The Quisling Covenant

by Jerry Ahern

  Buckling on the metal and polymer sleeve holster rig, and shrugging on the suit coat, he squeezed his right elbow to his side, activating a pressure switch. The stainless Seecamp .32 automatic with black nylon and glass fiber reinforced grips, slid silently and instantly into his hand. He picked one round from the desktop and dropped it into the chamber, then slid and locked the loaded magazine into the bottom of the grip.

  This Seecamp had been hidden away in a safe deposit box that had remained sealed since before the Night of the War. It had been a gift from an old friend many years before. Completely restored, it was as functional and trustworthy as the day it came off of the Seecamp production line, so long ago.

  Croenberg favored the new 60 grain round made by Lancer Arms, modeled after the old Winchester Super-X Silvertip round. It was considered the most dependable and performance-proven handgun cartridges ever created. Originally developed for law enforcement, the slug boasted a specially engineered jacketed bullet with a muzzle velocity of 970 feet per second and muzzle energy of 125 foot pounds.

  Specifically designed for “close up work,” the Seecamp wasn’t a weapon you would practice fifty or even twenty-five yard shots. Often this genre of weapons was called “mouse” guns because of their small size. Most were notorious for a “stovepipe” malfunction but the Seecamp was as close to perfection as a weapon to be made. If the weapon was cleaned properly, it virtually eliminated the risk of a final round stovepipe jam because of a badly fouled chamber. The other “cure” was to only load six in the magazine, but Croenberg had always said, “I’d rather take a certain six and an almost certain seventh over a certain six and no possibility of a seventh.”

  Many felt that ball ammunition provided better penetration and hollow points weren’t consistent for expansion. While it was true that they had excellent penetration, the streamlined configuration of ball created the smallest temporary wound cavity. Croenberg wanted to ensure a devastating wound cavity; his life depended on it. Hollow points were known to expand better in bare ballistic gelatin than ball. They did not expand as well in heavily clothed gelatin. For that reason, Croenberg usually delivered a shot either to the heart or the skull. After all, at a range of three to five feet, what difference did it make?

  The appointment with Phillip Greene was set for 10:00 a.m.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “Come in Mr. Johnson, how may I be of assistance?” Greene asked.

  “I believe it is I who may be of assistance to you sir,” Croenberg/Johnson said with a smile. “However, before we converse any further, there must be one condition.”

  Greene sat down behind the desk and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Saliva still occasionally dripped as a result of his last encounter with Michael Rourke. “Well, I’m not sure I can agree to anything beforehand. What is your condition?”

  “Mr. Greene, I believe that you have recently met with...” He stopped for effect. “Shall we say we have a mutual acquaintance who insists on anonymity ? Would you agree that is the case?”

  “You mean...” Greene stopped when Johnson raised his right hand.

  “As I said, Mr. Greene... anonymity, remember?”

  “Ah, yes I see,” Greene said, thinking of Vale and taking the bait.

  “This ‘operation’ is a delicate matter, would you agree?”

  Greene nodded, “Yes that was explained to me by our acquaintance. So why are you here?”

  “To explain certain things to you. Our ‘principals’ were somewhat taken back when we found he had contacted you. They are very uncomfortable about that. They wished me to explain some things to you. First of all, his decision to contact you was against our... protocol. That brings his judgment into question. However, your reputation and positioning have been determined to have some particular and unique value to our principals.”

  Greene cleared his throat, “I assure you sir, I am the soul of discretion.”

  “Excellent, I hope so. You see Mr. Greene, you are being evaluated for an increase... both in stature and participation. You have the potential for some excellent returns on your investment... of actions, compliance and loyalty. Loyalty to our principals, not to our acquaintance. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Uh, frankly, I’m not sure.”

  “Our acquaintance has recently made some... questionable decisions. I need you to provide the contents of any further conversations directly to me. You see his continued participation in this venture is being evaluated also.”

  Greene swallowed the hook, “I believe you are saying that if the evaluation goes badly for him...”

  “Exactly, Mr. Greene. You are in a position of becoming his replacement. When he makes contact with you, call me at this number.” Johnson handed him a card. “You are to keep this meeting confidential, and remember Mr. Greene, you are under surveillance also. If this meeting, if this conversation is shared with anyone, particularly our acquaintance... well, the consequences will be unfortunate.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Johnson. I understand and please thank your principals for their trust. Again, I assure you, I am the soul of discretion.” Croenberg smiled and thought, Sure you are Mr. Greene. Greene opened up, listing his involvement and the activities he and Vale had agreed on. After twenty minutes, Croenberg stood and thanked Greene. After the perfunctory handshake, Croenberg left.

  Greene sat back down at the desk and wondered at his good fortune. Vale had seemed so in control, so powerful. Hmmm, Greene thought then smiled. Mr. Vale, you may be on your way out and it looks like I could be on my way up.

  Croenberg adjusted his seat belt, turned the ignition key then dialed his phone. “Yes, the meeting went well. Greene is such an idiot, a complete incompetent with an ego the size of the Black Sea. The only thing I believe larger is his innate greed. He is truly a ‘Giftzwerg,’ an evil little bastard. In any event, we have our mole.” Croenberg listened for a moment, checked the chronometer on his dashboard and said, “Okay, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” He broke the connection and merged into traffic.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Croenberg pulled the low-slung silver sports car slowly into the parking lot, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Seeing only one other vehicle parked next to the darkened side of a single building, he angled toward it. Stepping out of his car, Croenberg took one last look around the parking lot and walked toward the edge of the building and stood. Suddenly, there was a click behind him in the dark. With a slight nudge of his right elbow, the small .32 auto slid silently down the track of the sleeve mechanism into his hand.

  In the darkness, a small flame illuminated the face of John Thomas Rourke as he puffed a thin black cigar to life in the flame from his battered Zippo lighter; there was a slight clunk as he closed the top, extinguishing the flame. “Evening, Herr Croenberg. Thanks for coming.”

  Croenberg smiled, reset the .32 in its normal position and walked to Rourke. With a slight click of his heels and a quick bow of his head he extended his right hand, “Good evening Generaloberst Dr. Rourke. I trust you are well.”

  Rourke hesitated and smiled. “Otto, does that little contraption of yours ever deploy on its own and go off accidentally?”

  Croenberg looked at his right arm and smiled, “No John,” he said with a chuckle. “It has not, I assure you.”

  Rourke smiled and took the outstretched hand, “Good, now what do you have to report on the meeting with Greene?”

  Croenberg smiled, “As I told you, he is an idiot, a complete incompetent with an incredible ego. The good news is you were correct about his innate greed. He does, however, seem pliable enough for our desires and will make an excellent mole. I had determined that... for all of his faults, which will play to our benefit, he will be an excellent source of information for us.”

  Rourke inhaled deeply and exhaled a wreath of cigar smoke into the night air. “Anything we can use right now?”

  Croenberg nodded slightly, “Yes, I believe so. However, Mr. Greene was somewhat
guarded and I’m not sure of exactly what to make of it.” Croenberg then pulled a small micro recorder from his breast pocket and keyed the play button and nudged the fast forward function. Phillip Greene’s voice was somewhat muffled but clearly audible.

  Chapter Fifty

  John Rourke settled into the driver’s seat of his pickup, snapped the seat belt and drove slowly out of the parking lot. Unconsciously, he kept checking his side and rear view mirrors, watching for a tail. Turning left, he merged into traffic and kept pace with the other vehicles. Several random turns later, he relaxed, sure no one was following him.

  Four miles from home, the road paralleled the ocean front. The moon peaked out behind the gathering clouds for moments at a time before being hidden again by approaching clouds, heralding an approaching weather front. Looks like rain, he thought. He absently pulled out one of his thin cigars and the old Zippo lighter. He rolled the striker wheel and after a couple of puffs had the cigar going. Rounding the curve, he noticed an older car had pulled to the side of the road; someone, a woman, was standing next to it waving a small flashlight with her left hand and supporting herself with her right hand behind her back.

  She must have broken down; he thought as he slowed, pulled to the shoulder, and stopped. He slid the cigar into the dashboard ashtray. In his headlights he could see she was probably in her early thirties, long blonde hair braided into a single strand that hung over her right shoulder, almost to her waist. And she was a “looker.” He stepped from the cab and began walking the thirty odd feet to her, asking, “Car trouble?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thanks for stopping, trouble always comes when you least expect it, doesn’t it?”

  Closing the distance to about twelve feet, Rourke smiled, “Yes that is usually the way it happens. Do you need a lift?”

  Smiling provocatively she said, “No Dr. Rourke; what I need is for you to stop right there and raise your hands.” A menacing submachine pistol whipped suddenly from behind her back.

  Damn it, an ambush, Rourke thought as a man stood up from behind her car. A blinding light jumped from the business end of what Rourke suspected was a tricked out shotgun. Rourke noticed the man’s left hand was on the trigger and his right on the slide action. The tactical flashlight held him locked in its glare.

  “She said raise your hands,” the man said without racking the pump action. Rourke surmised there was already a shell in the chamber. He slowly brought both hands over his head.

  “What now?” Rourke asked as his mind flashed through his potential options, finding none.

  The blonde moved to Rourke’s left as the man rounded the rear of her car and approached him from the right; they were pros enough not to lock the other in a potential cross fire. “Go ahead, get his weapons,” the man said gruffly and don’t forget that damn Sting knife he carries.

  She walked closer to Rourke, stopping just out of his reach and said, “Believe me, I’d prefer not to have to shoot you. That being said, also believe I have no compunction in pulling the trigger if you do not comply.”

  “Looks like you have the advantage on me, Miss,” Rourke said without a smile.

  Holding the machine pistol firmly in her right hand, she reached with her left and unzipped Rourke’s brown leather bomber jacket. Reaching under his right arm she grasped the CombatMaster and with a slight jerk, opened the Alessi trigger guard retention snap and slid the .45 out. She stepped back and shoved the gun into her wide leather belt. Again, smiling sweetly she said, “Now, your knife. I believe you like to carry it on your right hip.” She felt along the beltline, found the Sting 1A and jerked it and its sheath out. Stepping back, she secured it also in her belt. “Now, the .45 under your left arm.”

  As she reached forward for a scant instant, Rourke had an equally scant chance. He moved. With his right hand, he grabbed her left and spun her hard, whipping her in a circle. Almost as if they were dancing, he pulled her in front of his own body and pivoted both of them toward the man with the shotgun. Rourke’s left hand went behind his back and snatched the Fighting Bowie from its horizontal sheath in a reverse grip as the shotgunner scrambled quickly toward them, trying to get a clear shot.

  Rourke threw the woman forward into his male opponent, hoping if the man shot, the bulk of the projectiles would get her. Stepping forward to follow her body, Rourke slashed upward with the long, sharpened, serrated clip point. He was almost too far off, a half-inch more and he would have missed the man all together. A quarter-inch of the blade sliced through the man’s right knuckles ; the impact of the woman’s body further sweeping the deadly bore of the shotgun further out of alignment with Rourke’s head.

  Reversing his slash in mid-motion, Rourke drove the six-inch blade into the left side of the man’s throat slightly above the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The shotgun fired, but missed. Rourke grabbed the woman’s shoulder for stability as he pivoted at the waist; he threw his upper body backward and upward. He sliced the Fighting Bowie, ripping up and out, shredding the man’s trachea and all of the major arteries on both sides. The wound was massive, almost decapitating him. The man dropped the shotgun and grabbed at his throat, trying to stem the fountains of gore and blood that vomited out of the wound with each beat of his heart.

  Rourke racked the primary edge of the Bowie’s blade across the back of his other attacker’s right hand. It was a sloppy cut, not a clean technique at all, but he didn’t have a good angle of attack. She screamed and gunfire erupted from the short barrel of the machine pistol and ended almost as quickly. The severed tendons and ligaments in her hand were no longer able to grasp the weapon’s grip. Rourke spun her around to face him and with an upper cut from the skull crusher pummel of his Fighting Bowie, he knocked her out. He wiped off the blade on her skirt as she slid to the ground. Shoving the Bowie back into its horizontal sheath in the small of his back, Rourke jerked his other CombatMaster into play.

  He kicked the machine pistol across the road and spun, searching for another threat. Seeing no other attackers, he knelt by the man. Flat on his back, his attacker’s neck continued to pump out his life blood with ever decreasing force and volume. With a studied eye, Rourke knew nothing could be done to save the man’s life. “You’re dying...”

  The man looked into Rourke’s eyes with a combination of hate and fear, growing weaker with each instant. The only sound he made was a sickening gurgle that created a bloody froth that bubbled from the wound in his throat. The heels of his boot tapped the hard pavement in involuntary spasms. With the muscles in his throat ripped as they were, he just blinked his understanding; a few seconds later, he closed his eyes forever. A few seconds passed before the twitching of his feet stopped and it was quiet again.

  Rourke stood and turned to the woman; kneeling down, he first retrieved the .45 she had taken from him and reholstered it. He rolled her over and jerked the Sting and its sheath from her belt, and then he looked at her wounded hand. Pulling the heavy leather belt from around her waist, he fashioned a crude constriction band around her forearm. Satisfied to see the flow of blood slow and then very nearly stop, he picked her up quickly in his arms and walked back to his vehicle.

  Opening the passenger door, he slid her into the seat and buckled the seat belt tightly to hold her upright. Rourke rolled down the passenger door window slightly and threaded the end of the belt into it then rolled the window back up. Keeping the arm elevated would further reduce the blood flow. Opening the glove box, Rourke pulled out a rolled up bundle of military 550 paracord.

  Taking her uninjured hand, he wrapped several turns around her wrist and tied the hand across her body to the arm rest on that door. Immobilized in this manner, he was satisfied that if she did awaken, she couldn’t open the seat belt, untie her hands or open the door and jump out. He pushed the lock and slammed the door shut. He pulled the stainless Detonics .45 from his right shoulder holster and walked to the other side of the truck, climbed into the cab and turned the ignition key.

  Taking
a quick glance around, he pulled back onto the highway. Pulling the cigar from the ashtray, he relit it and thought, What the hell was that all about and is there another team ahead of me? Watching for lights both behind and in front of him, Rourke reversed direction back toward town. He passed two closed gas stations before he found what he needed. At the third he saw it; probably one of the last pay telephone booths on the island. Parking next to it, he climbed out, jerked the handset to his ear and began thumbing several quarters into the machine’s pay slot. Tim Shaw answered sleepily, “Yeah, this is Shaw.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “Tim, John Rourke. I need you to alert the family, I was ambushed on the way home. My usual route about four miles from home. I need you to get to Emma and the kids as soon as possible and make sure they are alright. I was afraid to go there for fear of someone lying in wait to ambush me there if the first attack failed. Contact the Highway Patrol and have them secure the ambush site. I have a prisoner and I’m headed to the emergency clinic close to home, you know the one. She’s hurt but will live; hopefully, we can get some answers. Have one of your units... no, better make that two units, meet me there. It is possible there is a cleanup team waiting on me at any of the hospitals, but I can’t see them being able to cover all of the hospitals and the emergency clinics.”

  Shaw acknowledged and broke the connection. Rourke jogged back to the truck. He looked at her, even unconscious with a big bruise surfacing on her chin she, was lovely in a rather exotic way. She was starting to stir, on her way back to consciousness. You are a little Barbie Doll, aren’t you? But I don’t need you to be a problem right now little lady, he thought and with a modicum of regret, Rourke snapped a right jab to the point of her chin putting her back to sleep.