Zero Option

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?”