Code Of Honor

First, Brognola called up four of the images, which were all crime-scene photos of dead bodies, and arranged them on the screen so Bolan could see all four.

There was a man with thinning brown hair lying against a rock in a grassy area, a woman with short steel-gray hair lying dead in a city street with a bullet wound in her back, an overweight man with his head literally blown off in a parking lot and a bald man with multiple stab wounds in his chest.

“You’re looking at Albert Bethke, Michaela Grosso, Terrence Redmond and Richard Lang.”

Bolan started at the third name. “Redmond’s been retired from the NSA for, what, ten years?”

“Twelve. And that’s something he has in common with the other three. They’re all people with a history of covert ops, and they’re all retired. Bethke was one of the people who set up DHS after 9/11, and before that he was NSA and FBI. Grosso and Lang were both CIA. They were all killed over the course of the past week or so—assassinated by the Black Cross.”

“You’re sure?”

Brognola hesitated. “No. But the evidence points to it.”

“The lack of evidence, you mean.”

“Yes,” Brognola said reluctantly. “There’s virtually no evidence at any of the crime scenes. No hairs, no fibers, no fingerprints save those of the victims, no biological residue for DNA save those of the victims, no shell casings or bullets at the scene or in any of the bodies despite the presence of bullet wounds, and almost all the blood traces that aren’t compromised by liberal application of bleach are also the victims’.” Brognola called up several more files, which were also digital photos. “Any number of killings over the years have matched this total lack of evidence. The FBI has a file a mile long on these—I know, ’cause I’m the one who started it. Of course, some of those are your executions, but the ones that aren’t…”

“The rumors about the Black Cross go back to my Army days,” Bolan said. “An elite group of assassins made up of the best of the best.”

“I know. And I know that there’s nothing to support it.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, just because the theory fits the evidence—or lack of same—doesn’t mean it’s right. And we’ve got nothing solid, except for the fact that local police were completely stymied. They kicked it up to FBI, and they brought it to me.”

Bolan scratched his chin thoughtfully. “When you referred to the evidence, you said ‘virtually’ and ‘almost.’ What’s different about these crime scenes from all the other ones you think are Black Cross?”

Brognola actually smiled at that, pleased that Bolan noticed how carefully he’d chosen his words. “Not ‘these,’ just the one. Bethke was killed in the Mohonk woodlands in New York. Two distinct sets of blood evidence were bleached far away from Bethke’s body—but there were a few drops of blood that weren’t bleached, and didn’t belong to Bethke. DNA identifies it as belonging to a former sharpshooter in Baltimore City PD’s Quick Response Team named Bert Hanson. He retired after only nine years on the job and then fell off the grid.”

“You think Black Cross recruited him?” Bolan asked.

“Makes sense. If I was looking for assassins, the QRT would be on my list of possible recruiting sources. Hanson had been a model cop—several decorations, no bad notes in his jacket. And then, out of nowhere, he quits, no reason given, and he’s not been heard from since—until he bled on the ground at Mohonk.”

“So what does that get us?”

In response, Brognola double-tapped another graphics file, which called up the face of a walleyed man with a thick beard, a large nose and curly hair. “I did a little digging into Hanson’s departure from the BPD. This is somebody who met with him at BPD’s Western District headquarters shortly before he quit. They talked in an interrogation room. He signed in as a lawyer, so there’s no audio of their meeting, but the name he signed in with doesn’t match any lawyer in the Maryland State Bar Association. So I ran his face through the database and eventually got a hit.”

Double-tapping on yet another file brought up another picture of the same man, but with the beard shaved off and thick-lensed glasses over the walleyes. “The only name we have for him is Galloway, and he’s been seen with a wide variety of dodgy personalities. Terrorists, arms dealers, assassins, you name it. But nobody’s ever been able to pin anything on him, or even find out his first name.”

“You think he’s recruiting for the Black Cross?”

Nodding, Brognola said, “Yes. And he’s a regular attendee of the Valley Forge Gun Show. He doesn’t have a booth, he just attends as a citizen. That show runs three or four times a year, and one of them is this weekend.”

“Hence your rush?”

“Yes. You think the Black Cross would be interested in gaining a new member?”

Bolan took a sip of his coffee. “Only one way to find out.”

“Good. We’ve already created a new identity for you.”

Raising an eyebrow, the Executioner asked, “Why not simply use the Matt Cooper ID?”

“He fits the profile, but this op risks burning that ID completely, and it’s too useful.” Brognola minimized all the files so the desktop was revealed once again, and this time he double-tapped another folder.

Several files became visible in the window, and Brognola called up several of them. One had a recent picture of Bolan, with a caption that read Michael Burns. Another had a U.S. Marines dossier that revealed Burns was a rifleman who served in the first Gulf War, but was dishonorably discharged due to insubordination—specifically for killing a prisoner after being told to bring him in alive.

“I see Bear’s been busy,” Bolan said, referring to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert.

“I had a feeling you were going to say yes to this one, Striker.”

“I know how important the Black Cross is to you, Hal.”

Brognola waved him off. “I don’t care about that—I just want these people stopped.”

“Redmond and the others served their country with honor and deserved a quiet retirement. I will take down whoever killed them.”

Nodding, Brognola said, “Well, Michael Burns should be a good fit for them. He’s got the skills, and he was kicked out of the Marines for killing someone. He’s been working as a mercenary for a few years, but he’s had trouble finding work because he uses excessive force regardless of the circumstances.”

“Just what a group that deals only in excessive force would be looking for.”

“And Bear’s made sure that any background check will come up solid. Only one of his old COs in the Corps is still alive, and he’s a friend of mine, so he’ll vouch for ‘Burns.’”

Peering at the screen, Bolan said, “He’s from Alabama?”

“Yes. Tomorrow’s the last day of the gun show, so you can get a good night’s sleep, and you can head up to King of Prussia in the morning.”

The Executioner stood up, shook Brognola’s hand, then headed out of the meeting room to get that shower the head of Stony Man had offered.

While Bolan was still skeptical of the existence of the Black Cross, he also knew that, if they did exist, they needed to be shut down. For them to have been successful for so long spoke to an organization that was responsible for murder on a truly massive scale.

Bolan intended to make sure they would be stopped once and for all.

2

After a four-hour drive up I–81 and across I–76 in a specially modified Ford Escort owned by Stony Man, the Executioner arrived in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, and the Valley Forge Convention Center for the last day of the Valley Forge Gun Show. The convention exhibit hall was filled with booths run by sports shops, gun stores, and dealers who sold weaponry and assorted accessories.

Before entering, Bolan was frisked and put through a metal detector. The gun show had very specific regulations: all firearms had to be checked and rendered inoperable and no loaded firearms were permitted inside the convention center during the open hours of the show. Rather than ever be forced to relinquish any of his weaponry, Bolan chose to do so voluntarily by simply leaving everything in the car. It was a strange feeling walking around without weapons on his person, but he took solace in the fact that he wasn’t alone in that.

After paying his nine-dollar admission fee, Bolan walked the floor, inspecting some of the firearms, knives and accessories. There was nothing here he wasn’t already intimately familiar with, especially since he often had access to weaponry that wasn’t yet ready for the open market. Still, he pretended to be interested as men in ballcaps enthusiastically waxed rhapsodic on the subject of their particular items and why they were better than those of the guy across the hall.

Bolan played along, asking the types of questions that a civilian might ask, and he noted at least three occasions where the booth jockey in question exaggerated the ability of the weapon he was trying to sell.

He found himself spending some time at one booth, where an old man with a thick white beard was selling an impressive collection of knives. “This,” the man said in a scratchy voice, “is what you really want, my friend.”

The old man slid the glass off a wooden case and tilted it upward. Reaching around, he grabbed a black-colored folding knife. The blade itself was also obsidian in color, and had a stylized logo etched into the flat of the blade.

“This here’s an Emerson Commander BTS,” the old man said as he held it handle out to Bolan. “Down in Atlanta, they voted this best overall knife of the year.”

Bolan knew of the honor bestowed by the International Blade Show, and also knew the answer to the question he posed as he took the knife from the dealer. “How’s it different from the CQCs?”

“Oh, the CQCs’re fine for your average use, but lookin’ at you, I’m thinkin’ you’re more the combat-knife type.”

“I thought the CQCs were combat knives.”

“They are—but if you want the best, you want the Commander. Lasts longer, flips open faster and is just tougher. Sure, the CQCs are good—the Commander’s better.”

The weight, Bolan noted, was good.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the knife back to the man.

“Not interested, huh?” A smile peeked out from the old man’s thick beard. He replaced the knife, set down the Emerson case and slid back the glass. Then he pointed at another one, containing Masters of Defense Beshara knives. “How ’bout these?”

Bolan let himself be lectured on the relative merits of the old man’s knives, all the while taking glances around in search of Galloway. At one point, he put on a shamefaced tone, and said, “Sorry, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here, and he’s late. Can I see the XSF-1?”

Eventually, he thanked the old man and excused himself, continuing to walk the floor, but still no sign of Galloway after several hours.

Just then, the Executioner saw a short man with curly hair and walleyes heading toward a gun-shop booth. He was wearing a pair of thick-lensed glasses, though different from the set in the picture Bolan had seen at Stony Man. He had also grown back the beard, though it wasn’t as full as it had been in the older picture, and had flecks of gray in it now. Galloway was wearing a denim jacket that had seen better decades over a stained white T-shirt, and frayed blue jeans with a hole in the left knee and another in the rear left pocket.

From there, it was a simple tail operation. The convention hall was crowded enough that Bolan didn’t have to worry much about Galloway noticing him. The booths were arranged in a grid pattern, so Bolan made as if he were simply working his way up and down the aisles. He took the opposite route Galloway took, so he would pass the target once in each aisle.

Galloway, Bolan noticed, didn’t spend very much time looking at the guns, but instead seemed to be focused on the people. One would expect no less from a recruiter. He also tended to spend a lot of time staring at the few women who were attending. Some of the shops even had so-called “booth babes,” scantily clad models hired to attract men to their merchandise. Galloway even tried chatting a couple of them up. But they all went to the default sales pitch and deflected any and all attempts at personal conversation with the ease of long practice.

Eventually, Galloway worked his way to the food court, at which point Bolan walked up to an ammunition dealer and pointed at a rifle bullet. Putting on a Southern accent, he asked, “That there a .50 caliber round? Looks a mite too small.”

The dealer, a tall, wiry man with large brown eyes and whose hands never seemed to stop moving, said, “This, sir, is a .416 Barrett rifle round. This is the newest in rifle armament, know what I’m sayin’? This is infinitely superior to those crappy old .50 cals. That’s old school, and with all due respect to old school, this is new school, know what I’m sayin’?”

“How’s it better, exactly?” Bolan asked, already knowing the answer.

“This puppy shoots flatter and faster than the .50s, and also hits way harder, know what I’m sayin’?” The man flailed his arms a bit and then picked up a .50-caliber shell and held it next to the .416. “Now I know what you’re thinking right now.”

Bolan was fairly sure he didn’t, but let him go on.

“You’re thinking to yourself, ‘How can a bullet that’s of a lesser caliber be better than a bullet of a greater caliber?’ That there’s the beauty of this here round, is that the shorter height allows for much greater speed and durability.”

Having satisfied himself that enough time had passed, the Executioner said, “Good to know. Thankee kindly, mister. I’ll definitely be considerin’ this next time I’m buyin’ me some huntin’ rounds.”

“Good man.” The dealer put down the shells and flailed a few more times. “You sure I can’t convince you to purchase a few now?”

“Nah, I’m just grazin’.” With that, the Executioner headed off to the food court in the hopes of finding precisely what he was looking for.

The food court was the typical sort for a convention center. An entire section of wall was taken up with a metal counter, behind which were limp-looking hot dogs, stale popcorn, limp, packaged salads, uninspiring packaged sandwiches, soggy pizza and fountain soda, all priced in excess of market value.

Because of that, the large round tables in front of the counter were sparsely occupied. Each table sat up to eight people comfortably, but none was fully occupied. One had a couple seated at it, enjoying each other’s company more than the food. Another had three men, all wearing flannel shirts and ballcaps, discoursing loudly on the subject of the best hunting grounds in central Pennsylvania. Another was occupied by two couples who were discussing whether the Philadelphia Phillies had another shot at winning the division that year.

Galloway sat alone at another table, hungrily biting into a slice of pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a large soda.

Not really trusting the food to do good things to his gastrointestinal tract, the Executioner limited himself to a diet cola from the fountain. Once he paid for it, Bolan walked casually to the table where Galloway sat chewing on his pizza, the grease from the pepperoni dripping into his beard and onto his T-shirt.

Still affecting the Southern accent, Bolan said, “Mind if I sit a spell, mister?”

Galloway shrugged. “It’s a free country.” He spoke in a raspy voice.

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me, anyhow. You here buyin’?”

Mouth full of pizza, Galloway said, “Window-shopping.”

“Right there with you, mister. See, I can’t afford most of the firearms hereabouts. Hell, I can’t even afford none of the food beyond this here pop. Good thing it’s only nine bucks to get in.”

“Things are tough all over,” Galloway said, swallowing his pizza and grabbing his own soda.

“Don’t I know it. Man with my skills I ought to be able to be drownin’ in work, but the damn Marines had other notions.”

“You served?”

“You betcha. Rifle company Baker two-niner. Was a gunnery sergeant, till they kicked me out, anyhow. Served in the Gulf the first time.”

“Discharged?”

“Yup. And not the honorable kind, neither. Thought the notion was to kill the enemy, not coddle ’em.” Bolan sipped his soda, then set it down and held out a hand. “Sorry, my momma raised me better than this. Name’s Michael Burns.”

Galloway accepted the handshake but did not return the introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Burns.”

Bolan noticed that Galloway’s handshake was clammy and greasy, the latter no doubt from the pizza. “Been almost fifteen years since anybody called me that, mister. Just call me Michael.”

Breaking the handshake, Galloway said, “You can call me Galloway. You looking for work, Michael?”

“Well, I’m gainfully employed, if that’s whatcha mean, but it ain’t nothin’ that makes use of my skills, if you follow me. Still in uniform, but it’s the type where they issue you a mop and bucket ’stead of a sidearm and holster. Been a few years since I got me that kinda work—man’s work—man’s work.” He shook his head. “Goddamn Marines.”

“Well, Michael, I might be able to help you out. You have a card?”

Bolan snorted. “You’re kiddin’, right? Kinda business I’m in—”

Galloway held up a hand. “Of course. How long are you in town?”

“Due back at my job tomorrow—’less, of course, I got me a reason to call in sick?”

“I’d say you do.” Galloway reached into his denim jacket pocket and pulled out a small spiral notepad and a pen. He wrote something down and ripped the page out of the notepad. Handing it across the table, Galloway said, “Come to this address tomorrow at noon. Consider it a job interview.”

Bolan hesitated, staying in character. “Job interview? Hang on a sec, mister, we’re just talkin’ here. I mean, I was just lookin’ for some conversation, if you follow me. I ain’t trollin’ for—”

“Maybe not, but if you’re what you say you are, the people I represent might be interested in you—especially since we had a couple of job openings recently.”

Drawing himself up, and still not taking the paper, Bolan said, “The hell you mean, what I say I am? You callin’ me a liar, Galloway?” He also noted the line about job openings. If he really did represent Black Cross—or whoever killed those retired operatives—then it was likely that the bloodstains at Mohonk Mountain represented dead bodies, not just wounded ones. If so, the Executioner was impressed that Bethke had been able to take down one or two of his killers—though it was small comfort.

Holding up his hands, the paper flapping with the motion, Galloway said, “No, Michael, I’m not calling you a liar, not at all. But some soldiers have been known to exaggerate their accomplishments a bit.”

Surprised that someone who worked with ex-military types would make such a blunder, confusing an Army soldier with a Marine, Bolan said, “Look, they may’ve discharged me, but I’m a Marine, not a soldier. We don’t lie—we leave that to the soldiers an’ sailors an’ airedales.”

“Fair enough,” Galloway said quickly. “Look, let’s just call this a fortuitous coincidence, all right?” He held out the paper again.

Bolan snatched it. It was stained with pepperoni grease, but it provided an address on North Gulph Road.

“That’s in the park across the street,” Galloway said.

Nodding, Bolan said, “I know it, yeah.” It was the Valley Forge National Historical Park, which commemorated the famous Revolutionary War battle fought in this area in the winter of 1777–1778.

“Good. Maybe we can do business.”

“Just came here for pleasure, Galloway—but hey, if business comes out of it, I ain’t gonna complain.”

Popping the last of his pizza into his mouth, Galloway said, “Sometimes things work out.”

“Reckon they do, yeah.” Bolan placed the slip of paper into his pocket. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, Galloway, huh?”

Galloway got to his feet, holding his cup of soda and gathering up the empty plate and paper napkin. “I hope so, Michael.”

He went to the nearest garbage can and dumped the plate and napkin, then headed toward the restroom.

The Executioner finished his soda, dropped it into the same garbage can, then headed straight for the exit. He needed to find a place to stay for the night. The convention center had two hotels attached to it, and since this was the last day of the show, there were likely to be rooms available.

Next day, he would start his quest to see if the Black Cross was real. And if it was, it wouldn’t be for much longer.

3

The woman who killed Albert Bethke sat by the pool in a Cayman Islands resort, watching the men watch her. She was wearing as skimpy a bikini as she could get away with, along with large sunglasses and a straw hat to protect her from the tropical sun. Bobby pins kept the hat secure on the red-haired wig she wore, as the trade winds occasionally blew through with particular force, funneled by the two thirteen-story towers of the resort hotel. The hat had a purple band with a large flower on the side. She kept her hotel room key inside that band.

The remnants of a margarita sat next to her. The bartender had put salt on the rim of the glass, despite her specifically requesting it without.

She’d enjoyed her vacation—salted margarita notwithstanding. It was also business related, as her bank account was down here, and she preferred to check on her money in person rather than online. There was something satisfying about checking it in person, being able to touch your own money, so to speak.

She was born in Russia with the name Ida Kaprov, but nobody had called her that name for six years. At the age of ten, she and her family emigrated to the U.S., living in suburban New Jersey. She attended UCLA and was recruited by the Los Angeles Police Department, which was trying to bust a crime ring that was using Eastern European immigrant women for online sex shows, prostitution, strip clubs and escorts—and also as drug mules.

The bust was a success, in large part due to her efforts. She’d proved herself a natural at undercover work, and had continued to work undercover, first for the LAPD, then for the FBI. Her ability to speak Russian combined with her stunning good looks and hourglass figure made her a valuable asset. Men in particular were susceptible to her charms.

In addition, she was a crack shot, having scored the highest rating of any woman in LAPD history on the shooting range. She’d even considered applying for the SWAT team, but her superiors convinced her that she was better off as an undercover agent.

Ida quickly grew disillusioned with law enforcement, however. The institutionalized sexism was stifling, and the very qualities that made her good undercover also made her a target for her Neanderthal colleagues. Plus, she found the restrictions to be far too binding. Most of the people arrested in her cases didn’t deserve to wait for trial, they simply should have been shot between the eyes, ridding the Earth of their filth once and for all.

The straw that broke her back was seven years after she’d first been recruited. She found herself infiltrating another online sex-prostitution-stripper-escort ring that was run by the same people as the group she’d helped bring down as a new recruit—they’d never seen a day of jail time for the bust years earlier.

Sure enough, they got off again, and this time Ida followed up on some rumors she’d heard about a group of elite assassins called the Black Cross. The finest assassins in the world, they would kill anyone for a price and were never traced.

However, such quality did not come cheap. But by this time, her parents had died, leaving her with a sizable inheritance, which combined with her own life savings, allowed her to put a hit on the two men and one woman who ran the ring.

After they died, the Black Cross asked her if she wanted to join them.

On that day, Ida Kaprov died and “Ms. White” was born. The Black Cross’s operatives were all given names based on color. The Black Cross had stayed operational over the years due to its tight security, including their members not being identifiable even to one another.