He complied, pulling himself into a pair of pleated, khaki slacks.
“Can I wear shoes, too? A lot of places won’t let me in with no shoes and no shirt, but I think in California, they’re a little easier on the whole shirtless look,” Kowalski quipped.
The man stepped closer and he recognized him from the gun shop.
“No. I don’t think you’re BATF. And you sure as hell didn’t react to my pals here like anyone in law enforcement.”
“I hope they only got the job because they’re your friends. Because if you hired them to be your muscle on talent, you got a nickel’s worth.”
The gunman smirked and slipped his pistol into his waistband. “If they’re worth a nickel, you’re the whole dollar.”
“I said at the gunstore that I’m a Marine.”
“What division?”
“Fifth Marine.”
“Unit?”
“Twenty-Sixth Expeditionary Force.”
“That’s only a six-month assignment.”
“I’m…I was, I mean…command element. Fulltime,” Kowalski admitted.
“Name’s Jeremiah Watson,” the man said. He took a step forward. “You got discharged?”
“Quiet-like. Our leadership would rather let the blood of Marines spill than have the flow of oil disrupted,” Kowalski said with a grimace. “Any official trial would have brought to light the fact that a leader I thought I could trust was just another lying politician, compromising every freedom away so that those…those animals could have free run of what I fought and bled for!”
“He was not the man of Christ he said he was. We could have told you that,” Watson explained quietly. “And you…”
“While my brothers were dying, and I was bleeding, I kept fighting. But I hurt too many civilians,” Kowalski continued. His forearms swelled, rippling down to his wrists, knuckles cracking and turning white. “That’s what they said. I opened fire on a crowd of noncombatants, but they’re all the same.”
Watson placed his hand on Kowalski’s shoulder. “God is on our side, son.”
“Your side?”
“The Army of the Hand of Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior.”
Kowalski didn’t relax his anger. He’d gotten through the front door. He’d impressed a hate group and ended up hating himself.
“HE’S GOOD. He stuck with the script,” Dr. Jackie Sorenson said, sliding the headphones down past her silken blond hair. She regarded Schwarz and Blancanales, filled with happy memories of the time or two they’d worked together. She breathed out, then looked to the second monitor in the back of Able Team’s van.
“The transponder’s good. A ten-mile tracking radius. We don’t even have to move to keep track of them,” Sorenson added.
Schwarz smirked. “We’ve been working on our hardware between blowing shit up.”
“I presume you mean the Royal we,” Sorenson said, winking at Blancanales.
He managed a smile. “Hey, someone has to be the Ironman whisperer. Lift this, Carl, hold up that transponder, don’t let go of sparkly cord.”
Blancanales put the van in gear and pulled out after giving the AHC men a head start. A ten-mile radius was one thing, since the radio waves sent out could bounce off the atmosphere. In reality, line of sight, two miles to the horizon, was far more reliable, but the processing software made for less guesswork. They had a cushion in case of unexpected circumstances such as a train delay.
The transponder was built into bandage on the back of Kowalski’s heel, right where blisters would form. Full of transistorized wiring, it was the only way for them to disguise the fact that it was a signaling device. A cell phone or a pager, by its very nature, would be confiscated and even powered off or thrown away to keep the user from communicating with the outside world. The bandage, however, wouldn’t be assumed to be anything more than it was. The technology inside the flat little transceiver taking every advantage of advanced miniaturized electronics to stack the circuit boards for transmission processes into the transponder.
Sorenson had been briefed on the tracker tag, as was David Kowalski when it was adhered to his heel. As a sacrificial lamb, he was relying on the members of Able Team to cover his back. Before Kowalski was brought out, Schwarz had curled into the shadows behind a garbage Dumpster, a silenced Colt M-4 Commando trained on the doorway. Blancanales had been in another position, on a rooftop, his own silenced rifle ready to chop down anyone intent on harming the young blacksuit.
The silence was brittle enough that when the phone rang, Schwarz nearly leaped on it.
“We hear you,” Schwarz said matter-of-factly, the humor drained from his voice. Relief seemed to sweep over him in the next moment.
“Striker’s okay,” he announced.
Sorenson looked surprised. “What happened?”
“Adonis and Dark stole the SmarTruck. Striker did his magic, though, limiting civilian casualties to zilch, and killing almost everyone on the other team.”
“Except the helicopter crews, and I presume Adonis and Dark.” Blancanales spoke up.
Sorenson sighed. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“That’s the thing. Usually he walks right over the opposition. To be that close…” Schwarz began.
“Gadgets, these are the guys who put Ironman in the hospital,” Blancanales stated. “It could have been Striker laying dead when they got through.”
“But he’s not,” Sorenson stated. “He’s alive, and he’s still fighting.”
The Able Team van sped along, keeping pace with the young man who was in their charge, holding a little more hope than they did moments earlier.
SABLE BURTON FELT the water slosh down over her and she prayed for it to sweep away the caked mess that was on her body. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to separate strands that were glued together by dried blood, leaving it with the consistency of straw even while under the assault of the shower nozzle. She pulled hard, feeling the strands pull free from her scalp, and she whimpered, but after an eternity of lather and hot water, she started feeling free of the hardened muck in her hair.
She didn’t want to look at the drain, her stomach twisting at the mere thought.
Instead, she threw open the shower curtain and grabbed for a towel. She blotted her eyes, then saw Bolan, cleaning out the scratches on his face with iodine.
“Oh…”
“Your virtue is safe with me,” he told her.
Burton tucked the towel under her armpits, covering her nudity as best she could. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? Needing to wash up?” Bolan asked. He shot her a glance and she could tell that she wasn’t anything special that he hadn’t seen before. She looked and felt exactly like a drowned rat, her hair tumbling in tangles around her face. “This is a rare opportunity for me. I usually don’t get much time for a shower after a bad skirmish.”
“The drain’s all filled with bloody hair,” Burton mentioned. Queasiness swept her again and she didn’t even dare look back at the tub.
“I’ll clean the drain.”
Burton rushed past him and out into the next room. The locker room was part of the Illinois Air National Guard, O’Hare International Airport Air Reserve Station. Once home of the 126th Air Refuelling Wing, the facilities had been emptied out in 1999 as part of the shutdowns implemented by the Base Realignment and Closure Commission. However, that didn’t mean that Colonel Brandon Stone couldn’t arrange for having a little activity on the premises. The facilities were capable of providing residence for one hundred men. Most of the time, the station was used by DEA and Border Patrol agents for the sake of interdicting smugglers trying to bring in narcotics across Lake Michigan, but for now, the place was empty, except for her, Stone and his mysterious pilot, Jack.
She saw a packet resting on one of the benches. Jack Grimaldi was off to one side, trying to look everywhere but at the short, half-naked woman in front of him. His face was reddened and he had to clear his throat before he could speak.
> “Fresh clothes for you,” he said. He ran his fingers through his short hair and turned away.
“I was showering long enough for you to go shopping?” Burton asked. She opened the package and saw a Chicago White Sox sweat suit, black with white silk-screen lettering. “The souvenir shop.”
“Yeah. Got your size off the clothes you were throwing away,” Grimaldi answered. He turned his back to her, granting her some privacy. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” Sable told him. She noticed a sports bra and shorts were part of the package, as well. “No panties.”
“What?” Grimaldi asked.
“You didn’t buy any panties,” Burton told him.
Grimaldi blushed. “Well, they looked clean enough…”
“Clean enough?” Burton asked. “Women are not like men. They just can’t step out of the shower and put on the same underwear they were wearing before!”
“It’ll only be for a little while, until I get you home,” Grimaldi said.
“You found a bra. Go get me some panties.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Grimaldi told her. She could tell he wasn’t thrilled with giving her the news.
Burton’s shoes, only slightly spattered with droplets of blood, were resting on the floor under the bench. She quickly got into the clothes and sat to put on her shoes.
“You all right with me coming out now?” Bolan asked from the bathroom.
“Yeah,” Burton announced. “I’m as clean as I can feel wearing yesterday’s panties.”
“Excuse me?” He came out, face covered with a couple puffy new scratches, but otherwise still looking as rugged and handsome as the first day she’d seen him. She tried to dismiss her attraction to him.
It wasn’t working.
Burton blushed and looked away. “Never mind, Colonel.”
“You’re sure you didn’t get hurt?” Bolan asked her. He touched her chin softly, looking at her face. “You got bruised.”
“Dark was toying with me,” Burton answered. “Those are his fingerprints.”
She was ashamed at letting herself get touched by that madman. She would have given anything to crawl under a rock, when Bolan’s hand rested gently on her shoulder.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. He won’t harm you,” Bolan told her.
“Want me to get an irregular to pick her up and take her back home?” Grimaldi asked.
“That’d be fine,” Bolan said.
“But—”
“But nothing,” the Executioner cut her off. “I have my job to do, and I can’t do that with a civilian in tow, even if she is a damn good street racer and knows a few things about fencing.”
Burton chewed her lower lip, the reproach as stinging as any slap across her cheek ever was. She could see that Bolan immediately regretted being hard, but he wasn’t backing down.
“I’m sorry. People who are around me tend to end up dead,” Bolan continued.
She nodded. “You’re right.”
His big hand gently cupped her cheek. “You did well. You helped me as much as anyone I know ever could. I just can’t bear the thought of seeing an innocent hurt.”
Burton met his steely blue eyes, seeing them full of warmth. “I’ll never see you again.”
Bolan smiled slightly. “No.”
The woman stepped back from him, a bittersweet smile straining her face. She walked over to a small table at the other end of the locker room. Grimaldi was on his cell, calling for the ride. She looked at a thermos of coffee next to a pile of papers. She bent to get herself a cup, when she saw the map of Wisconsin. The town of Sparta had been circled in pencil. She froze as if she were looking at a viper.
“Sable, is there something wrong?”
“You’re going to Sparta?” she asked.
Bolan stepped up to the table. “Yeah. You know something about that?”
“Fifteen miles out of Sparta, we acquired an old lumber mill,” Sable answered. “It’s where I worked on perfecting the SmarTruck’s offensive laser.”
“But the truck only had a 25 mm cannon,” Bolan stated.
“The laser’s perfected, but we’re not showing the U.S. Army until we get more money. Terin’s dangling the MARS before them as bait for us to get the contracts for improving the vehicle, and then we’ll take the job for the laser to insure renewal of development on the truck. In any case, the laser is ready. And we even field tested it.”
“In Wisconsin?” Bolan probed.
Burton shrugged. “There were tons of logs, the weather conditions were crap and we tested year-round. The summers were as dry as most deserts, the winters were wet, soggy and foggy. We were able to make sure the laser worked in every condition. I personally poured bags of imported Arabian sand into the electronics to make sure it wouldn’t clog up.”
“Were the MARS tested there, too?” Bolan asked.
“At a quarry, two miles up the road,” Sable said. “It’s an active quarry, but Terin paid the owner to let us use high explosives on the site.”
Bolan looked at the map, grim determination etching his features. “I’m still not bringing you with me.”
“Do you know what to look for?” Burton asked.
Bolan narrowed his eyes. “I know how to scout a hardsite.”
“But you wouldn’t know what, if any, high-tech weaponry they had on site. I know the laser, divided up into its primary components, looks like the leftovers of a microwave oven or a VCR.”
Bolan looked at Grimaldi.
“So do I put the irregular on hold?” Grimaldi asked.
“You’re supposed to back me up in keeping bystanders out of my fights,” Bolan said.
Grimaldi shrugged. “She’s the rocket scientist, Sarge.”
“I thought you were a colonel,” Burton said.
“He got promoted when he started kicking terrorist ass on a regular basis,” Grimaldi explained.
“Ah.”
“That’s the point. She’s a rocket scientist, not a commando,” Bolan told Grimaldi.
“I only dabble in rocket science. I am a professor of quantum electronics and laser physics. And I’m not asking to be given an M-16 and go blazing into action. But I do know what the MARS components look like.”
“Radar is emitted electromagnetic energy,” Grimaldi said, matter-of-factly. “The MARS is sensitive to those emissions, right Professor?”
“Then it reinforces that lock with a standard laser targeting system, like on the Maverick and Paveway II Air to Ground missiles,” Burton said. “Redundant systems.”
Bolan took a deep breath. “You do what I say.”
She raised her hand. “Girl Scout’s honor.”
Bolan narrowed his eyes. “I read your file. You were no Girl Scout.”
Burton lowered her hand. “That’s kind of creepy that you know about me, and I know nothing about you.”
“I’m Dark’s flipside. The only difference is, I don’t believe there are acceptable civilian casualties,” the Executioner told her.
“In other words, you’re going to remind me every step I take that I am in danger, and I have to follow your lead.”
“Precisely.”
Burton folded her arms. “So when are we flying out to Sparta?”
“Let’s at least get you a jumpsuit,” Bolan said. “Jack…”
“Already calling for an irregular to get some proper clothing. We’ll be off the ground in an hour,” Grimaldi called back. He grumbled under his breath as he put the phone to his ear. “Looks like I’m going shopping for panties anyhow.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Here,” Watson said to Kowalski. They sat in the back of the Chevy Suburban as it wound along the road. Sunset was quickly approaching, the skies splashed crimson.
Kowalski found himself wondering if it were a portent of blood yet to be spilled.
He looked down and saw the butt of a handgun being offered to him. “A gun?”
“You bought and paid for it,” Wats
on explained.
The U.S. Marshall accepted the pistol, the exact one he’d picked out at the gunshop. He felt the balance of it, then smirked, stuffing it into his waistband. He let his shirt drape over it.
“It’s not loaded,” Watson informed him.
“No kidding?”
“Well, you—”
“I put it away so nobody looking in the car window would see me waving a gun around,” Ski growled. “Want to pull over at the nearest AT&T store so I can buy you a fucking clue phone?”
Watson glowered. “I don’t appreciate that language.”
“And I don’t appreciate amateur hour. Pull this heap over!”
“You think we’re going to let you go like that?” Watson asked.
Kowalski leaned forward and grabbed the chin of the man sitting across from him. It was the guy who’d had his face ground across the wall. He screamed as tender, torn flesh was squeezed hard, blood still soaking a handkerchief he was pressing to the slashed wounds. “Want a reminder of what I’m capable of? You think you can stop me with this penny-ante bullshit? They’re chump change, and I’m a solid-gold, twenty-dollar piece.”
He slapped the man on his ravaged cheek and leaned back, stuffing his finger into Watson’s face. “You got something that impresses me, show it. Up until now, though, I haven’t seen anything other than a bunch of jerk-offs who probably masterbate to shooting at pictures of racial stereotypes.”
“I will not be taunted in this—”
Watson stopped talking, unable to speak. An iron grip was on his throat, and the hate in his eyes was replaced by terror as he saw his reflection in the shiny metallic box magazines Kowalski withdrew from the militiaman’s pocket. With one hand, the ex-Marine fed one of the magazines into the butt of the .45, while the other still held its cruel mastery over Watson’s windpipe.
Kowalski’s pistol came up, and only then did the stranglehold disappear. The sound of the slide snapping back and forth resounded through the SUV and everyone looked back at him.
“Now, if anyone starts shooting, everyone dies,” Kowalski said, glowering. He leveled the barrel at Watson’s nose, so he could see right down into its depths at the round tip of the 230-grain hardball round. Only the sound of the safety clicking on brought even a shiver of a reaction to the militiaman.
Season of Slaughter Page 14