In the rear seat, Schwarz pulled out a small box with a shotgun microphone attached to it with a springy cable. Placing a booster into his ear, he turned on the amplifier, thumbed the switch and began moving the ultrasensitive microphone about. A parabolic dish mike was the preferred method to do this, but once again they were hampered by the need to stay covert. At least until they found the bastards—then the kid gloves come off.
“Anything?” Blancanales asked hopefully.
“Water dripping, rats fighting over something, a low steady hiss, could be anything,” Schwarz reported, his eyes closed tight to aid in concentrating. “No voices or machinery.”
Sliding the Caddy into gear, Lyons drove along the complex of decaying buildings. The once proud factory stretched for blocks before them like forgotten ruins.
“Sweet Jesus, it’ll take us weeks to scan this much,” Blancanales muttered, squinting at the piles of destruction. There was a pair of military binoculars in his equipment bag, but they night as well set off flares as use something like that out in the open.
“Hold it,” Lyons said abruptly, looking in his rearview mirror. “She’s back.”
“Who?”
“The whore.”
“So soon?” Blancanales demanded suspiciously.
“Too soon,” Lyons agreed.
Schwarz swung his microphone in that direction, but there was no conversation. The whore was alone in the vehicle, and now behind the wheel. Driving along a relatively clear section of roadway, she parked the vehicle near a gate and walked away, swinging her hips to secret music. A few moments later, the graffiti-covered louvered door of the factory loading dock rolled silently up and a bald man in a black turtleneck with an automatic weapon in his hand walked out of Building 14. Going to the gate, he paused and it opened smoothly.
“No squeaks or rubbing,” Schwarz said. “The track is well greased.”
Moving casually, the bald man went to the car, started it up and drove it through the gate and up a sloped ramp and into the loading dock. The gate slid closed all by itself.
“That must be it, Building 14,” Schwarz said, turning the volume up to maximum. But after a few minutes, he turned it off and removed the booster plug from his ear. “Nothing, no noise at all. Sons of bitches must have it soundproofed.”
“It’s a slick ambush,” Blancanales grudgingly admitted in professional admiration. “Anybody nosing around, the whore offers them the deal of a lifetime. If they say no, then they’re cops, and the place shuts down. If the poor guy says sure, she takes him someplace secluded, cuts his throat and drives back in the car. They deliver it to their chop shop and turn it into cash.”
“Too slick for some gangbangers or crack dealers,” Lyons said in agreement, checking the .357 Magnum Colt Python under his jacket. “That’s got to be Cascade. Let’s go find a back door.”
“Lead the way, dude,” Schwarz said, checking the sound suppressor on his 9 mm Beretta.
Driving around the block, Lyons noticed a small hole in the wire fence. Pulling the Cadillac to the curb, he parked it behind some sort of machinery composed mostly of rusted heavy gears. Climbing out, Able Team opened the trunk and draped themselves with additional equipment and weapon bags.
Heading for the gap in the fence, Schwarz ran a passive EM scan to make sure the opening wasn’t rigged with proximity sensors. When he gave a nod, Lyons slipped through, his Atchisson autoshotgun leading the way. Blancanales was next with his M-16/M-203, and Schwarz covered the rear, the EM scanner in one hand and the Beretta in the other.
The wind moaned softly among the buildings and machinery, and the Able Team commandos jerked their weapons about as a piece of newspaper fluttered past them carried along by the breeze.
Staying alert for infrared eyes on the ground or video cameras hidden in the shadows, Able Team moved quickly around the brick buildings, easing along a narrow alleyway filled with wooden shipping pallets of the kind used to haul cargo on trucks.
Lyons smiled at the sight. Bingo. This was a mistake. When these factories were in operation, wooden pallets were used. These sort of plastic pallets had only been around for about ten or twelve years. Far too modern and much too valuable to be found tossed casually aside.
Blancanales nodded at his friend at the sight of the pallets, and the team became more alert. Kurtzman had been correct; this was the headquarters for Cascade. The enemy was only yards away, protected by a maze of ruins.
“Coal chute over there,” Schwarz whispered into his throat mike. “Always a good way to gain entrance.”
With Blancanales giving cover, Lyons went closer and lifted the heavy iron lid. The old hinges didn’t make a sound, and he gently lowered the iron hatch carefully back into place.
“Reeks of WD-40 oil,” he announced softly.
“No reading on any sensors or trips,” Schwarz said, scrutinizing the scanner in his hand.
“It’s a trap,” Lyons said with some satisfaction. This was the first hard evidence that they were on the right track.
“Fire escape ladder over there,” Blancanales suggested, jerking his weapon in that direction.
“Seems okay,” Schwarz said, waving his scanner at the ladder. Approaching warily, Lyons shouldered his weapon and took hold of the bottom of the escape ladder. Giving it an easy tug, he wasn’t surprised when the extendable ladder slid down silently on well-greased tracks. Then the team froze at hearing the sound of footsteps approaching. Two, no, three people. Moving fast, Lyons and Blancanales swung their weapons into play, but stepped aside to leave a clear field of vision. Schwarz stayed in the middle and drew his pistol.
“Okay, who’s catching the clap from Arnette this time?” somebody said, laughing, walking into the alley.
Leveling the Beretta, Schwarz wasted a precious second acquiring the targets as they came into view: three teenagers dressed in black jeans and black leather dusters like something from an Italian Western. Two of the young men held Tech-9 machine pistols, and the third had the checkered butt of a huge revolver sticking backward out of his belt.
At the sight of Able Team, the teenagers clawed for their weapons. But before they could fire, there came three fast chugs, the sounds coming so close together they almost seemed to be like a single hard cough.
Moaning in pain, the youths doubled over, dropping their weapons and grabbing their bloody stomachs. Tracking the bodies with their own weapons, Lyons and Blancanales watched coldly as Schwarz leveled his Beretta and fired three more times, ending the suffering of the youths now that the weapons were gone. One of his earliest lessons in combat had been that dying enemy gunners often convulsed wildly, their spasming fingers tightening on triggers and blindly firing weapons even as they died.
As Schwarz reloaded the Beretta, neither Lyons or Blancanales complimented their friend on his speed and marksmanship. These young people had chosen the wrong path, and they paid the ultimate price. Schwarz had merely done what he had to do for survival.
Leaving the bodies where they lay, Able Team swiftly climbed to the roof of the factory. Now with a panoramic view of the abandoned complex, they could see the whore was back on the distant corner, wiggling her hips and chewing gum as she walked the perimeter of the hidden base.
The roofs of the adjoining buildings were deserted, some of the more distant structures starting to sag as the harsh Midwestern winters weakened the wooden supports underneath. Bird nests abounded, and there was a surprising amount of hubcaps and plastic Frisbees.
Staying in the middle of the roof where he couldn’t be seen from the street below, Schwarz aimed his shotgun mike at the nearby buildings and fiddled with the controls.
“Nothing,” he said in disgust. Then added, “No, wait. Ah!” Walking across the roof, he swung the mike back and forth until it was pointing at a ventilator fan, the galvanized tin slowly rotating in the gentle breeze from the garbage-filled river.
“Okay, it’s gone now,” he said. “Somebody must have been walking past an air vent
and I caught a piece of their conversation.”
“Anything useful?” Lyons asked tensely.
“Something about a vault door. I didn’t hear all of it.”
“Damn.”
In the middle of the roof was a skylight, a small satellite dish aiming at the blue sky above bolted to the frame and protected by coils of concertina wire. The sharp edge of the military razor wire glistened in the pale sunlight.
Shouldering his weapon, Blancanales knelt on the roof and checked the area for traps. When he was satisfied that it was clear, he pulled out a pair of cutters and carefully snipped through the concertina wire. As one coil parted, it lashed out backward. He ducked, and the razor strand came so close that he saw his own reflection in the metal for a split second.
“That was a near thing.” He exhaled deeply, pocketing the cutters.
Reaching out a hand, Lyons touched the man’s cheek and came back with a finger dripping red.
“Closer than you think, Rosario,” he commented, wiping his hand clean.
As Blancanales opened a medical kit to slap on a bandage, Schwarz pressed his mike to the glass of the skylight. Turning the volume to maximum, he heard nothing unusual.
“Clear,” he reported, pocketing the device.
Running the tip of a knife along the edges of a pane of glass, Lyons cut away the hard putty, then used a piece of duct tape to lift the square of glass out of its recess in the frame. Peering down, he saw only a filthy room, then he went stiff at a familiar smell.
“Fresh corpse,” Lyons whispered. “I’d guess it was only a couple of hours old. Can’t mistake that reek of pennies and shit.”
The others knew the phrase. Fresh blood smelled like copper pennies, and almost every corpse relieved its bowels as the muscles eased into death. Pennies and feces, the telltale aroma of violent death.
“Why would they leave a body there?” Schwarz asked, frowning. “Unless somebody pissed off the boss.”
“More likely it’s bait in a trap,” Lyons countered, rocking back on his heels. “What cop would pass by a corpse without investigating?”
“So these boys are expecting trouble.”
“Let’s find out,” Schwarz said, lowering his microphone through the hole in the skylight all the way to the end of its wire.
Listening closely, he thumbed the volume and the gain about, his face taking on a hard expression.
“Sounds like the hissing of a hydraulic power line. But nothing in this factory works anymore,” Schwarz said, puzzled, then he frowned deeply. “Ah, hell, you guys thinking what I’m thinking?”
“They have an armored door guarding the entrance to their base,” Lyons answered, rocking back on his heels. “Then we can’t go in this way. We don’t have the explosives to blow open a bank vault door.”
“Nowhere near enough,” Schwarz confirmed, tucking away his equipment again. “Hand grenades and 40 mm shells aren’t going to dent a door that needs hydraulics to move.”
“Meanwhile, Cascade springs whatever trap they have set near the dead guy.” Lyons frowned as he stood. “Claymore mines, poison gas, whatever.”
“That is, unless we get them to open it for us,” Blancanales said, looking at his teammates.
“Got a plan?” Lyons asked, noticing the scrutiny.
“Yes. You’ve got a hot date.” Blancanales smiled, pulling out his wallet. Withdrawing a sheaf of cash, he offered it to Lyons. “We’ll cover you from up here.”
A date? Taking the cash, Lyons looked sideways at the street below. The scantily dressed whore was still standing on the corner, watching and waving at every car that passed.
“I just hope that isn’t Arnette,” he said, tucking the money away and starting for the fire escape.
Three men against two hundred were bad odds, but Lyons could hear the clock ticking, and if this trick didn’t work, Able Team would have no choice but to go straight in with guns blazing, which was tantamount to suicide. But that did give him an idea. Maybe there was a way to balance the odds slightly more in their favor.
Climbing down the ladder, Lyons pulled out his cell phone and hit a memorized number. The call was answered in the middle of the first ring.
“I have a job for you,” Lyons said, starting briskly through the alley.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Matua Island
The opal-blue water of the caldera was clear all the way to the sandy bottom. Shoals of colorful fish swam among a waving aquatic forest of kelp. A volcanic sinkhole that had flooded a hundred years ago, the caldera of the island was shaped like a giant capital letter G, and the gentle ocean waves rolled in through the mouth to wash over a natural barrier of coral.
Skimming along the bay was a speedboat with the two armed guards of Nucleus sitting at the front of the craft. Sprawled on a cushioned bench at the rear of the speedboat, Davis Harrison clicked shut a handcuff around the handle of a briefcase, the money locked safely inside. This job was nearly done; all that was left was to call Cascade and send them the duplicate files on the Chameleon, collect another fee and then go on vacation somewhere for a while. Australia maybe, lots of pretty women at their topless beaches, decent beer and some of the best T-bone steaks in the world.
“Avanti!” Harrison called out in Italian, knowing it would annoy the Japanese men. “Go faster! I have a hot date waiting for me in Melbourne!”
The guard steering the speedboat didn’t turn, but the other man did, his face grim and disapproving.
Harrison laughed at the dour expression and lolled a hand over the low gunwale. The Pacific Ocean water was particularly warm in this region from a young submerged volcano just to east of Matua. The rumbling lava cone was so new it hadn’t even been named yet. But that didn’t seem to bother the huge schools of fish flocking in to gorge themselves on the almost invisible tiny sea shrimp who also sought the warmth of the volcano. Distorted rainbows of living colors moved under the speedboat as it started around the point of the caldera, the fish parting before the craft and closing ranks in its turbulent wake.
Basking in the brief joy of a successful job, Harrison threw his head back and closed his eyes to savor the warmth of the sun. Once back on Simushir Island, he’d catch the White Pearl on its return trip and sail away to Japan. He would call Cascade there…but why wait? Pulling out his cell phone, Harrison turned it on and waited for the screen to light.
“Stop that at once!” the second guard snapped, drawing a pistol.
Harrison froze at the sight, then slowly spread his fingers wide to show they weren’t activating the phone.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No calls,” the terrorist commanded, motioning with the pistol. “Satellites could track it here. Toss it over the side.”
Harrison felt his stomach tighten. The programmed number on the phone was his only link to Cascade in America. If he lost it, the deal was dead and he would be out almost a million dollars.
“Look, it’s off,” Harrison said, turning the phone toward the guard. “I’ll just tuck it away. No problem.”
The guard stood and clicked back the hammer on his pistol. “Then you’ll just call once on Simushir,” he stated with a growl. “It goes over the side right now, or you die.”
Heavily a heavy sigh, Harrison looked at the cell phone and started to reach past the gunwale of the speedboat as a diversion to cover his left hand coming out his pocket with his cigarette lighter. The device hissed twice, and the guard reeled back, the tiny poison darts buried deep in his throat.
With an inarticulate cry, the pilot spun and caught two more darts in his face, one of them going directly into an eye, bursting the sack. Even as the neurotoxin galvanized his muscles, the screaming man managed to pull a pistol and fire three times, hitting nothing before limply falling facedown onto the deck.
Tucking the precious cell phone away, Harrison advanced upon the dead men and fired twice more just to make sure they weren’t faking. Pocketing the lighter, he hauled them to the rear
of the speedboat and took over the helm. The boat had started veering out to sea with nobody at the wheel, and he began to head it eastward and back toward Simushir. Then he smiled and changed course to due south, checking the compass on the control panel and the fuel gauge. Yes, there was just enough. Excellent. To hell with Simushir Island. He’d go directly to Japan! There was a breeding ground for great white sharks along the way. He could toss the bodies overboard there and they’d never be found. With any luck, their organization might think the men had killed him and taken the money for themselves. Hmm, it was just possible he could get a replacement payment from Major Fukoka for the Chameleon. That would make three fees for the same item!
Speaking of which… As the speedboat surged forward, Harrison pulled out the cell phone. No calls, eh? Watch this! He hit several buttons in the proper sequence, the scrambled number for Cascade was activated and the first of the relay phones started ringing.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“THERE’S AN OUTGOING cell-phone call from the vicinity of Matua Island,” Akira Tokaido announced calmly, his hands flowing across his silent keyboard. “It’s mobile. Probably a boat or plane. I’m trying for a trace.”
“Carmen, is the dummy ready?” Kurtzman snapped anxiously, wheeling his chair closer.
Masked by the VR helmet, the woman waved a gloved hand. “All set to go,” she said. “Just tell me when.”
“Davis Harrison is calling a farmhouse outside of Dublin, Ireland,” Tokaido announced, both eyes firmly closed. The headphones he wore jumped from the rock music playing. “Ah, a former IRA bomb factory. Clever boy. Okay, the second relay has started…it’s a mining company in Tombouctou….”
“In the eastern mountain range?” Kurtzman asked.
Tokaido merely nodded, concentrating on his task.
“I’ll bet it’s the hideout for those bandits raiding caravans in the area,” Kurtzman muttered, thumping a hand on the armrest of his wheelchair. “The son on a bitch is giving us his goddamn résumé. He probably hid a relay box every place he’s ever done a job.”
The Chameleon Factor Page 21