Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  “Let’s find out,” Bolan said.

  He slipped between the seats and pointed his Beretta at the supine guard.

  “Cooperate if you want to live,” he said.

  The man looked up with a fearful expression frozen on his face and nodded.

  * * *

  McMahon dropped the naked form of Leza Dean onto the metal bed section of the holding cell with a sodden thumping sound. The woman’s head lolled to one side, and she emitted something resembling a groan, which told him that she probably wasn’t as far out of it as he thought she was. As she lay there he reassessed her.

  He’d purposely spared her face, spending time working on the various sensitive parts of her body to extract her laptop passwords. She’d tried to resist, but in the end had broken as he knew she would. McMahon appreciated her grit and had a bit of respect for the woman’s toughness. And despite the roughing up, she was still functional for the moment and had an exquisite body.

  A quickie wouldn’t hurt, as long as he didn’t leave any trace evidence for the forensics team to find. Plus, his identifiers—fingerprints and DNA, had long since been placed in the nebula of all Agency operatives.

  A scraping noise behind him caused him turn just as Burke came into the room, half dragging Cerillo, who was whimpering like a distraught puppy.

  McMahon turned and caught a suspicious glint in Burke’s eye.

  “What’s going on?”

  McMahon shrugged. “Just finished my interrogation.”

  Burke glanced at Dean, then back to McMahon.

  “Novak wants you to bring him her laptop,” Burke said.

  Cerillo groaned. “Please. I helped you. Now let me go. I won’t tell.”

  Burke pulled the other man to his feet, cocked back his arm and delivered a solid punch to Cerillo’s abdomen. As his upper body folded downward, Burke shoved him into the cell area next to the woman.

  Burke reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and thrust them toward McMahon. “Wear these. Novak doesn’t want your prints on the laptop. Only hers and Meeks’s. Got it?”

  McMahon exhaled loudly as he took one more fleeting glance at the naked body of Leza Dean.

  He pulled the thin rubber gloves over his big hands, then removed his Walther pistol from the desk drawer where he’d stashed it for the interrogation.

  “Better make sure you have an extra magazine,” Burke said.

  McMahon took this as a signal that Novak wanted him to get rid of the loose ends up by the airstrip. He had probably told Burke to get rid of Dean and Cerillo and the rest of the hostages when they got here.

  Yeah, he thought. The killing was about to begin.

  * * *

  “You think they’re watching us on camera?” Grimaldi asked as he drove the van across the weed-filled courtyard toward the main office building and pulled up behind the black limo with diplomatic plates. The leaves of the clinging ivy fluttered in the dusky light. The windows of the structure were encrusted with years of dirt.

  “If they are, we should know shortly.” Bolan knew that the best course when dealing with possible video surveillance was to ignore it and proceed with speed and alacrity. “But it seems unlikely. I think this place is just a temporary pit stop.”

  He pulled his knife out of his pants pocket and flipped the blade open. The eyes of the captive guard widened.

  “I’m just going to cut the restraints on your legs,” Bolan said. “You’re going to walk us in.”

  “So what you told us better be true,” Grimaldi said. “Or you’ll be in deep trouble.”

  “It is,” the guard said. “I swear it.”

  Bolan slipped the blade under the restraint securing the man’s thighs and sliced it, then lifted the man one-handed to a kneeling position facing the sliding side door. He cut off the zip tie binding the man’s ankles, then stowed the knife in the pocket of his cargo pants and drew his Beretta. He had the thin strap of the MP5 slug across his chest so that the weapon hung by his side. Next to him on the floor were the unloaded and field stripped M16 and the two pistols they’d taken from the gate guards.

  The entrance door of the main office building loomed about thirty feet away now. Bolan tightened his grip on the guard, whose hands were still secured behind his back.

  It was time to rock and roll.

  * * *

  Novak watched as Redmond handled the two joysticks with the aplomb of a true computer geek. It was hard to believe the kid was able to manage both the Athena and the Aries simultaneously, but it was also understandable when you realized that he was keeping one on an autopilot rotation at twenty-five thousand feet while he had the other just following the target. The laptop screen relaying the optical scanners of the Athena showed the trio of black limousines hauling the Saudi royal prince and his entourage of flunkies and bodyguards down 14th Street toward their inevitable date with destiny. He had considered taking all three of the limos out now, but waiting another few minutes would give his guests more bang for their bucks. Their substantial bucks. Plus, the facial recognition software would zero in on the prince’s visage as soon as he got out of the car. It would be poetry in motion, or chaos, from that point on. The Arab flunkies would finalize the wire transfer as soon as it was done, and then McMahon, if the son of a bitch ever got here, could start eliminating the loose ends as soon as the money was confirmed.

  It would be sweet.

  He caught a glimpse of Meeks’s sweaty face. As they locked eyes, the congressman flashed what appeared to be a weak-looking smile.

  Novak turned and saw McMahon sauntering in with Leza Dean’s laptop. Novak felt relieved when he saw that the man was wearing the latex gloves as he’d instructed.

  “It took you long enough,” Novak said, reaching into his pocket for the case containing the flash drive and his own rubber gloves.

  “She’s one tough chick,” McMahon said. “My only regret is that I didn’t have enough time to check her out a bit more.”

  Novak frowned. He knew what McMahon meant. The man’s carnal appetites disgusted Novak. Business should always come before other things.

  “Did Snyder get here?” Novak asked, slipping the gloves over his thin fingers. They were long and, as his mother used to say, like a concert pianist’s. McMahon’s hands looked like baseball mitts by comparison.

  “The last time I texted him, he was on the way,” McMahon said.

  “And he hasn’t advised you he’s arrived yet?”

  “You know the cell phone reception’s shitty in this place.” He gestured toward the twin laptops by Redmond. “Especially with those things going.”

  Novak pressed the flash drive into the USB port and waited for the drive to open.

  “Hey, Eddie,” he called out.

  The congressman’s head jerked around.

  “Come over here a minute,” Novak said. “I want to show you something.”

  Meeks excused himself from the Arabs and walked over.

  “What?” Meeks asked.

  Novak handed him the laptop. “Take a look at this.”

  “A laptop?” Meeks’s brow furrowed as he accepted the computer and turned it so he could see the screen. “Whose is it?”

  “Leza Dean’s,” Novak said. “We’re planting a story on it to cover everything.”

  Meeks’s lips pulled back over his teeth, presenting something between a smile and a grimace. “You’re gonna all make this look like a car bomb, right?”

  Novak smiled back, nodding slightly.

  “I mean,” Meeks continued, “the drones are untraceable, aren’t they?”

  “Of course they are,” Novak said, taking the laptop from his hands. “Just relax. Everything’s under control. Go back and watch the show.”

  Meeks nodded and headed back toward the others.

  Nobody’s prints but yours, Novak thought as he watched the man walk away. Meeks hadn’t even noticed the latex gloves.

  He glanced at McMahon, who winked and then patted the
big pistol on his hip.

  * * *

  Bolan waited with this captive held close as Grimaldi pulled open the door and slipped inside, his MP5 held at the ready. The long hallway in front of them was moderately lit, which didn’t surprise Bolan, nor did the decrepit condition of the place. Peeling paint clung to the walls like the shedding scales of a slumbering python, and the tiled floor was covered with an assortment of debris, some of which had been matted down, forming a carpet of crushed rubbish. There were several indented doorways and two wrought-iron staircases, one about fifteen feet in front of them, and another about fifty feet away. After moving inside the building, the Executioner pressed the barrel of the Beretta into the guard’s back to remind him that his life depended on his cooperation. The man’s arms were still fastened behind his back.

  “Where are they?” Bolan whispered, his mouth next to the man’s right ear. “What floor and how many?”

  “Like I told you,” the guard said. “I’m not sure.”

  “Not good enough.” Bolan jabbed the man’s back with the gun barrel. “Talk.”

  “All right, all right. They’re down there in the old administration office.”

  Bolan scanned the hallway and saw two signs attached perpendicularly to the wall. There was block writing on each, but it was not distinct.

  “How many?” Bolan said, deciding to use a bluff. “And keep in mind that what you say better jibe with what your dead partner already told us. I’ve got a good memory.”

  The guard swallowed hard. “Maybe...four inside here. I don’t know. There were fifteen of us originally, but if you took out the strike team that’d leave eleven, not counting Charles and me.”

  Charles had been the other gate guard. That jibed.

  Bolan did the mental calculation: possibly nine enemies, if the sentry was to be believed. The Executioner pushed the man forward as Grimaldi assumed a cover position next to the wall at the bottom of the staircase. They moved down the hallway at a semi-rapid pace, with Bolan whispering in the guard’s ear to “step lightly.” Once they’d reached the halfway point, Bolan halted and assumed a cover position in one of the recessed doorways while Grimaldi made his way toward them.

  Instead of pausing when he got to them, the pilot continued forward, not wanting to halt his momentum. Bolan then followed with the captive, the way they’d practiced a thousand times before, going from recessed doorway to recessed doorway. He once again pressed the Beretta into the guard’s back and pulled him into one of the recessed doorways.

  “Okay,” Bolan whispered. “Which room are they in?”

  “It’s the third one down on the left,” the guard said.

  This seemed to make sense since that was the only room spilling light into the hallway.

  “And who all’s in there?”

  “How the hell should I know?” The guard’s voice cracked. “You aren’t gonna shoot me, are you?”

  “Not if you’re telling the truth,” Bolan said. “Now, what’s your best guess as to who’s in the room?”

  The guard was trembling. “It’s where Novak had us stash the hostages. Cerillo and the woman. There’s probably somebody guarding them. The rest of them are probably watching the show with the drones.”

  Novak. It was the first time Bolan had heard the name, and he wanted to press the guard for more information, but the clock was ticking. Instead, he used a different tactic to confirm what he already suspected.

  “What woman?”

  “That reporter. Leza Dean.”

  “Who else are they holding?” Bolan asked, moving the Beretta to just behind his captive’s ear.

  “Just them,” the guard said rapidly. His voice sounded hoarse. “Her and Cerillo. Snyder was supposed to bring Cerillo’s wife and daughter here.”

  “Who besides Novak’s involved in this?”

  The guard was shaking now. “Him, Oliver Burke, Ted McMahon... They’re the ones running the show. The rest of us are just flunkies following orders.”

  “Who’s their target?” Bolan asked. “With the drones.”

  “I don’t know. Honest. I don’t know anything. I was just following orders. Doing what I was told.” His voice cracked again, and he seemed on the edge of crying.

  Bolan doubted there was much more to be learned from any interrogation. Plus, the clock continued ticking.

  A keening wail pierced the stillness of the deserted hallway. It sounded like a woman.

  Bolan glanced across the hallway at Grimaldi, who nodded.

  They shifted back into the hallway and began a fast walk toward the third room on the left. Bolan could now see the dilapidated sign affixed to the wall adjacent to the door jamb. The chipped block letters spelled out ADMIN OFFICE. The next room farther down the hall had a similar sign reading WARDEN. As they got closer the wail was audible once more, peppered with a man’s voice pleading.

  “Please, don’t. Can’t you see she’s hurt?”

  A second male voice barked something inaudible.

  Bolan paused at the juncture before the recessed entryway into the office as Grimaldi got into position to follow. Pushing the bound guard into the room first, Bolan followed with his Beretta at combat ready.

  The guard screamed a warning not to shoot.

  A burly-looking man standing by a set of barred holding cells whirled, brought up a pistol and fired.

  The guard grunted and twisted, suddenly became dead weight.

  Still holding the body in front of him, Bolan squeezed off a shot. The burly man’s body jerked back slightly. He was hit, but he wasn’t down. His arm extended once more and flashes of fire danced from the muzzle of his gun as it spat out rounds. Bolan felt at least one of them whiz by his head, way too close for comfort. He was worried about Grimaldi catching one, as well. The Executioner aimed at the burly man’s center mass, fired two rounds, and then placed a third one in his forehead. The shooter’s body jerked again and folded downward. Grimaldi was up next to Bolan now and together they cleared the room.

  Moving to the holding cells, Bolan kicked the pistol away from the downed man’s hand and checked for vitals. The right side of his face was against the floor, a lifeless left eye staring vacuously at nothing, an expanding puddle of blood creeping outward.

  This room seemed to have been cleaned up. There was no peeling paint on the walls, and the floor looked like it had been recently swept. Bolan saw a stack of ten suitcases in the open cell next to them.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan looked into the adjacent cell and saw the nude form of Leza Dean lying on her side. A crust of blood stained her mouth and nose area, as well as other parts of her body, which showed several recent bruises and abrasions. There were several tears in the skin on her legs and two of her fingernails were missing on her left hand. She was breathing, but it looked rapid and shallow. Next to her a man sat hunched in the corner concealing his face with his hands, his bald head looking like an egg. He was sobbing.

  “She’s in bad shape,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan motioned for him to check her, holstered his weapon, then addressed the man.

  “We’re here to help you. Who are you?”

  The man looked up. “I’m Dr. Marco Cerillo. And you... You’re with the police?”

  Bolan didn’t answer the question. Instead he asked, “Are you injured?”

  Cerillo shook his head slightly. “Just banged up a little. She’s a lot worse off than I am.”

  “I think her arm’s broken,” Grimaldi said. He stood, slipped the sling of his MP5 over his head and began unbuttoning his BDU blouse.

  “Oh, my God,” Cerillo said. “They’ve got my family. My wife and daughter.”

  “Your family’s safe,” Bolan said, keeping his voice even. “Can you stand?”

  Cerillo’s face flooded with relief. “They’re okay? Thank God.” He began to struggle to get to his feet. Bolan reached out and helped him.

  “Can you walk?” Bolan asked.

  “
I don’t know,” Cerillo said. “I think so.”

  He took a tentative step, and then another, paused and grimaced.

  Bolan held up his palm. “That’s good.” He glanced at Grimaldi, who was fastening his blouse over Dean’s upper body with gentle efficiency.

  “I’m trying to splint this arm by securing it against her body,” he said. “It’s the best I can do for now.”

  “Professor,” Bolan said, turning to Cerillo, “what can you tell us about these people?”

  Cerillo started to speak, then stopped. “There’s only two of you?” His face became flaccid again and he almost collapsed.

  “There’s no time to waste,” Bolan said. “Snap out of it. We need you to tell us what you know.”

  After a few gasps of breath, Cerillo seemed to regain a modicum of control.

  “How many of them are there?” Bolan asked, trying to keep his questions as simple as possible.

  The scientist shook his head. “I only saw a few of them at a time.” He gestured down at the burly man’s corpse. “That one, another big guy with sandy hair and a Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm, and Novak. They seem to be in charge and have a bunch more men with them.” His eyes filled with panic. “They must be on their way back now. I heard them talking. Those suitcases in the other cell are filled with cash.”

  “Do you know where they are now?” Bolan asked.

  “They have a hangar on the other side of these buildings. It’s right by an airstrip. They have two planes there, one a Learjet. It’s where they launched the drones from.”

  “The drones,” Bolan said. “The Aries?”

  Cerillo nodded, placing his hand over his eyes. “And the Athena. I helped design and build them.”

  “What’s their target?” Bolan asked, still trying to keep his questions simple.

  Cerillo shook his head. “It’s something in DC. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “I got news for you, friend,” Grimaldi said, still working the blouse under and around Dean’s upper body. The black straps of his bullet-resistant, level 3 vest stood in sharp contrast to his white T-shirt. “DC’s a no-fly zone. They aren’t gonna get too far before they’re shot down.”