Code Of Honor. Don Pendleton

of programs and folders with file names made of seemingly random alphanumeric characters. Bolan knew that these were codes. Brognola moved the cursor to one of those folders and double-tapped the laptop’s track pad.

      The folder contained several Portable Network Graphics files, also given coded alphanumeric file names.

      First, Brognola called up four of the images, which were all crime-scene photos of dead bodies, and arranged them on the screen so Bolan could see all four.

      There was a man with thinning brown hair lying against a rock in a grassy area, a woman with short steel-gray hair lying dead in a city street with a bullet wound in her back, an overweight man with his head literally blown off in a parking lot and a bald man with multiple stab wounds in his chest.

      “You’re looking at Albert Bethke, Michaela Grosso, Terrence Redmond and Richard Lang.”

      Bolan started at the third name. “Redmond’s been retired from the NSA for, what, ten years?”

      “Twelve. And that’s something he has in common with the other three. They’re all people with a history of covert ops, and they’re all retired. Bethke was one of the people who set up DHS after 9/11, and before that he was NSA and FBI. Grosso and Lang were both CIA. They were all killed over the course of the past week or so—assassinated by the Black Cross.”

      “You’re sure?”

      Brognola hesitated. “No. But the evidence points to it.”

      “The lack of evidence, you mean.”

      “Yes,” Brognola said reluctantly. “There’s virtually no evidence at any of the crime scenes. No hairs, no fibers, no fingerprints save those of the victims, no biological residue for DNA save those of the victims, no shell casings or bullets at the scene or in any of the bodies despite the presence of bullet wounds, and almost all the blood traces that aren’t compromised by liberal application of bleach are also the victims’.” Brognola called up several more files, which were also digital photos. “Any number of killings over the years have matched this total lack of evidence. The FBI has a file a mile long on these—I know, ’cause I’m the one who started it. Of course, some of those are your executions, but the ones that aren’t…”

      “The rumors about the Black Cross go back to my Army days,” Bolan said. “An elite group of assassins made up of the best of the best.”

      “I know. And I know that there’s nothing to support it.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, just because the theory fits the evidence—or lack of same—doesn’t mean it’s right. And we’ve got nothing solid, except for the fact that local police were completely stymied. They kicked it up to FBI, and they brought it to me.”

      Bolan scratched his chin thoughtfully. “When you referred to the evidence, you said ‘virtually’ and ‘almost.’ What’s different about these crime scenes from all the other ones you think are Black Cross?”

      Brognola actually smiled at that, pleased that Bolan noticed how carefully he’d chosen his words. “Not ‘these,’ just the one. Bethke was killed in the Mohonk woodlands in New York. Two distinct sets of blood evidence were bleached far away from Bethke’s body—but there were a few drops of blood that weren’t bleached, and didn’t belong to Bethke. DNA identifies it as belonging to a former sharpshooter in Baltimore City PD’s Quick Response Team named Bert Hanson. He retired after only nine years on the job and then fell off the grid.”

      “You think Black Cross recruited him?” Bolan asked.

      “Makes sense. If I was looking for assassins, the QRT would be on my list of possible recruiting sources. Hanson had been a model cop—several decorations, no bad notes in his jacket. And then, out of nowhere, he quits, no reason given, and he’s not been heard from since—until he bled on the ground at Mohonk.”

      “So what does that get us?”

      In response, Brognola double-tapped another graphics file, which called up the face of a walleyed man with a thick beard, a large nose and curly hair. “I did a little digging into Hanson’s departure from the BPD. This is somebody who met with him at BPD’s Western District headquarters shortly before he quit. They talked in an interrogation room. He signed in as a lawyer, so there’s no audio of their meeting, but the name he signed in with doesn’t match any lawyer in the Maryland State Bar Association. So I ran his face through the database and eventually got a hit.”

      Double-tapping on yet another file brought up another picture of the same man, but with the beard shaved off and thick-lensed glasses over the walleyes. “The only name we have for him is Galloway, and he’s been seen with a wide variety of dodgy personalities. Terrorists, arms dealers, assassins, you name it. But nobody’s ever been able to pin anything on him, or even find out his first name.”

      “You think he’s recruiting for the Black Cross?”

      Nodding, Brognola said, “Yes. And he’s a regular attendee of the Valley Forge Gun Show. He doesn’t have a booth, he just attends as a citizen. That show runs three or four times a year, and one of them is this weekend.”

      “Hence your rush?”

      “Yes. You think the Black Cross would be interested in gaining a new member?”

      Bolan took a sip of his coffee. “Only one way to find out.”

      “Good. We’ve already created a new identity for you.”

      Raising an eyebrow, the Executioner asked, “Why not simply use the Matt Cooper ID?”

      “He fits the profile, but this op risks burning that ID completely, and it’s too useful.” Brognola minimized all the files so the desktop was revealed once again, and this time he double-tapped another folder.

      Several files became visible in the window, and Brognola called up several of them. One had a recent picture of Bolan, with a caption that read Michael Burns. Another had a U.S. Marines dossier that revealed Burns was a rifleman who served in the first Gulf War, but was dishonorably discharged due to insubordination—specifically for killing a prisoner after being told to bring him in alive.

      “I see Bear’s been busy,” Bolan said, referring to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert.

      “I had a feeling you were going to say yes to this one, Striker.”

      “I know how important the Black Cross is to you, Hal.”

      Brognola waved him off. “I don’t care about that—I just want these people stopped.”

      “Redmond and the others served their country with honor and deserved a quiet retirement. I will take down whoever killed them.”

      Nodding, Brognola said, “Well, Michael Burns should be a good fit for them. He’s got the skills, and he was kicked out of the Marines for killing someone. He’s been working as a mercenary for a few years, but he’s had trouble finding work because he uses excessive force regardless of the circumstances.”

      “Just what a group that deals only in excessive force would be looking for.”

      “And Bear’s made sure that any background check will come up solid. Only one of his old COs in the Corps is still alive, and he’s a friend of mine, so he’ll vouch for ‘Burns.’”

      Peering at the screen, Bolan said, “He’s from Alabama?”

      “Yes. Tomorrow’s the last day of the gun show, so you can get a good night’s sleep, and you can head up to King of Prussia in the morning.”

      The Executioner stood up, shook Brognola’s hand, then headed out of the meeting room to get that shower the head of Stony Man had offered.

      While Bolan was still skeptical of the existence of the Black Cross, he also knew that, if they did exist, they needed to be shut down. For them to have been successful for so long spoke to an organization that was responsible for murder on a truly massive scale.

      Bolan intended