They hadn’t spotted Riba. He was still covered by the maintenance hut standing back from the strip. He watched and waited, in no hurry to engage. The P.I. was waiting for Bolan to make his move. He didn’t have to wait long.
The distant crackle of autofire came from the direction of the house. The Korean guards glanced at each other, unsure what to do, until Riba made up their minds for them.
When he broke cover, moving swiftly for his size, Riba’s P90 was up and firing. By the time the guards realized they were under attack, Riba had his targets.
He put the closer guy down with a long burst from the P90. The Korean stumbled and went down hard on the strip. His partner returned fire, his shots coming close but not close enough to hit Riba. The P.I. hauled himself to a dead stop, tracked in with his SMG and hit the surviving guard with a long burst that shredded his torso, climbing to core in and tear at his heart. The guy toppled back against the helicopter’s fuselage, leaving a bloody smear as he slid along the smooth surface and collapsed.
Riba heard the turbines start to whine as the pilot increased the engine’s power, deciding it was no longer safe to wait around. Riba closed in on the chopper, aiming his SMG at the tail rotor. The burst of slugs chewed at the spring blades and took them apart. Raising the muzzle, the P.I. emptied his magazine into the engine casing, the slugs puncturing the aluminum and burrowing into the engine itself. The power plant wound down, smoke starting to stream from the rear of the compartment.
Standing back, Riba ejected his spent magazine and eased in a fresh one.
He caught movement behind the cockpit canopy. A side window slid open and a man leaned out. He held a pistol in his hand and started to fire in Riba’s direction, the ill-judged shots cracking against the tarmac.
“Want to play?” Riba muttered.
He swung the P90 up and triggered a burst at the cockpit canopy. The canopy shattered as the shots ripped into the cabin. Over the crackle of slugs he heard a pained yell. The pistol slipped from the shooter’s hand and his arm dropped to hang loosely from the opening.
Flame had started to flare from the engine housing. Thoughts of tanks full of aviation fuel reminded Riba to back off. He was walking away when he heard the dull thump of an explosion behind him. He didn’t look back to see flames curling out from the engine cowling, content that the Bell wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Nor would its Korean crew.
Or its passengers.
* * *
BOLAN’S MOVE WAS OVERLAID by silence.
No sound.
No movement.
He took that as a threat and reacted accordingly. He eased in against the wall, the opening some fifteen feet ahead. If anyone was waiting for him, he wasn’t going to present an easy target. The square of light spilling out from the room was unbroken, no shadows telling him where its occupants might be standing.
He had no idea how many were waiting for him, how many were armed.
He doubted Rackham would be unarmed.
Or his Korean buyers.
How many guards did the Koreans and Rackham have with them?
Bolan’s head buzzed with all the thoughts he was juggling. He felt as if he was working up to an overload. Too much all at once. He pushed all thoughts to the recesses of his mind, concentrating on the present. The problem was that other matters persisted. They refused to stay dormant. They were demanding his attention.
Names.
Places.
Jostling for his time.
It was the wrong time. It shouldn’t be happening now. He needed to concentrate on what was waiting for him inside that room.
Sweat glistened on Bolan’s face. He gripped the P90 as he closed on the bright outline of the opening, pausing long enough to check his rear. Nothing. Only the dead sprawled on the bloodstained floor.
He picked up the merest whisper of sound from the opening: the rustle of clothing, a flicker of shadow in the oblong box of light spilling out across the floor. A distorted image paused, then drew back. Then he heard a voice.
Only a whisper.
The voice rose, became almost a shout.
It was sharp, commanding and female.
Bolan had no memory of a woman at the facility.
So who was she?
He didn’t allow it to distract his attention. It was unimportant for the moment. His overriding concern was for the virus Rackham was hoping to trade with the Koreans. That above everything was his target. Rackham was intent on completing his negotiating. If he succeeded and the virus was taken out of the country...
A harsh command rang out in Korean. A second voice responded.
Bolan heard the rush of footsteps. A shadow extended across the floor, growing larger as it approached the opening.
A figure burst into view. The guy had a pistol in one hand, and he launched himself in a forward roll that spun him across the passage. The guy recovered quickly, the brandished pistol seeking a target. And the guy was fast. He located Bolan in seconds, his broad face fixed in a hard scowl as he triggered his weapon, the heavy-caliber pistol slamming out multiple shots that blasted chunks of plaster from the wall inches from their intended target; if the man had been allowed a few seconds to settle his aim, he might have succeeded in hitting Bolan.
The Executioner sank to a semicrouch, the muzzle of the P90 gaining advantage over the moving Korean and delivering its powerful burst on target. The Korean gave a harsh scream as he felt the bite of multiple 5.7 mm slugs burning into his body. He tumbled away from Bolan, the final shot from his pistol burying itself in the high ceiling.
Voices reached Bolan from inside the room. He took a moment to set himself, then moved to the far side of the opening, knowing he was briefly exposing himself. He ducked into cover as a weapon fired from inside the room, the single slug ripping a sliver of wood from the edge of the doorframe.
He was able to see farther into the room from his new position. A cluster of figures faced the opening.
Rackham stood beside a low table, a black case set in front of him.
A pair of Koreans flanked the man, one wielding an SMG. Behind Rackham, to one side, a lean American held a SPAS combat shotgun.
And at one end of the table was a tall, dark-clad woman. A trimmed cap of black hair framed a face that could have been described as beautiful, except it was marred by a harsh expression that formed an angry mask. Her eyes, fixed on Bolan, held a gleam of utter contempt as she pulled a Desert Eagle pistol from under the leather jacket she wore. Bolan noticed, almost as an abstract, that she wore thin black leather gloves.
From the look in her eyes, Bolan knew there would be no hesitation once she had her weapon on line.
He triggered the P90, spraying the room and the enemy as he went through the opening, feeling the chatter of the weapon as it fired. His full-on assault caught the room’s occupants wanting. His initial burst found the Koreans, their faces registering shock as the 5.7 mm slugs hit, smashing into them chest-high and pushing them away from the table. The guy behind Rackham reached out to shove his superior away from the line of fire, swinging up the hefty-looking SPAS combat shotgun he held. He fired a couple of seconds too fast, the powerful spread of shot missing Bolan by feet. He dropped, bringing his P90 on line, and hit the shotgunner with a short burst that tore the guy’s throat out.
Straightening, Bolan tracked Rackham and the woman.
She swiveled at the waist, the heavy Magnum Desert Eagle comfortable in her hand as she brought the muzzle round. The big pistol thundered loudly in the room. Bolan felt the hot wind of the .357 slug as it fanned his cheek.
The moment she fired, the woman stepped to one side, away from the table. As she went she fired again and the heavy slug clipped Bolan’s sleeve.
Out the corner of his eye Bolan saw Rackham leaning forward, his own
SMG snatched up from the table, the muzzle seeking a target. Rackham opened fire, his burst cleaving the air where Bolan had been standing a split second before he had moved.
The soldier returned fire.
He hit Rackham in the lower torso with a long burst, the slugs coring in and severing the man’s spine as they blew out through his back. Rackham screamed as his shattered spine cut the life from his limbs. He toppled forward across the table, his flailing arms sweeping its surface. He slammed facedown on the table, blood flowering as his nose was crushed.
The big Desert Eagle boomed as the black-clad woman fired again. Twice. Her shots forced Bolan to pull aside, giving her a few seconds to make a grab for the case still on the table. She caught hold of it in her left hand, pulling it with her as she fired again in Bolan’s direction before making a direct run for the window.
The Executioner pushed upright, bringing his SMG on line, the muzzle lining up.
The woman had covered her face with her right arm as she hit the glass. It shattered as she burst through, long legs powering her forward.
Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger. The P90 fired a few remaining shots before it locked on empty.
The dark-clad figure twisted to one side as a single slug clipped her left arm. Her grip on the case slackened and it fell free, hitting the frame of the window and dropping back inside the room.
Then she was gone, in a shower of glass fragments, landing outside. It seemed she was about to fall, but with a supreme effort she righted herself and vanished from sight.
By the time Bolan reached the window she was almost out of sight, dodging athletically between the parked cars. He would have followed, but his attention was drawn to the black case she had dropped. That was his priority. He picked it up and carried it to the middle of the room before he set it down. Bolan crossed the room, kicking weapons clear of bodies to prevent anyone still alive from attempting to retrieve them.
He looked back at the case. He saw it was the same design as the one recovered from Callum in the hotel room. It had been dropped only a couple of feet and looked intact. Bolan considered opening it, but decided that would be a foolish move. He would leave that for the CDC experts.
The sound of an engine reached his ears. Tires whined as a vehicle pulled away at a fast rate. Peering through the window, Bolan caught a glimpse of a big SUV speeding out the gate.
The woman.
It had to be.
She was getting away. She was leaving without the virus.
Bolan heard someone moaning. The sound came from Greg Rackham. He was lying half-across the table and raised his head when Bolan approached. Blood dribbled from his slack mouth, and Bolan could see more spreading out from under his body.
“I can’t move,” he whispered. “You tore out my spine, you bastard. I’m crippled.”
“You expecting sympathy?”
“Look at me, Cooper. Look what you did to me.”
“I’m looking and what I see is a piece of garbage who infected humans with a killer virus just to make sure it worked.”
“It was a business decision.”
“Right now do you think it was worth it?”
Bolan took out his cell phone and keyed in Duncan’s number.
“Cooper?”
“It’s done,” Bolan said. “I have the virus. Get the CDC here fast because I don’t know if the samples have been damaged and I’m not opening the case to check.”
“Cooper. Did you get them all?”
“Except Rackham’s female accomplice. She took a car and ran. But she left the virus behind.”
“Are they all dead?”
Bolan stared into Rackham’s empty eyes. “Almost.”
He shut down the cell phone and took out the SIG Sauer pistol, prepared to deliver a mercy round.
“Do it,” Rackham whispered.
“Answer a couple of questions first.”
* * *
JOSHUA RIBA MADE HIS way into the house, following the trail of the dead. He was feet away from the room when a single shot sent echoes along the passage.
“Cooper?”
“In here,” Bolan said.
Riba scanned the room, saw the bodies, the streaks of blood and the empty bullet casings.
“The chopper won’t fly,” Riba said. “Problems with the engine.”
“I heard,” Bolan said. He indicated the case on the floor in the center of the room. “The virus is in there. CDC is on its way.”
Riba spotted Rackham’s body stretched across the low table. The back of his head had been blown open by a single bullet.
“Call it a mercy shot,” Bolan said. “His spine was shattered. He wasn’t about to move by himself again.”
“You are too soft, Cooper,” Riba said. “What he did to those people he deserved to suffer.”
“We made a bargain,” Bolan said, his voice sounding suddenly weary. “He answered my questions and I gave him what he wanted.”
“What questions?”
“You hear a car move off?”
Riba nodded.
“His female accomplice. She tried to take the virus with her when she went through the window. Lucky for us she dropped it. I asked Rackham who she was. Her name is Lise Delaware. She and Rackham worked for a criminal organization called HEGRE.”
“I never heard of it,” Riba said.
“I didn’t until now. But Rackham said it’s an organized group that operates globally. Powerful and ruthless. HEGRE set up the facility and put Rackham in charge, with the woman as his second in command. According to Rackham, they’ll operate anywhere, take on any criminal activity if it pays off. They have connections in big business. And in governments. From what he said, HEGRE doesn’t take interference very well.”
Riba ran a hand through his thick black hair.
“That’s all we need. A bunch of crooks ready to put us at the top of their payback list.”
“Sorry I got you mixed up in this,” Bolan said.
“Sure you are,” Riba said, a slow smile creasing his lips. “Hell, Cooper, that’s what the Lone Ranger said to Tonto every time he got shot at. So what do we know about this Lise Delaware?”
“Not much. I’ll ask Brognola to run a check on her.” Bolan paused. “Rackham said something about her. She holds grudges. Doesn’t forget. And she takes great pleasure in hurting people.”
“Could make for a hell of a relationship,” Riba said.
“Joshua, let’s get out of here soon as Duncan shows up.”
“You got it, Cooper.” He took in Bolan’s exhausted expression. “You don’t look too good.”
“Right now I don’t feel it. And that’s the truth.”
Bolan slumped into a chair, letting the pistol slip from his fingers. The disturbing emotions inside his head were intensifying. It was as if every single thought and emotion was vying for immediate attention, each competing with the other. He could see Riba watching him, concern on his face.
Bolan was exhausted. His body ached from head to toe. He couldn’t even begin to locate a spot that didn’t hurt. The whole experience of the mission, from day one, blew up in his face and a heavy darkness engulfed him. Sight and sound and feeling collapsed in on him and Bolan, for once, didn’t try to fight it.
Epilogue
Order as such took its own time to be restored, and those involved were part of that restoration.
With the facility and the safehouse under FBI control and the CDC monitoring the lab, immediate concerns were being met.
The FBI brought in its IT experts and they went through every computer and cell phone, digging deep and extracting information that helped to build a picture of exactly what had taken place. Even though the federal agency worked with the best personnel and equipment,
building a picture of the obscure organization turned out to be a long and frustrating undertaking. After a number of weeks the organization was still beyond reach except for a few minor breakthroughs.
The exposure of the insider who had betrayed Vic Bremner was a success. After painstaking efforts an encrypted file found on a laptop from the facility was broken and a number of names exposed. Among these names was that of the agent who had been paid to provide information on anyone getting close. Money paid to the man, hidden in three separate bank accounts under false names, showed he had accepted close to a quarter of a million dollars. Presented with the facts, the agent broke down and admitted his crimes. Agent Vic Bremner was still dead.
The theft of the smallpox virus from the CDC in Atlanta wasn’t discovered for a couple of weeks. Dr. Helen Tasker and her investigating team eventually discovered the theft was the work of a lab tech with a growing drug habit who had been bought off and had smuggled out a vial of the virus from the sample she was working on. The young woman had been arrested and held for trial. A week later she was found dead in her cell from a fatal overdose of a powerful narcotic. No needle was ever found. The killer wasn’t identified.
Ray Callum suffered a similar fate. On his way to a safehouse he was shot through the head as he stepped from the transfer vehicle. A long search eventually located the place where the shooter had fired from. It was an extremely long shot, the slug having come from a Russian-made Dragunov sniper rifle. The shooter had been extremely accurate. As with the lab tech’s killer, no one was identified. The trail ran cold.
FBI SAC Duncan began to understand what he was up against. The group behind the smallpox affair was openly challenging the federal authorities, showing they were powerful enough to defy the FBI and remove potentially dangerous witnesses at will. Duncan refused to bow down to the unseen enemy. The situation simply drew out his stubborn side, and he promised himself he wouldn’t back down from apprehending the organization.
Within his department he chose a tight group of agents he knew he could rely on. They were brought directly under his jurisdiction, their task being to look into every aspect of the current investigation. Duncan knew it was going to be a long slog. That didn’t worry him. He was no weekend warrior. Duncan was in it for the duration.
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