Infiltration. Don Pendleton

Bolan asked.

      Brognola pulled an unlit cigar from his mouth, an old habit that wouldn’t seem to die, and sighed. “We suspect that Lutrova is a member of the Russian Business Network. You’re familiar with this organization, I presume.”

      Bolan nodded. Yeah, he was more than familiar. The RBN was a multifaceted enterprise with its hands into just about every form of cybercrime imaginable. They ran child porn sites, botnets, spam scams and virtually any other internet fraud money could buy. The RBN had been elusive, nearly impossible to destroy, given their size and wealth. A large number of intelligence sources were keeping tabs on the RBN’s operations, but none ever seemed solid enough to get close to its heart. For some time now, Bolan had considered launching a full-scale blitz again the RBN, but he knew it would have required the full resources of Stony Man, not to mention weeks or even months of surgical strikes against key sites. When Brognola called and hinted at the possibility he might have an alternate way to get at the group, Bolan jumped at the chance.

      “We don’t have any proof Lutrova was here on a mission for the RBN,” Brognola stated.

      “What else might have brought him here?” Bolan asked.

      “Well, it’s possible he’s on the run and he came here looking for sanctuary,” Price said.

      “At least that’s the song and dance he gave Customs officials,” Brognola added. “Lutrova fed them some story about business associates who were unhappy with him. He demanded legal representation and asylum. In return for information, of course.”

      “But since he’s not an American citizen,” Price said, “Customs agents were only required to assign him a liaison from INS.”

      “Which really just means an interpreter,” Bolan said. “So why not deport him and make it a public show? If the RBN is after him, as he claims, you’ll know soon enough whether it’s true.”

      “We considered that. Unfortunately, some analyst in the CIA picked up on the fact that Lutrova had been caught trying to enter the country illegally, and immediately filed a special report that wound up in the President’s daily brief. That, in turn, filtered down to a request by the Man that we investigate Lutrova’s claims.”

      Bolan shrugged. “So you want me to go to Boston to question him? That sounds more like a job for Justice Department types. I’m not sure how I can help in this.”

      Brognola sighed. “Striker, you’ve been telling us for a while now that the RBN is becoming bigger and more dangerous by the day. After this latest incident, I’m inclined to agree with you. And I’ve told the President as much on more than one occasion. Now, it could be that Lutrova’s just jerking our chain, and if that’s the case then there’ll be hell to pay. But there could be more hell to pay if we don’t give this a closer look. In either case, I can’t think of anyone who can get to the bottom of it faster or better than you.”

      “Not to mention you’ve been studying this group,” Price said. “You’re the closest thing we have to a subject matter expert. Not even our contacts at the NSA could give us any definitive answers.”

      “All right,” the Executioner replied. “I’ll check it out.”

      So Bolan had made his way to Boston via an early commercial flight. His forged credentials identified him as an intelligence analyst with Homeland Security. Bolan knew how to play the role, just as he did so many others. He had practically invented the technique beginning as far back as his war against the Mafia. He called it role camouflage, a method by which he could “appear” to be who he was by acting as people would expect him to act. He’d used these methods many times before, with considerable success.

      So it came as a surprise when Bolan picked up on the fact that someone was following him, leaving him to wonder if the RBN’s eyes and ears might actually have extended inside the federal government. Bolan figured staying in role and not letting on he knew these unknowns were tailing him was the best tactic. Besides, he couldn’t take the offensive without risking innocent bystanders, and it wouldn’t avail him anything. Better to pick a time of his own place and choosing.

      Yeah, he’d deal with them if and when they proved hostile.

      BOLAN MADE the downtown offices of the FBI at One Center Plaza in less than thirty minutes.

      The soldier parked his vehicle in a parking garage so he could observe the entrance through the rearview mirror. He waited long enough to spot the sedan as it cruised past. Bolan smiled and removed his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather. He expertly checked the action, then holstered it and made his way toward the elevators. The parking garage was one area that lent itself as a suitable place to take them if he had to. For now, he’d let them stew.

      Bolan rode the elevator to the sixth floor and eventually pushed through the heavy glass door marked with the U.S. Customs logo. A receptionist at the desk smiled at him, but she had a no-nonsense glint in her eye. Bolan passed her his forged credentials and announced his business with Lutrova. The woman nodded before returning his badge and ID, along with a visitor pass. She suggested he take a seat, then picked up the phone.

      The Executioner declined the seat, instead opting for a quick session with a water cooler in one corner of the reception area. As he crossed the room and helped himself to one of the paper cups, he looked over his shoulder to scope the hallway visible through the all-glass entryway. This was only one of two large federal office buildings at One Center Plaza. City Hall, City Hall Plaza and some county courthouses—as well as a major interchange station overseen by the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority—occupied remaining areas in the government center.

      Any criminal organization, even one as vast and bold as the Russian Business Network, would have been insane to try anything in here. Apparently, the RBN fell into that category, because as Bolan tossed back the cold water and dropped the paper cup into a waste can, the four men in suits stepped off an elevator, each of them toting a machine pistol.

      “Down!” Bolan yelled.

       CHAPTER TWO

      The receptionist seemed dazed, but got the message as Bolan cleared his Beretta 93-R from its shoulder leather and went prone. The gunmen opened up simultaneously with their machine pistols. The glass entrance shattered under the assault, and dangerous shards flew in every direction, while others rained onto Bolan and the secretary, who was now under the cover of her desk. Hot lead burned the air above the soldier’s head before it shattered more glass or punched through the plasterboard walls to leave heavy, choking dust in its wake.

      Bolan sighted on the surest target and loosed a double-tap. The weapon bucked in his grip as two 185-grain 9-mm hollowpoint rounds traversed a path to one gunner’s chest. The impact drove him into a large potted plant and carried him over the other side. The heavy ceramic pot teetered and landed on top of him, spilling soil everywhere.

      The first man going down distracted the one next to him, and Bolan seized the advantage. He triggered another pair of shots. The first one went low and to the left, but the second struck the man’s hip. The guy screamed and his weapon flew from his fingers. His hands went to his shattered bone and he dropped to his knee on his uninjured side. Bolan sent a third round downrange, which struck the target in the forehead. The top of the enemy’s skull came away with devastating effect, and he toppled prone to the carpet.

      The remaining pair got wise to the fact that their numbers were halved, and quit firing to find cover from the Executioner’s bullets. As one guy dived for a chair in the hallway, Bolan caught him with a slug to the left side. The bullet went clean through, narrowly missing the heart and instead ripping through shoulder muscle. The clip brought a cry of pain from the gunner, but it wasn’t lethal.

      The injured man’s partner managed to get behind a support beam jutting from the wall, but the thin plasterboard proved hardly adequate to stop Bolan. The warrior flicked the fire selector switch to 3-round burst mode and triggered two volleys. The first trio of rounds punched through the flimsy wall. One of them grazed the gunner, and he twisted away, straight into the line