Farm on the line.
“Hal,” Bolan said to Brognola. “I’m in a fix here. I can take out the men in front of me. But if one of them isn’t in control of the bomb, then whoever is—that person being out of my field of vision—is going to detonate it and bring this place down as if it was built of straw instead of rock.” He paused a moment, taking a deep breath. “Do you have contact with the priest and Hezbollah informant?”
“That’s affirmative,” Brognola said.
“This place is built to look like it came straight out of King Arthur’s court,” Bolan said. “The only obvious way up and down is the main staircase. But there’s got to be another way out. The fire inspectors would have never passed it if there wasn’t. What’s more, I can feel it.”
It was Brognola’s turn to pause. Bolan knew the man was thinking. And that what he had told him last meant the most of all.
The director of sensitive ops never questioned the Executioner’s battle instincts. He knew that if Bolan sensed there had to be another set of stairs, there quite simply had to be one.
“Hang on,” Brognola said. “I’ve got the priest and his new convert on the other line.”
Bolan heard a click and found himself on hold. The gunfire below continued, and the seconds ticked away, feeling like hours. He knew it was a strange and precarious predicament they were in. The better the Detroit police did in this gun battle, the closer they’d be to destroying the chapel and themselves.
Finally, Brognola came back on the phone. “I just talked to the priest,” he said matter-of-factly.
“And?” Bolan answered.
“You’re on the second floor now, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you see a painting of Jesus and a crucifix on the wall?”
“I passed them on the way to the stairs,” Bolan said. “There’s an identical setup on the floor above me.”
“Okay,” Brognola said, and Bolan could practically see the chewed stub of the ever-present unlit cigar in the director’s mouth. “The picture and the crucifix work in conjunction. Take the painting off the wall and set it on the floor.”
Bolan slung the M-16 over his shoulder and turned to the wall. He lifted the painting of Christ off a nail and set it on the floor. “Done,” he whispered into the phone.
“Good,” Brognola said. “Now, go to the crucifix.”
It took Bolan only two steps to reach the metal cross. “I’m there,” he said quietly.
“The painting and the crucifix work together,” the Stony Man Farm director said. “The painting acts as sort of a safety. Now that it’s off the wall, twist the crucifix to the right.”
Bolan reached out and grasped the bottom on the cross. “How far?”
“You’ll know when you’ve gone far enough,” Brognola answered.
Bolan twisted the crucifix. When it reached a 45-degree angle, a section of wall began to slowly swing backward, revealing an opening.
“You got it yet?” Brognola asked in Bolan’s ear.
“Got it,” he confirmed. He squinted into the dark opening. “I can just make out steps. Can you tell me where they come out on the ground floor?” As he waited for an answer, he slipped the sling off his shoulder and readied the M-16 in front of him.
“You’ll exit in the middle of the bottom room,” the Stony Man director said. “Facing the rear.”
The exploding gunfire below had not let up as Bolan stepped into the secret staircase and slowly descended. Brognola was still on the line as he did so. “Is there a peephole or anything like that, Hal?” he whispered into the satellite phone. “It’d be nice to get an idea what’ll be in front of me when I come out of this thing.”
“Sorry,” Brognola said. “No ‘coming attractions’ on this one.”
“Then tell me how to get out,” Bolan said.
“A more simple setup, since it’s hidden,” Brognola said. “Just to the right of the exit you’ll see a very modern-looking red button. Push it and the panel will open.”
“I hope this one moves faster,” he said, remembering how slowly the panel above had opened.
“I’m afraid not,” Brognola grunted. “They were set up to satisfy the building code and for use in case of fire. No one had armed men and bombs on their minds when the place was built. I’m afraid it’ll be just as slow.”
“Okay,” Bolan said simply. “Sometimes you have to go with what you’ve got. One more thing, though. You still have your informants on the other line? The priest and former Hezbollah man?”
“I do.”
“Ask them about the bomb itself,” Bolan said. He stepped down onto a small landing, then turned to take the last set of steps. “I need to know for sure if there’s a remote detonator, and especially if it has a dead man’s switch. And ask our informant if there are any identifying features about the guy in charge of the bomb.”
Bolan heard another click in his ear as Brognola put him on hold once more. He wondered briefly how long it would take for the men on the ground floor to realize what was going on once the panel began to swing open.
A few seconds later, the Stony Man director was back. “I’m afraid that’s affirmative on both counts, big guy,” he said. “Remote detonator and dead man’s switch. The only good thing I can tell you is that there’s a three-second delay between the time the bomber lets up on the button and when the explosives—it is Semtex, by the way—detonates. If you can get to it within that time frame and press the button again you’ll be okay.”
“How about the description of the bomber?” Bolan asked.
“Our new man here says he always wears a red-and-white-checkered scarf tied around his neck.”
“Well, that’s something at least,” Bolan said. He had reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the red button glowing in the semidarkness. If he was lucky, the men he was about to face would be so intent on firing their weapons out the back that they wouldn’t notice him immediately. He’d have to scan them as quickly as he could, find the one in the red-and-white scarf and kill the others before taking out the one with the dead man’s switch.
Not to mention getting to the remote within three seconds.
“Okay, Hal,” the Executioner said. “I’m ending this call now.”
“Good luck,” Brognola said. “Not that you’ve ever depended on luck.”
Bolan didn’t bother answering. He switched off the sat phone, stuck it back in his blacksuit, then reached up and pressed the red, glowing button with his index and middle fingers.
* * *
SURVIVAL OFTEN HINGED on decisions made at lightning speed and at the last possible second. Some men credited training for honing such decision-making. Others argued that nothing but real live experience—and luck in staying alive until that experience was obtained—was the key to success in life-and-death situations.
But a warrior such as the Executioner knew that neither school of thought was completely right or completely wrong. And while it would be unlike Bolan to ever put such an idea into words, in his mind he knew that he fought out of instinct.
Vincent Van Gogh had been born a painter. Charles Dickens had been born a writer.
And in his very soul, Samuel Mack Bolan knew God had put him on this earth to be a fighter. His inborn talent was in taking up the slack when strong but vicious men of the world attempted to take advantage of their good but weaker brethren.
The wall creaked