“As with Zero,” James said. “It gives us the advantage at the moment.”
“Which is why the Chinese may still have an interest. And with Kaplan’s sudden disappearance, it starts to make sense.”
“Are they thinking if they have Kaplan they can make him work for them?” Manning said.
“They won’t have taken him just so he can visit the Peking Opera,” McCarter returned.
“They may have Kaplan,” James challenged, “but it’s a long leap from that to having a platform of their own.”
“Maybe the idea is to coerce Kaplan into providing them with the information that might allow them to break into the system and gain control,” Manning said.
“No argument from me,” Valens said. “It would certainly be a faster way to get what they want. But just the thought of it happening is enough to make me nervous.”
“Next question...” McCarter said, moving on. “I can’t see the kidnappers staying in this country. They’ll want to get him clear of the US. That could be happening right now. If they get Kaplan out of the country, they have a whole world to hide him in. And we have a larger playing field to search.”
“The minute we realized he was missing there was a clampdown on exit points. Sea. Air,” Valens said. “And I know what you are going to say. There are no guarantees we’ll pick them up. If they work at it they’ll find a way to get him out of America. Let’s not forget private airstrips and failing to declare exactly who is on board and where a particular aircraft might be going.”
“Same could be applied to seagoing vessels,” James said.
“Let’s not give up yet,” McCarter said.
Valens gave him a hard stare. “Didn’t Cooper tell you I never give up?”
“From the report he put in, he has you down as stubborn. Driven. Totally focused.”
Valens couldn’t help smiling. “He knows me too well.”
“Take them as compliments hard won, love,” McCarter said. “Cooper doesn’t use words like those loosely. If he said them he meant every word.”
“Next time you talk to him, tell him I said thanks.”
“Will Agent Kai be able to keep us advised?” James said.
“Her last message said Chan’s about to make a trip out of the country. It’s been kept low-key until now,” Valens said. “But don’t worry. Jui Kai is very resourceful and she is very close to Chan. Very close. She’s been with him on a number of official flights. The man racks up a lot of miles, apparently. She got herself assigned, through his influence, as one of the crew who flies his jet around. She’s the in-flight attendant. Chan likes her. Expects her on all his flights. And that gives Kai an in as to where they’ll be going.”
“So where is the colonel jetting off to next?” Manning said.
“All Kai knows is it’s going to be a long flight. No destination yet but as soon as she knows she’ll pass it along. We just have to wait until she has an opportunity to call. Sometimes getting even a short text is difficult for her. She has to choose her times. Be careful when she sends.”
“Who wants to bet this is a rendezvous with an incoming Saul Kaplan?” McCarter said. “My lucky guess of the day.”
“Be nice if we knew where that meeting was going to be,” Manning said. “We could be there to say hello.”
“Wouldn’t it just be nice,” McCarter said. “But something tells me it isn’t going to be as easy as that.”
Calvin James raised his hands. “Tell me the last time it ever was?”
“You want the quiet life?” McCarter said. “If you do, mate, you’re in the wrong line of work.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Do we have anything?” Hal Brognola asked, almost a hint of desperation in his voice. “And I mean anything.”
“We’re running on an empty tank,” Kurtzman said. “Hate to admit it, but we don’t have squat.”
“This is crazy,” Brognola muttered. “All this damn equipment and we can’t find anything to help.”
“If it’s not out there, we can’t pick it up,” Kurtzman said.
“Guys, I think I might have something,” said Akira Tokaido, the youngest member of Kurtzman’s cyber team. The cyber genius was of Japanese descent. He preferred denim and kept his long black hair in a Samurai topknot. He constantly listened to rock music via earphones. What he lacked in years he made up for by being an instinctive and dedicated operative who always managed to impress.
He tapped his keyboard and sent the data to Kurtzman’s monitor.
“What are we looking at?” Brognola asked.
“Needs cleaning up,” Tokaido noted, “but I think this may be the car that picked up Saul Kaplan.”
“How the hell did you work that out?”
“Traffic cams in the area show the Air Force car passing along this secondary road, then out of sight because there are no more cameras on that stretch.”
Tokaido used an on-screen pointer to show the car. “Check the bottom left of the screen. I superimposed the signal from Kaplan’s implanted tracker—picked it up from the AF monitoring unit. He was in that car we just saw passing. The tracker stopped functioning a couple minutes later. Add on a couple more minutes, and this vehicle appears on the traffic cam. It came from the opposite direction, and it is the only vehicle on that stretch of road for the next twenty minutes. Picked up model and make. Even got the rear plate and the number.”
“You think this might be the snatch car?” Brognola said.
Kurtzman had been studying the monitor. He increased the size of the image.
“Looks like two guys in the front, three in the back. Pretty fuzzy, so this is all supposition. But I go with Akira. Time frame fits for pushing Kaplan’s car off the road and making a quick switch. If this was a planned snatch, it would be carried out fast. No hesitation. They had their mark and they went for it. Bundled Kaplan into their vehicle and took off.”
Kurtzman leaned back in his seat and fixed his gaze on Brognola.
The big Fed checked the images again as Tokaido replayed them. “Have you managed to track the car?”
“Yes,” Tokaido said.
He hit his keyboard and showed a montage of the suspect vehicle picked up by various traffic cams. After a few miles it turned onto a wide parking lot adjacent to a truck stop. The truck stop had its own security cameras and the monitor showed the vehicle swing around and vanish from sight behind lined-up rigs and road trailers.
“Great,” Brognola snapped.
“Not over yet,” Tokaido said.
The view of the truck stop continued for a long few minutes before the suspect car came back into sight. It rolled across the lot and stopped while passing traffic forced it to wait before it swung right and drove away.
Brognola sighed. “So they stopped for a few minutes to use the toilet. Maybe pick up takeout coffee.”
Kurtzman chuckled. “He doesn’t see it.”
“See what?”
Tokaido zoomed in on the image of the car waiting to merge into traffic. This time the image was clearer. Even Brognola was able to see the picture now.
Where there had been five men in the car when it arrived, there were only four when it departed. Only two passengers in the rear instead of three.
“They lost one passenger,” Brognola said. “Son of a bitch.”
“Question is where did he go?” Kurtzman said. “Could have been transferred to one of those rigs. A waiting van. Another car. Then they played the waiting game.”
“How old are those images?” Brognola queried.
“Late yesterday. Few hours after the kidnapping,” Kurtzman answered. “Transfer vehicle could have waited until dark before it left. We don’t know because we have no idea which one it was.”
“When the car stopped I was able t
o get good images of two of the passengers,” Tokaido said. “I’m running facial recognition programs right now.”
Brognola couldn’t hold back a grin. “You got any other goodies you’re holding back?”
Tokaido shook his head. “That’s it.”
“Good work, Akira,” Brognola said. “Damn good work.”
Kurtzman caught Tokaido’s eye and gave him an approving nod.
“If we get any identification, send Able Team to check the perps out,” Brognola told the cyber chief. “If they did take Kaplan, they might be able to point the finger to where he’s been taken.”
“We’ll do our best,” Kurtzman said as the big Fed left the room.
Tokaido’s perseverance paid off. His patient analysis of the images, which he pushed through FBI and National Facial Recognition databases, gave him what he needed. He got two images, with names, addresses and vehicle ownership. The main perpetrator came up as the registered owner of the suspect vehicle and the data sheet offered his address and known associates. The guy had a police record for violence, various misdemeanors and a predilection for anything that would gain him money.
Once he had the information in a recognizable form, Tokaido sent it to Carl Lyons’s cell phone and then left it to the professionals.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“It’s the car,” Blancanales confirmed. “Plate matches the details Akira sent.”
“House fits, too,” Schwarz said. “Description we received on the address for the car owner.”
Lyons said, “Keep rolling. Take us clear.”
Blancanales drove on until they passed a heavy stand of trees and thick bushes. He eased the SUV to a stop and Able Team piled out. They kept their handguns concealed under their jackets in case any civilians saw them and raised the alarm. Not that there seemed to be much in the way of neighbors. The area was less than salubrious.
“Check your com sets,” Lyons ordered.
The three Able Team operatives were each equipped with a communication set. The compact units, complete with ear buds, would allow them to maintain contact even when separated. Satisfied they could keep in touch, they took a circuitous route until they were near the house.
“You two take the rear,” Lyons directed. “I’ll go in by the front door. Let me know when you’re in position.”
Blancanales gave Schwarz a wide-eyed glance. He knew as well as his partner that their commander was liable to go in once the mood took him. Lyons had that reckless streak that denied him the patience needed to wait around. They slid quickly to the side of the house and moved toward the rear corner, crouching low as they passed windows.
Carl Lyons took a deep breath as he fisted the big revolver. The Colt Python in .357 Magnum was an impressive piece of hardware; it had been Lyons’s preferred weapon for some time and he had no intention of changing it. With the Colt Python and his Atchisson shotgun, Lyons would face any opposition. In addition to the Colt being a powerful handgun, Lyons was an excellent shot. It was a combination that presented any enemy with a formidable foe.
The Able Team commander flattened against the stucco wall and watched as his partners slipped out of sight.
* * *
BLANCANALES AND SCHWARZ took their time. There was a lot of scattered debris where they were walking. It seemed the people in the house simply dumped their trash rather than having it hauled away. Empty beer cans, bottles and fast-food containers were strewed along the side of the house. It meant the Able Team pair had to walk carefully lest they make too much noise...
* * *
AS HE WAITED pressed against the wall, to one side of the front door, Lyons felt his impatience growing. It was part of his makeup that sometimes forced him to act impulsively. He had the skills to back up his eager-beaver ways, but his partners were not always amused when he went ahead without waiting for them. Despite their opinions, they knew that Lyons would never change his ways, so they made the best of it.
Lyons pressed his thumb against the Python’s hammer, ready to launch his entrance, when he heard the double click over his com set that informed him Blancanales and Schwarz were in position.
He didn’t wait any longer.
Pushing away from the wall, Lyons launched a powerful boot at the door, just below the lock. The mechanism shattered under the kick. The lower panel splintered as the door swung wide, allowing Lyons to see into the entranceway. He stepped inside, eyes scanning ahead of him.
A stocky figure in jeans and a striped shirt came barreling out of a door partway along the passage. His shaved head caught the light from a low-wattage bulb overhead. The guy was wielding a stubby double-barreled shotgun, the barrels cut down to a few inches.
The moment he stepped into view, he jerked the shotgun in Lyons’s direction, lips peeling back from yellowed teeth as he started to yell a warning when he saw the big revolver Lyons was carrying.
“Goddamn cops—”
Lyons angled the Python, his arm already extended, and triggered a single .357-caliber slug into the guy’s chest. The range was short and the velocity powerful enough to push the slug into and through the chest. It splintered ribs, punctured the guy’s heart and emerged through his spine. The guy folded on the spot, his finger going into a spasm that pulled the shotgun’s trigger. The barrel expended its load, the blast fanning Lyons’s left cheek and gouging a number of shallow cuts.
Lyons sucked in a breath against the burn but didn’t miss a step as he walked by the dead guy...
* * *
“SOUNDS AS IF the boss man has moved in,” Schwarz said as he and Blancanales closed in on the back door.
“I am so surprised he went ahead so fast,” Blancanales said.
His dry comment brought a smile to his partner’s lips.
The rear door crashed open and a figure burst into view. Blancanales and Schwarz both recognized him as one of the men identified as having been in the car from the image Tokaido had captured. He was clutching an autopistol that he showed no inclination to use when he laid eyes on the Able Team pair. His forward motion brought him to them in seconds, and he was unable to pull himself to a halt. That worked in Schwarz’s favor as he threw up his right arm in a rigid clothesline sweep. The solid impact caught the guy at the right spot, the force slamming him off his feet and dumping him flat on his back. His handgun slipped from his fingers as he struggled to breathe through his badly bruised throat.
Schwarz holstered his Beretta, kicked the dropped gun aside and fished out a pair of plastic ties. He flipped the gasping thug onto his stomach, wrenched his hands behind him and slipped the plastic loops into place, pulling tight. He repeated the procedure with a second tie around the guy’s ankles.
“Pretty slick, partner,” Blancanales said. “You’ve been practicing again.”
“I get bored watching TV.”
Schwarz shrugged, took out his pistol and followed Blancanales in through the back door, their weapons tracking ahead of them as they stepped into a rough furnished room.
They met a pair of men almost head-on. There was a moment of confused hesitation until the Able Team pair broke the stalemate.
Schwarz saw one of the men go for the autopistol jammed down the front of his jeans. The weapon’s front sight snagged on the waistband of the guy’s pants. Schwarz had no such holdup and snapped his Beretta 92 into position, triggering a double tap that punched holes in the guy’s shirt. He fell back with a soft grunt, hitting the floor with a thump.
As Schwarz fired, Blancanales took on the second man, aware that he had his weapon in hand and was already targeting. Blancanales dropped to a crouch a fraction of a second before the guy opened fire, triggering wildly. The three shots he fired went over Blancanales’s head and chunked into the wall behind him.
“You had your shot,” Blancanales said, and he returned fire, the 9 mm
pistol delivering a pair of slugs that hammered into the target’s right shoulder. The impact shattered bone and mashed flesh, the force half turning the guy as he started to go down; one flattened slug blew out a ragged hole as it emerged. The guy screamed long and loud as he slumped to his knees, clutching both hands to his bloody shoulder.
It was over as quickly as that, as most shooting confrontations were—a swift exchange of shots with harsh results.
Schwarz moved forward and kicked weapons away as Blancanales moved to the door.
“Clear,” Lyons announced, his voice loud in the silence that followed the gunfire as he appeared in the passage leading to the back room.
“One out front of the house. Dead,” he growled. “What have we got here?”
“Two down. One dead, one wounded. Another hogtied and alive out back,” Schwarz said.
Lyons cast an eye over the downed men and lowered his weapon.
“I suppose we’d better call this in,” he said. “Get medical help.”
Blancanales glanced at Schwarz and grinned. “Aw, he’s all heart.”
“Shows through like a fuzzy glow,” Schwarz said.
“Just make the call,” Lyons grumbled. “Where’s this live one?”
Blancanales jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Outside.”
Lyons followed him while Schwarz made the call on his sat phone.
The thug Schwarz had tied up lay on the ground, glaring at the Able Team pair. He was still sucking air noisily through his badly bruised throat.
“I ain’t telling you assholes squat,” he said. His voice was raspy and he had to keep clearing his throat.
“Kind of sets the tone,” Blancanales said. “Cooperation is what I like.”
Lyons stood close, his Python still in his hand, the large bulk of the weapon making its own statement.
“What happened to my buddies?” the guy panted.
“Two dead. The other one not in good condition healthwise,” Lyons said. “How do you want to end up?”
Death Minus Zero Page 7