suits and mirrored aviator glasses, wearing tiny microphones like hearing aids. The flankers both held mini-Uzi submachine guns underneath their coats and took no pains to hide the weapons from Bolan. Their companion and apparent leader stood before him empty-handed, but his jacket was unbuttoned, granting easy access to the Magnum handgun nestled beneath one arm.
The soldier waited while they frisked him, examined the contents of his pockets and exchanged cautious glances when they found the empty shoulder rigging.
"You alone?"
Bolan smiled. "It looks that way."
If they were watching the perimeters they would have spotted Leo, marked him for an easy drop if he attempted to approach the meeting point or otherwise encroach upon the park. If they were unaware of him, it was not Bolan's job to point him out.
The leader stepped back and spoke into a small transmitter clipped to his lapel. A moment passed before he got his answer, and then he nodded to the gunners flanking Bolan.
"It's all right," he told them, turning toward the Executioner. "Let's go."
The gunners stayed behind, securing their backtrack, while the odd man out proceeded eastward, leading Bolan through some hedges, down a grassy slope, to intersect a narrow, curving drive. A limousine was waiting for them there, with three more 'Robert Redfords' standing watch around it. Bolan recognized the model at a glance, but there was something missing, and it took a moment for him to decide precisely what was lacking from the picture.
Presidential seals.
The limo's occupant was incognito, and while any resident of Washington would recognize the Secret Service escort at a glance, there were too many limousines in town for this one to attract undue attention on the highway. With the tinted windows, standard plates and lack of fender-mounted flags, the vehicle might have belonged to any diplomat or wealthy politician in the District.
Bolan let himself relax a fraction. If the Man had meant to have him taken out on sight, there would have been more gunners in the trees, and he would never have survived this far. He felt the agents watching him, their fingers itching for the draw, but he ignored them, willed his knotted stomach to unwind. It was a simple sit-down.
Except that he would be unarmed, conversing with the President of the United States, surrounded by the palace guard.
The nearest agent cut in front of Bolan, reaching out to catch the door and open it, retreating as the soldier slipped inside the limousine. A sidelong glance through soundproof glass revealed another agent in the driver's seat, eyes forward, both hands planted firmly on the wheel. Beside him, also facing forward, was a slender, nondescript accountant-type, a heavy briefcase resting on his lap.
"My bag man, so to speak." The President was smiling, but the smile was strained. "I can't leave home without him."
"Mr. President."
"Good evening, Colonel... no, I guess it isn't Colonel Phoenix, is it? Well, good evening, in any case."
Outside, the shadows had begun to lengthen among the trees, but there was still an hour or more of daylight left. Inside Mack Bolan's head, the doomsday clock was ticking, and he longed to be about his business in the capital.
The President seemed ill at ease, uncomfortable in Bolan's presence, and the soldier sympathized. But he had called the meet, and he would have to carry it from here.
"I understand that you've been busy since... the last time we talked."
"Yes, sir."
"I wanted to inform you, for the record, that we weren't behind that business down in Texas."
"I'm aware of that, sir."
"You're aware that I've already spoken to your friend about his family."
Bolan nodded, waiting.
"This is a disgusting business. Women, children placed at risk. I've offered full assistance in recovering the hostages."
"Too risky," Bolan told him. "It's a one-man job."
The presidential frown showed more concern than irritation. "So I've been informed, and I accept the
The soldier waited while they frisked him, examined the contents of his pockets and exchanged cautious glances when they found the empty shoulder rigging.
"You alone?"
Bolan smiled. "It looks that way."
If they were watching the perimeters they would have spotted Leo, marked him for an easy drop if he attempted to approach the meeting point or otherwise encroach upon the park. If they were unaware of him, it was not Bolan's job to point him out.
The leader stepped back and spoke into a small transmitter clipped to his lapel. A moment passed before he got his answer, and then he nodded to the gunners flanking Bolan.
"It's all right," he told them, turning toward the Executioner. "Let's go."
The gunners stayed behind, securing their backtrack, while the odd man out proceeded eastward, leading Bolan through some hedges, down a grassy slope, to intersect a narrow, curving drive. A limousine was waiting for them there, with three more 'Robert Redfords' standing watch around it. Bolan recognized the model at a glance, but there was something missing, and it took a moment for him to decide precisely what was lacking from the picture.
Presidential seals.
The limo's occupant was incognito, and while any resident of Washington would recognize the Secret Service escort at a glance, there were too many limousines in town for this one to attract undue attention on the highway. With the tinted windows, standard plates and lack of fender-mounted flags, the vehicle might have belonged to any diplomat or wealthy politician in the District.
Bolan let himself relax a fraction. If the Man had meant to have him taken out on sight, there would have been more gunners in the trees, and he would never have survived this far. He felt the agents watching him, their fingers itching for the draw, but he ignored them, willed his knotted stomach to unwind. It was a simple sit-down.
Except that he would be unarmed, conversing with the President of the United States, surrounded by the palace guard.
The nearest agent cut in front of Bolan, reaching out to catch the door and open it, retreating as the soldier slipped inside the limousine. A sidelong glance through soundproof glass revealed another agent in the driver's seat, eyes forward, both hands planted firmly on the wheel. Beside him, also facing forward, was a slender, nondescript accountant-type, a heavy briefcase resting on his lap.
"My bag man, so to speak." The President was smiling, but the smile was strained. "I can't leave home without him."
"Mr. President."
"Good evening, Colonel... no, I guess it isn't Colonel Phoenix, is it? Well, good evening, in any case."
Outside, the shadows had begun to lengthen among the trees, but there was still an hour or more of daylight left. Inside Mack Bolan's head, the doomsday clock was ticking, and he longed to be about his business in the capital.
The President seemed ill at ease, uncomfortable in Bolan's presence, and the soldier sympathized. But he had called the meet, and he would have to carry it from here.
"I understand that you've been busy since... the last time we talked."
"Yes, sir."
"I wanted to inform you, for the record, that we weren't behind that business down in Texas."
"I'm aware of that, sir."
"You're aware that I've already spoken to your friend about his family."
Bolan nodded, waiting.
"This is a disgusting business. Women, children placed at risk. I've offered full assistance in recovering the hostages."
"Too risky," Bolan told him. "It's a one-man job."
The presidential frown showed more concern than irritation. "So I've been informed, and I accept the
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