Ford Field was packed and evacuation would take too long. Bolan prayed that they would be in time to disarm the bomb and not get anyone else killed. They circled the stadium one more time and finally found a place to land in the VIP parking lot. The dust from the rotor spun like a sandstorm around the expensive cars and limos, giving the once shiny parking lot a desert look.

  They jumped out of the helicopter as it touched down and stayed ducked down until it lifted off the ground enough to stop kicking up debris. They made their way to the security entrance for the stadium.

  “Are you ready for this?” Bolan asked Hart.

  “No. I wasn’t ready for any of it, but I’ll finish the job.”

  22

  Standing in the central security station, Sayf looked at his Rolex watch and shook his head. Yasim was either dead or in custody—he’d been gone almost an hour and hadn’t called. Sayf’s instincts told him that he was out of time and that if he didn’t move to detonate the bomb, his entire plan would unravel. “I’m going to do a sweep,” he said to the technicians at the monitors. “Let’s keep our focus on the stands and concession areas.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the oblivious security guards replied, never taking his eyes off the screens in front of him.

  Sayf slipped out of the station and headed down the hallway which would lead to the main thoroughfare corridors. By his estimation, it would take about ten minutes to get to the bomb, then another five for it to go off. Sayf wanted to be there when it did—to burn in the heart of the holy fire he’d worked so hard to bring down on this city. Anything less than that would be a failure in his mind.

  His belt radio crackled and one of his security officers said, “Michael Jonas, do you copy?”

  Sayf keyed the mike. “This is Jonas, go ahead.”

  “Sir, one of the owners just called and wants you to meet him in your office. Something about a problem in one of the luxury suites.”

  “Call him back and tell him I’ll come to him,” he said, having no intention of doing so.

  “I can’t, sir,” the man replied. “He was on his way when he called.”

  Sayf considered it, then let out a frustrated sigh. He didn’t want one of the owners poking around his office. He keyed the mike again. “All right. I’m on my way.”

  He reached the main concourse, following it around to the hallway that led to several offices, including his. Annoyed at the interruption, but unwilling to let an owner potentially spoil his plans, he yanked open the door and stepped inside.

  Allison Hart was standing in front of his desk, her arms crossed. Two men, one on each side of her, stared at him coldly.

  In an instant, Sayf knew that these were Cooper and Seles and that his cover had been completely blown. Still, he could play for time. “Allison,” he said, taking a step toward her. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “I wish I could say the same, Michael. Or is it Sayid Rais Sayf?”

  “Two totally different people,” he replied, easing one of his hands behind his back and beneath his suit coat. “We all wear masks.”

  “Is that what you call it?” she snapped.

  “Where’s the bomb, Sayid?” the taller of the two men said. He was dark-haired, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist and a disturbingly direct gaze. Cooper, he decided.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “You’re too late to stop it.”

  “Bullshit!” the other man barked. “Tell us now, Sayid, or I’ll take you down like the rabid dog you are.”

  “Rabid dog?” he said. “I am a warrior of Allah, and I will strike a mighty blow that will never be forgotten!” Sayf pulled his hand out from behind his back, revealing the gun he carried and firing it in one smooth motion.

  In the relatively small confines of the office, it was fairly loud. He watched as their eyes widened in surprise, astonishment, and then Hart’s blinked furiously in pain and understanding. The front of her shirt blossomed with blood.

  The man called Cooper caught her as she fell, and Sayf turned and ran. They wouldn’t give chase right away—not with the woman’s life to save—and that would be all the time he needed to detonate the bomb.

  * * *

  “ALLISON, NO!” SELES SAID, whipping off his jacket and trying to staunch the flow of blood as Bolan lowered her to the floor. “Cooper, help me!”

  “Listen, Denny, you have to take care of her. I’ve got to go after him,” Bolan said.

  Some light of reason came into Seles’s eyes and he nodded. “I’ve got her. Go!”

  Bolan leapt to his feet and raced out of the office. At the far end of the hallway, Sayf turned into the main concourse. Saving his breath, Bolan turned on the speed and hit the concourse at a full sprint.

  The corridor was filled with people, making it hard to see, but the shouts of outrage and people yelling for someone to stop was all the trail he needed. He kept going, shouting, “Police officer, out of the way!” to force people to move.

  He’d closed the gap substantially when two men in Ford Field security uniforms appeared out of the crowd. “Hold it, sir!” one of them shouted.

  “Not now,” Bolan snarled, barreling into him and knocking him to the ground. The other man jumped onto his back and Bolan was forced to pause. He spun to one side, flipping the man over his shoulder to land on the hard concrete of the concourse. “I’m a cop, you idiots,” he said.

  “We’ve been ordered to detain you,” the first one said. He couldn’t have been a day older than twenty-one. “Now, if you’ll come with us.”

  Sayf had deployed them to get free, Bolan knew, and every second counted. “Sorry, I can’t,” he said. He closed in and as the man tried to grab him, he slipped under his guard and delivered a hammer blow to his chest. Air whooshed out of his lungs and Bolan followed up with a sharp elbow to the temple. The man went down in a heap.

  The second guard was struggling to rise as Bolan ran past him in the direction Sayf had gone. But with the concourse filled with milling people, it was hard to tell just where he might be headed. It was a huge stadium. Bolan spun on his heel and picked up the stunned security officer from the floor where he’d made it to his knees.

  “Listen, kid,” he said. “Does this stadium have a basement or a maintenance tunnel?”

  “What?” he asked. “Yeah, sure. There’s a whole basement substructure beneath the luxury boxes. It used to be an old warehouse or something.”

  “Which way?” Bolan asked.

  The kid pointed down the concourse. “Take the...take the hallway marked M, and there’s a set of stairs about halfway down that lead into the basement tunnels.”

  Bolan set him down. “Call your other security members and tell them to stand down.” He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and ran. It seemed to take forever to get through the crowd, but he made it to the hallway with a giant M painted over the top before he ran into another obstacle. These weren’t security men, but two of Sayf’s men.

  They were closing fast and Bolan knew he didn’t have time for a protracted fight. Gunfire might miss and hurt one of the innocent bystanders, or worse, cause a mass panic. He slipped into the hallway and waited, not wanting them running up behind him.

  The two men came in ready for a fight, but Bolan struck fast and low. He lashed out with a kick that shattered the knee of the closest man, who screamed, then Bolan spun and drove an elbow into the nose of the other man, squashing it flat. The first man went to the ground, clutching his leg, but the second staggered away, shaking his head to clear his vision and then came forward at a full charge, bellowing like an enraged bull.

  He hit Bolan square in the midsection, driving his legs like pistons, while the Executioner slammed blows into his back and neck. Once, twice, three times he hit him before the man finally slowed a bit. This was all Bolan needed as he wrapped his own strong arms around the man’s neck and slipped behind him. He struggled wildly in Bolan’s grasp, but wasn’t fast enough. His neck broke with a resounding crack.

  Bolan kept moving, and found the stairs leading down to the basement level. At the bottom, there was a locked door, but it was old and wooden, so two swift kicks shattered the wood around the lock and it swung open.

  He dashed through and only his instinct for survival saved him as he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eyes and reacted, dodging for cover. The first barrage of bullets pinged and whined off the concrete and metal around him. If he’d been in the open, they would’ve cut him in half.

  There were no bystanders down here, and the deep, low clank and thrum of the various HVAC and other machines would cover the noise of gunfire. He drew his Desert Eagle, wondering how many more men Sayf had down here. He suspected no more than two or three. If his group was much larger, it was likely that his plan would have unraveled much sooner. Keeping secrets, even among religious fanatics, isn’t easy—and the larger the group, the harder it would be. Sayf wasn’t stupid.

  Peering around the space in the dim light, Bolan spotted a large crescent wrench sitting atop one of the HVAC units. Picking it up, he hefted it in one hand and risked a quick glimpse into the narrow hallway. He didn’t see anyone, but they were likely waiting for him to make a move.

  He went down to one knee, then tossed the wrench as hard as he could with his left hand into an aluminum section of ductwork. The loud clang of its impact brought two men out from their hiding places, both of them shooting at once. Bolan fired without standing, putting two large slugs into the closest man, who screamed as the rounds penetrated his chest. He tumbled over backward, his desperate cries drawing the attention of the second man, who risked his own life to run to his fallen companion.

  A mistake on his part. Bolan shot him down as he moved, the force of the slugs knocking him to the ground in a heap. Getting to his feet, the Executioner shoved the Desert Eagle back into its holster. He paused long enough to ensure that the two men were dead, then kept moving. The hallway narrowed, moving down until the concrete gave way to old brick.

  He was truly in the bowels of the stadium, and there was little room to take cover if he was confronted. Ahead, he spotted a lighted room through an archway. He paused, and saw that Sayf was inside.

  Kneeling on a prayer rug, he was mumbling to himself in his own language. In front of him in a metal frame was the bomb, and in his right hand, the device that would no doubt trigger the countdown. Bolan drew his gun once more, stepping into the room behind the terrorist.

  “Don’t move, Sayf,” he said. “Don’t even twitch.”

  “Do you think I fear you?” the man questioned, not turning around. “Do you think I fear death?”

  “I don’t give a damn what you fear,” Bolan said. “But if you so much as take a breath I don’t like, I’ll kill you without a thought.”

  “You’re too late,” Sayf said, dropping the trigger. “Look at the timer.”

  Bolan peered over the terrorist’s shoulder. The digital clock embedded in the faceplate read 4:28 and was counting down. “Shut it off,” he ordered. “Now. It’s over.”

  Sayf laughed softly, his shoulders jigging up and down as he tried to control himself. “I am the hand of Allah,” he said. “I have succeeded where so many others have failed.”

  “Last chance,” Bolan said.

  “You won’t kill me in cold blood,” he said. “It is against your so-called laws.” He laughed again. “Are you ready to die, American pig?”

  “We have a saying in this country,” Bolan growled. “It’s not over until the fat lady sings.” He squeezed the trigger on the Desert Eagle twice, and the weapon boomed like a cannon in the small space. The first round took Sayf in the right shoulder, the second in the left.

  The bullets slammed him into the ground with a grunt and he hit his head on the old stone floor. Whether it was shock or the knock on the head, he was out like a proverbial light. Bolan knelt and tore Sayf’s shirt off, then his own, using them as pressure bandages.

  Turning his attention to the bomb, Bolan picked up the triggering device and began looking for a way to shut down the timer. Footsteps pounded down the hall and he turned, ready to fight, when Seles burst into the room.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked.

  “I just had to follow the trail of bodies to you,” he quipped.

  “Funny,” Bolan said. “Do you know how to disarm this?”

  “No, but maybe if we both hum along, we can fake it.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Bolan said. The two men began examining the bomb once more. The digital readout was down to just under three minutes.

  “The triggering device won’t be useful,” Seles said. “We have to take the faceplate off and get to the detonator itself.”

  “Okay,” Bolan said. There was a heavy tool kit on the floor next to the bomb that had probably been used to get the device in place. He opened it and took out a power screwdriver.

  “Remove the screws around the timer,” Seles said, “but don’t touch any of the wires.”

  There were six screws holding the timer plate in place and Bolan went through them rapidly, then used the tip to pry the faceplate gently away from the bomb itself. “Got it,” he said. “Ninety seconds.”

  Seles was looking at his handheld, then back at the bomb. “The configurations don’t match with what I’ve got here,” he said.

  “Then guess,” Bolan said.

  “If you cut a wire, it could spark and set it off...” he mused. “And if you pull the power the same thing.”

  “And?”

  “That’s a bridge-wire detonator,” Seles said. “Unscrew it from the housing. It can’t fire without power. They’ve used it to make the circuit complete.”

  “Got it,” Bolan said, reaching behind the timer and into the core of the device. The bridge detonator was a long, tube-shaped device that screwed down into the weapon. When fired, its charge would cause it to blow.

  “Sixty seconds,” Seles said.

  Bolan began twisting it to the left, but it was incredibly slow going. The detonator was stiff and unyielding and the threads were tight against it.

  “Forty-five.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Bolan said, gritting his teeth and trying to go faster. Sweat beaded along his brow and his hand began to cramp from trying to twist the detonator in the tiny space.

  “Thirty seconds, Cooper,” Seles said.

  Bolan felt the detonator give a little bit in his hand, then his grip slipped. “Damn it,” he muttered. He refocused and tried again. This time it began to turn more freely.

  “Twenty.”

  Bolan ignored him, trying to spin the detonator on the threads as fast as possible in the confined space. A high-pitched whine came from within the bomb itself as the power source they’d used began to cycle up to a higher voltage. Considering how he was situated, a massive electrical shock wasn’t out of the question.

  “Ten,” Seles said.

  “Almost there,” Bolan grunted, spinning it faster. It was almost free.

  “Five, four, three...”

  The detonator slipped free and Bolan yanked it out of the bomb. The power source finished its cycle and the timer reached zero, a loud beeping sound coming from the housing. The charge fired, but without a detonator to complete the connection, it passed harmlessly into the metal sphere and dissipated.

  “Thin,” Bolan said, holding the detonator in his hand. “Mighty thin.”

  A huge roar shook the building from the fans upstairs.

  “I’m thinking touchdown,” Seles replied, grinning.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Bolan said. “Me, too.”

  EPILOGUE

  “What’s next for you?” Seles asked as Bolan watched Sayf being taken to an ambulance under heavy guard. It looked like the man would live, but there was no way he’d ever be free again.

  “Next?” Bolan replied. “I’m not sure.”

  “What about your drug case?”

  “I think this solved it. My guess is that Sayid was using the money to get his hands on the materials he needed to build his weapon. Besides, things will be very quiet here for a while.”

  “You aren’t really a DEA agent,” Seles said. “And you’re not any kind of regular law enforcement. Walker figured that out. Who are you really?”

  Bolan shrugged into the T-shirt someone had brought him from the concession area, then put his shoulder holster and jacket back on. “Matt Cooper,” he said. “That’s all I can tell you.”

  Seles laughed. “You either can’t or won’t say, will you?”

  Bolan held out a hand and they shook. “I’m sorry that Allison was killed,” he said. “And the others. I wish I could’ve done more.”

  “You did enough. We couldn’t have stopped them without you.”

  “It was good working with you, Special Agent in Charge Denny Seles. Do you think they’ll promote you when all this is said and done and the paper trail made invisible?”

  “It’s possible,” he replied. “But I’m happy here. This is my town.”

  “Then I’m glad you got to keep it in one, relatively whole, piece.”

  “Me, too, Cooper. When can I expect your report on all this?”

  Bolan laughed and clapped Seles on the shoulder, then started walking toward the SUV. “Yeah, well, I’m not so good with the paperwork part, but I know you can handle it.”

  “Cooper! I mean it! I’ll need your full statement to include.”

 

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