curb, not more than one block from where the Interstate Loan Association had its offices, he knew there had been too much coincidence this night.
Mack Bolan's former Mafia war had brought him blitzing to this area when he targeted the Gus Riappi family and rained hellfire upon it.
At that time the Interstate Loan Association had been a money-laundry operation for the family that Bolan had somehow not had time to take out completely. Riappi still ran a weakened but functioning operation in the D.C. environs.
Mafia.
He would make time for dealing with this old enemy that appeared to be a link in the chain of events that occurred tonight.
He wheeled the Mustang off the track, cutting onto a side street that intersected the block where the CIA car had pulled over. When he was out of their range of vision, he coasted to the curb and killed the headlights and engine. He paused behind the steering wheel a moment more.
In his rearview mirror Bolan saw the customized van turn off the parade route and slide into deep shadows in the block behind him, facing in the opposite direction.
It occurred to Bolan that he had still not caught glimpse of the car carrying Izmir and Kemal since the trek began.
Now, the parade was over.
The players were in place.
The low ceiling of thunderheads rumbled ominously as if impatient for this action to begin.
Bolan strapped Big Thunder low on his right hip, unleathered his Beretta and went EVA into the night.
Into the killing ground.
* * *
When the Toyota he was tailing turned into a parking lot, CIA agent Bob Gridell steered his unmarked Ford Granada to the curb and doused the lights and engine.
The Toyota driven by Mustafa Izmir was out of sight somewhere on the blacktop on the far side of a low brick office building.
For a moment Gridell found himself wishing that he was across the river in suburban Arlington with his family.
Tonight was his second pull of duty after coming off a two-week vacation with Margie and the kids.
At forty-six, Gridell thought he was getting too old for this kind of work. Then he blocked those thoughts and checked the action of his pistol, a snub-nosed .38-caliber revolver.
He holstered the gun and reached for the under-dash mike of the car's two-way radio. He glanced sideways at his partner.
Robbins was also doing a last-minute check, his own piece a .45-caliber automatic.
"It's going down," Gridell told the younger man. "Our marks will hit that building on the corner, I'll lay you any odds."
"Bad odds," grunted Robbins. "You haven't been wrong yet. We'll have to take that building from both ends."
Robbins got out of the car. He closed the door soundlessly and stood scanning the terrain.
Gridell contacted their control and reported their position and what was going down.
"Do you require backup?" asked control.
"Not at this point," said Gridell. "Keep a unit standing by. This might not be the biggie. Don't want to spook these boys before we know what they're up to."
"We just hit the shop where they made their connection," said the control crisply. "We found two dead Armenians. One in the house, one out back."
"Damn. It couldn't have been our boys. The contact was alive and well and saw them out the door. We saw it."
"There is a wild card," acknowledged control. "A man named Phoenix. That's all we have at this point. It's top security, but we're breaking it a piece at a time."
"Keep me posted," said Gridell. "Right now, I've got two sightseeing Armenians to check up on."
"Be careful," said control.
"Always," said Gridell, and he broke the connection.
He joined Robbins outside the car.
Bob liked Dave Robbins. The younger guy had only been with the Company for eight months, all of that time spent assigned to apprentice under Gridell. The two had not yet seen action as a team.
Guns in hands, they split up wordlessly, moving toward opposite ends of the building at the quiet intersection.
As he jogged along, Agent Bob Gridell's spine chilled. He
Mack Bolan's former Mafia war had brought him blitzing to this area when he targeted the Gus Riappi family and rained hellfire upon it.
At that time the Interstate Loan Association had been a money-laundry operation for the family that Bolan had somehow not had time to take out completely. Riappi still ran a weakened but functioning operation in the D.C. environs.
Mafia.
He would make time for dealing with this old enemy that appeared to be a link in the chain of events that occurred tonight.
He wheeled the Mustang off the track, cutting onto a side street that intersected the block where the CIA car had pulled over. When he was out of their range of vision, he coasted to the curb and killed the headlights and engine. He paused behind the steering wheel a moment more.
In his rearview mirror Bolan saw the customized van turn off the parade route and slide into deep shadows in the block behind him, facing in the opposite direction.
It occurred to Bolan that he had still not caught glimpse of the car carrying Izmir and Kemal since the trek began.
Now, the parade was over.
The players were in place.
The low ceiling of thunderheads rumbled ominously as if impatient for this action to begin.
Bolan strapped Big Thunder low on his right hip, unleathered his Beretta and went EVA into the night.
Into the killing ground.
* * *
When the Toyota he was tailing turned into a parking lot, CIA agent Bob Gridell steered his unmarked Ford Granada to the curb and doused the lights and engine.
The Toyota driven by Mustafa Izmir was out of sight somewhere on the blacktop on the far side of a low brick office building.
For a moment Gridell found himself wishing that he was across the river in suburban Arlington with his family.
Tonight was his second pull of duty after coming off a two-week vacation with Margie and the kids.
At forty-six, Gridell thought he was getting too old for this kind of work. Then he blocked those thoughts and checked the action of his pistol, a snub-nosed .38-caliber revolver.
He holstered the gun and reached for the under-dash mike of the car's two-way radio. He glanced sideways at his partner.
Robbins was also doing a last-minute check, his own piece a .45-caliber automatic.
"It's going down," Gridell told the younger man. "Our marks will hit that building on the corner, I'll lay you any odds."
"Bad odds," grunted Robbins. "You haven't been wrong yet. We'll have to take that building from both ends."
Robbins got out of the car. He closed the door soundlessly and stood scanning the terrain.
Gridell contacted their control and reported their position and what was going down.
"Do you require backup?" asked control.
"Not at this point," said Gridell. "Keep a unit standing by. This might not be the biggie. Don't want to spook these boys before we know what they're up to."
"We just hit the shop where they made their connection," said the control crisply. "We found two dead Armenians. One in the house, one out back."
"Damn. It couldn't have been our boys. The contact was alive and well and saw them out the door. We saw it."
"There is a wild card," acknowledged control. "A man named Phoenix. That's all we have at this point. It's top security, but we're breaking it a piece at a time."
"Keep me posted," said Gridell. "Right now, I've got two sightseeing Armenians to check up on."
"Be careful," said control.
"Always," said Gridell, and he broke the connection.
He joined Robbins outside the car.
Bob liked Dave Robbins. The younger guy had only been with the Company for eight months, all of that time spent assigned to apprentice under Gridell. The two had not yet seen action as a team.
Guns in hands, they split up wordlessly, moving toward opposite ends of the building at the quiet intersection.
As he jogged along, Agent Bob Gridell's spine chilled. He
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