Superbolan 150 Radical Edge by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Outside Fort Worth, Texas

“We’re clear of the Austin area, Sarge,” Grimaldi reported. “Coming up on Fort Worth. Closing in on the train’s position now. They’ve traversed the populated areas so far without major incident, but there have been reports of gunfire.” “The terrorists are shooting at civilians?” Bolan asked. “Doesn’t look like it,” Grimaldi said. “Real-time heat satellite imaging, including thermal analysis, shows the there are still firefights going aboard it. They’re spotty, but they’re there.” “Got to be our party crasher,” Bolan said. “His name is Russell Troy,” Michael Wood said from his seat near the door gun. “We used to work together. He was captured during the Bureau’s infiltration of Twelfth Reich. His family was killed.” “Yeah,” Bolan said. “I’ve read the report.” He had, in fact, recognized Troy the moment he saw him, from the photo included in his intelligence files. Russell Troy, the FBI man who had suffered at Shane Hyde’s hands, now apparently head of his own detachment of what? Mercenaries? Vigilantes? In the confusion, at least two trucks that were part of Russell Troy’s force had escaped. The Farm’s satellite scanning of the scene had tracked the vehicles to nearby Austin, where they were lost in the crush of city traffic. That meant Troy still had people on whom he could call, who were, at this moment, at large and well armed. There was little Bolan could do about that, for the moment. The interior of the Pave Hawk had been hastily cleaned. Greene’s body had been removed and sent back with most of what remained of the joint DHS-FBI detachment. Bolan had invoked his authority again as Agent Matt Cooper, detailing a single Hummer—the least damaged among them—to act as trail car, picking up any bodies and securing any live terrorists that might be thrown or fleeing from the train as it moved. Predictably, Margrave had made a lot of noise when the Pave Hawk returned to pick up Bolan. Grimaldi had used a private Austin airfield to top off his fuel tanks and make hasty repairs. By the time he got back, the support teams had converged on Bolan’s position and a bloody-faced Margrave had worked himself into a lather. A glare from Bolan, who looked ready to put Margrave down a second time, had silenced the man. By the time Grimaldi, Wood and Bolan had taken to the air, Wood having elected to lend himself to Bolan’s cause for the near future, the rest of the men on the ground were doing all they could not to laugh at Margrave to his face. Bolan’s secure phone buzzed. He checked it. The text message from the Farm included a data attachment. The documentation was summarized in the message. The shell casings Bolan had recovered from the safe house had, at one time, been part of several supply caches distributed for the use of deep-cover agents. That made sense. “It doesn’t make any sense,” Wood said. “The last I knew, Russell Troy was a wreck, living in a convalescent home in California.

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