Extreme Justice

2

Near Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Monday, June 18

The helicopter pilot held his altitude near treetop level as he took the chopper southwest, following the track of Skyline Drive along the stark spine of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Hughes 500 chopper cruised at 137 miles per hour, making it a relatively short trip for the passenger who’d boarded in Washington, D.C.

Mack Bolan didn’t mind the lack of opportunity for leisurely sightseeing. He had made this trip before, with variations, covering the same ground time and time again. Once, he had fought and bled for some of it, but that was ancient history.

This day was business. He was not a tourist, didn’t need to get his money’s worth from every mile.

“Five minutes, sir,” the pilot said, alerting him.

Bolan made no reply, waiting to catch his first glimpse of Stony Man Farm.

It was a working farm, which meant that crops were sown and cultivated, harvested and sold.

The “farmhands” who performed the daily chores at Stony Man were soldiers—Special Forces, Army Rangers, Navy SEALs, Marine Reconnaissance—all sworn to secrecy regarding their assignments at the Farm. They knew it was some kind of sensitive facility, and nothing more.

The helicopter pilot started speaking rapidly into his microphone, exchanging codes, responding to inquiries, satisfying Stony Man security that he and his lone passenger were who and what they claimed to be.

Failure of that test would produce immediate, dramatic, frightening results. The Farm’s AH-1 Huey Cobra attack helicopter stood ready to deal with intruders on two minutes’ notice. The Farm’s defense system also included Stinger shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles and strategically located .50-caliber Gatling guns with a maximum cyclic fire rate of 2,000 rounds per minute. And that was a fraction of the armory.

Long story short, no aircraft of any description landed at Stony Man Farm without clearance.

Bolan’s chopper approached the helipad, fifty yards from the plain-looking farmhouse and equidistant from the nearest outbuilding. No casual observer would’ve guessed at what went on inside the nondescript buildings. Even the radio aerials and satellite dishes were cleverly concealed.

As they were touching down, Bolan saw Hal Brognola coming out to meet him. Barbara Price walked beside the man from Justice, on his left. Other Stony Man personnel would be hard at work inside on one thing or another. Bolan’s afternoon arrival wouldn’t cause the long-term regulars to miss a beat.

They dealt with life-or-death decisions every day.

“Something important,” Brognola had told him on the scrambled sat phone. “We can talk about it when you get here.”

Brognola’s summons wasn’t that unusual, although they sometimes met at other sites. A visit to the Farm didn’t suggest the matter on the table was more critical or dangerous than one they might discuss by telephone. It might, however, mean that Brognola required the Farm’s sophisticated AV gear to make his presentation.

The chopper settled and his pilot killed the engine, waiting for the twenty-six-foot rotor blades to slow, their tips drooping. Bolan unbuckled, thanked his pilot for the lift and disembarked.

“Glad you could make it,” Brognola said, pumping Bolan’s hand.

“No problem,” Bolan answered.

Price’s handshake was professional, the final squeeze a bonus, like her smile.

“I’ve got lunch and a presentation set up in the War Room,” Brognola explained. “We’ll head on down, unless you need to freshen up.”

“I’m good,” Bolan assured him.

“Good,” the big Fed echoed. “Good is good.”

Bolan found Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman waiting to greet him in the soundproofed, air-conditioned War Room.

Bolan met the Farm’s technical wizard halfway to the conference table, stooping slightly for their handshake since Kurtzman was in his wheelchair. Paralyzed by bullet fragments in his spine the day a band of renegade commandos raided Stony Man, Kurtzman had left intensive care with grim determination to never let the shooting slow him down.

Those who were standing settled into chairs, Brognola at the table’s head, Bolan and Price flanking him. Kurtzman took his traditional position at the AV console.

“Right,” Brognola said. “Let’s get this party started.”

The big Fed cleared his throat and waited for the first slide to appear onscreen behind him.

Half-turned to face the screen, Brognola saw a full-face mug shot of a swarthy man, black hair combed back from an aristocratic forehead, eyes nearly as dark pointed like twin gun barrels toward the camera. The face, though full, tapered to a decisive chin. Its mouth seemed nearly lipless, like a razor slash. The nose had once been broken, then reset with fairly decent skill. Less care had been applied to mend an older wound beside the left eye, pale scar tissue trailing onto the cheek.

“Antonio Romano,” Brognola announced, “described by certain tabloid writers in New York as ‘the last Don.’”

“I wish,” Bolan replied.

“Romano heads what used to be the Marinello Family. You remember Augie, I suppose?” Brognola asked the Executioner.

Bolan nodded. “I had to kill him twice.”

“Romano’s not that durable, but he’s been lucky,” Brognola continued. “Until two months ago, that is. A federal grand jury in Manhattan slapped him with a couple dozen racketeering charges, this and that, then hit him with the clincher—two counts of conspiracy to aid a terrorist attack on the U.S., collaborating with the Sword of Allah.”

“That’s a new one,” Bolan said.

“Damned right. If he goes down for that, he’s gone for good. Maybe the needle, if the prosecution proves his link with a September bombing near the UN building.”

“How’s it look?” Bolan asked.

“It was looking great,” the big Fed said, “until last Thursday night.”

“What happened?”

“Basically, the roof fell in.”

Brognola nodded for another slide. Romano’s frowning visage was replaced with two faces side by side. The face on the left had a weasely look, long and lean, while the other was softer, more cultured. The weasel had long, greasy hair. His companion was going bald and wore a pair of gold-rimmed trifocals.

“These are—or were—the prosecution’s two key witnesses. The rodent on the left is Emmanuel Agostino, aka ‘Manny The Ferret.’ Go figure. He was a capo in Romano’s Family, working the waterfront. DEA caught him moving a heroin shipment from Turkey without Don Romano’s approval or knowledge. That puts him underneath the doghouse, whether he’s convicted or acquitted. Stealing from the Family and risking a conspiracy indictment on the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, Manny was smart enough to know he had no future if he didn’t cut a very special deal.”

“Which was?” Bolan asked.

“Manny’s waterfront connections were diverse,” Brognola said. “One of them was a Saudi sporting diplomatic papers—and immunity—who acted as liaison with a Sword of Allah sleeper cell in Brooklyn. They were buying stolen weapons, ammunition and explosives from Romano’s people, getting ready for a killer party set to go on New Year’s Eve.”

“This wasn’t on the tube,” Bolan observed.

“It got the silent treatment,” Brognola explained. “Homeland Security assumed correctly that they’d only clipped a weed but hadn’t found the roots. Meanwhile, Manny was talking up a storm. He finally directed G-men to the fellow on your right.”

“Who is…?”

“Dr. David Tabor, born Dawud Tabari in San Diego, with a Syrian father and an Irish-American mother. Tabari changed his name legally to Tabor at age nineteen, after his parents went down in a murder-suicide. According to police reports, Dad talked himself into believing Mom was stepping out and satisfied his ‘honor,’ then remorse kicked in. One instant orphan in his freshman year at Stanford premed. Dad’s insurance wouldn’t pay off for a suicide, but Mom’s had a double-indemnity clause for accidental death.”

“Murder’s an accident?” Barbara Price asked.

“It is, in life-insurance-speak,” Brognola said, “unless the beneficiary took out a contract on the dear departed. As it was, the father wouldn’t have received a dime, but since he shot himself, Tabor banked a tax-free million bucks that carried him through med school and beyond.”

“I’m not seeing the terrorist connection,” Bolan said.

“Something the kid picked up from Daddy,” Brognola replied. “Namely, hatred of Israel, Jews and anyone associated with them—which includes the U.S. government. He kept a low profile during med school, his internship and residency, then he put out feelers to the dark side and hit pay dirt. For the past five years, at least, he’s been performing services for members of the Sword, Hamas and other radical Islamic groups here in the States.”

“What kind of services?” Bolan asked.

“Medical. He’s like one of the old mob doctors from the thirties, but he’s not a quack and never lost his license. Any terrorist who’s injured in the line of duty, Tabor is on call to patch them up without reporting it to the authorities. And did I mention he’s a plastic surgeon?”

“Ah.”

“You see the possibilities,” Brognola said.

A nod from Bolan, no response required.

“Long story short, Manny The Ferret got a line on Tabor somehow, dealing with the other side, and when he rolled he took the sawbones with him. Gave him up first thing, and then the doctor rolled.” Brognola shrugged. “I guess they don’t make zealots like they used to.”

“Seriously,” Price said.

“Between the two of them, they linked Romano to the Sword of Allah, and Romano was indicted on a list of charges that were meant to keep him out of circulation till the next millennium, whether or not he made it to death row. His trial is scheduled to begin three weeks from Tuesday. That’s tomorrow, by the way.”

“About that falling roof,” Bolan reminded him.

“I’m getting there. Manny and Dr. Tabor both went into WITSEC, pending their appearance at the trial. The Bureau had them separated, Manny on an island off Florida’s gulf coast, the doctor out in small-town Arizona. Thursday night, a couple hit teams dropped them both, with all their guards. We lost the witnesses and eight G-men. Guess I don’t need to tell you the attorney general’s pissed.”

“I hear you,” Bolan said. “But what can I do?”

“Well,” Brognola said, “as luck would have it, there’s still one more witness who could make the case.”

Bolan could see where the man from Janice was headed. “Who is it?” he asked.

Brognola nodded, Kurtzman keyed another slide, and Bolan watched a new face surface as the dead men faded. This man was clearly accustomed to the soft life, with an oily shine to his wavy hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The eyes were gray-green, curious. Beneath the cookie duster, pink lips formed a careless smile.

“That’s not a mug shot,” Bolan said.

“He’s never been arrested,” Brognola replied, “but it was close. The name may be familiar. Gilbert Favor?”

“What, the Wall Street guy?”

“None other,” Brognola confirmed. “They called him Vesco Junior when he split, going on eighteen months ago. The SEC brought charges on a string of junk-bond scams that made Favor a billionaire. And yes, that’s with a b. Clearly, he wasn’t stupid. Someone he’d been paying for insurance tipped him off the night before his charges were announced, and Favor caught the red-eye down to Mexico, then on from there to Costa Rica, where we haven’t got an extradition treaty. He can live a sultan’s life down there until he’s older than Methuselah, and we can’t touch him.”

“Legally,” Bolan amended.

“Right.”

“What ties him to Romano?” Bolan asked.

“Junk bonds weren’t Favor’s only pastime,” Brognola responded. “He’s a money mover, good with numbers in the Rain Man kind of way. What it looks like now, he laundered cash for half the East Coast Mobs before he hit a little snag on Wall Street and got burned. One of his clients—based on testimony from the late, unlamented Ferret—was Antonio Romano. Favor did some banking for the former Marinello Family, saw where the money came from, where it went. The whole nine yards, in short.”

“And he can tie Romano to the Sword of Allah?”

“Manny says—said—that he can. The problem, as you see, is twofold.”

“How to bring him back, and how to make him talk,” Bolan said.

“We’ll take care of Part B,” Brognola assured him. “All you need to do is drop in, have a chat with Favor and convince him to perform his civic duty.”

“Just like that.”

“I may have understated its complexity,” Brognola granted.

“Uh-huh.”

“But seriously,” Brognola pressed, “we think it’s doable. We’ve got someone on the ground to help you out. Translator, guide, chief cook and bottle washer.”

“It’s Costa Rica,” Bolan said. “We have to take for granted that he’s greased the law and politicians.”

Brognola nodded. “Oh, big-time, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“No reason I can think of why he ought to come back voluntarily.”

“Nothing occurred to me,” the man from Justice said.

“So, it’s a kidnapping on hostile turf.”

“These days, we call that a rendition,” Brognola corrected.

“Call it anything you like. It could get messy.”

“Diplomatically, of course, we can’t appear to be involved.”

Meaning I’m on my own, as usual, Bolan thought.

“Who else knows about Favor?”

“Well,” Brognola said, “Romano, obviously.”

“Does Romano know you’re looking for him?”

“Hard to say. We have as many leaks in Washington and New York as we ever did. For sure, Romano knows the state’s primary witnesses are dead. And since the charges haven’t been dismissed, he knows the prosecution plans to go ahead with something else.”

“So it’s a race,” Bolan said. “And I’m starting out behind the pack.”

“I grant you, it’s a challenge,” Brognola said.

Or a death sentence, Bolan thought.

But he said, “I’ll need his file.”

San José International Airport

June 18

THE WORST THING about red-eye flights was arriving at some ungodly hour in a deserted airport terminal. The shops and restaurants were closed, shuttered and dark. No throng of passengers or loved ones armed with flowers and balloons greeted arriving flights. Footsteps rang hollowly on concrete floors, while dull-eyed custodians pushed their brooms along the concourse.

Granted, 9/11 and the war on terror had imposed some barriers to any overt ambush in an airport, but the dead zone of a terminal at 2:00 a.m. reminded Bolan of occasions in the old days, when he’d left commercial flights to find guns waiting for him in the crowd. Nor would a setup be impossible this day, by any means, particularly in a nation that had earned a global reputation as a safe haven for felons on the run.

He counted seven people waiting for his fellow passengers, noting that none of them spared him more than a passing glance. His contact, according to Brognola, was supposed to meet him at the airport, but if something had gone wrong already, this soon in the game…

Bolan was a hundred feet from his arrival gate, eyeballing a sign that directed him to rental-car agencies and guessing that all would be closed, when a soft voice at his elbow said, “Matt Cooper?”

Bolan turned and blinked once at the lady, scanning her from head to toe in nothing flat before he said, “You have me at a disadvantage, Ms….?”

“Blanca Herrera. And I doubt that very much.”

Her grip was firm and strong as they shook hands. “You’re late,” she said. “No trouble on the flight, I hope?”

“Some kind of warning light came on, approaching Mexico City,” Bolan replied. “They don’t exactly set a land-speed record in the maintenance department.”

“It was probably siesta, Señor Cooper. You’re no longer in El Norte.”

“So I noticed.”

“You have luggage?” she inquired.

“Just this,” he said, hoisting his carry-on.

“A man who travels light. That’s good.”

“I still need wheels,” he said.

“I know a good rental agency. An independent. We can use my car until morning and rent one then.”

Bolan nodded. “And there’s a man I need to see about some gear.” A glance at his watch produced a frown. “He won’t be open for a while yet.”

“Have you slept?”

He nodded. “There was nothing else to do.”

“Then breakfast,” she said cheerily, “if that’s agreeable.”

“If you can find a place that’s serving, I’m with you.”

They cleared the terminal and Herrera led him underneath the floodlights to a parking lot. She handed him the keys. “If you wish to learn the city, it is best for you to drive.”

“Sounds fair.”

She took the shotgun seat and guided Bolan from the parking lot into sparse traffic. He followed her directions toward an all-night restaurant.

En route, she asked him, “May I know the nature of this gear that you require?”

“Hardware,” he said, “in case I get into a tight place unexpectedly.”

“And these would be illegal tools?”

“I haven’t brushed up on the local statute books,” he said, “but probably.”

“I think I know the man you seek.” She spoke a name and cocked one stylish eyebrow.

Bolan nodded. “That’s the guy.”

“You’re right about his hours,” Herrera said. “He operates a pawnshop as his—how you say it?—front.”

“That’s how we say it.”

“Very good. Unfortunately, he does not open for business until nine o’clock in the morning. Can you do your other business then, as well?”

Bolan considered it. “It would be better after nightfall,” he replied.

“Then you are graced with a free day in San José,” she told him, putting on a smile that seemed a trifle forced. “If you allow me, and you have the energy after your flight, I’ll be your tour guide.”

“Sounds good,” Bolan said, keeping both eyes on the road. “We’ll start with target zones and access routes, then hit the culture afterward, if we have time.”

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