Critical Exposure

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan sat with an almost demure expression on his face. It looked as if he’d taken a beating but not so much that he was unrecognizable.

  “Took you long enough,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi grinned. “You get what you came for?”

  “I did.”

  “And?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Terrorist group, probably sourced from al Qaeda.”

  “Islamic Brotherhood, actually,” Grimaldi interjected.

  Bolan stood, flexing his neck muscles and jaw, making sure he didn’t have any broken bones or other injuries that would prevent him from making his escape.

  “All good?” Grimaldi inquired.

  “Fine,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi passed a Beretta 93-R pistol to the Executioner, followed by a fully loaded AK-47. Another explosion sounded and a raised eyebrow from Bolan made him say, “Distraction. I think it’s time to leave. Our luck won’t hold out much longer.”

  “Agreed.”

  As they began to leave, Grimaldi suddenly noticed the head in one corner of the room. “Shoup?”

  Bolan nodded. “Long story. Now let’s get out of here or you won’t get to hear it.”

  “Are there any other prisoners here?”

  “What?” Bolan asked.

  “Any other prisoners here?”

  “I don’t know. Shoup’s the only one I’ve seen.”

  “Our contact said there might be others.”

  “We’ll check on the way out,” Bolan said. “Now let’s shag it. You know the layout better, so you got point.”

  Grimaldi nodded as he turned and ascended the stairs with his friend on his heels. They emerged from the underground cell, and Bolan immediately checked the shack near the cell door. He shot the lock from the door with a well-placed round from the Beretta, opened it and pushed through, weapon held at the ready while Grimaldi covered his flank. The sight sickened him. The bodies of the rest of Shoup’s team were piled up in the cramped spaces. They had been stripped naked and left to rot.

  Bolan looked at Grimaldi. The pilot could not recall the last time he’d seen the Executioner’s face set with such grim and iron resolve. “Those explosives in that satchel?”

  Grimaldi nodded.

  “Hand them over.”

  “Sarge, we should move.”

  “Jack...hand them over.”

  Grimaldi didn’t see any reason to argue the point. He let the satchel fall from his shoulder and Bolan snatched it. The Executioner knelt, reached inside and found the detonator cap he’d been looking for. He set the cap into one of the blocks, attached the other end of the wire to the remote receiver and turned it on. Bolan then removed the arming switch from the satchel, tossed the primed explosives inside and closed the door.

  “Let’s go!”

  The pair burst from the scene and headed toward the perimeter, Bolan triggering the switch on the run. At first there was nothing, only the distant sound of a lone automatic rifle somewhere in the distance resounding. Then the blast came, sending a fireball high enough into the air that it could be spotted for miles. The explosion was something that would not only obscure the identity of the fallen soldiers but double as a funeral pyre.

  The Executioner would make sure every one of the men on that team received a hero’s burial back home, but for now he would not allow them to be disgraced as their flesh rotted in the jungle. Better to be consumed by the flames of honor, to be burned to ash in a funeral pyre fit for men of such courage, than to waste away as a stinking corpse. Such was the honorable thing to do in Bolan’s mind, and Grimaldi knew it.

  And he also knew from the look on Bolan’s face that the perpetrators of such an atrocity would pay dearly. The Executioner had been liberated and all had gone as planned. Now it was time for the offensive to begin.

  * * *

  “THANKS, JACK,” MACK BOLAN said, clapping his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming after me.”

  “You know thanks aren’t necessary.” Grimaldi waved at Cretia and Miguel. “But it is these two you really owe for it. Without them I never would have known what we were up against.”

  Bolan stepped forward and offered his hand. “Then I guess I owe you a debt of gratitude, as well.”

  “So now that you have the information you were looking for, what’s next on the agenda?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan sat and reached into the cooler. He scooped up a handful of ice and held it to his bruised face. “First we get back to the plane. You brought transportation, I assume.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Left it parked in Punta Gorda. But, yeah...we’re good.”

  “Our next stop’s Istanbul,” Bolan said. “Now that I’ve positively connected this terrorist group with the information coming out of Turkey, there’s no question the incidents are related. Someone is pulling the chains of the terrorists at this end. Those are the same people who infiltrated Shoup’s people in Florida, and also who set up the base of operations in Colorado.”

  “So why Istanbul?”

  “Well, it took me a while to pull it out of the guy interrogating me, but he balked when I mentioned the Council of Luminárii. Apparently a DIA analyst at the consulate in Turkey has been sending reports for some time to officials at the Pentagon advising of this group operating in Istanbul. She believes the group is led by, or at least has a member who is a former Italian intelligence officer at Interpol. At first, I wondered if there was a connection, and I wasn’t sure how far to play my hand after I avoided the initial ambush. It wasn’t until I realized they were trying to capture me and not kill me that I knew the theories of this analyst had merit.”

  “Wait a minute,” Cretia cut in. “You’re saying that you allowed yourself to be captured by these men?”

  “It just worked out that way.”

  Cretia exchanged glances with Grimaldi and Bolan, and a smoky ember of distrust suddenly glinted in her dark eyes. “That’s why Jack knew your location this entire time. You weren’t in any real danger at all.”

  “Well,” Grimaldi began, “that’s not exactly true—”

  “Isn’t it?” Cretia demanded. “I put my reputation at risk, not to mention my papa. We only agreed to do this because we thought Colonel Stone was in real trouble. But instead you had this planned.”

  “We didn’t have it planned, lady,” Bolan said with a swipe of his hand. “And you can just cut the righteous indignation. You did this because you were well paid by our people to do it. You’re mercenaries and in it for the cash, first. Maybe you feel some allegiance to the United States or those you perceive could be in trouble by your shared mutual hatred for an enemy. But please don’t pretend that the very large compensation you get doesn’t come into your decision on who you will and won’t help. Okay?”

  Grimaldi was taken completely aback by the exchange—Bolan could tell just by the way he continued to look back and forth between them. He couldn’t be sure, but he almost had to wonder if they hadn’t shared some sort of intimate moment somewhere along the way. Jack being Jack, it wasn’t as though it would have come as any surprise to Bolan.

  The look on Cretia’s face, however, made it clear that Bolan had called it correctly. They had done what they had for the money. First and foremost, that’s what it had all been about.

  “So can we cut the crap and get back to business?” Bolan asked Cretia.

  She nodded slowly, not meeting Bolan’s penetrating gaze.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kirklareli, Turkey

  Quon Ma had a reputation among his peers as being tough and resourceful. He was also known to possess a keen intelligence. All of these qualities would make it more difficult to kill him.

  Heinrich Wehr checked his watch: the luminous display indicated it was nearing six o’clock. Ma would be arr
iving home from his office at any minute, totally unaware that he’d been marked for death. When the order came through from Savitch, who was apparently detained in Guatemala with the American special ops team sent from Florida, Wehr had already been prepared for it. The only thing he hadn’t been able to predict was the target.

  He had to admit the selection of Quon Ma for execution had definitely surprised him. In fact, he couldn’t help but wonder what the point of killing the guy even was. In his earlier observations Wehr had never seen anything to convince him Ma could be a traitor to the cause of the Council of Luminárii, whatever the hell that cause might be. And the idea of killing one of their own seemed to go against the very fabric of what made the Council so successful in its efforts. The system worked because they worked together, with no party having the upper hand on any other party.

  Then again, maybe that was the entire point. Savitch had convinced Amocacci that Ma was the leak within the group, and they couldn’t have that. It gave Ma and the Chinese Ministry of State Security the upper hand. They couldn’t have that in a group that relied on operating symbiotically with each other.

  Not that Wehr gave a shit about it one way or another. He was just supposed to be a hired gun and, as a professional assassin, he killed who he was paid to kill. His profession didn’t necessarily allow for scruples or conscientious objection. Of course he wouldn’t cross certain lines. He wouldn’t kill children or female civilians, and he wouldn’t pull the trigger on the elderly. He’d been raised to respect those groups, and there were certain things that were sacrosanct in his business. Those were just some of them. An assassin totally without scruples or a sense of morality was little more than a functional psychopath. Wehr had run into a few of them over the course of his career, and he held no respect for them. In his line of work they were considered little more than hacks.

  Wehr checked his watch again and then smiled when he saw the headlights of Ma’s car swing onto the street on which the spy resided. Wehr adjusted his body so his shoulder nestled comfortably against the stock and then put his eye to the high-powered scope. The rifle was an Accuracy International L115A3 AWM. It included a combination sound-and-flash suppressor, 25×56 nightscope, adjustable bipod and folding stock. Weighing in at just over fourteen pounds, the British-made rifle chambered the .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge with an effective range of 1,100 meters.

  Wehr had used the rifle on a few previous jobs and come to like it for its versatility and precision. He watched through the scope as Ma’s car pulled into the drive and waited for it to make its entry through the wrought iron gate. The vehicle proceeded up the drive to the double front doors. The house couldn’t have been called a mansion exactly, but it had a bit of acreage to it and that wasn’t uncommon in this part of Turkey. Only the affluent or upper class could afford to live in an area such as this. So while the homes along this route weren’t palatial, they were most certainly nicer than most of the offerings in the city and surrounding areas.

  Wehr readjusted the nightscope to provide a more focused sight picture. He aligned the crosshairs of the illuminated sight on the driver’s door of the vehicle. Wehr closed his eye a moment when the red flare from the taillights came on to prevent it from blinding him, and then settled to wait. Only a few seconds elapsed before the door opened and Ma’s shadowy form emerged.

  Wehr grinned at what a cakewalk this would be even as he depressed the trigger with steady, even pressure while making sure he didn’t involuntarily anticipate the recoil. The weapon’s report was hardly more than that of a firecracker as it punched against the padded shoulder sewn into the lining of Wehr’s coat. He kept his sight picture long enough to verify the bloody spray of the head shot and watch the body tumble from view. He lowered the barrel of the weapon to maintain the picture as he followed the body to the ground, then squeezed off a second round to ensure the kill.

  Wehr didn’t wait for any sort of response. He pulled the rifle from its perch, slapped the bipod into a retracted position and then headed for the rooftop access door that would take him down the back steps of the tenement building and out a rear exit. The hallway was dimly lit and Wehr hoped he wouldn’t run into anyone on the way down the four flights that led to the ground floor. It was a busy time of day with many people returning from work, but Wehr figured that might serve to cover his escape.

  And, anyway, he didn’t have to worry about anyone who saw him because it would be the last thing they saw. He couldn’t risk anyone seeing his face and reporting his presence to authorities. Once word got out about Ma’s assassination, the place would be crawling with cops and MSS agents—plus this activity would most certainly bring down heat from the Council.

  Wehr managed to get to the first floor without encountering anyone and pushed through the door that led onto the back lot. He dumped the rifle in the appointed brush. Someone would come to retrieve it in a day or two when it was safe. There was no way he could be caught toting it around with him in the vehicle. As a foreigner in the Republic of Turkey, carrying a loaded weapon of any kind on his person or in his vehicle was highly illegal. The government viewed weapons and the drug-running trade as activities that fed off each other, and anyone caught with weapons without a permit faced stiff penalties and fines.

  Wehr climbed into his car and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He then started the engine and pulled out of the lot. He’d gone half a block when two vehicles suddenly pulled up on either side of him. Wehr looked at the black sedans with tinted windows and in a moment he knew his situation had gone hard.

  Impossible! How the hell could they have been onto him so quickly? Wehr started to panic. He had no weapons with which to defend himself and no place to go. This wasn’t overly familiar territory to him since he’d only been in the city for a few days waiting for word from Savitch. Had he been set up? And if so...why?

  Well, now wasn’t the time to worry about questions like that—better he take some action to try to even up the odds. Wehr jerked the wheel hard to the left just as they approached a T intersection to force the vehicle on the driver’s side onto the sidewalk. He then made a hard left turn at the intersection, blowing the stop sign and risking a collision with the heavier traffic. Fortunately he managed to avoid such impacts since the other drivers seemed alert enough to avoid crashing into him. The driver of the sedan on his right wasn’t so alert and ended up clipping a minivan taxi. Both vehicles spun out of control, but the sedan righted itself and the driver got back in a pursuit course, now hugging Wehr’s tail.

  There was too much traffic on this undivided four-lane road for his pursuers to gain the advantage, and Wehr used that to keep one step ahead of them. He couldn’t afford to be captured or impeded. If they attempted to take him alive, then his orders were clear. It was suicide or die fighting his captors—anything less was totally unacceptable. He knew too much, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine the untold damage it would cause if his enemies were able to take him alive and make him talk.

  Wehr swerved in and out of traffic, expertly keeping his pursuers at bay and gradually increasing the distance between them. If he could just get into the main part of Kirklareli, he’d be able to lose them for good. His worst fears were realized, however, when he saw another vehicle approach from the opposite direction—this one sported lights, sirens and the unmistakable emblem of the Turkish police.

  Wehr held his breath but the vehicle buzzed past him without even slowing, and as he watched the lights fade in his rearview mirror he deduced that whoever pursued him had no ties with law enforcement. He still had a chance to escape if he acted quickly. Wehr pressed on the accelerator and poured on all the speed he dared without risking an actual crash. As he came up to a major intersection and the lights changed, he knew he couldn’t make it through before the vehicles in front would stop.

  Wehr swerved onto the sidewalk at the last minute and took a right turn that put his vehicle on two wh
eels. He thought he’d lose it but the car came back to ground at the last moment. Wehr looked behind him and saw that the sedan was no longer in sight. Just as he’d suspected, they’d been unable to pursue him. He’d gotten away with it, and he knew now his survival depended on him getting rid of his vehicle and making a hasty exit out of the country under the cover of night.

  Those arrangements had already been made. As soon as he ditched his car and reported success to Savitch, he’d be on his way. Free, clear and significantly richer!

  * * *

  QUON MA STOOD over the body of his driver and aide as blood ran from the man’s still form. His dark eyes smoldered and his security team had given him a respectful berth. While Ma was thankful that his man had died and the assassins hadn’t succeeded in killing him, he couldn’t help but wonder who would have attempted such a bold move.

  Ma’s other assistant and head of security, a former Chinese army officer named Shunang, shook his head. “I don’t understand it, sir. I don’t understand who would want to do this.”

  “Who would want to do it doesn’t interest me near as much as who has the capability to arrange it. I think if you point your inquiry toward finding that out, the identity of the party or parties will evolve naturally.”

  “I must apologize for this, sir,” Shunang said. “We utterly failed to protect you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Ma said. “It’s my fault for not seeing this coming sooner. It’s no secret that I’ve made quite a number of enemies over the years given my activities for the State. But it’s even more interesting this has happened in light of recent reports that there is a leak among my associates.”

  “You speak of—”

  “What I speak of must never be spoken aloud!” Ma said, raising his hand. “Never. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, sir,” Shunang said with a bow.

  Ma sighed. “It’s enough that we both know of what you refer to, and that’s sufficient. But you cannot direct your investigation that way. I must pursue those avenues on my own. I will pull them out one at a time, and eventually the culprit—if it is one of my associates—will give himself away. In the meantime, you should start looking at more conventional reasons. As I noted previously, you should pursue those roads that lead you to answering the question of what agencies and individuals that might bear me a grudge would have the resources to make an attempt on my life.”