Stand Down. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ breathing was an effort, to say nothing of trying to force air out to warn him off.

      “Sandra? Sandra, where are you—oh my God!” Jack rushed in, skidding to a stop as he saw his wife slumped against the cabinets in a large pool of blood. “Jesus Christ—” He fumbled for his cell phone as she tried to form words while nodding toward the hallway.

      For fuck’s sake, she thought. He isn’t paying attention…again…

      “Mr. Bitterman, so glad you could join us.” Sandra watched as Deputy Quintanar’s words made Jack freeze with the cell phone at his ear. For a moment, he was oblivious to the pistol in the other man’s hand, then he recovered his poise and pointed at Sandra.

      “Why the hell are you just standing there? My wife’s been shot! Help her, for God’s sake!” Jack stared at the deputy while waiting for his call to connect. Deputy Quintanar didn’t move a muscle toward Sandra, but turned toward Jack, his pistol more visible now.

      “What are you doing?”

      “We’ve noticed several discrepancies in the month-end statements—amounts not matching up in various accounts, that sort of thing. We’ve traced the discrepancies to your department. You are going to return with me to company headquarters to answer some questions Mr. De Cavallos would like to ask you.”

      Jack’s eyes widened as he realized what the deputy was there for. Sandra rolled her own eyes in disgust. Dumb bastard not only gets himself in trouble, but just makes it worse, she thought. With the last of her strength, she heaved the decanter of hot coffee at the deputy’s crotch.

      The scalding liquid splashed over his pants, making him shout in pain. Jack seized the distraction to leap for the pistol on the counter. Sandra heard a flurry of shots explode around her as her senses dimmed, her vision fading to black, her last memory the scent of Kona Blend coffee mingling with the coppery smell of blood all over her formerly spotless kitchen floor.

      1

      Damn, that horizon just keeps moving away, no matter how fast I drive toward it, Mack Bolan thought as he stared out at the endless prairie surrounding him on all sides. The gently rolling grassland was split only by the concrete ribbon of Interstate 70, stretching into infinity both in front of him to the east and behind him to the west. Occasionally the stark landscape would be broken up by a truck stop or restaurant near an exit, but for the most part there was nothing but Bolan, his car and the plains.

      He smiled grimly as he considered the apt metaphor of the horizon, always retreating, endlessly out of reach. A lesser man would consider his personal crusade against the enemies of freedom in much the same way—always struggling to reach an ever-elusive goal. Bolan took a more pragmatic view of his ultimate objective. As he’d once said, “Every terrorist I kill, every madman I eliminate, every criminal I put in the ground, that’s one less psychotic thug in the world menacing innocent people. If the job takes the rest of my life, then that’s what it will take.”

      His commitment to his crusade against the enemies of freedom and liberty notwithstanding, after his last mission on the West Coast, Bolan, aka the Executioner, decided to take a few days of downtime and drive back to his base of operations, Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Although he was aware of several hot spots that could use his special kind of attention, he also knew constant combat took its toll on any warrior. The trip east had seemed to be a perfect solution at first. He’d planned to relax by driving the entire way, but after a half day of the endless Midwest grasslands, he was beginning to regret his decision. That was the problem with the prairie—absolutely nothing happened or changed out here. Maybe he’d drop the car off in Kansas City or Chicago and hop an airplane.

      At least his rental car was comfortable. The slate-gray Cadillac SRX crossover rode across the asphalt as if he were driving a cloud. Bolan was half worried he might fall asleep if something didn’t change soon.

      Then something did happen—the low gas light turned on with a polite chime, almost as if the car were too polite to draw his attention to its condition. Bolan eyed the dashboard, then hit the GPS for the next gas station, locating one just a few miles away. Pulling in a few minutes later, he glanced around the barren refueling station, which had one other car in the parking lot. He filled the tank, and saw the sign as he was walking to the cinder-block building to pay.

      Visit Quincyville

      The Best Little Town in the Midwest!

      Unlike most of the road signs out here, the red, white and blue board was as fresh and new as if it had been put up yesterday. Bolan stared at it for a moment, then headed inside.

      Even though it was early spring, the air-conditioning was on full blast inside the store. Bolan paid his bill in cash, then nodded at the sign, still visible through the window. “Where’s Quincyville?”

      The clerk, a clean-cut teenager, pointed east along the high way. “Just head down another mile, take exit 27, turn left and go about five miles up.”

      “A little slice of Midwest America, huh?”

      The kid frowned. “If you say so. They wouldn’t even be there if it wasn’t for that bug pharmaceutical company on the outskirts. Saved the whole place from dryin’ up and blowin’ away.”

      “Is that so? Any place good to eat there?”

      “Rollins’s Restaurant on Main Street has the best chicken-fried steak in the county. Hobo stew’s good, too.”

      Bolan considered it, his stomach chiming in to add its emptiness to the internal discussion. “Thanks for the tip.”

      “You’re welcome, and have a good day.”

      Bolan nodded as he headed out into the warm afternoon. Getting back in his car, he got on the highway and followed the kid’s directions. Less than ten minutes later, he saw a picture-perfect small town on the horizon. As he approached, Bolan noticed a cluster of several large, white buildings on his right. The complex was at the end of a double lane paved road with a manned guard shack at the end. The perimeter around the buildings was ringed with an eight-foot cyclone fence topped with double rows of razor wire. Between the road and the fence was a sign that read Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company.

      Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight. Typically, U.S. drug companies outsourced their labs overseas, not the other way around. Still, if they were making it work…

      Cresting a hill, he saw a lone mansion in the distance on his left, with two police cars out front and yellow crime scene tape around the house. Bolan slowed the Cadillac and casually studied the scene as he passed, then shook his head as he headed into town. Seemed nowhere was picture-perfect anymore.

      Passing a Walmart with a packed parking lot, he drove up Main Street, which was neat and clean in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Pickups and midsize sedans filled the parking spaces, along with a scattering of luxury cars here and there. People were out and about, but they were few and far between, all intent on their business. Bolan passed the usual buildings—drug store, local grocery store, freestanding department store, more gas stations, various fast-food restaurants.

      He found the Rollins place at the north end of town, an unassuming clapboard building that looked like it had been built in the 1950s. The parking lot was also filled, which Bolan took as a good sign. He found a spot on the end, almost in the weeds, and got out, glancing at the back seat to make sure his black duffel bag hadn’t shifted during the trip. Satisfied that it was secure, he locked up the Caddy and headed СКАЧАТЬ