Blood Vortex

by Don Pendleton

  Graffe had never shot a man, or even fired at one, but he’d been through normal military service and believed he could defend himself if threatened at his destination. As to whether that defense would be effective, he supposed that only time would tell.

  And by the time he knew that it was not...well, that would be too damn bad.

  Thinking of sudden death—his own—Graffe discovered that a night flight over trackless jungle in a helicopter, although frightful, did not qualify in fact as his worst fear.

  South Wing, Las Palmas

  Bolan’s rifle grenade struck the door to suite 309 dead center, detonating on impact and blowing the shattered door off its hinges, spraying the room with wooden shards ranging in size from splinters to jagged chunks the size of banquet serving platters.

  A cloud of smoke obscured the suite’s entrance, but the Executioner didn’t let that stop him as he charged full-tilt across a strip of manicured grass. He had the Steyr’s fire selector set for 3-round bursts, his index finger on the rifle’s trigger as he reached the suite’s threshold then plunged into the room beyond.

  He spotted four men inside—the two he had seen entering, plus two more who would be the suite’s designated occupants. One of the four was down and out, a shaft of wood the size of a large chef’s knife jutting from his forehead, while his bearded face below the spike was masked in blood.

  Three others were in shock from the explosion, but that did not mean they were about to face their would-be executioner without a fight. Two brandished pistols, while the odd man out held a Belgian FN P90 submachine gun like the one Bolan had spotted in his first strike of the evening.

  The three jihadists opened fire on Bolan, more or less in unison, just as Adira Geller followed him inside the suite. Ducking to save herself, she hit the ruined carpet belly-down, angling for target acquisition with her M4A1 carbine.

  Bolan got there first, zipping the submachine-gunner with three 5.56 mm NATO full-metal-jacket boat tail rounds across his sunken chest and blowing him away. He went down firing, his dead finger locked around the P90’s trigger, spraying FN 5.7 mm slugs in a wide blazing arc as he fell.

  At least one of those projectiles struck a taller gunman standing to his right, spinning that guy halfway around and knocking him into Geller’s line of fire, her M4A1 stuttering and finishing the work his pal had started a split second earlier.

  The sole surviving gunman hesitated, Glock in hand, and stared death in the face. It didn’t seem to worry him unduly as he asked his uninvited guests, “Who are you?”

  “You can call me ‘Karma,’” Bolan answered.

  “Ah. Americans.”

  “You’re half right,” Geller chimed in from the floor, still sighting down her carbine’s fourteen-inch barrel at the last man standing.

  Smiling, the gunman sneered. “A Jewess, yes? I will not plead for mercy from your kind.”

  “It’s just as well,” Bolan replied, firing another 3-round burst just as Geller squeezed off half a dozen rounds of her own.

  The firestorm caught their adversary with his pistol rising, but he never got the chance to use it. Slugs ripped into him, lifted him off his feet and hurled him back across the nearer of the suite’s two king-size beds, bouncing in transit, rolling through an awkward somersault before he dropped from sight.

  Geller scrambled to her feet as Bolan moved around the bed, confirming that the fourth man would require a miracle to rise again. Already moving toward the blown-out door, he told her, “Time to leave before SEBIN drops in.”

  “Maybe it’s time to take them on,” she answered.

  “Free will and all that,” Bolan said. “But I intend to work plan A until it falls apart.”

  “And then? What is your plan B?”

  Already on the threshold, passing through, Bolan replied over his shoulder, “I’ll be making that up as I go.”

  Chapter Ten

  Colonel Pérez entered suite 309—or what remained of it—with Major Khosa on his heels. Six SEBIN guards remained on the concrete walk outside. Three others were already in the suite, surveying four dead Arabs and associated damage from small-arms fire and explosions.

  “More grenades,” Khosa said.

  “But not the same, sir,” a SEBIN master sergeant advised the Pakistani.

  “How so?”

  “The first grenade, sir, in the north wing bathroom, was a fragmentation hand grenade.”

  “And this one?” Pérez asked, although he had an inkling of the answer he would receive.

  “Fired from a launcher of some kind, sir. You’ll notice how the door exploded inward upon impact. My first impression tells me it was a rifle grenade. If not, perhaps fired from a larger single-shot launcher.”

  “Why single shot?” Pérez inquired, hoping the question did not make him seem foolish.

  “Because, sir, only one was fired, to clear the doorway, after which the raider came inside. If he was armed with a repeating launcher—say a Milkor MGL or Russian RG-6—I think he would have fired off more than one.”

  “And all of this?” Khosa asked with a sweeping gesture that encompassed scattered rifle cartridges.

  “All the same caliber, Major,” the sergeant said. “No rifles using 5.56 mm were issued to the visitors.”

  “But it’s a caliber some of our soldiers use,” Pérez observed.

  “Yes, sir. The FNC assault rifle and the M249 light machine gun use that caliber.”

  “And have your personnel assigned to guard Las Palmas been supplied with either weapon?” Khosa asked.

  Pérez saw where the Pakistani’s questioning was headed and he interrupted, asking Khosa, “Would you blame our soldiers for these killings, Major?”

  “I blame no one, Colonel,” Khosa said. “I simply asked—”

  “Sergeant,” Pérez cut in, “are any of our guards carrying either weapon that you just described?”

  “No, sir,” the noncom answered. “They have no light machine guns and are armed with Russian AK103 rifles. As you know, Colonel, the AK103s feed larger cartridges, M43 rounds in 7.62 mm.”

  Turning back to Khosa, Pérez said, “And there you have it, Major. If that puts your mind at ease, may we move on?”

  “Colonel, I only meant—”

  Before he could explain, a SEBIN corporal intruded on the murder suite, snapped to attention and saluted Pérez. “Colonel,” he said, “I have important news.”

  “Which is...?”

  “The helicopter you expected is arriving, sir, on the east parking lot.”

  Pérez nodded. “Dismissed, Corporal,” the colonel replied. Facing Khosa, he said, “Salvation from Caracas is upon us, Major. Shall we go and welcome it?”

  Perhaps uncertain of Pérez’s mood, Khosa replied, “I shall be happy to accompany you, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, Major,” Pérez replied. “I must warn you, however, that our Deputy Minister of Defense will not appreciate insinuations as to loyalty among our troops.”

  “Colonel, I only meant—”

  “I know exactly what you meant,” Pérez said, moving from the suite that smelled of death and smoke into the warm night air outside.

  * * *

  The Eurocopter AS532 Cougar was hovering above one of the parking lots that flanked Las Palmas on two sides. Sitting upright with every muscle in his body tensed, Deputy Minister Wilmer Graffe focused his mind on touching down safely and stepping onto solid asphalt after hurtling through the night at treetop level from Caracas to the posh resort.

  No, scratch that. It had been a posh resort, beloved by wealthy tourists, some of them top-ranked celebrities from films and television. Now, from what Graffe had heard, the place would need a total sweep by crime scene cleaners and might still be forced to close when word of murders perpetrated there spread far and wide.

  Whatever else one thought
of the nation’s president, he had proved an epic failure at restricting media access to stories that made his regime sound like a leaky ship of fools.

  And if that were the case, Graffe admitted to himself, he had to be traveling in steerage, far belowdecks, near the stinking engine room and cargo hold.

  The chopper settled down on its tricycle landing gear, and only then did Graffe realize that he had held his breath, unconsciously, during the past minute or more. Now he took care to let the pent-up air escape slowly, avoiding what might be mistaken for a huge sigh of relief.

  Unbuckling his safety harness, the deputy minister did not leave his seat until the aircraft’s twin turboshaft engines stilled and its rotors, fifty-one feet in diameter, slowed to the point of sagging slightly from their topside rotor mast. At last, he rose on legs that trembled slightly before he commanded them to move and ducked his head to miss the cabin’s low ceiling, proceeding toward the chopper’s sliding exit door.

  A group of men awaited him on the tarmac. Some of them wore SEBIN uniforms and carried automatic rifles. Two in the front row were dressed in business suits, and Graffe recognized one of them as Colonel Miguel Pérez. That made the other Major Riaz Khosa, Pakistani cohost of the meeting that had now been shot to hell and gone.

  Graffe ignored the men in uniform who’d raised their right arms to salute him, heading straight for the two officers allegedly in charge.

  Colonel Pérez tried to be stoic, putting on his poker face, but Graffe still saw worry in his eyes.

  Khosa, by contrast, seemed at ease, perhaps believing that his status as a foreign national would spare him from reprisals for the failure of his botched collaboration with SEBIN.

  We’ll see about that, Graffe thought as he approached.

  More important men than Riaz Khosa had been lost in Venezuela over time, none seen again, although it was presumed that all were dead.

  Pérez began to speak. “Deputy Minister, I must apologize—”

  “Are you responsible for these events?” Graffe asked, interrupting him.

  “No, sir! Of course not!”

  “In which case, can you tell me who is?”

  “Um, no, sir.”

  “In that case—”

  It was the colonel’s turn to interrupt. “But there has been another killing, sir, just before you landed.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Graffe blurted out. “Show me!”

  * * *

  “Reinforcements?” Geller asked.

  Bolan watched two more men in suits unloading from the chopper, followed by another four in SEBIN uniforms, armed and trying to scan all directions simultaneously.

  “Not enough of them for that,” he said. “My guess, Caracas would have sent thirty or forty, minimum, to supplement security.”

  “What then?” asked the Metsada agent.

  Bolan delayed his answer for a moment, noting how the ground crew stiffened to attention, all but two of them saluting the first man who’d stepped out of the helicopter. “You see that guy with the mustache?” he asked.

  “The others show respect for him,” she said.

  “Better. They fear him. He’s the new honcho in charge.”

  From where they stood in darkness, peering from the shadow of a stand-alone gymnasium for guests of the resort, Bolan knew he could drop the new arrival everyone was fawning over with his Steyr AUG. The range was something like 150 yards, just under half of the rifle’s effective range, one-fifth its outside limit, and no problem for the Swarovski scope.

  He didn’t try it, though. A long shot now, even a burst that took down all six helicopter passengers, was rushing it and wouldn’t faze the other terrorists sequestered at Las Palmas.

  “Well?” Geller prodded him. “What now?”

  “They’re just about to give the boss bad news,” Bolan replied. “We need to let him check it out before we drop the other shoe.”

  “What shoe?” Geller asked.

  “Not important. Look, they’re on the move.”

  Downrange, the new arrivals and their welcoming committee were proceeding toward the south wing of Las Palmas, not quite double time but close to it.

  When they’d passed out of sight, Bolan turned to Geller and said, “Okay. Round three.”

  “In which direction?”

  “They’re heading south, and we’ve already hit the east wing. I’d prefer to keep them running for a bit. Your call, whether we go for north or west.”

  “North, then,” she said. “It’s farther for them to come back.”

  “Right. North it is,” Bolan replied. “Now, all we have to do is duck a few patrols along the way.”

  Suite 309

  The blood and stench took Wilmer Graffe’s breath away. He heard Oscar Sambrano, standing on his left, swallow as if the horror of it nauseated him.

  “Good God!” Graffe muttered. Then, recovering, he asked Colonel Pérez, “What happened here?”

  “Sir, we believe the door was forced by some kind of grenade,” Pérez replied. “Part of this damage comes from the explosion, and the rest...well, you can see, Deputy Minister.”

  “Which visitors are these?” Graffe inquired.

  “Al-Qaeda and Hamas,” his guide replied. “The others were Colombian and Irish.”

  “Where are they? Not rotting in their rooms?”

  “No, sir,” Pérez assured him. “By my order, they are in the kitchen’s walk-in freezer. These will join them momentarily. I was examining the scene when you arrived.”

  “Yes, yes. I understand. You have no other morgue facilities.”

  “None have been needed in the past, sir.”

  “What about these cartridges?” Graffe demanded.

  “Sir, the killer has a rifle that fires 5.56 mm ammunition. None such has been issued to my guards. The smaller casings are from a P90 submachine gun, lying over there.” Pérez pointed toward one of the dead Arabs, lying with the SMG beside an outstretched hand.

  “The killer left a gun behind?” Graffe asked.

  “No, Deputy Minister,” Pérez replied after a fleeting hesitation. “After the first incident, the guests would have insisted on leaving unless...”

  “You gave them weapons?” Graffe felt heat rising in his cheeks.

  “No, sir!” Pérez replied. “I mean to say, the weapons were supplied on loan. Of course, they would have been collected prior to anyone departing from Las Palmas.”

  “Ah. Well, in that case, Pérez, have you lost your goddamned mind? Are you insane, Colonel?”

  “No, sir! I thought—”

  “That arming all the delegates, when some are hostile to each other, was a good idea?”

  “Compared to standing by and watching while the meeting fell apart...yes, sir.”

  “Absolutely incredible,” Graffe snarled.

  The Pakistani ISI agent spoke up. “Deputy Minister, may I say something?”

  Graffe turned on him, grated, “Will it help us somehow, Major Khosa?”

  “Sir, it seems unlikely that the delegates have turned upon each other. They were visibly disturbed by a report that two of their number—the Filipinos—had been killed upon arrival in your country.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Graffe told him. “I also lost one of my men at the same time.”

  “But none of the other anticipated visitors were present then,” Khosa replied. “Am I correct, Deputy Minister?”

  “The shooters in that case—a man and woman, if we can believe the witnesses—have not yet been identified.”

  “And there you have it, sir. Outsiders likely bear responsibility for all that’s happened here.”

  “I see,” Graffe replied. “Instead of choosing suspects from among the meeting’s delegates, I must suspect the entire fucking world at large? Is that your great solution, Major?”

 
“Sir, I—”

  Khosa never had a chance to finish, to explain himself. Instead, the pop and crackle of gunfire reverberated through Las Palmas, coming from a distance but still sharp and clear.

  “Now what in God’s good name is that?” Graffe blurted.

  “My guards,” Pérez answered. “They’ve spotted someone. Let us go!”

  North Wing of Las Palmas

  No one was immune to an occasional surprise, be it a birthday party or a lethal ambush.

  Bolan had no birthday coming up, and while he would have said he was prepared for anything SEBIN could throw at him this night, a trio of Las Palmas guards had pulled a fast one on him, huddling in a stairwell of the north wing just as Bolan and Geller stepped into their sights.

  And in the fleeting second when they might have ended it, the guards furnished support for that old saw “haste makes waste.”

  They should have waited for another moment, under cover, guaranteeing target acquisition as two strangers dressed in camouflage rounded a corner, stepping into range. Instead, one of the lookouts literally jumped the gun, spraying a burst of automatic fire a full twelve inches over Bolan’s head, pockmarking stucco without hitting either of his marks.

  And that turned out to be an unforgivable mistake.

  The other sentries opened fire in unison, by which time Bolan and Geller had retreated out of sight. Rude shouts in Spanish echoed from the stairwell as the shooters piled out, giving chase. There was no time for planning, only making tracks with no clear destination fixed in mind.

  “Where are we going?” Geller asked him as they ran.

  “Not far,” Bolan said, stopping short. “Cover me.”

  “Do you see any cover here?” she challenged.