Altered State. Don Pendleton

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      “Not anymore.”

      “I wonder.”

      Bolan couldn’t fault the lady Fed for being skeptical. Her own superiors had undermined her efforts against Carlisle and the Vanguard set, while the Afghan authorities played ostrich and banked their payoffs. Now, Bolan dropped in from out of the blue, and drafted Falk into an illicit war that might well get her killed.

      If she’d wanted to bail, Bolan wouldn’t have argued. And he knew it still might come to that. Meanwhile…

      “We’ve got the Plaza over there,” she told him, pointing to the left. “And coming up a half block farther down, that’s what I call the Vanguard Hilton.”

      It was different from the company’s headquarters, not so reminiscent of the Führerbunker in 1940s Berlin, but still secure enough with heavy gates and lookouts guarding entryways to the lobby and an underground garage.

      “What kind of vehicles does Carlisle stash downstairs?” Bolan asked.

      “Just the normal,” Falk replied. “You want to see the hardcore motor pool, with APCs and all, we’ll need to go west, to the Bala Kohi deh Afghanan district. Out by Kabul’s big TV tower.”

      “Let’s see it,” Bolan said. “And then I need to find out when Carlisle is moving freight.”