The first Merc had recovered and came at Kevin with a roundhouse blow.
I'll teach you the ways of war... Kevin put his left arm all the way up, and curled it, putting his bicep between the fist and his face. At the same time, he swung his own roundhouse at the second Mercenary. Kevin wrapped his arm around the back of the first Merc's neck, and drove up with his knee, dropping him... And you won't come here anymore.
Kevin blocked the next roundhouse and clamped his hand down on the man's shoulder.
Use a shield— And pulled the man forward in to a head butt that shattered his nose. And use my head—With a growl, he rammed into the Mercenary, and they fell through the hotel room door, rolling out across the carpet and into the middle of the expensive hotel room. Fight ‘til all of you are dead!
“I—want—you—to—die!” Kevin screamed.
The bodyguard staggered backwards, arms up around his head in order to block what he could. Kevin closed in with a flying knee, then grabbed the man’s head and twisted it violently – breaking it with a loud crack.
He looked around. The senator wasn't in his bedroom, but his bodyguards had been there, and Kevin had been blocking the door during the scuffle, so Curtin couldn't have run anywhere interesting … except the washroom.
Kevin turned and stalked after the senator, who had huddled himself into a back corner of the bathroom. The spy stopped five feet away from him, letting the man feel safe.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” Kevin asked, his voice low and threatening.
Curtin almost tried to press himself deeper into the wall, as though trying to push himself through it. It was an odd reaction for a six-foot man of his wide and muscular build. “You killed the others, didn’t you?”
He slid his hands behind his back, as though ready to push off the wall and past Kevin.
“Don’t try it,” the ex-SEAL told him. “If you run, you only die tired.”
Curtin twitched like a weasel hyped up on cocaine. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
The smile turned evil and sadistic. “But how much do you want it to hurt? You killed my entire team and God knows how many other people. And for what? Ego? Your own self-importance?”
Curtin sneered. “You were sent out to attack a sovereign country. You violated their rights. The President didn’t have any right to launch that attack without our approval. You were just following orders, but that doesn’t excuse you from recriminations, you thuggish enforcer.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Really? You're going to claim to stand on principle? How about disabling an enemy's ability to nuke us to the moon, without endangering their citizens? Or do you prefer nuclear war to a little diplomatic dustup?”
Curtin laughed. “Please, don't try to justify yourself to me. I have the moral high ground of nonviolence.”
“Right,” Kevin drawled. “And you didn’t have anything to do with the money from the French wired to your other colleagues? I looked through Beedon's records before I threw him down the stairs.”
The senator’s visage went from sneering to amused. “Well, it is not a crime to be paid for one’s duty.”
Curtin made his move and tossed a throwing knife at Kevin’s chest.
Kevin looked down at his leather jacket, the throwing knife dangling there by the point of the blade. Throwing knives could not penetrate heavy leather. The senator charged.
Kevin sidestepped, taking Curtin’s legs out with a low kick, and then jumped on his back. Curtin rolled, trying to put Kevin underneath him, and only partially succeeded, landing on top of Kevin at an angle. He rammed down with a fist and the spy slipped his head to the side, making the senator punch the floor tiles.
Kevin bucked his left hip to throw the other man off, and rolled, dropping an elbow into Curtin’s face. Curtin kneed him in the chest, and Kevin rolled away, cursing his stupidity. He had even read that the man had had some combat training during a meteoric rise through the police, but Kevin had thought that had been for show. Obviously not.
Kevin stayed on the floor as Curtin lunged. He jammed one knee into Curtin’s sternum to stop his progress, then swung his other leg up and kicked past Curtin's face, effectively trapping Curtin's arm between his legs. Kevin grabbed the trapped arm, and used the hold to slam Curtin down against the floor. Kevin arched his entire body, breaking the arm.
Kevin slammed his leg down onto the senator’s throat, crushing the windpipe. Kevin relaxed his grip and rolled to the side, coming to his feet.
He brushed his clothes off and smoothed out his shirt. He stepped over the still dying senator, and quickly moved to the doorway, poking his head outside. He waited for the inevitable sound of someone screaming, calling for help, security, or maybe the National Guard.
Instead, it was early on a Sunday morning, when no one had yet recovered from going to bed, drunk, only four hours before. Kevin smiled, and moved back into the room, closing the door behind him. He was just grateful that the central panel of the door hadn’t shattered, just the areas around the locks.
Kevin did a quick sweep through the hotel room, not caring about his fingerprints. He had to be on a security camera somewhere. They would know who did this.
He hit paydirt on the first try. The nightstand drawer had the senator’s calendar, and Dramamine. Which meant…
He opened up the calendar. For this week was circled in plain, black marker: Bauer and Grace, boating trip. Bauer’s place.
Frank Bauer the Senator from Louisiana. Devarshi Grace was his close compatriot from Tennessee. Both happened to be on Kevin’s little list. And neither would be missed. How many can we make die? Fourteen.
*
Frank Bauer was a tall, slight man. Being from New Orleans, he had cultivated an air of casual Southern elegance to the rest of the country, but in Louisiana itself, he was the life of the party. He never wore anything more formal than a sport jacket and a clean white shirt with an unbuttoned collar. Today, he wore khaki pants to match the shirt as he leaned against the railing of his yacht, feeling the slight breeze off the ocean.
He looked across the deck at his friend, Devarshi Grace, who he had always described as tall, dark and Hindu. He was similarly dressed, and staring out over the railing.
Frank glanced at his watch. “Hey, Dev, what time did you tell Curtin to show up?”
“About an hour ago.”
Bauer rolled his eyes. “That man would lose his head if it weren’t nailed on.”
Devarshi nodded. His reply was cut off by the noise of incoming helicopter blades. Frank looked up and blinked. “What the—”
Devarashi concurred. “That’s a Mercenary helo. What the heck— ”
The black helicopter settled on the landing pad of the yacht. The door popped open and an entire squadron of men swathed in black poured out. Only one of them wasn’t carrying enough weapons for a war, and he moved straight for the senators. His back was strangely dancer-straight, and his legs looked almost angular as his long strides ate up the distance.
The tall figure came to a stop in front of him. The Mercenary slid the goggles of his helmet up into the brim. “Senator Bauer, Senator Grace, my name is Antonio Rohaz, CEO, Mercenaries Guild. I believe there is a threat on both of your lives.” He looked over his shoulder and snapped, “Search every inch of this vessel. If he’s aboard this ship, I want him!”
Rohaz looked back to the two senators. “Someone broke into Senator Curtin’s hotel room, and killed him and one of my men. The other man is in the hospital right now.”
“Who is it?” Grace asked. “Who killed him?”
Rohaz grimaced. Telling the Senator felt like glass was being ground up in his stomach, and pushed back up his esophagus. “You have one of my operatives, Mandy, after a survivor of a recent Paris operation. Let’s just say that the survivor is after you at the same time.”
Bauer blinked, and exchanged a glance with Grace. “We’ve had a lot of people dying lately. Is this guy behind all of them?”
&
nbsp; Rohaz shrugged. “My people will sweep the ship and make certain that no one is on board. Once we’re underway, and we’ve confirmed he isn’t on board, you should be in the clear. And, if he is on board, we’ll get him.”
Bauer nodded, then went back to looking over the rail of the ship as the ship pushed out, moving into the open water.
Below him, past the waterline, and beneath the bow of the ship, holding for dear life to the hull, was a figure clad in a wet suit, oxygen tank on his back, mask in place. He quickly put together a harness holding him to the belly of the ship, and breathed a little easier.
Kevin Anderson allowed himself to relax. If anyone knew he was in the area, they would be looking for him on board the ship…not under it.
*
“Fisher,” the spotter said, “go check around the crates. I think I saw something.”
Fisher stopped in mid-step of his patrol. The spotter had been placed on the upper deck minutes after Rohaz arrived, but this was the first time anyone had heard anything from him since his arrival. Fisher stopped and turned. There were four crates perfectly lined up on the deck. Two were as tall as he was, and the other two were, maybe, four feet tall.
Fisher brought his assault rifle to his shoulders. “Confirmed. Checking it out.”
The Mercenary slowly approached, then looked around the edge of the crates, weapon ready. The tarp lay flat against the large crate, and the smaller ones only came up a few feet off the deck.
He switched to night vision, to thermal, and back again. Nothing. He shook his head and spoke into his mic again. “This is Fisher, nothing here.”
However, there was a flaw in Fisher's thinking. On the side of the crates he patrolled with his partner, the shorter crates were perfectly lined up with the taller one. Therefore, he had concluded the same would be true for the side he had just examined. The shorter crates were not only shorter, but also smaller in width. Meaning there was approximately a foot of space between the edge of the taller crate and that of the smaller.
Tucked into this corner was Kevin Anderson. The ex-SEAL was in a crouch, his legs pressed flat up against the smaller crates in a move a contortionist would look at and say “ow”.
Kevin held that crouch for a long moment as he heard the Merc's footsteps. Kevin waited as the boat swayed and settled, the wood creaking as the boat moved. He held his breath, hoping the Mercenary would just move.
Kevin let his eye flick around the crates for a weapon. And he found one. It was maybe six inches long, but at least half an inch thick—a triangular wooden splinter with a sharp point.
He kept waiting, holding his breath. The Mercenary paused, and then took another step.
Kevin pivoted, still in a crouch, wheeling around the edge of the taller grate and advanced, standing up directly behind Fisher just as he turned his back on the crates.
Kevin stabbed—straight up—into the base of Fisher's brain.
The only sound that came out of the dead man was a breath of air as he crumpled towards the deck. Kevin caught him under the arms and slowly lowered him the rest of the way. The first thing he did was strip off the man's helmet and strap it under his chin. The HUD screens dropped from the brim directly over his eyes, giving him whatever option he wanted—SONAR, infrared, ultraviolet, night vision, and perhaps all of the above if he tried it.
But where were the control panels? Oh, yes, the gauntlet on the man's arm.
Kevin looked over the body. They were both wearing the same basic black; he just needed to borrow a few basic accouterments—sidearm holster, assault rifle, utility belt.
Kevin had everything attached to him in a matter of moments. Maybe ninety seconds had passed since Fisher had met his well-timed end.
The earpiece chirped in his head. “Fisher, what is taking you so long, pal?”
Kevin made certain to smile so that it would carry in his voice, and he lightly covered the mic with his hand, just enough to muffle it. “I had to go for a moment.”
“You pissing on someone else's boat?” the spotter asked.
“He can afford it.”
“Amen. F-ing politicos.”
Kevin stepped out into the open deck, moving calmly and quietly. Like he belonged. He went straight to the patrol route that he would take if he were doing it with a partner.
In his faceplate, he could see that everyone had been fixed with a friend or foe identification system. When someone figured out that he was wearing someone else’s armor, they would have a GPS location on him immediately.
It was time to fix that.
*
Antonio Rohaz noted the location and positioning of each of his men on patrol. The yacht diagram and the Mercenary positions were clearly displayed on the screen on the inside of his helmet's faceplate. He was quite proud of the fact that they moved like clockwork along the decks of the yacht.
Rohaz blinked when the little dance of lights across his monitor finally departed from their rotations. He slowly tapped the communication unit in his helmet. “This is Rohaz. What's wrong on the aft deck?”
“Nothing, sir,” the spotter had reported. “I sent Fisher to check something. I thought I had seen some motion. It was nothing.”
Rohaz thoughtfully stared at the dot that represented Fisher. “When is his shift over?”
“He took off early. I had Bieber sent up. He's on his way now.”
Rohaz blinked. The icon for Fisher was right there, still on the deck. He hadn't moved. Ergo, the transponder in Fisher's helmet had been removed.
“Don't move, friend, and I won't have to blow your head off,” came the casual voice from behind him.
Antonio Rohaz went stiff and unmoving. “Lt. Anderson?”
“That's right. Now, I would like very much if you just hang up with your friend there, so the two of us could talk in peace. Or I could kill you. Got a preference?”
Rohaz disconnected with the bridge and turned to Anderson, his faceplate keeping his face from the gunman. Since the spy had a degree in engineering, playing games with the comm units right in front of him would be suicidal.
Rohaz slowly turned and took his seat, and looked over the man before him. He had grabbed a grunt's uniform, in simple black with a full faceplate. “You have Fisher's outfit.”
The faceplate moved to face Rohaz directly. His adversary was six feet tall, of average build, and there was the hint of a scar that ran down one side of his jaw. “He a friend of yours?”
“I only know the name because it’s on his beacon. I don’t know him personally.” Rohaz leaned forward. “However, I am…acquainted with Mandy. She thinks quite highly of you.”
The black figure shrugged. “Good to know. She’s a competent operative. Probably would have killed me a few times had I been a little slower.”
Rohaz slowly moved a hand towards the cigar on the floor. He grabbed it, moved back, and slowly, casually, struck a match. “She was at Wynter’s house,” he said between puffs. “She’s under the impression that you are someone to be looked after. Now, why would my…best operative hesitate for even five seconds to collect the multi-million dollar bounty on your head?”
There was a flash of a smile. “Because she wants the daily retainers?”
A bit of a grin showed around the cigar. “Possible. She’s putting her reputation on the line for you, Lt. Anderson, and I would like to know why.”
Anderson hesitated. “I have no idea. Maybe I’m just attractive to blue-eyed brunettes.”
Rohaz arched a brow behind his helmet. “Perhaps. In any event, Lt. Anderson, what do you intend to do now? Take me hostage?”
Anderson laughed and shook his head. “Where would I go with you? We’re on a ship. I just wanted you to give a message to the Guild's CEO. Tell him to back off.”
Rohaz involuntarily relaxed. He had worried Anderson had deliberately taken him hostage knowing he was the Mercenary CEO. “What exactly would you like to say?”
“Have them stay out of my way. Obviously, the committee
knows I’m after them. They’re going to start hiring more of you. Eventually, I’m going to have to start cutting my way through you guys to get to the targets. Anyone dumb enough to get in front of me will die.”
Rohaz tensed again, no longer giving a damn if Anderson had a gun on him. “And Mandy? If she gets in your way?”
The spy then had the audacity to smile. “Oh, Mandy’s fine. She’s not trying to stop me from killing the senators. She’s just trying to kill me.”
The Major blinked. Hadn’t Mandy said something similar? Maybe these two were made for each other. “Risk is our business, Lt. Anderson. What makes you think anyone in our Guild will heed your… generous advice?”
Kevin shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I just know that a lot of former Army has the tendency to go into your guild. I’d rather not wind up blowing up a Medal of Honor winner just because he happened to be guarding the wrong scumbag.”
Rohaz thought a moment. “Are you sure about this?” He slowly leaned forward, cigar between his fingers. “I understand your situation, Anderson, I do. I don’t like that my Guild has been responsible for … how much the Senators’ve gotten away with. Sure, my people haven’t pulled the triggers in most cases, but they helped. I don’t see why you’re doing it…in the most obvious way imaginable. You were subtle to start with, but now—”
“Were you fooled by any of those deaths?”
“No, but they were, and Mercenaries don't give intelligence unless they're paid for it.”
Anderson shook his head slightly. “Didn’t matter. Mandy was on my tail, and she still is. If I disappear, she spends all of her time hunting me, and she’ll have to get lucky eventually.”
The Major winced. “She doesn’t get lucky, she does her job.”
The ex-SEAL waved it off—with the gun hand. “In any case, the law of averages was against me surviving multiple encounters. Besides, there’s another reason.” Anderson hesitated a long moment. “I looked through Beedon’s records. They’re looking at selling out another team to confirm that the missiles I dealt with have been dealt with. As a sop to their IRF buddies in Paris, the committee is going to feed the next team straight to the mullahs of Paris.”
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 10