Omega Cult

by Don Pendleton

  “It sounds like—”

  “San Francisco?” Shin finished the sentence for him, rasping out the words from between clenched teeth. “Indeed, I thought so, too. You’ll understand, then, why I view your pleas of innocence with skepticism.”

  “What? You think I led the raid, when you already had me under lock and key?”

  “You were not present at the scene. That much is obvious. The question still remains, however, as to whether you directed the attack and gave the raiders inside information on the hive.”

  “You call it that, as well? A home for slaving insects?”

  “Never mind the nickname. Tell me what you know or face the consequences!”

  “I know nothing more than what you’ve told me, Shin. I did not lead or witness the attack in San Francisco, and I never heard of this one until you broke the news just now.”

  “Lies will avail you nothing, Park,” Shin said. “My acolytes have ways to loosen tongues—in certain cases, even from their mouths.”

  “And if you cut mine out, what will it tell you?” Park inquired, trying for cool while he was trembling inside.

  “You have a brief reprieve in which to think about it,” Shin announced. “I take for granted that the killers, whoever they are, must have my home address, as well. We’re going to a safer place, where I can question you at length, without the fear of any interruptions. Stand!”

  Park hesitated, feeling weakness in his knees, until the houseman stationed at the door produced a pistol with a sound suppressor attached to it and aimed it at his groin.

  “You need not be a man to answer questions,” Shin advised. “Alto or soprano is acceptable for a response, as well as base or tenor.”

  Park rose, hoping that his shaky legs would hold him upright, and proceeded to the door. Shin followed him, the houseman leading with his pistol.

  Private time with Shin was nothing Park desired.

  He had the sudden feeling that his life, so good up to this point, would end in one long scream.

  9

  Apgujeong-dong, Seoul

  “Looks like he’s bailing already,” Bolan said. “That’s quicker than I counted on.”

  He sat with Chan Taesun in the rented Kia Visto, two blocks north of Shin Bon-jae’s palatial town house, peering through a pair of range-finding binoculars she had brought along from the safe house. Downrange, he’d counted three Renault Samsung SM7 limousines double-parked on the street, doors open, while tough-looking characters in dark suits ferried luggage and what might have been gun cases from the front door to the waiting cars. They moved with the efficiency of clockwork figures marching to the music of a carillon.

  “We nearly missed him,” Chan observed.

  She was correct. Even driving directly from their last target to Shin’s neighborhood, bad news had beaten them. The billionaire was moving out for the duration, looking for a safer place to hide. Bolan could only hope he picked the site Chan had described to him, which minimized the threat to innocent civilians, although posing problems of its own.

  Shin was the next-to-last man out, shielded by bodyguards as he came down a flight of concrete steps to reach the middle limousine. Behind him, wrists discreetly zip-tied, came a younger, thinner man with two goons flanking him, clutching his arms in case he felt the urge to break and run. Bolan immediately recognize him from a photograph in Hal Brognola’s CD dossier.

  “That’s Park Hae-sung,” he said. “Looks like they’ve had a falling out.”

  “I wish we’d had a chance to bug the cars,” Chan said.

  “Would have been nice,” he agreed, “but as long as we know where they’re going, it’s enough.”

  “My money’s still on Dobong-gu, for privacy and coverage by guards.”

  He had marked the favored destination on a map of Seoul and memorized two major routes of approach from Shin’s home neighborhood. If Shin was in a hurry, he would take the most direct path. If he chose a convoluted route, trying to watch for tails, they ran a risk of losing him, but that would only matter if Shin’s destination was a hideaway unknown to them.

  In which case, they were screwed.

  Bolan watched as doors were slammed up and down the caravan, guards climbing into empty seats, the limos moving out. He gave them a head start, not much, then followed in the Kia, hanging back enough that he would not be obvious. Their path ran southward, following broad curve of the Han River to reach the Hannam Bridge, crossing the river into Hannam-dong.

  From there, if Shin followed the main route to his rural getaway in Dobong-gu, his small procession would skirt downtown Seoul and follow the Imjin River north toward the DMZ. Before they went that far, however, they would turn west toward their final destination on the eastern edge of Bukhansan National Park.

  Sprawling over thirty-one square miles, the park welcomed five million visitors per year on average, drawn by its forests, granite peaks and the remains of Bukhansanseong Fortress with its six-mile-long defensive wall built in the eighteenth century. The woods provided Bolan with a possible approach to Shiin Bon-jae’s rural estate—assuming he was going there.

  Once they had crossed the Hannam Bridge, Bolan felt reasonably sure Shin was heading for his walled estate. That could be good and bad, as far as a direct assault went. Walls were scalable but could present a challenge with their toppings and security devices. Once he got inside the grounds, would there be dogs, rotating guards or booby traps? How many men would Shin have rallied to defend him when he went to ground?

  All questions for another time, when he’d confirmed Shin’s destination beyond doubt. If there were any deviations, he would need a whole new plan, worst-case scenario, and wind up going in without a clue as to what he should logically expect.

  Bolan started to relax as the three limousines turned west and rolled through Banghak-dong, holding a steady speed. He knew where they were going now, and no mistake. The rest would be a combination of audacity and observation.

  No battle in the history of warfare ever went according to a written plan. The Devil would be hiding in the details, waiting to jump out and bite Mack Bolan on the ass.

  Dobong-gu, Seoul

  PARK HAE-SUNG KNEW where the limousines were going. He had visited Shin’s country home-away-from-home before, on that occasion as an honored guest, now coming for his second drop-in as a prisoner. The zip-ties on his wrists were tight, allowing circulation to his hands but cutting off all movement beyond idle wiggling of his fingers. Wedged between two guards in the backseat, two others glaring at him from their backward-facing jump seats, Park was covered thoroughly and absolutely, with no hope of breaking free.

  And if he’d managed that—a wild, imaginary leap out of the rolling limousine, let’s say—where would he go? There was no place in Seoul where he could hide form Shin Bon-jae, his minions or the numerous police whose weekly paychecks got a boost from Shin’s largesse. Even Pyongyang was against him now, if he could trust Shin’s words. He had “regards” from Major Roh, damn him, and nothing else.

  During the forty-minute drive, Park had prepared himself for death. He hoped to face it bravely, though he could not readily predict his own response to torture if it were applied. His limits had been tested during training for the SSD, and Park had rated highly for resistance, but in truth, he’d known his trainers would not kill him with their verbal taunting, kicks and punches. Never tested in the field, where life and death were on the line, Park wondered whether he would hold out to the bloody, bitter end or crack like an eggshell as soon as pressure was applied.

  Failure would be a personal disgrace, but since his allies and his SSD commander now regarded him as traitorous, what difference did it make? He would be planted in a shallow grave, or maybe burned, with hush-hush scandal as his epitaph. His name would go unspoken around headquarters and those who’d known him would forg
et Park soon enough, for their own good.

  But if he had a chance to fight...

  At least he might redeem his manhood with a struggle at the end. What else was left to him?

  The problem, first and foremost, would be getting free, then grabbing someone’s weapon before others cut him down. If he could reach Shin and dispose of him, so much the better, but at least Park hoped he would be able to take down a couple of Shin’s guards. To do less was to die a failure in his own eyes, and he found that thought intolerable.

  If he died screaming, strapped to a chair or table, what remained of him beyond contempt in anybody’s mind?

  Park saw the gate to Shin’s estate rising in front of the first limo in line. If he peered past his captors, through the windshield of the vehicle in which he sat, he could watch it swing open to admit the three-car caravan. And when the gate swung shut behind him, heavy, resolute, it marked the end of any hope for rescue from outside.

  There would be no cavalry coming to extract him. No troops from the North Korean Special Operation Force dispatched to free him from Shin’s custody and bear him home. Abandoned by his own fickle commander, left to die, Park could rely on no one but himself.

  And keeping that in mind, his final resolution was to do his best, resist as long as possible and make it count when he fought back.

  Even if he was only honored in his own mind, in the grave.

  Bukhansan National Park

  USING THE KIA’S built-in GPS device, Bolan maintained his bearings as he followed winding two-lane roads through dense woodland, avoiding mountain peaks and keeping Shin Bon-jae’s estate fixed in his sights.

  They’d driven past the gate and wall of stone—nearly Medieval in design, except for the large gate’s electronic controls—to find an access road serving the park. His goal was to conceal the Kia, now that it was dark and the park essentially deserted, and proceed on foot to breach Shin’s hideaway.

  Bolan and Chan would be exposed for only seconds as they crossed the road that fronted the estate—both dressed to kill in black, with weapons slung around them—then they would be sheltered by more forest as they crept inside and went to work.

  It was a slow walk toward their target, no lights in the woods to guide them, though a half-moon did all it could above the treetops. Bolan navigated with a hand-held GPS device from Chan’s stash at the NIS safe house, and they wore Bluetooth earpieces—same source—to keep in touch when things got hairy at their destination.

  Which they most likely would. Things always did in combat, when the plans were shot to hell.

  Two hundred yards from the rear wall of Shin’s estate they could see lights above the cinder blocks topped with coils of razor wire. They would be coming from the house and grounds beyond, revealed in aerials on Google Earth but still invisible from ground level as Bolan eased up to the eight-foot wall.

  First obstacle: the razor wire. Just peering up at it, he couldn’t tell if it had been electrified or not, nor could he say if any kinds of sensors had been built into the wire’s steel core, programmed to sound alarms if it was breached. The first half of his problem was resolved by picking up a fallen branch and lobbing it into the nearby coils. A lack of sparks suggested the barrier wasn’t primed with an electric charge. They’d have to brave the rest, to penetrate the billionaire’s estate, or else go home defeated at the start.

  “I’ll cut it,” Chan suggested, digging out a pair of heavy-duty clippers she had taken from the safe house with this very thing in mind. A boost from Bolan put her within reach and she snipped through the wicked coils, taking a thin slash on one cheek as it recoiled, a willful Slinky fighting back.

  Bolan released his pent-up breath when no alarms sounded inside the compound, no new lights came on and no guards rushed to the wall.

  From topside, clear of slashing wire, they scanned the grounds in search of dogs or roving lookouts and found none. They’d have to trust their luck with booby traps and cameras lashed to the trees, but once they dropped down from the wall, at least they were inside. The grass underfoot was well manicured and springy as they moved toward Shin’s looming house.

  The self-made billionaire was obviously not a man who shied away from spending money on his creature comforts. Bolan guessed the rambling house had to harbor thirty rooms, at least, beneath its peaked and steeply sloping roof. Out back, where workers had cleared away some of the trees, Shin had a swimming pool—Olympic size—as well as a tennis court and bricked-in barbecue for business or social gatherings. Atop the roof, three good-size satellite dishes assured him of nonstop TV, internet and whatever else beamed from the heavens to keep him informed and amused.

  Satellite phones in use out here, so far from any landline or cell tower? Almost certainly. That meant Shin could reach out to Pyongyang at need, or any other spot on Earth where he had business to transact, conspiracies to plot or simple small talk to exchange.

  A generator at the west end of the house chugged steadily, consuming fuel and powering the house and its outbuildings, the floodlights mounted to cover some thirty yards in all directions from the edifice.

  “First thing,” he whispered to Chan, “we need to black them out.”

  She nodded, tightened her grip around the submachine gun, and they moved in.

  * * *

  ON THE BLUEPRINTS for his rural mansion, Shin Bon-jae had named the basement torture chamber as a wine cellar. In fact, the wine cellar was an adjacent room, entirely separate, climate-controlled for vintage bottles, with wooden paneling. The room next door was plain brick, with a vinyl-covered floor and its own drain, for sluicing with a hose that coiled around a metal reel when not in use. The furnishings were simple, limited: one straight-backed wooden chair bolted into the floor, some distance from a solid wood table, likewise fastened down. Both chair and table boasted leather straps for holding arms and legs in place. A rolling cart, like those seen in some hospitals, contained most of the instruments required to make a traitor squeal—or simply to elicit random screams.

  Shin was not a sadist in his own right, but he had some on his staff who were. They dealt with discipline in the Omega Congregation and with special cases such as that of Park Hae-sung.

  When he was shown into the chamber, Park could feel his stomach knotting, even though the room’s existence and its purpose came as no surprise to him. On his last visit, Shin had spoken frankly of the underground facility where men and certain women had been broken to his will, or punished for defying him. As an employee of the North Korean SSD, Park was no stranger to abuse of prisoners himself, though he steered clear of it whenever possible and drew no pleasure from it on occasions when he was compelled to lend a hand.

  Torture, like any other weapon, was a tool.

  “Here,” Shin informed him, “all dark secrets are revealed. If you are guilty, I shall know.”

  “And if you’re wrong, as I insist?” Park asked. “What then?”

  “I shall apologize, of course,” Shin said.

  “And when I prove my case to Major Roh? When he finds out that you were wrong and tortured me for nothing, what do you expect will happen?”

  “Surely, he of all people will understand.” Shin smiled. “Mistakes will happen, and it’s better to be safe than sorry, eh? Besides, I doubt that you’ll be telling any tales to Pyongyang.”

  So that was it. The death sentence. No matter what Park said or did not say, his hours were numbered now.

  “The truth comes out,” he cautioned Shin. “Not only here, for your amusement, but above ground, in the end. This moment is your turning point. Your choice decides your fate, when all is finally revealed.”

  “Like every human being, I must take my chances,” Shin replied. “Now, take off all your clothes.”

  Park saw nothing to gain by arguing. If he refused, the three goons Shin had standing by would simp
ly strip him, likely beating him for practice or the fun of it to punish his resistance. Sitting on the chair where he might well scream out his final breath, he doffed his shoes and socks, then stood barefoot and shed his jacket, followed by his shirt and tie, then dropped his trousers and his boxer shorts. He kicked them all aside, heedless of wrinkles in the garments he would likely never wear again.

  If they were buried or incinerated with him later, what would neatness matter, anyway?

  “Do you prefer the chair or table?” Park asked Shin.

  His captor-host exchanged a whisper with the two goons wearing rubber aprons over white lab coats, resembling autopsy attendants. After a whisper from the nearer of them, Shin replied, “The table, if you will.”

  “My pleasure,” Park replied with all the courage he could manage. “And I hope, if such a place exists, that you shall burn in Hell.”

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD LEFT no arms behind for his invasion of the Shin Bon-jae estate. He wore the captured Glock on his right hip, carried the K-1 carbine slung across his back and held the USAS-12 shotgun in steady hands, its fire selector set for semiautomatic. Also around his waistband, clipped securely into place, hung three of the M308-1 grenades, prepared to unleash hellfire when they blew.

  Chan traveled lighter with her Daewoo submachine gun, DPK-5 sidearm and her backup Glock 19. She also had the final two incendiary bombs they’d gathered from the safe house fastened to her belt where she could reach them easily. Approaching through the shadows of Shin’s wooded grounds, they made a deadly team and would have startled any lookouts who had noticed their advance.

  Where were the guards? Despite Shin’s flight from Seoul, after the blitz against Omega Congregation headquarters, he had not thrown a ring of flesh and steel around the house and grounds as some men might have done. The only guards Bolan had seen, so far, were on the patio behind the mansion, seeming fairly well relaxed under the circumstances. Of the three he’d spotted, all were smoking casually, two of them planted in deck chairs slung with rubber webbing.