Sabotage. Don Pendleton

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      “Some guy.” West shrugged. “He said his name was Richard Smith, which I thought was strange.”

      “Why?”

      “He was Chinese,” West said. “Or Japanese, or Korean, or whatever. Beats me. But he had an accent and didn’t look like a Richard Smith to me. But I figure, the government, it has its secrets and its reasons.”

      “How were you contacted to take this job?”

      “I just answered an ad in the paper,” West said. “They told me I was hired, and then told me I was sworn to secrecy, and told me it was my patriotic duty not to tell anybody what was really being built here, because it was for defense. Of course, man, why wouldn’t I? I love my country. I’d never sell it out.”

      “How did they know they could trust you?” Bolan asked.

      “I guess they must have looked at my records,” West said. “I mean, I just assumed I have a file somewhere, you know? And they paid me a ton of money. A guy would have to be crazy not to take that deal. Six figures to watch the factory floor and not tell anybody we’re making transmitter parts. Seemed okay to me, and I’m as patriotic as the next guy. They arranged for the security guys, too. I figure they’re like, what, contractors, like those guys in Iraq, right? Those company guys who go over and guard convoys and stuff. They never talked much and I didn’t ask. Why did you shoot them?”

      “Because they were trying to shoot me,” Bolan said. “West, forget everything you were told. This wasn’t a government facility. You’ve been duped, plain and simple.”

      “I…what?”

      “You weren’t protecting a government secret,” Bolan said. “I have my suspicions, but let’s just say you were working for the other side.”

      “Oh, God,” West said. “You’re kidding. What, like terrorists?”

      “It’s difficult to say,” Bolan said. “Don’t worry about it. Cooperate and everything will be fine.” He stood and helped the still-wobbling West to his feet. “Leave that shotgun right where it is. I suggest you get out of here and wait for the cops. Tell them what you told me. Are there any schematics or plans here?”

      “Oh, God,” West said, ignoring the question. “Oh, God, I tried to shoot a cop.”

      “I’m not a cop,” Bolan said.

      “You might as well be!” West said. “Look, man, you gotta help me. You gotta make them understand when they get here. I was just trying to do my patriotic duty, man. The owners said that ecoterrorists might show up and want to take us down, something about lead in the circuit boards. I didn’t ever figure it would come to that. Man, man, you gotta help me. I wasn’t trying to kill a cop, honest!”

      “I’m not a cop,” Bolan said. “Listen to me. Are there any schematics or plans here, any data on what you were building?”

      “I’ve got them,” West said. He rummaged absently around on his desk before producing a flash drive, which he handed to Bolan. “This should have all the latest designs on it. They haven’t changed much. Everything’s very much at the component level. No real way to tell what these go into, or what they do beyond the most general.”

      “All right,” Bolan said. “You should—”

      “You! In the building!” a voice amplified by a megaphone shouted from outside. “Come out with your hands up!”

      “They’re here already!” West said. He bolted before Bolan could grab him.

      “Wait!” Bolan said.

      “I have to make sure they understand!” West called, running. “I’m no cop killer!”

      Bolan took off after him, but as West hit the double doors, the soldier had one of his battlefield premonitions, a flash of instinct. As he threw himself to the side of the doors, catching a glimpse of West running outside through the outer pair, he realized what had tipped him off. There had been no sirens.

      The automatic gunfire cut down Hal West. Bringing up the Tavor, Bolan quickly loaded a 40 mm grenade in the launcher mounted under the barrel.

      He waited for a lull in the gunfire, indicating the men outside were reloading. The Executioner had expected them to stagger their fire, but they were apparently overconfident in their numbers. He risked a quick peek around the edge of the doorway, through the mess of what had once been both sets of double doors.

      Two gray Suburbans were parked out front. The men firing from behind the cover of those vehicles wielded M-4 assault rifles, dripping with accessories. Every weapon had an elaborate red-dot aiming system, foregrip, laser and flashlight pods, and a variety of other add-ons.

      “There!” one of the armed men pointed in Bolan’s direction. The soldier ducked back behind cover as 5.56 mm bullets chipped away at the battered door frame.

      He’d seen enough. He thrust the snout of the Tavor and its grenade launcher through the opening, trusting to luck and his own speed to prevent the weapon from catching a round, then he triggered it.

      The grenade caught the lead Suburban, blowing apart the first quarter of the vehicle and sending hot shrapnel in every direction. As the explosion died away, the soldier could hear the screams of his enemies. There was more than one wailing voice. At least two, perhaps more of the shooters had been caught in the blast.

      He reloaded the grenade launcher, then repeated the same rattlesnake-fast movement, shoving the nose of the weapon into the gap of the doorway and triggering a second grenade. The explosion, like the one before it, brought a wave of heat pressing through the shattered double doors. Bolan waited and was rewarded with a secondary blast of some kind. Something in one of the damaged vehicles, perhaps extra fuel, perhaps explosives, had caught and detonated.

      Sparing the corpse of Hal West a final glance, the Executioner walked out into the flaming hellscape.

      Bodies were scattered in and around the two burning vehicles. Some of the shrapnel had damaged two of the nearby parked cars, shattering their windshields and flattening a tire on the closer vehicle. Bolan checked each of the dead men, making sure no one was playing possum. He found only one man still alive, lying on his back behind one of the shattered trucks, staring into the sky trying to breathe with a collapsed lung. His shirt was soaked through with blood. An M-4 lay on the asphalt nearby, forgotten.

      Bolan stood over him. He aimed the Tavor at the man’s head, one-handed.

      “You’re…one…tough bastard,” the dying man gasped.

      “Who do you work for?”

      “Card’s…in my pocket,” the man said. Evidently, as death approached, he felt no compelling urge to remain loyal to his employers.

      “SCAR?” Bolan asked.

      “Yeah,” the man wheezed. “Was…Army.”

      “And now you’re a mercenary,” Bolan guessed.

      “Yeah.” The wounded man’s voice was growing weaker.

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