Final Judgment. Don Pendleton

do to put a bullet in a Lantern activist, after mistaking him for one of Nitzche’s neo-Nazi HN goons. “Operational parameters?”

      “Save the hostages,” Brognola said.

      “And Nitzche?”

      “Your discretion. As long as he doesn’t remain at large, the Man will be satisfied. And so will I.”

      “You got it,” Bolan said.

      “Striker?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Good hunting,” the big Fed said.

      “Thanks.” Bolan had closed the connection, determined to get in position and get to work as soon as possible. Only moments later, he had heard the thrumming of rotor blades. That would be Jack Grimaldi and a helicopter.

      The helicopter was a gunship. A care package, bearing the modified M-16 rifle and Bolan’s war bag of munitions, had been aboard.

      Now, only hours later, the soldier’s boots were on the ground behind enemy-held territory.

      He checked his smartphone’s files, which Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, Barbara Price, had uploaded to his phone while he was in transit to D.C. The layout of the building was simple enough. The construction was very solid—concrete, stone, marble, and reinforcements where applicable. These walls would be more resistant to gunfire than many; a pistol bullet would travel through most interior walls and even some exterior ones in a traditionally framed building. Bolan knew, too, that the sound of his steps would be amplified. He moved carefully, heel to toe, his combat boots as quiet as he could make them on the marble floors.

      At the top of the stairwell he found the first claymore-style mine.

      It was a few generations removed from the old Vietnam-era claymores, but the device’s purpose was obvious enough. Written in German across the front of the mine were words that roughly translated to “front toward enemy.” Bolan had picked up enough foreign languages through the years that he could tell that much. The mine had an amber LED that blinked once per second.

      Bolan shrugged, reached down and turned it around to face the other way.

      He moved to the side of the metal fire door, pressed himself against the wall and rapped quietly on the reinforced glass window. “Help!” he said quietly, hoping he was still loud enough to be heard on the other side. “I’ve cut myself! I think I’m bleeding out!”

      The response was almost immediate. Another man in camouflage fatigues pushed the door open. His hand was still on the door lever when Bolan reached out, locking his wrist between thumb and index finger. He pulled sharply.

      The surprised neo-Nazi had no time to cry out, no time to resist. He made a strange grunting cry as his brain tried to process his sudden freefall through space. Then he landed on his neck in the stairwell below. There was a sickening crunch as vertebrae snapped. The rattle of air escaping his lungs was paced by his evacuating bowels.

      Bolan scanned the corpse but saw no weapon. He was holding the door open to prevent it from slamming back into place, where it would lock once more. Sticking his head through the opening, he saw another Kalashnikov leaning upright against the wall.

      Amateurs, Bolan thought. He gave this weapon the same disassembly treatment he had given the previous one, separating the bolt from the assault rifle and tossing the component onto the corpse of the rifle’s former owner. He left the weapon itself at the top of the stairwell, behind the door, where it couldn’t be seen by casual observers from the other side.

      There were two more claymore-style mines here. He picked them up, checked them, and simply flicked the switches on their electronic detonators. The amber LEDs switched off. He tucked the mines into his war bag.

      Moving smoothly down the hall, checking the floor plan on his phone, Bolan caught a glimpse of movement around the corner of the corridor ahead. He ducked into an alcove that housed a trio of pay phones and a water fountain. Waiting, he heard footsteps. There were two men.

      “South stairwell,” one of them said. “I say again, south stairwell, this is Rover Two. Come in.”

      Bolan knew the stairwell where he’d made his entry faced south. No doubt these HN thugs were checking on their sentry posts—and getting no response from the pair Bolan had just sent to whatever hate-drenched Valhalla these neo-Nazis thought awaited them. When there was no response, the pair would raise an alarm. Bolan’s element of surprise would evaporate.

      Well, he’d known that would happen.

      Quietly, the soldier popped the retaining snap on his leather shoulder holster, covering the sound with the flesh of his thumb. The Beretta 93-R machine pistol filled his hand as if custom molded to it. He flicked the selector switch to Single as the snout of the attached suppressor cleared leather. There would be a time and place for his own assault rifle, suspended from his harness on its single-point sling, but right now, he wanted quiet.

      Bolan leaned out of the alcove as the pair of neo-Nazi terrorists walked past his position. They were perhaps two yards away when he extended the Beretta, lined up his sights on the head of the man with the walkie-talkie and squeezed the trigger.

      The two-way radio was soaked in blood when it hit the marble floor. The corpse stood for the briefest of moments before its knees gave way and it toppled. The other sentry, whose AK was slung over his shoulder, slowly turned. The side of his face was speckled crimson.

      “Call out and you’re dead,” Bolan warned. “Put the rifle on the floor.”

      “You shot him from behind,” the man hissed. Shock and rage twisted his face. His eyes were wide and bloodshot.

      “Does that offend your sense of honor?” Bolan asked quietly. “A terrorist holding innocent people hostage, desperate to free an old hatemonger with the torture and death of countless innocent people on his hands? You’re upset that I didn’t follow the rules?”

      “Coward,” the sentry said. His hand started to creep across his chest. He was going to try for the rifle. “Race traitor.”

      “You know what I hate most about neo-Nazis?” Bolan asked, his voice calm, just the barest hint above a whisper. “You’re always convinced you’re the smartest people in the room. You think you’ve got it all figured out, and anybody who doesn’t agree with your hateful simpleton’s logic must be a sellout to the bogeymen you fear.”

      “Zionist Jew-lover—” the neo-Nazi started to shout.

      “Shut up,” Bolan said, and shot him in the throat.

      The sentry hit the marble. His hands went to his throat. Trying and failing to stem the flow from the wound that had choked off his words, he stared up at Bolan, then bled out.

      Chapter 2

      Bolan made more than one circuit of the middle level of the courthouse, which opened onto a stairwell leading down to the main gallery, the doors of which were closed and chained from the outside. Four armed, camouflage-clad sentries stood with Kalashnikovs at the ready at the bottom of the semicircular stairs.

      Within, Nitzche and the rest of his HN gunmen—those not detailed to secure the structure itself—would be passing the time however it suited them. Even through the thick walls of the courthouse, Bolan could hear the bullhorn-amplified shouts of hostage negotiators coming from behind the police cordon. Brognola and the Farm had provided a comprehensive report outlining what was known of the initial terrorist capture of the building. It showed an above-average level of military awareness that was reflected in the sentries’ cross-patrol communication.

      Bolan had no respect for neo-Nazis, but this bunch had more training than was usual, probably because Nitzche had been calling the shots while building the organization to serve him as a private army. That meant the danger they represented to Bolan, and the resistance they could offer, was correspondingly greater than other groups of white supremacists he had faced. Nitzche was, according to their files, a strong and