He saw a door that was secured with a large two-by-four. After sweeping the beam around the rest of the basement room, he was satisfied that there was no other apparent threat, and strode over to knock the two-by-four from its perch. The door swung outward. Bolan shone the flashlight inside and saw eight terrified faces.
“We’re a special ops team here to rescue you,” Bolan said. “Is anyone hurt and can everyone walk?”
His voice sounded off-key, strange, but he took that as a signal that the auditory exclusion that had caused momentary deafness was now fading. The outer portion of his right shoulder was on fire, but it felt more like a graze wound than a penetration.
Murmurs of relief in both English and French echoed in the makeshift cell. Two of the men stood and started to bolt for the door. Bolan blocked the entryway and shoved them back.
“I asked if anyone needed assistance walking.”
The men who had rushed the door shuffled nervously. One shook his head. “We’re all okay, but there are two more of us, women, that they took upstairs.”
“They’re safe,” Bolan said. “Follow me in an orderly fashion and do exactly as I say, and we’ll all be out of here shortly.”
He led them to the stairs and told them to wait at the bottom. As Bolan edged up the stairs, Grimaldi’s voice crept into his ear mic.
“Striker, where are you?”
“Coming upstairs,” Bolan said, keying his own mic.
The door above him opened and he saw Grimaldi’s face.
“Are the two women safe?” Bolan asked as he motioned the hostages forward.
“Yeah, they’re outside with Doerr. Hey,” Grimaldi said. “You hit?”
Bolan saw that a circular red stain had crept through the coarse gray shirt on his right shoulder.
“I’m okay. Let’s keep moving.”
He called McMahon to come for the pickup; the Raptor team leader replied they were en route.
Grimaldi leaned close. “His buddy, Mustapha, took off when we hit the front door. I was going to pop him, but I figured I’d better save my ammo.”
“Where’s he now?”
The Stony Man pilot shrugged. “In the wind.”
As the team escorted the hostages down the hallway toward the back door, the front of the building shook, then exploded, forcing a cascade of shattered bricks and a rolling cloud of dust through the building.
One of the women screamed.
“Keep moving,” Bolan shouted. The dust cloud was so pervasive that he could barely see.
Another blast shook the structure, sending more shrapnel and a second wave of dust over them.
Bolan keyed his mic. “McMahon, where are you? We’re under fire.”
The reply was garbled, but Bolan knew they had little choice but to keep moving and hope that the pickup trucks were approaching as planned.
“It must be those damn Russian tanks,” Grimaldi yelled. “But how’d they zero in on us so fast?”
Bolan was operating by touch now, silently counting each back as he moved them toward the exit. Suddenly he felt the metal of the door in front of him, and shoved it hard. The unfastened door, which he’d jammed back into place, fell outward, displaying the blueness of the sky above a field of shattered hulls of buildings in various states of destruction. Looking to his right, Bolan saw the welcome sight of the two Toyota pickups barreling down the alleyway toward them. He began pulling the hostages and the rest of his team out the door as quickly as he could. The first pickup came to a screeching halt and the second one skidded to a stop behind it. Bolan ran over and began lifting the hostages into the bed of the truck.
“We’ve got to get out of here quick,” he shouted to McMahon.
The big Agency man grinned. “No sweat. Watch this.” He keyed his mic and said, “Redmond, introduce them to the man.”
Seconds later a howling sound, like the screaming of a thousand banshees, washed over them, followed by a series of loud, earth-shaking explosions. The ground rumbled beneath their feet and the building rattled, then an almost eerie silence engulfed the area as several of the hostages, their faces frozen in disbelief and shock, looked like they were teetering on the edge of the abyss.
“What in the bloody hell was that?” Leza Dean asked, her pretty face stained with a crust of dirt mixed with sweat.
“That was the Aries,” McMahon said. “The male partner of the Athena, and the big boy on the block.”
“Ares?” Bolan asked. “As in the Greek god of war?”
McMahon smirked. “That’s what they originally intended, but some knucklehead at B&A, the company that makes them, spelled it like the zodiac sign and it stuck.”
“The ram makes a pretty effective metaphor,” Bolan said.
“I suppose.” McMahon shrugged. “As long as it gets the job done. The missile’s fitted with some special siren effects, so we called it the Howler.”
“Like the Germans did with those Jericho trumpets on their Stukas in World War Two, huh?” Grimaldi said.
McMahon pointed his index finger at him. “Exactly. Anyway, we should’ve called it the ghost, because you don’t know it’s there until it’s too late.” Then he turned toward Grimaldi. “So what do you think of our drones now, fly boy?”
“Well...” It was Grimaldi’s turn to shrug. “You can’t argue with success.”
Chapter Four
The Reflecting Pool
The National Mall
Washington, DC
Novak stood at the edge of the metallic plates surrounding the pool watching the water being rippled by the balmy September breeze. The area was virtually deserted except for a few early-morning joggers who were doing their circling of the grassy expanse and a couple of the homeless sleeping on the park benches. They were useless human trash, serving no useful purpose. They weren’t even fit to be pawns in a chess game.
Society’s dregs, he thought as he silently longed for the presence of some sort of roving extermination squads sponsored by the state to round up and incinerate those deplorables, but knew that would never happen. For all the overtures to Orwellian concepts that were bantered about, none of the good ones would ever be put into effect.
He took another look around taking in the view of the Capitol Dome with Lady Justice perched on top. What crock. As if any real justice was accomplished inside those hallowed halls. Two figures moved into his line of vision, and Novak saw them approaching from about one hundred feet away. Oliver Burke and Irwin Kaufmann, the large-framed gravedigger and the mouthpiece. One digging up shit on people, and the other shoveling it in a courtroom. As long as each kept doing his respective job, and doing it well, Novak knew he had a good chance of weathering this latest storm, at least until it was time to go off grid.
The two of them were only about twenty feet away now, and Novak saw that Kaufmann was perspiring heavily, his bald head glistening in the rising sunlight. Novak ran his palm over his own shaved head and felt the bristling edge of the stubble. The top of his head was dry. He and Kaufmann were a study in contrasts: one an outwardly cool, tall and rangy man with a full head of shaved hair, the other short, sweaty, overweight and naturally bald.
But internally Novak felt anything but calm and collected. Still, it was like his father had always stressed to him when teaching him the game of chess: never let your opponent anticipate your next move.
“Why couldn’t we meet someplace that’s air-conditioned?” Kaufmann asked as they stepped up next to Novak. “I’m about to sweat right through my jacket.”
“I already told you why. I don’t trust your office, and meeting in a restaurant has no expectation of privacy. At least here we can see who’s around us.”
Kaufmann rolled his eyes and blew out a breath.
“It’s going to be equally disastrous if we walk in there looking like we’re wringing wet.”
Novak glanced at Burke. “Did you tell him?”
Burke nodded.
“Tell me what?” Kaufmann asked. “That Frank
lin Rhome’s been subpoenaed to testify after us?”
Us? How the hell did this little bastard figure his ass was on the line?
Novak glared at the other man.
“All right,” Kaufmann said, obviously trying to keep his voice calm. “I told you how this whole thing was going to go down, didn’t I? Oglethorpe’s just grandstanding. He wants as much time in front of the cameras as he can get, even if it’s only fifteen seconds on the evening news. He’s going to call a bunch of people, ask a lot of questions, and it’ll all amount to nothing today. If he does have something, he’s going to time any announcements to right before the midterms.”
Novak knew Kaufmann was probably right, but it still niggled at him.
“But how did he find out about the connection between Eddie and Franklin Rhome? The timing of this is going to ruin us. We’ve put everything we have into these new prototypes.”
Kaufmann removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping his forehead and cheeks. The man’s glasses were even steaming up.
“Franklin likes to drink too much,” Kaufmann said. “And, he likes the ladies. It’s a good bet that he said the wrong thing to someone working for Oglethorpe’s camp. Maybe it was that damn bitch reporter who’s been such a pain in the ass.”
Novak thought about Franklin Delano Rhome and his lobbying efforts that had ostensibly landed the defense contract for Baron & Allan to develop and produce the next generation of unmanned aircraft predator drones. So what if they’d purposely underbid and overspent a little. Well, maybe more than just a little. The idea of a corporation was to make money. And how much the company had poured into the development... You had to expect cost overruns when you were breaking new ground. And what was the option? Buying substandard pieces of crap from China, like the damn Saudis were doing? Sure, the Aries cost a bit more, but it was like driving a Cadillac as opposed to a damn Volkswagen. The goddamn Chinese with their slave labor advantage... Now the solvency of B&A was hanging in the balance along with the full-scale production plans for the Athena and Aries, and it all could be tipped over the side by a few unfortunate sets of circumstances and a grandstanding congressman who wanted to be the first gay president.
Novak felt like lashing out, like punching somebody, but there was only his attorney and Burke. Punching either one would be foolhardy. Kaufmann would look like too much of a curious entity going before the Budget Oversight Committee with a fat lip, and Burke was not the kind of man who would turn the other cheek, even to the guy who was paying him.
His satellite phone chimed again and he took it out of his pocket. The text from McMahon made him smile.
Mission accomplished. Our boy did well.
Novak smiled. The first part of the Hail Mary was complete. Speaking of gratification, this would give them a bit of a respite. Some breaking news, if it could be timed right, would interrupt the committee and also supplant any coverage on the evening news channels. It would also serve to whet the appetite of their potential customers in the lucrative private sector.
“Good news?” Kaufmann asked, trying to edge forward to see the screen.
“The best,” Novak said. “One of our prototypical drones just saved the day by rescuing some reporters and UN aid workers in Syria. It took out a bunch of Russian tanks like they were ducks in a shooting gallery.”
Kaufmann finished wiping his face and replaced the handkerchief. “That is good news. More fuel to help obfuscate the other stuff.”
Novak was busy typing a reply text.
Email photos to Eddie. ASAP.
Roger that. Also, LD is okay.
Novak was confused. LD?
About ten seconds later the reply came: Rescued reporter Leza Dean.
Novak’s smile grew broader. This was fortuitous. Their number-one reporter pain in the ass rescued by the very product she’d been disparaging as too costly and highly unnecessary. Perhaps there was a silver lining to this cloud after all. He typed another text: And the other transaction?
In the works.
“Come on,” Novak said, typing one more text into the phone as he started walking.
Good. Close it. No loose ends.
* * *
McMahon read the texts and then deleted them one by one.
No loose ends. He’d figured as much. The only question was what, or more importantly, who, did Novak consider a loose end?
The hostages were gone and that black ops team, wherever they’d come from, were in the wind, too. That one guy, Striker, had turned out to be a one-man wrecking crew. And that fancy Beretta 93R of his... McMahon regretted he hadn’t had time to try to buy it off the guy, if he’d part with it. But after all, he still had his Creed. All things considered, the way it had unfolded had gone fortuitously enough.
Saved some time and a lot of money, McMahon thought. And some ammo.
As the saying went, into every life a bit of collateral damage had to fall.
“Start breaking things down,” he announced. “We’re closing up shop and getting out of here.”
Redmond eyed him, the kid’s mouth twisting like a nervous rabbit’s.
McMahon winked at him. His sat phone chimed again, and he took it out and answered it.
“Where are you?” Mustapha asked.
“At base,” McMahon said. “Want me to meet you somewhere?”
“I will come to you.”
The call ended. The Syrian had sounded a bit terse.
Mustapha was no doubt coming to collect his payoff, McMahon thought.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he announced. Grabbing two black nylon rucksacks from pile of boxes near the door, McMahon headed for the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he stopped and started to remove the MP5 from one of the sacks, but then decided against it.
That would look too antagonistic. Mustapha wasn’t happy, and carrying a submachine gun was too provocative.
He rezipped the rucksack and set it inside on the dash of the farthest pickup truck, making sure it was completely visible. He checked his sidearm, a 9 mm Walther Creed with a sound suppressor affixed. The long attachment made a fast draw problematic, but he left it holstered. Appearing adversarial was the last thing on his mind. For now, anyway.
He pulled open the door and moved into the hollowed-out section by the pickups, placing the other rucksack on the hood on the closer truck. The two doors were still closed, concealing the vehicles from view. McMahon moved to the center and peered through the crack. The street looked mostly deserted, probably as a result of the explosions an hour or so ago, but a few people were beginning to stir and circulate. Things would be back to normal soon.
He saw a white Toyota approaching. The vehicle had a crumpled left front fender, and McMahon recognized it as the one he’d purchased for Mustapha. He was then able to discern the Syrian’s face through the windshield.
As the Toyota pulled up, McMahon noticed that the man wasn’t alone. Another rough-looking Arab was in the passenger seat, and he was holding a Kalashnikov with a folding stock. McMahon moved back to the hood of the truck, unzipped the second rucksack and pulled some of the bundles of cash to the front, making them more visible.
Good old American greenbacks with Ben Franklin’s picture on them.
The hinges on the heavy door squealed as Mustapha pulled it open just enough to slip inside. The second Syrian followed. He was a lot bigger than Mustapha, and had a mean-looking scowl on his face.
McMahon nodded a greeting.
Mustapha’s eyes were dark and centered on McMahon’s face. The three men stood in silence for several seconds, and then the Syrian spoke.
“What happened back there? You did not act according to the plan.”
McMahon canted his head and offered what he hoped would appear to be an apologetic smile. “Best laid plans of mice and men.”
Mustapha’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? You speak in riddles.”
“Look, I wasn’t counting on them sending that special ops team in so
fast. We had to make adjustments.”
The big guy said something in Arabic. McMahon couldn’t understand it, but he figured it wasn’t something good.
“This is Omar,” Mustapha said in English, his accented words heavily laced with derision. “His brother was in the building. He was killed by your American special ops team.”
McMahon dropped the smile. “Please give him my sincerest condolences. But also tell him that I had nothing to do with that.”
The two Arabs spoke in their native language. Omar’s words grew heated, and McMahon watched the big man’s fingers whitening around the handgrip of the Kalashnikov.
Mustapha turned back to McMahon. “You lied to us. You assured us that all you wanted to do was hold the Westerners and then release them to you before sent your missile to blow up the tanks and the building.”
McMahon held out his open hands in a supplicating gesture.
“Look, I already told you it wasn’t me. It was that other team. I figured we’d be able to warn them, or something.”
The big Syrian said something. Mustapha replied in Arabic, then turned back to McMahon. “Where is the money that you promised?”
“Right over there.” McMahon gestured toward the rucksack on the hood of the truck. “I put some more in there for all your trouble.”
Mustapha brushed past him, saying something else to his big Syrian companion.
McMahon watched Omar carefully. He didn’t move, and still clutched the Kalashnikov. And he’d slipped his index finger inside the trigger guard.
“How much is this?” Mustapha asked.
“Pull it out and count it.” McMahon brought his left arm up and pointed. “I’ve got more in the other truck. You’re welcome to that, too.”
The big man’s eyes drifted toward Mustapha, who was removing the rubber-banded bundles of cash. McMahon figured this was as good a chance as he was going to get. Keeping his left arm elevated, he reached down with his right and gripped the handle of the Walther, bringing the Creed upward and squeezing the trigger as soon as the muzzle was level with the big Syrian’s face.
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