Altered State. Don Pendleton

actions”—otherwise known as assassinations.

      Scratch that.

      No agency was publicly authorized to do so.

      Stony Man had been created expressly to do that which was forbidden. A former President, beset by enemies on every side, domestic and foreign, had realized that every nation had to defend itself, by fair means or foul. When the system broke down, when the law failed, clear and present dangers had to be neutralized by other means.

      Deniability was critical.

      If Bolan or some other Stony Man agent—the troops of Able Team and Phoenix Force—were killed on a mission at home or abroad, they did not officially exist.

      If worse came to worst, if one of them was caught alive and cracked under torture or chemical interrogation, providing verifiable details of Stony Man’s operations, the buck stopped with Hal Brognola at Justice. He’d been prepared from the start to fall on his sword, confess to launching and running the program on his own initiative, financing it covertly, without the knowledge or approval of superiors.

      It was a fairy tale that might be hard to swallow, but the Washington publicity machine would sell it anyway. The corporate media—so far from “leftist liberal” that Bolan had to laugh each time he heard the talking heads on Fox News rant and rave—would ultimately join ranks with the state to cover any tracks that led beyond Brognola’s office to respected politicians higher up the food chain.

      The trick, on Bolan’s part, was not to get captured or killed. So far, he’d managed fairly well.

      And this time?

      As he started to erase Brognola’s CD-ROM, he knew that he would have to wait and see.

       CHAPTER FOUR

       Kabul, Afghanistan

      They ditched Falk’s bullet-punctured Ford near the Park-e-Timor Shahi, on the River Rudkhane-ye-Kabul, and found another waiting two blocks over, thanks to one of Falk’s associates who asked no questions when she’d called him on the telephone.

      “The other one will be reported stolen,” she told Bolan as they drove across the city to a safe house in the Shash Darak district.

      “You’ve done this kind of thing before?” he asked.

      “We’re living on the edge, here, Mr. Cooper. No one really wants us in Afghanistan. We get that message from the beat cops, right on up the ladder to the president.”

      “Which one?” Bolan inquired.

      She smiled at that and told him, “Take your pick. Ours has to talk about the ‘evil scourge of heroin’ to get elected, but I swear, sometimes it feels like it’s all talk.” She frowned, then added, “Hey, forget I said that, will you? I still need this job, and I don’t even know who sent you.”

      “Someone who agrees with you and wants to make a difference.”

      “Well, anyway, we gave someone a wake-up call,” she said.

      “They knew where we were meeting,” Bolan countered. “How do you suppose that happened?”

      “Damned if I know. I could swear I wasn’t followed, and I’d guess Edris will say the same.”

      “Indeed,” Barialy said from the backseat. “I was very careful, following all necessary steps of tradecraft.”

      Tradecraft?

      The last time Bolan could remember hearing that was in a movie from the late eighties.

      He let it slide and asked Falk, “Do your people sweep their cars?”

      “We do,” she said. “But that’s not saying someone couldn’t slip a homer past us. It would mean access to the secure motor pool, but with Vanguard, anything’s possible.”

      “And will this car have been checked?” he asked.

      “You put it that way, I can’t swear to anything,” Falk answered.

      “Then we need a rental office, stat.”

      “Jesus. Okay, I know a couple places we can go. I’ve got a credit card, and—”

      “This one is on me,” Bolan said. “If you’re under a sophisticated shadow, using plastic is like sending up a flare.”

      “Shit!” she said. “Do you always shake things up this way?”

      “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he replied.

      Falk found an auto rental agency and Barialy went inside with Bolan, translating his bid for a midsize four-door sedan. They left with a Toyota Avalon, rented by Bolan in his alternate identity as Brandon Stone. The Visa Platinum he used was paid in full and had a $20,000 credit line.

      “No tail on this one,” Bolan said as he slid in behind the steering wheel. “About that safe house, now…”

      “You’re thinking that it might not be so safe,” Falk said.

      “It crossed my mind.”

      “All right. It’s not the only place we have in Kabul, but if one of them is compromised, we can’t trust any. Can we?”

      “No.”

      “This sucks.”

      “Welcome to my world,” Bolan said.

      “Hey, mine was bad enough, thanks very much.”

      “The good news is, you have them worried,” Bolan told her.

      “Great. They want me dead now and they almost pulled it off, first try.”

      “It wasn’t even close,” Bolan replied.

      “Were you and I at the same party?” Falk inquired. “They shot the hell out of my car.”

      “And we all walked away,” Bolan reminded her. “Their side sent twelve men out to do a job and lost eleven. I’d say we’re ahead.”

      “Except that now we’re fugitives,” she said.

      “That’s only if police are looking for you,” Bolan said. “We’re going underground. There is a difference.”

      “Care to explain it, Mr. Cooper?”

      “Call me Matt, if you feel like it,” Bolan said. “As for the difference, a fugitive is always running, hiding, constantly on the defensive. When you’re underground, you have a chance to be proactive. Bring the war home to your enemies.”

      “When you say war—”

      “I mean exactly that,” Bolan replied. “The men who staked you out today were there to kill us. They don’t know me, but they thought a public hit was worth the risk to keep you from revealing what you know to an outsider.”

      “Maybe it was just supposed to be a snatch, before you started shooting,” she replied without conviction.

      “What’s the difference?” he asked. “You think they planned to warn you off or question you, then let you go?”

      Instead of answering, Falk asked, “So, then, what’s your plan?”

      “I told you—take it to the enemy. Rattle their cages. Disrupt operations. Blow their house down.”

      Falk was staring at him now. “You mean, just go around and shoot them, like some kind of hit man?”

      “I imagine there’ll be more to it than that,” Bolan replied. “But understand, before you take another step that I’m not here to serve warrants. You’ve already tried that route, and you can keep on trying if you like. Just tell me where to drop you off.”

      She spent another moment staring at him, then replied, “Screw that. I’m in.”

      “And you?” Bolan met Barialy’s