Decision Point. Don Pendleton

too much. It wasn’t his first time inside the White House and given his line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last time. Still, it was an impressive landmark and the source of many of the missions he’d undertaken over the years. He wasn’t inside the building often, but he’d had more than the tourist tour. That said, he was a bit surprised when he was led down a short hallway to an elevator. He knew where they were headed, but asked anyway.

       “Where are we going?” he asked the agent.

       “To the bunker, sir,” he said, punching a code into the panel next to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped inside. Bolan followed him, and as the doors shut, he noted that there was no panel or buttons indicating different floors. Instead, there was a keypad and a small, rectangular scanner.

       The agent punched in another code, then stepped forward. A brief flare of light passed over his eyes, conducting a retinal scan. Finally a tone sounded, then an unseen voice said, “Voice authentication protocol.”

       “Agent Reilly Summers,” he said.

       “Voice authentication accepted,” the system responded. “Destination?”

       “Bunker,” he replied.

       The elevator began moving quietly down. Impressed at the security, Bolan kept quiet. It took less than a minute for them to descend to their destination and then the elevator doors chimed once and opened. The agent stepped out and Bolan followed.

       “This way, Colonel Stone,” he said, turning left and going down the hallway. He stopped outside a closed door. “Please go right in, sir. They’re expecting you.”

       “Thank you, Agent Summers,” he said. He opened the door and stepped inside, then paused in genuine surprise. Seated at the conference table was Hal Brognola and past President of the United States Jefferson Daniels. Seated next to Daniels was a woman Bolan didn’t recognize, but who he assumed was his personal secretary or, perhaps more likely, his Secret Service agent.

       “Mr. President,” he said, entering the room and offering a salute, which Daniels returned. “Hal, it’s good to see you again.”

       “Thanks for coming,” Brognola replied. “Mr. President, you know who this is. Colonel Brandon Stone.”

       “Colonel Stone,” President Daniels said. “I appreciate you coming. I understand you were overseas when Hal got in touch.”

       “Yes, sir,” Bolan said. “But that’s hardly important. When Hal calls, I answer.”

       “Take a seat, Colonel,” Daniels said. “And Hal can bring you up to speed on the situation.”

       Bolan sat and looked questioningly at Brognola. The very fact that they were meeting inside the White House—in the secure bunker, no less—meant that whatever was going on had already been sanctioned by the current President. Most likely, this was deemed the most secure location for President Daniels to have a meeting with someone like Brognola. Too many questions would have been asked if they’d tried to do it at the Pentagon.

       Daniels didn’t speak and didn’t look at Bolan, his eyes focused on a problem that wasn’t in that room. As President, he had been known to be principled and unwavering. There were many who liked him, but once his mind was made up there was little that could be done to change his position. His complete support of the military was widely known, but his tunnel vision had caused problems, as well. Whatever this problem was, weighed on him. He looked tired. The salt-and-pepper hair that he’d sported as President was now almost completely gray, and the lines in his face were that of a worn battle commander.

       “Okay, Hal, let’s have it,” Bolan said.

       “On the surface, the situation is fairly simple. President Daniels’s daughter, Heather, has been kidnapped in the Bay of Bengal. They’re demanding a twenty-five-million-dollar ransom within ten days, or they say they’ll kill her,” he said. “The problem is that it isn’t that simple.”

       “Clarify, please,” Bolan replied. “While I admit that’s a large sum of money, they obviously know who she is.”

       “They do,” the big Fed said. “When President Daniels got the call, he contacted me. Fortunately, he recorded the call. We’ve got some audio people working on breaking it down completely right now. But what tipped me off that something was different was how they wanted the money.”

       “My understanding is that most pirating operations work on a cash-and-carry basis,” Bolan said. “Euros usually.”

       “They provided an account number and wanted the money to be wired,” Daniels said.

       “That is unusual,” Bolan said. “I assume you looked into it?”

       “We did,” Brognola said. “That’s when things began to get interesting. It’s not just a dummy account. It’s buried under five different holding corporations that we’ve found so far, not a one of them real.”

       Bolan considered this information for a moment. “These aren’t pirates,” he said. “They don’t have the kind of money or structure to set up something like that.”

       “Exactly,” Brognola said. “It’s got to be a terrorist organization of some kind, but we don’t know who yet.”

       It could be any one of a number of large organizations that operated in that part of the world, and—he couldn’t rule it out completely—it was possible, however unlikely, that it was simply a very evolved pirate operation. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mr. President,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but is it possible that they’ll release her if you do pay?”

       “That’s a fair question,” Daniels replied. “The short answer is that I can’t care about that.”

       “Sir?”

       “I think Hal’s right. This move smacks of a highly organized terrorist organization. I’m heartsick that they have Heather, and there’s not much I wouldn’t do to ensure her safe return. But this isn’t just a question of negotiating with terrorists, Colonel. This would be funding them. And twenty-five million dollars in that part of the world might make them all but unstoppable. They could take over an entire region or buy arms and equipment that we don’t want those kinds of people to have.” His voice was hoarse and tired, and he shook his head. “I can’t pay them, Colonel. That’s where you come in.”

       “You want me to go and get her,” Bolan said.

       “That’s part of the mission,” Brognola said, “but, with all due respect to President Daniels, it’s just as important that we figure out who these people are and put a stop to them. If we don’t, the precedent could make every high-ranking politician’s family in the world a potential target for this kind of activity. Right now, the illusion of security and the threat of extreme violence is a powerful shield. If we fail, that illusion goes away in a hurry.”

       “Understood,” Bolan said. “I’ll need all the intelligence you’ve gathered so far, and then I’ll get started on finding a solid lead.”

       “When will you leave for the region?” Daniels asked.

       “When I know where I’m going, sir,” Bolan replied. “It doesn’t do us any good to thrash about blindly over there. It’s a highly corrupt area and we’d be spotted before we could do your daughter or the country any real good.”

       “I don’t like it,” he admitted, “but I don’t have to.” He turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him. “Colonel Stone, I’d like you to meet Michelle Peterson. She’s part of my Secret Service detail these days, but she worked with both CIA and NSA before that. I’d like her to join in your investigation and your mission as my personal representative.”

       Bolan caught Brognola’s warning look, though it had been unnecessary. His old friend knew that he far preferred to work alone. “Mr. President,” he said, once more choosing his words with caution, “you know that I’ve been