There was something in the air. Mack Bolan could sense it. Ever since the previous evening, when he had received an urgent message from Rachel Peres, his mind had been racing. The message, of course, had been brief, and coded. But for some reason the young woman had a hold on his imagination.
And now it seemed like she might have something more than that. She just might have managed to get them the break they needed. Bolan was aware of how hard she'd worked to get into the inner circle. The going had been slow.
Wary of being set up, Rachel had had to push deeper without seeming to. Every step she'd taken had had to seem like one she had been asked to take.
The minute anyone in the organization felt she was pushing, they would back off. Not only would her access to information be cut, her life might be and probably would be in danger.
Bolan, unlike Brognola, was not convinced that Rachel's ties with Mossad had been cut. But as long as they were after the same thing, he knew it didn't matter. And if there ever came a time when it did matter, he thought he could trust her.
Probably.
There were still two hours before their meeting, and Mack Bolan had things to do. No action meant no progress. Since the attack on Robert Hanley, he had felt like a blind man in a fun house. Rachel had fed him enough to convince him that there was something big in the works. He wanted a piece of it. Now. There was something hypnotic in his preparations. Carefully cleaning the .44 AutoMag had become second nature. The concentration was total. Pure. His life — and the lives of others — would depend on the weapon. It had been that way so many times in the past that it had become a given. There was an irony in the situation that never escaped him. But he seldom dwelled on it. That something so lethal could also be life — giving was just one more of life's contradictions. The Beretta was less awesome, more like an old friend than a skull-busting ally. The three had been through some tough times together.
And that was the key — together. Tonight, Bolan thought, he might depend on them again. Rachel's news would be important. Of that there could be no doubt. That it could be a setup was more than a possibility, though. Her success had been extraordinary. It had been quick and, apparently, total. What Bolan didn't know was why. Rachel Peres was a professional.
Bolan had accepted that. So were the boys she was playing with. And it was possible for her cover to have been blown in a hundred ways. Some of them she would recognize, some would escape her. So Big Thunder would be riding his hip, just like always. And the Beretta would tag along.
When the guns were cleaned and oiled, he slipped them into their holsters. He had under an hour now, and it would take twenty minutes to make the rendezvous point. It was time to go. As always, Mack Bolan wanted to be early. There were too many loopholes, too many places for people to hide. If a man wanted to stay alive in this line of work, he plugged the loopholes, and flushed out the hiding places before it mattered. Otherwise it could be too late.
The meeting had been set for the southwest corner of Central Park. There were too many eyes in New York, too many people could see you when you couldn't see them. The safest place to be was someplace where only a fool, or a criminal, would go. That meant Central Park at night. In the winter.
Outside his hotel, Mack Bolan caught a cab for the ride to Columbus Circle. He watched the traffic, but there was no sign that he was being followed. At the Circle he left the cab, attracting little, if any, attention. The fountain plaza was less crowded than usual. Even society's derelicts sought refuge from the cold.
Rachel was going to wait for him in the park on the bridle path. The shadows under the roadway overpass would be appropriate cover for their meeting. Most New Yorkers avoided such places even at high noon on a summer day.
No one with legitimate business would be around.
Bolan entered the park followed by jeers and a sales pitch or two, most of which would have been offensive if they had been intelligible. He watched carefully to see whether anyone had paid more than the expected attention. Even a drunk should have noticed a well-dressed man entering the park at night. No one seemed overly interested. Once inside, it was immediately dark. What few lights there were had long been dead. Vandals accounted for their fair share, and muggers had done away with the rest. The leaves underfoot crunched in the cold, and stray papers blew across the pavement. The wind was brisk, and that was bad. The noise would make it easier for a tail to hide his presence. At a fork in the walk he paused against a light stanchion to survey the area to his rear. Anything — a flitting shadow, a thud, even a breaking twig — could make the difference.
Satisfied that no one was following, he moved deeper into the park.
Bearing to the right, he approached the bridle path.
The black dirt was frozen, and the crust looked undisturbed. No one had passed that way recently. Once on the path, he increased his vigilance. The walkway was overhung by trees on both sides, making it a gloomy tunnel. For some reason that escaped both the New York police and Mack Bolan, people insisted on walking that way at night, and muggers kept right on waiting.
After about seventy yards, Bolan's attuned sense of hearing registered something. It was a whisper.
That meant one of two things. Either someone was talking to himself or, more likely, two people were hidden in the trees to his left. Bolan turned to look behind him. The prick of cold steel on his cheek came as no surprise. Holding an urge to retaliate in check, he waited for the second punk to step in front of him.
"Hey, man, you lost?" The sneer was obvious, even in the shadows.
"No. Are you?" Bolan felt the knife a second time.
"You looking for drugs, I bet. You ain't out for the air, is you my man?"
"As a matter of fact I am." Bolan dropped quickly to the bridle path, spinning on his back as he did. His left foot flashed out and caught one punk in the groin, doubling him over. The second mugger stepped forward, but he was too slow. Bolan caught his extended arm, reaching in behind the blade. He pulled forward, using the momentum to snap the punk's arm at the elbow. He looked at the two of them, no more than kids, and shook his head in disgust. "You guys shouldn't be out here. Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Man, you broke my goddamn arm. What'd you do that for?"
"If you want to keep the other one, get out of here, and take that garbage with you. Now."
"Let's go, man," the nut-busted mugger groaned. "That son of a bitch'll kill us, man."
Bolan watched them stagger off toward the light and wondered if they'd ever know how lucky they'd been.
Another night, and he might have taught them a lesson they'd never forget. This one they'd probably just chalk up to experience and maybe take it out on their next victim. Maybe. There was nothing Mack Bolan could do about that. Not now. He quickened his pace to make up for lost time. Reaching the overpass five minutes before the appointed hour, he gave it a quick once-over. Rachel wasn't there yet. No reason she should be. And, better yet, the place was deserted. He pressed back into the shadows to wait. On the dot of nine he flicked his lighter on and off. An answering glow flashed among the trees, and a moment later Rachel joined him.
"You all right?" Bolan asked.
"So far."
"What's up? Your message was urgent."
"I'm not sure. There's a lot going on, and I'm not sure I like it. It's too easy."
"What do you mean?" Bolan knew what she was going to say.
"I can't believe they trust me as much as they seem to. It makes no sense. They're up to something big. I know that. But I don't know what. On the other hand, they've let me in on some penny-ante stuff."
"Such as?" Rachel quickly sketched the details of three operations that Malcolm Parsons had personally briefed her on. All were scheduled for the next two weeks, and none seemed particularly momentous.
Bolan didn't like it. Not a bit.
"What do you think they're up to?" he asked.
"I don't know. There was a new guy around. I never saw him before. He and Parsons locked themselves up in the library, sometimes for hours at a time."
"Any idea who he is?"
"No. I don't even know his name. They call him Peter, but that's all I know. He's tall, thinning hair. Sounds English, but I'm not certain."
"Try to find out what they're up to. Don't take any unnecessary risks, but do what you can. I think we're being set up."
"But how? Why?"
"How, I don't know. Why I can guess. They're onto me, and they want me. They're trying to smoke me out. The guy at Hanley's, the one who got away. He must have gotten a better look at me than I thought. If they ran that past the boys in the Kremlin, they probably got a make on me. I don't know. It's just a hunch."
"What about me?"
"Watch yourself. They don't trust you. That's obvious. And they'll try to use you to get to me if they make a connection. Are you sure you weren't followed tonight?"
"As sure as I could be. There's always a chance, of course."
The darkness of the overpass suddenly deepened.
Bolan glanced toward the mouth of the tunnel and saw two men advancing toward them. Two more entered at the other end. It was a trap, and a good one.
"Get back against the wall and lie down," Bolan hissed, pressing Rachel against the stone. "We've got company."
He unslung the Beretta and dropped to the ground. Their only chance was to clean out one end of the tunnel, fast. And that would just reduce the odds.
Bolan hoped they didn't have lights.
As if on cue, one end of the tunnel was bathed in illumination. He snapped a shot at the hand-held torch. He missed the light, but not the man behind it.
With a groan, the man dropped the lamp, falling forward to cover it. The Executioner fired again, aiming between the twin points of light escaping from under the man's body. The slug hit home. Looking over his shoulder, he gauged the distance to the other two men, who seemed to have waited at the mouth of the tunnel. Turning his attention back to the first team, he sighted in on the remaining gunman.
So far the newcomers hadn't fired a single shot.
But Bolan knew he couldn't count on the situation remaining one-sided. He fired twice, the Beretta whispering death from the shadows. The slugs found their target. They punched the guy twice, once in the forehead and once in the throat. He fell backward, slamming his head against the frozen earth of the bridle path.
The remaining pair still blocked the other end of the overpass. It was almost as if they wanted Bolan and Rachel Peres to escape. But Bolan knew the best defense was a good offense. What's true in football is also true in war, Bolan thought.
He couldn't let the two men escape. They could confirm that he had met with Rachel. Suspicion was one thing; proof was another. It would finish her career with Parsons, and it would endanger her life.
The Executioner rolled across the cold earth to the opposite wall. So far the surviving team hadn't produced a light of its own. Maybe they thought they'd need only the one. Okay, Bolan thought, so they'd learn something. Against the far wall Bolan peered into the darkness. That end of the tunnel, the park end, was much dimmer. The shadows of the two men were motionless, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding gloom. As he watched, he heard the whine of a slug. It narrowly missed him, chipping the stone just above his head.
These guys were pros. No noise, no light.
Just spitting death. At him. He'd have to move in, and quickly. Setting the Beretta for a three-shot burst, he aimed into the heart of the darkness. The surprised hiss told him he'd found his mark. The dark shape slid down the wall. It didn't move.
He wormed forward, trying not to rasp his clothes against the wall. The guy couldn't see him. If his opponent heard him, Bolan would be in trouble. The guy was barely visible, and then he was gone. Bolan heard footsteps. The gunner had split.
Unless he was waiting just beyond the mouth of the tunnel.
If Bolan rushed into the light, he'd be a sitting duck. Or a dead one. Well, there was no other way, Bolan thought. He stood up and yanked Big Thunder from its sling. He slipped the Beretta under his coat and ran for the opening.
The guy's footsteps were pounding on the bridle path straight ahead. Bolan raced after him. He was gaining ground rapidly. The guy was out of shape.
He didn't even have sense enough to head into the trees.
As the Executioner narrowed the gap, the guy tried to sprint, but he didn't have it in him. Bolan caught up with him at a fork in the bridle path in a thick stand of trees. The guy was a game one. He turned and aimed his weapon as Bolan leaped. Aiming a fist at the guy's jaw, Bolan bore into him with a shoulder. They went down in a heap.
Bolan knew that it would be useful to hang on to this one. He could tell them a lot they needed to know.
Getting to his feet, Bolan grabbed at the guy and hauled. The man was breathing like a beached whale.
All the fight had gone out of him. This was going to be easier than Bolan had hoped. Suddenly the guy sagged, and the weight was more than Bolan could handle.
And then Bolan caught the scent of almonds.
Cyanide. The guy was a pro. And for somebody heavy. Bolan bent over the supine body and clicked his lighter. The man's features were twisted by the poison, but there was no mistaking their origin, or that of the ill-fitting suit. They were Eastern cut. Bulgaria probably. That made one thing certain: hit men of this caliber weren't sent out just to keep an eye on some wayward antinuker. They were onto Rachel. And onto Mack Bolan.