Resurgence. Don Pendleton

helped their odds of passing unobserved.

      The trip to Bolan’s rental car had thankfully been uneventful. By the time they drove past Cako’s mansion in East Keansburg, nearly all of the police had left. A sleepy uniformed patrolman on the gate ignored them going east, and showed no greater interest when the Porsche returned short minutes later, with a Prius trailing after it.

      The rest was easy.

      Bolan found a nice, anonymous open parking garage, stashed his car and moved what he needed to the Boxster’s trunk. They were off with time to spare.

      Volkova took them southward on the Garden State Parkway, skirting the eastern border of the barrens, then cut over to the west on State Road 72, leaving civilization behind. Using the map in her head, she’d brought them to their present point, standing beside the Porsche and suiting up for war.

      “If anything should happen—”

      “Don’t start that,” he rudely cut her off. “You’ll jinx yourself.”

      “I simply wish to ask that you contact my embassy.”

      “No promises.”

      She wouldn’t let it go. “And if I called, for you?”

      “There won’t be anybody home,” Bolan replied. “Let’s saddle up.”

      He was as equipped for this raid as he was the previous night, except for the addition of a Milkor M-32 grenade launcher and a bandolier of 40 mm rounds to feed its 6-shot revolving cylinder. The M-32 resembled a space-age version of the 1920s Tommy gun, complete with foregrip, shoulder stock and drum. Its payload was vastly more dangerous, though, including high-explosive, HEAT, buckshot, incendiary and chemical irritant rounds. Operating on the same principle as a double-action revolver, the Milkor could empty its load in three seconds in rapid-fire, with an Armson Occluded Eye Gunsight providing optimum accuracy out to four hundred yards.

      With the M-4 carbine and his sidearms for backup, Bolan felt ready to meet any challenge Cako might throw at him.

      And then some. Damn right.

      Watching out for copperheads and timber rattlesnakes along the way, he let Volkova lead him toward the larger serpent’s den.

      “YOU SEE?” Arben Kurti said. “All is fine.”

      “Of course,” Cako replied, swallowing bitter bile.

      “These people are putty in my hands. You must know how to deal with people, Lorik.”

      “As you say.”

      It might be true their customers were fools, but Cako thought that Kurti was the biggest fool of all. How could he look at Cako with that stupid grin and not feel the radiant heat of his subordinate’s anger? Was he blind?

      “You need to get the merchandise ready, Lorik. This lot will be done stuffing their faces soon, and we can’t keep them waiting any longer.”

      “I’ll see to it,” Cako replied through clenched teeth. Turning away, he spied Qemal Hoxha and beckoned him across the dining room. A moment later Hoxha was beside him, waiting for instructions.

      “Is the merchandise prepared?” Cako asked.

      “Ready, as you ordered,” Hoxha answered.

      “When the clients finish gorging, they’ll be moving on to the display room. Watch for stragglers and—”

      At first, he thought the sound was thunder, but a rattling of glassware told Cako that he was mistaken. He glanced back at Kurti and saw the smile wiped from his face.

      An explosion!

      Against all logic, Lorik Cako felt a welling of sensation that resembled gratitude. Or was it pure relief?

      Could it be true? Had his enemies somehow pursued him here, of all places, arriving at the moment when he needed them?

      Was this his golden opportunity to punish them for his humiliation, and to rid himself of Arben Kurti at the same time, with a perfect scapegoat for his treachery?

      “Lorik—”

      “Forget the women,” Cako snapped at Hoxha. “Get our men together. Now!”

      Qemal ran off to call the gunners, just in case some might have missed the first shot of the battle. Cako reached inside his jacket, drew the pistol that he carried in a custom-tailored shoulder holster, holding it against his thigh as he turned back toward Kurti.

      Not yet.

      Not with all these witnesses.

      It would be helpful to him if the foreign customers survived, but that was secondary in his thoughts. Beyond the first imperative of personal survival, Cako focused on eliminating Arben Kurti and his unknown enemies.

      As for the latter, he would love to capture one of them alive. Find out exactly who they were—or who they worked for—and report the information to Rahim Berisha as an indication of his competency. Moving on from that point, as the syndicate’s new chieftain in America, Cako could mount a campaign of reprisal.

      Seek and find the men responsible.

      Destroy them, root and branch.

      “Lorik! Come here!” The sound of Kurti’s voice was like sandpaper on his nerves.

      “I’m coming,” he responded, putting on a solemn traitor’s face.

      THE FIRST GRENADE was Bolan’s wake-up call for Cako and his soldiers. After closing to a range of fifty yards, seeing the limousines and SUVs standing in ranks outside of the Albanian’s pineland retreat, he had decided that a stealthy probe wasn’t the way to go.

      So, blood and thunder, then.

      The first round was HE, aimed toward the middle SUV in a three-car lineup. All black, all branded with the leaning L inside an oval that denoted Lexus products. The last he’d heard, their prices started around seventy-seven grand and went up from there as the options piled on. None of them had an automatic fire extinguisher, however.

      Not that it would’ve done any good.

      Bolan’s high-explosive round punched through the middle LX10’s rear window and exploded, shattering the glass on vehicles to left and right before the target SUV’s fuel tank erupted into roiling flames. A lake of fire began to spread beneath the other cars while Bolan sprinted toward the southwest corner of the house, Volkova on his heels.

      As planned, the blast brought soldiers pouring from the dwelling. Not all of them, of course. If they had any kind of discipline at all, a sizeable contingent would remain inside to guard their principles and see to any preparations for escape.

      If there was any way to flee.

      If they had anywhere on Earth to go.

      Bolan supposed the men he’d come to kill would think about their homes. Some might give passing thoughts to lovers, wives and children. None of that affected Bolan’s plans or his determination to succeed.

      He knew one side of those he hunted, and it was enough. He didn’t care if they loved puppies, said grace over dinner or got dewy-eyed watching an opera. The fact that evil men might have a spark of goodness buried somewhere deep inside wasn’t his personal concern.

      Bolan was not their final judge.

      He was their judgment.

      Another car blew up as Bolan cleared the corner of the house and kept going. He could hear Volkova close behind him, footsteps keeping pace with his, no hint that she was running out of breath or stamina after their long hike through the pines.

      That Spetznaz training coming through.

      Ahead of them, a door swung open and a swarthy gunman stepped into the roseate light of dawn. Bolan zipped his chest with three rounds from the M-4 carbine, slowing just enough to keep a crimson mist from settling on his face as he brushed past the falling corpse.