Blood Vendetta. Don Pendleton

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.

      Blair smoothed down one of the rumpled newspaper clippings with his palm, pushed it forward so the Stony Man warriors could read it.

      “I know I could have printed it out from the internet,” he said, “but I’m still partial to the newsprint-and-ink version.”

      Bolan nodded, but focused his attention on the clipping.

      Terror Bombing Kills Seven

      Seven passengers were killed—including a pregnant woman on holiday—and three others were injured when a bomb planted by an Islamic militant group tore through a train car’s interior.

      The dead also included four London residents, a French tourist and another American, a man believed to be the husband of the pregnant woman killed in Sunday’s explosion, authorities said.

      In a statement sent to news organizations, a group of Islamic militants with ties to al Qaeda in Iraq claimed responsibility for the bombing. The act was meant as a protest against the presence of British troops in Iraq, according to the statement.

      Bolan scanned through the rest of the article, but found few other details useful to his search. It mostly contained eyewitness statements and comments from police and politicians vowing to hunt down those responsible.

      Blair spread out a second article on the desk. Between the headline and the story, Bolan saw the photos of seven individuals lined up.

      With his index finger, Blair tapped the picture of a young woman. The photo portrayed her from the shoulders up. Her hair was blond and her mouth was turned up in a warm smile.

      “That’s the American. Name’s Jessica Harrison. Beautiful young woman. According to a New York Times profile that ran at the time, she was six months pregnant. Her husband, Jeremy, was fresh from foreign-service officer school and was stationed at the London embassy. He’d been in the country four months before he was killed. She arrived that day. They were on their way from Heathrow to the U.S. embassy compound. Diplomatic cables and other information from your government pretty much confirmed the information in the Times piece.”

      It struck Bolan that the analyst was drawing details completely from memory.

      “You’ve spent a lot of time on this,” the soldier said.

      Blair gave him a lopsided grin. “Shows, doesn’t it? Normal people have hobbies or, better yet, girlfriends. Anyway, I thought for sure this woman was the key. See, she had a twin sister, Jennifer Davis—Davis was the dead woman’s maiden name. Her sister worked for a couple of major U.S. banks. Really understood the nuts and bolts of financial transactions. And did I mention she oversaw information security at another point in her career?”

      “Happy coincidence,” McCarter muttered.

      “Smart woman, obviously. Quite