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REVENGE STRIKE

Within hours, several of Chicago’s finest police officers are dead in a violent killing spree. But Mack Bolan is certain these murders aren’t random—or anywhere near finished. It doesn’t take long for him to hone in on Shalib Grec, a terrorist smuggler whose brother died at the hands of police. Grec has vowed revenge, and only The Executioner stands in his way. Now Bolan must turn Grec’s empire against him and evade the terrorist’s expert assassins to deliver final, merciless justice.

#375 Salvador Strike

#376 Frontier Fury

#377 Desperate Cargo

#378 Death Run

#379 Deep Recon

#380 Silent Threat

#381 Killing Ground

#382 Threat Factor

#383 Raw Fury

#384 Cartel Clash

#385 Recovery Force

#386 Crucial Intercept

#387 Powder Burn

#388 Final Coup

#389 Deadly Command

#390 Toxic Terrain

#391 Enemy Agents

#392 Shadow Hunt

#393 Stand Down

#394 Trial by Fire

#395 Hazard Zone

#396 Fatal Combat

#397 Damage Radius

#398 Battle Cry

#399 Nuclear Storm

#400 Blind Justice

#401 Jungle Hunt

#402 Rebel Trade

#403 Line of Honor

#404 Final Judgment

#405 Lethal Diversion

#406 Survival Mission

#407 Throw Down

#408 Border Offensive

#409 Blood Vendetta

#410 Hostile Force

#411 Cold Fusion

#412 Night’s Reckoning

#413 Double Cross

#414 Prison Code

#415 Ivory Wave

#416 Extraction

#417 Rogue Assault

#418 Viral Siege

#419 Sleeping Dragons

#420 Rebel Blast

#421 Hard Targets

#422 Nigeria Meltdown

#423 Breakout

#424 Amazon Impunity

#425 Patriot Strike

#426 Pirate Offensive

#427 Pacific Creed

#428 Desert Impact

#429 Arctic Kill

#430 Deadly Salvage

#431 Maximum Chaos

#432 Slayground

#433 Point Blank

#434 Savage Deadlock

#435 Dragon Key

#436 Perilous Cargo

#437 Assassin’s Tripwire

#438 The Cartel Hit

#439 Blood Rites

#440 Killpath

#441 Murder Island

#442 Syrian Rescue

#443 Uncut Terror

#444 Dark Savior

#445 Final Assault

#446 Kill Squad

#447 Missile Intercept

#448 Terrorist Dispatch

#449 Combat Machines

#450 Omega Cult

#451 Fatal Prescription

#452 Death List

#453 Rogue Elements

#454 Enemies Within

#455 Chicago Vendetta

Chicago Vendetta

Don Pendleton

ISBN: 978-1-474-08509-0

Special thanks and acknowledgments are given to Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.

CHICAGO VENDETTA

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Worldwide Gold Eagle, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ®are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

Mack Bolan triggered the first volley on the run as he got behind the late-model Dodge. All four rounds nearly decapitated his target. The torso, topped by a now mangled head, wandered drunkenly for a moment before crumpling to the grimy pavement.

One of the remaining targets spun on his heel and attempted an undignified retreat, but Johnny took him down. Three 9 mm Parabellum rounds left the younger Bolan’s P-320 pistol, punching into the running man’s back.

The Executioner got the last hardman with a rising burst that stitched the enemy hard case from crotch to sternum. Red holes opened up at the front and a few blew plum-sized holes out his back.

Bolan kept one eye on the entrance to the alleyway while engaging his brother with a strong handshake. He could tell Johnny wanted to throw his arms around him, and Bolan visibly fought the urge to reciprocate. The only way they could protect each other was by maintaining the anonymity of their relationship.

“Good to see you,” Johnny said with a steady grin.

“Likewise.”

The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat, and then waited for an opportunity of defeating the enemy.

—Sun Tzu

I’ve always considered the police warriors on the same side. Yet it is my duty to protect them just as they are charged to protect America’s citizens. In that, I’m utterly convinced I have done right.

—Mack Bolan, aka The Executioner

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com¬mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Introduction

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Publisher

Prologue

Chicago, Illinois

Sunlight cut through the unseasonably cold September morning air and melted frost off the street-side café sign. Despite the low temperature, Richard Walburn fully intended to enjoy this Labor Day holiday by having coffee and bagels at Forno Vicinato with his wife and son. Besides, they were bundled into their fall coats, and it would warm up quickly according to WGN-TV’s weather forecast the previous evening.

“Morning, Silvi,” Walburn said as he entered the café.

Silvano Marchetti returned the greeting with a broad grin. “Rich, my friend. How goes it?”

“It goes.”

Marchetti nodded toward the silhouettes of Walburn’s wife and son, who’d taken seats at a table just outside the window. “I see you brought the family today.”

“You know it,” Walburn replied. “A day off is a rare treat in my world. You take all those moments you can—”

The blast rocked through the interior of the café with such force it blew out the front windows.

Later, witnesses would say they felt the sidewalk rumble as a piece of sharp metal seemed to erupt from the storefront and decapitate Kathy Walburn. Members of the forensic team had to collect various parts of young Daniel Walburn from the rubble.

Nobody inside the Italian café survived, and it would take hours for Emergency Management officials to confirm that Detective Richard Walburn, a fourteen-year veteran of the Chicago Police Department, was among several people who had died in the blast.

* * *

That evening, Detective Sergeant Mick Brett of the warrant squad sat in his unmarked unit a block from the home of one of Chicago’s most wanted criminals. The PD’s Intelligence unit had known for some time the location of the US residence of Axel Madera, a man wanted on at least a dozen charges and most of them class A felonies. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been able to verify until recently that Madera even occupied the structure. Word had it he’d been lying low at some hideaway just across the US-Mexican border in Brownsville, Texas. Then an eagle-eyed TSA camera agent at McAllen Miller International had spotted Madera boarding a plane for Chicago, and the news came in to put a watch on Madera’s North Side Chicago residence.

“So, when are we going to get this show on the road?” asked Brett’s partner, Reginald “Iggy” Taylor.

“I’m still waiting for the call from Hillman.”

“What’s taking him so long?”

Brett looked at his partner with disbelief. “A holiday weekend and trying to find a judge awake at this hour?”

The cell phone buzzed for attention. Brett looked at the caller ID before answering and said, “Speak of the devil.”

“I finally got Judge Baker to sign off.”

“Took long enough.”

“I had to go to three other places before I got lucky enough to catch her at home. She said, and I quote, ‘Any chance to get this son of a bitch behind bars once and for all, I’m glad to put ink to paper.’ I’m on my way with hard copies, so go ahead and get into position. I’ll be there in less than five with the BearCat.”

“Acknowledged. We’re in position.”

Brett disconnected the call and said, “Let’s do this.”

Taylor nodded, then looked around at the deserted neighborhood street before drawing his .40 Smith & Wesson pistol. He eased the slide back partway to verify a round sat in the chamber, then put the semiautomatic weapon at half cock and engaged the safety.

Brett was out of the car and had the trunk open by the time Taylor joined him. The pair donned their bulletproof vests before each withdrew a Colt M-4 carbine. Unlike the M-4 A1, this variant only supported a safe/semiauto/3-round-burst trigger configuration. With a maximum effective range of 500 to 600 meters and chambering 5.56 mm NATO rounds, the M-4 had a muzzle velocity that exceeded 900 meters per second. It was an effective tool in a modern arsenal required to combat crime. Brett and Taylor were both fully trained and certified on the weapon as full-fledged members of the warrant squad.

As Brett closed the trunk he said, “Let’s take this bastard down once and for all.”

Taylor couldn’t resist flashing a sardonic grin. “You’re such a drama queen.”

His partner chuckled, and the two crossed the street to the sidewalk on the far side. Tall, immaculate hedges lined the walk and obscured their approach. To Brett’s surprise, they hadn’t seen any movement through the visible parts of the massive wrought iron fence surrounding the grounds of Madera’s palatial home. It annoyed the hell out of the detective when he considered Madera had the guts to live in such an affluent neighborhood. While others in this part of town were probably law-abiding citizens for the most part, and had worked to earn a nice home here, Madera had built his fortune selling drugs.

To rub salt in the wound, federal authorities had marked Madera as a person of interest in the murder of a US border patrol agent. They hadn’t gathered enough evidence to secure a conviction, but he was wanted for questioning. Brett hoped if they managed to make the arrest that the Feds wouldn’t swoop in and take charge. While murdering a federal agent was a serious crime, mere suspicion couldn’t trump the various drug-related charges accompanied by a mountain of evidence. That’s what would ultimately put Madera behind bars.

Brett and Taylor made it to the southwest corner of Madera’s property. The senior detective checked his watch, heart thudding in his ears with the surge of adrenaline. He looked down the nearby avenue, searching for the familiar shape of the armored BearCat LE. Manufactured by Lenco Industries and weighing in at almost nine tons, the BearCat could travel at highway speeds and boasted an inch of NIJ Type IV armor. CPD’s SWAT team had two of them in their fleet. Both featured running boards, battering ram, gun ports and a rotating roof hatch. The BearCat would be a formidable weapon against anything Madera could throw at them.

The vehicle passed beneath the illumination of the streetlight as it lumbered into view, its familiar lines sending a small measure of comfort through Brett’s gut. “Right on time, Hillman. Nice.”

Brett heard Taylor stir and turned to see what his friend and partner was saying, but abruptly Taylor’s reply became muffled as the big cop began to choke on his own blood, and a red hole seemed to materialize in his neck out of nowhere. Brett froze; he heard the pop emanate from somewhere, but between the broad street and vast grounds of Madera’s estate, he couldn’t really determine from where the sniper shot had originated. What he did realize, even before he saw Taylor grab at his neck and the spurts of arterial blood, was that they no longer had the advantage of surprise. Brett whirled toward his partner, intending to help his friend, who simply sat down as his lifeblood gushed from between his fingers.

Brett didn’t get far. A bullet slammed into his back, striking him squarely between the shoulders like a sledgehammer with enough force to pile drive him to the pavement. The force knocked the wind out of him, his lungs burning instantaneously as he fought the urge to pass out and stars danced in front of his eyes. Then something burned in his right buttock, and he heard the third pop; the pain grew to excruciating proportions.

Flashing lights from the approaching BearCat were the last things Sergeant Mick Brett saw.

* * *

Just before six o’clock on the following morning, Chicago Fire Engine Company 9 and Rescue Truck 3 were dispatched to a two-story house nestled among houses of similar construction along the historic West Jackson Boulevard District. Several reports had been called in regarding smoke coming from the first story.

They would later discover the home belonged to twenty-eight-year-old Kendra James, a second-shift dispatcher for the Chicago Police Department.

Firefighters entered the structure with a two-inch attack line, knocked down the blaze in the living room and adjoining kitchen, then rescue crews scoured the house. They found James in a second-story bedroom, unresponsive after having succumbed to natural gas exposure. They rushed her to the hospital but she couldn’t be revived. The young woman was pronounced dead at 0704 hours.

For 99 percent of residents, it was just another crazy twenty-four-hour period in the circle of life on the mean streets of the Windy City. But it did capture the attention of one man. Mack Bolan was convinced the events were related, that someone had gone on a killing spree to eliminate Chicago’s finest. The man known as the Executioner was determined to learn the truth about these incidents.

Whatever the cost.

Chapter One

Johnny Gray—born Johnny Bolan—shouldered his way through one of the glass doors of the Chicago PD headquarters building on Michigan Avenue.

The blustery cold of the early morning swirled in behind him, biting at his skin even through his cotton slacks. It made a striking difference from home in Southern California. When his brother called and asked for his help, Johnny dropped everything and hopped aboard the first flight to O’Hare.

Mack was convinced the recent murders of the police weren’t a coincidence. He needed Johnny to check things out on the ground. With the help of Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group—and the rest of the team at Stony Man Farm in Virginia—Mack arranged for it to look as if his brother and Detective Rich Walburn had been longtime friends. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer ace, had used his skills to fake the dossier beyond reproach, complete with photos of Johnny and Walburn together at various ages. It should get Johnny inside the cop shop, after which the rest was up to him.

Johnny welcomed the assignment. He so rarely got a chance to work in concert with his older brother—or to see him off the job for that matter—it was worth the risk.

When Mack called, Johnny knew action was in the wind.

After getting cleared through security, a desk sergeant showed Johnny to the offices of the Internal Affairs Division, which was attached to Intelligence. Within a few minutes, he found himself seated in a cramped office that was too hot and narrow because it was apparently occupied by two detectives. The magnetic plate against the side of one desk had HILLMAN, C. DET. SGT., and the other read RUSCH, L. DET. SGT. in the same block letters.

Johnny got out his laptop and began to boot it. Within ten seconds it had powered up, signed him in and begun communicating securely with a satellite tied directly to the computer uplink at Stony Man Farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Within a minute, a black man with close-cropped hair and about Johnny’s height entered the office followed by a petite female. “Mr. Gray?”

Johnny cradled his laptop in one arm as he stood and shook the man’s hand. “Johnny, please.”

“Very good. I’m Sergeant Hillman.” He jerked a thumb toward the woman and said, “This is my partner, Sergeant Rusch.”

He shook hands with the cute young black woman, whose dark eyes seemed to sparkle in the lights. She had a nice smile, more than cordial, and an electric personality that seemed almost palpable.

“My pleasure,” Johnny told her.

“Have a seat, please,” Hillman said.

When they were comfortable, Johnny said, “I appreciate you agreeing to see me on such short notice. As I explained over the phone, and in my follow-up email, Rich Walburn was a close friend. I want to help find the bastard who killed him and his family. Maybe there’s a connection to the other officers’ deaths.”

“Well, I hope you haven’t wasted a trip,” Hillman replied. “We’ve already looked at this from every angle, and we don’t see how there could be any tie to the particular incidents that came to your attention. In fact, we’ve already gone around and around with inspectors at both the Illinois State Police and the FBI.”

“Understood. But frankly, Sergeant, when you have no less than four police personnel murdered within a short period of time, you can begin to understand why it looks more than a little curious.”

“Um, who was it you said you were again?” Rusch asked.

Johnny pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “I’m a private investigator, now based in California. Rich and I grew up together. I sent Sergeant Hillman the photos of us in my email. Rich was one of my closest friends. I owe it to him to look into this. I’m extremely good at my job and can find out things others can’t. I also have powerful connections in the right places. I’d be an asset to your team.”

Rusch looked at the card, gave Johnny the once-over, then turned to Hillman. “I think we ought to read him in, Chuck.”

Hillman produce a deep sigh. “Damn it, Lakea, we talked about this—”

“He only wants to help.” Rusch slapped her hand on her desk. “Jeez, Chuck, you’re acting like he’s one of the bad guys. Rich was his friend. These bastards killed Taylor and Brett. They were our friends, damn it!”

Hillman’s voice took an edge. “I know who they were, Lakea. Mick and I joined the force together.”

“Uh, did I strike a nerve?” Johnny asked.

Hillman’s eyes had visibly reddened, and his expression gave him the persona of a man who’d been beaten down and was utterly exhausted. “You’ll have to just cut me a little slack, I’m afraid. It’s been long hours around here.” His chair creaked as Hillman leaned back in it before continuing. “I only just came over to IA. I used to be strictly Intelligence.”

“Why the transfer?”

“Happened after two of the guys on the warrant squad were killed.”

Johnny nodded and then referred to his laptop. “That would have been Sergeant Mick Brett and Detective Reggie Taylor. Correct? They were gunned down by someone with a sniper rifle, but the perpetrator was never apprehended.”

Rusch looked at Hillman, who just nodded, and said, “Chuck was on the detail that was first to arrive less than a minute after the warrant officers were gunned down.”

“They were on standby to serve a warrant I’d just had signed,” Hillman went on, “and I was riding shotgun in the BearCat. I talked to Mick just maybe a few minutes before that and told him we were on the way. He and Iggy got into position ahead of time so we could breach as soon as we showed up.”

“According to the forensics reports, both of them were wearing vests,” Johnny said. “And yet they were killed by someone firing a .308 rifle. I also understand the shooter killed both of them when it was dark, and from an estimated distance of about five hundred feet.” Johnny looked from his laptop at each of the cops in turn and shook his head. “It isn’t likely that a thug like Madera would pay for the services of someone having that kind of skill.”

Rusch frowned. “How do you know all of this? We just received that report.”

“I told you, I’m a good investigator with good sources. This was a professional job, and whoever did it knew you were coming. That much is obvious.”

“You see?” Rusch said. “I told you someone else outside the department would figure this out when they started sniffing around. This was never going to be a secret for as long as we’d hoped to keep it.”

Hillman leaned forward, elbows on knees, and leveled a stern gaze at Johnny. “I don’t like private investigators, but over the years I’ve found they can be handy at times. I’m trusting you because you were Rich’s friend. But you need to understand something before we go any further. Everything we’re about to tell you is strictly confidential. Understand?”

“You’d be pretty surprised to know some of the secrets I keep, Sergeant.” When Hillman didn’t say anything, Johnny added, “Yes, confidential...understood.”

Hillman cleared his throat. “There’s a good reason I got transferred to IA. We’ve pretty much figured out the same thing you have. The brass sent me here because they suspect someone on the inside piped the information to whoever was responsible for sniping Mick and Iggy. As for Walburn and James, their deaths occurring around the same time could not be coincidence. The guy who bombed the Italian café had to know Rich was going to be there, and Kendra James’s house fire was ruled as arson.”

“So in all those cases,” Rusch said, “the perpetrators knew these were all employees of the police department. They knew their habits and their neighborhoods, and they knew about otherwise highly confidential police operations.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Johnny conceded. “But what makes the department think it’s an insider or mole responsible?”

“The victims. As you know, Rich Walburn was a computer forensics investigator. Kendra James was a security operations dispatcher.”

“And Iggy and Mick were both on the warrant squad,” Hillman added. “All of these individuals have regular access to the same information because they all worked out of this building, so we’re convinced our mole is here.”

“And the powers that be decided to take someone who has the experience in gathering intelligence, transfer them to IA, and give the insider a boost in confidence nobody’s onto him. Or her.” He looked at Rusch. “Nothing personal.”

She inclined her head. “Fair enough. Everyone’s a suspect at this point, Mr. Gray.”

Hillman scoffed. “Lakea’s not a suspect. I’ve worked with her for years. She comes from a family of cops, and there’s no way this is in her character.”

“And obviously CPD has reason to think you’re above reproach,” Johnny observed. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have transferred you to IA and made such a show of it, to boot.”

“Smart, Gray,” Hillman replied. “You’ve a good head on your shoulders. But you don’t know shit about law enforcement in Chicago. No offense. The blue line here is solid, probably not like anywhere you else you’ve ever been. If someone inside is dirty, it won’t be easy to flush them out, and especially not for an outsider, despite whatever skills you claim to possess.”

Johnny forced a grin. “Maybe not. But I have something that might be of interest to you, something you might not yet even possess.”

“And that is?” Rusch asked, arching an eyebrow.

“A lead,” Johnny said.

* * *

Hillman and Rusch sat a vigilant post in their unmarked squad car in a darkened corner of a parking lot. One of them had an eye on the entrance to the grocery store at all times, determined not to miss their quarry. Parked close by in his rental was Gray, who was keeping his own sort of vigil, despite being told it was against policy to allow him on the team. They agreed to share information, but go their separate ways. Hillman and Rusch knew the private investigator wouldn’t listen, and his presence confirmed it.

“So what do you think?” Hillman asked as he looked out the passenger window at Gray’s car and sighed.

“About what?” Rusch replied, never taking her eyes from the store. “Gray?”

“Yeah.”

“I think...” She paused to lick her lips. “I think the guy’s truly looking out for our best interests while trying to find his friend’s killer. I’d be doing the same thing.”

Hillman looked at his partner askance. “Really? I got just the opposite sense after he told us about his lead but refused to give us any idea where the information came from. And how does he get information so fast?”

“I don’t know. It’s just something in my gut. Call it instinct.” Rusch looked over at Gray’s car, too. “He just seems like a straight shooter. There’s something kind of no-nonsense about him.”

“He’s a private dick,” Hillman replied. “Not one of us.”

“Hold up,” Rusch told him. “There he is.”

A thirtysomething Latino male in a leather jacket emerged. He had a canvas satchel in his grip, and his head moved as if mounted on a swivel. Rusch and Hillman remained still. Any sudden movement or attempt to obfuscate their positions inside the car now would just draw unwanted attention. The man didn’t appear to spot them, or if he had, he didn’t give any sign of it.

Hillman whipped out his cell phone and called Gray. When he answered, the detective said, “Even though you’re not supposed to be here, that’s our guy who just came out. Leather jacket and dark hair, climbing into that silver Toyota.”

* * *

Johnny listened carefully, then acknowledgd Hillman’s intel and disconnected.

Neither of the detectives had been eager to pursue his theory that a young decorated narcotics officer named Javier Esparza could be the mole. Johnny couldn’t blame them, as it didn’t make much sense to him, either. But the fact remained that Esparza had some pretty interesting facets to his personal life. For one thing he had a single younger sister with a checking account on which he was an authorized signer. Despite her unemployed status, Esparza’s sister managed to deposit five thousand in cash into the account every week. Esparza also drove a silver Toyota Avalon that wasn’t registered in his name. The car title was free and clear, and the corresponding insurance and sales agreement for the vehicle had been executed in the name of Omeco Industries, which had the earmarks of a shell corporation based on the data Johnny had received from Aaron Kurtzman at the Farm.

Johnny watched as Esparza climbed behind the wheel of his car and left the parking lot, then drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited to see what Hillman and Rusch would do. Finally the lights came on and their vehicle rolled forward to tail Esparza. Johnny started the engine of his vehicle and fell into line behind the detectives, keeping a distance of a few car lengths at all times. Fortunately, they were on the back side of rush hour, so there were enough vehicles in play to make a tail possible.

* * *

“So, what do you think was in the satchel?” Hillman asked.

“It certainly wasn’t groceries,” Rusch replied with a shrug. “But if I had to guess, I’d say cash. Lots of it.”

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