Critical Exposure

by Don Pendleton

  “You’ll forgive my candor,” Bolan interjected, “but I don’t really give a crap about your cause. I’m interested in making some money, and in return I can help you.”

  “Help us do what?”

  It was the first time Amocacci had publicly acknowledged that “he” was actually a “we,” and Bolan could now tell he’d grabbed the man’s interest. It was time to tighten the noose.

  “After seeing your handiwork in Guatemala and having a little chat with your man, I got to thinking that you can’t do this alone. Despite your significant resources, you have one thing you can bleed more than any other. Cold, hard cash. On the other side of the coin, you need assassins, informants, weapons and other such sundries to barter with. I can provide those things because of all the various avenues my former employer has its fingers in.”

  “Your former employer?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” Bolan asked. “I worked for the NSA. But since I didn’t go straight back there, and instead came to Istanbul to make contact with your little enterprise, I’m on the black list. A fugitive. I’m unwanted, and to cut their losses the only reason they’d look for me now is to cut off my head.”

  “You’re forgetting something, Mr. Cooper,” Amocacci said. “I’ve been doing this for a very long time. I know you were part of the military operation to take down the foreign agent operating within the DIA. Who do you think it was who set you up?”

  Bolan produced a humorless smile. He now knew he had Amocacci against the ropes—the guy had just admitted that it was he who had played the USAF special ops team out of Tyndall for a sucker. But he couldn’t let Amocacci know he knew. He would have to put the blame where it originally belonged.

  “Not you, if that’s what you’re suggesting. A guy named Randy Shoup put the screws to me. He sent me right into a trap. If it hadn’t been for my own friends, assets that you say don’t really exist in our business, I’d be dead right now along with the rest of them.”

  “So why come here?” Amocacci asked. “If you think I or any of my associates had anything to do with the ambush, wouldn’t your arrival here be nothing short of walking straight into a pit of vipers?”

  “Your analogy is certainly colorful,” Bolan replied. “You obviously have a flair for the dramatic. But the fact is, I’m a businessman. I have no more love for the intelligence communities than you do. Especially not military intelligence.”

  “And why is that?”

  “They’re ineffective,” Bolan said with a shrug. “And I’ve stuck my neck out so many times for the NSA while all they’ve done is nothing but deny my existence.”

  “You’re breaking my heart. And the plain fact of the matter is that of all the intelligence assets or agents in the world, I would trust someone from the United States the least.”

  “Except that hasn’t stopped you from trying to recruit somebody on the inside,” Bolan said. “Has it?”

  When Amocacci remained silent, Bolan pressed on.

  “I can see I’ve struck the nail on the head. Good, that will make this next part even easier. You see, I realized you had a problem when your guy in Guatemala tried to recruit me.”

  “Recruit you?”

  “Yeah. You didn’t know that?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Bolan shrugged. “Suit yourself, friend. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Oh, they’d planned to kill me at first. That is until they realized that the CO of that team had attempted to dupe me, as well. I was sent as a DIA officer to find out where they had the mole in their organization. A snoop being sent to snoop the snoops. Only problem was, the guy they sent me to work with apparently turned out to be the same guy they were sending me to investigate. He got wise to me early.”

  “How?”

  “That’s the part I don’t know,” Bolan said matter-of-factly. “But my guess is he was working for you. Or at least one of your people. And you might as well not deny it because you just basically confirmed it.”

  Amocacci nodded slowly. “You have my interest so far. Go on.”

  “Look, it’s no sweat off my back if you’ve got a hard-on for U.S. military intelligence. They just tried to kill me and I got no support from my own people when I told them that. So if that’s their attitude, so be it. I can throw in my lot with you. I figure my chances aren’t that great either way, so why not at least try to make some money and retire to some nice, cozy, out-of-the-way island country where there’s no extradition treaty.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you can benefit me.”

  “Besides the massive intelligence portfolio I can build for you on U.S. military operations, I’m also quite connected with many less reputable enterprises. I can get you just about anything on the black market. That means I can not only supply you with information critical to striking at high-value targets, I can also arrange your equipment and other needs for said missions.”

  “In return for?”

  Bolan rubbed his hands together. “Some of that cold, hard cash I mentioned before.”

  “I already have enough resources in that area. Sorry.”

  “Oh, yes. The resources that tried to recruit me for a job.”

  “We’ve covered that ground already, Mr. Cooper, and as I mentioned before, I don’t believe you. And beside the fact, you’ve still not given me one reason to trust you.”

  “What exactly do you think I was doing at the hotel last night?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I was there to warn you,” Bolan said. “Not only were you followed, but someone had the hotel under surveillance.”

  “Someone? Come now. I could tell you that much.” At that point, Amocacci rose and strolled to a small side bar. He poured himself a drink but didn’t offer Bolan one.

  The Executioner made a show of pretending to ignore the slight. “Most likely agents from the U.S. government. There’s a faction operating out of the U.S. Consulate. I think it might have been one of their teams that took whatever it was you say belonged to you.”

  “This is all very intriguing,” Amocacci said, sitting with his drink. “But even if I were to believe what you’re telling me, I wouldn’t be able to take action until I’d consulted with my colleagues.”

  Bolan nodded and rose, fishing into his pocket. He produced a card with a single number emblazoned in plain black ink and tossed it onto Amocacci’s desk. “I’ll tell you what. You make some inquiries and if you decide you’d like to make a deal, you call me at that number.”

  “That won’t be necessary, I assure you. I have no desire to do business with you, Mr. Cooper. Ever.”

  “Fine,” Bolan replied nonchalantly. “Keep it, anyway. Never know when you might change your mind. And you might not want to wait too long.”

  As Bolan turned and headed for the door Amocacci asked, “Why?”

  “Because word has it you’re next on the hit list,” Bolan said before he walked out and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  THE EXECUTIONER WAITED until he was on the street and had gone about a block before he whipped out his cell phone and dialed a secure number. The connection took him through multiple satellite relays and a variety of encryption algorithms before connecting him with the hotline at Stony Man Farm.

  “Price, here.”

  “Do you ever sleep?”

  She laughed. “Not much, these days. I don’t really do enough to relax.”

  “I can think of some ways to fix that problem.”

  “Stop it,” Price replied good-naturedly. “Less empty promises and more facts.”

  “Fine. I think I have Amocacci dangling from the line but I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep him there.”

  “So you don’t think he’ll take you up on your offer?”

  “He tried t
o pretend he wasn’t interested, but I have the feeling he’ll look into it very thoroughly. Or at least he’ll call his contact.”

  “Well, we haven’t had any luck yet identifying the man you spoke with in Guatemala,” Price replied. “I don’t know that we will. But it certainly isn’t because you gave us a poor description.”

  “It was a long shot,” Bolan said. “If I had managed to get a photograph of him you’d probably have a name to put to the face by now. What about travels out of Guatemala?”

  “Nothing of significance, but that comes as no surprise. Travel in and out of that country is so poorly regulated it would be hard to find anything that wouldn’t seem like we were grasping at straws. We certainly didn’t see many Americans in and out of there during the window you gave us.”

  “Maybe he went out privately.”

  “You’re sure he was American?”

  “I can’t be completely sure,” Bolan said. “His accent was a little difficult to place. It had a slight East Coast pinch to it, but I couldn’t swear he was from the area.”

  “Canadian, perhaps?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I thought Amocacci would bite,” Bolan replied. “I wasn’t really expecting him to take what I told him at face value. He may still take the bait, but I don’t know if we have the time to wait. If it takes too long, I’ll have to take a more direct approach.”

  “Walking into the guy’s office was pretty direct, Striker.”

  “Yeah, but it still offered him some wiggle room. By direct, I mean forceful.”

  “I get you.” Price sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep looking at Serif’s intelligence. Maybe there’s something I overlooked that will help you.”

  “That would be good. You can bet if I need something, I’ll need it in a hurry.”

  “Understood. Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  Bolan disconnected in time to see a glint of light on metal in his peripheral vision. He turned and spotted a vehicle on an approach vector that couldn’t have been classified as anything less than offensive in nature. And the Executioner’s sixth sense was betting the occupants had him in mind as their target.

  He was right.

  The vehicle caromed off a parked car and squealed to a halt. The driver stayed put while the three passengers bailed. They produced submachine guns and wore dark clothing that resembled the black swathing of a mummy. They had beards and dark skin. Bolan marked them as locals, without question.

  Bolan had the Beretta 93-R in play before the trio of gunners had even fully cleared their vehicle. He snap-aimed and took the guy in the rear driver’s-side seat with a single shot that punched a third eye through his forehead and scrambled his brains. The man’s head snapped back, the impact slamming him against the vehicle before his body collapsed to the pavement.

  The front-seat passenger rested his arms over the hood and triggered a sustained burst. Bolan dived for cover behind a fruit vendor’s stand, and the rounds trailed just a millisecond behind him. Ripened fruit erupted under the impact as the bullets exercised an explosive force on melons, grapefruits, bananas and other produce. The air came alive with the hot zing of bullets and a sizzling miasma of cooked fruit salad. Bolan shoulder-rolled and came up on the far side of the stand, his pistol tracking on the gunner. The man spotted him a moment too late and Bolan put two rounds through him, the first cutting a diagonal pattern across the neck and the other cracking his skull where it entered the left temple.

  The last man managed to get off a partial shot before he lost the cover of his vehicle. The driver had apparently foreseen the futility of their efforts, surmising the battle would not end well for them, and tromped the accelerator and attempted to get away. The sudden lurch of the vehicle from its spot left the survivor without cover, and Bolan took immediate advantage of that, triggering a double-tap that perforated the man’s chest wall. One of the bullets cut through the heart and ended the gunman’s life.

  Unfortunately for the driver, he’d been unaware that Bolan had some backup. The late-model SUV seemed to come from out of nowhere and accelerated into the path of the enemy vehicle. Bolan could see the grin on Grimaldi’s face as the pilot swung the nose of the SUV away at the last second and hammered the side of the sedan with the rear quarter panel.

  Bolan saw the driver moving inside frantically and then come up with a pistol in his hand, which he pointed out the passenger-side window at Grimaldi. Bolan raised the Beretta even as he flicked the selector to 3-round burst mode and triggered a hasty volley. At the same moment Grimaldi produced an MP5K and triggered it. The driver’s head exploded and painted the windows immediately to his left and front with a gory spray from the dozen or so rounds that struck his skull.

  As the echo from the reports died in the crisp morning air of downtown Istanbul, they were replaced by the roars from two more vehicles. And a double complement of new threats emerged from their interior.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As soon as Grimaldi spotted the new arrivals, he went EVA through the passenger-side door. He toted the MP5K along with additional hardware more suited to their current needs, which included an M-4 for Bolan. Over his shoulder he’d also slung a military-grade utility belt with the holstered .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.

  A flurry of hot lead burned the air just over their heads while a second grouping slammed into cars and other stationary objects the pair used for cover. Grimaldi tossed the belt on his shoulder underhand, which Bolan caught, slung around his waist and clicked securely in one fluid motion. He then clapped his hands to signal readiness and Grimaldi delivered the M-4 with a light, underhand toss.

  The two four-man groups of gunners were now breaking off, angling in different directions to try to flank Bolan and Grimaldi’s position. Unfortunately for the enemy, the two Americans were well protected and their location actually gave them the advantage. As he prepared to engage them, Bolan wondered who wanted them dead so desperately as to send this sizeable group of killers. And how the hell had they even pinpointed his location? Nobody except Grimaldi and Serif had known about his visit to Amocacci, and Serif hadn’t been out of his or Grimaldi’s sight. That meant Amocacci had somehow managed to pull a team together in a very short time—a scenario of which Bolan was highly skeptical—or someone on the inside of this affair had been tracking their movements from the beginning.

  Bolan would have to find out, but right now the Executioner had bigger fish to fry.

  Two gunners managed to break from the rest of the group and risked crossing the street to make for the entrance of a hotel. Bolan knew they were probably going to attempt to get to an upper floor and take him and Grimaldi from above. He hollered at his friend. When Grimaldi looked in his direction, he gestured toward the runners. The Stony Man pilot nodded and burst from cover to pursue.

  Bolan swore between clenched teeth; he had hoped that Grimaldi would have concentrated on taking them out rather than risk exposing his position. By going after them, he’d broken up the team and put himself at some risk. Bolan turned his M-4 toward the remaining six combatants and opened with short, controlled bursts designed to take out some and keep others at bay, all for the purpose of covering Grimaldi’s movements.

  Bolan spotted one of the gunners draw a bead on the pilot. The Executioner held his M-4 steady and triggered a 3-round burst that hit his mark dead-on. One round punched through the guy’s jaw, cracking bone and ripping out flesh as it passed, while another round created enough pressure inside the skull to blow out the better part of it. The third may have ricocheted and perhaps also made contact, but Bolan couldn’t be sure.

  The soldier suppressed his sense of frustration—he didn’t like having to engage the enemy where so many innocents might get in the way or, worse yet, wouldn’t be able to get out of the way in
time. But there wasn’t anywhere to take this fight that he didn’t risk civilians getting hurt, and at least here in the open they could see what was happening and avoid it at all costs. Bolan swung the muzzle of his M-4 and took out another pair of gunmen. The 5.56 mm slugs were unforgiving against them, smashing through flesh and tearing out organs or cracking bones. Within a moment Bolan had reduced the odds by half.

  This entire situation had begun to puzzle him. The gunners seemed barely competent, really, almost as if they were being sacrificed. They’d appeared to ambush him without any real plan, as if they’d thought they could attain victory by sheer force in numbers. They were poor marksmen and operated as if utterly unaccustomed to combat. They didn’t cover one another, failed to operate in any sort of team fashion, and had no operational methodology in their techniques whatsoever. It was almost as if Bolan had been pitted against first-year cadets with little to no training.

  Bolan risked a glance in Grimaldi’s direction, but the Stony Man pilot was no longer in sight. Obviously the fight had been taken into the building. That would make things easier or harder depending on what Grimaldi encountered.

  Bolan dispensed the rest of the M-4’s magazine in a sweeping, sustained burst and then dropped the magazine and slammed home a fresh one. He wished he had a grenade to bring the battle to a swift end so he could help Grimaldi, but no such luck. Then he remembered there was a bag in the SUV that contained plenty of ordnance they’d managed to smuggle in thanks to Stony Man getting forged credentials to authorities that marked the plane as a diplomatic courier to the consulate. This had prevented customs from searching or inspecting their aircraft upon its arrival.

  Bolan triggered another sustained burst on the run as he moved from cover and crouched, racing along the backs of the abandoned vendor stalls until he reached the rear hatch of the SUV. He tried the handle but it was locked. Bolan smashed the rear window with the butt of the M-4, reached inside and patted the floor blindly until his fingertips brushed the canvas bag. He dug a little deeper, got it open and put his hand inside. He was rewarded with the sensation of a cool, round object.