Recovery Force. Don Pendleton

and it didn’t look like he stood much of a chance against the Executioner and the cops. He decided to take his chances with Bolan. He believed he could take this guy—he had the firepower and the guts. The hood raised his machine pistol, an older-model mini-Uzi, and sprayed in the direction of Bolan indiscriminately. The Executioner took cover and grimaced at the off-chance an innocent bystander might get in the way.

      Unfortunately for the gun-toting hood, he’d never have the chance to kill Bolan or a noncombatant.

      The man’s body began to rock under the impact of the half-dozen or so police weapons suddenly aimed at him. The cops doled out a fury of destructive autofire from their Colt AR-15s and pistols. The thug staggered a moment and then collapsed to the pavement.

      Bolan continued in motion around the corner and sprinted down the street. He would have to lie low for a while, come back later to retrieve his vehicle. The warrior knew he still needed to make contact with Joseph Hall, but he had to do it on his own time and his own way. For the moment they would only try to apprehend Bolan, and the Executioner didn’t feel like spending the next twenty-four hours in a police lockup under interrogation. He still had a lot to do in Phoenix.

      The mission had only just begun.

      JOE HALL, CAPTAIN OF the Home Invasion and Kidnapping Enforcement squad, stared with angst at the mess of bodies strewn along the streets of downtown Phoenix. This was his city, and the mysterious stranger who had saved his life managed to disappear without a trace. No, the raid on the pharmacy hadn’t gone as planned. They had five corpses, all of whom Hall assumed would eventually be tied back to affiliations with either a local street gang or Los Negros. In spite of the sudden change in plans, they had managed to round up everyone inside the pharmacy, a total of three employees and one manager, but he didn’t think anything would come of it. They had no evidence of wrongdoing on the parts of any of the pharmacy workers, and all of the bad guys, any one of whom he might have coerced into talking, were all deceased.

      Sergeant Larry Murach joined Hall as he stood over one of the dead. The coroner had arrived quickly enough and at least managed to get the bodies covered. It wasn’t as if Hall cared much about protecting their dignity, but dead was still dead and it helped cut down the number of free gapers. A large crowd had formed but with the place taped off and the backup on scene, the uniforms were doing a pretty good job of keeping the looky-loos and press hounds at bay.

      “What do you have?” Hall asked Murach, not taking his eyes off the covered body.

      “Not much,” Murach said, flipping through the couple of small pages of notes he’d taken. “All four of the deceased are gangbangers. Two actually have some ink that marks them as members of Los Negros, the other two are wearing colors but nothing else.”

      “Witnesses?”

      “Nobody I talked to is really sure what the hell happened. I guess whoever saw these guys decided to stay healthy by giving them a wide berth.”

      And the only man with enough smarts to have spotted them ahead of time somehow managed to slip through our fingers, Hall thought. “What about our mystery man?”

      “I canvassed that diner over there,” Murach said, pointing at it. “A waitress there says a guy came in about ten minutes before the shooting started. Says he ordered a sandwich and then got up and left without eating it.”

      Hall looked sharply at Murach. “Why?”

      “She wasn’t sure,” Murach said with a shrug. “She said he ordered and then when she brought the food he asked for a pay phone and split. Paid for the meal but apparently isn’t much of a tipper.”

      “She give you a description?”

      Murach didn’t bother referencing his notes. “Big with dark hair. That’s about all I got.”

      “I could have told you that much.”

      “She was more pissed about the tip than anything else. That’s all she really talked about. Just kept bitching about the tip.”

      And now here was Murach bitching about the waitress bitching. “You got her name and address?”

      “Yeah.”

      Hall looked at the body again. “I’ll go by later. See if I can get something more out of her. In the meantime, let’s get this place cleaned up as quickly as possible.”

      “What about the shooting team?”

      “Screw them assholes,” Hall said. “I don’t have time for that right now.”

      BOLAN ENTERED THROUGH the frosted-glass doors of the HIKE squad room at the Phoenix P.D. headquarters on the heels of a uniformed female cop.

      A single plainclothes officer occupied one of the many desks within the squad room, and he barely gave them a cursory inspection as they passed before returning his attention to a newspaper. The rest of the room appeared abandoned—quiet as a morgue, almost. The officer led Bolan to an office in back and rapped on the closed door. At the sound of a muffled reply she opened it and poked her head in.

      “Someone here to see you, sir,” she said.

      “Who is it?” the voice asked with an impatient tone.

      “Says his name is Cooper. Claims he has information about the shootings today.”

      “Have him give his statement to Murach.”

      “Sergeant Murach stepped out, sir,” the officer replied with some trepidation.

      “Oh, for crissakes, don’t—” The man broke off and said, “All right, send him in.”

      The officer stepped aside and smiled, obviously a bit uncomfortable, and gestured for Bolan to enter.

      The Executioner smiled back and nodded as he stepped through the doorway and far enough into the room that the young woman could close the door behind him. The man who stood and came around the desk wasn’t anywhere near Bolan’s imposing height, maybe five foot ten, and Bolan immediately recognized him as the lead officer he’d shoved out of the way of enemy gunfire earlier that day. Bolan wondered if that man was Captain Joseph Hall, but the letters stenciled on the door of his office had now confirmed it.

      The guy reached out a hand and Bolan shook it. Scrutiny, not recognition, flashed in Hall’s eyes and Bolan eased out the breath he’d been holding. Hall hadn’t gotten a look at his face.

      “Have a seat, sir,” Hall said.

      Bolan casually plopped into the chair as Hall returned to his desk and adjusted his tie. “You have information about what happened today?”

      “I was part of what happened today,” Bolan replied easily.

      Hall’s eyes flicked up from his desk and locked on Bolan with a hard stare. Then something dawned on him, something like a realization, and his body tensed.

      Bolan held up a palm. “Easy, Hall. I’m not looking for trouble.”

      “Then you shouldn’t have walked in here.”

      Bolan remained impassive.

      Hall continued, “You realize I can arrest you right here just on the suspicion that you were involved in today’s incident?”

      “As long as you realize I’m the one who spared your wife and kids a lot of grief today,” Bolan said.

      “That’s the only reason you’re not in handcuffs yet.”

      “You don’t want to do that.”

      “No. And why not?”

      “Let’s just say that we’re on the same team.”

      “How do I know that? You a cop?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “Work for the government?”

      “Sometimes.”

      Hall