Splinter Cell. Don Pendleton

shifted slightly in his seat. He had felt tension in the air aboard the 747 ever since boarding. He had sensed that something was wrong ever since the plane had left the runway. Who knows how he knew—he just did.

      The soldier leaned back against his seat and glanced to the man at his side, next to the window. The danger that filled the air was not coming from John “Brick” Paxton. Paxton had boarded the flight with the Executioner as his confederate rather than an adversary. Granted, accompanying Bolan had not been the former Army Ranger’s idea; Paxton had made plans to rescue his younger brother, Phil, on his own. Just prior to boarding an earlier flight to the Netherlands, he’d been detained by representatives of Stony Man Farm, America’s top-secret counterterrorist organization. The Farm’s operatives had whisked Paxton away to a secluded safehouse while a secret meeting took place at the White House.

      Bolan had been present at that meeting.

      “There’s no way to stop Brick Paxton from going after his brother short of throwing him in jail,” the President told Hal Brognola, Stony Man Farm’s director, as well as a high-ranking official at the Justice Department. “And I’m going to look like hell in the press if I jail a guy who’s won two Silver Stars and is currently up for the Medal of Honor for his actions in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

      The Executioner watched as the Man nodded his way before concluding with, “So the best thing we can do is let him go after his brother. But I want Bolan with him.”

      Brognola nodded his agreement. “And I’d suggest sending them immediately, Mr. President,” he said. “All of our intelligence at the moment indicates that the terrorists picked Phil Paxton at random, just because he was American. But sooner or later, they’re going to find out just what a prize they’ve stumbled on to.”

      None of the three men had thought it necessary to further identify that “prize.” They were all fully aware that Brick Paxton’s younger brother was one of America’s top nuclear engineers.

      And a man who could build nukes for America could be forced to build them for America’s enemies, as well.

      The Executioner glanced out of the corner of his eye, studying Brick Paxton’s face while he continued to review the past few hours in his mind. The Army Ranger’s eyes were closed, but it was impossible to tell if he was asleep or not. He’d been against going with Bolan from the moment the idea had been presented to him, and had only agreed when it had finally become clear that the President would find a jail cell for him somewhere if he didn’t.

      Bolan turned back to the seat in front of him. The chain of command still wasn’t fully clear in Paxton’s mind. That might become a problem sooner or later. But the problem on the Executioner’s mind at the moment came from somewhere else on the 747.

      Dinner had been served aboard the plane a half hour earlier, and the remnants were still on the first-class passengers’ trays. Lifting his plastic beverage glass, Bolan drained the contents, then he took the plastic fork and spoon from the table in front of him with his other hand and dropped them into the inside pocket of his jacket.

      The ice at the bottom of his drink rattled as Bolan set the glass back down in the circular depression on the tray.

      The flight attendant came quickly to his side. “Another Seven-Up, sir?” she asked with a suggestive smile. Her name tag read Margie.

      Bolan’s return smile was noncommittal. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m fine.”

      “And your friend?” Margie added.

      Brick Paxton’s eyes opened at the cue. “Sure. One more can’t hurt.”

      Bolan sat quietly as Margie turned and disappeared into the galley between first class and the pilot’s cabin. He had studied Brick Paxton’s U.S. Army personnel file the day before and, among other things, learned that Paxton had a penchant for the bourbon. But nothing in the file suggested that he couldn’t control his drinking, or ever drank to excess.

      The flight attendant returned with another miniature bottle and a fresh glass of ice water. Placing them in front of Paxton, she removed the dinner trays in front of both men and disappeared into the galley once more.

      Approximately fifteen minutes later, the man sitting directly across the aisle from Bolan unbuckled his seat belt and stood up. He had the dark skin and sharp features of a Middle Easterner. He reached up and opened the overhead storage compartment, then pulled down a black attaché case before closing the compartment.

      Bolan had pinpointed the source of the tension that filled the air of the 747’s first-class cabin. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye. It was not his race—the Executioner had worked with many men of Arabic origin in the past and knew that, as held true with any people, the good Arabs far outnumbered the bad. Nor was it the dark-skinned man’s manner of dress that now caught Bolan’s attention. It was not even the look in the man’s eyes as he glanced quickly at Bolan before sitting down again, the attaché case on his lap.

      Still, Bolan suddenly knew.

      Bolan glanced over his shoulder. The curtain between first class and coach was drawn, but through the opening he could see that three other men—all looking to be of Middle Eastern origin like the man across from him—stood in the aisle. They had also opened the overhead storage compartments, and the Executioner watched as each pulled down a black attaché case identical to the one now in the lap of the man across from him.

      Bolan felt his abdominal muscles tighten in anticipation. Four men. Four identical black attaché cases.

      It was far too much to be coincidence.

      The Executioner glanced to Paxton. The former Ranger had just unscrewed the lid from his plastic shot bottle. But he had noted the man across from them, too, and while he couldn’t see into the rear of the plane from his window seat, he’d caught the expression on Bolan’s face.

      “How many more?” Paxton whispered as he screwed the cap back onto his bottle of Wild Turkey and dropped it into the front pocket of his navy blue blazer.

      “Three,” the Executioner murmured. “All in coach. Same cases.”

      Brick Paxton nodded. He flipped his tray back up and out of the way into the seat in front of him, then began untying his right shoe.

      The Executioner didn’t have to ask what he was doing.

      Bolan reached inside his jacket and felt his fingertips touch the tops of the plastic fork and spoon he had placed there earlier. He would have preferred to have his usual weapons—the Beretta 93-R and .44 Magnum Desert Eagle—but that had not been possible. Knowing that the enemy he would face once he reached Amsterdam closely watched incoming private flights, he and Paxton had chosen to fly commercial and were, therefore, unarmed.

      At least conventionally unarmed. A man like the Executioner was never completely without weapons.

      Leaving the plastic fork where it was, Bolan withdrew the spoon. Glancing casually across the aisle to make sure the man with the attaché case wasn’t watching, he saw that sweat had broken out on the man’s forehead. Dropping his hands beneath the table still in front of him, the Executioner twisted the head of the spoon until it broke off at a sharp angle. Discarding the rounded dipper end, he replaced the now sharp piece of plastic in his jacket.

      By now Paxton had removed his right sock. Retrieving the Wild Turkey bottle from his blazer pocket, he dropped it into the sock and tied a knot just above the small container.

      Bolan folded his tray back up and pulled one of the in-flight magazines from the holder in front of him. Starting at the binding, he began rolling the periodical into the tightest tube he could fashion. Every few seconds, he used his peripheral vision to check on the man across the aisle. But the man with the attaché case was paying him no attention. He was far too engrossed in his own thoughts, and what he was about to do.

      When the Executioner had finished rolling the magazine up, it was almost as hard as a length of wood. Pulling a pair of rubber bands from his pocket, he twisted them around the ends