“We don’t need an army,” she said. “Only the two of us. We have ready access into and out of the camp. They’re concealed well in the jungle, or at least they think they are. They haven’t bothered to protect their position on the river since they believe nobody knows of their location. It will be a simple matter of just getting inside under cover of darkness, finding Colonel Stone and getting him out.”
“And what about weapons?”
“We have more than enough,” she said.
She tapped the floor with her foot and gestured for him to stand. When Grimaldi had complied, she flipped back the cushions she’d been sitting on, opened a hatch and stuck her hand way down into what looked like the top of the engine. She pulled on something and suddenly the floor panels seemed to shift and give where they had otherwise appeared seamless just a moment before.
Cretia smiled as she lifted one of the panels. Nestled in what was obviously a waterproof container were half a dozen Kalashnikov assault rifle variants accompanied by plenty of spare magazines loaded with 7.62 mm ammo. Grimaldi’s eyes appraised them quickly and he realized they were AK-47 assault rifles. They looked to be practically brand-new. There were also a few canvas satchels that he assumed contained some sort of ordnance and a couple of flak vests that added a somewhat legit touch to the entire cache.
Grimaldi let out a wolf whistle and remarked, “Nice...very classy.”
“I thought you might appreciate it.”
“I can see that you’re into more than just information brokering.”
She smiled. “We’re not without good connections. In this day and age, we find it’s more profitable to be flexible, to adapt to the ever-changing need of our customers.”
“I like the way you think,” Grimaldi said. “Although it can be a pretty dangerous business.”
“Danger is how we make our living, señor.”
“Why don’t you call me Jack?”
“Okay, if you prefer.”
“Now what else can you tell me about this camp?”
As Cretia restored the hatches and seating configuration to its former state, she began to explain. “There are three separate holding blocks. Two are aboveground with one below to hold the high-value detainees.”
“Which they will most likely consider Stone to be.”
“Exactly our thought. Maybe a half-dozen guards at any one time, two teams of two on staggered perimeter patrol.”
“So roving guards,” Grimaldi interjected. “That’s going to make it a little more difficult.”
“There are also other considerations,” she said.
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact they are heavily armed. As I noted before, the IB is well equipped here. They maintain a significant drug and weapons pipeline for the gangs in the cities, and in return they’re fed a lot of intelligence. Some of it is bad or old, if it was even legit to begin with, but most is accurate. The one thing the terrorists here don’t realize is that the same information they glean is the same information that runs through our own internal networks.”
“Meaning you know about the same time as they do what’s up,” he concluded.
“Sometimes even ahead of them. More often than not, in fact.”
“You know something else?”
She nodded. “We weren’t paid for it by your contact, but I’ll tell you, anyway, as a gesture of good faith. And because I think you’re cute.”
Grimaldi smiled and winked. “Likewise.”
Cretia took a deep breath. “We’ve been led to understand that Colonel Stone wasn’t the only prisoner taken. It’s possible that a number of the other men on your insertion team may also have been captured. We know with certainty that at least some were killed.”
Grimaldi felt as if his heart had fallen into his stomach and settled there like a cold knot of meat. His head began to hurt. Had they been walking into a trap from the beginning? Had Shoup actually been on the side of the good guys or had he planned for Bolan’s demise from the start and got his own head lopped off in the process because he’d been a liability? Not to mention that he might have been one of the ones captured and was in the same predicament as the others.
“Any way you look at this,” Grimaldi finally said, “we’re going to be at a disadvantage. We have to get Colonel Stone out, sure, but we also have to consider the lives of the others. Those are American POWs, and we won’t leave them behind.”
“While I understand your concern,” Cretia said, “I have to point out that rescuing multiple persons was not a part of the plan. We were only prepared to get Colonel Stone out of there.”
“Those men that were taken put their lives on the line for their nation,” Grimaldi countered. “There’s no way in hell we’re going to just leave them there.”
“I gave you that information as a courtesy, Jack. I did not expect you to use it as a weapon against me.”
“I’m not trying to use it as a weapon,” Grimaldi said as gently as he could manage. “And I’m glad you told me. But now that I know, I have a duty to take them out—all of them. Surely you can understand that.”
“I can.” She smiled. “And I suppose I was aware of this. But you must also understand that this boat has weight limitations. If there are too many of them, we may not be able to get all of them out.”
“Then we just merely need to plan some alternatives.”
“Such as?”
Grimaldi thought a moment. “Any chance you have some sort of map of the area? Particularly one that shows terrain?”
“Of course.” Cretia rose from her seat, walked to a nearby trunk that seemed to be bolted to the frame and opened the combination lock. She dipped her hand inside and rummaged around before producing a topographic map covered with a plastic film. She secured the trunk before bringing the map back and handing it to him, then she sat on the seat next to him as he unfolded it.
“Okay. Let’s see...”
After studying the map a minute and having Cretia point out the approximate location, Grimaldi removed the GPS homing device from his pocket.
“What is this?”
“It’s called a Geo-Caching Terrain Mapping Device, or sometimes just a T-mapper for short. It uses a satellite to home into a micro-transmitter planted on Colonel Stone we can then scan into this map. Like so.” Grimaldi ran the scanning portion over the map of the area and then punched in the coordinates as noted by the mapmakers. He continued his explanation. “What this will do is create a three-dimensional overlay of the surrounding terrain. We can use this to show us all the access points for the camp and it will tell us if there are alternative ways out.”
“I don’t understand how this information will help us. We already know we will evacuate using this boat.”
“Ah,” Grimaldi said, raising his finger. “But we also need to know if there are alternatives in case we have too many. And look here. See this line?”
She squinted at the screen of the small device he held up for her inspection. “Yes.”
“That’s a road if I’ve ever seen one. And it looks like it’s in pretty good shape, which means this camp can be accessed by vehicle. I’d bet there are one or two vehicles on site, otherwise it would be difficult to get supplies into and out of the area.”
“Maybe they use boats.”
Grimaldi shook his head. “Boats moored along the side of the river in an area remote as this would draw attention from either river patrols or just general tourist traffic. An access road off one of the few roads leading in-country, however, might be innocuous enough that people would pay it scant notice. And if it provides a very narrow right of access into and out of the camp, it would be relatively easy to secure from outsiders.”
Cretia nodded. “It seems you have come up with an alternative, after all. I’m impressed.”
> “I’m glad we agree,” Grimaldi said.
“Now we must hope we find your friend alive,” Cretia said.
“Yeah.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Of all the things Mack Bolan had expected to see, the head of Major Randy Shoup hadn’t been one of them. And yet there it was, dangled in front of his face in the fists of Bolan’s chief inquisitor.
“You knew this man?”
“I knew him,” Bolan said.
“Then you would do well to remember him just as he is now and not as he was.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because this was his just punishment for lying to us.”
That eliminated any doubts Bolan harbored about Shoup. He’d either been involved with this group from the start, or he’d associated with a traitor inside his own organization. In any case, they had clearly seen him as a liability and eliminated him. The whole thing had smelled of a setup to begin with. Bolan just hadn’t realized that it was Shoup who’d been set up, even though he’d thought it was he who’d been setting up Bolan the entire time.
“We checked your story,” the man continued as he tossed the head aside as casually as if it were the remnants of an eaten apple. The dull thud of the head hitting the floor echoed sickeningly in the confines of the small cell. “It seems you’ve told us the truth. Shoup did not, and that is why he’s dead and you’re still alive.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful?”
The man inspected his fingernails and Bolan could now make out his face well. He searched his memory but still couldn’t place the guy. “Not at all. It’s just our way of showing you that we keep our word. We are men of honor, after all.”
“You don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
“So be it,” he said with a nod.
The punch came just as it had before, hard enough to rattle his brains inside his head but not enough to cause any permanent damage. He also noticed this time that the striker hadn’t supplemented the punch with anything like the plastic-sheathed gloves used before. This was more of a punch toward the back center of the skull to remind Bolan of his place. It was a psychological move above all else, and the Executioner knew that game well. He would not let them intimidate him.
“Now, we can make the rest of your stay here a bit more pleasant,” the man said, “or we can make it doubly not so. How would you like this to go?”
Up to this point the Executioner had been willing to play along in the hope of stroking the guy’s ego and stalling. He knew sooner or later Grimaldi would arrive with the cavalry. But now, seeing the pointless murder of a U.S. military officer—whether Shoup had deserved what he got was another matter entirely and not something Bolan would debate in moral ambiguity under these terms—he wasn’t about to let this man get the better of him.
“You can torture me and play your psychological games with me,” Bolan said. “I’ve already figured out what you’re up to. I think you know it, too. Which means that I’m no longer of any real value to you. If you keep me alive, it’s only because you think it will benefit you or your organization in some way. And if you don’t, then I’ll wind up just like Shoup. Right?”
The man gave Bolan a frosty smile; a death’s head leer like that of a grinning skull. “I see that you’re a learned man if not very bright.”
“Just what is it you’re hoping to gain by all of this?” Bolan said. “You’ve killed a U.S. military officer, kidnapped another, and who knows how many of our men you’ve already butchered. Do you really think my country will let that stand? Eventually they will come for you and in force. And you won’t have enough guns or wits for them, and they’ll overrun your entire cause as well as your position. And you’ll be dead, just another pawn sacrificed by some lunatic who cares nothing for you personally.”
“You speak sure words for a man who claims to know nothing about me or our mission here.”
Bolan decided now was the time to go for shock factor since he had the guy visibly off balance. “What part did you play in the compromise of recent U.S. military intelligence operations? Are you a member of the Council of Luminárii?”
A long, weighty silence followed and the man’s former aura of cockiness and arrogance vanished. The blow had just the effect Bolan had hoped it would. With that one simple question, he’d revealed he knew exactly who he’d been dealing with the entire time but also that this man had a direct relationship with the people Serif had uncovered. It told him all he needed to know in that moment. Not only was the Council of Luminárii real, they did in fact have some direct relationship with the recent compromise in American military intelligence. Somehow they were tied into the base in Colorado and they had gotten their hooks into Shoup.
And they were likely behind Alara Serif’s disappearance.
It all just left Bolan with one unanswered question. Where the hell were they getting their information?
“You should have played out your original ruse a little bit longer,” the man said, standing. “With those words you’ve just spoken, you have signed your own death warrant.”
“I’m shaking in my boots,” Bolan replied calmly.
“We’ll see if you are so confident when we pour oil over you and set fire to it.”
The man said something to one of the guards and, while Bolan didn’t understand the words, he did recognize it as an Arabic dialect. That meant his captors were probably a terrorist group, although he couldn’t be sure which one. Somehow, Islamic terrorists had compromised U.S. military intelligence, and they had done so with the assistance of this mysterious council. But how and for what purpose? What did they hope to gain by it?
And with the Executioner now facing a horrific death, who would figure it out in time to stop them to avert an all-out disaster?
* * *
DARKNESS BLANKETED THE river as the boat bumped against the shore.
Miguel tied off and then deposited the equipment bags on shore as Grimaldi and Cretia jumped from the boat. They were geared up with everything they could possibly carry, including one extra weapon each for any captors they managed to rescue. Grimaldi had also secured extra grenades and a satchel of ordnance. The plastic explosives looked old but more than capable of doing any job Grimaldi assigned to them.
Once the pair was on shore and had secured their other equipment, Cretia bid her father a whispered farewell before turning.
Grimaldi was certain he heard the old man reply, “Via con Dios,” before he fell into step behind her.
They moved through the woods with surprising quiet despite the fact they were on unfamiliar terrain. Cretia seemed to have a natural affinity for it while Grimaldi had training and experience in such environments. It wasn’t the first time he’d moved through the nighttime jungle carrying the tools of war, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last. Having navigated and fought on such ground many times before, in fact, Grimaldi thought of it much like learning to ride a bike.
They proceeded for what Grimaldi estimated to be less than half a mile and eventually came to a stop. Cretia knelt and Grimaldi checked their flank before joining her. She whipped out the map and put it on the ground, then shone a red-lensed flashlight on it. Grimaldi took the T-mapper from his pocket and double-checked the coordinates of their position as it related to the map. He was surprised to find Cretia had brought them within a mere fifty yards of the camp. The signal coming from Bolan’s transmitter was still going strong.
“Nice job,” Grimaldi whispered.
Cretia nodded and indicated he should now take point. He agreed with a nod of his own—he’d have to call the shots from here out. The actual rescue was his show, they had agreed, since he was the one who could pinpoint Bolan. Rescue of his friend had been the first priority for them. The plan was simple. Cretia would create a distraction as far from Bolan’s location a
s possible. Once the guards headed to her position, Grimaldi would slip inside, find Bolan and liberate him.
If time permitted, they would then search for survivors.
Grimaldi took point and continued on the path toward the camp. When they got to within striking distance, he signaled for Cretia to do her stuff. She quickly disappeared from view through the brush.
It didn’t take the woman long to get the show started. She’d grabbed a couple of grenades from the satchel, leaving the rest with Grimaldi. She would have to be able to move quickly and being burdened with all of that equipment wasn’t going to help on that count. Once enough time had passed to facilitate Grimaldi’s rescue efforts and the pilot gave the signal, Cretia would head back to the boat and wait for their arrival. If nobody showed after thirty minutes, she and her father were to get the hell out of there and return to Livingston without being seen—if possible.
The blast came a bit suddenly, despite the fact Grimaldi was expecting it, and somewhat closer than he’d preferred. Still, it did its job; he could hear the shouts in the aftermath of the explosion. The hammer of boots seemed to move away from him and Grimaldi took the opportunity to break cover. The Stony Man pilot entered the encampment and found it contained nothing more than a couple of rickety structures, one large and another somewhat smaller. Well, a place with only four guards probably didn’t need much outside the most basic accoutrements. And it wasn’t as if the place had occupants all the time. It served more as a way station, the way Grimaldi understood it from Cretia’s explanation.
He moved quickly through the camp until the blip that signaled Bolan’s location went solid red as Grimaldi came to a stop in front of the smaller of the two shanty-like buildings. If he’d attempted to breach the building immediately, he would have missed the light that spilled from a hole in the ground to his left. Grimaldi went to the sliver of light and realized it emanated from a door in the ground. He grabbed the makeshift, lever-style handle, turned and then pulled. The door flung open to reveal a very steep stairwell. Grimaldi descended the steps that terminated inside a narrow, bunker-like cell with cracked concrete walls slick with moisture.
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