Grimaldi gestured for them to raise their hands. “We’ve got some questions for you, and you’re going to give us some answers real fast. But first—” he pressed the end of his pistol barrel into Le Pierre’s nose “—where’s my SIG?”
Chapter 13
Grimes stood back as Everett directed the men operating the Bobcat tractor to transport the heavy warhead up the Osprey’s loading ramp. Andrei Rinzihov stood off to the side, acting more nervous than usual. Perhaps he wasn’t looking forward to this little nighttime trip. Grimes was glad Everett had told him to stay at the compound. No way he wanted to be within spitting distance of the nuke when it went off.
The boss had changed into a set of black BDUs and had an IMI .50 caliber Desert Eagle strapped at his side in a tactical holster. Napoleon yelling orders at his lackeys.... He looked the part of a general—Grimes would give him that. Even Everett’s handgun was first-class: a brushed nickel finish with Aimpoint sights on top and a laser in front of the trigger guard. Grimes silently chuckled at the thought of Everett holding the huge pistol in that Weaver stance he favored, the disproportionate barrel extending outward. Short man’s complex again. Overcompensation.
“Be careful with that, you idiots,” Everett shouted. The three men finished driving the Bobcat into the semi and began fastening it down. Everett continued to bark orders. He glanced over at Grimes and scowled. “You get through yet?”
Grimes shook his head. “No, sir.”
Everett bit his lower lip. “Something must be wrong if they missed both their twenty-three and twenty-four hundred check-ins.”
“You want me to send someone to see what’s up?” Grimes asked.
Everett considered this, glanced at his watch and shook his head. “No. How many men we got here?”
“Fifteen, including myself.”
Everett frowned. “That’s it?”
“Well, yeah, boss. We put the extra guards at the penthouse and the rest at the platform and—”
“And they got their asses handed to them by one man,” Everett finished for him. He glared at Grimes. “I’ll have Zelenkov and his boys secure the platform on their way back tonight. You just make sure you finish that son of a bitch and his friends ASAP. I want them all eliminated. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Grimes was less than enthusiastic about taking out a group of American and Russian agents, but then again, once the balloon went up in Puerto Rico, killing the vice president of the United States and a couple hundred thousand other people, a few G-men would hardly be missed. He was a little apprehensive about taking on this guy Cooper, too. The man was good. Real good. But Grimes knew he was better. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
“More than likely, the platform’s been compromised,” Everett said. “We have to operate on that assumption, anyway. Let’s just hope those idiots in the control room were able to shut down the monitors if they came under attack. Was there any other info there?”
“The shipping manifest from the Xerxes,” Rinzihov said. “I was doing those calculations you wanted on the fuel consumption and the blast radius and EMP range for the explosion.” He paused and rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “I might have left some of those papers in the control room.”
“Oh, Christ,” Everett said. “If they can figure out the connection between me and the Xerxes, I might as well be blown up myself. It’s got to look like the Iranians did it.”
“Willard,” Rinzihov said, a weak grin stretching across his face. “You have set the stage so carefully that a minor thing like that will most assuredly escape notice. After the detonation, there will be chaos and plenty of time for Vladimir and Edwin here to tie up any loose ends.” He reached over and patted Everett’s arm. “It will be fine, my friend.”
“Go get me Monk,” Everett said. “Bring him here. Then keep watch in case they somehow find this place. If they do, kill the girl right away. We’ll dump her body in the ocean later.”
Grimes nodded. That was one task he was looking forward to.
“We’ll tie up any other loose ends when I get back,” Everett said. “Tell Le Pierre to round up some locals to help.”
Grimes was still thinking about killing the girl, savoring the different ways he might do it.
“Move it,” Everett yelled. He glanced at his watch again. “We take off for the Xerxes in five minutes.”
* * *
LE PIERRE BROKE DOWN rather quickly, revealing the location and specifics of Everett’s island compound. Apparently, the rich man had gone to extraordinary lengths to mask the facility from satellite surveillance. “It is being kept in the strictest secrecy so that his competitors do not see the site for his big amusement park.”
“Horseshit,” Grimaldi said, pressing the barrel of his gun into the police captain’s face again. “And you still haven’t told me where my SIG is.”
Le Pierre’s eyes widened with fear.
“S’il vous plaît, please, sir,” Gipardieu said. “Do not hurt the captain.”
“I won’t as long as he gives us what we want. The compound.”
“I will take you there,” Le Pierre said.
“All right.” Grimaldi smiled. “And as for my SIG, I’ll keep yours till I get mine back. I always wanted an SP 2022.” He checked that the weapon was decocked, and stuck it into his belt.
After tying up and handcuffing Gipardieu, and disabling all communication devices in the house, Bolan and his crew walked Le Pierre through the hot, humid evening to the chopper. When they approached, the two FBI agents were surprised to see the bound policeman. Ivan grinned from ear to ear.
Tyler slowed a bit and tapped Bolan on the arm, motioning for him to drop back. Grimaldi noticed this and shoved Le Pierre at Ivan. “Stow him in the bird, will you? I’ll be there to warm it up in a second.”
Ivan grabbed Le Pierre and manhandled him into the helicopter. Kournikova climbed on behind them.
Bolan waited until Grimaldi had walked back over to them before asking Tyler what was up.
Tyler’s mouth twitched. “I’m having second thoughts about proceeding on this mission without proper clearance from the Bureau’s legal advisors.”
“Listen,” Grimaldi said, pushing forward. “There’s no time for that. We got to move fast on this.”
Tyler furrowed his brow.
“He’s right,” Bolan told the agent. “We’re going on hunches and suspicions right now, with little solid evidence. But the stakes are pretty high. We may have a loose nuke out there—no telling what could happen. We’ll take care of any fallout on our end. If you want, we can make like you were never even here.”
Tyler compressed his lips and stared at the ground.
“Tyler,” Bolan continued. “We need your help on this one.”
The young man’s jaw jutted out and he nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”
* * *
ON THE FLIGHT to the compound, Le Pierre became practically garrulous. He spoke rapidly and loudly, saying Everett had approached him months ago about a boat patrol around his movie set on the ocean. If he knew the blockbuster story was a smokescreen covering up the location of a sunken Russian sub, he didn’t say it. All he claimed to know was that he and the rest of the island police were paid off so “Monsieur Everett could salvage something he found in the water. A treasure from a shipwreck, I believe.”
The compound appeared beside one of the mountains, and Grimaldi did a quick flyover. Everett’s stronghold was accessible only via a winding road that branched off the main highway. Bolan made a mental map of the area: front gate with a guard shack, one medium-size brick-and-mortar building surrounded by three larger Quonset huts. Much of the compound was obscured from overhead by camouflaged netting and tarps.
“There’s what looks like a landing pad in the rear,” Grimaldi
told Bolan. “Want me to set her down?”
Bolan considered their options. “We don’t know how many men are down there. We need a diversion.” He flipped up the night vision goggles on his forehead, then took the microphone from the instrument panel and reached over the seat to grab Le Pierre’s collar. He dragged the policeman upward, keeping his wrist under Le Pierre’s chin. “You’re going to do a little broadcast for us, Captain. And here’s what you’re going to say.” Bolan repeated the message to Le Pierre, who nodded. When he was satisfied the cop had the instructions memorized, Bolan unfastened his seat belt and turned to Ivan. “You up for a little recon?”
The big Russian grinned. “Recon, nyet. Fun, ya.”
Bolan handed him one of the M-4s he’d taken from the guards on the platform. “You familiar with this one?”
Ivan flipped up his own night vision goggles and took the rifle, looking it over. “Ya, NATO weapon. Good, but Kalashnikov is better.” He tapped on the bottom of the magazine, stood up and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
Bolan did the same. “Can you rappel?” he asked, holding up a length of nylon and a D-ring.
Ivan nodded. Both he and Bolan used the nylon lines to tie Swiss seats around themselves, and slipped the D-rings into place. They all had the rifles, radios and night vision goggles that they’d confiscated from the guards on the rig. Bolan held up his radio and told them to check they were all on the same frequency.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” he said. “Ivan and I will rappel down by the front gate. Jack, fly back toward the helipad while Captain Le Pierre makes his announcement. That should distract them long enough for you to make an unobstructed landing while Ivan and I start working our way in from the front. Keep in contact by radio, but remember there are no repeaters, so the range is limited to a few hundred feet. Got it?”
Everyone said they did.
“Don’t forget your lines,” Bolan said to Le Pierre.
Kournikova leaned forward and took the microphone.
“I will be right here to make sure he does not,” she said. With her free hand, she caressed Le Pierre’s cheek, then produced a thin-bladed knife from her pocket and held it in front of the Frenchman’s face. “And I must warn you, I am also fluent in French.”
Le Pierre’s eyes widened.
“Okay, let’s go.” Bolan handed Ivan a coil of rope, opened the side door and secured his own rope to one of the cleats.
Ivan slid open the other door and Le Pierre screamed. “Please! Be careful! I do not wish to fall.”
“Somebody strap that son of a bitch to the wall,” Grimaldi yelled.
The pilot swept the helicopter back over the compound, then hovered about fifty-five feet above the front gate. Bolan flipped the goggles down on his head, nodded to Ivan, and both men backed out of the open doors, zipping down the ropes toward the ground.
The helicopter held steady as Le Pierre’s voice came over the loudspeakers: “Attention, attention! This is Capitaine Le Pierre, Island Police. I have important information for Monsieur Everett and must land immediately.”
Bolan landed in a crouch and stepped out of his rope harness. Their descent had put them inside the seven-foot cyclone fence, which was topped with barbed wire. He pulled his M-4 off his shoulder and surveyed the area as he took cover behind a low wall about twenty feet away. Ivan was right beside him. The helicopter circled a few moments more, then headed to the rear of the compound. They heard Le Pierre repeating his message. The guard in the gate shack had his back to them, watching the helicopter and talking on his radio.
Bolan ran the ten steps to the shack. The guard turned just in time to be on the receiving end of the Executioner’s rifle butt, and he crumpled to the floor. Bolan stood watch while Ivan searched the unconscious man, stripping him of his weapons and radio.
“I kill?” Ivan took out his knife.
Bolan shook his head. The soldier had no aversion to killing, but avoided it unless the situation required it. They bound the man securely with his bootlaces and stuffed a gag into his mouth.
A voice came over the guard’s radio. “Poston and Willis, go meet that chopper. Escort Le Pierre to base. Everyone else stand by your posts. Acknowledge in sequence.”
Bolan listened as each guard responded with a position identifier and a “Roger.” He counted thirteen responses and whispered into his own radio, “At least fifteen men on base. They’re coming to meet the captain.”
The guard’s radio crackled again. “Front gate, do you acknowledge?”
Bolan keyed the mic while rubbing his thumbnail over the speaker. “Front gate. Roger.”
Silence, then the voice continued. “Stay on your toes, damn it.”
Sounds like this group is less than highly motivated, Bolan thought. So far we seemed to have the advantage of surprise, but that could change fast.
And change it did as short, staccato bursts of gunfire echoed from the far end of the compound.
Grimaldi’s voice burst from Bolan’s radio. “We got made. Taking fire.”
Bolan and Ivan were on their feet in seconds. The soldier veered right, moving around the brick building. The Russian went to the left toward one of the Quonset huts.
More rounds ripped through the darkness. Bolan reached the corner of the building and scanned the area through his goggles’ green-tinted lenses. Three men were firing rifles at the helicopter. Bolan flicked the selector switch to full-auto and zipped them with three crisscrossing bursts. Each man fell. He searched the night for more muzzle flashes and heard the sound of an M-4’s steady, 3-round bursts from the other side of the building. Peering around the corner, Bolan saw Ivan engaging two more guards.
Something moved about forty feet to his Bolan’s right: a man, also wearing night vision goggles, carrying a rifle. Bolan brought up his M-4 and squeezed the trigger. The man twisted and fell.
“Sitrep,” Bolan said, raising the radio to his mouth.
“Shooters at five, six and seven,” Grimaldi said. “Ivan’s taking fire, too.”
More rounds popped in the night.
“Here, too,” Kournikova added.
“Cooper,” Tyler said, “we’re pinned down here in the chopper.”
Bolan ran through the darkness, bright muzzle flashes dancing in the periphery of his green field of vision. Ivan appeared to be engaged in a full-fledged shootout at the Quonset hut. Bolan brought up his rifle and fired a burst, then dived forward and did a quick roll. When he looked again, he saw that Ivan had managed to take out his three adversaries.
Bolan glanced to the other side and saw three more men by the farthest Quonset hut, firing at the helicopter. He flipped the selector switch back to semi and zeroed in on the first man’s position. He squeezed off a round and saw the figure recoil, then slump forward. The second man paused to check out his partner, and Bolan shot him, as well. A third man ducked back behind the corner of the hut.
“Jack, see if you can secure your area,” Bolan said into his radio. “Ivan, let’s hit the main building.”
He saw the Russian get up and begin a fast trot toward the brick structure. Bolan did a mental calculation.
Eleven of fifteen accounted for, he thought. If there are only fifteen.
Bolan knew that, in combat, there were no certainties as far as enemy numbers until the last round had been fired. He stood and began running toward the brick building. A figure moved behind a second-story window and he delivered a quick burst into the glass. The window shattered and the figure disappeared. Seconds later, a rifle barrel extended and sent a haphazard spray of automatic fire through the broken pane. Bolan easily avoided the bullets and concentrated on reaching the door. He had perhaps thirty feet to go now.
Something moved by the building’s back right corner. Bolan hit the ground next to a set of wooden picnic tables, extending his
rifle. The movement flickered in front of him again, and this time Bolan acquired a sight picture and fired. The bright flash outlined the body falling next to the wall.
More rounds rained down from the second-story window, chewing up the wooden tabletop. Bolan fired two three-round bursts as he ran. Suddenly, the door flew open in front of him and a man with a rifle appeared.
Before Bolan could react, Ivan slammed into the door from the opposite side, pinning the man and his rifle between the door and the jamb. The big Russian then grabbed him by the head and yanked him all the way out. As soon as he’d hit the ground, Ivan stomped on his neck. The figure stiffened, then lay still. Ivan grabbed the dead man’s rifle and pulled open the door. Bolan lowered his own weapon and sent a quick burst into the building. Then he ducked around to the left side, his rifle at his shoulder as he advanced. He knew Ivan was close behind him.
They were in a massive room lit only by moonlight that shone through the windows. The space was practically devoid of furniture or even any sectioning walls, but was periodically interrupted by huge concrete pillars standing like abandoned sentries. A cluster of chairs and some television monitors sat off to one side.
More closed-circuit cameras, Bolan thought. If they’d been monitoring them, they would have seen us coming.
But no one was watching now. He spotted a cinder block elevator tower near the far wall, and a stairwell in each corner. It was as if the building had already been cleared of any superfluous items.
But back to the immediate problem, Bolan thought. Twelve down and at least one more upstairs. He and Ivan paused behind neighboring pillars, and Bolan did an ammo check. The bolt on his M-4 was locked back, indicating an empty magazine. He let the rifle hang in front of him on its sling, and took out his Beretta 93R and his radio.
“We’re inside the building now,” Bolan said. “Sitrep.”
“Rear area secure,” Grimaldi said. “It’s a hangar. Three men down here.”
“West building secure,” Kournikova said. “Four more down, as well.”
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