Infiltration

One thing Bolan had become convinced of: neither Volkov nor Godunov ultimately called the shots here. The entire operation was being led by someone much higher up—someone with both financial and political clout that far surpassed the wildest imagination. That was the head Bolan would have to chop off the Hydra before he could make a dent in the RBN, and it was an operation he surmised would take him straight into the flames of perdition before it was over.

Bolan swung the nose of his vehicle into the drive and eased to a stop behind a silver SUV. The soldier quickly withdrew his Beretta, checked the action and then holstered the weapon. Volkov had instructed him to dress in business attire, so Bolan had opted for a conservative gray suit with silver pinstripes, light blue shirt and light gray silk tie. He had no idea what awaited him beyond the doors of this shack of a house with peeling paint and weathered shingles. For all he knew, he could be walking straight into an ambush, one for which he had physically and mentally prepared himself during his drive.

Bolan climbed out of the sedan, walked to the door and pressed the buzzer. He stood there a minute and realized he hadn’t heard the buzzer from inside, so after waiting a minute he knocked. Soon he heard footsteps and then the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar face. Bolan searched his mental files, but didn’t recognize the guy. Probably another freelancer who had managed to stay under the radar of law enforcement; it appeared Volkov remained consistent in his hiring practices.

The guy had sandy-brown hair and blue eyes a few shades darker than Bolan’s. He looked at him through the ratty screen a moment—sizing him up, as most professional guns-for-hire would—before opening the door and gesturing for him to enter. As Bolan crossed the threshold, the guy stuck out his hand.

Bolan noted the Southern accent as he said, “You Frankie?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a nod as he shook the man’s hand.

“Come on in, the boss is waiting.”

The man led him through a cramped hallway with a worn hardwood floor that appeared dusty with disuse. They continued to a back room that opened onto an equally cramped kitchen. Two other men dressed in business suits sat there. They looked up as the two entered, and Bolan’s escort gestured at them.

“That’s Igor, that’s Keck.”

Bolan appraised each man in a moment. Igor had a short and wiry build; he wore his blond hair in a high-and-tight cut, and his hazel eyes flashed with intensity in the light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Keck looked almost East Indian or Pakistani. A thin, faint scar ran down the left side of his face near to his ear, and Bolan gauged it as a knife wound of some kind, perhaps from straight razor. He also wore his dark hair short, and his expression seemed unreadable.

Each offered his hand in turn, and Bolan shook them briefly. The speaker then said, “I’m Billy, but everybody just calls me Southpaw. We go by first names only here. Guys, this is Frankie.”

Bolan nodded at them and then asked, “Where’s the Wolf?”

“Right here.”

All eyes turned to the kitchen entrance, and Bolan felt a chill crawl up his neck. He hadn’t even heard Volkov come in, and that was no mean feat. Bolan always maintained a keen awareness in his surroundings, yet Volkov had somehow managed to approach his rear flank without a sound. The Executioner filed that fact away, intent on making sure it didn’t happen ever again.

“And I don’t go by that whenever we’re in public. You call me Yan or boss, don’t much care which. Got it?”

Bolan nodded. “Suits me.”

“Fine.” Volkov made a show of looking at his watch. “You’re right on time. That’s good news, because it means you listen and pay attention to detail. Let it become a habit and you just might have a future with this crew.”

“Wilco…boss.”

Volkov nodded and his expression seemed to soften slightly. “We only have a few minutes, so I’m not going to spend a lot of time explaining this to you. Our first job is we got to head upstate to Saint Bartholomew’s. I can explain more on the way up there. This is initiation for you, so I’ll keep the details simple. You’ll follow instructions given by me or Southpaw, there. He’s in charge when I’m not present. Understood?”

“Fine. But I’m just wondering why we’re going to a church.”

“Not a church, a school.”

“Catholic prep school,” Southpaw added, but he quickly shut his mouth when Volkov threw him a look.

Bolan filed the information for later while pretending not to notice the exchange between him and Southpaw. If Volkov had just used his real first name, Bolan knew it would be easier to pick him out of the list of potentials compiled by the Stony Man team. The mention of the school was of a bit more interest to the Executioner, but it also left him with a sense of trepidation. A group of grown men dressed in business suits were going to a Catholic school in upstate New York? Bolan didn’t get it—there had to be some connection to Godunov’s activities, but he couldn’t see it.

Without another word, the men prepared to leave as per Volkov’s instructions. They decided to go in two separate vehicles, with Bolan, the Wolf and Southpaw in one—probably they wanted to keep an eye on the newcomer—while Igor and Keck took the other. Fortunately, Bolan’s rental had the most room, so they opted to let him take the wheel. Bolan counted this decision a fortunate stroke of luck; at least he’d have access to his entire arsenal.

It took them less than two hours to reach the upstate location. On the surface, St. Bartholomew’s wasn’t much different from any other Catholic school. Bolan could only surmise there had to be something of value inside the school. He’d already activated the GPS homing signal on his cell phone so that Stony Man had a track on him. Not that he was worried; the Executioner could most assuredly take care of himself in such a situation. What bothered him more was that they were headed into a potential fire zone filled with innocent teachers, school staff and children.

And Bolan wondered how he would keep the bloodshed confined to the enemy.

IT WASN’T LONG after they arrived at Saint Bartholomew’s Catholic Preparatory School that Bolan could pretty much deduce the enemy’s plan.

Volkov ordered him to pull the sedan to the curb on the far side of the grounds, the entire length of which was bordered by a brick wall, with wrought-iron spires on top covered by the gray-white fingers of dormant ivy. He then instructed Southpaw to stay with Bolan while he went to confer with the other two, who had followed them in an older blue van. The thing was just nondescript enough not to draw attention, but Bolan didn’t doubt it had quite a number of special modifications. Not as practical as the virtual war wagon he drove, which was, unbeknownst to his new “colleagues”, filled with an arsenal of unspeakable firepower.

It would prove to be just what Bolan needed as he engaged Southpaw, aka Billy, in casual conversation.

“So what’s the deal here?” Bolan asked in his best Italian tough guy manner. “We just s’posed to sit out here and freeze our butts off while the other guys get all the action?”

“The boss knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, well, so far I’m not that impressed. How long you known him?”

Southpaw took a deep breath and let it out noisily as Bolan watched him do some quick mental figuring. He finally said, “About two years, I guess.”

“You guess?” Bolan made a show of chuckling. “You don’t know how long you been working for the guy?”

“I just said about two years. You deaf or something?”

“What sort of missions have you done? See a lot of heat?”

“I’ve seen my share.” Then Billy added, “You know what, Frankie, I think you ask too many questions.”

Bolan raised his hands in a show of defense. “Hey, I don’t mean nothing by it. Just making conversation.”

“Well, just stop talking so—”

Volkov rapped on the passenger window and gestured for Bolan to roll it down. He did and Volkov stuck his head inside, his breath visible in the biting morning air. A quick look at the clock told Bolan it was almost 0820 hours, probably just before the first period began inside the school.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You come with us Southpaw. We’re going to need your very unique talents in providing a distraction while we do this. Igor and Keck will stay with the van while Southpaw’s doing his thing.”

“What about me, boss?” Bolan asked.

“You’re going to be our wheels.” He gestured toward a low, squat building that sat to one side. Bolan could see the reflections of sunlight on metal and the occasional movement of vehicles. “See that? That’s the front gate entrance. We’re going to send the van through, and the van’s going to pick up a very specific package for us. You’re going to provide a way for me and Southpaw to get out once that’s done. We’re hoping this will throw off the cops in case we run into trouble. You’ll wait right outside that front entrance. There end up being any problems, you take out the guard and then you wait for us. Everything goes off right, you still wait for us. Got it?”

“Simple,” Bolan said with a nod.

“You better learn something quick, Frankie,” Volkov replied. “There’s a big difference between simple and easy. The two aren’t the same. Got it?”

“Yeah, sure. I got it.”

“Keep in touch,” Volkov said as he tossed a high frequency radio on the seat next to Bolan. He and Southpaw then walked to the van and jumped in.

“All right, you reading me?” Volkov’s voice said a moment later.

“Reading you four-by-four,” Bolan replied.

“Let’s do this,” he said. “You lead us in and then park outside the gate, where you can make a break for it, if necessary. But you don’t move until we’re on board. ’Cause I promise that if you double-cross us, I’ll find you and kill you. You can be sure of that.”

Bolan decided not to reply, instead waving his hand so that Volkov understood he got the message. Fate had dealt him a decent hand on this one, making it possible for him to operate on his own. Now all he had to do was figure out what they had planned, then determine how to stop that plan and still keep anyone from getting in the line of fire. A full-blown fight on the grounds of a Catholic school would be completely unacceptable. He’d have to play this one very close to the vest.

Keeping his pace slow but steady, he approached the main entrance to the school. He’d obviously been right about the start time, because the place was absolutely packed with vehicles, some of them double-parked to drop off kids, while others rolled through the gate. The Executioner kept his eyes open for any running room, counting vehicles and spaces between them as the numbers ticked off in his head. A group of children traveled along the sidewalks, pressed Catholic uniforms gleaming in the morning sunlight as they proceeded toward their school. Others rode with their parents, a good number of vehicles ranging from BMWs to Mercedes to Bentleys, not to mention a gaggle of imports.

Whatever these guns-for-hire had planned, Bolan was almost positive this would amount to a grab. But of whom? Out of the few hundred, perhaps many hundred children that attended Saint Bartholomew’s, why would Godunov have ordered his mercenary team to target just one? Or perhaps two? Bolan’s best guess was that they needed these kids for leverage. Volkov had mentioned that Southpaw would be providing some sort of deception, that he would use his “very unique talents” to do that.

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