Splinter Cell. Don Pendleton

Americans, as always, were their number-one choice for kidnapping.

      Phil leaned forward in an attempt to stop shaking. He knew from news reports that even when the ransoms were paid, most of the victims—and always the Americans—were still murdered. Some had even been shown being beheaded by huge swords on the Internet.

      Now the chill spread from Phil’s back and shoulders through the rest of his body. He felt as if the blood in his veins and arteries had suddenly frozen to ice from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet.

      But even being American, he realized, was not his biggest liability. He was a very special kind of American—different from the men and women from the U.S. who had been the victims of terrorist kidnappings before him. They had been taken at random without regard for their professions. They had been simple people—businessmen, housewives, low-to mid-level government employees, men and women with no particular talents or expertise that could benefit the terrorists.

      Phil Paxton didn’t fall into that category, and he knew it. But did his captors? Did they know what he did for a living? Had he been snatched up indiscriminately, simply as a target of opportunity like the others, or had he been kidnapped on purpose for the expertise he could provide? And even if the men who had imprisoned him didn’t now know who he was and what he did for a living, would they find out? And when they did, could they force him through torture to do their bidding?

      A collage of horrifying images suddenly filled his brain. Phil saw pictures of Janie wearing her engagement ring, then himself being beheaded while millions of people watched on the Internet, then Janie wearing black and attending his funeral. He saw his brother, Brick—wearing camouflage clothing, his face blackened with nonreflective makeup—firing a rifle and mowing down the men who held him prisoner. Then he saw himself in a rude, makeshift laboratory, working on a crude device on a table while heavily bearded men wearing the long flowing headdresses known as kaffiyehs stood to his side, aiming guns at his head.

      For a moment, Phil thought he would scream. Then he felt his brows furrow into a frown as he did his best to break through the freezing terror and bring himself back into the rational realm that was his room. If he was to survive the situation in which he now found himself, that survival could only come by getting a grip on himself. He would have to control—even ignore—the fear and these fear-induced images.

      Phil forced himself to close his eyes and concentrate on his breathing. He rolled his eyeballs back in his head, then tightened his abdominal muscles. It was an ancient warrior trick he had learned from Brick. While it didn’t drive all of the fear from his soul, it relaxed him enough to begin thinking logically again.

      Phil Paxton couldn’t reach the back pocket of the jeans he was wearing where he kept his leather passport case. But by rolling onto his hip, he was able to determine that it was gone. That was to be expected. The terrorists—from whatever Islamic fundamentalist group they were from—would naturally have taken it. And in addition to his passport, they would find the other items he had transferred from the billfold he usually carried when he was at home.

      But had his U.S. government ID been in his passport case? He couldn’t remember now if he had brought it along. Which meant he had no way of knowing whether the men who had kidnapped him knew he was one of America’s top nuclear scientists. And that he was more than capable of building either nuclear bombs or putting together “dirty bombs” if they didn’t have all of the components necessary to produce a real nuke.

      The shivering returned to his shoulders, and Phil rolled his eyes back and concentrated on his breathing again. He supposed he would find out what his kidnappers knew, and didn’t know, before long. But he wondered now who else knew he had been taken captive. Did Brick know? If he did, nothing here on God’s green planet would keep his Army Ranger brother from coming after him.

      For a moment Phil Paxton allowed himself to slip into a comforting fantasy of Brick Paxton blasting away with a machine gun before kicking in the door to his cell. Brick then shot off the padlock that secured the chain around his waist—Phil didn’t know exactly how he did that without killing him in the process, but this was a fantasy after all, and he could take it any place he wanted.

      He was jerked out of the daydream, however, when the door suddenly opened for real.

      The brighter light that entered the cell almost blinded Phil Paxton. But he was able to make out the forms of two men in traditional Islamic robes and headgear dragging another unconscious man into the room. Rifles were slung over the men’s shoulders. Phil couldn’t remember what such rifles were called but he knew they were Russian. Brick would know. And Brick would know how to use one. For a moment, every fiber in Phil Paxton’s body wanted to see Brick standing in front of him with just such a rifle, filling these bastards in the robes full of bullet holes.

      Phil watched helplessly as the man being dragged was thrown facedown on the floor, then rolled up into a sitting position next to him. Phil kept his eyes almost closed, praying that his abductors wouldn’t notice he was awake as another set of handcuffs and another waist chain were applied to the new hostage. Then the men in the white robes left without speaking and the door creaked closed again. A second later, Phil head the sound of a lock sliding into place.

      Phil turned to look at the man next to him. He was young—maybe midtwenties—and had obviously been drugged just like Phil had. Perhaps when he awakened, he would have some bit of information to add to what Phil Paxton already knew. Something that might help them escape.

      Until then, Phil would be alone with the two most terrifying nightmare possibilities he could dream up. The second-to-worst possibility was that he would be killed.

      The worst was that he’d first be forced into responsibility for the deaths of hundreds, thousands or perhaps even hundred of thousands of innocent men, women and children.

      CABS LINED THE STREET outside the American Embassy in Amsterdam. Bolan and Paxton took the one nearest the curb as they walked back out through the gate and nodded goodbye to the two U.S. Marines against the wall. The two men saluted, then stood back at attention without a word.

      Their driver huffed and puffed as he helped them lift their luggage into the trunk of the vehicle, looking up at Bolan in wonderment at the weight of some of the bags. Bolan smiled at the man but offered no explanation.

      Behind the wheel, with his two customers seated in the back, the driver said, “Where to?” in almost unaccented English.

      “The Hotel Amstel,” Bolan told him.

      The driver didn’t bat an eye at the name of one of the top hotels in the world. He was obviously used to taking visiting American dignitaries from the embassy to the Amstel, and he turned the key and started the ignition.

      Bolan sat back against the seat as they pulled away from the curb. Amsterdam was one of the most colorful cities in the world, and he watched through the window as they passed seventeenth-century seven-gabled houses, historic churches and elaborate stone towers. The site was actually an inland port that boasted fifty canals and more than six hundred spectacular bridges. Two of the more renowned sites were the Rembrandt House, where the famous painter had lived from 1639 to 1658, and the home where Anne Frank and her family had hidden behind a secret passageway during the Nazi occupation.

      It was early winter and despite himself the Executioner allowed images of tulips, for which Holland was famous, slip into his mind. Along the streets and sidewalks, he imagined baskets of flowers hanging from the eves of houses, office complexes and other buildings.

      He sat back against the seat, pondering this cosmopolitan city. Amsterdam was no better or worse than any other midsized city. Hidden behind the freshly scrubbed and smiling faces he saw as the cab raced down the streets was the same dirty underbelly found in all large centers of population. Behind the clean streets were the back alleys filled with drugs, prostitution, murder and mayhem.

      And, of course, terrorism.

      THE CABDRIVER PULLED UP in front of the Amstel Hotel, and Bolan and Paxton both got out of the backseat before the cabdriver or bellman had a chance to open their doors.

      The cabdriver