RCO Jason Dunham
Mack Samuel Bolan stepped off the MH-53 Pave Low helicopter onto the tarmac of Coyote Mesa, the base for the 242nd Reserve Unit of the Flash Force. A lieutenant came up to him and said, "Col. Pollack, please follow me, and I'll show you to your billets."
Fifteen minutes later, Mack retrieved the key from his woodland BDU pants pocket, then unlocked and entered his room. He placed his gear bags on the bed, unzipped one, and pulled out a suppressed Colt M4 carbine, his Barretta M-93R machine pistol, and his coveted .44 magnum Desert Eagle.
He then packed his clothes into the drawers in the dresser. After which, he began to field strip and clean every firearm he brought.
Finishing this, he pulled out his RAD folding dagger, unfolding it and beginning to sharpen the seven inch blade.
Australian SAS Sergeant "Dingo" Stryker lay prone on a rooftop across the street from the bus station, a group of terrorists had hijacked a bus.
Team MUSTANG had been told to expect a hostage situation, that was an understatement, Ten tangos had taken at least thirty hostages, most likely more. The Sgt. was the sniper on the team. Dingo was zeroed in on the terrorist who seemed to be the leader.
They had been waiting for over five hours in order to get this close to the bus station, and to negotiate with the terrorists. Five exhausting hours of negotiations led to nothing. The communications had been cut and the tangos were threatening to kill one hostage every hour if not released
from the train station.
He raised his binoculars to view his team, "MUSTANG-RIFLE to all team
members, give me a signal when you're ready, mates. Over."
He could see four of the eight team members give thumbs ups or waves,
and the other four checked in verbally. The team was made up of several
sergeants, Staff Sergeant Jason Lighthorse, the demolition expert. First
Sergeant Loron Granthem, the point-man. Sergeant Jarec Pace, the Slack-man, providing security for Loron. Lieutenant Nash Lee, one of several do-all's that have no particular specialty. Sergeant Will Gelespie, rear guard. First Sergeant Nate Ryan, another do-all. Chief Bosun's Mate Rick Slater, one of the technical wizards at the 242nd,
and the machine gunner.
The last man's specialty was leading men, he was not only Team MUSTANG's
leader, Lieutenant Rudy Boesch.
Nash, Rudy, Nate and Rick would go in from the front, while Jason,
Dale, Collin, and Will would come from the back door.
STAG Team MUSTANG's soldiers' weapons were quite diverse. In the 242nd,
the soldiers choose the weapon they fight with, the only stipulation
being they show proficiency with it.
STAG Team MUSTANG rushed in with their weapons set to burst. Two men,
Nash and Rudy moved left, while Rick and Nate moved right. The other four
came in from behind creating a cross-fire that would cut the terrorists
into ribbons. "Clear, Clear, Clear," the radio chorused as the entry team
could not find any signs of terrorists or hostages. The team moved past
the ticket booth and the gates, finding no one, they kept moving.
Finally making their way to the train, they stayed in the shadows and
peeking from behind columns, the team's riflemen made good use of their
4X scopes, picking off tangos with lightning speed. "Good job MUSTANG!" Rudy exclaimed, rather loudly into the radio.
"MUSTANG-SIX, all team members round the hostages up, and meet up at the rally point. Over."
FFRU 242 HQ Coyote Mesa (An old abandoned high school outside Amarillo, Texas.)
Lieutenant Boesch pulled up a chair, pulled down the projector screen, and as the slide projector began rolling, showing the film of the previous night's operation, he started his soliloquy, "Guys, the take-down that
occurred last night at 2200 Hours was very good. We accomplished the mission, but we could have done better, I'll suggest detachable suppressors for the M4's in case we come up against another similar situation, next time we'll get to compensate for it."
Just then, RCO Dunham and another, taller, more muscular man entered the room, the old theatre department of the school, and questioned the men of their take-down.
"Your take-down was very effective, the group, as far as we can tell, was a hispanic group, we've collected this data, it shows who their weapons supplier is and where he is located. Men, this is Colonel Rance Pollack, he'll
assist you with this next mission." he said, holding up a reel of projector film, and tossing it to Will, who was closest to the overhead projector.
The film ran fifteen minutes, and when it was over, STAG Team MUSTANG of Flash Force Reserve Unit 242 had a new mission: Take out the terrorists who were bringing drugs and weapons onto US soil from Mexico.
"Ok, we know who the supplier is and where he and his men are located. Now, we decide what weapons to take on this mission," Rudy said as the film ended. "Look at the terrain, the range is cut by forest and the rockiness of the ground. Eight elite soldiers nodded their heads.
"Alright, Col. Pollack, what weapons would you suggest?"
"Well, I'd suggest suppressed M4s with laser sights and low-power scopes."
Training Facility outside Coyote Mesa
The Hughes helo that Grimaldi was piloting, came into a low hover over a small clearing, Team Mustang leapt the eleven feet to the ground.
As soon as everyone was unloaded, the chopper was a blur as it flew away.
The team of nine moved into the tree-line and began their slow trek as the sun went down. They moved for two hours after dark, until they reached the rally point, the bank of a small river where The Executioner was to meet them.
"Hey, is the bugger gonna be here, mates?" the former Australian SAS operative asked.
"Give 'im time Dingo, he'll be here," Rick, an ex-SEAL machine gunner. His M-60E3 was the team's last line of defense.
"Hey, Rudy, we got ourselves some movement along the river," Nash, one of the two former Rangers on the team, radioed.
The team helped Rance Pollack pull his small, one person kayak to shore and throw a camouflage net over it.
"Alright, we go in, neutralize the guards, take the arms smuggler, set charges to blow his villa sky high, and then we book it!" the StonyMan veteran ordered.
Rudy chambered a double-ought buckshot shell in the Remington 870 mated to the M4 carbine, then eased the safety off the firing position.
Nate pumped a HE round into the M203, "Locked, cocked, and ready to rock!"
Nash whispered, "Sua Sponte!"
The small group began moving through the woods, slowly approaching the hideout of a man who had caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent citizens.
An hour and a half later, they moved into a thicket to discuss the tactics of the operation. The team would split into five fire teams, each spread around the courtyard, covering the movements of every man in the compound. Jason was to act as a mini-mortar, while Dingo would pick off
the guards on the roof. The rest of Team Mustang was to fire on the guards, once they were incapacitated, the team would move in and take the terrorist leader while an AH-64D Apache Longbow orbited above the villa, ready to unleash fire that would send the hacienda to hell in a hand-basket.
The respective fire teams moved to their pre-planned positions to set up for the take-down. While Dingo moved into position, he spotted a guard who was too close for comfort. "Rudy, there's a guard wandering around near my position, mate, you want I should grease the REMF, mate?"
"Go for it Dingo, just watch to make sure he's not being watched."
Dingo pulled out his zinc phosphate coated twelve inch Bowie knife, and waited for the guard to come around on his next pass.
Ten minutes later, the poor sap passed the sniper's position, Dingo moved in behind him silently, closing the ten foot gap in three steps, and struck with lethal efficiency with the large blade. Picking up the AKM from the ground, he safed the weapon, slung it over his shoulder,
and moved back into position. Jason was his spotter on this op.
"How'd it go?"
"No worries, mate," the Aussie returned, squinting through his ten power scope at his first unsuspecting terrorist victim.
Click-Click-Click, the radio came to life as the squelch broke the static.
"Party time, Dingo," Jason quipped as the sniper pulled the trigger to set the rifle and then, controlling his breath, squeezed the set-trigger to send a .50 BMG round into the man's head from the M88 rifle.
Jason began pumping 40mm HE ammunition into the compound with the 203, while the other fire teams began firing on the guards that were close, then moving
up to the wall, blowing holes in the adobe, and moving into
the compound guns-a-blazing.
The separate fire teams came together again as STAG Team MUSTANG, moving as one man and fighting off the Mexican terrorists. The six men ran full speed, zig-zagging all the way to the stronghold of the doomed men.
Rudy chambered a slug in the action of the Remington 870 shotgun underslung on the M4, and fired, the slug knocked the door off of it's hinges.
The team rushed in, covering all windows, and doors, placing tri-bursts and buck-shot into the training dummies filled with sand.
Moving like lightning up the stairs, they split up again into two-man fire teams.
Mack kicked in a door, placing a tri-burst of silenced 9mm Parabellum hollow-points into the head of a dummy.
"MUSTANG SIX, STRIKER. MANTICORE is out of picture, repeat, target is neutralised."
"Copy that STRIKER, MANTICORE is down for the count."
"THUNDERBIRD, MUSTANG SIX. Ready for extraction. Repeat, ready for extract."
The UH-1 Iroquois troop helicopter came in, picked up the ten-man team, took off, and made the trip back to Coyote Mesa.
SOMEWHERE IN THE CARIBBEAN
The flight crew went over the Huey with a fine-tooth comb, looking for any technical problems. Finding none, they unfolded their lounge chairs back into position on the tarmac, and began sunning themselves again.
While this was going on, Team MUSTANG was on the range, honing their shooting skills and as always, in the midst of competition with the base's regular personell.
TACTICAL OPERATION CENTER (TOC)
Team MUSTANG as well as the SEAL team strode into the briefing room, and sat down, the two units had forged a bond and no longer sat separately.
Five minutes later, Rudy Boesch, Mack Bolan, and Lt. Commander Red Harrison stepped into the room full of joking, laughing men.
"Men," Rudy stated, "The three of us are going to brief you on the operation we have set before us. We are not a group of different units now, we are not USDOC and SEALs, we are a unit comprised of different elements, but we are one unit. With that, I will turn briefing over to Red."
"Guys, Team MUSTANG is the strike force, the SEALs are the force multipliers, what MUSTANG will do is to go in after the gun runner, and do a 'snatch & grab' on the guy, while the PUNISHER (the SEAL team) clears the way and holds the perimeter of the hacienda."
"The plan is for the USDOC guys to go in through a sky-light in the roof of the hacienda, we SEAL's are going in through the front door and the back door, and work our way up, while MUSTANG works it's way down. Let's go over call-signs," He posted a sheet of paper with the call-signs on the bullitin board.
USDOC Chopper: LIGHTNING
USDOC Team: MUSTANG
SEAL Chopper: THUNDER
SEAL Team: PUNISHER
ASSAULT Choppers: HALO FLIGHT
SOMEWHERE IN THE CARIBBEAN
The weaponry consisted of the machine gun and M4 carbines. Dingo had that massive M88, which
made Mack wish for the .460 Weatherby.
The group of helicopters moved into an orbiting position over the villa, the gunships' mini-guns blazing.
LIGHTNING came to a hover above the roof of the hacienda, the M-60 door guns ripping the guards to pieces.
MUSTANG fast-roped out of the chopper and onto the roof, Mack led the way through the skylight, 'feet together, roll when you hit,' he thought as he crashed through the glass, the rest of the team following.
As soon as the team was on the floor, they commenced to cleaning out the room of it's guards.
Just then, J.B slapped the trigger of the shotgun, firing off a slug that blasted the door clean off it's hinges, the team rushed out of the room, moving door to door down the hall looking for the arms dealer and his guards.
Mack burst into a room, with his Desert Eagle palmed and leveled. It was a bedroom, on the bed lay a man of roughly fifty-five, with a girl about the age Cindy had been.
Rage boiled inside Mack Bolan, "GET UP, GET UP NOW!" he screamed in Spanish.
Just then, a tri-burst of 7.62x39mm Russian ammunition burned past the Executioner, turning, he sent a double-tap of .44 Magnum bullets crashing into the guard's chest.
When he turned back, the half-nude Bolivian man had a Heckler & Koch G3 assault rifle leveled at him. 'Think fast, Bolan!' the thought raced across his mind like Dale Earnhardt on a race track.
"Senor, you have picked the wrong person to mess with, no? If you would, please drop the gun?"
The Desert Eagle clattered to the floor, "Turn around, Senor,"
Suddenly he had a plan! It just might work, he dropped, rolled, and drew the Beretta, clicking the safety over to 'Burst', he fired, triggering three 9mm Parabellum rounds into the man'd jaw and throat.
The Spanish man choked his last breath as Bolan spoke, "I'm not the judge, just the sentence."
Meanwhile, outside, in the hall:
Team MUSTANG was in a raging firefight with the guards. J.B's M4 had taken an AK round meant for him, he quickly triggered several #00 Buckshot shotshells into guards coming up the stairs, when the last round was fired, he tossed it down and grabbed an AK, flipped the selector switch over to burst and began placing fire on guards.
Keying the LASH he whispered, "Let's move out, MUSTANG. Repeat, MUSTANG is coming out. PUNISHER, cover us!"
He ran past the rooms toward the doors, with the other members of the team filing out of the rooms at a dead run with the guards in hot persuit.
As the team got outside, they saw LIGHTNING go up in flames as a Russian RPG-7 struck it. A .50 bullet struck the man with the rocket launcher, putting him down for the count.
The team ran to the nearest vehicle, the gun runner's personal limo, a Mercedez-Benz monster armored with layers upon layers of kevlar and steel, virtually indestructable.
They radioed one of the strike helicopters, asking for a rocket round on the gate, beginning their run for freedom. Jason slid into the driver's seat, starting the car, "This guy has to be stupid if he leave his keys in the car!" he exclaimed as he punched the accelorator pedal to the floorboard.
The crude attempt at humor did not lighten the mood of the other passengers in the Mercedez.
"BARN, this is MUSTANG. We need extract! Heading is due North at moment, will keep you advised, can you pick us op on the GPS? Over."
"MUSTANG, BARN. Signal is five by five. Yes we read you on GPS. Stay in radio contact, we will have an operator on the line at all times, feel free to call as the line is toll-free."
"Roger that, BARN. We'll be here."
"We'll keep a light on for you."
"Thanks, we'll need it."
The UH-1 landed on the beach and the limo drove right up to it, un loading it, and pushing the Mercedez into the ocean.
TWO DAYS LATER
The exhausted troops filed off of the C-141 and down to their billets for hot showers, food and sleep.
After the plane ride, they never saw Colonel Rance Pollack, but they never could forget working with him.
AND NOW YOU KNOW THE REST OF THE STORY
Closing the Curtain
Roping the Wind
John Harris's Spectre M4 sub-machine gun searched the outlying grounds of his Colorado Rocky Mountain base for any surprises. Off in the distance, an eagle soared high above and a hummingbird buzzed and flitted searching for nectar. Little did he know that the man known as the Nightstalker had a bead on him tighter than a C- Clamp on wood. The Nightstalker stroked the trigger of the suppressed HK USP, placing a .40 Smith and Wesson round in the man's head. Harris went down like a sack of potatoes, dead before he hit the ground. John's slayer entered the camp as a ghost.
The Ex-Marine known as Nightstalker checked the load on his sawed off, M37 lever action shotgun, finding it ready for action. The man slipped the shotgun into the leather sheath strapped to his back.
His mission was to get in, get the vials, and get out of Dodge as fast as possible, now that had changed, he possessed substantial fire power, he decided to make a go of it, to take these pricks out in their own back yard, besides, it was personal now
Tom Highway worked into the night on his new pride and joy, a BAR. He'd cut the shoulder stock off, added a pistol grip, re-chambered it to .410 bore, and shortened the barrel and gas tube, losing the bipod. The next day, he took his new toy behind his cabin in Tennessee, slapped one of his fifteen mags in the magazine well and racked the chamber. He slung the weapon over his right shoulder and moved the fifty-five gallon oil drum into position, then stepped back to the firing line.
Removing the sawed-off light machine gun from his shoulder, he flipped it off safety to full auto and began loosing bursts at the drum, until the mag ran dry. Tom inserted another one, chambered a fresh round, and repeated the process until all of his magazines were empty. He went inside and disassembled the weapon for cleaning, once finished, he put it in the rack along the wall, under several other weapons, ranging from the AK-47 Klashnikov, Colt AR-15, AN-94 Nikonov, HK G36, and all kinds of sniper rifles and shotguns.
He stepped back to admire his collection of fine combat arms, any number of which he'd used at one time or another, when the secure phone line on his desk rang. He strode over to the desk and picked up the phone, "Highway."
"Incoming message from MINUTE-MAN. State access code," the automated voice spoke in the retired Gunnery Sergeant's ear.
"Command Code NIGHTSTALKER ONE," What in the fires of Hades and brimstone is going on here? He thought as he spoke the access code for the top-secret anti-terrorist group known as S*T*A*G or Special Tactical Assault Group, whose overseer went by the codename MINUTE-MAN.
"Access code approved and processed, prepare for Comm link initiation," that awful computer generated monstrosity of a voice echoed through his ear.
Within the minute, he was talking with MINUTE-MAN, "Nightstalker, we need your expertise at HQ for a mission brief, you'll get to go back home to collect your weapons and gear, but get here NOW!"
"Roger that CONCORD, will do," and within the hour he was driving his hunter green, four wheel drive Jeep Wrangler with Kevlar plating in the doors, bullet-proof glass windows, run-flat tires, and an armored gas tank, down the road.
He pulled into S*T*A*G headquarters main gate right after lunch that same day, and after parking the Jeep in the old bus-barn of the abandoned high-school and locking the doors, he strode down the halls of the Special Tactical Assault Group's headquarters.
"Highway, come on in here, we've got to do some planning," the man known as MINUTE-MAN spoke.
Tom Highway stepped past his supervisor's secretary and into the man's office. J.B Scully and Erin Walker were already seated, so he took the couch on the wall, next to the brunette beauty that was Erin.
"Glad you could Make it Nightstalker, you'll find a picture of a Mr. Trent Cohen in this folder," MINUTE-MAN handed the manila folder to him, "he's the founder of a group known as the Red Reich. Apparently, what Cohen did was take the ideology of the National Socialists or Nazis and mixed them with the Communist Russian doctrine. They've stolen a new virus, known as the SHARK virus, when it infects someone, there is no hope for survival, it effects the liver, kidneys, and most of the digestive tract, it basically shuts them down, within a week."
"You'll find that they are very powerful, that's why we're sending every S*T*A*G operative after this group. Yes, Tom, I know there are there are only three of you, but Medea, here, is the resident sniper," he said, gesturing to Erin.
"So, what's the plan?" Tom asked.
"Glad you asked. You, J.B and Erin will take a C-141 to Colorado, Cohen's base is located about half way between Trinidad and Denver. You all will infil the base, find the virus, destroy the lab facility, eliminate the merc contingent and get the hell out of Dodge City. And yes, the Renegade will be your transport"
"Roger that!" J.B blurted.
Trent Cohen was a rich man, his net worth was just under that of the founder of Microsoft. He' gotten his wealth from a 'legitimate' business in computers, but he'd become immersed in the world of the 'Black Market'. Illegally importing and exporting a multitude of items, ranging from drugs, guns, girls, and even illegal immigration. He'd done it all, and he had the money to do even more.
Trent trusted his business associate, Keith Price, to manage the virus manufacturing facility he'd built in the mountains of Colorado. Keith had gone so far as to install infrared motion detectors and cameras with live video feeds in the laboratory. Cohen's personal 'soldiers' were guarding the facility around the clock.
It was entirely possible that fully half of Cohen's army was stationed at the virus manufacturing plant. The soldiers were extremely well armed, with Spectre M4 SMG's, their fifty round, four column magazines enabling the bearers of these 'bullet hoses' to do just that, hose down an area with an extreme amount of firepower. They were also armed with Steyr Aug bull-pup rifles, as well as Sig-Sauer P-226 pistols.
The product the scientist staff were producing was quite efficient at its job, the SHARK virus was just that, a shark that ate through the human body at an incredibly fast rate, it affected the digestive tract as well as the liver and kidneys.
Keith ran the operation like a well-oiled machine, everything was on schedule. "Sloppiness breeds inefficiency," he'd always said. And there was no sloppiness here. At least, not yet
Wilderness of Colorado:
Erin and J.B slipped into the facility through the plumbing system, while Tom crept through the woodlands around the underground facility through the air ducts.
Tom scanned the hall beneath him through the grate in the floor of the duct. He slipped a garrote from his BDU leg pocket and leapt down on an unsuspecting guard. Tom slipped the garrote around the neo-nazi goon's neck and severed his air supply, leaving his body to crumble to the ground in a heap.
Nightstalker plucked his suppressed USP from its shoulder-holster, and stealthily moved down the hall. Seeing a guard, he ducked into an open room. Cracking the door, he lined up the tritium-painted sights on the goon, and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.
Stepping out of the room, Tom cast a glance around. Spying a neo-nazi guard making the rounds, he dragged the body into a corner and waited until his new target came into view. He stroked the trigger once, drilling a .40 caliber round deep into the guard's throat, the USP mildly coughing. moved into a small room with two guards, whom he downed quickly and silently, with three quick shots. Stepping to the console, he unlocked the remotely locked steel door. Exiting into the corridor, he strode for the door to the lab. The former Marine pressed the button to open the door, and quickly raised the suppressed hand-cannon, ready to end the life of anyone on the other side of the door. Finding no one, he stepped in fast.
Erin Walker was already staked out in a small enclave above the main laboratory, her suppressed Armalite AR-10(T) 7.62x51mm sniper rifle casting a watchful eye over the room, ever watching the working scientists. Her colleague, J.B Scully was positioned in another such room, only his weaponry consisted of a FN-FAL with a 4x scope and an M203 40 mm grenade launcher.
J.B lay in waiting, ready to squeeze of on the tanks of the SHARK virus, the 7.62 and 40mm ammunition would decimate the tanks easily, if it came to that. What's holding Tom, J.B wondered. He's never this late. As J.B finished this thought, retired Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Highway stepped into the room, a Heckler & Koch MP5K-PDW sub-gun filling his hands.
"All elements, this is Nightstalker. Are we ready to rock and roll?" he asked the two other mercs.
"Affirmative, Nightstalker. We're ready to party," Erin answered.
"Ooh-Rah, Gunny!" J.B retorted.
Tom stepped up to Keith Price's office door, let his sub-machine gun drop to his side on the tac-sling and un-leathering the composite stocked M37 shotgun. Opening the door, and stepped through it, the massive shotgun leading the way.
"Yes, may I help you?" the man behind the desk answer.
His companion in the room moved his right hand under his coat, undoubtedly grasping for his hardware.
"No you don't!" Tom said, swinging the mighty scattergun on Mr. Frisky, stroking the trigger, placing a #00 Buck-load into his chest.
Tom slapped the trigger again, this time sending a 12 gauge rifled slug into the figure's abdomen. "Bulldog, Medea, this is Nightstalker. There were two in here, but it's taken care of, get ready for me to come out. When I do, I'll plant the satchel charges. Medea, you can come in from the cold when I come out," and with that, he burst out the door, and began walking around the tank area placing the explosive "purses."
"Can we go home now, Daddy?" J.B asked, childishly impatient.
"I don't know, ask your mother," Highway returned.
"How 'bout it, Medea?" Scully asked, following his team leader's advice.
"Sure, let's get the hell out a here!" she screamed through the Motorola head-set mike boom.
"Rendezvous at the Wrangler," Tom ordered through his radio. Erin and J.B came out of their hiding places, exited the lab, and wound their way to the SUV to wait on their leader.
Within five minutes, Tom was in the driver's seat and began driving away. Once the small group was a safe distance away, Erin pressed the 'clicker' that would detonate the satchel charges, and there was a flash behind them. "Think you used enough dynamite, there, Butch?" J.B asked, mimicking his favorite movie character, the Sundance Kid from the Robert Redford movie.
"Shut your yap, J.B!" Tom ordered as he drove the Jeep toward their ride back home.
"You just keep thinking', Butch. That's what you're good at," he spoke.
S*T*A*G Headquarters, Somewhere in Tennessee:
The Renegade pulled into the parking lot and Tom found a place to slide in. The team hopped out of the SUV and stepped into the building.
"Morning, Sarah. Is the boss in?" J.B asked as the trio entered the office.
"In his office, you all know where it is."
"Thanks," Tom said as the three operators stepped past Sarah McCartney's desk and into their commander's office.
"Good morning people!" the man known only as MINUTE-MAN greeted them. There was another man in the room, over six feet tall, dark hair and eyes the color of ice.
"Tom Highway, You old Marine war-horse! How have you been?"
"Mike, if I was a dog, I'd be wagging' at both ends. How 'bout yourself?"
"I'm good, our old friend, Hal, sent me over to help you out in this scrape, I brought a few of my friends over as well," the tall man replied, gesturing to Able Team.
"Guys, this is Mike Belasko. He's an old friend of mine and he's saved my but several times."
"Tom, when we're finished, take your friend to Captain Parish and get him outfitted," MINUTE-MAN finished.
"The manufacturing facility was completely destroyed, no one escaped. But, S*T*A*G intelligence agents have tracked Cohen to Louisiana. He'll have a backing of KKK and other neo-Nazi factions. Tom, I understand you took out someone behind a desk, is that correct?"
"Yes, I gathered that was a lieutenant or a trusted friend."
"You're right, it was a man known as Keith Price, Cohen's chief lieutenant, and Cohen's hot as hell on a holiday to find whoever whacked his man.
"OK, their base is an old French settlement outside of Jonesboro. They'll be getting ready for a trip to Europe somewhere, most likely France, Spain, Belgium, or Switzerland. You all know how loose these countries are when it comes to situations like ours." Mike Belasko returned.
Roughly an hour later, Tom Highway, and Mike Belasko strode into the armory, where Captain James Parish, the resident armorer.
"Jim, this is Mike. He's gonna help us on an on-going mission. Mike, pick out some weapons you like," Tom offered.
Mack Bolan walked around the room, checking the weaponry resting on pegs