Lethal Compound. Don Pendleton

hide the Browning 9 mm automatic or the thirteen-inch khukri dagger he wore on his belt.

      Eckhart had hired himself a Gurkha from Gurkha Security Limited.

      The man missed nothing. His brows bunched with obvious concern as his charge walked past the window. It was clear the bodyguard had stopped trying to advise Eckhart on how to live to see another day. Instead the man had made himself Eckhart’s shadow. The bodyguard gazed out the window in passing and Bolan could almost feel the former British soldier searching for him in the dark.

      “Interesting,” Manning remarked.

      Phillip Eckhart was an interesting guy. He had grown up unremarkably in the San Luis Obispo area. Hunting and fishing had taken up most of his time to the detriment of most other things in his life. Two years of junior college had barely squeaked him into the California Polytechnical Institute, but once there he had excelled, graduating magna cum laude in computer science with a minor in archaeology, a subject that had remained a passion in his life. Eckhart had never invented anything. What he had excelled at was looking at something and figuring out a way to make it better. He’d started working in Silicon Valley for established companies. Eventually he started his own company, went public, sold it and was a millionaire at the age of thirty-five. He had taken the profits and started another company, and then another and another. Then he started buying other, well-established businesses and made them work better. Before long he was a billionaire. His umbrella company was Eckhart Endeavors. Through that he looked around, found things that interested him and engaged in fascinating endeavors that made stupendous profits. Wall Street constantly held its breath waiting to see what he would do next.

      Now someone wanted him dead.

      Bolan didn’t find that surprising. One generally didn’t become a billionaire without making enemies. Often, vast numbers of them. The one strange caveat to the situation was that Phillip Eckhart was the only known billionaire on the planet who also happened to be a genuinely nice guy.

      The President of the United States was concerned by the threats to Eckhart’s life. Eckhart was a friend and an important campaign contributor. Nonetheless Eckhart had refused the security services of the FBI, the CIA and the Secret Service, saying he could take care of himself. But the President was troubled. So was the CIA. Was Eckhart just being his eccentric self or was he involved in something he wanted to hide? The president had consulted Hal Brognola, Director of the Justice Department’s Special Operations Group, who’d called in Bolan for a covert operation.

      Phillip Eckhart’s brain was a national treasure, and the country could not afford to lose him. Furthermore, if one of the wealthiest men on earth was really up to something ugly, the United States government needed to know about it. The men from Stony Man Farm had fanned out. Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman and his team had begun their computer wizardry, looking into Eckhart’s comings and goings while Bolan and Manning sat in a sweaty sniper-hide eating protein bars while the smell of roasted boar wafted up the hillside to torment them.

      Eckhart’s hired security wasn’t bad, but if Bolan and Manning could sneak up within rifle range so could someone else, and the Executioner knew he could take Eckhart anytime he wanted to.

      Manning spoke very quietly. A tiny LED was flashing on their security suite. “Motion, near Suspect One.”

      Bolan and Manning had spent the seventy-two hours before Eckhart arrived at the cabin mapping the valley and finding the best spots for an enemy to set up to kill Eckhart. They’d established a descending order of best possible points from which to launch an attack on the lodge. Bolan and Manning had rigged the sites with security. Suspect One was the prime spot in this neck of the woods for hunting billionaires. It gave a commanding view of the house and the grounds and was within five hundred yards, putting it well within range of a good rifle or a handheld rocket launcher. There was good cover and concealment and it offered several escape routes, one of which led to a glade that was wide enough to support a helicopter landing.

      “Confirm motion,” Bolan said.

      The pigs had been setting off the motion sensors regularly.

      “Motion confirmed on two sources.” Manning looked up with a grim smile. “Sensors are picking up significant metal readings.”

      Unless they had eaten a hunter and his gear the one thing the wild boars of California didn’t do was carry rifles, and something had tripped the motion sensors at Suspect One and was carrying a significant source of metal. Bolan took out his phone and pressed a preset number.

      The Executioner watched as Eckhart stopped by a window and pulled out his phone. The billionaire stared at his phone for long moments while it rang. When he was off hunting, fishing, sailing or mountain climbing his personal secretary took all his calls. This was his personal phone. Only the people closest to him had access to this number. But, with the help of Kurtzman, Mack Bolan did, too. He watched Eckhart continue to stare at his phone. The screen was giving Eckhart no caller ID. The Executioner figured it was 50/50 whether he responded.

      Eckhart suddenly flipped open the phone and answered brightly. “Eckhart!”

      Bolan spoke quietly. “Mr. Eckhart, listen carefully. I’d like you to step away from the window.”

      Eckhart’s face blanked for the barest instant and then he disappeared behind the three-foot beams of his log cabin mansion. “Who is this? What do you want?”

      “I’m extra security for you. An attempt is about to made on your life. I would like you to very quietly pull your security teams, your staff and your guests into the house. I believe the enemy will have snipers and possible support weapons. Out in the open your men will be cut to pieces,” the Executioner said.

      “I have a sharpshooter in the observatory up top. How about he counter-snipes?”

      Clearly Eckhart was thinking ahead but not far enough. “Pull him. The dome is a death trap. Your shooter will get one shot and then he’ll be killed. You should have deployed him in the hills,” Bolan said.

      “I never thought of that, I—”

      There was no time to debate tactics. “I gather you have a basement shelter that is fire and earthquake proof?”

      “Yeah…”

      “Get everyone in it,” Bolan said.

      “I’m not big on holing up. I’d rather keep my options flexible if I’m under attack,” Eckhart said.

      “I can’t tell you what to do, Mr. Eckhart, but I would suggest you at least pull into the interior of the house, and if you see shots on the hillside try to hold your fire. I’m going to try to take the gunmen out, now, and you might hit me or a buddy of mine.”

      “What if they get past you?”

      “The only way they’ll get past us is if we’re dead. At that point you’re free to do whatever you like.”

      Eckhart was silent for a moment. “Sounds fair to me. Good luck!” he said.

      “Thanks, and you.” Bolan put his communication headset in place. “Stay on the line.”

      “You got it. Keep me advised,” Eckhart replied.

      Manning was smiling. “For a billionaire, he sounds like an okay Joe,” he said.

      Bolan muted his mike. “Yeah, let’s keep the boy breathing.”

      Bolan and Manning pulled night-vision goggles down over their eyes and began their approach on Suspect One. The little redoubt had a pair of fallen trees that formed a natural berm, and between the two trunks there was ample room to aim a rifle from cover. At fifty yards Bolan and Manning each dropped to one knee. Two rifle barrels could be seen between the trunks.

      The barrels had hoop-shaped muzzle breaks as big around as beer cans.

      “Those are anti-materiel rifles,” Manning whispered. “And bigger than fifty caliber.”

      “Two heavy weapons, that’ll mean at least two spotters if not four. Make