Orange Alert

Bolan fingered the remaining magazines in his combat belt while considering his options. By randomly firing quick bursts along the sides and over the top of the cargo loads without giving his enemies more than a second to return fire, Bolan knew he could keep them pinned down, preventing them from rushing his position. It was a classic Mexican standoff, but they had all the time in the world to wait until he ran out of ammo.

Holstering the Beretta, he unhooked an M-68 fragmentation grenade from his web belt and reached into the pouch containing the grappling hook he had used to jump the train. The thin cord was still knotted in place, cinched tight onto the hook by the strain of pulling him on board. While keeping a lookout for the next trestle that the train would pass under, Bolan tied the apple-shaped grenade to the cord’s free end, sliding the knot so the hook hung about three feet from the explosive. He set the fuse for slightly longer than thirty seconds, pulled the pin and held the grenade in his right hand while he drew the Beretta with his left.

Scrambling from side to side, he fired 3-round volleys first from the right side, then from the left, keeping his attackers crouched behind the canvas-covered freight loaded onto their flatbed. When the next trestle was passing over him, Bolan tossed the grappling hook above the rusted crossbeam. The grenade’s safety lever fell free as the hook looped around the trestle, leaving the M-68 dangling on the thin cord like a tiny piñata a few inches above the flatbed’s cargo.

Bolan continued firing on each side of the railroad car to keep his opponents in place while he counted the seconds. When he reached twenty-eight, he looked above the top edge of his tarp and saw that his timing was perfect. The dangling grenade exploded at the exact moment it fell between cars, its thunderous percussion blowing his two enemies from the train.

As the bridge holding the SUV faded into the distance, the Executioner leaned against the boxes of freight and reloaded his Beretta before holstering the weapon. The tracks were beginning to ascend, which meant they were approaching the mountains where he had left his car.

The twin locomotives slowed considerably to cope with the rising grade, giving Bolan ample opportunity to pick an ideal spot to disembark. He hit the ground running, his momentum quickly propelling him away from the train toward a heavily wooded ridge that rose steeply on both sides of the tracks. Having studied topographical maps of the surrounding area before coming in, he knew exactly where he was. Beyond the ridge he now faced, a treacherous coastal road wound up and over the mountains, eventually leading inland to Derry. His car was about a mile up that road.

Bolan leaned into the hillside, rapidly putting distance between himself and the train. As he ran through the woods, he pondered the threat posed by the men in the SUV. He had killed nine of their number, but, judging from their inferiority when engaged in combat, he doubted if they were actual members of the new splinter group threatening the United States. These men were most likely local hoodlums, hired by the Apprentices for the sole purpose of killing whomever came for Oxford’s remains.

Whether or not the survivors would try to find him to avenge their losses was an open question. If they feared they might be killed for failing, or, if payment was contingent on success, they could very well be scouring the roads at this moment, looking for their quarry.

When he came to the edge of the woods where the road began, Bolan dropped to one knee to get his bearings. Rather than proceed on the asphalt where he could be surprised by a vehicle coming around one of numerous blind corners, he decided he would remain about ten yards into the woods. Out of habit, he did a quick touch-check of his weapons before heading off.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the spot where his Land Rover sat, pulled safely off the road in one of the deep cutouts into the cliff. The vehicle was as Bolan had left it the evening before, a red dashboard light blinking a pattern that told him the car had remained untouched.

As he put the car into gear and pulled out of the cutout onto the road, he glanced at his watch. 6:00 a.m., and the sun was high in the sky.

The tires of the Land Rover gripped the weathered blacktop, propelling him upward on the twisty mountain road. Even with the surface dry and clean, going was dangerous. The asphalt hugged the side of the mountain like a ribbon pulled taut, with turns so tight that no more than a hundred feet of road was visible at any given time. To make matters worse, the grade was getting steeper, affording heart-stopping views over the side of the mountain where hundreds of feet below, surf crashed in a bluish green foam against the rocks.

It was during one of the jackknife turns that hung out over the water, giving Bolan a view of the road winding along the mountainside below him, that he saw the SUV. It was about a quarter of the way down the mountain, coming fast on a straight stretch before it turned out of sight to twist and meander before it would emerge on the road a little higher.

Not knowing if they had spotted him, Bolan increased his pressure on the gas pedal. The vehicle surged forward, spitting loose gravel off to the side. He was about five miles from the spot where the road turned inland. Once he got there, he’d be able to open up and leave his pursuers in the dust.

He rounded a curve, his back tires sliding into a fishtail. Bolan tapped lightly on the brakes to control the skid as a 90 mm rocket whizzed by ten feet in front of him. The projectile slammed into the hillside, sending an explosion of small boulders and dirt into the road. Bolan swerved to avoid the rockfall, his tires screaming as they lay heavy rubber tracks onto the tar while grabbing for traction.

The SUV was on a flat vista higher up the mountain than Bolan thought it would be, making him realize his enemies were in a faster vehicle than his. His original plan to speed away once the trail became level needed serious revision. Finding himself out on a flat track in front of a faster vehicle armed with rockets was not a scenario Bolan could allow to develop.

The road twisted out over the water, and Bolan touched the gas pedal to race around the exposed curve. As he did, he glanced to the cutout vista on the mountainside below. A man knelt next to the SUV, a 90 mm recoilless rifle resting on his shoulder. He fired, and a fireball flashed from the end of the tube. The sound reached Bolan’s ears a second later, only to be immediately swallowed by the eardrum-throbbing explosion occurring three feet behind his vehicle as his quick burst of speed whipped the Land Rover around the corner and out of sight.

With a faster vehicle and heavy armament, Bolan’s enemies held the upper hand. His mind racing, he hugged the edge of the mountain as he sped into a straightaway leading to another curve extending out over the water.

Bolan came through the curve, immediately after which the road turned sharply upward next to a large grotto. It was almost as deep as the one where he’d left the Land Rover the night before, and, as soon as he passed, Bolan stomped on the brakes. The vehicle skidded and shimmied to a spot just past the cutout. Bolan dumped the transmission into Reverse and pealed backward into the grotto, the hood of his vehicle extending a few feet onto the blacktop. If he went straight forward, he’d cross the road and go over the cliff.

Bolan put the car into Park, got out and slammed his shoulder into the side mirror, snapping it off. Using his combat knife, he cut the wires protruding from the mirror assembly and pulled it free.

The sound of the ocean crashing into the rocky shore hundreds of feet below could be heard when he ran into the middle of the road where he positioned the mirror. He sprinted back behind the curve and crouched next to the Land Rover and looked into the mirror’s reflection. It was placed correctly to give him a view around the corner of the road approaching the bend.

Bolan opened the driver’s door and, while kneeling next to the car and leaning in, wedged his combat knife between the accelerator and seat so that the gas pedal was pushed to the floor. As the engine raced, he pressed down on the brake with all his strength and shifted into Drive, holding the car’s horsepower in check with one arm. Keeping his eyes riveted to the reflection in the mirror he had placed in the middle of the road, he held steady while beads of sweat broke out across his brow.

The kill would be quick, one way or the other. The SUV would come tearing around the corner. If Bolan was fast enough, he’d release the Land Rover’s brake, allowing his vehicle to bolt from the cutout and crash into his pursuers as they came abreast, knocking them over the side. It was a desperate plan that required perfect timing.

The Land Rover lurched forward an inch, and Bolan pressed harder on the brake pedal, his muscles cramping under the strain. Drops of stinging sweat trickled into his eyes as he waited patiently for his enemies. Despite the agony that screamed from within his arm and shoulder, he willed himself to push harder, controlling the car that surged under his hands like an energy-charged Thoroughbred at the starting gate.

The SUV suddenly appeared in the mirror, coming fast around the curve. A split second later, it was in front of the grotto, its engine racing against the elevation. Bolan released the brake and fell backward as his vehicle surged forward, smashing into the SUV’s passenger side.

Shrieks of twisting metal and screaming tires filled the air. The Land Rover roared forward, pushing the SUV sideways. The vehicle’s driver reacted to the surprise crash by hitting his brakes, which had the effect of giving the Land Rover better leverage as it thrust forward, back tires spinning and smoking, propelling the vehicle toward the edge of the cliff.

When the entwined cars reached the brink, they balanced precariously above the void, as if deciding whether to go over the side. In the SUV’s backseat, two men, their faces reflecting the terror of their situation, began scrambling over each other in an attempt to find the door handle on the side not smashed by the Land Rover. But, before they could grasp it, the laws of physics intervened and the two vehicles plunged over the side, falling through the air for three or four long seconds before crashing onto the rocks below. There was a brief silence before both cars exploded, generating sound waves that merged and echoed as one across the Irish countryside.

Bolan rose from his position and peered over the edge. He was sweaty and breathing hard, but he had bested the enemy. Sliding his hand into his shirt pocket, he fingered Oxford’s molar and the three medals he had taken from the men at the ambush site.

He had won this particular battle, but the Executioner had no doubt that this war was just beginning.

3

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Less than twenty-four hours after returning from Ireland, Mack Bolan sat with Hal Brognola at a conference table in the War Room, one level below Stony Man Farm. Also with them were Carmen Delahunt and Akira Tokaido—two-thirds of Aaron, the Bear, Kurtzman’s cybernetics team.

While waiting for the rest of the group to arrive, Bolan scanned his copy of the message Agent Steven Oxford had Morse-coded minutes before his death into the microchip implanted in his molar.

“Hot off the press,” Delahunt said, nodding toward the transcript. “Good job, Tokaido, decoding it before they even gave us the key.”

Tokaido shrugged while snapping his ever-present bubble gum. “No challenge,” he said while tonguing the pink wad into the space between his teeth and right cheek. He stared into space, head nodding slightly to the rock music blasting through his earbuds, and added, “CIA,” in a derisive tone that conveyed his disdain for what he considered inferior programming and encryption.

“This was their first mention of going after the CIA?” Bolan asked, without looking up from his reading.

“According to Oxford it was,” Brognola answered. “But let’s wait until the others get here.”

As if on cue, the doors to the elevator built into the corner of the room slid open on a silent cushion of air and an attractive woman, who Bolan judged to be in her early thirties, stepped out. She was about five foot nine with jet black hair that fell straight to her shoulders, framing an ivory-pure angelic face. An off-white silk blouse tucked into pleated black slacks hugged her slender curves in an attractive but not provocative way. The woman’s sparkling blue eyes swept quickly across the War Room, settling for a moment on Bolan before moving on to the others.

Aaron Kurtzman was right behind her, holding the door back with one hand for the woman to exit the elevator ahead of him while he gripped a cup of his lethally strong coffee with the other, ever the gentleman, despite being confined to a wheelchair.

Last off the elevator was Huntington Wethers, the distinguished-looking ex-UCLA professor whose academic approach to research was a perfect complement to Tokaido’s natural hacker skills and Delahunt’s methodical common-sense methods.

“Katey,” Brognola said, rising from his chair as the woman approached.

“That’s quite the confidentiality contract you’ve got, Hal. Twenty-five years in Leavenworth for even a minor violation? And the President endorsed it.” The woman shook her head in disbelief.

“It’s in the best interest of national security. Now, have you met everyone?” Brognola asked.

Her eyes fell again on Bolan, who stood and extended his hand.

“Matt Cooper,” he said, using the cover name he’d recently acquired.

“Katey Adams.”

Her grip was firm, and the way she moved made Bolan suspect she probably had an athletic background.

She had, in fact, been one of the most ferocious field-hockey forwards ever to graduate from MIT, but her most significant athletic achievement during her four years at the institute—and the one that initially caught the interest of the CIA recruiters—was her performance on the school’s pistol team for which she earned All-Ivy honors her senior year.

“Katey is on loan to us from the White House Protocol Section,” Brognola said while everyone got settled. “Until last year, when Edmund Fontes took over, she was head of the CIA’s Irish operation, a post she held for eight years. As such, she’s their foremost expert on Ireland. Katey?”

She began by asking, “Have you all had time to read Agent Oxford’s transcript?”

There were nods around the table.

“Have Randolph’s agents been warned?” Bolan asked.

“Too late for that,” she answered. “Marie Johnston was killed this morning in Pamplona at about two o’clock our time. We just didn’t get the molar soon enough. Taylor and Buckley were both hit yesterday. Randolph has been warned. He’s back at his home base in Stuttgart after taking a few days of leave.”

Wethers emitted a low whistle. “Where were the other two killed?” he asked.

“Taylor in London, Buckley in Paris,” Adams replied.

“Is it possible the killings aren’t connected?” Tokaido asked. “A coincidence of three, even with the communiqué, doesn’t equate to zero probability.”

Bolan thought he could hear a tinny sound coming from the hacker’s earbuds and wondered how the man could follow a conversation above the racket.

“Ballistics confirmed that the same weapon killed all three,” Adams answered. “There was also an orange scarf left with each body.”

“They want us to know it’s them,” Brognola said. “Clearly, the group who sent Fontes the communiqué is the same one killing Randolph’s agents.”

“But are they really backed by the Orange Order?” Delahunt asked. Looking over the frame of her tortoiseshell glasses at Kurtzman, who sat directly across the table from her, she added, “Anyone can plant a few scarves.”

“The Orange Order denies involvement,” Adams said in support of Delahunt’s thought.

“But it would be good for them if the demands in the communiqué were met,” Kurtzman said.

“Of course it would. IRA disarmament and irrefutable establishment of Northern Ireland? It would end the conflict. But there’s no way it’ll happen like this. If terrorists attack the United States, we won’t negotiate with them. We’ll retaliate like we did against the Taliban in Afghanistan.” Adams paused for a moment, as if for emphasis, before saying, “As soon as we can reasonably link someone to these agent killings, we’re sending Fontes a strike force to wipe out their network.”

There was silence around the table for a few moments while the team considered the actual evidence they had. It wasn’t much.

Kurtzman took a sip of coffee, gazing from face to face above the rim of his cup as he did so. “There are two questions, in particular, we must answer. First, why kill Marie Johnston? Taylor and Buckley were field agents, but Johnston was nothing more than an interpreter.”

“Because it’s not about the mission,” Delahunt replied, her words eliciting nods of agreement.

“Secondly,” Kurtzman continued in his patient, thoughtful manner, “is it plausible that a terrorist cell in Northern Ireland would have the means to attack the United States? We’re not talking a global organization like al Qaeda here. What’s the worst thing a breakaway group of the Orange Order could do?”

“Dirty bomb,” Tokaido said.

Delahunt leaned forward, said, “Anthrax mailings,” and then added in a rush, “You bet your ass they have the means. Maybe not for something as dramatic as 9/11, but a subway explosion, a dirty bomb, biological attacks—you don’t need a global infrastructure to pull off any of those.”

“But there are always clues ahead of time if you know where to look,” Tokaido said.

Kurtzman smiled, the pride he felt for his team evident on his face.

“What do you think about these?” Brognola asked no one in particular while reaching into his shirt pocket and tossing onto the table the three chains Bolan had pulled from his would-be ambushers the previous night. “Scapular medals. They lead me to believe that the three men guarding Oxford’s body were Catholics. The Orange Order is a Protestant group.”

“They were thugs,” Bolan answered. “Local hired help. Most likely not part of the core organization. We can’t draw any conclusions from those medals. Not without more intel.”

Wethers suddenly said, “They’re going to hit Randolph tomorrow.”

Before his colleagues could ask him to elaborate, he eplained, “Taylor in London, Buckley in Paris, Johnston in Pamplona. Look at a map and the time between killings. Randolph in Stuttgart is the next element in an obviously clear progression. One killer is making a circular sweep. Plus, we have Oxford’s transcript that says it was all coming down this week.”

“Katey is going back to Ireland,” Brognola said, “and, while she’s there, Cooper will go to Stuttgart to debrief Randolph. If Hunt is right,” he added, looking straight at Bolan, “it will be good for you to be there regardless of anything Randolph can tell you about his previous missions. He’s used Ireland as a gateway for defectors three times. Maybe he stepped on some toes during one of them.”

“You’re not suggesting someone other than Cypher is behind these hits,” Bolan said, more a statement than a question. “I agree with Hunt. Oxford’s message is clear. Cypher is the enemy. The question is, who is he? Oxford was undercover for more than a year, but Cypher doesn’t show up in his reports until three months ago. Where did this guy come from?”

Brognola had been involved with Bolan long enough to know that the man’s question was not rhetorical. The Executioner was on the hunt and there would be no rest until he found his answer. More likely than not, along the way, there would be hell to pay.

TEN HOURS AFTER HER MEETING with the team at Stony Man Farm, Katey Adams looked away from the window of the Hawker Horizon as it shot across the night sky. There was nothing outside for her to see. Ireland’s southwest shoreline was still almost an hour away. When they landed, it would be four in the morning, local time.

Adams sighed and turned toward the man napping in the oversized leather seat across the tiny aisle from her.

The first thing she had noticed about him when she’d stepped off the elevator at Stony Man Farm was how broad his shoulders were. And he was tall, easily six-three or -four. But the trait that had kept her looking back—and, if truth be told, she had fought the urge to stare throughout the entire meeting—was the intelligence that burned in his eyes so intensely that she wondered if they could peer straight into her soul.

He stirred and turned toward her in his sleep. His hair was cut short, but there was a lock in front that had slipped out of place, and Adams wanted very much to reach over and push it back.

His eyes snapped open, making her jump.

“We’re almost there. About an hour,” she said, recovering from having been caught staring. “I’ve always hated this flight.”

He pushed himself upright in the chair and rubbed his face with his hands.

“It’s not a problem for you to leave your job?” he asked as if there had been no break in the hour-long conversation they had shared upon takeoff.

“Actually, it is. The President wants his cabinet to hit the campaign trail, and I’m in charge of planning some of the trips. Daniel Foley’s visiting West Point next month. That’ll be a biggie, and I do have to get back to finish the advance work. I can’t stay in Ireland for more than a few days.”

“There’s no one you can give your work to?”

Adams shrugged. “I guess I could, but ever since 9/11, we’ve kept the specifics of cabinet trips secret until the very last moment. I’m the only one who knows the details of Foley’s and a few other itineraries, and passing them off at this point and trying to bring someone else up to speed might actually be harder than just getting them done myself. Especially in light of these new threats.”

“Tell me about the guy you’re going to visit.”

Adams smiled as she thought of Bryan McGuinness, the fiery editor of the Irish Independent, who had all but adopted her during her first year as CIA section chief in Dublin.

“We go way back, me and Bryan. When I was new in Ireland, he went out of his way to show me the good places to eat, to introduce me to the right people and just to make me feel at home. He did a lot of favors for me in those eight years.”

“Never asked anything in return?”

Adams shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. I had him checked out when he kept pushing himself on me, and he is a member of the IRA, but we already knew that from his editorials. He never asked me to compromise myself in any way.”

The copilot spread the curtain separating the cockpit from the cabin and, without getting up from his seat, announced, “We’re starting our descent. After landing, we’ll take a two-hour break to refuel and get something to eat before going on to Stuttgart.”

“Okay,” Adams answered as the man turned back to the controls and said something into his headset mike that made the pilot next to him nod and grin.

“Good luck in Ireland,” Bolan said while fastening his seat belt.

Adams responded in kind, and then they were silent, each lost in his or her own thoughts about the upcoming assignments, until the plane touched down at Shannon airport.

4

Stuttgart, Germany

The sun was low in the east, throwing the life-sized chessmen into stark relief against a bright green background of closely cropped lawns. Long, straight shadows cast by the chess pieces stretched across the marble chessboard, some reaching beyond the board’s sandstone border to touch manicured edges of grass. From behind the secluded bench on which Mack Bolan sat, Asian day lilies in well-tended beds filled the early-morning air with a cloying fragrance.

Bolan’s position gave him a good view of the rolling lawns with their flower-lined walkways meandering like serpentine tributaries through randomly spaced clumps of trees toward a stand of thick pines about a quarter of a mile away. Except for a small flock of sparrows pecking the ground under a few benches and three maintenance men off to his left, cultivating a clump of short azaleas, the park was deserted.