Infiltration. Don Pendleton

to keep his head down as he reverse-stepped toward the elevator bank. Bolan switched out magazines in a heartbeat and leveled his pistol. He triggered another 3-round burst, and then a second, and all six rounds hammered his opponent. The impacts drove him backward, causing his arms to windmill, and making him stagger like a drunken puppet until he crashed into the far wall. He slid to the ground and left a gory streak in his wake.

      The echoes of gunfire hadn’t even died when a half-dozen Customs and Homeland Security officials, accompanied by a near equal number of FBI agents, fanned into the room with their weapons drawn. They spotted Bolan and began to yell at him to drop his weapon. The Executioner knew that, in the heat of the moment, anything other than compliance would be suicide, so he laid the weapon on the ground and kept his hands where he could see them.

      One of the agents stepped forward and retrieved the pistol quickly, while a second bent to put handcuffs on him. Too far.

      Bolan grabbed the man’s wrist. “That’s not going to happen.”

      “Stop resisting!” the man said.

      The Executioner whirled onto his back so fast the agent didn’t have time to react. Next thing he knew, Bolan had a forearm around his neck and his legs wrapped against the man’s hips, effectively pinning him in place.

      “I said, that’s not going to happen,” Bolan repeated. He looked at the other agents, all of whom had guns pointed at him, and added, “you have my weapon and that means I’m no longer a threat. But I’m on your side and there’s no way you’re going to handcuff me like a criminal.”

      “Okay, okay!” one of them replied. He holstered his pistol and gestured at the others to back off. “Put them down for now, boys. Everybody just take it easy.”

      When they had complied, Bolan released the agent who had tried to cuff him, and got up, before hauling the dazed man to his feet. The agent stepped a respectful distance away as he rubbed his neck and eyed the soldier with venom. Bolan didn’t let it affect him, instead turning to the balding man who seemed to possess the air of command among the others in the group.

      Bolan indicated that he was going to reach for his credentials, and once he got a nod from the head agent, he flipped them out and held them high. The agent stepped closer, quickly inspected them and then nodded with a satisfied expression.

      Bolan stuck out his hand. “Name’s Cooper. I’m with the intelligence sector of Homeland Security.”

      The man nodded again and took his hand. “Scott Hampton, deputy chief of U.S. Customs, New York. You’re here about Lutrova?”

      “Yeah,” Bolan said with a nod.

      Hampton looked in the direction of the four deceased. “You always bring this kind of entertainment to the party?”

      Bolan couldn’t help but crack a smile, wondering if he might get along with Hampton, after all. “I like to keep things lively.”

      “I don’t suppose you could tell me…” Hampton’s voice dropped off suggestively.

      “Not a clue,” Bolan said. “But if I had to guess, I’m betting they’re Russian.”

      “You think they were after Lutrova?”

      “Right.”

      “Any idea how they might have known about you? Maybe how they managed to follow you?”

      Bolan shook his head. “I spotted them tailing me the moment I left Logan.”

      “And you came here anyway?”

      “Look,” Bolan said, putting a little edge in his voice, “I didn’t think they’d actually storm this place with guns blazing.”

      “Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a wad.”

      “Let’s just focus on finding out who they are and who sent them, Hampton,” Bolan said. “We can worry about blame later.”

      “And how do you propose we do that?”

      “If they were here to punch Lutrova’s ticket, it’s logical we start with him. Especially since that’s why I’m here to begin with, and they latched on to me instead of one of your people.”

      “Christ,” Hampton replied under his breath, rubbing his temples.

      “You okay?”

      “Yeah,” he told Bolan. “It’s just I feel a migraine coming on. Along with a whole hell of a lot of paperwork.”

      BOGDAN LUTROVA didn’t come off as particularly special. He didn’t seem all that bright, either, but Bolan knew appearances weren’t trustworthy. Lutrova’s long, blond hair hung in unkempt and dirty strands. Brown eyes, deeply set and lined with circles, peered with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity at Bolan’s imposing form entering the room.

      Bolan met the look with frosty indifference as he stood opposite Lutrova, who was seated at a gray metal table in one of the U.S. Customs holding rooms.

      “Who are you?” Lutrova asked in a heavy Georgian accent.

      “Shut your yap,” Bolan said, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis. “Four of your friends out there just attempted to kill me.”

      Lutrova scoffed mockingly. “What friends? I have no—”

      The Executioner reached across the table and one-armed Lutrova out of the chair. He dragged the Russian computer hacker across the table and pushed his head down so that the edge buried itself in a painful nerve just under Lutrova’s chin. The man squealed something in Russian, but Bolan doubted the outrage would have been intelligible even in English.

      “Let’s start again,” Bolan said with a steady increase of downward pressure. “We’re not going to play games right now because I’m not in the mood for them. You’re also not going to play the victim, since we both know better than that. You know where I’m coming from now?”

      The man made some additional sounds the Executioner couldn’t understand, but the furious movement of Lutrova’s head made it apparent he understood the new terms of their relationship. Bolan nodded in satisfaction and released his hold, propelling Lutrova into his chair with a shove. The door opened and Hampton entered—followed by a short, swarthy man Bolan recognized as the guy that had earlier attempted to cuff him—in time to see Lutrova’s scrawny form land hard in the seat.

      “I see you’re getting along,” Hampton said with a smirk.

      “I was just explaining the rules to Mr. Lutrova,” Bolan said.

      Hampton nodded, gestured for the other agent to close the door behind them, and then sat on the edge of the table to one side of Lutrova, dropping a thick manila folder in front of him. It hit with enough force that Lutrova jumped in spite of himself. A red divot had formed on his chin, a lasting reminder of Bolan’s “explanation.”

      “You’re in deep shit, Lutrova,” Hampton said. “You know what’s in that folder? It’s a list of names, the names of the hit team sent to kill you and anybody else who got in their way. It seems your friends in the Russian Business Network don’t like you too well.”

      Lutrova didn’t say anything at first, but a slight movement of Bolan in his direction made him quickly change his tune and throw up his hands. “Wait! Wait! Don’t touch me. I’ll tell you what I know. But you must protect me.”

      “No way,” Hampton said. “Your associates out there just tried to kill a bunch of my people. And the fact that they’re foreigners here on American soil, attacking American federal buildings, makes that an act of terrorism. Which means you’re not entitled to any protection.”

      Lutrova looked at Bolan, who was staring at him, his arms folded. When he looked back at Hampton, who raised his eyebrows to indicate he was serious, Lutrova’s defiant expression transformed into defeat. They had him dead to rights and he knew it; worse yet, Lutrova knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. And that’s