, private spot in the corner in the menswear area on the second floor. The place was not all that busy; it seemed as if the store catered primarily to a female clientele. The odor of wool, denim and leather permeated everything.
It was simultaneously puzzling and disconcerting to Bolan that someone could be onto him so quickly. It had been the same during his encounters with the NIF. He’d found MacEwan being tortured and beaten by terrorist thugs, and had subsequently joined the battle against NIF fanatics. MacEwan had worked with Kurtzman in the virtual world to match wits against the technical prowess of Sadiq Rhatib. And Jack Grimaldi had nearly lost his life. Through it all, it seemed like someone was onto him every minute, and he had no explanation as to why. Bolan was hoping this man might have some answers.
The Executioner waited until the man—oblivious to the fact he was being followed in his intense search to find his lost quarry—was aligned with an open dressing room before making his move. He quickly stepped forward, shoved the guy into the dressing room and shut the door behind them. The Beretta was now clear of shoulder leather and Bolan had the man on his knees, the muzzle of the Beretta inches from his forehead. Bolan wasn’t surprised to find a gun when he frisked the guy, and he quickly relieved him of the weapon.
“Talk,” the Executioner said.
“About what?” the man asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bolan replied nonchalantly. “How about the first thing that comes to your mind?”
“Well, I’d like to know why you’ve got a gun to my head,” the man said calmly.
Bolan showed him a frosty smile. “Maybe I can tell you that once you explain why you’re following me.”
“Because I was ordered to.”
“By who?”
“By the federal government,” the man said.
“Stop playing games with me,” Bolan replied, tapping the muzzle against the man’s forehead. “The federal government’s pretty broad. Get specific or get dead. I don’t care which, but decide now.”
“All right, all right,” the man said, putting up his hands to demonstrate he’d cooperate. “I’m a special investigator with the Defense Department. I was ordered to follow you by Dr. Shurish. You were supposed to report to work more than two weeks ago, and he hasn’t heard from you. He was concerned, so he filed a missing persons report with the FBI. When some Washington transit cops spotted you boarding a train for Boston, Shurish called me and asked me to find out where you were going.”
Bolan chewed on that for a moment. The story was probably true, although he didn’t completely understand it. Malcolm Shurish was head of the Information Processing Technology Office at DARPA. Bolan had first met him while posing as a scientist intended to serve as a temporary replacement until the authorities located MacEwan. Of course, Shurish hadn’t known that Bolan was really looking for MacEwan himself. And after the NIF tried to blow him up—and take half the IPTO office with him—he hadn’t seen Shurish again.
Shurish’s reaction seemed a bit much;