Kill Shot. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ thousands—of lives on the line. There was no way the guard could know this, and he was terrified.

      Bolan removed the gun and put a piece of duct tape over the man’s mouth and zip tied his hands behind his back and his feet together. Then he unloaded the pistol, tossed the magazine and bullet from the chamber to one side of the room and the gun toward the other, and bolted for the stairway. He pushed open the stairwell door, only to find that several other security guards were rushing up the stairway from lower floors. The guard had to have called for backup before entering the office suite. It sounded like there were at least four men pounding their way up the stairs. There was no way the soldier could subdue that many guards without someone getting hurt; his only chance for survival now was speed.

      The soldier lunged up the stairwell toward the roof, the security guards hot on his heels. He kicked the door open and ran at top speed for the rope he’d anchored to the air-conditioning unit. Grabbing the figure-eight descenders he’d clipped to the ropes, he flung himself over the edge of the roof. By the time the first of the guards had emerged from the stairwell Bolan was in a near free fall toward the ground below. He plunged down in a barely controlled descent, braking only as he neared the ground. It was hard to judge his progress in the dark, and he’d slowed his descent barely enough to keep from doing serious damage to his body when he landed.

      When his feet touched the grass, Bolan pitched himself into a roll, which turned out to be a good move because gunfire from the roof tore up the turf on which he’d just landed. The gunfire tracked him as he sprang up from his roll and ran at top speed for the wall. When he reached the wall, he grabbed the top and powered over the top of it. By this time he’d put enough distance between himself and his pursuers that he only needed to worry about catching a stray bullet, but he also knew a stray bullet could kill him as dead as an aimed bullet could, so he didn’t stop running until he was at his car.

      He could hear sirens approaching the VA hospital. Rather than panic, Bolan calmly drove through the residential district in which he’d parked, following a route that he’d prepared in advance, one that led him to Cedar Avenue. He followed it south until it turned into State Highway 77, which in turn led him straight to his motel. When he pulled into the lot, pimps and dealers were doing business in the lot. They sized him up, decided he was more trouble than he was worth and let him pass into the motel unmolested.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      “So what have you got on Theodore Haynes from Plainfield, Wisconsin?” Bolan asked Kurtzman over his cell phone once he was safely ensconced in his two-bit motel room.

      “Army Ranger,” Kurtzman replied, “one tour in Afghanistan, two tours in Iraq, heavily decorated, had his left knee crushed when his Humvee hit an IED and flipped over. He was the only survivor. His three buddies were killed in the blast. He recovered full use of his leg, but not quite to the degree required to remain a Ranger, so he left the military.”

      “I’m going to take a wild guess and say he was trained as a sniper.”

      “Right first time.”

      “Anything else?” Bolan asked.

      “Yeah. He’s been officially dead for years. According to every record I could access, he committed suicide soon after washing out of the Rangers.”

      “I don’t believe that,” Bolan said. “I sincerely doubt that these killings are the work of some sort of undead zombie.”

      “There wasn’t much we could tell from what was left of the bodies you brought in yesterday,” the computer expert said, “but one thing we could tell was that the bodies inside the vehicle had been alive prior to the vehicle crashing, so I don’t think we have to worry about zombies.”

      “Where is Haynes buried?” Bolan asked.

      “Plainfield, Wisconsin, and I know what you’re thinking. I’m one step ahead of you. Hal is having the body exhumed tomorrow morning.”

      “I take it that means that I’m heading to Plainfield tonight,” Bolan posited.

      “You take it correctly,” Kurtzman said. “I’ve already called Jack and told him to get the plane ready.”

      “You pull any information off that shell casing I sent you yesterday?” Bolan asked.

      “Yes and no.”

      “Give me the ‘no’ first.”

      “We didn’t pull any prints or DNA off the brass,” Kurtzman replied.

      “And the ‘yes’?”

      “We traced the lot number on the case and found out where it had been shipped. You’re not going to like this.”

      “Where did it go?” Bolan asked.

      “McNair.” Kurtzman was referring to Fort Lesley J. McNair, located on the confluence of the Potomac River and the Anacostia River in Washington, D.C., the third oldest military base in the United States. It was the home base for most of the top Army brass in the D.C. area, including the Army’s chief of staff, who also happened to be the current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “It was part of a special production run of precision casings designed for sniper and competition use. It looks like we’ve got two possibilities here. One, someone at McNair is stealing supplies and selling them on the black market.”

      “And two,” Bolan interjected, “we’ve got a person or persons at the highest level of the military involved in this mess. How much of this is Hal going to share with the President?”

      “He hasn’t decided yet,” Kurtzman said. “but before you leave for Wisconsin, you need to know one more thing.”

      “What’s that?”

      “The President warned Hal that if there is another wave of killings tomorrow, he plans to declare martial law.”

      Plainfield, Wisconsin

      NORMALLY BOLAN USED FLIGHTS to catch a nap and rest up, but the short hop from Minneapolis to Plainfield aboard the fast little jet barely allowed for a single z, so Bolan sat up front and chatted with Grimaldi, who appreciated the company.

      “I’ve always wanted to go to Plainfield,” Grimaldi said.

      “Why?” Bolan asked.

      “It’s the home of Ed Gein,” Grimaldi replied. Ed Gein had been a notorious murderer and grave robber from Plainfield.

      “You a fan of serial killers?” Bolan asked.

      “Not a fan, exactly,” Grimaldi said, “but I find the guy fascinating. He cut off his victims’ heads and stole other body parts from local graveyards. What could motivate a man to do something like that?”

      “My money’s on a brain disorder,” Bolan offered. “That would give him more of an excuse to do what he did than most of the people we go up against. They’re usually motivated by greed for wealth or power.”

      “You do know that he wasn’t a serial killer, technically, right?”

      “I have to admit I’m not up to speed on the particulars of Wisconsin’s second most famous cannibal.”

      “Gein СКАЧАТЬ