Dark Savior. Don Pendleton

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      Washington, D.C., One Day Earlier

      Mack Bolan walked among the tourists and joggers at the National Mall, but he hadn’t come to see the sights. Somewhere amid the shrines to embattled democracy, among the ambling visitors, another man was watching for him or en route to keep their scheduled rendezvous, a man who might send Bolan to his death.

      The risk of meeting here was minimal, by Bolan’s normal standard. No one in D.C. knew his face, except the man he’d come to see. Some might recall his name, but if they heard it spoken, it would likely jar a fading memory of his reported death. Oh, that guy, they’d say. I heard something about him once. He’s long gone.

      And they’d be correct, in part. Mack Bolan had been buried in a ceremony thronged by paparazzi, laid to rest forever with his famous face and fingerprints. The tall man strolling down the southern side of the Reflecting Pool toward the Korean War Veterans Memorial was someone else entirely. But he waged the same long war.

      Approaching the memorial, Bolan spotted Hal Brognola, director of the ultrasecret, antiterrorist Sensitive Operations Group standing beneath the steel soldiers.

      “I’ve got something up your alley,” Brognola said.

      “I got that much on the phone,” Bolan replied. “Care to share the details?”

      “Did you hear about a shooting in New Mexico two days ago? Las Cruces?”

      Bolan frowned in thought. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

      “Three U.S. marshals KIA,” Brognola explained. “It played on CNN for half a day or so.”

      “Missed it,” Bolan replied.

      “They were on WITSEC duty, covering a witness set to testify in New York City, day after tomorrow.”

      “That’s a rarity,” Bolan said. “Not the coverage, the shooting.”

      “Right. The service has a pretty solid track record. But things went wrong this time.”

      “And the witness?”

      “Gone.”

      “Taken?”

      “The marshals and the FBI say no. There’s evidence—don’t ask me what—that he bailed out before the shooters went in gunning for him. DOJ’s convinced he’s in the wind.”

      “A dumb move,” Bolan said. “Except it saved his life.”

      “Short term,” Brognola said. “Smart money says the shooters will be after him, trying to take him out before the marshals reel him in. Both sides are gambling big time on a win.”

      “They have to find him first,” Bolan observed.

      “As it turns out, that’s not the problem.”

      “Oh?”

      “We’ve zeroed in on his location.”

      “Is it definite?”

      “Good as,” Brognola said.

      “So pick him up.”

      “Not so easy,” Brognola said. “You’ll love this part. He’s in a monastery.”

      Bolan cut a glance toward the big Fed but said nothing.

      Brognola forged ahead. “You know the rules surrounding sanctuary?”

      “It’s political,” Bolan said.

      “Not in this case. Think medieval, as in pilgrims fleeing persecution.”

      “So, religious.”

      “Bingo.”

      “I’m no lawyer, but I’ve never heard of a statute in the States that recognizes any church’s right to harbor fugitives.”

      “Because there isn’t one. We have a free press, though, and when you think about the Bureau’s history with sieges, going back to Ruby Ridge and Waco, down to Cliven Bundy in Nevada...well, let’s say nobody wants a repetition in the spotlight.”

      “That’s a problem,” Bolan granted.

      “Plus, if we know where he is, the hunters know. They’re well-financed and well-connected, through their sponsors.”

      “Let me guess. The folks your witness planned to put away.”

      “The very same.”

      “Can’t say I like his odds.”

      “He needs a hand, no question. I was thinking, maybe yours.”

      “You think the monks will pass him off to me?”

      “They’re brothers, technically. And no. You’d have to go in uninvited. Try to make them see the light.”

      “Because that’s so much better than a siege.”

      “I hope so, anyway.”

      Bolan stopped short and faced Brognola. “Rewind. I need to hear it from the top.”

      Brognola launched into how it all began. The missing witness was a CPA, one Arthur Watson, thirty-one and never married, formerly employed by a low-profile megabank, U.S. Global Finance. Bolan had not heard of them before and said so.

      “That’s no accident,” Hal told him. “The outfit is privately owned by some billionaire types—three Americans, one Saudi and a Russian autocrat. There are no other shareholders, so you won’t find them on the New York Stock Exchange, NASDAQ or any of the rest. They specialize in large commercial deals worldwide, taking in money from depositors and then recycling it as low-interest loans.”

      “In other words, a money laundry,” Bolan said.

      “Big time. Justice has tracked connections to Colombian and Mexican cartels, the Russian mob, the Yakuza, a couple dozen shady government officials from the Balkans and on across the Middle East to Africa. And that’s without our homegrown filthy rich—owners of two casino chains, some Wall Street sharks, plus a fellow in Atlanta who just beat a human trafficking indictment when the prosecution’s witnesses went belly-up.”

      “The DOJ knows this, but can’t put anything together?”

      “Couldn’t,” Brognola corrected him, “until this Arthur Watson suffered an attack of conscience after five years of cooking their books. From what I hear, he never managed to explain the change of heart. Just tumbled out of bed one morning and decided he should do something about it. He approached the IRS in Philadelphia, where he was living at the time. They handed him to Justice. Watson spilled his guts, and two weeks back we got a sealed indictment on the top three officers at U.S. Global. Sheldon Page, the president, was on vacation in the south of France, and the FBI held off on busting the other two, CEO Cornell Dubois and CFO Reginald Manson, until Page got back Monday night.”

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