Battle Cry. Don Pendleton

the games that made success, if not a lead-pipe cinch, at least a reasonable expectation.

       “They’ll be here for the grand opening,” Lockhart replied. “Next June, if we don’t run afoul of any snags.”

       “You’ll be snag-free,” Stewart assured him. “Everything’s been taken care of, top to bottom.”

       Meaning politicians, unions and whatever else might slow construction if the wheels weren’t greased with cash. Once they were up and running, Lockhart would recoup his bribes in spades, but at the moment, every penny counted.

       “The Lord Provost is coming?” Lockhart asked.

       “Aye,” Steward said. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world. And we’ve got five out of the seven MPs coming in.”

       “Sounds good.”

       “A bonny day,” Steward repeated. “Everybody happy as a pig in shite.”

      “WE’RE IN THE SHITE if anything goes wrong,” Patrick Whishart said, huddled in the backseat of a blue Ford Focus stolen from the long-term parking lot at Glasgow International Airport, its license plates switched with a junker from a Paisley wrecking yard.

       “So, don’t let anything go wrong, then,” Bobby Tennant answered from the shotgun seat, not bothering to turn and face Whishart. “We do the job and get the hell away. All right?”

       “He’s got no cover, then?” Hugh Ferguson inquired from the backseat.

       “To watch him dig a hole?” Tennant was scornful. “Just the copper you see sittin’ over there.”

       One uniform sat inside his panda car, watching reporters square away their cameras and microphones. The VIPs hadn’t arrived yet, but they would be turning up within the next few minutes if they meant to start the show on time.

       And if they didn’t, Tennant’s team would wait.

       Reaching between his knees into a paper shopping bag, Tennant withdrew a Sterling L2A3 submachine gun and a curved double-column magazine holding thirty-four rounds of 9 mm Parabellum hollowpoint rounds. Keeping a cold eye on the policeman in his car, Tennant snapped the magazine into the SMG’s receiver and racked a round into the chamber.

       Behind him, he heard his two other men priming their weapons, an Uzi for Ferguson and an Armalite AR-18 assault rifle for Whishart. Their driver, Duncan Nilsen, had an Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol in his lap, but he was staying with the Focus when they made their move, to have it ready when the hit went down.

       “Remember,” Tennant said, “go for the targets first and leave the copper be unless he makes a run at you. We know he’ll use the radio. Don’t sweat it. Hit the Yank and anyone who’s fawning over him, then get back to the car. Hear me?”

       They heard him, and they’d heard it all before, at least a dozen times during their planning sessions for the strike. It was a relatively simple job, but still important to the cause. Outsiders had to know they couldn’t make a fortune on the backs of honest Scots, even if they had ancient roots in local soil.

       “Here comes a limo,” Nilsen warned them.

       Tennant turned in his seat to eye the limousine, a black Rolls-Royce Ghost. The license plate on its front bumper showed the Scottish government’s royal coat of arms. Dark tinted windows hid its passengers from view, but Tennant recognized the car and knew who was inside.

       “Take him or leave him,” he advised the others. “Tag the Yank for sure, then drop his lackeys if it doesn’t slow you down.”

       “Another limo,” Nilsen said. “And two more coming up behind it.”

       “Council members, maybe some MPs,” Tennant suggested. “Careful with them, when it starts. We have some friends there, and it wouldn’t do to mess them up.”

       “They take their chances, kissing Lockhart’s arse,” said Ferguson.

       “Just follow orders,” Tennant cautioned him. “Don’t feck this up by thinkin’ for yourself.”

      “ALL READY, from the looks of it,” Craig Stewart said.

       The politicians had arrived ahead of schedule, jockeying for face time with the television cameras, grabbing their sound bytes before all eyes and lenses focused on the American whose symbolic homecoming meant jobs and a boost for the city’s flagging economy. Every politician who turned out for the ground breaking would be claiming credit for it, getting in another bid for votes.

       “You brought the shovel, right?” Lockhart asked. “Christ, I never thought of it till now.”

       “It’s in the trunk,” Stewart assured him. “Sterling silver, bright and shiny new.”

       The spade was silver-plated, and had cost a pretty guinea, even so. Once jabbed into the dirt, it would be mounted on a placard and retired. A souvenir for someone, probably the Lord Provost, to join the case of eighteen-year-old single-malt Glenlivet whisky he’d received as Lockhart’s token of appreciation for a quarter of an hour on the dais.

       Moments later, they were out and moving toward the stage, with Stewart carrying the shovel. Lockhart had his short speech memorized, the usual spiel about returning to his roots and honoring his heritage. He thought to himself that if anyone was dumb enough to think of SenDane as a philanthropic charity, more power to them.

       On the dais, shaking hands, Lockhart could feel his hangover trying to reassert itself, but he suppressed it, plastered on a smile to match Stewart’s and stepped up to the microphone.

       The turnout wasn’t large and didn’t have to be. The cameras were what counted, catching every second of the show.

       “My friends and fellow Scots—”

       A ripple in the small crowd caught his eye, distracting Lockhart as he saw three men advancing, rudely shoving past the others who’d arrived before them, pressing toward the stage. He didn’t recognize the guns at first, until the nearest one was pointed at his face.

       “Look out!” somebody shouted from below. Too late.

       Lockhart began to turn, raising the spade as if it could protect him, hearing screams and curses from the crowd. Then, all he heard was thunder.

       All he felt was pain.

      Chapter 1

      Glasgow: 10:05 a.m.

      Mack Bolan’s flight from New York City landed more or less on time. The jumbo jet had lifted off from JFK eleven minutes late yet somehow beat the captain’s own best estimate for crossing the Atlantic. They’d traveled more than thirty-two hundred miles overnight, across five time zones, and Bolan had done it in coach.

       It was good to stretch his legs again, to work the kinks out of his neck and lower back.

       He took his time passing along the jetway, following the signs to Immigration and Passport Control. Upon arrival at their destination, Bolan’s fellow travelers formed lines, according to their nationality. The fast lanes were for British subjects, residents of nations in the European Economic Area, and the Swiss. All others joined the lines requiring more detailed interrogation by authorities.

       Bolan was ready with his landing card and passport, this one in the name of Matt Cooper from Los Angeles. Mr. Cooper was on holiday with nothing to declare.

       The immigration officer who beckoned Bolan forward was a woman, pale and red-haired, with just the barest hint of freckles on her nose. He would’ve had to guess about her figure, since she was wearing body armor underneath her uniform, and her gunbelt had numerous black, bulky pouches.

       She checked his face against the passport’s photo, inquired as to the purpose of his visit even though it was already indicated on his landing card, and asked for an address where he’d be staying while in Scotland.

       Serving up the truth for once, Bolan