Zero Option. Don Pendleton

there was more to it. I know I haven’t seen Uncle Doug for some time, but he sounded strange. Like he wasn’t sure about things. Damn, it’s hard to explain.”

      “You know him better than me.”

      “I hope he calls again. Last time I saw him was when we buried Dad. He calls and I’m out. And what did he mean about keeping quiet about his call? Not talking to strangers? Jesus, Jack, I missed his call.”

      “No way you could have known he was going to get in touch, Jess. Likely he’ll call again. Don’t give yourself a hard time.”

      She nodded.

      “So what’s on the agenda today?” Grimaldi asked.

      “The choice is yours.”

      Grimaldi glanced at his watch. “Lunch. Then waste time till Mike arrives. Figure we work something out.”

      “I’ll need to tidy up. Get into some clean clothes. Can you wait while I do that?”

      “I can do better. How about I come and help?”

      Buchanan laughed, pushing him away.

      “If I let you do that, we’ll be eating at midnight.”

      “Romantic meal under the stars sounds good,” Grimaldi said.

      Before she could respond, the sound of the hangar door being slammed open caught her attention. Through the office window she and Grimaldi were able to see a group of five men. They paused to locate themselves, then started across the hangar floor, one hanging back to cover the entrance door.

      “Who are they, Jess?” Grimaldi asked.

      She shook her head. “I’ve never seen any of them before.”

      “Do they look like potential customers to you?”

      “Not impossible, but I somehow don’t think so. They look more like FBI. Or IRS.”

      Buchanan moved to the door and stepped through into the main hangar, followed by Grimaldi.

      For some reason he felt himself growing tense. There was something almost official about the group. Not just the uniform way they were dressed, but more in the way they handled themselves, how they walked, checking out their surroundings, one of them hanging back to cover the door, slightly turning so he could see out across the strip. He kept his right hand close to the fastened button on his suit jacket. Just so he could quickly get to the shoulder-holstered handgun he was carrying. Grimaldi had already spotted the slight bulge under every jacket. It was so slight that it would be missed by the average citizen.

      But Grimaldi was no average citizen, and there was no way these people were customers. His suspicions made him step forward, slightly in front, blocking Buchanan from the men. His stance, outwardly easy, told them he was on the alert, watching for any problems.

      At the forefront of Grimaldi’s mind was the telephone message from Jess’s uncle.

      Don’t talk to strangers.

      “What can I do for you?” Grimaldi asked.

      The lead man, his white-blond hair cut short, body solid under the loose folds of his suit, turned his head slightly so he could see Buchanan over Grimaldi’s shoulder—but he spoke directly at Grimaldi.

      “Are you Jess Buchanan, mister?”

      “No.”

      “Then I don’t have business with you, and you are interfering in mine.”

      Buchanan touched Grimaldi’s arm, moving to stand beside him. “I’m Jess Buchanan. What do you want?”

      “We need you to come with us. No arguments. No questions. You just do it.”

      “Just like that? You walk into my place and I do exactly what you want?”

      The man smiled as if he were calming an unruly puppy. “Now there’s a good girl. You see. No fuss. No bother.” Then his manner changed in an instant, the smile turning cold as Grimaldi tensed and put out a warning hand. “I already gave you an order, mister.”

      “Order? Where do you think you are, friend? This isn’t a military base and you’re no damned squad leader.”

      “No?”

      Grimaldi caught movement off to his left. One of the suits lunged, his move fast and smooth as he arced in at Grimaldi. His left hand, previously at his side, rose to show the dark configuration of a hard-looking compact shotgun. The guy brought up the weapon, securing it with his right hand, and he was already into his swing as he stepped around the lead man. Grimaldi brought up an arm to ward off the blow. The solid steel barrel cracked against his forearm, the blow delivered with maximum force. The impact drew a pained grunt from Grimaldi, and he swiveled hard, his right hand catching Buchanan’s shoulder, pushing her aside as the lead man went for her.

      As she stumbled out of the immediate area, Grimaldi swung his right hand and caught the lead man across the side of the face. The blow stung and the man’s head rocked. He stepped back, anger showing in his cold eyes as the shotgunner closed in, swinging the weapon again, slamming the butt into Grimaldi’s side, a savage blow that cracked ribs and drove the breath from the Stony Man pilot’s lungs. The others were moving in now, dark shapes converging on Grimaldi. He was no slouch when it came to defending himself, and he used his moment of freedom to set himself, gritting his teeth against the swell of pain from his broken ribs. The pain was sharp, sweat popping across his face as Grimaldi forced himself to fight back.

      He got in a few telling blows, had the satisfaction of seeing bloodied faces before the overwhelming odds closed around him and he went down under a deluge of blows from weapons and feet. He struggled to push himself upright, the continuing blows starting to wear away his resistance. His face was dripping blood. He tasted it in his mouth. A savage kick drove in over his left eye, splitting flesh to the bone. He felt the hot gush of blood, which washed downward and blinded his vision. Somewhere out of the blur of movement and sound he heard Jess. She was yelling, fighting hard. Through the swirl of dark coats he caught a glimpse of her.

      She was struggling in the grip of the lead man. He held her with little effort, a crooked grin on his tight face. She reached out and took hold of his short blond hair, yanking hard. He jerked away, then suddenly, cruelly, punched her hard in the face. The last thing Grimaldi saw was Jess going limp, her mouth bloody, eyes starting to glaze over from the blow. He tried to yell to her but he was choking on his own blood. Someone stamped down hard on his left hand, breaking several fingers. Grimaldi felt himself being hauled up off the floor, pinned against the bench as more blows landed on his body. He made a vain attempt at resisting. His attempts were brushed aside. As his body began to shut down, oblivious to the continuing beating, all Grimaldi could recall was the final expression in Jess’s eyes…it had been one of pure terror. And then he went under.

      MACK BOLAN STOOD as the white-coated doctor came into the waiting room. The medic held out a hand, gripping Bolan’s firmly.

      “How is he?” Bolan asked.

      “When you called you said you were family. I don’t see a resemblance.”

      Bolan smiled. “Maybe I should have added that I’m all the family Jack has, Doc. We work together. Right now my friend is in trouble, and I want to know how he is.”

      “All right, Mr. Belasko. Let’s sit down. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

      When they were seated, the doctor took a moment to collect his thoughts.

      “Jack Grimaldi was brought in about five hours ago. He had taken one hell of a beating. We have three broken ribs on his left side. Came close to puncturing his lung. He also has three broken fingers in his left hand. In addition his upper torso, arms and face are showing severe bruising associated with the beating he took. He has a slight fracture in his right cheekbone, and it looks like someone kicked him above the right eye. Left a deep gash. His eye has swollen so he won’t be able to see for a while. In nontechnical terms your friend has been