Justice Run. Don Pendleton

and the others were walking along. The officer at the wheel gave them one last look as he drove past, but kept going.

      “Thank God,” Rodriguez said quietly.

      “Yes and no,” Bolan said. “We just gained a couple of minutes. But if the guy’s instincts nag at him enough, he may turn around and want to talk to us. Look at us. We don’t exactly look like rich, carefree tourists.”

      “True.”

      When they reached the intersection, Bolan veered right down a side street and followed it away from the main drag for three blocks. An older-model blue Citroën parked along the curb caught the warrior’s eye. He walked up to it, peered through a side window, looking for blinking red lights that might signal an alarm, but saw nothing. Pulling his arm back, he shot forward and drove the point of his elbow into the glass. The window shattered on impact, glittering shards falling to the ground and into the car.

      Bolan reached through the window, unlocked the door and within seconds was seated inside the vehicle, working to hotwire the starter while Turrin watched their surroundings. Once the engine growled to life, Turrin opened the passenger-side door and gestured for Rodriguez to climb into the backseat. As she settled inside, he stuck one leg into the car before the sound of yelling caught his attention. He turned and saw an elderly man, silver hair contrasting against deeply tanned skin, running down the street, yelling in French and shaking his fist.

      Turrin folded himself into the car and slammed the door just as Bolan began wheeling it from its parking space. He gunned the engine. The Citroën gained speed as it hurtled away from its owner who was now standing in the street, shaking a fist at the thieves stealing his car. The soldier navigated the car out of the neighborhood and aimed it toward the safehouse.

      CHAPTER SIX

      “How did you screw this up?” the voice on the phone asked.

      Seated in the helicopter, Dumond bit down on an angry reply and squelched a desire to heave his phone across the floor. He hated the son of a bitch on the other end of the line. He didn’t even know his name. Not his real name, anyway. But he knew he’d love to put a bullet in the bastard’s head.

      “It’s complicated,” the Frenchman replied, regretting the words instantly.

      “Perhaps you need an easier job,” the other man said.

      “No.”

      “You lost the woman.”

      “We’ve been over this.”

      “You lost her.”

      Dumond heaved a sigh. “She got away. Yes.”

      “Was she looking for me?”

      “No.”

      “No?”

      Dumond squeezed his eyes closed. “I don’t know.”

      “Neither do I.”

      “She never asked about you.”

      “Which means nothing.”

      “I told you someone attacked us. I lost eighteen people today.”

      “How many did they lose?”

      “You bastard!”

      “Well?”

      “None,” he said.

      “And how many men were there?”

      “You know the answer!”

      “I want to hear it from you.”

      “Two. It was just two men.”

      The other man fell silent. Dumond thought he heard a lighter being worked, followed seconds later by the sound of a slow exhale. The pause only heightened Dumond’s anxiety.

      After several seconds the voice said, “Go to Tunisia.”

      The line went dead.

      * * *

      VOGELSGANG SLAMMED DOWN the receiver of his secure phone. The sound of someone chuckling to his right caught his attention and prompted him to spin his chair in that direction. Friedhelm Geiger was leaning against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at him. No, more to the point, Geiger was smirking at him.

      “What the hell are you laughing at?” Vogelsgang demanded.

      “The Frenchman screwed it up, right?” Geiger said. “Did I not say this would happen?”

      Vogelsgang ignored the question and instead studied the smoke curling up from the end of his cigarette. After several seconds he nodded slowly.

      “You were right,” he said. “The Frenchman was a complete washout.”

      Vogelsgang quickly repeated Dumond’s account of what had happened, breaking off occasionally to puff from his cigarette. When he finished, he looked over at Geiger, who was rubbing his clean-shaved chin with his thumb and forefinger. The smirk had morphed into a scowl and his brow furrowed.

      “Two men took out eighteen of Dumond’s people?”

      “That’s what Dumond said. What? You don’t believe it?”

      Geiger pushed himself off the wall and started across the office toward a small bar located in the corner. Opening a bottle of spiced rum, he poured some into a short glass, sealed the bottle and, drink in hand, headed back to Vogelsgang.

      “Dumond’s a pussy,” Geiger said. “But his security team’s another matter entirely. I can’t believe two men took out the whole team.”

      “You think he’s lying?”

      “Not necessarily,” Geiger replied, shaking his head. “He may have counted wrong. Fog of war and all that bullshit. Dumond’s not a soldier. Perhaps he’s been shot at before. I don’t know. But under that sort of stress, it’s easy to get things wrong.”

      Vogelsgang nodded once. “But we still have eighteen men dead. That much we can be sure of.”

      “Yes.”

      “Let me ask the obvious question, then,” Vogelsgang said. “What if he got it right? What if it was just two people?”

      Geiger drank more rum. Staring into the glass, he swirled the liquid around. “They’d have to be damn capable,” he said.

      “Indeed.”

      “Especially to do this with little or no visible support. No special vehicles. Nothing but small arms. I’d say Dumond was lucky to escape with his skin intact.”

      “How many people in the world could do this?”

      Geiger considered the question and shrugged. “Not many. I could do it. Not too many others. A handful, maybe.”

      “Exactly. That means we’ve drawn the attention of someone quite formidable. And now we should assume they’re following Dumond. They won’t let him just walk away from all this. They’ll want to arrest him.”

      “That wouldn’t be so bad as long as Dumond would keep his mouth shut. But we know better. If it’d buy him another ten seconds of breathing, he’d blurt out everything he knows.”

      “So deal with him. And, if someone’s tracking him, take them out, too.”

      “With pleasure,” Geiger said.

      He set his empty glass on a nearby table, turned and headed for the door.

      * * *

      VOGELSGANG WAITED UNTIL the other man had exited the room before allowing himself a small chuckle and a pitying shake of his head. Geiger was a good soldier, a true believer, resourceful and smart. His mistake was in believing they were in this thing together.

      He was wrong. Geiger indeed was a formidable soldier. The former intelligence officer was, at