System Corruption. Don Pendleton

      The roar of a passing diesel rig snapped him out of his immobility. Carella climbed out of the car and crossed to the diner. He went inside and chose an empty booth. He ordered coffee. Through the dusty window he could see his own car, beyond it the highway. He was expecting that big, black 4x4 to show up. He would watch it cruise alongside his car before the occupants stepped out and headed for the diner…

      “You want a top-up…oh, you haven’t even drunk that yet.”

      Carella glanced up at the waitress, who was standing by his table with the steaming coffeepot in her hand. She was attractive, and the smile on her face was genuine.

      “I’m okay,” he said.

      “Honey, you look like you got a load of trouble on your shoulders. Bad day at the office?”

      Carella managed a grin.

      “You could put it that way,” he said. “But I got it figured now. Hey, how about a piece of pie to go with the coffee.”

      The woman nodded and left.

      Perspective had returned. Carella knew what he was going to do. True, he was in deep. OTG was not going to walk away and forget him. And he was not about to let them get away with their deception. If he had put himself on the spot, he was damned if he was going to give up without a fight.

       1

      The ending could have been marked down as inevitable but for the intervention of one man.

      His name was Mack Bolan.

       The Executioner.

      It began for Bolan on a warm day at Arlington National Cemetery, watching with an old friend as a man buried his only son.

      It began with the shadow of betrayal hanging over the proceedings.

      With the taint of deceit and the cloak of a cover-up.

      It began out of despair. With the plea of a grieving father turning to the only man he knew who could— who would —help.

      Bolan, dressed soberly in black, stood a distance away from the main group, as Hal Brognola consoled his friend. That was the only incentive Bolan needed.

      Colonel Dane Nelson was the reason for his attendance. It would have taken a miracle of denial to have kept Brognola away, and especially so on such a tragic occasion. Bolan was here for his friend. Dane Nelson was here because he was saying goodbye to his son. The military funeral was in respect for a young man who had served his country with distinction. Brognola, Bolan, Nelson and his son were all linked by an unbreakable bond that needed little verbal expression.

      Nelson’s request had reached Bolan via Brognola through a telephone call filtered through various links until it registered on the unlisted cell he carried. Mack Bolan had a small list of people he regarded as friends in an increasingly hostile world. His life cast him as a transient figure, moving in and out of the shadows, waging his unending war against those who regarded the world as their personal playground on which to act out their evil. Bolan never bemoaned his self-appointed status. He considered himself a fortunate individual, able to strike out against the injustice that plagued so many. They were in no position to fight back. The Executioner acted on their behalf. It cast him as a loner, having to stand aside from normality , so any connections he had with his small gathering of real friends were cherished.

      Nelson’s request had been, true to the man’s nature, brief and succinct. He gave the date and location of the funeral, asked Brognola to attend, adding that he had something to discuss that wouldn’t keep. Brognola, in his role as Director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group, had his suspicions about what his old friend wanted to discuss.

      So Bolan was here, waiting in respectful silence as the crack of the honor guards’ rifles brought a reminder that while he no longer wore the uniform of his country, he still affirmed his legacy toward its military. He had worn his own uniform with pride, had fulfilled his term and still felt the loss when he was aware of any American who died for the cause. He’d seen pictures of Nelson’s son, Francis, over the years. Brognola told stories of the young man who was a carbon copy of his father. The last time had been just after Francis had donned the uniform. Nothing had been said but Bolan had seen the quiet pride in Brognola’s eyes as he spoke of the young soldier heading out on his first deployment.

      Now they were here, watching the boy being buried, and Bolan knew that the father would carry more than just grief in his heart.

      Bolan stayed where he was until Brognola and Nelson were alone at the graveside. Nelson’s head bowed, his broad shoulders starting to sag a little. The Executioner walked across the green lawn and joined them, taking his own silent moment to offer his thoughts.

      “Thanks for coming,” Nelson said. “Francis would have liked it that you were here,” he said to Brognola.

      “Goodbye, Francis. I’ll keep watch over you,” Nelson said. He reached out to lay a hand on Brognola’s shoulder. “We need to talk, Hal. I need your help.” He looked at Bolan, who simply nodded.

      As they walked the peaceful ground, surrounded by the silence that lay over America’s fallen, Nelson pushed himself erect again. He was as tall as Bolan. Older. In full dress uniform, displaying the campaign ribbons and medals he had won over the years, Dane Nelson was an imposing figure. Still lean and fit, only the graying hair and the faint pattern of lines in his face betrayed his age. Bolan had noticed the lack of shine in his eyes. The death of his son had sucked out some of his pride.

      “I need your help,” Nelson repeated.

      “Just ask, Colonel,” Bolan said.

      “No rank here. Just old friends.” The voice faltered a little as he smiled sadly at Brognola. Then Nelson sharpened his tone. “They killed him. He was murdered, Hal. I know it.” Nelson paused, checking Bolan’s expression. “No questions?”

      “I never doubted your word in the past. No reason to start now. What happened?” Brognola asked.

      “Francis was investigating some kind of fraud that originated from the Ordstrom Tactical Group. You’ve heard of it?”

      “Big corporation, heavily into military ordnance. Jacob Ordstrom is the president. Word is he has the ear of the main people in politics and the military,” the big Fed replied.

      “OTG manufactures everything from flak jackets up to armored vehicles. Ordstrom is a heavy hitter. His eye is fixed on the dollar signs in every contract he gains. Met him once, years ago, and I didn’t like him then. Something about the man that made my skin crawl.”

      “You always were a good judge of character, Dane,” Brognola said.

      Nelson’s brief smile had a bitter twist.

      They moved across the carefully tended lawns. Nelson seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bolan and Brognola allowed him his silence until Nelson was ready to speak.

      “A few weeks ago Francis was contacted by a friend. Cal Ryan. They had known each other for a number of years. Ryan is a respected journalist. An astute reporter. A smart man. After Francis spoke to Ryan he called me, said we needed to meet. When we did he told me Ryan had discovered anomalies within OTG design specifications. Test results had been doctored and ordnance put into production. Ryan made the first discoveries and began to look deeper. There were similar flaws in other items. When he checked them out he realized that OTG was falsifying test results and putting these specs into production. It appeared that by doing this OTG was saving millions on production and development costs, enabling them to complete contracts well ahead of time.”

      “Wasn’t Ordstrom already making enough money?” Brognola asked.

      “Ryan told Francis that OTG had gone through a lean patch. Ordstrom needed to keep his cash flow going, so the shortcuts were activated. Ryan made more discreet investigations and found the company was maintaining the deception even after their finances evened out.”

      “Ordstrom