Hell Night. Don Pendleton

upon to create their own versions of September 11, 2001.

      Two more disparate terrorist groups could not be found on the face of the Earth.

      “You’ll excuse me, sir,” Bolan said, “if it takes me a few seconds to digest that thought.”

      “I thought you’d find it as hard to believe as I did,” the President said. “But I’m afraid it’s true.”

      “May I ask how you came upon this information?” the Executioner said.

      The President sighed. “The CIA got it first. They’ve had a mole inside Hamas for some time now.”

      “Can this intel be confirmed?” Bolan asked.

      “It’s confirmed,” the President said. “The FBI has a plant inside the Rough Riders. I just got off the phone with their director. The same story came from their informant.”

      Bolan felt his forehead furrowing. “These two groups have nothing in common upon which to base an alliance,” he said. “Except the downfall of freedom, democracy and the United States. Their ideologies couldn’t be more different.”

      “That seems to be enough for them,” the Man said. “At least for now.”

      “Let me play devil’s advocate for a moment if I might, sir,” Bolan said, still frowning. “Assuming they were successful in overthrowing the U.S. government. What do they plan to do then?”

      “I don’t know,” the President answered. “And according to the two snitches, neither do the Rough Riders or Hamas. But that doesn’t seem to bother them at this juncture. It appears that they’re willing to put their differences aside for the time being.”

      “They’d have to go to war with each other eventually,” the Executioner said.

      “Yes,” the Man said. “But like I said, they appear to have agreed to put that on the back burner in order to achieve their initial, common goal.”

      “Destroying us,” Bolan said.

      “Exactly,” the President affirmed.

      “What else do we know?” Bolan asked.

      “Not a lot,” the President said. “But both sources report that there’s a list of planned terrorist strikes.”

      Bolan stopped speaking as a white-clad man opened the door to the office and looked inside. Seeing no bodies on the floor, and the Executioner’s head shake, he closed the door again and disappeared. “How do we get hold of this list?”

      “That’s one of the things I’m hoping you can find out,” the Man said. “Neither the Hamas or Rough Rider informant is high enough up the food chain to have access to it, or know how to get to it. The Rough Rider infiltrator seems to know a little more. According to him, some of the strikes are to be carried out by Hamas, and others by the Rough Riders. But they also have some joint operations planned just to confuse police, militaries and governments around the world.”

      “Have you got a place for me to start?” Bolan asked the President.

      “The CIA’s informant heard that something’s about to go down at the American Embassy in Paris,” the President said. “But that’s all he knows. He’s got the where and who—Haas—but not the when or how.”

      “Tell me,” the Executioner said. “Am I going to have access to either or both informants?”

      “You’ll have access to both,” the Man said.

      “And what kind of turf-jealousy problems am I going to have to deal with out of the CIA and FBI?”

      “No more than the usual.” The President laughed softly. “I’ve ordered both directors to inform their men that you’ve got free rein. I took the liberty of giving them your Matt Cooper name. I hope that’s all right.’

      “That’s fine.”

      “Anyway,” the Man said. “If you need any help from the FBI or CIA, they’ve been ordered to give it to you. On the other hand, if you want them out of your way, they’re to make themselves scarce.”

      “With all due respect to both agencies,” the Executioner said, “I’d prefer the latter. At least for now.”

      “Then I’ll make two more phone calls as soon as we hang up,” the Man said. “One man from each agency can hook you up with the informants. Then they’ll disappear.” The President paused for a moment, then added, “But are you sure you don’t at least want one or two men to watch your back?”

      The bodies had been cleared out of the building by now, and the Executioner walked back out of the office into the lobby again. With the phone still pressed to his ear, he looked through the broken window once more.

      Tom Glasser was still in the parking lot, still glancing occasionally into the bank. The men around him appeared curious about his blacksuit. The stretchy, skintight material was nothing like the navy blue Battle Dress Uniforms they wore, and they were asking questions that Glasser looked like he was ignoring.

      “I’ve already got my back covered, Mr. President,” he said.

      Brognola had remained silent during the conversation because he’d had nothing to add to it. Now, he did. “You’re talking about the recent blacksuit graduate you’re with at the moment, Striker?” he asked Bolan.

      “I am,” the Executioner said. “He’s a good man, the training is still fresh in his mind and he’s just proved to me that he can cross that bridge from classroom to practical application.”

      “He’s covered, then, Mr. President,” Brognola said. “The blacksuit he’s talking about is with the Kansas City PD, and he graduated with honors at the top of his class. I can step back into my Justice Department role, make a call to Kansas City, get the man released for special assignment with us and then line him up with phony Department of Justice identification just in case it’s helpful.”

      “You do that, Hal,” the Man said. “And, Striker, you’ve got the direct number into the Oval Office, as well as the one in my living area. If you need anything else—day or night—give me a call.”

      “Will do, sir,” Bolan replied.

      “Then I guess that’s it,” the President said. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few other matters to attend to.” Without another word, he hung up.

      “You still there, Hal?” Bolan asked.

      “Still here, big guy.”

      “This really is one of the oddest arrangements I’ve ever been around,” the Executioner said. He felt himself shaking his head in awe. “Hamas and the Rough Riders. Who’d have figured on that one?”

      “It is odd,” Brognola said. “But it may turn out to be one of the deadliest combinations we’ve ever faced, too.” The Stony Man director paused for a moment, then said, “You want to know what pisses me off almost as much as the terror these groups inflict, Striker?”

      “Sure.”

      “The name these Nazi militants have taken,” Brognola said. “The Rough Riders.” He paused yet again to clear his throat. “Teddy Roosevelt was one of my favorite presidents.”

      “I suspect he’s rolling over in his grave right now, Hal. He’d be the first to shoot every Nazi or Hamas terrorist he saw.”

      “Bully,” Brognola said, using one of Roosevelt’s favorite expressions. Then he went almost straight into another. “Want some advice from old Teddy on this mission, Striker?”

      “Sure, Hal. Hit me with it.”

      “Walk softly,” Brognola quoted, then slightly altered the rest of Roosevelt’s other famous saying. “And carry your big gun.”

      The director of Stony Man Farm’s Sensitive Operations Group