Cold War Reprise. Don Pendleton

for London’s Russian immigrant crime problem.”

      “Hal won’t be particularly pleased with you hitting up old contacts. You’re not supposed to exist, Striker,” Kurtzman warned.

      “Then don’t tell Hal. I’ve been around the globe hundreds of times. The folks I’ve met are the same people who make me seem almost omniscient,” Bolan said. “Computer hacking and satellite photography aren’t the only ways for someone to gather information.”

      “What about your prisoner?” Kurtzman asked. “Is he doing any talking?”

      “Only if Hell has its own version of Saint Peter as a receptionist,” Bolan replied. “He bit down on a cyanide capsule.”

      “That’s old-school,” Kurtzman commented. “Haven’t seen a Russian bite down on one of those in ages.”

      “He woke up as my prisoner, wrists tied. Plus, we were in a dark garage,” Bolan pointed out. “He probably thought I was going to hook his nipples or testicles up to a live battery.”

      “Water boarding is the new vogue,” Kurtzman said. “Less painful and less chance of death.”

      “Neither way is my style,” Bolan countered. “But how was he to know that?”

      “Truth told,” Kurtzman said. “The Russian defense records are a garbled mess. I doubt the programmers have even heard of indexing software. That even presumes all of those fingerprints are stored electronically and not in metal filing cabinets.”

      “What about IAFIS and Interpol?” Bolan asked.

      “Scan’s still running,” Kurtzman replied. “This is real life. These checks don’t happen as quickly as a commercial break, Striker.”

      “Give me a call on my PDA, then. I’ve got people to run down,” Bolan said.

      “Keep your powder dry, Striker,” Kurtzman said, logging off.

      Bolan went to the car and took out his standard concealed carry harness, replacing the Storm with his familiar Beretta 93R machine pistol and the rifle-accurate and powerful .44 Magnum Desert Edge. With a death squad on the loose in the streets of London, informed of his interference, the Executioner knew that it was time to load up for bear.

      In this particular case, the ursine was a breed Bolan had hunted before, a ghost species he’d hoped had disappeared with the fall of the Berlin Wall.

      Unfortunately, the Soviet Bear was still a living, vital threat, and its predatory hunger had claimed the lives of two of Bolan’s old allies.

      Hunting season was on again.

      T HE LADY DETECTIVE was still pretty, Bolan reflected as he folded his tall frame into the passenger seat of the compact car she’d driven to the rendezvous.

      “Gunfight at night, then you ring me up. There’s got to be a better way to arrange a date with me,” she said.

      Bolan smiled. “I missed you, too, detective. How’s your partner?”

      “Back at the station. Care to mention anything about the bodies you piled up?” the detective inquired.

      “Russian speakers. Well-armed and coordinated,” Bolan said. “They were skilled, too.”

      The detective shrugged, brushing back her golden hair. “Not skilled enough. You’re alive.”

      “They hit their intended target,” Bolan confessed. “Vitaly Alexandronin.”

      “Familiar name. I didn’t catch that particular case, but his wife was a reporter who ended up beaten into a coma,” the lady cop replied. “Case ended up with dead ends, but it stunk like a pile of rotted fish.”

      “Vitaly told me he felt she was assassinated because she was snooping into Chechen refugees, picking up stories about the government’s crackdown on the rebels,” Bolan told her. “I didn’t leave too much behind, but you examine those guys. There might be links between them and Catherine.”

      “They took out the wife in a beating, but brought machine guns and rockets for the husband?” the detective asked. Her lips pursed in disbelief.

      “Vitaly was KGB and Russian Intelligence. He spent time doing all manner of dangerous things for his country before he offended the old guard,” Bolan explained.

      “That begins to make sense,” the cop said. She sighed. “I remember when I got involved in one of your operations. My sister ended up dead and we had to drop my partner off at an emergency room. I still feel the ache in my ribs when it gets rainy and cold.”

      “Rainy and cold in London? Ever think of moving to Jamaica?” Bolan asked.

      “Sure, and then you show up down there hunting heroin smugglers, and zombie lords pop out of the woodwork,” the detective mused out loud. “Running afoul of Bloody Jack was enough horror movie for one lifetime, thank you.”

      Bolan shrugged. “Is the coroner still our old friend from that case?”

      “No, he retired,” the lady cop confessed. “It’d be a new guy who might actually be fooled by your identification.”

      “Is he skilled, though? I’d hate to run a wild-goose chase because I couldn’t get the right info from forensics,” Bolan replied.

      “Metro Homicide’s medical examiners aren’t complete primates in comparison to your flashy American crime solvers,” the woman quipped. She took a deep breath, looking out the windshield at the alley they were parked in. “I’m sorry I exploded all over you that night, Cooper.”

      Bolan rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know exactly how you felt. Remember, I had my sister murdered, as well.”

      “Do you need any hands-on help with this?” she asked.

      Bolan shook his head. “I don’t have any support on this one. It’s a personal mission.”

      “So then you do need an extra gun hand,” she offered.

      “I appreciate it, but I’ve seen enough friends die in the past few hours. The next time I blow through London, I promise if it’s a quiet trip…”

      “We’ll have tea together?” the detective asked. She drew Bolan in for a tight hug. She felt the bulk of Bolan’s gun under his jacket. “Your life never works out that way, Cooper. Even if you do make it back here, you won’t have quiet time to spare.”

      Bolan nodded. “True. Just take care of yourself, Mel.”

      “I’d say the same for you, but…” She handed a small notebook to the warrior. “This is everything our Russian mob expert had on the local families. Might want to check out the Borscht Bolt. It’s a restaurant-turned-club for the Slavic set.”

      Bolan smiled. “This won’t get back to your superiors?”

      “After our last dance through this town, I’m bulletproof.” She started the car as Bolan climbed out.

      She sighed. “Don’t make too much of a mess for me, Cooper.”

      Bolan waved to the woman as she drove off. She was one hell of a good cop. He wished her safe travels until they met again.

      T HE E XECUTIONER PULLED UP to the London Metropolitan Police Crime Laboratory and Forensic Science center. He secured his car and slipped his identification from his war bag. The badge identified him as Special Agent Matt Cooper of the FBI. Brognola would be put out to know that Kurtzman and Stony Man coordinator Barbara Price had set him up as being an interested party in the deaths of suspected Russian organized crime figures in London. His cover was that he was part of an Interopol task force tracking mafiya activity across Europe and the British Isles.

      There was indeed such a task force. Price meticulously kept abreast of major organized investigations around the globe, thanks to her liaisons with