“It is. And don’t ask what the point is.”
“It’s this. You’re the cobra, we’re a couple of King Groethes.”
Both lost the grins.
“Got the picture now?” Scar said.
“Are we clear on the point?”
“I’ll take your silence and that constipated look as a yes. Now, we’re going to have a talk to a few of the others before we land,” Scar said. “Same drill, same option. We’re going to point out, like the cobras of King Groethe’s time, we are quite prepared to skin, skewer you over a fire. Only we won’t eat you.”
“We’ll feed you to your militant pals.”
Scar fired up another cigarette. “Or we can be your rapture, joy in Paradise or left behind to suffer Hell on Earth. See—” he paused, looked around the corner, lowered his voice “—in a very short while, telling you we’re down to hours, you and the others are going to be freed.”
Dugula felt his head spin. “What?”
“Freedom, Duggie, but only if you follow our explicit instructions.”
One Eye was grinning, squeezing himself again. “Here’s what’s going to happen….”
THE COBRA MAJOR was embroiled in some intense conversation on his satlink, Bolan wishing he could eavesdrop. The difficulty on that matter, however, was twofold, and the whole display struck the soldier as scripted.
So what was new? he thought.
They were in the Gulfstream, somewhere over the Mediterranean, Collins in his com center. Bolan had claimed a seat facing the major, but Collins kept his back turned, which threw lip-reading out the porthole. Then there was Python, looking settled and relaxed in a seat next to his boss. Python was working on a beer, puffing up a storm in a chain-smoking routine that would have cleared out Yankee Stadium. The second problem was the rock music thundering from the boom box between Python’s feet. Bolan could sense Python watching him from behind black sunglasses that rendered his eyes invisible. The guy was good—Bolan had to give him that much, acting as if the moment were simply Happy Hour, unwinding after a long, hard few days of lopping heads, tapping his foot to the music, working on beer and smoke, rocking his head. If the other commandos were annoyed by the ungodly racket, they were either too exhausted, too lost in thought or too grateful to simply be alive to give a damn.
Something, Bolan sensed, was in the works. And it had nothing to do with what he’d been told by Collins, all that debriefing, interrogating-of-prisoners business.
Bolan needed to touch base with Brognola as soon as they landed at Camp Zero. The warrior had made sure that he kept his warbag close at hand during each stop, his own satlink buried beneath weapons and gear. Had it been opened when he was occupied in battle, a minidetector concealed in the bottom of the bag would have alerted him to curious hands. He kept a mini-monitor on his person at all times, and it would flash red if the bag was opened. So far, so good.
Bolan eased back in his seat, looked away as Collins shut down his satlink, stood.
“Turn that shit off,” Collins growled at Python. “And that’s your last beer. What’s the matter with you? I don’t need you guys breathing beer fumes all over the head shed when we land, bunch of fucking drunks can’t even piss straight. We still have work to do.”
Bolan was certain it was an act. He watched as Collins went to the small fridge and helped himself to a beer.
“Stone?”
Bolan faked an inviting smile. “I guess command gets certain perks?”
“Damn right. Want one?”
“I’ll pass.”
Bolan’s gut warned him he needed to stay sharper than ever.
Moments later, Collins landed in a seat, faced Bolan. “We’ve got a few hours to hash out the next step of the program.”
“You’ve already told me. Tour the compound, debrief, days of interrogations…”
“More like weeks, maybe months. What you called the stooges have already learned we’ve got some real bad characters on our hands. Here, you’re going to need this.”
Bolan saw Collins hold out a patch of the American flag.
“Stick that on your left arm. It will allow you free roam of the compound, no Marine watchdogs barking to know what your business is.”
Bolan had already seen this same free pass on the others. He took the Velcro emblem, fastened the straps. He watched Collins watching him.
“Been a helluva run, huh, Stone?”
Bolan felt the weariness settle in. “That it has been.”
“This thing, this war on terrorism, well, I understand the head shed has another round on the drawing board. Something about Indonesia, the Philippines. Bagging a bunch of Abu Sayyaf beauties. You maybe interested?”
“Let’s see how this one shakes out first.”
The Executioner saw the dark hunger dart through the Cobra leader’s eyes. An image of a lion stalking prey flashed to mind.
Collins nodded. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was time.
Warlock had the first three marks in his sights, swiveling to his six, the five-man flight crew in black jumpsuits striding his way. Two were on the payroll, he knew, but three—navigator, flight engineer and radio-operator-loadmaster—were already gone; they just didn’t know it yet.
“Hold up right there, gentlemen. I need a moment with you.”
They parked it near the satellite-intercept-tracking station, Warlock then finding the last two Marines ready to head down the ramp, trail the prisoners being led to their cage by their fellow Marines. “You two soldiers, stand fast!”
“Sir?”
Warlock glanced at Cyclops, the initial play already hashed out between them. Sound suppressors screwed on to their Berettas, Cyclops had the Tranquilizer T-1 loaded with NARCON darts sheathed on his right hip.
“We need your help lugging some gear.”
They hesitated, looked at each other, Warlock simmering inside, aware of their orders, Marines sticking to the book. But they were on the new clock set by Collins, and if it didn’t go down by the numbers in a hurry they were all stuck and screwed.
“What is your major malfunction, soldier?” Cyclops barked.
“Sir, our orders are to remain with the prisoners until they are locked down and Raven One…”
Warlock gritted his teeth, but it was Cyclops who blew his lid, jabbing a finger at the American flag attached to his left arm with Velcro.
“You see this, son?”
“Yes, sir…I—”
“I see I need to refresh your memory, Marine. This means whoever wears one of these gives the orders around here. It means whoever has one of these tells you to do something, you step lively. Since I don’t see either one of you wearing one…
“Shoulder those rifles and shag your asses!” Warlock snarled, and gave Cyclops the nod. “Now, Marines!”
When the Marines did as they were ordered, Warlock whirled in a one-eighty, Beretta in hand. They were in sync, but there was never any doubt in Warlock’s mind. Countless times they had killed more than a few targets in a span of heartbeats before they even knew what hit them.
This time was no different.
Warlock ignored the shock and horror framed on the faces of the three Herc jockeys destined for termination. Three quick taps and they were falling, legs shooting out, skulls thwacking off floorboards. He wasn’t quite sure what he heard behind him, but knew the sound shouldn’t have matched his lethal plugs. Wheeling, he found Cyclops holding the Beretta, spotted neat red holes between the eyes of the Marines.
“Goddammit!” he snarled at Cyclops.
“What?”
“We were told they wanted ten live Marines. I thought we understood each other.”
Cyclops shrugged. “Plenty more where they came from.”
“Ten—you got that? Breathing.”
“Sure. Relax.”
Warlock kept his glare on Cyclops a moment, then turned the Beretta on Captains Benson and Marshall.
“Whoa, what the hell is this?” Marshall cried, throwing his hands up. “We had a deal!”
“Just wanted to see you two jump some. What that means is you two better be worth every penny of twenty million from here on. I want that transponder trashed and five minutes ago. Stay on-line to our frequency.”
“Not a problem,” Marshall said.
Really? Warlock wondered. So why wasn’t Benson quaking in his jumpsuit? What the hell was that in his eyes? Defiance?
“You got a problem, you want to say something, spit it out now, Captain Benson.”
Benson shook his head. “No problem here.”
“So why don’t you look ready to shit yourself like your pilot? How come I think I see some agenda in your eyes?”
“No agenda. I figure you shoot us, who’s going to fly this ship?”
“Trust me, cowboy, I spot cold feet and smell out some magic-show bailing act on your parts, I will shoot you down and I don’t give a rat’s ass if we’re thirty thousand feet up. Know why? Because I can fly this ship my goddamn self.”
“Hey, it’s understood,” Marshall said.
“Then drag these bodies into the cubicles. Leave the ramp down, one of you in the cockpit, one back here. Do not let anyone but us inside. I don’t hear a ‘yes, sir,’ ladies!”
“We got it,” Benson said.
Warlock holstered his weapon. The warbag draped over his shoulder next, he grabbed the handle on the footlocker. Cyclops took the other strap, lifted and they were moving.
Warlock shot his partner a grin. “Don’t drop it.”
He spotted the first sign of fear he could ever recall seeing in the man’s eye as Cyclops looked down, checking to see if the lock was secure.
AS BOLAN DEPLANED behind Collins, warbag on his shoulder, M-16 held low beside his leg, he found a reception committee marching toward the runway. A tall man in black with a full head of gray hair led three other blacksuited men armed with HK MP-5s through the runway lights. Bolan pulled up beside Collins, the other Cobra commandos sweeping past. The soldier stole a few moments to take in Camp Zero.
The ballpark figure was something like two thousand Greek islands, he knew, most of which were in the Aegean Sea, the remainder scattered west in the Ionian. According to Collins, Camp Zero had claimed a piece of rock deep in the southeast Aegean in the Kritiko Pelagos, roughly 120 miles from the southwest shores of Turkey. They were far enough away from commuter ferries, with tourists on island-hopping holiday, cruise ships and such, that Collins claimed they might as well have been at the ends of the earth. It was, supposedly, a covert CIA waystation, Greek officials having long since given American intelligence agencies their blessing when the cold war was in full swing. Later, with all the tension and beating of wardrums between the various countries in the Balkans, it had been expanded to base American troops. It was monitored by cameras, motion sensors ringing the entire shoreline, likewise the hills alive with supertech detection. A little digging, if necessary, and Bolan knew the Farm could confirm the whole slice of information.
Bolan didn’t think it would come down to that. At first surveillance, and he believed that maybe for once Collins told the truth.
The base was snugged in a valley, encompassed by walls of black jagged hills. South, Bolan spotted the squat block of Zero Main, the west end of the structure bristling with antennae, sat dishes, radio tower. The C-130, he found, was parked at the deep north end of Runway One, ramp down. The prisoners had been offloaded, twenty-six Marines, said Collins, to guard the detainees. A sleek Bell JetRanger was sitting quietly on the large helipad near Main, Bolan finding no activity around the compound except for the newcomers pulling up before him.
“Major Collins. Good to see you, sir.”
“Mr. Falconi,” Collins said, “I’d like you to meet Colonel Stone. He’ll be assisting in all processing and questioning of prisoners along with me.”
Falconi held out his hand. “Colonel.”
Bolan shook the proffered hand, nodded, then felt his gut tighten. He would have sworn he was looking at a carbon copy of Collins. “CIA?”
Falconi hesitated, Bolan catching Collins throwing him a look.
“From here on, Colonel,” Collins answered, “the CIA will be a large part of what goes on here. Sitrep, Mr. Falconi.”
“Raven One’s ETA is sixty minutes, sir.”
“The prisoners?”
“Caged and ready for processing, Major.”
Bolan felt his mouth tighten. Caged? He felt a growing sense of urgency in the air, Falconi’s stare narrowing, Bolan picturing the hungry lion again. Every fiber of his being warned him something was seriously wrong here.
Collins checked his watch. “Okay, Mr. Falconi, I want all the Marines but two in the courtroom for a quick brief before the head shed lands. I’ll send two of my own to help watch the prisoners.”
“Yes, sir.”
Collins ran an eye over the three blacksuited men. “Where’s the rest of Predator Five?”
There was a brisk breeze, tinged with the briny smell of Aegean Sea salt swaddling him, but despite the cool wind Bolan felt his blood suddenly run hot with adrenaline, instincts kicking into overdrive, combat radar blipping all over his mental screen.
“With the prisoners, Major.”
“Okay, help get the Marines situated, ten minutes.”
“Aye, aye, Major.”
“Come on, Stone.”
“What happened to the grand tour?”
“No time, Colonel,” Collins said, striding toward the concrete facing of Zero Main, warbag slapping off his back. “The head shed will be hopped up when they touch down. The big shots will want to pick our brains the next twenty-four hours about the mission. No rest for the weary, Colonel, just keeping ourselves juiced on bad coffee and smokes. While we can, we need to get somewhat situated ourselves in our own quarters, dump off our bags. Now, whatever they ask, just tell them the truth about the mission.”
Bolan watched as Collins glanced at his warbag. The truth?
“What about Gambler trying to put an eye in the back of my head?”
“We’ll worry about that if and when it gets to that point. Now, I’m assuming, Colonel, you’d like a little downtime maybe? You’ve got a satlink in the bag you might want to make some calls with before we get started? You do, better do it now because you won’t get another chance for a while, and I can’t guarantee what that while is.”
Bolan felt his heart thumping against his chest, the tension and heat radiating off Collins. Brognola needed an update anyway.
“Twenty minutes should do it.”
“That’ll work,” Collins said.
Bolan looked at the oversize pistol hung in leather on the major’s right hip.
“What’s with the new addition?”
“What?” Collins snapped.
“I know a tranquilizer gun when I see it.”
Collins chuckled. “I have to give you an answer for the obvious?”
“So far, Major, there’s been very little about all this that’s been obvious.”
Collins frowned. “It’s for the prisoners. One of them gets out of line…you have the picture?”
Bolan grunted, then turned as he felt a presence behind him. The soldier called Predator Five was trailing him.
“Would you like some help with your bag, sir?”
“I’ll manage.”
IT WAS ALL Collins could do to keep his nerves from showing, sparking out of his skin. The big bastard, as far as he was concerned, was the first problem that had to go. Stone didn’t know it yet, but he wouldn’t check out of the world, quick and painless. Stay cool, keep a poker face, he told himself, striding down Hallway A, Stone right beside him, the concrete walls shining a brilliant white beneath the stark glare of the overheads. He felt his face go flush from the heat of the moment, feared another minute of walking with the bastard in what was damn near a blinding light and he’d break out in a sweat, Stone—warrior instincts so keen the guy was a
lmost psychic—smelling it out.
The clock was ticking. Everyone on the team knew their role. All they had to do was execute. The last-minute tinkering, Collins feared…
Screw it.
They were there, and it was on.
They were marching past bisecting Hallway B when Collins pulled up, decided to put on a show of checking on the two Marines standing watch over the cage. The prisoners were housed in a steel mesh pen, capable of holding at least a hundred prisoners, mats already distributed, three open commodes. He saw a few hands gripping the mesh, bearded faces and angry eyes aimed at the Marines.
“Step back,” one of the Marines ordered.
“Everything under control, gentlemen?”
Two affirmatives, and Collins began leading Stone down the hallway.
“You don’t mind bunking with me, do you, Colonel?”
Was that a grin he saw dance over Stone’s lips?
“You don’t snore, do you?”
Was the silence meant to fray his nerves?
“Well,” Collins said, as they moved past the iron-barred cell which, he knew, would become Stone’s coffin, “it isn’t the Hyatt, but we’ve got satellite TV, wet bar, our own bathroom and shower. Here we are.”
Collins pulled up in the open doorway of their quarters, his companion hesitating.
“After you, Colonel.”
He saw Stone looking over his shoulder, thinking about something, then turn away, easing into their quarters.
He had to have sensed it coming, but by the time Stone had gripped his Beretta, Collins had the T-1 out and chugging a dart. It impaled him, dead center in the American flag. Collins knew it would take a few seconds for the NARCON to fully kick in, the bastard clawing for his weapon, hanging on to fight back. Two more shots to the stomach, Collins gripped by fear as the big guy fought to stay on his feet, then he drilled his toe into Stone’s groin for safekeeping.
He watched the man jackknife, then collapse.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Executioner would never graduate from the school of “should have, could have, would have.” That was reserved for the losing side, those Monday-morning quarterbacks and cable-news talking heads, all the second-guessing that didn’t mean a damn thing.
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