“And,” Bolan said, “because it’s the local prosecutor and not one from Dade’s home state, the authorities plan to make it stick.”
Picking up his foam cup of coffee, Brognola nodded and leaned back in his chair. Staring into the cup, he swirled its contents and resumed speaking. “You bet they plan to make it stick. A couple of days later, one of his uncles calls the prosecutor, hat in hand, and asks him to reduce the charges. Maybe even consider dropping them. The senator told him the damage to national security and the state’s economy would far outweigh the benefits. The prosecutor told him to take his good old boy politics and shove ’em.”
It was Bolan’s turn to smile. “Good for him.”
“My thoughts exactly. And with a criminal investigation brewing, Sentinel’s board of directors finally stopped sitting on its hands and began taking steps to fire the bastard. That was about a week ago.”
“And now he’s gone. One hell of a coincidence,” Bolan replied.
“No coincidence. Whoever took Dade wanted to make it look like a hit rather than a kidnapping. They burned what appears to be his corpse and that of a woman who was in the house when the hit took place. Police identified her with dental records. She was a hooker from Las Vegas.”
“What about the man?”
Brognola shrugged. “His head was destroyed with a close-range shotgun blast, so we have no dental records. DNA samples taken from cigarette butts indicate Dade had been in the room. But DNA taken from the man’s corpse didn’t match up.”
“So it was a plant,” Bolan stated.
“Right. Whoever did it had to know we’d identify the guy as a ringer in short order. But it did buy them enough time for the trail to go cold.”
“Does Dade’s family know?” Bolan asked.
“Negative. We’re not telling them or the media yet. It helps our cause for whoever did this to think we bought into the ruse.”
“What else do we know?”
Brognola let out a big sigh and vigorously rubbed his eyes with balled fists. The man was notorious for depriving himself of sleep, and his red, watery eyes indicated that was the case this day.
“We’re getting leads from all over, Striker, but the biggest noise seems to be coming from Sierra Leone. Using tail numbers, flight records and eyewitness reports, we tracked a private plane that left Oregon several hours after the kidnapping and high-tailed it to Mexico. The crew apparently ditched the plane there and took another flight to Colombia, where they switched over to Soviet military surplus cargo planes. A couple of DEA informants there saw the whole thing. We found one of the planes in Sierra Leone several hours ago.”
“How do you know Dade was on the flight?”
“A forensics team scoured the thing from stem to stern. We found some of Dade’s hair on the craft. So he, or at least his body, was on the plane at some point,” Brognola replied.
“I assume the Stony Man cyberteam nailed down the plane’s owner.”
“They did,” Brognola said. Rising from his chair, he retrieved a battered leather valise, opened it and rummaged inside for a moment. Extracting a folder from the bag, he made his way to Bolan and fanned through the contents as he went. Setting a photograph in front of the man, Brognola gave him time to study it while he returned to his own seat.
Scanning the photo, Bolan saw a black man with a shaved head and soulless eyes. The man wore jeans and a tattered camouflage shirt, and carried an AK-47 and a battered hand ax. Bolan committed the image to memory.
Brognola withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder and began reciting its contents. “His name is David Sheffield. He’s the son of a British university professor and a Sierra Leonean woman who met back in the 1960s before the country got its independence from the British. Dad split for England in the 1970s, leaving his son and wife to fend for themselves. As a teenager, Sheffield joined the army and actually turned out to be a decent soldier. Then in 1991, he deserted the state’s army and joined the Revolutionary United Front, figuring the long-term payout was better. Like most of those guys, he took on a new name—Talisman.”
“I guess the names killer and rapist already were taken,” Bolan added sarcastically.
“Right. He’s a real sweetie. Recently, he’s distanced himself from the rebel movement but continues to deal in diamonds, guns and fuel. I guess he thinks that makes him a businessman instead of a killer.”
“I don’t know, Hal,” Bolan said. “The evidence is there, but this just makes no damn sense.”
Brognola set down the dossier and nodded. “Agreed. In and of itself the operation is just too big for Talisman to handle. The guy is strictly small-time. Like you said, terrorizing women and children is more his speed. But the facts don’t lie.”
“Maybe Talisman’s working with someone else,” Bolan suggested.
“That’s the working theory. We just have no idea who.”
Bolan took one last nip at the coffee, wrinkled his face and pushed the cup away. “I take it Aaron and the team are trying to fill in the gaps?” Aaron Kurtzman was the computer wizard who fronted the Farm’s cyberteam.
“Right. They’re working overtime,” Brognola said. “Talisman does business with a lot of unsavory characters, so there’s dozens of leads to track down. Barbara is riding herd on the cybercrew, so you know we’ll get some results.”
An image of the honey-blond mission controller filled Bolan’s head and a warmth passed through his body. He knew the woman as a fellow warrior and a lover. Barbara Price was a consummate professional, and one hell of a woman. Bolan trusted her.
“Yeah, she’ll get results,” he said.
Brognola continued. “Whether Dade is a willing participant or an innocent victim matters little to us, Striker. All we care about is getting him back. If the wrong country gets hold of him, it could jeopardize all the work we’ve put into the Nightwind program. It could set us back a decade or more.”
Bolan pondered the big Fed’s words for a moment.
“How soon can you get me to Sierra Leone?” the Executioner asked.
2
Freetown, Sierra Leone
Bolan stomped the brake pedal as the figure staggered into the Jeep’s path. The car jerked to a stop, the force pushing Bolan forward. The safety harness cut into his shoulder, and he steeled himself by gripping the steering wheel and locking his arms straight. The headlights doused the figure in a white glow, and Bolan saw it was a woman. Crimson eclipsed part of her face. With her right hand, she held her left ribs, which were encased in a Kevlar vest.
She gripped a pistol in her left hand.
The hand hung at her side in plain view, not threatening Bolan. A second pistol was holstered on the hip opposite an empty holster. She staggered slowly toward the Jeep, wincing with each step.
What the hell? Bolan shifted the Jeep into Park, reached for the butt of the Desert Eagle, then opened the Jeep door. Setting one foot on the ground, he kept as much of his body as possible inside the vehicle. Jabbing the Desert Eagle through the space between the door and the frame, he drew down on the woman.
“Drop the gun,” he said, “and raise your hands.”
The woman shot Bolan an angry look and spoke through gritted teeth. “We’re losing Talisman,” she said. “We don’t have time for this.”
Bolan heard a hint of an accent and identified it as Russian. It was soft, almost like a fading echo, as though she’d trained very hard to lose it. He could guess at her country of origin. Great. But what did she want with Talisman?
“Lady, either you drop that gun and identify yourself, or I guarantee Talisman will be the least of your worries.”
The woman gave him a hard stare, but dropped her pistol in the dirt.
“My name is Natasha Rytova,” she said. “I’m Russian intelligence. I can tell by your voice that you’re American. Let’s go.”
“SVR?” Bolan asked, referring to Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service.
“Yes, yes. SVR. Of course. Can we go? We m
ight lose them.”
Bolan’s mind raced as he weighed the situation. The woman was right. The longer they stood sparring, the better the chances Talisman—Bolan’s best lead to finding the missing scientist—would slip through his fingers.
The fact was that if she hadn’t stumbled directly into the SUV’s path, he probably would have blown right past her. She could be lying, ready to hit Bolan when he least expected it. But she could be telling the truth, a prospect Bolan found equally disturbing. He wanted to know why Russia cared enough about either Talisman or Dade to send in an operative. If that country’s intervention was about Dade, the implications were even more chilling.
Bolan figured it was in his best interest to keep the woman in his sights.
But he’d do it under his terms.
“Lose the guns,” he said.
“And leave myself defenseless? Go to hell.” The woman was defiant.
“I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you. You stopped me. You’re injured. Drop the guns and I’ll help. Otherwise, I’ll hop back into this vehicle, get the hell out of here and leave you to fend for yourself.”
Rytova wiped some of the blood from her head, studied it for a moment and seemed to consider Bolan’s words.
Tentatively, she unbuckled the pistol belt, letting it slide down her hips and legs until it landed around her feet. She raised her hands and shot Bolan an irritated look. “Now may we go?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Bolan said.
Climbing into the Jeep, he held the Desert Eagle in his left hand and rested his opposite hand on the gearshift as he waited for Rytova to climb into the vehicle. He’d watched her to make sure she didn’t retrieve any of her weapons along the way.
She grimaced as she climbed inside the vehicle.
Bolan shifted and navigated out of the compound. Moments later, the vehicle was racing down one of the main roads into the middle of Freetown.
“You okay?” he asked.
The woman stared ahead. “Someone shot me in the ribs, stomach and kidneys. My vest stopped the bullets, but it hurts to breathe. Another bullet grazed my head.”
“Who shot you?” Bolan asked.
The woman shrugged and immediately winced in pain.
“I’m not sure. Some men I have not met before. I believe the shooter’s name was Cole. He wasn’t one of Talisman’s people.”
“You know most of Talisman’s men?” Bolan was intrigued.
She nodded. “I’ve been watching him for days. But these were not his men. He’s a strong warrior, but his people are unskilled thugs, little boys playing soldier. The men I encountered were professionals. They work for Talisman’s boss.”
“And that would be?”
“None of your business,” she stated.
“Look lady…” he began.
She turned and glared at Bolan. He could tell the effort cost her physically.
“No, you look,” she said. “I have no guns. I don’t know your name. My information is the only leverage I have.”
Bolan clenched and unclenched his jaws. He scanned the road and guided the vehicle into a sharp turn. He heard the tires squeal, felt a slight slip in the back end as the Jeep cornered. Navigating the vehicle back into a straightaway, he mulled the woman’s words and admitted she had a good point.
“When all this is over, you and I are going to have a talk,” he said. “A very long talk.”
“I do not fear you.”
Hell of it was, Bolan could tell she meant it.
“So?” she asked.
“So what?”
“Do you have a name?”
“Cooper,” Bolan said, drawing upon an alias. “Matt Cooper.”
The woman fixed her gaze through the windshield, nodding and absently rubbing her ribs as she did. “You’re American. Are you CIA?”
Bolan shook his head. “Justice Department.”
“Interesting. Why does the American Justice Department care about a small-time hood like Talisman?” she asked.
“To quote someone, none of your business,” Bolan replied.
Rytova’s mouth twisted into a frown. If she had a reply, she kept it to herself. Bolan used the dead air time to check out his surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Talisman.
He reached into a pocket of his combat suit, grabbing a pressure bandage and some packaged alcohol pads. He tossed them into the woman’s lap.
“Here,” he said, staring straight ahead. “These might help.”
“Thank you.”
From his peripheral vision, he saw the woman pull down the lighted sun visor and stare at her reflection as she used the pads to wipe away the blood. She winced when the alcohol seeped into the open wound.
“Your vest is matted with blood,” Bolan said. “Did you lose a lot?”
The woman continued studying her head wound in the mirror, touching it gingerly with the fingers of her right hand.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “But I do feel a little woozy.”
“You going to pass out on me?” Bolan glanced at her.
She gave him an angry look. “I didn’t come this far to quit. I’m not some frail thing who faints at the sight of blood. Can we concentrate on finding Talisman instead of my damn head wound?”
“Sure,” Bolan said.
The Jeep hurtled ahead, occasionally shuddering as it rolled into an occasional pothole. Bolan passed the burned-out remains of a stately building with columns and domes—left over, he guessed, from Sierra Leone’s colonial days—past several smaller buildings and storefronts. Bolan saw occasional clusters of people, the women clothed in colorful dresses, the men in ragged western clothes.
Talisman had gained at least a three-minute lead. That was enough time to disappear into one of the alleys or side roads threading off the main route that led from his compound into Freetown. Or perhaps he’d found refuge in an old warehouse or garage.
Bolan also knew three minutes gave Talisman ample time to call ahead and set up an ambush. The Executioner accepted the risk. Without a doubt, the play had been fraught with danger from the beginning, and he was in too deep to shrink from the challenge.
Glancing into his rearview mirror, Bolan noticed headlights approaching. They began as pinpricks of white interrupting a black background, but swelled in size as they bore down on the Jeep quickly. As the headlights neared the vehicle, they split apart and low rumbles sounded as a pair of motorcycles drove around either side of the Jeep. Both bikers wore black leather jackets and black helmets with clear face shields.
Flashes erupted from either side of the Jeep as the riders caught up with the Jeep and triggered their submachine guns. Bullets drummed hard against reinforced steel as the shooters sprayed the vehicle with autofire.
Bolan glimpsed an approaching biker in his side view mirror and saw the guy fire a burst at the tires with little effect. He guessed that either the man had missed or the tires had been outfitted with special inserts to keep them rolling if punctured.
The other biker came even with the passenger side of the Jeep and loosed a burst of autofire. Bullets collided with bulletproof glass, causing Rytova to flinch and push herself deeper into the seat as she tried to make herself a smaller target.
Trusting his gut, Bolan reached into his shoulder holster, drew the Beretta and handed it butt-first to Rytova. The Russian gave him an uncertain look, then took the weapon. If he’d made a mistake, he’d know soon enough and he’d pay for it with his life.
“Hang on,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Cutting the wheel sharply to the left, he nearly swiped the rider closer to him. The shooter veered into an oncoming lane, firing his submachine gun until it went dry. Bullets sparked and whined off Bolan’s door. With precise movements, the biker let that gun fall limp on its strap, scooped up a second SMG and continued to fire on the Jeep.
Bolan grimly considered the small knots of African men and women standing on the sidelines. A few ran for cover, but others remai
ned rooted where they stood, unable to turn and run away as the deadly tableau unfolded before them. Years of bloody warfare and abuse had left them too shell-shocked to save themselves.
Bolan had blood on his hands this night, but he’d be damned if he’d add innocent blood to the mix.
He mashed the accelerator, drawing more speed from the Jeep’s power pack. He wanted distance from the crowded street, a place where he could reduce the risk to innocent civilians.
As the soldier looked for a side street or an alley, he assessed the situation. Small-arms fire wouldn’t cripple the hulking SUV. So, despite their nimbleness and firepower, the bikers had little chance of stopping Bolan. The armored undercarriage would offer at least some protection against a hand grenade or land mine. The hell of it was, if Bolan knew it, so did they. He assumed they had something much more devastating planned for him.
Two more motorcycles, engines whining, appeared from the darkness and joined in the pursuit. Muzzle-flashes erupted around the Jeep and bullets thudded against the windshield, hood and grille. Bolan didn’t dare return fire, not while even a single innocent life hung in the balance.
But that didn’t mean he was helpless.
Cutting the wheel left, Bolan gunned the engine and again swiped at the motorcycle to his left. The shooter ceased fire, let the SMG fall from his grip and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. The bike engine roared, momentarily drowning out the gunfire, as the rider tried to gain some speed and clear himself from the path of Bolan’s vehicle.
The biker never had a chance.
The Jeep plowed over man and machine, causing the SUV to jerk side-to-side, as though crossing over a speed bump. The three remaining bikers fell back and regrouped. Engines thundering, they formed a triangle and roared toward the SUV as Bolan guided it into a nearby alley.
Chattering weapons, squealing tires and roaring engines assaulted Bolan’s senses as he guided the SUV through the urban canyon. Coaxing more speed from his vehicle, he locked the steering wheel in a death grip and continued on.
Death Gamble Page 4