Contagion Option. Don Pendleton

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      “There’ve been sightings around Dugway Proving Grounds. There’s nothing solid, but it could be attempts by foreign governments to penetrate security,” Reader said. “By the same token, Chinese military technology is showing up in the hands of local Korean street gangs.”

      Graham nodded. “Weapons and communications equipment, yeah. And the government wanted you to take part?”

      “Dugway Proving Grounds is one of the nation’s major storage facilities for biological and chemical weaponry, and the sightings of unknown aircraft suggests a potential for enemy stealth capacity. The FBI and the military have both been concerned, but any full-fledged response would garner too much attention,” Reader explained.

      “And how did you hear about this?” Graham asked.

      “Dugway UFO watchers have their own BBS, and their sightings came to my attention,” Reader replied. “It took only a little bit of digging through the Defense Department’s mainframe to verify these sightings and put the high command on alert, but you know how the Pentagon moves.”

      “Yeah. By the time they come up with a security or tactical solution, the war’s been over for twenty years,” Graham grumbled. “You embarrassed the Pentagon into putting you on this case?”

      Reader nodded. “I also noticed that you were handed this investigation because you and your partner are on the Department of Justice shit list.”

      “Yeah. We embarrassed the DEA into giving up one of their witnesses who was responsible for the murder of an FBI agent. So, we’re stuck looking into the crap cases, working the phones for the Secret Service for when the Man comes around,” Graham answered. “Hell, we’ve even been assigned to try to find a way to get undercover into the Amish Mafia.”

      Reader raised an eyebrow. “The Amish are in Pennsylvania.”

      “That last bit was a joke, Stretch.”

      Reader shrugged. “I’m here to take you away from all this. I can even hire your partner, Rachel.”

      “We wouldn’t want to give up our pension,” Graham replied.

      Reader chuckled. “Graham, if it’s a pension or health benefits you’re worried about, don’t worry. I’ve got it all covered.”

      Graham frowned. “And you think this isn’t just some UFO case?”

      “There have been enough rumbles out in the whisper stream that there is something deep and dark. All it takes is to scratch the surface,” Reader replied. He held out his hand. “I want you on my team, Graham.”

      The big FBI agent took his friend’s hand. “All right.”

      Stan Reader and his friend headed back to the Park City lodge. As they turned, Reader caught the flash of light on glass out of the corner of his eye. A shadow disappeared behind a pine tree, clumps of snow crashing onto the unmarked powder.

      He wondered who would be so interested in a scientist and an FBI agent having a ski weekend.

      Gulf of Thailand.

      IT TOOK BOLAN SEVERAL minutes to convince the people in the cargo containers to stay put. There were too many armed killers on the upper decks, and if they started exploring, they might discover Pham and take out some revenge on the pirate. As far as the Executioner was concerned, being terrified and battered was sufficient punishment for the Vietnamese smuggler. Besides, Pham would be his messenger to the Thai underworld.

      Finally, the former slaves were convinced to stay in the hold. The pile of dead smugglers exuded a wave of dread that the young Asians wouldn’t want to pass by. Some even stood back as puddles of blood continued to seep from the bodies.

      Bolan liberated a shotgun from one of the dead guards, then filled his pockets with spare shells. Their AK-47s were fairly effective weapons, but in the confined spaces of the ship, a single blast of buckshot would prove more effective. The 12-gauge was made for up-close and dirty work.

      The sounds of the blazing battle had drawn attention. As soon as Bolan had snapped Pham’s ankle, he heard the ship’s phone ring, trying to reach the guards in the hold. Bolan let the phone ring, knowing that the response would attract enemy forces.

      As he headed to the hallway, he spotted furtive movements at the end and tucked against a bulkhead. Shielded by a steel girder, he leveled the 12-gauge around the corner. As soon as he spotted a solid shape, Bolan triggered the shotgun and a savage storm of buckshot ripped into the enemy.

      Screams of panic and horror filled the corridor, and Bolan racked the pump on his gun and looked at the attacking force. The first man was down, his chest ripped apart by the shotgun blast. Two more behind him were pinned by the corpse. One screamed, covered in blood, clutching his chest in pain. The other tried to push his dead and injured partners aside, cursing them angrily. The Executioner fired again. The thug’s skull burst apart under the brutal blast, and his corpse flopped to the floor.

      The injured sailor wailed even more loudly in horror, covering his head with his arms as if to preserve his life. Bolan ignored him and pumped the shotgun again, aiming at another gunman who had sprayed the bulkhead with rifle fire. The girder Bolan had hidden behind protected him, the heavy steel bouncing bullets away. With a pull of the trigger, the soldier launched another wave of shot, and the rifle fire stopped for a moment. The muzzle poked out again and erupted, spraying wildly before he ducked back.

      The wounded sailor suddenly fell silent. His scalp had flipped forward like a wind-blown toupee, brains and blood splashed across the wall. Bolan heard a cry of dismay as the remaining hardmen realized that they’d just killed one of their own. The Executioner took the time to reload, then leaped across the trio of corpses and took cover closer to the intersection where his enemy was hidden.

      One of the guards leaned out with a handgun to get a better shot at Bolan, but the shotgun roared again, its payload gouging out a generous chunk of flesh and bone. The gunner slumped lifelessly to the ground, dark eyes staring glassily at nothing.

      That was enough for the rifleman. Bolan heard the panicked sound of retreating feet. The soldier slung the shotgun and drew the Desert Eagle in one smooth motion as he hurled himself into the intersection. The fleeing rifleman heard the Executioner hit the corridor wall and tried to turn to bring his rifle to bear. Bolan triggered his .44 Magnum pistol first, a heavy slug smashing through the man’s shoulder, detonating the joint as if it were a grenade. It continued to plow through his neck and destroy vertebrae in its wake.

      The gunner’s corpse flopped, his head bouncing limply on the deck.

      The handgunner’s radio crackled on his belt and Bolan scooped it up. The captain was cursing in Italian, wondering where the hell his men were.

      “They’re all dead,” Bolan replied in Italian. “You’re welcome to join them.”

      He then hit the mute button on the radio and contacted Grimaldi. “Blind them. Anyone tries to get off the ship…”

      “I got it, Sarge,” the Stony Man pilot responded. “Nobody but you and the cargo are getting off the ship.”

      “I’ve got one messenger to send back to Thailand, too,” Bolan amended. “Give these flesh smugglers something to dream about while I’m gone.”

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