Enemies Within. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ soldiers of faith, an atomic whirl circling an “A” for atheists, and others bearing military emblems, infinity symbols, landing eagles, sandhill cranes, even pomegranates.

      Far off, drawing gradually closer, was a husky figure Bolan recognized instinctively, bringing a twitch to lips that rarely smiled these days.

      They’d met the first time during his campaign against Miami mafiosi, then again in Vegas, when they’d nearly joined forces. But Bolan had resisted government entanglement until the wrap-up of his “final mile” against the Mob, ending with his faked death in New York City’s Central Park, the alteration of his game face—not the first—and purging of all his records, just in case his fingerprints surfaced somewhere down the road.

      Since then, he’d risked his life for Hal Brognola and the team at Stony Man Farm—a covert antiterrorist organization based in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia—a thousand times, eliminated countless threats to the United States and civilized society around the world, but it would never be enough. No victory was ever claimed for good; no enemies were buried or incinerated who could not be easily replaced by other villains, equally as bad or worse.

      In short, a warrior’s work was never done.

      He started walking toward Brognola’s distant figure, planning on a meet halfway between their present places in the cemetery. At this hour, there were no tourists around, though that was bound to change since Arlington hosted some three million souls per year, or eighty-two hundred per day. It wouldn’t matter, even if they started clocking in by now, since visitors to Arlington were generally on their best behavior, leaving others to themselves, speaking in muted tones, seeking specific markers of the honored dead.

      If worse came to worst, a silent glare from the big Fed or Bolan should ensure they were not disturbed. There would be no need to produce the weapons both men carried concealed beneath their jackets.

      When they were close enough to speak without shouting, the two old friends greeted each other, closed the final gap and shook hands as they always did, like soldiers in a common cause, too long apart. Each knew the other’s story intimately, understood what set them on converging paths of no return.

      Both men knew how their journey would end, beyond doubt, but had not reached that point, although they would be ready for it when it came.

      As they released each other’s hands, Bolan asked, “What’s up? Your short text sounded serious.”

      “It’s always serious,” Brognola replied. “But this time...hell. I’m not sure what to make of it myself.”

      * * *

      “I guess you’re current on the US Army Rangers,” Brognola remarked as they made their way through the ranks of polished headstones, weathering to various degrees, one dating back to May of 1864 but lovingly maintained.

      “I’ve trained with Rangers on more than one occasion, and fought with them in the field, before Pittsfield. They’re based at Fort Benning. That’s about the size of it.”

      Brognola didn’t have to ask what Bolan meant by “Pittsfield.” It was the Executioner’s hometown in Massachusetts where a Mafia loan shark had hooked Sam, his father, and drawn Bolan’s sister, Cindy, into bondage with an escort service after Sam had been beaten, nearly crippled, for defaulting on his debt. Something inside Sam Bolan had snapped and he’d tried to spare his loved ones further shame by wiping out the family. The sole survivor had been Bolan’s younger brother, Johnny, who had shared the tragic story with his older brother, thus launching the Executioner upon his one-man hellfire trail against the Mob.

      “Then would it surprise you,” Brognola said, “if I said six Rangers have gone off the grid after declaring their loyalty to ISIS?”

      Bolan responded with a frown and said, “Surprise would be the least of it.”

      He’d followed ISIS in the media and classified reports from Stony Man. Officially it was a virulent al Qaeda splinter group whose terse initials stood for the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. Sometimes the leaders called it ISIL—the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant—or simply IS, the Islamic State. Their stated goal was to establish a worldwide Islamic caliphate, to which end, strangely, they waged war primarily against their fellow Muslims, razing villages and cities, scourging libraries, museums and random monuments of great historical significance to the Islamic culture. All of which, to Bolan, indicated raving psychopaths in charge.

      “Six Army Rangers going over?” he echoed, watching Brognola nod.

      “And not just any Rangers,” said the man from Justice. “There’s a major, a lieutenant colonel, with a captain, first lieutenant, plus a staff sergeant and sergeant.”

      “And we know this how?” Bolan inquired.

      “Their so-called manifesto,” Brognola replied, “which they are demanding we publish through official channels, send-ups on the Pentagon and White House websites, plus all major TV networks and the top ten US newspapers, with a combined readership exceeding 8.3 million.”

      “But you’ve held it back,” Bolan observed.

      “So far. We’re on a ticking clock.”

      “What happens when the clock strikes twelve?” Bolan inquired.

      “A ‘major terrorist event,’ whatever that means. Mega casualties, no hope of disguising it.”

      “You think they can deliver?”

      “There’s a chance they already have,” Brognola said. “A teaser, anyway. We’ve kept a lid on it so far.”

      “Particulars?”

      “Some kind of noxious gas attack in Baltimore, a shopping mall. Two dead, a couple dozen treated at the hospital for symptoms that resembled sarin poisoning. We’re calling it a leak, natural gas from one of the mall’s restaurants, and squaring it with their insurance carriers. The Rangers gave thumbs-up to burying the news for now, as long as we get cracking on the broadcast of their manifesto by high noon, the day after tomorrow.”

      “So much time?”

      “It seemed a little leisurely to me, as well,” the big Fed said.

      “I’m guessing that this outfit has a name?”

      “Funny about that,” Brognola replied. “They haven’t floated one, so far. That strikes me as a clumsy oversight.”

      “Unless it’s all a scam.”

      “Or that.”

      “I can’t help noting that this sounds like something for the MPs at Fort Benning. It’s their home turf, their people going rogue.”

      “They tried already. Kicked it upstairs to the CID, a task force supervised directly by the Provost Marshal General.”

      “I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Bolan observed.

      “You do. They traced their runners to North Carolina, to rented tourist quarters in a tiny town on Topsail Island. Ever heard of it?”

      “Can’t say I have,” Bolan replied.

      “I hadn’t, either. Anyway, they СКАЧАТЬ