Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  Before Bolan could reply in agreement, his cell phone vibrated inside the pocket of his cargo pants. He took it out and saw it was Brognola.

  “What’s up, Hal?”

  “Something that you need to see.”

  Bolan replaced the cell phone in his pocket.

  “Are we done here?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Hal wants to see us, ASAP. We’re going to miss our run, so let’s double-time it over to the Annex.”

  The Rook

  Rural Virginia

  Novak sat in his office and watched the video play over and over. It had been a breaking news morning, especially in Mexico, and to Novak’s satisfaction, it couldn’t have worked out better. Payment had been rendered in the form of an immediate wire transfer to the Cayman Island account, and the news media, in all its meticulousness, had been focusing on the speaker when the echoing warning of the Howler suddenly became audible. It was perfect. The banshee-like intrusion captured the attention of every face in the crowd, from the speakers on down, and they all looked skyward. He wondered if any of them figured out what was happening. Had any of their pathetic little lives flashed before their pathetic little eyes? More than likely, they didn’t even know what hit them. He thought about how similar it was to a queen swooping across the board to take a significant opposing piece.

  It was the perfect commercial to cement the deal with his Saudi clients. How could they not be totally impressed? It would surely overcome any reservations they might have.

  The ultimate death from above: relentless, omnipresent, unstoppable and inescapable.

  He glanced at his watch and wondered when Burke would get back with Marco Cerillo and family in tow. Burke had taken four men and two vehicles with him. Cerillo lived a secluded area of Fairfax County, so the abduction shouldn’t create any commotion. Plus Burke was an accomplished pro, as was McMahon. Still, both of those alphas required a bit of close scrutiny. A grand master had to be mindful of his two knights on the chessboard. Forget about them and it set the pieces up to be left in a vulnerable position to be taken.

  He decided to call McMahon first. After all, his most recent task had been artfully completed and a bit of praise would be in order, especially after their last conversation. Stoking the man’s vanity was Novak’s way of maintaining overall control. Make your knights feel important, and their unswerving loyalty and efficacy would be assured.

  McMahon answered on the second ring with his customary insouciance.

  “You enjoy the show?”

  “Most assuredly,” Novak said. “I assume you’re getting ready to come back?”

  “Already in the air.”

  “What’s your ETA?”

  “Another hour or so,” McMahon said. “Buying one of those C-130s was the best idea I ever had. I’ll bet you’re glad I suggested it to you.”

  “You’re not very humble, are you?” Novak felt a mild irritation. Although highly capable, a little McMahon went a long way. He suddenly found himself anxious to get off the phone before the man could lapse into one of his annoying discourses on how brilliant he was.

  “Well, I don’t try to be,” McMahon retorted.

  “Fine. Just get back here as fast as you can. And call me when you arrive. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He paused, then added, “You did good work.”

  Novak didn’t wait for a reply. He terminated the call and wondered how amenable Burke would be if Novak suggested cutting McMahon out of the island paradise. The two of them had worked together, but it didn’t appear that they were close friends. Burke would most likely understand that in a game such as this, sacrifice moves had to be made. And a two-way split was better than three. He would just have to make sure to explain to Burke that there was no contingency plan to get rid of him, too. But Novak knew Burke regarded McMahon as something of a loose cannon. It should be doable.

  There was a lot to be considered, but the final moves had to wait until tomorrow.

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Bolan and Grimaldi, still smelling of gunpowder and sweat, were standing in Brognola’s office inside eight minutes. The screen was already lowered, with video of the Saudi crown prince arriving at Dulles International Airport. The voice-over announced that the prince would meet with the President at the White House.

  “Sorry to interrupt your training once again,” Brognola said. “Especially on the firing range.”

  “That’s all right,” Bolan said. “Jack was just trying to convince me to go for a run.”

  Grimaldi smirked and shook his head. “So we double-timed it here. Which reminds me, I could use a spare towel, if you’ve got one.”

  Brognola reached into a desk drawer, removed a box of tissues and tossed it to him. “Here, this is the best I can do.”

  Grimaldi grabbed a handful and mopped them over his face and neck.

  The big Fed picked up the remote and pointed it at the screen to change the channel. “This happened about an hour or so ago just outside of Guadalajara.” He pressed the button and the figures on the screen came to life. The man behind the lectern was speaking in Spanish, saying something about progress and integrity. Suddenly a strange sound interceded and the man stopped talking. The sound, something akin to an echoing, percussive wail, grew louder, and all the eyes of the figures on the screen glanced skyward. Seconds later the screen went black.

  “That was Jose Alvarez,” Brognola said. “One of the top prosecutors in Mexico City, speaking today in front of a large crowd of reporters and law enforcement personnel. Someone hit them with an apparent drone strike.”

  “Any word on casualties?” Bolan asked.

  Brognola shook his head. “Nothing yet, but it’s going to be plenty. They’re still picking up the pieces.”

  “Let me make a quick call, Hal. Maybe I can get some intel from a former colleague.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi had worked with a man named Jesus Martinez, who was now a lieutenant in the Mexican Marines. He was one of the good guys. Bolan took out his phone and began scrolling.

  He found the number for Martinez’s cell and pressed the button. It rang several times, then went to voice mail. When the voice mail prompt clicked on in Spanish, urging the caller to leave a message, Bolan left one in both English and Spanish asking Jesus to call him as soon as he was able. He terminated the call and replaced the phone in his pocket.

  “What else do we know?” Bolan asked.

  The big Fed blew out a slow breath. “Not much. The President’s very concerned, naturally, and called an emergency meeting of his cabinet.”

  “I feel better already,” Grimaldi said. “How soon before he sends us down there to figure things out?”

  Brognola answered him with a shrug. “The way it’s looking, it was a hit by one of the cartels. Aaron’s doing some hacking in the international banking world to try to pinpoint who paid who. Figures it’s bound to—”

  Bolan held up his hand as he felt his cell phone vibrate against his leg. He immediately pulled it out, checked the number and then answered.

  “It is good to hear your voice again, my friend,” Martinez said.

  “And even more so to hear yours,” Bolan replied. “I saw the news.”

  Martinez heaved a sigh. “Sí. I am here, helping to sort through the wreckage. I had just left the area of the stage to check with my perimeter guards. We had heard that that cartel was planning something, but we never figured on a drone attack.”

  “You’re sure that’s what it was?”

  “Sí, I was not that far away. I heard this sound, like a thousand devils screaming. Then, seconds later, the explosion.”

  They talked for a few moments more and then Martinez said that he had to go.

  “There are many dead here, hermano. Much death and much destruction. We must now continue the search.”

  “Godspeed,” Bolan said.

  He ended the call and put the phone back into his pocket. “Jesus doesn’t have much yet. Hal, play that video agai
n. I want to listen to something.”

  Brognola picked up the remote, rewound it and replayed the grim footage.

  Bolan stood studying the screen in silence. After it was finished he turned to Grimaldi.

  “Something sound familiar?”

  Grimaldi nodded, his expression grim. “There goes the Howler?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “The Howler?” Brognola said. “You guys know something about this I don’t?”

  “Maybe,” Bolan said. “Both Jack and I think we’ve heard that wailing sound before.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Somalia for one,” Bolan said. “Syria for another.”

  Brognola leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “What are you saying?”

  “When we were in Syria talking to the Agency team, the Raptors, their leader, McMahon, told us they’d had their techs do a special modification to their missiles so they emitted a haunting, screaming sound.”

  “And did it ever,” Grimaldi added.

  “They nicknamed it ‘the Howler,’” Bolan said.

  “And that’s the same sound on the video?” Brognola asked.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “And I recall that McMahon also said the drones they were using were prototypes,” Bolan said. “Which means that they most likely haven’t been put into full production yet.”

  Brognola picked up the phone on his desk and said, “I’ll have Aaron start digging into that. What’s it called again?”

  “The Aries drone,” Bolan said. “And its counterpart, the Athena.”

  “Aries, named after the Greek god of war,” Grimaldi added. “But spelled like the Zodiac sign.”

  26,000 Feet Over Eastern Virginia

  Outside the sky was still blue, but McMahon knew they were flying east and thus losing two hours entering a later time zone. He eased himself into the seat next to Redmond and buckled the seat belt. The kid looked a little green around the gills, which amused McMahon. With all the flying they’d done in the past several days, he’d figured Redmond’s apprehensiveness about being in the air would have been long gone. But maybe he was anxious about something else.

  Regardless, that fly boy back in Syria and Somalia had been right. The kid would never make it as a real pilot.

  “Something bugging you?” McMahon asked.

  Redmond brushed some of the long reddish curls away from his face. “I’m just concerned about the final mission.”

  “Why?” McMahon asked. “Everything’s been running like a Swiss watch up until this point.”

  The kid licked his lips. They looked chapped. “Up until now we’ve been dealing with third world defensive capabilities. Doing something in DC is a whole new ballgame.” Redmond’s tongue ran over his lips again.

  That explains the chapping, McMahon thought. He needed to keep the kid relaxed for the main event.

  McMahon gestured at the coffin containing the fuselage of the last functioning prototype of the Aries drone. “Our boy did fine down Mexico way. There’s no need to be worried.”

  “There is if we don’t get that radar jamming feature working right.”

  A sudden loud, grating noise made Redmond shudder.

  McMahon put a hand on the kid’s left forearm. “Relax. That’s just the landing gear.”

  The plane shifted noticeably to a downward slope.

  “But what if they’re able to jam us?” Redmond said. “If they use reverse triangulation and send in some jets to bomb us?”

  McMahon forced himself to appear extremely relaxed as he gave the kid’s arm a gentle squeeze. The truth was that he was nervous as hell landing on that makeshift airstrip in the back of the facility when the plane was carrying loaded Hellfire missiles. He felt like getting up and rechecking the security straps for the drone coffins.

  “Novak’s already got that handled,” McMahon said. “He’s bringing in the head software engineer to make sure that anti-jamming feature is working in proper fashion.”

  Redmond’s eyes flashed. “He is? What if he can’t or won’t do it? What if the guy doesn’t want to cooperate?”

  McMahon felt the plane slowing and knew they’d be touching down momentarily.

  The plane bounced slightly and then settled down as the brakes began grabbing hold.

  “Just relax. Novak has got it all figured out. All you have to do is fly those drones on one last mission. Then we’re home free.”

  The plane was slowing now, and McMahon figured that they were closing in on the hangar at the end of the strip. He also wondered if Novak’s plans included taking Redmond along to the islands. Knowing how Novak was about loose ends, they probably didn’t.

  As the C-130 came to a complete stop, McMahon unbuckled his seat belt and stood up.

  “Come on,” he said, slapping Redmond on the arm. “This is your last stop.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Rook

  Rural Virginia

  It had taken them several hours to unload, inspect and set up the drones and make sure they were operational and ready for launch. Given that McMahon had been complaining about their lack of sleep, Novak thought it prudent to let the Raptors get some rest, but now, as the new day was well under way, he was eager to get started. He’d already sent Burke and crew to make the Cerillo grab. Hopefully, they’d be back soon so the rest of the penultimate assignments could be carried out. Novak called McMahon’s phone and told him to report to the main office for an assignment. It was obvious he’d woken the man up.

  “Just let me get a shower and a shave and I’ll be right over,” McMahon said.

  “Make it a quick one,” Novak said, and decided to inject a bit of levity. “And skip the shave. They say that stubble is in style now, especially in the islands.”

  Novak terminated the call. McMahon was quickly becoming an unwanted loose end. It was time to arrange the sacrifice of this knight.

  Next, he scrolled to Burke’s number, and pressed the button to check on his progress.

  “What’s your status?” he asked after the other man had answered.

  “So far, so good,” Burke said. “We’ve got him. Just waiting for his wife and daughter to get home.”

  Novak didn’t like that. The clock was ticking. “How long will that take?”

  “Unknown. Maybe another hour or two. You know women.”

  Novak considered that as he glanced at his watch. It was already close to four, and there was still a lot to do. The new clients would be arriving soon, and he wanted things to be completely in order and looking totally impressive. After all, it was the prelude to the mother lode, and the Arabs would be bringing the initial payment: ten suitcases full of cash. All American greenbacks for the down payment for executing the ultimate checkmate of checkmates: the assassination of the royal prince on the White House grounds.

  After that, chaos would ensue, but as long as the exit plan was in effect none of that would matter. If and when the remains of the drones were recovered, it would only bolster the brilliant subterfuge he’d masterminded. And they’d be dividing up their loot in the islands and going their separate ways. And if the anti-jamming, radar-defeating technology proved effective, and Novak had no reason to expect that it wouldn’t, they wouldn’t know what, or especially who, had hit them. The final payment by Malik Maloof and Tariq Bashira, who would be the new rulers of Saudi Arabia, could be handled immediately thereafter through a wire transfer before they left the Rook in the corporate Learjet for the islands and paradise. It should prove easy enough to slip away unnoticed in the national confusion after making the final moves.

  “Who’ve you got with you?” Novak asked.

  “A couple of guys from the Somali op. Baker, Snyder and two others.”

  “Can you handle bringing Marco back here by yourself?” Novak asked. “In the car. Leave the four of them there to collect the girl and her mother and bring them back in the van?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Burke said. “I’ll put him in the trun
k of his BMW.”

  Novak took a moment to appreciate the man’s professionalism. None of the flippancy of McMahon.

  “Do it,” Novak said. “We’ve still got a few more things to take care of and the countdown’s already started.”

  He once again hung up without waiting for a reply. He hoped Burke would take it as a sign of trust. Perhaps it would be best to jettison Burke as well after their arrival in the islands.

  After all, he told himself, sacrifices had to be made in order to win the game.

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Bolan and Grimaldi walked into Brognola’s office and saw the two steaming mugs of coffee sitting on the front edge of his desk. The big Fed’s face looked haggard and worn as he extended his open palm toward the two mugs. Next to him, Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman sat in his wheelchair looking equally drained. Two chairs had been strategically placed in front of the desk to afford visual access to the lowered screen.

  “You find anything?”

  “Aaron did,” Brognola said. “He’s been going nonstop.”

  Kurtzman grinned, his white teeth glinting from his hirsute face. “That’s why I needed to brew a fresh pot.” He gestured to the coffee maker on the adjacent desk. “Help yourselves.”

  Bolan picked up the two mugs and handed one to Grimaldi, who rolled his eyes.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for this stuff on an empty stomach,” he said.

  “You can thank me later,” Kurtzman said. “Right now, we’ve got some information for you.”

  Bolan took a quick sip of his coffee. It was as bitter and astringent as ever, which was Aaron’s trademark.

  “First of all,” Brognola said, “more information has come in from Mexico. According to the latest political loudmouth on the news, Congressman Eddie Meeks is demanding a thorough and complete investigation to assist the Mexican authorities in getting to the bottom of it.”

  “I feel better already,” Grimaldi said. “One thing about that guy, Meeks, is that he’ll never need a laxative.”

  Kurtzman chuckled. “But anyway, I was able to trace that company that was responsible for that Aries drone.” He paused and glanced at Brognola, who picked up his remote and took over.