Breakout
Page 8
“Fine, how much do you want, whore?” the congressman growled, going back to his jacket and pulling out a checkbook.
“I don’t want any money, silly,” she said, brushing back her long blond hair. “My employer pays me more each week than you make in a year.”
His hand stopped writing. “Really?”
“Guaranteed.”
“But if this is not blackmail...” he started slowly.
“Oh, it is!” she said, tapping the ash off the end of the joint. It sprinkled onto the carpet. “Just not for money.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” the congressman said, sitting.
“Good. Now pay attention,” she said in a whip-crack tone. Every trace of the early playfulness was gone; the girlish giggle no longer present in her voice. “What I want is for you to cancel the investigation into the prison breaks.”
“I don’t have that kind of authority,” he said slowly, looking at her sideways.
“Oh, my employer thinks that you do,” she replied. “Kill the investigation and you’ll receive a lovely fat deposit into that supposedly secret bank account in the Cayman Islands, and you can have me again.”
“Tempting,” the congressman muttered. “But how do I know—”
“Oh, you don’t,” she interrupted, rising to walk closer, her full breasts swaying to the movement of her rolling hips. “But you’re trapped between greed, the fear of discovery and all of the dirty things you like to do with a woman less than half your age.”
“You asked me to do that!”
“And you did,” she whispered. “Several times. With me yelling ‘No, stop, please.’”
“I thought that was part of the game...”
“It was! But in court it’ll look like rape. A man like you in prison? The animals in general population would eat you alive.” She smiled. “Well, eventually they would.”
Sweat forming on his brow, the congressman grabbed a tissue from a box on the nightstand and blotted his face dry. “I see,” he whispered, tossing it into the wastebasket. “Fine. You win. I’ll kill the investigation.”
“Excellent!”
“Happy now?”
“Once you bring me the files.”
“What? Impossible!”
“Oh, not the originals,” she said, running her hands through his damp hair. “Just duplicates of the DOJ files. Then you get the money, freedom, everything.”
Grabbing her by the hips, the congressman pulled her closer. “Including you?”
“Yes, including me.”
Burying his face between her breasts, he slid both hands around her hips to roughly cup her buttocks. “Turn around,” he rasped deep in his throat, clutching the soft flesh.
“Whatever you want,” she purred.
Breathing heavily, the congressman advanced and soon the hotel room was filled with the sounds of their coupling. They were so loud the noise completely masked the low hum of the second video camera hidden inside the television screen dutifully recording everything....
Boston, Massachusetts
LOWERING THE CAR window, Bolan breathed in deeply, recharging his lungs like a deep-sea diver returning from the murky depths.
The air smelled clean and sweet and cold. Promising snow, just not quite yet. There were little stands alongside the road, where the local farmers sold jars of homemade apple butter, pumpkin pies, sweet corn still in the husk and apple cider that was so good you felt like it could cure anything.
Fall in New England, when the trees catch fire, Bolan thought, driving through the rolling countryside. The forests of northeast America were dazzling at this time of year, the red and gold of the trees almost making it look like they were ablaze.
It didn’t matter where Bolan roamed across the globe, home was where the heart was, and that meant New England. Especially the beautiful mountainous state of Massachusetts, where the American Revolution had started and the Red Sox were practically a religion.
Turning into the spaghetti-like maze of streets that filled Boston, Bolan shook off the reverie and headed into the section of town that had once been called The Combat Zone. Formerly a destitute area controlled by brutal pimps, now it was rejuvenated, almost reborn, into antique shops, art galleries, a movie theater for Indian and Pakistani films and several bookstores.
Easing to a stop in a handicapped spot just outside an Italian restaurant, Bolan saw a cop on the corner scowl but say nothing and deliberately turn away. The former Combat Zone was also the retirement village for certain old men of Sicilian ancestry, and the Boston police allowed certain small laws to be bent, as long as no real crimes were committed. Peacekeeping, instead of law enforcement. Bolan strongly disapproved, but found it a useful attitude this day.
Climbing out of the car, Bolan tossed the key to a waiting valet. “Wash her and park it somewhere close,” he said.
“Whatever you want, sir!” the young man replied, catching the keys. “Gas it up, too?”
“Whatever,” Bolan said, tucking a folded hundred-dollar bill into the shirt pocket of the valet. “But scratch the paint and I’ll break your knees.”
Since he obviously got this sort of idle threat ten times a day, the valet started to laugh in reply but then stopped. Then was something in the eye of this man. It was almost like looking down the barrel of a gun.
“S-sure, wh-whatever you say, sir,” the valet stammered, pulling out a pair of white cotton gloves. “I’ll have my guys detail her for free. No charge! She’ll shine like new.”
Nodding, Bolan shot the kid with a stiff finger. For this mission, the soldier was dressed in an electric-blue linen suit with woven leather sandals, and his shirt was slightly unbuttoned to show off a gold chain and Roman gladiator medallion. Designer sunglasses hide his eyes, and Bolan left them in place as he walked into the restaurant and past the pretty hostess holding an armful of garishly decorated menus.
The restaurant was mostly empty, with only a few old men here and there, spooning soup from china bowls and chewing on rolls as if it was a test of manhood. The walls were decorated with idyllic scenes of Sicilian farmers tilling the rocky landscape.
Past a long buffet table, he saw an area roped off for private dining. Sitting alone at a table for six was a middle-aged man with wings of gray at his temples.
Leo Turrin had formerly been known as Leo the Pussy, as he had run a series of high-priced brothels for the Mafia before going into retirement. No one had known he was an undercover agent for the Department of Justice. These days Turrin rode a desk at Justice, was a member of various task forces and helped Bolan from time to time. Turrin still had contacts within the Mob.
“Damn, it’s been a while, Sarge,” Turrin said, offering a hand.
“It’s good to see you again, Leo. All recovered from your last shenanigans? And how’s the wife?”
“Yeah, I healed better than ever. The wife’s prettier than ever. Milk and whiskey. Am I right, or am I right?”
Bolan knew the old saying. Some women were milk, others were whiskey. Some soured on you after only a few days, while the years made others sweeter and more wonderful.
“So what can I help you with?” Turrin asked.
Bolan told him.
“Wow, that’s quite a thing,” Turrin said, choosing a breadstick as if it was a fine imported Cuban cigar. He took a bite and chewed for a while. “I may know some people who know some people.... What you want is a crew for a job.”
“I’m going to be assuming control of an existing business,” Bolan said, lifting a steaming urn to pour himself a cup of black coffee. “The owner recently disappeared and will soon be found dead.”
“So you’re moving in before this becomes common knowledge.”
“Something like that,” Bolan said, taking a sip then placing the cup on the saucer.
“Some, but I want this business intact, so I’m going to try to convince them to see the logic of accepting new management.”
“Sometimes that takes a lot of convincing. Greed makes some people very stupid.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Do I know the business?” Turrin asked.
“Ziggy Nine, of Ohio.”
“The king of crystal? Nice guy, we only met once. You sure he’s dead?”
Saying nothing, Bolan drank some more coffee.
“That sure, eh?” Turrin chuckled. “Okay, then you’re going to need some muscle, a yegg, a fine wire, a Samurai and a boomer, maybe two.”
“That’s about what I figured. Know anybody who can get them for me?”
“People with the right pedigree? Two years in Oz, five in parole, that sort of pedigree?”
“Exactly.”
“Sure. Me.”
Bolan arched an eyebrow.
“Screw you. I’m still the best grease man in North America,” Turrin snorted, pointing the breadstick. “And you damn well know it.”
With a smile, Bolan raised both hands in surrender. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Smart man.”
“These are some real cowboys I’m going up against.”
“Thrill killers?”
“Pain-in-the-ass ball busters.”
Turrin snorted a laugh. “I know the type. But no problem, I’ll smile nice, grease a few palms, break a few heads... I’ve done this a million times before with the Mob.”
“Those days are long gone.”
“But coming back strong. Haven’t you heard, this is the twenty-first century. Everything old is new again!”
“Then I’ll have to do something about that soon,” Bolan said. “But not today. This is an entirely different matter.”
“Bull. Crime is crime. Get the cash and keep your ass intact. Crime hasn’t changed since the Bow Street Runners and Sir Robert Peel.”
“You do know your history.”
“Read a book once,” Turrin stated.
“The whole way through?”
“Damn near.”
“Impressive.”
Turrin took the urn and poured a cup of coffee, adding lots of sugar and just a drop of milk. “So, who are we after?”
“No name for the person in charge yet, but I think the organization is called Castle.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Good, because it’s my job to keep it that way.”
Outside the restaurant, a tour bus rumbled by, the people inside snapping endless pictures through the closed windows.
“You mean our job,” Turrin corrected, offering a hand.
“No, just mine,” Bolan stated. “If you come along, the natural assumption would be for them to think that the Mob wants a piece of the action, and that will only muddy the waters.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Sipping at the coffee, Turrin put the cup aside. “You feeling a tad old these days, Sarge? Taking on a crew isn’t your style.”
“And if there was any other way to get this done, I wouldn’t,” Bolan said in grim honesty. “But I need a crew to be taken seriously myself.”
“Instant reputation, eh? Thought so. And you need this company intact and fully operational.”
“Yeah.”
“Because?”
Bolan told him.
“Holy shit.” Turrin exhaled. “I thought I’d heard everything, but this is new. Brand new! Goddamn, with the right people in charge Castle could—”
“Cripple law enforcement for the next fifty years?”
“At least!” Turrin added. “Okay, Mack, I’m in. These people have to be taken down hard, or this will spread like a cancer across the world.”
“I’m just worried about America at the moment.”
“America is the world,” Turrin said with a snort. “Now, whom do I tell the crew they’re working for?”
“Same name that I gave on the phone,” Bolan said with a smile. “Anthony Giancova.”
“Didn’t you use that name once before?”
“A long time ago.”
“I see.... ‘Mad’ Tony? No, too ordinary.... Tony ‘The Hammer’ Giancova. Tony Beretta?”
“Now, where am I supposed to get a pet parrot?”
“Just a thought,” Turrin said, allowing himself a half smile. “Okay, you’ll get a crew...Mr. Giancova. Logan, six o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
“Make it noon,” Bolan replied, rising. “We have some flying to do.”
“Not a problem. Nice seeing you again, Sarge.”
“My best to the wife, Leo,” Bolan told him, flashing a brief smile.
As the Executioner left the restaurant, Turrin pulled out a cell phone and pressed a speed dial number.
Chapter 7
Lyon, France
Anyone driving along the Quai Charles de Gaulle would have suspected nothing as they passed the long array of office complexes.
Each of the boxy buildings was artistically different, the assigned architect had needed to earn his fee, but they were also all painfully similar, large chrome-and-glass boxes with flat roofs. Each had a spacious parking lot edged with tasteful greenery; many had a statue or a small water fountain directly in front of the front doors. Even the main entrances were the same: two double doors with an oversize rotating door in the middle for easy access for handicapped personnel.
Of course, that was all just on the outside.
One of the big chrome boxes was edged with counter-surveillance devices buried in the ground and had a United Nations telecommunications satellite anchored directly overhead, locked in a geosynchronous orbit. Several of the parked cars were fakes, emergency exits in case of trouble, and one van opened onto an elevator shaft that lead directly to a bomb shelter buried deep enough under lead-lined ferroconcrete to withstand a direct nuclear blast.
Not a large bomb, of course, nothing thermonuclear. But a simple slap-and-thunder atomic bomb in the range of a quarter kiloton would not harm the people safely hunkered deep down in the dark bowels of Mother Earth.
Every window was triple thick, with a vacuum between each panel to prevent a maser or directional microphone from overhearing a conversation. The glass was also 10 mm Lexan military-grade plastic tough enough to stop a .50 armor-piercing bullet. There were three Ashanti heliports on the roof, a hidden 20 mm gun emplacement and the air-vent fans were fakes. All air was pulled in through vents hidden in the trees. The roof entrance was made of reinforced concrete and equipped with both a Biometric Refusal System and a purely mechanical lock in case there was a power failure.
Inside the plain, almost dull, building were three colossal supercomputers, two of them assigned to permanently service the internet. Almost a thousand civilian personnel handled assorted paperwork. Mixed in among the rows of corporate headquarters and office complexes was the headquarters for Interpol, the world’s supreme law-enforcement agency.
Standing alone in a small cool room, a young woman chewed on a well-used pencil and scowled unhappily at a huge whiteboard spanning the wall. Filled with a Vector diagram of the United States of America, almost every inch of the whiteboard was covered with scribbled notations and sticky notes, many of them circled and attached to each other by a complex web of colored lines.
“Namaste, Agent Chandra,” a man called out as he entered the room without knocking. “Sorry, I am late. There’s something odd happening in Australia.”
He was a broad, handsome man, his skin tone and close-cropped hair telling of a strong African heritage. He spoke flawless French, and his impeccable two-piece suit had come directly from downtown Paris, as had the compact 9 mm FN pist
ol tucked into a holster at the small of his back.
“Sorry to hear that, Mr. Dumas,” Special Agent Suzette Chandra replied, advancing closer to the board. “I hope she feels better soon....”
“You didn’t hear a damn word I just said, did you?” asked Henri Dumas, the Supreme Director of Interpol.
“Yeah, that’s great,” Chandra replied without turning. “Mr. Dumas, there is something odd happening in America.”
“Is it their President?” Dumas asked.
“President?” Chandra almost smiled. “No, nothing with him. But look here...” She pointed with the chewed pencil. “And over here. These numbers are off the scale!”
“Yes, I see,” Dumas said, taking a chair. “Could these be simple statistical anomalies?”
“What? Impossible, sir,” Chandra stated. “Everything here has been confirmed and verified.”
“Fair enough. Which yields what as a conclusion?”
“There have been an extraordinary number of deaths in their prisons, nearly three times the usual amount. Three times!”
“Deaths or escapes?” Dumas asked, studying the board. “Even our own Devil’s Island let a few slip away. Nothing is perfect.”
“Agreed,” she said, handing him a sheaf of papers. “What man can build, man can destroy. But it is the timing of these escapes that I do not like.”
Studying the most secret documents for a few minutes, Dumas began to openly frown. “And all of this has been confirmed, you said?”
“Absolutely, sir! Within twenty-four hours of their arrival at a maximum-security facility, major criminals have abruptly died under a wide variety of truly bizarre circumstances.”
“Incredible! Have you contacted their Ministry—I mean, their prison board?”
“Along with the Department of Justice. The Board of Prisons refused to admit, or deny, that anything untoward had happened, and someone from the DOJ named Brognola promised that the matter was under consideration.”
Dumas snorted. “That’s American for ‘it’s out of control, but we have a plan in operation.’”