Alexandria, Virginia
Mack Bolan brought the rented Dodge Challenger to a halt in one of the condominium’s designated spaces. The morning was bright, crisp and clear. Rolling the window down, he inhaled deeply. It was going to be a beautiful day.
His secure satellite phone buzzed. He snapped it open and put it to his ear.
“Striker,” Hal Brognola said. “Where are you?”
“Not far away. Running a little errand.”
“I’ve just finished reading your debrief at the Farm,” Brognola said. “I have to admit, you had me a little worried there.”
“You know me, Hal. Or you should.”
“Yes,” Brognola agreed. “I should. And I do.”
“You saw my request?” Bolan asked.
“I did. And I can make those arrangements.”
“Good,” Bolan said. “I want Russell Troy’s record sealed. He deserves to be buried with honors. He’s a hero. If not for him, Hyde would be dead. Whatever he did wrong, whatever else he tried, Russell Troy gave his life doing the right thing.”
“I’ll explain it to the Man,” Brognola said. “I don’t think it will be too hard a sell. We’re already gleaning useful intelligence in the interrogation of Shane Hyde, which is what the President wanted in the first place. That goes a long way.”
“How is Hyde, anyway?” Bolan asked.
“The doctors say he’ll live.” Brognola’s voice turned sour. “Which is not to say he’ll ever play the piano, or even feed himself again, necessarily.”
Bolan had nothing to say to that.
“There’s something else,” Brognola said. “Hyde gave up a cache of documents in a storage area, materials Twelfth Reich were archiving. There were videotapes, recordings of everything from television shows to, well, Hyde’s torture sessions.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“We believe, in going through the evidence, we’ll be able to make several more arrests. Your operation racked up quite a body count, Striker, and a lot of members of Twelfth Reich are dead. Using what we now have, we’ll be able to round up the others relatively easily. And we have ironclad evidence of their guilt, of their association with Hyde’s terrorist group.”
“Good,” Bolan said. “What about the European terror ops and the Reich’s other domestic targets?”
“Without Hyde to ramrod things on this end, the domestic issues are effectively ended,” Brognola said. “We have teams of blacksuits conducting raids this morning to collect any stragglers and verify from Hyde’s notes and records that nothing he was thinking of doing in future is being executed by any of his followers.”
“If you need help,” Bolan said, “I’ll be free shortly.”
“We should have it under control,” Brognola replied. He paused. Bolan could sense his hesitation.
“What is it, Hal?”
“Striker, I’ve watched the video of what was done to Troy’s family.”
“I’m sorry,” Bolan said.
“I wish I could un-see it,” Brognola admitted. “But Hyde’s injuries…”
“Are you going to tell me I was excessive?” Bolan said without inflection.
“No,” Brognola stated. “I was going to say I admire your restraint.”
Bolan digested that. “Troy went astray. He took the wrong path. He chose revenge over justice, when what he wanted—what he needed—was the second of the two. But he came back at the end. Nobody understands that choice better than I do.”
“No, of course not,” Brognola said. “Now, looking through your report, I do have some questions.”
“Shoot.”
“I see that you’ve recommended the FBI’s Michael Wood for commendation.”
“Service above and beyond the call, Hal,” Bolan said. “And posthumously, an Agent Greene.”
“Yes, I have it here,” Brognola said. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said.
“How are your hands?”
“Healing well,” Bolan said. “They itch a bit now. Peeling skin and so on. The Farm’s medical team said it was like I sunburned my palms.”
Brognola clucked his tongue admonishingly. “I’ve read the report. They said it was a bit more serious than that. Frankly, you’re lucky to have suffered no permanent ill effects. If you were anyone else I’d have ordered you out of the field after incurring an injury like that.”
“I wouldn’t have gone.”
“But I’d have ordered,” Brognola said.
Bolan laughed. “Understood. Anything else?”
“A few things, yes. Among them, I have here on my desk a rather damning report. From the boss of a Harmon Margrave of Homeland Security.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Brognola said. “Striker, Margrave’s laid it on pretty thick. Accuses you of everything from a ‘psychopathic disregard for authority’ to ‘violent tendencies’ and ‘poor impulse control.’ Says you suffer from a ‘pathological disregard for the hierarchy of command,’ that you’re a danger to yourself and others… . Well, it goes on. He’s also appended a medical bill.”
“Medical bill?”
“I’ll spare you the exact language,” Brognola said. “It essentially says you broke his face.”
“You want me to turn in my decoder ring?” Bolan asked.
“Given what was included in your debrief concerning Margrave,” Brognola said, “I really don’t believe that’s going to be necessary. Actually, I was thinking a transfer might be in order for Harmon Margrave. Somewhere his particular talents can best be put to use in the service of the United States government.”
“Did you have something in mind?”
“Alaska,” Brognola said. “Definitely Alaska. Northern Alaska, in fact.”
“I can’t disagree,” Bolan replied.
“Speaking of DHS, we’ve uncovered some breaches using the Farm’s back-trace program, now that we know what to look for,” Brognola said. “Sensitive information about your assignment was passed from one Peter Copley, a paper pusher at DHS, to Troy. Copley’s facing a pretty dark hole, unfortunately for him. He rolled over almost immediately when he was detained for questioning.”
“That’s not the only housecleaning needed,” Bolan said. “Barb gave me the particulars on Wong, the FBI employee fingered by one of Troy’s rogue agents. That’s where I am now.”
“Benjamin ‘Buster’ Wong, yes,” Brognola said. “I have the file here. It was a given that Troy had sympathizers within the Bureau or a connected agency, of course. He knew everything the Bureau and DHS knew about Hyde’s organization, and it was from those sources that we built our mission plans. That’s how Troy was able to keep up with us, and with them. The Department of Homeland Security knew about your involvement per your Justice cover, but only the FBI had the priority target list from which Troy culled the safe house locations in Alamogordo, not to mention the details of the train hijacking.”
“Maybe Wong and Copley can room together in Club Fed,” Bolan said.
“Be careful, Striker,” Brognola said. “Our liaison within the Bureau tells me they’ve notified Wong that he’s the subject of an internal investigation. The cat is out of the bag. If you come knocking on his door, he may realize he’s caught, and try to put a bullet in you.”
“I always assume that’s a possibility when I meet new people,” Bolan said, only half joking. “Whose bright idea was it to tip off Wong that we were onto him? That’s not exactly standard procedure.”
“It’s either bureaucratic foolishness,” Brognola said, “or someone sympathetic within the FBI trying to give Wong advance warning so he could skip town.”
Bolan glanced out his window at the driveway of Wong’s condominium. “His car is still here. Unless he walked, it doesn’t look like he’s left Alexandria just yet.”
“I’ll check into the matter as far as is possible,” Brognola promised. “But I don’t think it’s likely we’ll find anyone else to put our hands on, not just yet. Some level of interdepartmental corruption is always going to exist.”
“I know,” Bolan said. “But I don’t have to like it. Striker out.” He snapped the phone shut.
Making sure no one noticed him, the soldier circled around to the back of the condominium. Wong’s unit was on the second floor. Bolan took the stairs and, positioning himself next to the door, rapped on it.
No one stirred within. He knocked again. When there was no response, he checked the area and, deciding his lock pick would take more time than he wished to invest, he prepared to fire off a kick near the doorknob. Before he could do so, however, a thought occurred to him. He stopped, planted his foot and tried the knob.
The door swung inward.
Bolan stepped into the living room, which was empty. In the kitchen he found empty bottles of vodka on the counter and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts on the table. The smell of stale smoke hung heavily throughout the condominium suite.
He found Buster Wong in the bathroom.
Wong had used an extension cord. He had tied it to the showerhead, wrapping the other end around his throat, and had let his body weight do the rest. Bolan checked for a note, but there was none.
Wong had died badly. There had been no opportunity for a clean neck break here. The disgraced FBI agent had instead slowly strangled as the cord dug deeply into the flesh of his neck.
Bolan left the bathroom. He made his way back out through the living room, running one last visual check to make sure everything was in order. There were no signs of foul play. Buster Wong had been unable to handle the consequences of his actions and had ended his own life.
The soldier left the dead man’s home, quietly closing the door behind him. He had come here to make sure justice was done.
Justice, for a change, had gotten there before him.
* * * * *