Justice Run. Don Pendleton

in front of the building. In the center of the pool stood a statue of a woman dressed in flowing robes, a pitcher gripped in both hands. Water spurted from a hole in the pitcher and arced into the pool.

      After a few seconds Bolan spotted three more guards moving in a ragged line in his direction. He shot Turrin a look. With a nod the little Fed acknowledged that he saw them. One of the towering oak trees stood several yards away. Bolan gestured for Turrin to circle it and catch the guards from the side while Bolan moved head-on at them. He nodded once to signal his understanding and headed toward the trees.

      Bolan had returned the dart pistol to his combat bag. A group of halogen outdoor lights bathed the yard in white light. The lights had caused the trees’ canopies of leaves to cast fairly big shadows over the sprawling lawn, which provided them with additional cover.

      The soldier knelt and brought the MP-5 to his shoulder. He flicked his gaze to the right and could see Turrin’s shadow melt into a nearby tree. The man’s location would position him within a couple dozen yards of the approaching hardmen.

      “You have a clear shot?” Bolan asked.

      “Yeah,” Turrin replied.

      “On three,” the soldier said.

      He whispered the three-count into his throat mike. When he reached the final number, he squeezed the trigger on the subgun. The volley of rounds sliced through the air between him and his targets as he dragged the SMG in a tight arc. At the same time, Turrin began firing the Beretta from Bolan’s right. The sustained volley tore through the guards, whipsawing them as both fighters unloaded their weapons.

      Within seconds all three guards lay on the ground, dead.

      Getting to his feet, Bolan ejected the H&K’s magazine, slammed a new one home and kept moving.

      * * *

      TWO DAYS EARLIER Bolan had walked into the War Room, part of the Stony Man Farm facility in Virginia, and taken in the activity buzzing around him.

      Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, was seated at the large briefing table. A stack of folders stood at his right elbow. One was fanned open and its contents—papers and photos—spread in front of him on the tabletop. His tie was pulled loose from his throat and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

      Barbara Price was seated next to Brognola, studying the contents of one of the folders.

      “There he is,” a voice called to his right.

      Bolan turned and saw his old friend, Jack Grimaldi, grinning at him. The pilot, his slim frame togged in olive-drab coveralls, stood at the coffeemaker, a carafe clutched in his right hand. The other two hadn’t noticed Bolan until Grimaldi spoke. They lifted their eyes from the files.

      Brognola greeted Bolan with a tight smile and a nod. “Striker,” he said, using Bolan’s code name.

      Price flashed Bolan a warm smile, the curve of her full lips telegraphing a hint of invitation. When the soldier stayed at the Farm, he often shared a bed with Price. Though they had mutual respect for each other, their physical relationship revolved around satisfying a mutual need and not a deeper emotional commitment.

      “Glad you’re back,” Price said.

      “But don’t unpack the toothbrush,” Brognola added. “We have a priority mission that’s cropped up. You don’t have to take it, but you’re the best option we have.”

      “No pressure,” Bolan said.

      “Your country needs you,” Grimaldi said. “But don’t let that sway you, you goldbricker. Let me pour you some coffee so you can relax.”

      “Did you ever think of becoming a military recruiter?” Bolan asked.

      He looked at Brognola and nodded at the color photo the man held. “So, is she the problem?”

      “Yes,” Brognola said, “and no.”

      “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bolan replied.

      Brognola grinned. “What I mean is, she’s the reason you’re here. But she’s one of the good ones. Jennifer Rodriguez has been with the FBI for a decade. Lots of arrests. She worked counterintelligence for a long time. More recently, though, the Bureau put her undercover tracking weapons dealers. Does a damn good job of it, too, from what I can tell.” Brognola paused and sipped at his coffee. “Unfortunately we lost track of her a couple of days ago. She was supposed to check in with her handler. She didn’t make the contact. By itself that’s not a big deal. They had a backup time in place, just in case she got waylaid. But that time came and went—”

      “And still no word from Rodriguez,” Bolan said.

      “Right.”

      “Where was she?”

      “Monaco,” Price said.

      “Because?”

      “She was tracking someone for the Bureau,” Price told him. “Ever hear of Jacques Dumond?”

      Bolan thought about it for a few seconds before the name clicked with him.

      “Weapons dealer,” he said. “French.”

      “Right,” Price said. “He’s got a pretty impressive record. Sells a lot of weapons in the Middle East and Asia. His semiofficial client list includes North Korea, Iran and Venezuela. The non-state groups include Hezbollah as well as a couple of minor al Qaeda-inspired groups.”

      Brognola leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Obviously we’re interested in all those clients,” the big Fed said. “With the large countries, it was at least a little easier to track the purchases. Not easy, but easier. Plus, those countries are a little more cautious about how they use those weapons.”

      “A little,” Bolan agreed.

      “But the radical Islamist groups? The U.S. had almost no information about Dumond’s transactions with them. We knew he was selling weapons. But what types of weapons was he selling them? In what quantities? We had no idea. You can imagine how happy that made us.”

      “And Rodriguez was checking into this.”

      “Right,” Brognola replied. “It was supposed to be low-impact. She wasn’t supposed to infiltrate too deeply. She was supposed to set up a couple of purchases, make a few contacts, pass along what she found and move on. The FBI set up a front company for her a few years ago to give her cover for some of her activities. It’s really just a shell. But it gives her some kind of base to use when she knocks on doors.”

      Crossing his arms over his chest, Bolan leaned back in his chair. Grimaldi slid into the seat next to him.

      Brognola continued. “A lot of the work she does is monitoring the sales of high-tech weapons and large military weapons systems. Since she was involved in counterintelligence, she’s usually looking for Americans who are selling bad stuff to other countries or terrorist organizations.”

      “But,” Price interjected, “Dumond likes the ladies, so the U.S. figured it might be good to have a pretty woman with lots of cash knocking on Dumond’s door. He might be a little more receptive. And it never hurts to cloud a target’s judgment with a little sex.”

      “A French guy’s who’s also a skirt chaser?” Grimaldi said. “What are the odds of that?”

      “Did she learn anything?” Bolan asked.

      Brognola shook his head slowly. “We don’t know for sure, but considering how little time she was there, it’s highly unlikely.”

      “We think Dumond had made her as an FBI agent before she ever arrived. We’re not sure how he did that. She’s worked in deep-cover operations for years, under another name. It’s all in the dossier we gave you. But anything she knew, she had learned from existing FBI files.”

      “Maybe Dumond has a mole in the FBI,” Bolan said.

      Brognola,