Nuclear Storm. Don Pendleton

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       The van surged forward, now only about ten yards away. A shadow appeared in the van’s side window again, and that was when Bolan made his move.

       Holding the wheel steady with his left hand, he lowered the driver’s window, stuck out the MP-9, and emptied the magazine into the van’s windshield. The laminated safety glass was tough, but not designed to take that kind of abuse. It shattered into hundreds of tiny nuggets as the burst of fire chopped the heads and chests of the driver and front passenger into pâté.

       With no one at the wheel, the van slewed to the left, cutting off a BMW as it careened hard into the concrete divider, sparks flying as its front fender crumpled under the impact. Bolan glanced back in time to see it flip onto its side, skidding down the road toward him. Increasing the gas, Bolan watched the van recede in his rearview mirror as the traffic began to slow and bottleneck behind it.

       About a mile later, he reached the turnoff for the airport and took it. “Where am I going, Akira?”

       “Follow the signs for T2 Boulevard, and keep bearing right. Your private jet is awaiting you at the second hangar.”

       Bolan rounded one more turn and saw a sleek Gulfstream G650 jet waiting. “Well, at least I get to ride back in style.”

       “You can thank the State Department for the ride. Word is they confiscated it from a drug smuggler in Bogotá, and Hal has the pull to use it, no questions asked.”

       Bolan pulled up next to the hangar and turned off the engine.

       Sliding out of the driver’s seat, Bolan opened the back passenger door and unbuckled his cargo, who was still snoring loudly. “Slept through the whole thing.”

       Tossing the unconscious man over his shoulder, Bolan headed for the entry stairs to the jet.

       “Good to see you, Mr. Cooper. I trust you had a pleasant time in Singapore?” The pilot grinned.

       “What the hell’re you doing here, Jack?”

       Jack Grimaldi pushed back the pilot’s cap on his head and grinned. “Well, Dragon Slayer is undergoing some upgrades to its flight computers, and Able and Phoenix are handling missions that don’t need my special talents, so when Hal said they needed someone to extract your ass out of Singapore, and that the someone would be piloting a brand-new Gulfstream, who was I to refuse?”

       Bolan grinned at his long-time pilot and good friend’s enthusiasm. “Well, let me stow my package and let’s get out of here. I’m due a long rest after chasing this guy all over Southeast Asia for the past two weeks, and this flight’ll be a good start.”

       “Aww, and here I thought you and I’d hit the town once you’d wrapped up your business.” Grimaldi followed Bolan up the steps, poking the limp Dae-jung. “Anyone I should know?”

       “Only if you have a terrible interest in North Korea’s nuclear program.”

       “Nah, I’ll leave that to the government types.” Grimaldi activated the door controls to seal the door and pressurize the interior as he headed to the cockpit while Bolan secured their passenger. As he sat Dae-jung in a plush, white leather captain’s chair, the scientist convulsed once, then hunched over and vomited—all over the carpet and Bolan’s shoes.

       Staring at the mess, Bolan just shook his head. “Perfect.”

      Chapter 4

      Binoculars in hand, Park Ranger Sarah Dantlinger scanned the rocky terrain, searching for the slightest movement below as the Bell 206A JetRanger helicopter skimmed over Yellowstone National Park at one thousand feet. Beside her, pilot Mark Azoff kept the chopper straight and level as he perused the lush forest and grassy meadows on their left side.

       “Got anything yet?” she asked over the intercom.

       “Nope. You’re sure they’re out here somewhere?”

       “That’s what ground said—five hikers on a day trip along Specimen Ridge. I just wish we’d had more information from their distress call.”

       The two park rangers were looking for a family of five that had called in a patchy distress call on a cell phone. Since the call was too garbled to make out exactly what they were saying, headquarters had dispatched Dantlinger and Azoff in the Bell to locate the hikers and assess their situation.

       Dantlinger continued scanning the area, her Zeiss binoculars making the parched meadows and forest leap into sharp relief below. She caught a black bear foraging for food to add to its winter bulk, and a fox that was there one moment and gone the next as the chopper’s clatter made it dart into the underbrush.

       “Wait a minute! I got a trail!” Azoff slewed the Bell around so Dantlinger could get a look at the line of crushed grass that meandered across a field and petered out in some foothills. Following the line with her optics, Dantlinger saw a man waving his shirt over his head about one hundred yards away.

       “Got ’em! Can you put it down here?”

       “It looks all right from here, but that grass could be hiding a stump, branch, or rock—too dangerous to risk a full touchdown. I’m gonna have to hover and let you off.”

       “Okay.”

       Thirty seconds later, Dantlinger opened the door and stepped out onto the landing skid. Holding her flat-brimmed ranger’s hat in her hand, the wash from the rotors made her blink against the powerful wind. The ground was a few feet below, and she jumped carefully, ready to tuck and roll if she had to. Fortunately she landed on solid, level ground. Ducking as she sprinted away from the blurred blades spinning overhead, Dantlinger ran to the man, who hadn’t come out to meet her, but was waiting at the base of the hill.

       “Thanks for coming. Hey, where’s he going?” the man asked as Azoff powered the chopper back into the air. He was only a few inches taller than Dantlinger’s five-feet-six-inches, with the beginnings of a pot belly. He was inappropriately dressed for the season, in khaki cargo pants, a T-shirt and the plaid, short-sleeved madras shirt he’d used as a signal. Despite the short autumn day, his face was pink from exposure to the sun.

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