Crucial Intercept. Don Pendleton

occurring in close succession in a major metropolitan area—that had tripped warning flags. There were no current reports of new terrorist threats from Asian fringe groups, Asian gangs, or even from within elements of nominally hostile governments such as China. Bolan’s jaw had tightened, at that. It had not been so long ago that he had found himself dealing with heavily armed and very hostile Chinese sleeper cells on American soil in Hawaii. The Chinese government had dismissed the attacks as the work of rogue elements in their military. A lot of people had died before it was over, and Bolan had no desire to see a repeat performance from yet another highly organized and disciplined gathering of “rogue” operatives trained and equipped in Communist China.

      When he had said as much, Price had dismissed it as unlikely. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert and the leader of the Farm’s cyber team, had found no indication of a coordinated terror effort. There was no communications traffic or Internet traffic to indicate it, and very little in the way of official government maneuvering. At least, there was nothing to which the Farm’s team could trace the violence. That was enough to satisfy Bolan on that score, at least for now, but it did leave the question of what was happening in Virginia—and he had said as much.

      “That,” Price had replied over the secure line, “we think we do know, at least in part. Bear and his people have been burning up the ether trying to get what surveillance data there was to be had. We’ve managed to extract security camera images from two locations. The first is from the Internet café, and the second is from the convenience store. Using image enhancement technology on the convenience store video footage, we’ve compared it to a fairly clear picture from the Web cameras in the computer lab. There’s a link, which I’m sending to your phone now.”

      Bolan had taken his phone from his ear to see the data transfer icon blinking. It did not take long for the image to load on his own small color screen. The picture itself was black-and-white, bearing the unmistakable pixel dithering of an image that has been put through the digital wringer to make it more clear. It was the face of a man with long, dark hair.

      “Who’s this?” Bolan asked, putting the phone back to his ear.

      “That,” Price said, “is Daniel Baldero. Thirty-years-old. Five-foot-ten, 270 pounds. Paid for college by joining the Air Force. Honorable discharge. Earned a couple of degrees in computer programming before he was finished going to school, in Newport News. Last address of record, according to the Virginia DMV, is Charlottesville, Virginia. Mr. Baldero can be, thanks to the footage we’ve used to identify him, positively placed at the scene of two out of three of those shootings.”

      “Doing what?”

      “Running for his life, from what we can see,” Price said.

      “So he’s not one of the shooters.”

      “No,” Price said. “And of course we can’t place him at the laundry shooting because there were no functioning cameras there. But as coincidences go—”

      “It’s a pretty big one,” Bolan agreed. “This Baldero is either the unluckiest man in Virginia, or something’s fishy and he’s involved.”

      “It gets more interesting,” Price said. “Mr. Baldero is a computer programmer and cryptographer by trade, formerly employed by the Central Intelligence Agency.”

      “Formerly,” Bolan repeated.

      “As of two weeks ago,” Price reported. “He resigned without explanation.”

      “Is he on the run?”

      “We checked, and they deny it,” Price had said. “Logically, there’s no reason he should be on the run, at least not from the CIA. They have no reason to chase him down. He’s just a former employee, as far as they’re concerned, and not one with any sort of contract to which they could hold him.”

      “But again, as coincidences go,” Bolan said.

      “It’s a pretty big one,” Price echoed. “The Man wants us on this, Striker, and Hal’s given us the green light.”

      “I’ll leave immediately,” Bolan said. “But I’m going to need transportation. The rental I’m driving hasn’t got the guts for a field operation.”

      “We’ve got a car on its way to you by courier,” Price said. “Hal’s made an arrangement with the CIA. You’ll get one from their motor pool.”

      “There’s that word again.” Bolan frowned at the phone. “I’m going to need weapons and equipment for an extended field operation.”

      “Already in the car and on the way to your door,” Price said. “Cowboy keeps a few specially prepared care packages ready and waiting for little emergencies like these.” John “Cowboy” Kissinger was the Farm’s armorer. He had personally tuned the Beretta 93-R machine pistol in the leather shoulder holster Bolan was strapping on, and he had custom-built the suppressor fitted to the weapon. He had also done an accuracy job on the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle that was Bolan’s other nearly constant companion, which he carried in a Kydex holster in his waistband on his right hip.

      “Then I’m not going to waste any more time talking,” Bolan said, watching headlights pan across the curtains of the motel room’s window. “Unless it’s another coincidence, the car is just arriving. Your timing is impeccable.”

      “We try,” Price said. “Oh, and be sure to check inside the trunk.” When she spoke again, her tone was warmer, but also more anxious. “Be careful, Striker.”

      “Always, Barb.”

      “Good hunting.”

      “Thanks. Striker out.” He closed the phone.

      The courier was at the door just as Bolan opened it—the man said not a word. He was dressed in slacks and a blazer and had about him what Bolan thought of as the “junior G-man” look. He nodded and tossed the keys to Bolan, which were for the Crown Victoria now idling in front of Bolan’s open motel-room door. Then he disappeared around the corner of the building.

      Bolan looked at the car, then back to where the courier had been. He shook his head slightly.

      There was work to do.

      THAT PHONE CALL had been one long, tiring drive ago on only half a night’s sleep, fueled by truck-stop coffee and a fast-food breakfast consumed at highway speed. Since then, the Executioner had tracked the increasingly violent outbreaks of gunfire from site to site in Virginia. The Farm relayed to him the location each time it happened, but Bolan knew as well as Price did that they would not get ahead of the shooters by playing a reactive game. They needed to get in front of the gunners, whoever they were.

      He had checked each site, the latest a motel in Williamsburg that had been blown half to hell. Yet again, there was no evidence of the shooters themselves. He had phoned in and reported as much. Price had promised that the follow-up field team, a covert Justice analysis unit protected by blacksuit gunners from Stony Man, would check for evidence he might have missed in his cursory inspection, as they had been doing behind him all night. They would also see if there were any local surveillance sources to be pulled for analysis. That didn’t concern Bolan, at least not immediately. He would be surprised if the tapes showed anything of use except to confirm Baldero’s presence. Intelligence on the shooters would be helpful, but even that wasn’t crucial at the moment. The only thing that mattered was getting out in front of the shooters, and that depended on the pattern analysis Stony Man had been working on.

      “Price here.”

      “Striker,” Bolan said. “Same story here.”

      “You’re still outside Williamsburg?”

      “Yes,” he said. “Your crew can move in on the motel. I saw a lot of shell casings but not much else. No sign of our boy, and nothing of use. Barb, you’ve got to get me in front of this. Has Bear run his pattern analysis?”

      “Got you right here, Striker.” Aaron Kurtzman’s voice came over the line. “I’m