Firestorm. Don Pendleton

      Brognola sighed. “It’s the countries that keep us up at night—North Korea, Iran, Syria. And some bad elements in allied countries like Pakistan and Saudi Arabia have also been known to tap Garrison for equipment.”

      Price continued, “The intelligence community tried to build in safeguards to minimize any blowback against us or our allies. Sometimes the buyers ended up dead from natural causes.” She gestured quotation marks with her fingers to highlight the last two words. “Or thieves stole the weapons. But the thieves actually were on the CIA’s payroll. Or we sent in proxies to buy back the weapons. It wasn’t a perfect system. It’s not unreasonable to assume that some weapons fell into the wrong hands, that someone, somewhere slaughtered innocents with those weapons. But the operation did generate good intelligence for us. I guess the National Security adviser considered any mistakes a fair trade in exchange for the benefits.”

      “A fair trade, maybe,” Bolan said, “but not an equal one.”

      “Intelligence gathering isn’t always neat and clean, Mack,” Price stated. “I know that from my own experiences with the NSA. It’s as much an art as it is a science. Perhaps more art than science. It’s as imperfect as hell. You know that.”

      Bolan acknowledged her words with a nod.

      “And Garrison’s been doing this for how long?” Bolan asked.

      “About twenty years,” Brognola said.

      “And we’ve known about it how long?”

      “About twenty years,” the big Fed stated.

      Bolan searched his old friend’s face and waited for the punch line.

      “I’ll bite,” Bolan replied. “So it’s twenty years later and suddenly we learn that someone within the organization has gone rogue, and we have an emergency. Are we just concerned about the satellite parts and the tubes?”

      Brognola shook his head. “It seems that some of these creeps have begun moving up the Garrison food chain. They’re getting their items more quickly. They get to meet with select members of the senior management team. We’re worried that the Iranian and Chinese transactions are only the tip of the iceberg. So was the CIA, which is why they sent a team of agents down there to investigate.

      “And it gets even more complex. Garrison doesn’t just play these cloak-and-dagger games out of a sense of patriotism. They’re sort of enmeshed in the intelligence community.”

      “Enmeshed with or part of the intelligence community?” Bolan asked.

      “Give the boy a cigar,” Kurtzman said.

      “The whole damn operation was planned and sanctioned by the National Security Council,” Brognola said. “Using money from a slush fund, the council bought a small research-and-development firm a couple of decades ago and grew it into what it is today. Unfortunately, it seems to be taking on a life of its own, which has everyone from the White House on down worried.”

      The big Fed set down his cigar long enough to take a swig of coffee. His face puckered in distaste, and he shot Kurtzman a dirty look. The computer genius just shrugged and studied at the contents of his coffee mug.

      Brognola continued, “Most of Garrison’s money comes from black budgets. Or it uses its proceeds to pay for operations. Traditionally, most of what it made, it sold back to us or other allied governments. So the few politicians who knew about it, ignored it. The thinking behind it is that it allows us to have more control over the weapons we make and buy and it’s a source that, at least ostensibly, has our best interests at heart.”

      “Plus it helps folks sidestep congressional scrutiny when budget time comes,” Bolan said.

      Brognola gave the soldier a weary smile. “We’ve both seen too much of Washington, haven’t we? Fortunately, most of what they sell to the bad guys is crap. And they sell them precious little of that.”

      He lifted his coffee cup about three-quarters of the way toward his mouth, paused and set it back on the table. Instead, he pulled out a roll of antacid pills and popped a couple into his mouth.

      “This wasn’t part of a sting operation,” the man from Justice stated. “We already ran all the necessary traps to make sure that that wasn’t the case. No one knew anything about these particular deals.”

      “And you believe that?” Bolan asked.

      Brognola shrugged. “My gut says they’re telling the truth. What we’re looking at here, in my opinion, is an operation that’s gone out of control. We can debate all day whether it was a good idea to begin with. But the reality is that it’s out of control and we need to pull the plug on the whole damn thing, fast.”

      “Explain,” Bolan said.

      Brognola tapped a key on his laptop. An image appeared on a wall screen. The image depicted a limousine, the door held open and a young Asian man in a dark business suit stepping from the vehicle. A pair of hardmen flanked him. Bolan could tell from the angle of the photo that it had been shot from above.

      Brognola let the soldier study the image for several seconds. With another keystroke, a close-up shot of the man in the middle filled the screen. A whitish scar ran from below the man’s shirt collar and up the left side of his neck, disappearing beneath his hairline. His black hair was long and pulled back into a tight ponytail.

      “Name’s Chiun,” Brognola said. “He’s triad. He’s a boss in Ciudad del Este, Paraguay. There are several Chinese gangs operating down there, but his group is the biggest. Runs all the usual stuff—prostitutes, protection, counterfeiting, drugs. Launders money for Hezbollah. Does the same thing in Hong Kong and Malaysia.”

      Bolan sipped his coffee. Ignoring the awful taste in his mouth, he studied the photo and committed it to memory.

      “He’s a real piece of work,” Brognola said, “but he’s smart and ambitious. He started out as an enforcer for the gang, now he runs it. Spilled lots of blood along the way to get to where he is. Other gangsters, illegal immigrants, police officers—doesn’t matter to him. Everyone’s just a speed bump while he races to the top. When he was an enforcer, that wild streak served him well. Sure, it pissed off a hell of a lot of people back in China, but it also got him where he wanted to go. At least for the moment.”

      “How does he fit in with all of this?” Bolan asked.

      Price took over, “He’s in tight with Chinese intelligence. Rumor has it that his ties with the government helped him get where he is. Three days before he took over his gang, the government stepped in and snapped up most of the leaders.”

      “Giving him a clear path,” Bolan said.

      “Exactly,” Price stated. “And he seems all-too willing to repay them for the help. A couple of our intelligence reports indicate that he and his people pull off work for the Chinese all the time. We know of several dissidents killed by his thugs. The victims had no ties to him, but had made enemies in the government.” She snapped her fingers. “Suddenly they end up shot on a street corner or stabbed in alley by one of his people. Chiun’s gang also has smuggled weapons for the Chinese and carried out some small-scale industrial espionage on their behalf, primarily through his own network.

      Brognola flashed another picture on the screen. This one showed another Asian man, his gray hair combed back from his forehead. He had a wide face with thick lips turned down in a deep scowl. Bolan saw that the decorated collar of a military tunic encircled the man’s thick neck.

      “Colonel Chi Pu Deng,” Price said. “He came up through the People’s Liberation Army, but has focused exclusively on espionage for at least fifteen years. According to some very good sources—one of them a friend of Hal’s who operates in Hong Kong—Deng and his surrogates have maintained regular contact with Chiun and his gang for years. There’s more information on him in the packet I gave you.” Price indicated a folder that sat on the table in front of Bolan. “But the consensus of people paid to know these things is that