Zero Option

CHAPTER TWO

Bolan’s plane touched down in Washington, D.C., in the early hours. A quick call to Stony Man had Barbara Price on the line.

“You back on home ground?” she asked without preamble.

“Just got in. I need a ride to base.”

“On its way to the usual pickup spot,” she said. “I thought of coming out myself.”

“That would have been nice.”

Price laughed. “Then I figured you probably wouldn’t have time to buy me a meal, so I decided to wait here for you.”

“So it comes down to me being just a meal ticket?”

“Girl has to look after the priorities.”

“You’re a hard woman.”

“Really? I always thought of myself as pretty accommodating.”

“Some day we’ll have to define your interpretation of ‘accommodating.’”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Price told him, a smile in her voice.

Bolan ended the call and left the terminal. As he slid the cell phone into his pocket and turned toward the rendezvous area, he felt the prod of a gun muzzle against his spine.

“I don’t give a damn if you die now, or in a couple of hours, Belasko. I’d prefer you stayed alive long enough to answer some questions, but just give me the option.”

Bolan remained still. He calculated the odds and decided he needed to wait. The carry-on slung from his shoulder would hamper his movements, so any action against the gunman would have to come later. For the time being the Executioner did what he was told.

“A car is going to stop right here,” the gunman said. “We climb in. You keep both hands where I can see them. Bag on your lap.”

The car rolled into view, a Dodge Intrepid, swinging in to pull up directly in front of Bolan. The insistent prod of the gun warned the Executioner that his captor meant business. Bolan opened the rear door and slid inside the car, moving across to sit directly behind the dark bulk of the driver. The man with the gun moved quickly, crowding in against Bolan, pulling the door shut with his free hand.

“Let’s go,” he said to the driver.

The car eased away from the pickup point and pulled into the lane of traffic heading away from the airport. The soldier felt an experienced hand move over his body, checking for weapons. The gunman found nothing. The cell phone Bolan carried was plucked from his pocket and tossed to the floor of the car. Satisfied, the gunman pulled back from his captive, making space between them. He kept the muzzle of his pistol, a .45-caliber Glock 21, pointed in Bolan’s direction.

“You make yourself hard to find, Mr. Belasko,” the gunman remarked. “Almost missed you back there. Makes me figure this isn’t something new to you.”

Bolan didn’t reply. He decided to let the other man do the talking if that was what he wanted.

“I prefer to deal with professionals,” the man went on. “Get yourself a damned civilian, and they’re likely to fall apart once you show them a gun. You know what I mean? Hell, sure you do.”

Still no response from Bolan. The Executioner was making an evaluation. Making sense of the armed pickup. His mind clicked through the elements of the situation. This had been done professionally. Quick, clean, with little chance for even Bolan to react. The transition to the car had been timed to the second, making these men something more than street hoods. No, these guys were…Bolan recalled something Jack Grimaldi had said about the men who had confronted him and Jess Buchanan, something about their having military training. Precise, practiced execution of their maneuver. Even in his injured condition the Stony Man flier had been able to recall the way his attackers had operated, and Bolan accepted Grimaldi’s assessment. The man was too much of a professional himself to have made a mistake.

“Don’t say much, do you, friend? Suit yourself. There’ll be time to talk once we hit base. Plenty of time. And incentives.” The gunman chuckled to himself. “Like whether you want to stay alive.”

Bolan fixed his gaze on the back of the driver’s head. The man had a close haircut. Near to the skull. Even from where he was sitting Bolan could see enough of the driver’s neck and shoulders to know he was looking at a big man. The guy was into weight training and body development with a vengeance. He sat behind the wheel as if he were at attention. Bolan realized why the military imagery kept coming to mind.

The car swung around a vehicle ahead, the driver having decided to speed up.

“Hey, ease off the gas pedal, Buchinsky. Remember what the man said. Low profile. Don’t attract attention. Remember? Piss off the enemy in this town and the mothers give you a speeding ticket and ask all kinds of questions.”

“And the answers would have to be pretty damned good to explain asshole back there.”

“No need to insult our guest,” the gunman said. “He could turn out to be important.”

“Looks like a shit nobody to me,” Buchinsky said. “Give you odds he won’t have a thing to tell us. Waste of time picking him up. We should dump him in the Potomac right now.”

“Just do what I tell you, Buchinsky.”

Buchinsky muttered to himself, flexing his massive shoulders.

Bolan watched the city slip by. He wasn’t certain where they were. Buchinsky was ducking and diving, moving about the road system with ease. Taking side roads and sometimes seeming to double back on himself. The trip lasted almost twenty minutes. Then Buchinsky slowed and rolled the car down a ramp that led to a basement parking area beneath a large office building that displayed For Rent signs on the outside. As the car cruised across the parking area, Bolan glanced out the side window. The place was deserted except for a couple of cars standing near an access door at the far end. Buchinsky parked near the other vehicles.

The gunman climbed out and walked around to Bolan’s side. He opened the door and indicated for him to get out. The soldier dropped his bag on the seat and stepped out.

“Stay here and keep an eye out. We don’t want any surprises,” the gunman said to the driver.

“Suits me,” Buchinsky said.

The gunman guided Bolan to the access door. They went through and found themselves confronted by stairs and an elevator door.

“Elevator,” the gunman said.

Bolan pushed the button and heard the elevator start its descent. The door opened and he stepped in with the gunman close behind. Once they were inside, the soldier was instructed to push the button for the eighth floor.

THE LARGE OFFICE SUITE held a desk and a few plastic chairs. Three men stood at the room’s wide windows, looking out through the glass at the rainy night. They turned as Bolan and his escort entered the office.

“This him?”

Bolan had already identified the speaker. He was exactly as Grimaldi had described, from his physical size down to the bruise on his left cheek. He moved away from the others, his gaze fixed on Bolan, checking him out and making a swift assessment of the Executioner.

“He say anything?”

The gunman shook his head. He stood a few feet back from Bolan, the handgun held steady, making no concessions even though they were no longer alone.

The blond man paused in front of Bolan, his hands clasped at his back.

“You know why you’re here, Belasko?”

“Maybe you’d better tell me.”

“Questions. You’ve been asking questions. At the charter strip. Talking to the gate man. Then the car-rental agency. Now why would you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Why would I?”

“Maybe you’re looking for someone. Same as us. Douglas Buchanan? Or maybe you know where he is and your job is looking out for him.”

“Sounds more likely,” one of the other men said.

Bolan glanced across at him. He had a cut lip that looked very sore. Jack again.

“Ask him if he knows where Buchanan is.”

“Fair question.”

Bolan remained silent.

“So what’s the answer?”

The blond man’s lips tightened against his teeth. He sucked in his breath, glancing over his shoulder at the gunman who had brought Bolan in. The Executioner picked up the sound of rustling clothing, heard the gunman grunt and knew that a blow was being aimed at him from behind.

Bolan held for the briefest of moments, then bent at the waist, felt the rush of air as the gunman’s swing passed over his shoulder, then lunged upright. He saw the gunman’s arm blur into view as it passed harmlessly over his shoulder. He made a grab for it, twisting and jerking down so that the arm was brought across the top of his shoulder. Pushing to his full height, Bolan snatched the Glock from his adversary’s fingers, then yanked down hard on the man’s arm with enough force to break the bone. The gunman’s scream of agony was cut off abruptly when the muzzle of the Glock was jabbed against his chest and a .45 round drilled through his heart. The moment he pulled the trigger, Bolan dropped to a crouch, the Glock tracking in on his next target.

A lean guy, sporting a blue sport coat over a tan shirt, hauled a handgun from a hip holster. He raised the weapon in a two-handed grip, seeking Bolan, but the Executioner had already changed position and his newly acquired pistol fired first. The .45 slug caught Blue Coat in the throat, taking away a large chunk of flesh. The wounded gunner flopped backward, striking the window behind him. The glass bowed slightly under the impact, then threw the dying man facedown on the carpet.

Bolan had already located his next target, seeing Blue Coat’s partner clawing for his own weapon. He placed two .45 slugs in the guy’s lower torso, driving him to the floor in a spray of blood and a lot of pain. A third shot to the head put him out of his misery.

The blond man had already moved, turning, ducking as he lunged for the door. He went through a fraction of a second before Bolan could track and fire, and by the time the Executioner cleared the door the corridor beyond was empty.

Bolan made for the door that gained him entrance to the stairs. He went down fast, conscious of his partial exposure, yet knowing he had to get clear of the building before possible reinforcements showed up. He had no way of knowing if the blond man had additional backup, and he didn’t want to find out.

He hit the fourth-floor landing. As he turned to take the next flight of stairs, the access door was banged open and a pair of armed men rushed onto the landing. Bolan knew he couldn’t take the stairs without catching a bullet in the back. He spun, reaching out with his left hand. He put his palm over the closest face and pushed hard, ramming the guy’s skull against the concrete wall. The man gave a grunt of pain, slumping to his knees, gun falling from his hand. The second guy eyed Bolan, then made the mistake of checking out his partner. The soldier saw the guy’s hesitation, as slight as it was, and took his chance. It was, as always, seizing the moment, and turning it to his advantage. He turned fast, coming around from the right. Bolan’s forearm struck the guy’s gun hand, knocking it up and back. Maintaining his sweep, Bolan stiff armed his left fist into the guy’s throat, hard, feeling flesh and cartilage cave in. As the guy began to choke, Bolan grabbed his gun arm and twisted, until the joint snapped. The guy screamed, a harsh, ugly sound due to his crushed throat, and dropped his gun, which fell into Bolan’s waiting hand.

The other gunner had started to climb to his feet, clawing his fallen weapon from the floor. His eyes were searching the area immediately behind him as he completed his stand. The last thing he saw was the raised gun in Bolan’s fist, then the world blew up in his face as the weapon was triggered twice, putting both slugs into the guy’s head. The impact knocked him back against the wall and he hung for a moment, surprise etched across his face. Then he slid down the wall, leaving behind a trail of bloody debris. As he hit the floor he gently toppled face forward.

Bolan bent over the corpse and picked up the fallen handgun—another Glock 21. He slipped it into a pocket, then frisked the guy for any extra magazines he carried. He also located the guy’s wallet and pocketed it for future reference.

The other man was on his knees, close to unconscious, his shattered arm hanging limply at his side. He was making harsh choking sounds as he struggled for air. He offered no resistance when Bolan searched him for spare magazines for the Glock. Two more went into the soldier’s pocket.

Before he moved on Bolan ejected the magazine from the pistol he was using and snapped in a fresh one, making sure the weapon was ready to go.

Bolan took the final flights of stairs until he reached the basement level. He eased the door open a fraction and peered through.

The Intrepid was in the same place, with Buchinsky waiting beside it. The man was upright, taking his job seriously, his pistol in his right hand, held against the side of his leg, out of sight but ready for use. Bolan scanned the surrounding area. There was no cover between the doorway and the Intrepid. Bolan double-checked, then shoved the door wide open so that it swung back against the wall with a hard bang.

Buchinsky snapped his head around at the noise, his right hand bringing his weapon up as he dropped to a shooter’s stance, left hand following to brace the butt of the Glock.

Bolan had stepped immediately to the right of the door, his own weapon tracking his intended target. The moment he had the guy in his sights, the soldier pulled the trigger twice, and put both slugs over Buchinsky’s heart. The enemy gunner took a faltering step forward, losing coordination, and slumped to his knees. He leaned sideways, the Intrepid’s fender holding him upright. The gun dropped from his hand, clattering onto the concrete. Bolan had closed the gap by this time, and he stepped up to where the man lay. He went through Buchinsky’s pockets until he located the vehicle’s keys.

He opened the rear door and retrieved his bag, then the cell phone from the floor of the car. Sliding in behind the wheel, Bolan inserted the key and fired up the powerful engine. He released the brake and shifted into reverse, spinning the wheel so that the Intrepid moved in a wide circle. As the car moved, Buchinsky toppled facedown on the concrete, a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Bolan drove out of the basement and onto the street, memorizing the name of the building’s rental agent before he drove away.

It took him a few minutes to establish his whereabouts. Bolan swung the car across the street and made a U-turn, then picked up the signs that would lead him to the main highway out of D.C. and back to Stony Man. He made a quick call to Price to cancel his ride.

His only immediate regret was the blond man’s escape. There was a strong connection between the man, Jess Buchanan and her uncle. Bolan was about to make it his business to find out just what that connection was. He would have questions when he got back to the Farm.

“HE GOT AWAY, Colonel. There’s no other way of saying it. He took out my guys and got away. I only got away myself by a hair. Sorry, sir, I let you down.”

“These things happen, Ryan, so don’t get paranoid over it.”

“What next, Colonel?”

“Get yourself organized. I’ll arrange cleanup for the casualties. It might be necessary for you to call in and see Senator Stahl. He could have some information for you.”

“On my way, sir.”

Colonel Orin Stengard replaced the receiver and took a breath, collecting his thoughts.

He crossed the room, staring out through the window, watching the rain falling from a slate-gray sky. The weather suited his mood at that moment. He wasn’t angry, rather more disappointed that the capture of the man from Nassau had failed. Stengard didn’t like surprises and the way this stranger had appeared on the scene, checking out what had happened at the Buchanan charter company and then going to the car-rental agency, suggested he was more than just an acquaintance of the Buchanan woman. The way he had handled himself when taken by Ryan’s men seemed to confirm he knew what he was doing.

Stengard crossed to his desk and picked up the phone. He punched in a number, hearing it click its way through a series of distant secure lines before it rang at the other end. He heard six rings before it was picked up.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

“Problems?”

“Nothing that’s about to wipe us out. I need you to do some checking. My people have identified an individual asking questions in Nassau. We picked him up when he touched down at Dulles. He was taken for questioning but he got away, taking out the snatch team in the process.”

“Security agent? FBI?”

“It’s why I’m calling. We don’t know. All we have is a name. Mike Belasko. See what you can find out and get back to me. I need to know if this man has backup. The last thing I need at this point are agents crawling all over us.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Stengard made a second call.

“Eric, have you had any more problems with Randolph?”

“Only what I told you last time. Why?”

“There’s someone asking questions. Digging into the Buchanan thing on Nassau. He killed some of Ryan’s men when they took him for questioning. Right at this point we know nothing about his background. I’ve just spoken to Beringer and asked him to run a check on the man. It occurred to me that Randolph might have put him on our case. Got him to do some rooting for information he can use against us.”

“Damn. I wouldn’t put it past Randolph. It’s something that old bastard would do. Hire someone to check out his suspicions. Let me go and talk to him. If the old coot won’t play ball, you can have your people take him out. How does that sound?”

“Sounds exactly what I’d say if our roles were reversed.”

“Randolph always goes to his club midmorning. I’ll catch him there.”

“Do it, Eric. Let’s brush off these annoying flies so we can concentrate on the important things.”

SENATOR ERIC STAHL confronted Senator Vernon Randolph in the quiet of his private club. Stahl was a member himself, and this wasn’t the first time the pair had faced off. Stahl was aware of how serious a threat Randolph was. Stahl had made the decision to remove him, regardless of the senior politician’s decision. There was something about Randolph that unsettled him. In essence Randolph was too much of an honest man. He didn’t make it obvious; he didn’t preach, nor did he try to press his views on others. Yet his standing in the Washington environment was unmatched.

Seated across from Randolph, Stahl felt the older man’s blue eyes fixed on him. Randolph’s gaze was unflinching.

“Eric, we have had this conversation before. Too many times. I am not interested in your proposal.”

“From someone who admits to being a patriot I find your reaction disappointing.”

“Why? Because I refuse to advocate your policies? Destabilizing the elected government of the country? Agitation. Almost an invitation to an armed uprising.”

“Go out and ask anyone on the streets, Vernon. Ask them what they feel about the way the government has sold this country down the river. Weakened it. Taken away our right to freedom and the true spirit of the American way.”

“That kind of rhetoric only appeals to the lowest intellect, Eric. Is that how you expect to gather your supporters? Where are you going to find them? In the gutters, the downtown bars and lap-dancing parlors?”

“Might work, too.” Stahl grinned, trying to lighten the moment. “Vernon, we shouldn’t be arguing like this. At a time like this we should be joining forces, not playing word games.”

Randolph allowed himself a gentle smile.

“Eric, I mean every word I say. Please don’t get confused. I despise your intentions, your policies, the people you associate with. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re in bed with Orin Stengard. He’s your military clone. A warmonger who would bomb any country that dared to defy him. The man is a throwback to the 1950s. A different time and a different army. He should have been retired years ago. Thank God the man doesn’t have his finger on the button.”

“Be careful what you say about my friends, Vernon. I might have to send Orin to see you one dark night.”

Senator Vernon Randolph ignored the implicit threat. He leaned back in the deep armchair and studied Stahl.

“Eric, you’re either very stupid or extremely arrogant. I’d have to choose the latter. Not that it makes all that much difference. What you’re considering is ridiculous in the extreme. And do you honestly believe I’m going to sit back and pretend I don’t know what you intend to do?”

Stahl smiled. “Vernon, I realize you’re a man of high principle. I’ve always admired that part of your character. But I have to say in this instance it might not be the wisest choice. It could turn out to be unhealthy to say the least.”

“Don’t try to frighten me, Eric. I’ve been in politics too long to worry over words. And at my age threats tend to add a little spice to a life that’s run for a long time.”

“Playing the hero doesn’t suit you, Vernon. Believe me, you wouldn’t like what I could do to you.”

“I intend to go ahead with the investigation I’ve been considering. You have something to hide. You’re searching for Doug Buchanan. and you have an unhealthy interest in the Zero project. I’m going to drag it all out of the shadows and into the spotlight. The moment I have solid proof I’ll take it to the President. You have my word on that.”