“I don’t know, but when this is all done I’ll have someone look into it.”
Bolan climbed out of the seat and went to the back of the SUV and opened the hidden compartment inside.
“I’m surprised they didn’t take all of your gear.”
“That’s why they were going to impound it,” he said. “Black got it for me, so it’s an FBI rig, but the security locks can withstand quite a beating. It would have been easier to open back in their own garage.”
Knowing that the cell phone waves were probably being scanned by the Feds, Bolan pulled out the secure satellite phone and called Stony Man Farm.
When Brognola picked up the line, he said, “It’s me.”
“You’re creating one hell of a stir down there, Striker. What’s going on?”
Bolan sketched in the events up to that point, and finished up with the ambush at the church. “You gave me the green light on Grady Black, so I don’t think he’s dirty, but I do think he’s probably dead,” he said. “We had evidence that I gave to him to decrypt when my computer got destroyed, which he took back to the office. It looks as if the local FBI is involved. The whole thing is a mess. We had two different teams of people trying to hunt us down in the swamp. These guys are all over the place. It’s like Costello has his own private army. There’s no way that they were doing all of this without the help of someone from the FBI office.”
“Well, I have more interesting news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“You remember how you asked me to look up the DA,” Brognola asked.
“Yeah?”
“I found him. Rather I should say I found him and his family. The bodies were stuffed inside barrels and thrown into the Gulf. They washed up on shore in Alabama. They probably sank initially, but during decomp the gases brought them back up. So far we have the DA and his wife, our expectation is to find his daughter, as well.”
There was a long pause as Bolan contemplated the evil that it took to kill a whole family in cold blood. There was bad in the world, and then there was true evil.
“Look, Striker, I know you won’t leave, but it’s past time for me to send in a team. You could use the backup, it sounds like, at least until the smoke clears and we can figure out who the real players are in this thing.”
“Send them in, Hal,” he said. “And they can pick up whatever pieces are left when they get here, but I saw Rio alive and I’m getting him out.”
“I’m sending a team,” the big Fed said. “I’ll have them contact you as soon as they arrive.”
Bolan hung up the sat phone and opened another drawer. From inside, he removed an advanced surveillance kit, then he turned to Remy. “Time to go,” he said. “We’re going to find out what’s really going on around here.”
16
The thick trees and endless turns would make escape impossible to anyone who didn’t understand their surroundings, but with Remy’s intimate knowledge of the bayou, Bolan guided the big SUV to a nearly invisible path that ran parallel to Nick Costello’s compound. The makeshift road stopped at a cemetery that might have had use back during the Civil War. The few headstones left standing were moss-covered or had fallen onto their sides, and many of the graves were unmarked. Oddly, there was one headstone that was standing up properly, cleaned, and had flowers on it that were no more than a few days old. It didn’t appear to be quite as old as the others in the plot, which wasn’t very large, but it was the only one in decent condition.
“One of yours?” Bolan asked Remy, pointing at the grave. From his angle, he couldn’t read the name.
“Nope,” he said, “but every time I’ve passed this way that one is taken care of.” Remy shrugged. “It’s kind of creepy to tell you the truth.”
“One of those New Orleans ghost stories,” Bolan said, moving to the back of the SUV once more.
“Costello’s compound is about a mile or so from here,” Remy said, joining him. “But the terrain isn’t too bad if we need to get closer.”
Bolan shook his head. “No, this should do it. It’s got a pretty decent range, so if I can lock in on a signal, we should be good to go.” He began setting up the equipment in the open tailgate, moving the trio of parabolic dishes in opposite directions, one aimed toward the southern coast, and the other toward Costello’s compound. The third was pointed almost straight up.
“The Border Patrol and the Coast Guard have listening towers all along the coast,” he said. “This little toy will ping a satellite in low orbit and use the listening towers to give a boost to the receiver. You have to know the exact coordinates, but it works surprisingly well.”
“We never had one of those in the SEALs,” Remy said. “And I can think of a few times it would’ve come in handy.”
“Give it another couple of years and they’ll show up,” he said. “I sometimes have access to state-of-the-art gadgets.” He tapped several keys on the console of the device, inputting coordinates for the satellite, and then making adjustments for the listening towers. “This won’t work very far inland, but on most of the borders, you’ve got a pretty good shot at it.
“And that,” Bolan said as he engaged the uplink, “should be just about it.” He handed Remy a headset and put on his own. After listening for a moment, he adjusted the receiver frequency, and after several tries, he started hearing voices from inside the compound. Initially, the conversations were random, mostly perimeter guards, but then after several more adjustments, he heard a voice he recognized and gave Remy a thumbs-up.
“Perotti is here to see you, boss.” The first voice was Salerno’s.
“Perotti, huh? What a surprise.”
That had to have been Costello’s voice, and Bolan made a mental note to think carefully about it later. Something about his accent bothered him.
“Send him in.”
“Perotti, you dumb bastard! What the hell is going on? Our arrangement was that I handle the locals and you were going to deal with the Feds. Now I hear you’ve got a dead FBI agent on your hands. Don’t I have enough to do without worry about your end of things?”
“I can handle the Feds. And Lacroix has already been released on his own recognizance. By the time the mess at the DA’s office gets straightened out, there won’t be any evidence to pursue the case. Grady was depressed, you know. Looks like suicide.”
“Good. What else you got for me?”
“You already know that Remy Fountainou and this guy Cooper are still on the loose. I practically handed them to you, and they slipped right through your fingers.”
“My fingers? I notice they also got out of your ambush at the church.”
“They aren’t going to be easy to nab. I pulled the files on both of them before I came out here.”
“And?”
“Fountainou is an ex-Navy SEAL, highly decorated. And I don’t know who this Cooper character really is. He claimed to be a U.S. marshal, but his file didn’t even start until he was supposedly assigned to the Jack Rio case, which means it’s a cover of some kind. Maybe he’s Special Forces or something.”
“Or something. We need both of them dead and gone.”
“I’ve got warrants out on them both, but once they’re arrested and in custody, it won’t take long for someone to figure out that something isn’t right. It would be better if they died resisting arrest or simply disappeared.”
“Then you handle it, for Christ’s sake! I’ve got to get these weapons in and out of my warehouse. I’ve been told that the Israelis are aware of the thefts from their transport ships, and they’ve already got people combing the docks and the coast looking for their stuff.”
“Then you better get what you need from that agent fast. You’ll need those routes into Mexico if you’re going to get everything to your buyers. Plus, with all of the fuss here we’ll be able to use the route to get more weapons in. I have some people that are very interested in getting other things into the U.S., but only if we can show them some prior successes.”
“I’ll try, but you’d best have your men on full alert and combing the streets. I have to get back to the FBI office in town.”
Bolan had heard enough. He slipped off his headphones and looked at Remy.
“That son of a bitch killed his own man!” the ex-SEAL snapped.
“Yeah, it sounds like he did. How about you and I go and have a visit with him? We can discuss the oath he took and remind him what the penalty for treason is. Besides, he owes me a flash drive.”
AFTER PACKING UP the surveillance gear, Bolan and Remy headed back into the city and managed to pick up Perotti’s car just before the traffic got heavy. His blue BMW wasn’t hard to miss, and he drove as if he didn’t have a care in the world, stopping for coffee before heading into work. They followed him back to the FBI offices and waited for him to enter the building.
“How are we going to get in there?” Remy asked. “I’ve heard they keep the building pretty secure.”
“They do,” Bolan replied, “but most every lock has a key.” He pulled out his sat phone and linked it to the in-dash GPS screen, then dialed a number from memory, mentally thanking Akira Tokaido for the “hacking” lessons. After a series of tones, he punched in another code and the in-dash screen flickered and showed a menu.
“How the hell did you do that?” Remy asked.
“That’s a phone-based hack into the FBI administrative server,” he replied. “It’s not as secure as the personnel files, and it’s practically an open door compared to the case files.” He selected the icon labeled MAINTENANCE, and this opened a number of folders with labels ranging from GROUNDS/JANITORIAL to HVAC. The one he wanted was labeled SCHEMATICS.
Bolan selected that one and then found the one for the New Orleans office and opened it. Remy whistled softly as a detailed floor plan came up on the screen. Bolan studied it for a minute, then pointed to a rear set of doors near the loading dock. “We’ll go in there,” he said.
“Won’t they be locked?” Remy asked.
Bolan nodded. “But I’m pretty sure I can get us in anyway. Once we’re inside, we’ll use the stairs—the elevators are pass card protected—and then go to Perotti’s office.”
They exited the SUV, locked it and walked around the block to the alley that led to the back of the building. “It’s not likely that there will be guards,” Bolan said quietly. “But there will definitely be security cameras, so we’ll need to move quickly.”
“Understood,” he said.
They reached the edge of the building, and Bolan scanned the back wall. “I think our best approach is to act like we belong,” he said. “So long as my way in works, we shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“I’ll follow your lead,” Remy said.
Bolan moved quickly down the alley, with Remy hot on his heels, and made it to the back door. The loading dock entrance was shut and locked tight, while the main rear entry doors had a single light burning above them. There was a magnetic lock on the door that used a card reader. Bolan pulled out the key card from his wallet and slid it through the reader.
“Here’s where it gets tricky,” he said. The pad beeped once and a small LED display appeared saying: PASSCODE.
Bolan keyed in the janitorial override code he’d seen on the building schematic in the database. The pad beeped a second time, flashed the word CLEAR and then unlocked.
The soldier opened it and stepped inside, gesturing for Remy to follow him.
“You seem to get all the best toys,” the big man said quietly. “Who do you work for, really?”
“If we live through this, I’ll see what I can do to get you an introduction,” he replied. “They’re always looking for a few good men with your kind of experience.”
“Good to know,” Remy said.
The offices were closed for the night, and they used the service stairwell to reach the upper floor where Bolan figured Perotti’s office to be. It was an odd thing, but virtually every FBI office had the same layout, with the most powerful man commanding the biggest office at the top. It made them predictable, but it served his purposes.
He moved into the floor and saw that light spilled from the corner office. “That’s where he’ll be,” Bolan whispered, then moved out down the hall.
As they reached the office, Remy rushed past the soldier, hitting Perotti’s door at a near dead run. Bolan moved in behind him in time to watch as Remy snagged Perotti by the throat, yanking him up and out of his chair, then slamming him forcefully onto the top of the desk.
There was a stunned, wild-eyed look on the FBI agent’s face as the giant ex-SEAL towered over him. “Don’t kill him yet Remy. I still need some information.”
It took a few seconds for the words to penetrate the rage that Remy was in. His strong muscles flexed, veins popping as the tension filled him. Bolan knew that the man could snap Perotti’s neck at any moment, but even in his rage he was still trying to do the right thing. Bolan watched the wave of emotions washing over Remy and just waited. The man had strong feelings about someone who would subvert not only federal law enforcement, but would also kill one of his own agents to do it.
Remy took a deep, calming breath, then slowly eased up on Perotti’s throat. “Ask your questions,” he said.
Bolan stared down at the man responsible for Agent Grady Black’s death and felt his own anger flow through him. “I want the drive that you took from Grady when you killed him,” he said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Perotti rasped. “Agent Black’s out on a case.”
Bolan drew his Desert Eagle, worked the slide and brought it to bear on the agent’s temple. “I’ve already got you on surveillance talking to Costello about Agent Black’s so-called suicide.”
“How did you… You’re bluffing,” Perotti said.
“Not really. We heard everything and have it all recorded. This evidence won’t conveniently disappear. Justice will be served,” Bolan replied. “But shooting’s too good for you. Remy, if the next words out of his mouth aren’t helpful, I want you to rip off one of his arms.”
Remy grasped the man’s arm and twisted it. “Should come right off when I give it a good yank,” he said. “Shoulder joints are weak.”
Perotti looked from one man to the other. He reached down to open his desk drawer. Remy snatched his hand.
“The drive is in my drawer,” Perotti said.
“Open it slowly,” Bolan told him.
Perotti opened the drawer, pulled out the drive and handed it to him. “Get him out of the way,” Bolan said, and Remy yanked the man to his feet and shoved him into a chair beside the desk.
Perotti’s computer was already up and running, so Bolan didn’t have to ask for any passwords or logins. He put the drive into an open USB port and waited for it to read. When it did, he saw that it contained only music files. He looked once at Remy and shook his head.
Remy threw a hard punch to Perotti’s middle, doubling him over. Bolan wondered if Perotti felt that all the way to his spine.
“We already have you cold,” Bolan told him. “You’re not getting away, and when I’m done, neither will anyone else in Mr. Costello’s payroll. I’m going to ask again. Where is the drive?”
“It was a mistake,” Perotti babbled. “They all look the same! Look in my drawer, there’s another there.”
Bolan pulled open the drawer and removed another flash drive. He popped it into the computer’s USB port and pulled up the files. It was the genuine article. He opened a browser window and navigated to a secure site, then logged into a Web account through a virtual server and transferred the files from the drive. Once it was complete, he logged out, and called Hal Brognola.
“Hal, I got the files,” he said. “I’ve already sent them your way through back channels. It’ll take a minute.”
Moments later there was the faint sound of a clicking keyboard, then the big Fed said, “Good job, Striker. Do you still have Perotti?
”
“Yeah.”
“Find out what he did with Grady’s body. I want to try to give him a proper burial.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Bolan said. “Is the team en route?”
“Yes, and I’ve got word into the U.S. Marshal Service office down there as well. They’re standing by, just waiting to hear from you. They’ve agreed not to ask questions about who you work for.”
“Good,” Bolan said, then hung up Perotti’s phone and looked through the files in the desk. He grabbed what he thought he would need and turned back to the agent.
“If you have anything to tell us before I decide what to do with you, this might be your last chance to save your skin.”
“If you want a trial, you don’t want to touch me. As it is, you’re in violation of my civil rights and about a dozen law-enforcement codes. I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“So you don’t want to discuss what the hell you were doing at Costello’s compound talking about the murder of Agent Black and your treason?” Bolan asked.
“Go to hell Cooper. What do you really know about anything?”
“I know that at some point in your life your oath had to mean something. I know that betraying a comrade in arms comes at a price. Why don’t you try to do one last good thing? Something that is worthy of that badge you’ve been toting around.”
Perotti paused and looked at Bolan. His once pressed and polished appearance was a thing of the past, replaced by sweat-soaked clothes. Bolan watched the man’s eyes for some sense of remorse or contrition, but the only emotion present was hatred.
“I made my deal a long time ago, Cooper, and so did you. Don’t feign innocence with me for one minute. I know what you’re capable of.”
Bolan shook his head. He knew that there were some lines you couldn’t uncross. He looked up at Remy.
“It’s your choice. What do you want to do with him? We can just handcuff him and turn him in to the marshals.”
Remy considered it for a minute, then looked at Perotti. “He deserves to die, but he should stand trial for his crimes. I want everyone to know how he betrayed his country and his oath.”
Shadow Hunt Page 13