Justice Run. Don Pendleton

told him.

      “Did they crash the party?”

      “They” was the Farm’s cyber team, which had been working to hack into the computers that controlled Dumond’s lighting, security system and other critical infrastructure ever since Bolan and Turrin had left the United States.

      “Party crashed. Once we saw you stop outside the target, we set the outside surveillance cameras on a loop. If anyone’s monitoring the cameras, all they’ll see is the same empty street they saw three minutes ago.”

      “Which is fine,” Bolan said, “until they realize they’ve seen the same car or dog walker pass by eight times in the last couple of minutes.”

      “Guess you’ll have to move faster than they can think,” Price replied.

      “Are you getting any good intel otherwise?”

      “Satellites indicate four guys walking the grounds inside the wall,” Price said. “Two smaller animals, probably dogs, moving separately from them. That’s all in addition to the thugs at the gate. Looks like another moving around on the rooftop.”

      “Okay,” Bolan replied.

      He returned to the trunk and popped the lid again. Pulling aside a blanket, he revealed a rectangular box, covered in faux leather, which was about four inches thick.

      He opened the box and from its interior removed a CO2-powered dart pistol. Breaking the weapon open, he slid a tranquilizer dart into the barrel and snapped it closed. He slipped a smaller box filled with extra darts into his jacket pocket.”

      “Still won’t shoot dogs, huh?” Turrin asked.

      Bolan turned toward him and shook his head. “The dogs don’t know what they’re doing,” he said. “They just do as their told.”

      Turrin nodded his understanding. “You always did like your rules.”

      “It’s what separates me from Dumond,” Bolan said.

      “Yeah, that and his massive bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

      Bolan allowed himself a grin. “There’s that.”

      Shutting the trunk for a second time, the soldier slid the dart pistol into the duffel bag and moved toward the fence. If the cyber team had done its job, the motion detectors and other security devices should be disabled without actually registering on Dumond’s IT systems.

      They had considered shutting down the electricity remotely, but had decided against it.

      Dumond had to expect someone would come for the missing federal agent, even if he’d done his best to move her around. If they shut down electric power to the estate, it would alert Dumond that something was about to happen. His security teams probably would retreat to the house and form an iron ring around Dumond and Rodriguez, making them harder to reach. Besides, it was a safe bet the facility was outfitted with backup generators that would fire to life shortly after the power went out.

      Bolan figured it was better for them to take out as many of the exterior guards as quickly and quietly as possible. They still had surprise on their side, and the neighborhood around them had no idea of the mayhem about to erupt. The longer the Stony Man warriors could maintain their advantage, the better.

      Bolan scaled the wall. The muscles of his arms, shoulders and thighs bunched and released, starting to burn as he reached the top ledge and pulled himself onto it. He lay across the top of the wall, MP-5 clutched in his right fist, ice-blue eyes scanning for threats, while he waited for Turrin to finish his ascent.

      The little Fed reached the top of the wall, his breath coming in labored gasps, sweat pouring down his face.

      “Jesus,” he muttered.

      Bolan held up a finger to silence him, then jerked his head slightly to the left. Two of Dumond’s hardmen had fallen across his line of sight. The submachine-gun-wielding thugs were less than thirty yards from the Americans, walking a few yards apart from each other.

      Bolan raised himself onto his elbows, like a cobra lifting its head from the ground. He lined up a shot on the closer hardman.

      Turrin had filled his hand with his sound-suppressed Beretta and was maneuvering his body so he could put a shot into the second guard.

      The Executioner caressed the MP-5’s trigger. The weapon coughed out a burst. Bolan had tried to catch the guy in the chest. In the instant the soldier squeezed the trigger, the man turned. The bullets ripped into his right shoulder and lanced into his ribs, caused him to yelp in pain and shock. As he stumbled back, his partner spun toward the commotion and was searching for a target with the muzzle of his SMG. Before he could trigger his weapon, Turrin cut loose with a triburst. The Parabellum manglers ripped a ragged line across the guy’s chest. He stumbled back a couple of steps before falling to the ground in a boneless heap.

      Repositioning the grappling hook, Bolan dropped the rope down the wall. Letting the MP-5 fall loose on the strap, he gathered the rope in both hands and rappelled to the ground while Turrin covered him. When he touched down, the soldier dropped into a crouch and scanned the area for more attackers while Turrin made his way down the rope. Holding the MP-5 in his right hand, Bolan unzipped the duffel bag and withdrew the dart pistol. In the meantime, Turrin was kneeling next to one of the dead men. He plucked a bud from the dead man’s ear and, reaching under the guy’s coat, pulled the cord, tracing its length until he found the radio.

      Bolan watched as Turrin slipped the bud into his own ear and listened for several seconds.

      “They keep calling out names,” he said, speaking in a whisper. “I assume it’s these chuckleheads.”

      The soldier nodded and slowly rose into a crouch. As Turrin began to uncoil from the ground, Bolan looked just over his old friend’s shoulder and spotted a shadow emerging from a copse.

      Bolan’s hand snaked out and he struck Turrin in the right biceps. The impact knocked the man sideways. At the same time Bolan was able to aim the pistol’s barrel at the shape launching itself from the ground. He could see the German shepherd dog’s black face, jaws open, saliva-soaked fangs bared and gleaming as it hurtled toward him. The soldier triggered dart gun. The missile buried into the muscle of the animal’s shoulder. If the sting of the dart registered with the dog, it gave no outward signs. Bolan whipped to the side, the animal’s body hurtling past him, striking the ground, rolling once before springing up from the earth and turning back toward the humans.

      A growl escaping its throat, the animal raced toward the Stony Man warriors. It leaped at Bolan, who was closer. Its jaws snapped at empty air. The soldier shoved his forearm out, and the dog’s jaws clamped down on it. Bolts of pain radiated from Bolan’s forearm, but he ignored it. The force of the dog striking him hammered Bolan from his feet and knocked him onto his back. He felt the animal’s jaws loosen and by the time he hit the ground, the soldier was able to push the dog away with a hard shove. It wheeled back in his direction. Mouth open, it stared at Bolan, but its stance had grown unsteady and it seemed to stare at Bolan without focusing on him. Whimpering, its legs grew rubbery and it dropped to the ground, panting.

      Bolan turned away from the animal, certain it would be all right once the tranquilizer wore off. A quick scan of the sleeve of his windbreaker revealed torn fabric and punctured flesh, but nothing he couldn’t tolerate.

      Turrin gathered the dart pistol from the ground and handed it to the soldier. Bolan took the pistol, broke it open, slid another dart into the breech and snapped the weapon closed.

      “Bullets,” Turrin said. “Faster, more effective.”

      “No,” Bolan replied.

      “Figured as much.”

      The Executioner gestured in the direction of the house with his chin.

      “This way.”

      He brushed past Turrin and moved in a crouch toward the mansion. A long expanse of land, much of it covered by a well-manicured lawn, lay between