Blood Vendetta. Don Pendleton

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      Looping the shotgun over her back, she pushed herself through the window and disappeared into the darkness.

      * * *

      SHUTTING THE DOOR behind her, Davis turned the dead bolt and flicked the wall switch. Fluorescent lights sparked to life and bathed the room in soft white light. A wooden workbench, the surface scarred and blemished, ran the length of one wall. A tool chest, its metal skin scratched and mottled with rust spots, stood in another corner. A compact car, its red paint bleached by exposure to the elements, was parked in the middle of the room.

      She shoved her keys into her hip pocket and withdrew one of the cell phones from her belt pack. With her thumb, she punched through a group of numbers, put the phone to her ear and listened as it dialed through a series of cutouts. She noticed her hands starting to shake, immediately felt her face flush.

      It’s just adrenaline, she told herself. You’ve been through hell. It’s catching up with you. Ignore it.

      After two rings, someone picked up on the other end.

      “Yes?” It was Maxine.

      “Good to hear your voice.”

      “You okay?”

      “All things considered.”

      “What happened?”

      “Someone came after me tonight.”

      “Who?” Maxine asked, concern evident in her voice.

      “I’m not sure. There were at least two people.”

      “They still after you?”

      “Not those two.”

      “Does that mean what I think it means?”

      “Yes.”

      “Let me ask again—are you okay?”

      “No, but it needed to be done,” she replied. She gave a small shrug even though Maxine couldn’t see her.

      “I’m sure it needed to be done. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

      Davis said nothing.

      “What’s your next move?”

      “Get out of here,” Davis replied.

      “And go where?”

      “Tell you when I get there.”

      “You don’t know? Or you don’t want me to know?”

      “The latter.”

      “Thanks.”

      “It’s not like that. Someone’s looking for me. They found me. Who knows what else they know—about me, the network, you. I need to disappear. It’s probably better that no one knows where I am.”

      “I understand,” Maxine replied, her tone telegraphing that she didn’t understand.

      “Do me a favor.”

      “Of course.”

      “I had to leave in a hurry. Call Nigel. Ask him to do a remote wipe of my systems. Please. I’ll also need some equipment. Cell phone—the usual stuff. Need to replace what I lost.”

      “Consider it done. What else?”

      “Nothing. Yet. I’ll be in touch.”

      Davis ended the call and stuffed the phone back into her belt pack. She shut her eyes, rubbed her temples with the first two fingers of each hand. An image flashed across her mind, the first man she’d gunned down, body thrust back by the shotgun blast, his midsection ripped open. Her eyes snapped wide open and she covered her mouth with her hand. My God, she thought, I killed two people on this night, murdered them. A heaviness settled over her, dragged her to her knees. She hung her head, covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

      Chapter 1

      Mack Bolan, a.k.a. the Executioner, rolled into the War Room at Stony Man Farm.

      He wore blue denim jeans, a black turtleneck and black leather tennis shoes. Gathered around the room were Hal Brognola, Director of the Justice Department’s Special Operations Group, Barb Price, Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, and Aaron the “Bear” Kurtzman, the head of the Farm’s cyber team. Brognola, shirt sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows, the top button of his dress shirt undone and his tie pulled loose, was seated at the head of the briefing table. Kurtzman sat to Brognola’s right, in his motorized wheelchair, a laptop computer open on the table in front of him. Price, her honey-blond hair pulled into a ponytail, saw Bolan first and flashed him a smile.

      “Welcome back, Striker,” she said. “It’s good to have you back.”

      Bolan nodded. “I have a feeling I won’t be here long. Am I right?”

      “Very perceptive, Striker,” Brognola said. “As always, the choice is yours. But I think you’ll want a piece of the action on this, once you hear about it.”

      The big Fed gestured at one of the high-backed chairs that ringed the table and Bolan settled into the nearest one. He set a brushed-steel travel mug filled with coffee on the table.

      Kurtzman studied the cup for a couple of moments before giving Bolan a puzzled look.

      “What’s that?”

      “Coffee, last I checked.”

      “I can see it’s coffee.”

      “Then why ask?”

      Kurtzman gestured with a nod at the drip coffeemaker that stood on a nearby counter.

      “I made coffee.”

      “I know.”

      “You could have had some.”

      “True.”

      The creases in Kurtzman’s forehead deepened.

      “But you didn’t want my coffee.”

      “I didn’t say that.”

      “You didn’t have to.”

      “I just wanted this coffee, that’s all.”

      “Because it’s better than mine.”

      “I just wanted this coffee,” Bolan said. “That’s all.”

      Brognola cleared his throat. “Seriously, I could listen to you clowns do this all day. But if you’ll indulge me.”

      Kurtzman scowled. “This isn’t over,” he said, jabbing at the air between them with his forefinger.

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