Kill Shot. Don Pendleton

did it go?” Bolan asked.

      “McNair.” Kurtzman was referring to Fort Lesley J. McNair, located on the confluence of the Potomac River and the Anacostia River in Washington, D.C., the third oldest military base in the United States. It was the home base for most of the top Army brass in the D.C. area, including the Army’s chief of staff, who also happened to be the current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “It was part of a special production run of precision casings designed for sniper and competition use. It looks like we’ve got two possibilities here. One, someone at McNair is stealing supplies and selling them on the black market.”

      “And two,” Bolan interjected, “we’ve got a person or persons at the highest level of the military involved in this mess. How much of this is Hal going to share with the President?”

      “He hasn’t decided yet,” Kurtzman said. “but before you leave for Wisconsin, you need to know one more thing.”

      “What’s that?”

      “The President warned Hal that if there is another wave of killings tomorrow, he plans to declare martial law.”

      Plainfield, Wisconsin

      NORMALLY BOLAN USED FLIGHTS to catch a nap and rest up, but the short hop from Minneapolis to Plainfield aboard the fast little jet barely allowed for a single z, so Bolan sat up front and chatted with Grimaldi, who appreciated the company.

      “I’ve always wanted to go to Plainfield,” Grimaldi said.

      “Why?” Bolan asked.

      “It’s the home of Ed Gein,” Grimaldi replied. Ed Gein had been a notorious murderer and grave robber from Plainfield.

      “You a fan of serial killers?” Bolan asked.

      “Not a fan, exactly,” Grimaldi said, “but I find the guy fascinating. He cut off his victims’ heads and stole other body parts from local graveyards. What could motivate a man to do something like that?”

      “My money’s on a brain disorder,” Bolan offered. “That would give him more of an excuse to do what he did than most of the people we go up against. They’re usually motivated by greed for wealth or power.”

      “You do know that he wasn’t a serial killer, technically, right?”

      “I have to admit I’m not up to speed on the particulars of Wisconsin’s second most famous cannibal.”

      “Gein was only tried and convicted for one murder,” Grimaldi said. “Back then prosecutors exercised a little more common sense than today. They figured since he got life for one killing there wasn’t a lot to be gained by spending the money to try him for the other murders. Can you imagine a time when such logical thought ruled the day?”

      Bolan thought it was a rhetorical question and remained silent.

      “You know that you poking around here digging up bodies might bring back some bad memories for the old-timers who were alive back when Geins was doing much the same thing,” Grimaldi said.

      “I’m not any happier about having to dig up a local war hero than the folks around here will be, but we don’t have a choice. And we don’t have much time.”

      The sun had yet to rise over the eastern horizon when Jack Grimaldi brought the Cirrus Vision SF50 jet in for a landing at the Plainfield International Airport, an extremely pretentious name for a facility that consisted of two dirt runways and a steel shed. It wasn’t a fit place to land a jet, even a small jet like the SF50, but a seasoned pilot like Grimaldi had no problems. He brought the little hot-rod jet in as easily as most pilots would bring in a small two-seat Cessna.

      Brognola had arranged for a federal agent to meet Bolan at the airport. It wasn’t hard for either party to find the other. The Cirrus wasn’t only the first jet of the day to land in the airport, but it was also the only jet to ever land there. And if the vehicle driven by the federal officer—a gunmetal gray Crown Victoria sedan—wasn’t a dead giveaway, his conservative dark suit was. Besides, he was the only person waiting at the airport. The agent, a somber Nordic-looking fellow named Tracy Anderson, said, “It’ll be another hour or so before we finish exhuming the body. Want to stop for breakfast?”

      Bolan accepted the agent’s offer.

      “It looks like we’ve got a few options,” Anderson said as they cruised the town’s main drag, along which stood several diners and cafés. “Any of them look promising?”

      “Pick that one,” Bolan said, pointing to the diner that had the most big pickup trucks parked out front. A lot of pickups usually meant that the place had the best food, but it also meant that it was a spot where the locals congregated, and Bolan hoped to use this opportunity to learn a bit more about Mr. Haynes.

      Rather than taking a booth, Bolan, Grimaldi and the agent sat down at the counter, where the soldier could have better opportunities to interact with the locals. Sure enough the local sitting next to Bolan struck up a conversation before the waitress had even poured them a cup of coffee. “Mighty nice weather we’re having for this time of year,” the man said. The weather was always a safe ice breaker and a favorite topic of conversation in northern states.

      “It’s close to perfect,” Bolan replied. “Summer’s come early this year.”

      “It’s global warming,” the man said.

      “Yep,” Bolan replied.

      “My name’s Myron,” the man said, extending his weathered hand. “Myron Haynes.”

      “Matt,” the soldier replied, using his undercover name, “Matt Cooper.”

      “You in the military?” Haynes asked.

      “Was,” Bolan replied. “Now I’m doing some contract work for the Department of Justice.”

      “What are you guys doing about those shootings that have been going on the past couple of days?”

      “Everything we can,” Bolan replied.

      “Well,” Haynes said, “we ain’t had none around here. What are you investigating in these parts?”

      “I hate to ask you this,” Bolan said, “but are you related to Theodore Haynes?”

      The man got quiet. Then he said, “Everyone around here is pretty much related to everyone else. Our family trees are more like family wreaths. Teddy was my cousin’s boy. Damned shame what happened to him.”

      “Yeah,” Bolan said, “it sure was.”

      “Not that we didn’t expect the boy to come to a bad end. He was in trouble from the time he was ten years old. Earlier than that, even. He stole his parents’ car when he was twelve. When he went in the army, we thought that might turn him around. And it seemed to. He’d done good in there, made sergeant, but when he come out, he was worse than ever. He got into the drugs real bad. I think that’s what made him go and kill himself.”

      “What kind of drugs?” Bolan asked.

      “Oh, I don’t know. Drugs is drugs, I suppose. I imagine he was doing meth—everyone around here was doing meth, it seems like. And I know he had a problem with prescription pain pills ever since he got out of the VA hospital. He got caught robbing the drugstore in town once, but they let him go because he was a war hero. If they’d locked him up then, he might be alive today.” The man paused for a response, and Bolan gave a slight nod of his head, which passed for conversation in rural areas, and the man continued, “Then again, maybe he’d be just as dead in prison. He was messed up with those damned Slaves.”

      “Slaves?” Bolan asked.

      “Satan’s Slaves,” Haynes replied. The Satan’s Slaves were a mid-sized motorcycle club, located primarily in the upper Midwest, and they currently controlled Minneapolis. The Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul had been the territory of the Hellions, one of the biggest outlaw motorcycle clubs