Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  He poured himself a quick drink as he waited for the Skype connection to come through.

  The laptop beeped and Ted McMahon’s face popped up on the screen.

  “Status report,” Novak said without preamble.

  “Our associates are en route to K-Fifty Airstrip as we speak.”

  Novak felt a bit relieved. Everything was going according to plan. McMahon was good. He had to give him that.

  “And the cargo?” Novak asked.

  “All set,” McMahon stated. “It’s on its way, and Redmond is monitoring its progress. Any problems with the notifications on your end?”

  Novak didn’t answer. Meeks had already done his part to send the alert through the proper Agency channels. The right people had been advised of the report. Now all that was left was for the accompanying attack and the political response. He saw McMahon raise a glass to his lips as a dark, feminine hand caressed his cheek. “What the hell? I thought you’d be alone.”

  “Relax,” McMahon said. “Her knowledge of English is limited to about three words. Want to guess what they are?”

  “Get rid of her. Now,” Novak said.

  “When I’m ready,” McMahon replied. “A man has needs.”

  “I said get rid of her.”

  McMahon sighed in exaggerated fashion then turned and murmured something.

  Novak heard a feminine giggle and saw the edge of a smooth shoulder and back as the woman got up and moved out of the range of the camera. Novak could tell she was naked.

  “Satisfied?” McMahon said.

  “Obviously her English is more than just three words.”

  McMahon raised his eyebrows and then nodded. “She’s a quick learner.”

  Novak blew out a slow breath. “I assume you heard about Franklin?”

  McMahon clucked his tongue. “Tragic. Simply tragic.”

  “It’s only a matter of time before this house of cards comes tumbling down,” Novak said. “A question of when, not if. Oglethorpe will put it all out there. It’s probably going to be right before the midterms.”

  “Sounds like something our buddy Burke could handle pretty easily.”

  Novak shook his head. “Not right now. This is like a chess game.” He looked around at dark walls. He’d purposely kept them devoid of any decorations, like a medieval castle. “And Oglethorpe’s my opponent.”

  “I figured he’d be the queen.”

  Novak rolled his eyes. “We’ve got to wait for the right moment. And in the meantime, start offering our services to the highest bidder.”

  “Redmond’s already working on that,” McMahon said. “He’s a wizard with that dark web stuff. The party south of the border’s interested. Real interested. So are the Saudis.”

  “Which is why we need a bit of advertisement to nail things down,” Novak said.

  “Leave it to me.”

  A second naked girl sauntered across the room, giggling and pointing to the open laptop.

  “I’d feel more comfortable doing that,” Novak said, “if I thought you were keeping your mind on business.”

  “I believe in business and pleasure.”

  “Just don’t forget which one comes first.”

  “I won’t, but speaking of business...”

  Novak felt a tightening in his gut. “What?”

  “Redmond’s noticed a few glitches that have been popping up in the software.”

  “For the Aries?”

  McMahon nodded. “The facial recognition stuff is malfunctioning sometimes. I’m not sure that antiradar jamming function’s going to be fully operational in the other model.”

  That was troubling. It also meant that the ultimate mission of the Aries drone wasn’t a sure thing after all, as Novak had hoped. These problems needed to be corrected immediately. And they would be. “I’ll look into that. In the meantime, make sure our little demonstration over there goes off without a hitch.”

  “Everything’s in the works,” McMahon said. “Anything else, before I get back to my evening’s delight?”

  Novak felt his anger rising. “I thought I told you to concentrate on business, dammit.”

  McMahon grinned. “I was talking about the surveillance.”

  The man’s insouciance grated on Novak. “Get rid of the whores and stay sober. I really don’t have time for your antics.”

  On the screen McMahon’s face froze for a good five long seconds in obvious exaggerated faux umbrage, and then he smiled and leaned back, his extended index finger aiming like a pistol at the camera on his end.

  “You’re the boss.”

  Novak thought about showing his anger, but decided not to give the idiot the satisfaction.

  He knew what to do, Novak thought. If he didn’t do precisely as planned, he wouldn’t get paid.

  McMahon was getting to be a liability. When the time came, Novak would jettison both him and his boy sidekick, Redmond, but for the moment they were necessary.

  He pressed the button to terminate the call without even reminding McMahon to keep him in the loop.

  Mogadishu, Somalia

  The heat and humidity of the fading afternoon showed little abatement. Bolan watched the people in the crowded marketplace as the three of them, Grimaldi, McMahon and himself, sat in the corner of the outdoor restaurant and drank the tea. They each wore loose-fitting BDU blouses that easily concealed the weapons holstered on their belts. McMahon’s blouse looked like a worn-out leftover from the first Gulf War with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder seams, haphazardly displaying a set of heavily developed biceps and forearms. Both Bolan’s and Grimaldi’s garments were expertly tailored and solid black.

  “What’s your latest intel about the sarin?” Bolan asked.

  “Word is our al-Shabaab buddies got hold of some of that stuff from Yemen.”

  “Any idea what they’re planning?”

  McMahon took a deep breath, then shook his head. “Word is that Muhammad Farouk’s involved. He’s the one who claimed responsibility for the last attack here. My guess is the gas is already close. A plane flew in from Djibouti to K-Fifty Airstrip late yesterday. Supposed to have a bunch of artillery shells loaded with sarin on board.”

  “Any idea how many?” Bolan asked.

  “Unknown. From there, things get kind of sketchy. But not to worry. My boy Redmond’s on the case.”

  “Redmond?” Grimaldi said. “That fugitive from a geek squad we met in Syria?”

  McMahon chuckled and drank some more tea. “Don’t knock him. He may not look like much, but he’s the fastest keyboard in the West.”

  Grimaldi snorted and shook his head.

  “Where’s your base of operations?” Bolan asked.

  “Me and my boys rented a little shithole not too far from here,” McMahon said. “Redmond’s actually up in Djibouti with the others. That’s the beauty of the drones. The pilot can be a couple thousand miles away and still have eyes on the target.”

  “I got a problem calling that guy a pilot,” Grimaldi said.

  “Better get used to it, fly boy.” McMahon leaned back, smiled and pointed skyward. “As we speak, he’s got the Athena flying overhead.”

  “A fat lot of good that’s gonna do,” Grimaldi said. “Probably another case of too little, too late.”

  “Nah,” McMahon said. “I told you before. The Athena’s got this state-of-the-art facial recognition software. We’ve got Muhammad Farouk’s pin-up shot programmed into it. Once he’s spotted, the Athena will notify us.”

  McMahon began looking around and then a wide grin spread over his face. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

  Bolan turned and saw Leza Dean and two of her associates walking in the crowded street about thirty feet away. One of the associates wore a huge backpack and carried a camcorder. The other had a black suitcase and a collapsible metal pole. McMahon waved and the female reporter’s eyes widened. Dean turned and said something to her two cohorts, who immediately began tinkering wit
h their recording equipment as she approached the three men at the restaurant.

  “Fancy meeting you here, gents,” she said in her clipped British accent.

  Bolan eyed the two technicians, then looked at her.

  “I’d advise against your crew trying to film us,” he said.

  Her smile broadened. “Don’t tell me a big handsome man like yourself has an aversion to being photographed?”

  “Actually,” Bolan said, “we do. But it’s probably not the safest place for them to be brandishing a lot of expensive camera equipment.”

  The one with the camcorder already had removed the strap and placed the device on his right shoulder. The other set down his black suitcase, opened it and removed a boom mic. He began extending the collapsible metal pole.

  “This city’s full of thugs who’ll take that stuff away from them in a heartbeat,” Grimaldi added. “And it’s too damn hot for me to go chasing them down to get it back for you.”

  Dean’s head lolled back slightly as she laughed. Then she turned back to her crew and made a motioning gesture with her hand that seemed to indicate that they should hurry up and approach. But the two technicians saw her signal and momentarily stopped what they were doing.

  As if on cue, a group of five teenage Somali boys rushed from the crowd and began battering the two technicians. One of the Somalis grabbed the camcorder. The crowd of people in the street fanned away from the scene of the struggle as a tug of war ensued.

  “Oh, shit!” Dean said, an expression of horror on her face.

  McMahon stood up quickly and reached inside his open shirt. He smirked as he withdrew a 9 mm Walther Creed from a holster on his hip, aimed the pistol and fired off a round. It kicked up a small cloud of dust next to the feet of the Somali who’d been wrestling for control of the camcorder. The boy’s eyes opened wide and he quit pulling and ran off. The other four followed. Gradually, the throngs of people resumed their former positions and began going on about their business.

  McMahon holstered the weapon.

  “That was rather reckless, wasn’t it?” Dean said, her brows knitting in concern.

  McMahon shrugged and sat down. “Well, we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  Bolan remained silent. Although he didn’t condone the act of attempted theft by the Somalis, McMahon’s move had indeed been reckless. Moreover, it called unnecessary and unwanted attention to the three of them. He stood.

  “Let’s get out of here before what passes for the local law arrives,” he said.

  Grimaldi stood, too.

  “Local law?” McMahon said, the smile still plastered on his face. Then he got up. “Yeah, you’re right. I got better things to spend my money on.” He took out his sat phone.

  “But you can’t just leave,” Dean said. “I’m working on a story here. A big one.” She glanced around and leaned close. “A pending attack involving a WMD. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Bolan regarded her sharply. How had she heard about the possible sarin situation? There was a leak somewhere, and that meant the whole mission could be compromised.

  McMahon was on his sat phone talking. A nondescript white van, replete with scrapes and dents over the entire body surface, began trundling through the crowd, its horn blaring. The vehicle barreled through the last of the crowd, the pedestrians scattering with practiced ease to avoid being hit. When the van pulled to a stop by the restaurant, McMahon walked over and put his hand on the door handle.

  “Ms. Dean,” he said, “we gotta go. I’d advise you to do the same. Where you staying?”

  “The Hotel Inesco,” she said. “At least until something happens.”

  “Oh, it will,” McMahon said, winking as Grimaldi pulled open the side door of the van and hopped inside.

  Bolan followed, noticing the driver was one of the same guys he’d seen back at the safehouse in Syria. McMahon opened the front passenger door and got in. Before he closed it he leaned out and addressed Leza Dean again.

  “Hotel Inesco, huh?” he said. “Don’t drink the water.”

  He laughed, slammed the door and the van took off down the crowded street, the driver constantly honking the horn.

  The Rook

  Rural Virginia

  Novak was pondering his latest chess game against the computer when one of the men came in to say that McMahon had called on the sat phone. Anxious for news, but determined to let him wait, Novak got up and walked to the windows that overlooked the rest of the facility and pressed the button to raise the steel vented curtain electronically.

  This office had once been for the warden, and provided a good overview of the front gate and long courtyard. It also contained a hidden escape tunnel that led to the guard’s checkpoint nearest the exit, although Novak had never inspected it. Just knowing it was there was enough. He called it the king-castle option, again alluding to the chessboard feel of the place. The curtain finished rolling into the metal box above the window, and bright early-morning sunlight filtered through the rain-streaked glass that was covered with several decades of grime.

  Novak surveyed the yard and the steep wall, then pressed the button to lower the window and accompanied the guard to the hangar area, which was the only place in the facility where adequate wireless reception and transmission could be achieved. It was a good four-minute walk down the winding hallways.

  “Christ,” McMahon said. “It took you long enough.”

  Novak ignored the rebuke. “I hope you have good news.”

  “That depends,” McMahon said. “Everything’s pretty much on schedule, except that we got some unexpected company. That guy Striker and his partner are here.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy I told you about from Syria. The one-man wrecking crew and his fly boy partner. Claim to be with the DOJ on some kind of specially authorized diplomatic investigation.” McMahon snorted. “It’s about as believable as one of our cover stories. Plus, they knew how to contact us and right where to hook up.”

  Novak considered that. Once the word got out that more nerve gas was out there, the system of checks and balances kicked into high gear. The clock was ticking and the time deadline was shortened.

  “That fits,” he said. “We knew they’d be sending somebody, even with you guys still in the area.”

  “Yeah,” McMahon said. “But I didn’t know it’d be him.”

  “So deal with it. What else?”

  “Remember that glitch I mentioned? That facial recognition software’s not responding like it’s supposed to. Redmond’s been doing all the work tracking this stuff manually, and we still haven’t sighted our buddy.”

  That was bad. Real bad. The major selling point of going private was the surgical precision targeting of the Athena. Without that, the Aries was just another high-flying drone with hellfire missiles.

  “But,” McMahon said, “there is some good news. That reporter, Leza Dean, is here and looking for a WMD.”

  “She should be. Eddie had it leaked through one of his congressional snitches.” Novak was still considering the narrowing timetable. Should they hold off long enough for the Athena’s facial recognition software to zero in on Muhammad Farouk, so they could get video confirmation? It would be a good selling point if the new customers were vacillating. Nothing beat the recording of a surprised face right before the lights went out. He often wished he could somehow incorporate something like that into the game of chess.

  “In fact,” McMahon said. “I had to save her camera equipment from getting ripped off today.” He described the incident.

  “That flaky bitch.” He wanted an independent confirmation of the drone’s prowess to hit the news channels to augment his own video stream. “Chances are good that Farouk’s now with the shells, right?”

  “Probably,” McMahon said. “He wasn’t at the purchase point, but that’s par for the course.”

  “Can you go verify that he’s there and then call in the strike?”

  “Hey,” McMahon
said. “I don’t want to be anywhere near that stuff when it goes off. You forgetting how those GIs got sick burning up Saddam’s chemical weapon stockpile back in the day?”

  Novak let about ten seconds of silence precede his response. “Make sure he’s there and that we can get a video. Blow up the whole goddamn neighborhood if you have to. That asshole’s got to be there somewhere.”

  “Don’t worry. Once the Aries zeroes in, it’s gonna light up the sky around here like a Christmas tree.”

  “Then have somebody tip off Ms. Dean. Make sure she gets told about Farouk and the gas. Our friends down Mexico way are next on the hit parade, and they’re going to be watching this very closely. This has to be our best commercial if we’re going private.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll save the day, so don’t worry.”

  Novak terminated the call.

  * * *

  Bolan watched as McMahon came through the stairwell that led up to the roof and into the main room. One of his men, a burly guy named Snyder, was sitting in front of a laptop that displayed a grid map of the city. The other guy, Charles, who’d picked them up in the van, sat across the room smoking a cigarette.

  “Good news and bad news,” McMahon said. “Redmond’s definitely tracked the goodies to an old canning factory about three klicks from here. The bad news is he still isn’t sure if Farouk’s there.”

  “Let’s go check it out,” Bolan said.

  McMahon smiled. “My sentiments exactly, but we’re kind of light, weapon-wise.” He pointed to three backpacks leaning against the wall. “We’ve got ours. MP5s. Couple extra magazines. But no body armor and no protective masks. We were planning on having the Aries take them out in a blaze of glory.”

  “That might not be advisable,” Bolan said. “We’re right in the middle of a densely populated area, and an explosion would create a lot of civilian casualties, not to mention a major hazmat scene that these people are ill-equipped to deal with.”

  “Yeah, I guess they got enough problems on their plates,” McMahon said. “But let’s face it. I’m not too crazy about being around that stuff when it goes up, either.”

  “So why don’t we take a ride over to where it’s at and see if we can liberate it?” Grimaldi said. “Maybe we can pick off Farouk on the way.”