Exit Code. Don Pendleton

difficult to convince her to help us,” Abdalrahman said.

      “She can be troublesome,” Shurish said, nodding.

      “Yes, she has already caused us many problems.”

      “If there is anyone to blame for Sadiq’s capture, it would be her and not me.”

      “I see. Did it escape notice that it was you who was supposed to keep her under control?”

      “I tried,” Shurish said in protest. “It never occurred to me that she and Fowler would actually discover our work inside Carnivore. I thought allowing her to go work with Fowler would serve as a distraction.”

      “That is the trouble, Shurish. You think too much and act too little. This is not proper for a soldier of the NIF.”

      “But as you have succinctly pointed out on numerous occasions, Colonel, I am not a soldier.”

      “Do not think yourself so clever as to be indispensable, Shurish,” Abdalrahman said. “Or so help me, I will cut off your head and grind you into meat for lions. Effective immediately, I am in charge of this operation.”

      “You have no authority to—”

      “I have every authority!” Abdalrahman could feel his face flush. “Weeks have gone by. Weeks! What have you done? Can you tell me that? Are our people in place? Has Lenzini finished his work? Are we ready to commence operations?”

      “I need Sadiq’s help.” There was almost a whining tone in Shurish’s voice. “You must free him.”

      “How? Can you tell me? Am I to commit my entire force to freeing him? My nephew is locked up in prison somewhere behind meters of barbed wire, concrete and iron. What would you propose I do? Do you think I’m so deluded that I envision myself just walking into this place and taking him from under their noses? He is guarded by well-armed and well-trained personnel, and I am quite certain the government has determined his value to us. They are no doubt subjecting him to horrors I cannot even imagine.”

      “Phah!” Shurish countered. “They are civilized in my country.”

      “Did I just hear you correctly?” Abdalrahman shouted.

      Shurish’s expression revealed he was thinking very carefully before giving an answer. “While I do not agree with my government, I was born here and that makes me an American. This is my country and my people.”

      “No, my friend,” Abdalrahman replied, forcing himself to stay calm. “You are mistaken. You chose to sell them out to us and for a very hefty price, as I recall. Because you realized that after our first major victory here you would never have the same chances as before. We are your country and your people, now, and this is something you should never forget. If you ever say anything like that again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

      Abdalrahman watched with satisfaction as Shurish squirmed in the seat of the luxury sedan before swallowing hard and nodding. He dropped his gaze, not choosing to look at the terrorist leader. Yes, Shurish was definitely proving himself to be a liability. He wouldn’t live forever. He was not loyal to the cause of the jihad, and that meant he couldn’t be trusted. But for the moment, Abdalrahman needed Shurish, which meant he’d have to tolerate him.

      Once the remainder of his forces had joined him and he’d rescued Sadiq and destroyed Cooper, then he would put an end to Shurish’s life. In the meantime, he had more important worries and challenges ahead of him. There would be plenty of time to kill Shurish later.

      “For now, we will await word from your men about Cooper,” Abdalrahman said, “although I am not confident the news will be good. If they fail to destroy Cooper, then I will deal with him personally. And then we will finish our business with the Americans.”

      5

      Boston, Massachusetts

      The home of Nicolas Lenzini was more fortress than residence. Not surprising, considering his enemies.

      As he rode up the long, winding drive to the main house, Bolan wondered how they could have gathered so little intelligence on Lenzini over the years. He was both an ominous and infamous figure in the underworld who happened to enjoy quite a bit of time in the public eye, and yet the government had seemed almost inept at bringing him down.

      Bolan couldn’t criticize them too much. They had to operate within constraints he didn’t, follow rules put into place by judges and politicians on Lenzini’s payroll, and wade through bureaucratic red tape. They had to have approval for their undercover ops, many times by people who golfed with Lenzini or rubbed elbows in the same social circles. Well, the Executioner didn’t have to do any of that, and it was time to bring the numbers king to his knees.

      As Bolan got out of the car, he took a quick count of the guards and their positions. Given the size of the grounds, there was no way his initial numbers could represent the entire complement. The guards that weren’t visible posed the real threat to him, and given his present count, he believed there were probably quite a few who fell into that category.

      “Come on inside,” Serge Grano said, motioning for Bolan to follow him. “We’re late for our meeting with Mr. Lenzini.”

      Bolan followed Grano inside, ever conscious that Ape was right behind him and watching his every move. At first they had seemed friendly enough, but as they’d approached Lenzini’s estate, he’d noticed a shift in their attitudes toward him. Perhaps they hadn’t completely bought his story about the cop who’d followed him, or maybe they were beginning to feel like he’d brought them some unwanted heat. Either way, something had definitely changed and the Executioner knew he was going to have to keep close tabs on the environment.

      They seated him in a large, spacious office, and then Grano held out his hand. “Turn it over.”

      “What?” Bolan asked, feigning confusion.

      “Your piece. Nobody does one-on-one with the old man armed. Not even me.”

      “Oh.” The Executioner looked at Grano for a second, making sure to hesitate and show distrust, but then he finally conceded and handed over the Beretta.

      “You carrying backup?”

      Bolan shook his head.

      “Start,” Grano said simply, and then he left.

      Bolan occupied his time by pulling a small rubber ball from his pocket and squeezing it. It would look like a nervous habit to any spectators, and Bolan was pretty sure he was under scrutiny by hidden cameras. What observers wouldn’t know was that it was also therapy for the arm wound he’d sustained while battling the NIF. Those kinds of details had been left out of his role as Frank Lambretta.

      A panel in the wall suddenly slid aside and a man in a motorized wheelchair rolled through the opening. His hair was white, and his face wrinkled and marked by all of the signs of age combined with disease. This was definitely not the man Bolan had expected to see.

      “Good morning, Frankie,” the man greeted him cheerily, coming to a stop behind a large cherrywood desk.

      Bolan nodded. “I’m, uh—I’m supposed to be meeting Nicolas Lenzini.”

      “So you are,” the man said.

      “Yeah. So who are you?”

      “Nicolas Lenzini,” the man replied.

      Bolan shook his head. “No way, pal. This is some kind of joke, right? Like a test of some kind.”

      The man’s laugh was really a cackle, which seemed witch-like under the circumstances. “Oh, I assure you this is no joke, Frankie.”

      “My name’s Frank,” Bolan said.

      “Your name’s what I say it is!” the guy replied. “And I can assure you, I am Nicolas Lenzini. You want to know how I can prove I am?”

      Bolan