Patriot Strike. Don Pendleton

She took long, determined strides, an easy swing to her arms. She wore hand-tooled boots with sharply pointed toes, blue jeans, a denim shirt under a thigh-length suede jacket. The jacket was unbuttoned, granting easy access to a good-sized pistol on her right hip, worn in a high-rise holster.

      Here we go, he thought, standing his ground.

      * * *

      “YOU SEE ’IM?” Jackson blurted out.

      “We ain’t blind,” Haskin told him.

      “Let’s get after ’em,” said Bodine.

      “Not yet.”

      “Why the hell not?” Folsom challenged.

      “Look, we know it’s her and likely him, but I ain’t making no mistakes ’cause we got hasty.”

      “What, you think he’s just some random guy walkin’ around the Alamo?” asked Jackson.

      “Making sure don’t cost us nothin’ but a little time. And they ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

      “Oh, yeah? Suppose his wheels is back there and they just take off?”

      “We ain’t afoot,” Haskin reminded him. “And Kent didn’t put you in charge.”

      “Hey, I’m just sayin’—”

      “Shut your piehole, will ya? Lemme see what’s goin’ on.”

      “Yeah, yeah.”

      At times like this, Bryar Haskin wished he didn’t have to deal with idiots. They were useful, in their way, but Christ, their whining grated on his nerves.

      He watched the woman walk toward the man who had appeared as if from nowhere—meaning that he’d walked up somewhere from the south, maybe approached by way of Crockett Street. Whatever. He was here now, if it was him, and while Haskin had no serious concerns on that score, he was still determined to be sure before he made a move.

      It was interesting that the guy, whoever he was, made no attempt to meet the woman halfway. He hung close to the Alamo, ready to duck back out of sight and under cover at the first suggestion of a trap. A cagey bastard and corralling him could take some doing. Granted, Haskin had three men to back him, odds of two-to-one, but if the man and woman separated, and it turned into a foot chase, they were screwed. He didn’t plan to run around the Alamo all night, like some dumb cluck in one of The Three Stooges comedies.

      And what if someone started shooting? They’d have cops up the wazoo in nothing flat, the very last thing he needed on a job like this. He thought about the shit storm that would rain down on him if he got arrested, and it made his chili supper curdle in his stomach.

      Not a freakin’ chance.

      Haskin clutched his Ithaca 37 shotgun—the Deerslayer Police Special version—in hands that were suddenly sweaty. At first he had relished being in charge of this mission, taking it as a sign of advancement, but now he saw how it could blow up in his face. Spoil everything, in fact. And it would be his fault if anything went wrong.

      Across the parking lot, the lady Ranger was within twenty feet of Mr. X and closing in. They hadn’t started talking yet, as far as Haskin could tell, but he couldn’t swear to it. There’d likely be some kind of recognition signal, or a password, then they’d either start to do their business or the Ranger would bail out, if she discovered the guy wasn’t who she had come to meet.

      The odds of that were nil, but Haskin wasn’t taking any chances.

      Wait and see.

      Now they were close enough to speak without raising their voices, and he wished he’d brought a shotgun microphone to supplement the Ithaca. Something to let him eavesdrop for a little while before they rushed the couple, maybe pick up something useful for the chief, in case one or both of the targets went down for the count or was trained to resist interrogation. It would stand him in good stead, a little extra boost, but thinking of it now did Haskin no damned good at all.

      “We goin’ in or what?” Bodine asked.

      “Hang on a sec,” said Haskin.

      “But—”

      “You heard me!”

      “Jeez.”

      He knew that it was risky, waiting, but he had to do this right the first time. There would be no do-overs. Wishing he’d brought more men or spread the ones he had around the park with walkie-talkies, Haskin scowled into the night.

      “All right,” he said at last. “Hit it!”

      * * *

      “WHAT BRINGS YOU to the Alamo at night, mister?” the Ranger asked when she was twenty feet away.

      “Greetings from your uncles,” Bolan told her.

      “Uncles?”

      “Sam and Hal.”

      “That makes you...?”

      Knowing she had the name and nothing more, he told her, “Matthew Cooper.”

      “I’m Adlene Granger. Sergeant Granger.”

      “Right.”

      “You want to see ID?” She reached toward an inside jacket pocket.

      Bolan waved it off. “Been there, done that.”

      “So there’s a file on me?” she said, half smiling.

      “There’s a file on everyone.”

      “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, shifting gears.

      “Well, here I am.”

      “And you know what this is about?”

      “Not all. The basics,” Bolan answered. “I was told you’d fill me in.”

      “Right here?”

      “Your call,” Bolan said. “We can take a walk, a ride, whatever.”

      “You weren’t followed?”

      “No.” He’d spent some forty minutes driving aimlessly through San Antonio to guarantee it.

      “I guess this is as good as anyplace,” she said. “But maybe we could step out of the light.”

      As if on cue, a set of high beams blazed to life, pinning them where they stood. Bolan made out the hulking shape of what appeared to be a full-sized SUV, charging from its hiding place behind the screen of trees surrounding Alamo Plaza. It hadn’t trailed Granger’s Dodge, meaning it had been in place before the meet, its occupants apprised of when and where to strike.

      “You said—”

      “They didn’t follow me,” Bolan assured her, as his Glock cleared armpit leather.

      Adlene Granger drew her own sidearm, a Heckler & Koch HK45, and raised it in a firm two-handed grip. “I can’t believe I missed them, damn it!”

      “Who says you did?”

      “But—”

      “We should go,” he told her.

      “They’re between us and my ride,” she said.

      “Not mine,” he said. “Come on.”

      She almost seemed reluctant not to stay and fight it out, but turned and followed Bolan at a sprint, the SUV roaring across the parking lot behind them. The headlights tracked them until they cut around the rear end of the Alamo and ran into another line of trees.

      “What about my car?” she called to Bolan.

      “We’ll come back for it,” he said. Skipped the obvious, not adding, if we can.

      A twelve-gauge blast echoed out behind them, buckshot chipping the flagstone walk that had been laid around the old mission-cum-fortress.