System Corruption. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ those drives. Once that fact was exposed Carella would become a hunted man.

      He thought about turning around and returning to OTG. Handing over the data and admitting what he had done. All he had to do was come clean to Ordstrom. After all it had been nothing more than a mistake. He hadn’t gone looking for the data. It had been revealed to him because of a genuine computer glitch. A brief spike had put the information on his monitor without Carella even having to look for it. Surely even Ordstrom would see the innocence there.

      “The hell he would,” Carella said out loud. “Come on, Frank, how do you talk away the fact you downloaded the damned information and walked off-site with it in your pocket?”

      That was the thing. He had viewed the altered specifications and had then copied the data. Ordstrom wasn’t going to accept that had been a mistake, because it couldn’t be. Copying the files had been a deliberate act. Not a good thing.

      And whatever else he had done, the fact remained that Frank Carella had read those files. He knew what had been hidden. Changing the specifications was a criminal act. There was no getting away from that. OTG would be in deep trouble if the facts were released. And Jacob Ordstrom, being the head man, would catch the fallout. As big as he was, Ordstrom would have a hell of a job explaining away such a deliberate fraud.

      So Frank Carella had dealt himself into a game that was about to have its stakes hit the roof. He needed to stay calm—to assess the situation and the possible repercussions. Because there were certainly going to be repercussions.

      He spotted the lights of a diner ahead and, without thinking, pulled in to the parking lot. He switched off the motor and sat in the shadows, staring out of the windshield at the garish illuminations over the door of the diner. He looked at the lights but saw nothing after a while. When he moved he felt the flash drives in his pocket. For a moment he wanted to take them out and crush them underfoot. Destroy them. Get rid of the evidence.

      The roar of a passing diesel rig snapped him out of his immobility. Carella climbed out of the car and crossed to the diner. He went inside and chose an empty booth. He ordered coffee. Through the dusty window he could see his own car, beyond it the highway. He was expecting that big, black 4x4 to show up. He would watch it cruise alongside his car before the occupants stepped out and headed for the diner…

      “You want a top-up…oh, you haven’t even drunk that yet.”

      Carella glanced up at the waitress, who was standing by his table with the steaming coffeepot in her hand. She was attractive, and the smile on her face was genuine.

      “I’m okay,” he said.

      “Honey, you look like you got a load of trouble on your shoulders. Bad day at the office?”

      Carella managed a grin.

      “You could put it that way,” he said. “But I got it figured now. Hey, how about a piece of pie to go with the coffee.”

      The woman nodded and left.

      Perspective had returned. Carella knew what he was going to do. True, he was in deep. OTG was not going to walk away and forget him. And he was not about to let them get away with their deception. If he had put himself on the spot, he was damned if he was going to give up without a fight.

       1

      The ending could have been marked down as inevitable but for the intervention of one man.

      His name was Mack Bolan.

       The Executioner.

      It began for Bolan on a warm day at Arlington National Cemetery, watching with an old friend as a man buried his only son.

      It began with the shadow of betrayal hanging over the proceedings.

      With the taint of deceit and the cloak of a cover-up.

      It began out of despair. With the plea of a grieving father turning to the only man he knew who could— who would —help.

      Bolan, dressed soberly in black, stood a distance away from the main group, as Hal Brognola consoled his friend. That was the only incentive Bolan needed.

      Colonel Dane Nelson was the reason for his attendance. It would have taken a miracle of denial to have kept Brognola away, and especially so on such a tragic occasion. Bolan was here for his friend. Dane Nelson was here because he was saying goodbye to his son. The military funeral was in respect for a young man who had served his country with distinction. Brognola, Bolan, Nelson and his son were all linked by an unbreakable bond that needed little verbal expression.

      Nelson’s request had reached Bolan via Brognola through a telephone call filtered through various links until it registered on the unlisted cell he carried. Mack Bolan had a small list of people he regarded as friends in an increasingly hostile world. His life cast him as a transient figure, moving in and out of the shadows, waging his unending war against those who regarded the world as their personal playground on which to act out their evil. Bolan never bemoaned his self-appointed status. He considered himself a fortunate individual, able to strike out against the injustice that plagued so many. They were in no position to fight back. The Executioner acted on their behalf. It cast him as a loner, having to stand aside from normality , so any connections he had with his small gathering of real friends were cherished.

      Nelson’s request had been, true to the man’s nature, brief and succinct. He gave the date and location of the funeral, asked Brognola to attend, adding that he had something to discuss that wouldn’t keep. Brognola, in his role as Director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group, had his suspicions about what his old friend wanted to discuss.

      So Bolan was here, waiting in respectful silence as the crack of the honor guards’ rifles brought a reminder that while he no longer wore the uniform of his country, he still affirmed his legacy toward its military. He had worn his own uniform with pride, had fulfilled his term and still felt the loss when he was aware of any American who died for the cause. He’d seen pictures of Nelson’s son, Francis, over the years. Brognola told stories of the young man who was a carbon copy of his father. The last time had been just after Francis had donned the uniform. Nothing had been said but Bolan had seen the quiet pride in Brognola’s eyes as he spoke of the young soldier heading out on his first deployment.

      Now they were here, watching the boy being buried, and Bolan knew that the father would carry more than just grief in his heart.

      Bolan stayed where he was until Brognola and Nelson were alone at the graveside. Nelson’s head bowed, his broad shoulders starting to sag a little. The Executioner walked across the green lawn and joined them, taking his own silent moment to offer his thoughts.

      “Thanks for coming,” Nelson said. “Francis would have liked it that you were here,” he said to Brognola.

      “Goodbye, Francis. I’ll keep watch over you,” Nelson said. He reached out to lay a hand on Brognola’s shoulder. “We need to talk, Hal. I need your help.” He looked at Bolan, who simply nodded.

      As they walked the peaceful ground, surrounded by the silence that lay over America’s fallen, Nelson pushed himself erect again. He was as tall as Bolan. Older. In full dress uniform, displaying the campaign ribbons and medals he had won over the years, Dane Nelson was an imposing figure. Still lean and fit, only the graying hair and the faint pattern of lines in his face betrayed his age. Bolan had noticed the lack of shine in his eyes. The death of his son had sucked СКАЧАТЬ