“The defector who skipped town in Phoenix with his wife,” Price said.
“Right again,” Kurtzman confirmed. “Seems he didn’t follow orders not to contact the other members of the nuclear team.”
“When was the karaoke footage taken?” Brognola asked.”
“Over the weekend,” Kurtzman said. “They did their thing here in the lounge, then went out to dinner at one of the restaurants on the ground floor. After that, Li-Roo walked Shinn to the room elevators. They wrap things up, then Shinn gets in the elevator while Li-Roo heads out of the casino.”
“Sounds like Shinn had a room,” Brognola surmised.
Kurtzman nodded. “Wallace fast-forwarded through the elevator footage and Shinn comes out the next morning carrying an overnight bag. We trailed him as he left the casino but lost him in the parking garage.”
“Damn,” Brognola muttered. “But at least we’ve got something to go on.”
“Wallace is going to look over the surveillance-camera footage of the registration area,” Kurtzman reported. “With any luck, we’ll get a look at Shinn when he checked in, then we can use the time print to check the registration records.”
“He’s probably using an alias,” Brognola said, “but hopefully the address will be legit.”
“Depends on whether or not he’s still using his Phoenix driver’s license,” Kurtzman cautioned.
“It’s worth a look anyway,” Brognola said. “We should do a run on Li-Roo’s phone records, too.”
“Already on it,” Kurtzman said. “That, plus the FBI’s going through his computer in hopes they can come up with some kind of e-mail link to Shinn.”
“I hope it works,” Brognola said, “because now that REDI has Li-Roo, odds are they’re going to lean on him until he tells them where they can find Shinn. We need to beat them to him.”
“Well, with any luck,” Price said, “Mack’s tracked down this safehouse of theirs in Goffs. If he can rescue Li-Roo and take REDI out of the equation, we just might be able to nip this part of the crisis in the bud.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Goffs, California
“False alarm?” Mack Bolan murmured as he stopped pedaling his borrowed mountain bike and coasted to a stop along the shoulder of the dirt road leading to the isolated farm the REDI operatives were supposedly using as their hideout. Jayne Bahn slowed to a stop alongside Bolan and stared at the rundown house, located less than a hundred yards up the road. The house was dark.
“Maybe they just called it a night,” Bahn said.
“Or maybe they spotted the choppers,” Bolan suggested.
“I don’t see any cars,” Bahn said.
“Could be they’re parked around back,” Bolan said. “That or in the barn.”
“There’s one way to find out for sure.”
“Yeah,” Bolan said.
He got off his bike and set it among the weeds growing off the side of the road. Bahn followed suit, then they left the road and climbed over the wood-rail fence surrounding the untended farmland. Bolan slid his Desert Eagle from his shoulder holster. Bahn reached behind her and drew the 9 mm automatic pistol she’d tucked inside the rear waistband of her slacks.
“Should we wait for backup?” she asked as they crouched among the ragged cornstalks. Bolan glanced back the way they’d come. They’d passed the CHP foot officers a few hundred yards down the road, and the men were nowhere to be seen in the dim moonlight.
“Let’s get a little closer first,” Bolan said. “No sense knocking ourselves out laying out a perimeter if we’re on a wild-goose chase.”
Bolan remained crouched as he led the way through the corn field, quietly brushing aside the withered stalks. Bahn followed close behind, keeping a steady eye on both the house and the adjacent barn. There was still no sign of activity in either structure. As they neared the edge of the field, Bolan stole a glance over his shoulder.
“I’ll check the house,” he told her. “You want to take the barn?”
Bahn nodded, then split off from Bolan, using the last row of corn for cover as she approached the dilapidated barn.
Bolan’s was a trickier predicament. Except for a few scattered tumbleweeds, there was nothing but open ground between where he was standing and the darkened farmhouse. Anyone peering out one of the south-facing windows would see him the moment he stepped clear of the corn. Bolan figured that was a chance he would have to take.
The Executioner sucked in a slow breath, then let it out just as slowly. Breaking from his cover, he sprinted toward the house, passing by the tumbleweeds. He’d made it as far as the driveway when the sound of gunfire erupted in the night. The shots weren’t coming from the house, however, and Bolan didn’t stop running until he reached the front porch. Then, crouching behind the corner of the porch, he glanced toward the barn, where the shots had come from. He heard a car engine groan to life and seconds later a pickup barreled out of the barn.