Missile Intercept

by Don Pendleton

  The Mexican groaned. “Let us go now. We can help you, amigo.”

  “Sí,” the Panamanian added. “We are mucho sorry for the problem before. We just like to have a little fun, that’s all.”

  Yi ignored the pleas and speed-dialed a number on his cell phone. It rang only once before a voice answered.

  The colonel spoke in Korean, knowing that neither the Mexican nor the Panamanian would be able to follow the conversation. “We are ready at the target. Are your men ready with the transportation?”

  “Yes. We are standing by at the designated point.”

  Yi disconnected. The trucks were there. They needed only to retake the missiles now.

  He thought about the captured Cuban. Without knowing if the man had talked, or how much he had divulged about the ongoing plan, it was impossible to judge their chances for complete success. Still, what did the Cuban really know? He knew about the missiles, and he knew which foreign powers were involved in the transaction. With that information in their hands, the Americans could surmise that the reacquisition of the missiles was a possibility. Eventually, this fact would become obvious to all involved, but the timing of this revelation was critical. It would not do to have the enemy alerted too soon about the involvement of the Iranians. Thus, it was better that this Cuban loose end be tied up quickly.

  Yi called the Black Dragon, who answered after the first ring.

  “What is your status?” Yi asked.

  “We have left the airport and are en route to the location,” the Black Dragon said. “We have met with our contact here, and he has supplied the necessary information and equipment. We should have the assignment completed shortly.”

  “Very well,” Yi said. “Once you have accomplished the task, proceed to the next rendezvous point. We will meet you there.”

  After hearing the acknowledgment, Yi disconnected. He had immense trust in the Dragon’s ability to carry out the delegated assignment successfully. It was now time to complete this phase.

  Yi checked with the scouts, who reported only two sentries guarding the building. Ordinarily, Yi would have ordered the scouts to tactically neutralize them, but doing so in this instance would have international repercussions. It was one thing to kill a few puppet soldiers from South Korea, or even some Americans in the DMZ, but killing two Panamanian nationals in their own land could adversely affect his country’s future usage of the canal. Retaking the missiles could be labeled “a recovery of illegally seized property,” even though they had been originally seized due to the UN charter prohibiting sale of weaponry to his country. The legitimacy of such a decree could always be disputed and ignored.

  “Scouts, neutralize the sentries as previously directed,” Yi said into his radio. “Perimeter men, prepare the breaches in the fence line.”

  He lifted the night-vision binoculars and watched as the two scouts approached the Panamanian sentries, while other Black Tigers crawled to the fence with the cutting instruments. Both guards were standing casually, smoking, their weapons slung haphazardly on their shoulders.

  The first Black Tiger crept closer to the sentries, one of whom seemed to notice something moving toward them. The approaching Black Tiger began a quick sprint, covering the distance between them in scant seconds. He leaped into the air and delivered a quick flying kick to the back of the nearer man. The cigarette tumbled from the other sentry’s mouth as he tried to unsling his weapon, but the Black Tiger landed in a fighting stance and incapacitated him with a few deft blows.

  Yi scanned the rest of the area. Three of his men had moved forward to cut entry points through the chain-link fence. They stood by in silent readiness, signaling that their tasks had been completed. Yi ordered the remainder of his team to move in and secure the warehouse. He watched through the night-vision goggles as the other Black Tigers ran across the clearing as the men at the fence peeled back the metal squares in synchronous fashion.

  The Tigers descended upon the warehouse, and within ninety seconds the team leader advised that the building was secure. Yi ordered the Panamanian sentries to be brought inside, and then switched his radio frequency to that of the convoy.

  “We have secured the facility,” he said. “You may now enter.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Yi allowed himself a slight smile. This part of the mission had gone off without a hitch. He could not help but wonder how the Black Dragon was faring farther north, in Mexico.

  La Palacio de Oro Hotel

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  THE HOTEL SUITE was spacious and well furnished. In the anteroom beyond the bedroom, two Mexican marines with MP-5s stood guard by the door, and Sergeant Martinez sat in a chair opposite Bolan and Grimaldi. They watched and listened as Special Agents Chong and Stevenson interviewed the Cuban, who had identified himself as Raul Espinoza. He had told them about his presence in the country and his connection to the Mexican cartel. Even though Espinoza had laid things out in a straightforward manner, admitting he was a frequent participant in moving drugs from South America through Cuba and into Mexico, it was obvious that he was holding something back. The Cuban had hinted at having something very significant to trade, but remained coy.

  “Gimme a deal in writing,” Espinoza demanded. “Then I’ll tell you what you wanna know.”

  Both special agents looked frustrated. Bolan wanted to take a crack at the interrogation, but he remained passive. This was the FBI’s show, and he had to let them run it, at least for the short term.

  “Gimme a cigarette,” Espinoza said. “And what about some room service?”

  Grimaldi volunteered to go get a pack and headed for the door.

  “Make it a big cigar instead,” Espinoza said. “A cubano, if you can find one.”

  Grimaldi stepped next to one of the marines, opened the door a crack, looked down the hallway and then quickly slipped out.

  “Let’s get back to business,” Stevenson said.

  Espinoza leaned back in the soft easy chair and looked at Martinez. “Hey, jefe, can you get someone to make me some Cuban-style beans and rice?”

  Martinez remained silent, shooting him a hard stare.

  Bolan knew the loss of the three marines was weighing heavily on the man. He put a hand on Martinez’s shoulder.

  “Don’t let him get to you.”

  Martinez took in a deep breath, his mouth twisting into a scowl, and exhaled loudly. “Sí, I know. He is a pig, but a useful pig.” He stood and headed for the door.

  Bolan stood, too.

  “Hey, jefe!” Espinoza called out. “You gonna go see ’bout my food?”

  Chong’s head whipped around and he held up his hand. “No food until we finish this interview.”

  “Relax,” Bolan said. “We just need some air.”

  They went to the door and Martinez opened it a crack, repeating Grimaldi’s pattern, and then both men slipped into the hallway.

  As they walked to the elevators, Martinez shook his head. “I wish we could have a crack at him,” he said. “Those two...” He shook his head. “They are very inexperienced.”

  Bolan nodded and took out his sat phone. “Let me see if my friends were able to turn up anything regarding that other matter we talked about.”

  Martinez nodded and pushed the button for the elevator. “Let us go up to the roof. The reception will be better.”

  The elevator doors opened and they both stepped in. They were on the sixth floor, and Martinez pressed the button for the twelfth. After riding up in silence to the top floor, they headed for the stairway that led to the roof. Something ground under the sole of Bolan’s boot in the stairwell. He glanced down and saw it was a tiny stone.

  As they made their way onto the roof, their boots made crunching noises. The Executioner did a quick scan, noting that the tarred surface was covered with fine stones.
The stone in the stairway indicated that someone had visited this area. Seeing no one, Bolan scanned the roof again and saw two sets of ropes wrapped around the crenulated edge of the building, on the same side as the room in which they’d been conducting the interrogation. He strode over to check and saw an empty window-washing scaffold suspended about ten feet below. One of the tied-off ropes appeared to be thin nylon, designed more for rappelling than as a safety line. Still, the positioning of the scaffold was at least fifteen feet to the right of the room where they were holding the Cuban.

  Bolan turned back to Martinez. “Are we certain this location is secure?” he asked.

  The sergeant shrugged. “Captain Ruiz assured me that it was. Why?”

  Bolan shook his head and pressed the speed dial on his sat phone to contact Brognola, who was a continent away. He answered with his customary quickness.

  “How’s the interrogation going?” he asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Bolan said. “The two FBI agents they sent down here are long on enthusiasm, but short on experience.”

  “Figures,” Brognola replied. “Aaron’s been slashing and hacking into all sorts of phone records for the region in question. He’s come up with zilch regarding named accounts. He’s still digging for more about that one particular burner phone that repeatedly called the number linked to the cartel. What time, exactly, did your raid go down?”

  “At 0315.”

  “Hmm,” Brognola said, “this is interesting. At 0315, records show a burner phone calling another burner, a known cartel number, that in turn called another burner, with that signal pinging off a remote tower in the vicinity of the compound. The call only lasted twelve seconds. The cartel burner phone then called one of the numbers that we’ve matched to the confiscated cell phones you guys found in the compound. Like someone was relaying a message.”

  “That would fit,” Bolan said. “Whoever made that first call had to do so surreptitiously, and probably didn’t have the number to directly call the guards in the compound. So he called his regular cartel contact, and had him relay the news that the marines had landed. Email me that burner number, will you?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” Brognola said. “There you go. You need anything else?”

  “I’ll advise,” Bolan said, and terminated the call. His second cell phone, the one he used to communicate with Grimaldi, was vibrating.

  Bolan answered it and heard his partner say, “I’m back, and the Feds want to talk to you and Martinez. Right away.”

  “They catch a break?” Bolan asked.

  “Maybe,” Grimaldi said. “It looks like they let this turkey order room service.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  He and Martinez pulled open the door and trotted down the stairwell. As they stood waiting for the elevator, the big Mexican marine leaned close to Bolan and spoke in a low tone. “If one of my men is a traitor, I will cut out his heart and feed it to the dogs in the street.”

  Bolan nodded.

  After taking the elevator, the two proceeded down the hallway to the room. Martinez knocked on the door in a specific pattern, and it opened a crack. An eye appeared and then the door swung wider. Bolan saw Grimaldi standing in the room talking with Stevenson and Chong as Espinoza, grinning, stood near a linen-covered cart. The waiter had removed the covers from several dishes and placed the serving spoons. A bottle of champagne rested in a metal container of ice. The waiter pushed the cart toward the bedroom.

  “Hey, amigos,” Espinoza said. “This is more like it. I want this kind of service all the way to Miami. And see if you can get me a couple of pretty women.” He emitted a guttural laugh as he looked directly at Stevenson and added, “Unless you want to join me, sweetie.”

  Stevenson’s face flushed and her eyes shot toward Bolan and the others. She turned to the Cuban and said, “Go into the other room so I don’t have to smell you or your stinky cigar.”

  Espinoza smirked and said, “Okay, bitch.”

  “Hey, asshole,” Grimaldi said. “Watch your mouth.”

  Espinoza laughed again and followed the waiter into the bedroom.

  “The Cuban give you anything?” Bolan asked.

  “Plenty,” Chong said. His face held a look of excitement. “He says that—”

  Martinez held up his hand. “Perhaps we should step into the hallway.” He glanced at Bolan, who nodded.

  Chong appeared slightly confused, but he and Stevenson followed Bolan, Grimaldi and Martinez through the doorway. Martinez closed the door behind them.

  “My apologies,” the sergeant said, “but we have some concerns about possible corruption among my men.”

  Chong nodded, the excitement fading from his face. “Okay, duly noted. We’ll be taking Espinoza off your hands immediately. We’ve got to get him someplace to complete this interrogation.”

  “What did he say?” Bolan asked.

  “Something big,” Chong said. “Unbelievably big.”

  Bolan raised his eyebrows questioningly. “You care to share it with us?”

  Chong and Stevenson looked at each other. Finally, Chong nodded and said, “Okay, but first we’ll have to check with our supervisor. I don’t need to remind you that this is a Bureau case. So I don’t appreciate interference in our interrogation.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bolan asked.

  “I specifically told you no food until we were ready,” the agent said. “Why did you override that and order room service?”

  “We didn’t,” Bolan said.

  A sudden muffled, clinking sound, followed by a grunt, emanated from behind the closed door.

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances, then the Executioner unleathered his pistol. Martinez moved to the door and began the systematic series of knocks to gain entry.

  No response.

  Martinez stepped back, lifted his leg and kicked the area under the locking assembly. The door stayed in place. The sergeant was about to deliver another kick when the sound of automatic gunfire erupted inside the suite.

  Bolan pushed Martinez to the side. More gunfire sounded, and a row of bulges buckled the top of the door. Grimaldi stood back and mule-kicked the bottom of the door, causing it to swing inward. Bolan, his weapon held at combat ready, hurtled through the opening, stepping over the bodies of two fallen marines. Both men lay on the floor amid liquid stains, shards of shattered glass and the jagged remnants of a broken champagne bottle. Their eyes were glazed and sightless, and a trail of blood spilled from one man’s throat.

  The door separating the anteroom from the bedroom was closed. Bolan did a combat sweep of the entire room in a few seconds, then moved to the short, narrow hallway that led to the bedroom. That door was locked, too. The Executioner stepped back and delivered a powerful kick just below the doorknob. This door, which was thinner and less fortified than the other one, flew open and smacked against the wall. Bolan entered this room and did another sweep.

  Espinoza lay facedown in the middle of the floor, between the bed and the portable dinner cart.

  The window was open and the white jacket that the waiter had been wearing was on the floor. As Grimaldi entered the room, his SIG Sauer extended, Bolan motioned for him to check Espinoza. The Executioner moved to the open window and took a quick look, seeing a man in dark clothing rappelling down the side of the building with accomplished ease. Bolan hesitated, unsure of the figure’s identity or status. The last thing he wanted to do was to shoot one of Martinez’s men.

  In the alley below flashes of gunfire appeared.

  Automatic weapons.

  Bolan knew the marines guarding the perimeter had MP-5s. He gave another quick glance downward and saw a man returning fire, the flashes and sound obviously subdued by a suppressor. The man in black completed his rappel. He and the second man jumped into a waiting vehicl
e—some sort of van—which took off down the alley and screeched around the corner.

  Martinez, screaming instructions into his radio to his perimeter men, entered the room, followed by Chong and Stevenson, both of whom appeared to be in a state of shock or disbelief.

  Bolan looked at Grimaldi, who was kneeling by Espinoza. The Stony Man pilot shook his head.

  National Police Warehouse Number 7

  Panama Canal Zone

  YI WATCHED WITH satisfaction as the final truck pulled out of the warehouse and started the journey to the coast. The Panamanians hadn’t even moved the missiles from the flatbed trailers, no doubt anticipating that the United Nations, which had ordered the seizure months ago, would soon be reclaiming them. But thankfully, the organization moved slowly under the guise of adherence to what they called “international law.”

  What nonsense, Yi thought.

  All that was needed to achieve the reacquisition had been to detach the empty flatbeds of the trucks that they’d brought and attach those carrying the missiles. It had expedited the mission significantly. The missiles had been covered by tarps so as not to be visible. Yi hadn’t even needed the truck bearing the crane that had been acquired prior to their arrival. And best of all, they couldn’t even be accused of stealing the trailers, since they were leaving the empty ones in their place. All that remained was to escort his country’s rightful property to the coast and see to it that the missiles were expeditiously placed on the ship.

  Yoon approached him. “What are your orders regarding the prisoners, sir?”

  “Be certain that the men guarding this compound are not harmed,” Yi said. “Tie them securely and find a place to confine them. The others we bring with us.”

  The lieutenant barked an affirmation, then turned away to carry out the order.

  Yi watched as Yoon directed three of the men to take the two Panamanian guards into the back office area of the building. They would no doubt be discovered in the morning, when the shift would rotate, but by that time the missiles would be aboard the ship and in international waters, en route to the homeland.