Stevenson repeated the message, and Bolan took one more glance downward through the goggles. The green illumination showed the line was fully extended, and he trusted Grimaldi’s judgment at estimating the height. The Executioner extended his body outward so that his head was well below the helicopter’s steel rung, and then he pushed, and felt himself falling. The nylon rope slid through his gloved fingers, making a zipping sound in the still night as he whirled downward. He completed his rappel, zooming down between the perpendicular cranes, with only two momentary pauses to slow his descent, and then felt the solidness of the cargo bay coverings beneath his feet.
Bolan unclipped the D ring and drew his pistol. Two men rushed forward, one in black BDUs. Each carried an AK-47. Bolan raised the Tokarev and fired two shots into each man. The one in the BDUs was obviously one of the special forces commandos who’d boarded the ship earlier. How many were actually on board was pure supposition at this point, but Bolan figured on at least five more.
The schematics of the ship that Brognola had emailed to him earlier flashed in Bolan’s memory as he advanced toward the bridge. That was where he surmised they were holding Chong. The majority of the vessel was taken up by the hold, for cargo space. The bridge area held crew quarters, the galley and officers’ quarters.
A sudden burst of machine-gun fire reverberated in the night and Bolan saw muzzle flashes coming from the bow. The rounds were directed skyward. The helicopter darted away.
Bolan quickened his pace. He passed a metal shunt that curved and opened toward the ship’s center.
An air duct for the cargo hold, he thought.
A metal lid secured the duct, allowing it to be opened to admit fresh air, but closed to keep out water in case of a rough sea.
He stopped and crouched nearby, slipping the backpack off his shoulders. The explosives had been equipped with a timer, which Bolan set for fifteen minutes. That would be his alarm clock. Hopefully, he would have enough time to find Chong. He twisted the hatches free, opened the lid of the duct and dropped the knapsack down the metal shoot.
He glanced at his watch, memorizing the time: 0121. At 0136 they’d be getting a nice surprise. Closing the lid, he resumed his trek toward the bridge. Another BDU-clad figure appeared about thirty feet away, carrying a rifle and directing two other Koreans, who looked to be civilian sailors, to fan out. Both of them carried rifles, as well.
Bolan flattened himself against the side wall and waited, his pistol ready. As soon as the three men began to move on, he acquired a sight picture on the BDU-clad figure and fired. The man’s hand went to his upper chest and the green image showed a gush of dark-colored blood bursting from his mouth. The other two looked back, and Bolan shot them in turn, aiming for center mass in each instance.
Then he moved on.
The bridge was only about twenty-five yards away now, but it rose several stories. Except for a row of windows across the top level, only a smattering of portholes were located on the side facing him. That most likely meant there wasn’t a lot of cabin space. And the bridge had to be on the top floor.
Four sailors stood guard in front of the stairway leading upward. Bolan flattened out next to the last cargo bin cover and ejected the partially depleted magazine for a combat reload. He tossed the expended mag across the deck and watched as the eyes of the four guards focused on the noise. He picked them off, firing from right to left, then followed up by placing a well-aimed shot to each fallen man’s head.
Bolan replaced the Tokarev in its holster as he ran to the bodies and stripped the first one of his AK-47, then took the magazines from the other three. Things would be a little more even now. Jamming the extra mags into his belt line, Bolan did a quick check of the rifle, making sure it had a full load and a round in the chamber.
He checked his watch: 0130.
Six minutes to find Chong. He raised the rifle to a ready position and moved to the opposite side of the stairwell. The space was tight, which didn’t provide much room for evasion or cover, but conversely, it was open on the side and visibility upward was good.
A flash of movement fluttered above—a pair of legs and the descending barrel of an AK-47, along with an inquiry in Korean.
Bolan’s weapon was already pointed upward and he squeezed the trigger. The legs jerked in a spasmodic little dance, and the body of a man in black BDUs fell down the stairway. Bolan paused to sweep the body with a quick burst and stepped over the dead man. One more level and he’d be at the top.
He covered the distance as rapidly as he could, figuring that hardmen would respond to the sound of gunfire. He encountered no one until he got to the uppermost level. Pausing at the corner juncture to take a quick look, Bolan saw a bright flash from what had to have been a handgun as the metal inches from his head rang from the collision of the projectile. The Executioner swiveled the barrel of the AK-47 around the edge of the steel doorway and fired a burst. He pulled back, dropped the near-empty magazine and slammed a new one into place. He checked to make sure the ejection port was still closed, meaning there was still one in the pipe, and stuck the barrel around the corner again, firing off another short burst.
No response.
Firing yet another quick burst, Bolan slid around the corner and advanced quickly, finding himself in an enclosed area resembling a small recreational room. He looked down and saw another fallen BDU-clad body, arm outstretched, pistol lying nearby. Bolan kicked the gun away as he stepped past the dead man. He estimated that he had only a few short minutes to locate Chong before the blast would occur. How much damage it would do was anybody’s guess, but he was counting on it as a diversion tactic more than anything else.
The door to the bridge was closed, and Bolan could see a line of light underneath, interrupted by moving shadows. It was a regular wooden door, rather than one of the steel ones he’d seen thus far. It would afford little ballistic protection to anyone on the other side, but the Executioner wasn’t sure of any targets within. Chong could be there, and vulnerable. Bolan raised his foot and gave the door a hard kick. It swung open, bouncing off the wall, and started closing again. Three men were inside, two of whom held pistols. Bolan shot one and then the other, skipping over the man in the center who had been standing by the ship’s wheel. He appeared to be the captain.
“Where’s the American?” Bolan shouted.
“I...not good English,” he stuttered, his eyes full of fear.
Bolan pointed the rifle barrel at the captain’s face and repeated, “The American.”
The man’s eyes shot toward a closed door on the other side of the bridge. Bolan strode to the captain, spun him and grabbed him by the neck. They moved toward the door like two ungainly dancers.
“Open it,” Bolan said, his voice a growl.
The captain hesitated and Bolan jammed the barrel of the rifle against the man’s spine.
“Do it.”
The captain tentatively gripped the doorknob and twisted it, then pushed the door open slowly, saying, “Nahm ne dah. Chung sogee masayo.”
A shot rang out from inside the room and the captain’s body stiffened. Bolan glanced inside. Chong was tied to a chair. A man in black BDUs, the one who had spoken to them earlier, crouched behind Chong’s shoulder. Another man, dressed in a suit and definitely not Asian, fired a pistol. A round whizzed by Bolan’s head, chipping wood off the doorjamb. The Executioner twisted slightly and fired the AK-47 at the man in the suit. He jerked spasmodically as the heavy rifle rounds chewed through him. The crouching man’s arm was extended now and he fired his pistol. Bolan kept the captain’s body in front of him as he brought up the barrel of the AK-47, reacquired a quick sight picture on the crouching man’s head and fired.
Holes appeared in the middle of the man’s forehead as the wall in back of him was suddenly decorated with a splattering of crimson. He fell forward, landing on the floor next to
the chair. The Executioner quickly cleared the rest of room and checked the status of his assailants. Both were dead.
He ran to Chong. The agent’s face was swollen, and his bare upper body was stained with cuts, cigarette burns and smears of blood. His left eye was completely closed, but a bright brown iris darted between the thick lids of his right. Torn lips formed a weak smile, leaving a glaze of blood over white teeth.
“What the hell kept you?” he managed to say.
Bolan withdrew a combat knife from his pocket and cut the ropes that bound the man to the chair. “Can you walk?” he asked.
“I’ll try. One of those guys was guarding that suitcase over there.”
Bolan strode to the large case. He gave it a quick examination, deciding it was not booby-trapped, and opened it. The suitcase was full of money—euros and US currency. He closed it and rejoined Chong. He helped the agent to his feet and held his arm while he took a few tentative steps.
“I can make it,” Chong grunted. “Where to?”
“Up top,” Bolan said. “It’s the only place we can safely set down, once Jack takes care of a little business.”
“Business?”
Before Bolan could answer, a muffled roar reverberated from deep inside the ship. It seemed to shake the vessel for a split second.
Despite the ringing in his ears from the auditory exclusion brought about from the gunfire, Bolan had regained a good portion of his hearing. He took out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial button. Stevenson answered on the first ring.
“We’re heading up,” Bolan said.
He thought he heard her say okay, but wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. Bolan knew Grimaldi would be there for them, come hell or high water.
Bolan grabbed the suitcase, then steered Chong toward the doorway. The FBI agent managed only a few steps before sagging.
“I can’t make it after all,” he muttered.
Bolan stopped and slung his rifle, holding Chong upright.
“You go on without me,” the FBI agent urged.
Without a word Bolan hoisted Chong onto his left shoulder. “Nobody gets left behind.” He picked up the suitcase with his other hand.
As the Executioner rounded the corner, he saw a ladder leading to the roof of the bridge area. A sudden burst of heavy rounds exploded across the top of the cabins, and Bolan realized that one of the special forces soldiers manned the fantail machine gun. He dropped to the deck and slid the AK-47 off his shoulder, but before he could fire he saw the helicopter rise about a hundred feet off the right side of the ship. A flash of light rippled from the rocket pod on the helicopter’s left side and the fantail exploded in a burst of yellow light. Bolan saw the helicopter cant to the right, seeming to turn on a dime, and another flash puffed from the rocket pod, leaving a trail of white smoke against the velvet backdrop.
Bolan guessed that the machine-gun position on the bow no longer existed.
He got to his feet and shouldered Chong again, leaving the suitcase for a later recovery. “Try to relax. We’re almost home free.”
11
US Naval Hospital
Naval Air Station, Key West, Florida
Bolan watched as Grimaldi made his way down the hallway carrying two cups of coffee. He stopped in front of the chairs and handed one to Stevenson, then took a sip from the other.
“You didn’t want any, right?” he said to Bolan with a quick wink.
The Executioner shook his head and stood. He felt sore, but not tired, most likely due to the lingering adrenaline that was still floating through his system. Standing, he pointed to the suitcase he’d recovered from the North Korean ship and told Grimaldi to keep an eye on it. When the pilot nodded, Bolan took out his sat phone and walked away.
He speed dialed Brognola’s number and hit Send. A few rings later, the big Fed picked up. “How’s the kid doing?”
“They worked him over pretty good,” Bolan said. “He had some internal injuries, but he’s got grit. Looks like he’ll be all right.”
“Outstanding.” Brognola sighed. “They were still debating what to do in the situation room when I called to tell them you already got our man back.”
“Well, here’s something else you need to run by them. Are you having any luck finding those North Korean ships?”
“As a matter of fact, they’re closing on one as we speak. Let’s hope it’s the right one. The North Koreans are already bellowing about some kind of retaliation if we board another one.”
“Remember we were wondering who was paying the bills for all this?”
“Yeah,” Brognola grunted.
“I think it might be the Iranians. When Chong was being held on the North Korean ship, he feigned being unconscious between beatings. At one point he overheard someone on a sat phone speaking what he’s sure was Farsi.”
“Makes sense,” Brognola said. “The North Koreans don’t have a pot to piss in, moneywise. The Iranians could be bankrolling them.”
“Plus there was a non-Asian guy, possibly Iranian, in the cabin there. I didn’t have time to search him, but I did recover a suitcase full of money. US dollars and euros.”
“Interesting.”
“So think about it. There’s not much doubt that the North Koreans are the prime suspects in stealing those missiles from Panama. They had three ships that left the Canal Zone right after the theft. They had to figure that we’d be tracking those vessels and possibly going to search them.”
“Yeah...” Brognola said slowly.
“Suppose the missiles aren’t on any of the three North Korean ships that left Mexico.” Bolan waited a few beats, then asked, “Were there any Iranian ships that were also there?”
“I see what you’re saying.” Brognola’s voice took on a tone of excitement. “It’s a variation of the old shell game. What shell is the peanut under? Answer, none of them.”
“That would be my guess.”
“I’ll get Aaron busy checking on any Iranian ships heading toward the peninsula above the thirty-eighth parallel.”
Bolan felt the vibration of an incoming call. He did a quick check of the screen and saw an unfamiliar number.
“I’ve got another call coming in, Hal,” he said. “Let me get back to you.”
“A new call?” Brognola sounded flustered. “Who—”
Bolan didn’t wait for him to finish, just pressed the button to accept the new call.
“Buenos días, my friend,” a voice said. “It is Sergeant Martinez.”
“Jesus? What’s the occasion?”
“Captain Ruiz has broken,” Martinez said. “As I told you he would. He has given us significant information about the situation we stumbled into during the raid. And much, much more.”
“What did you find out?”
“As we suspected, the cartel had been bribing many officials,” Martinez said, “including Ruiz. This latest deal involved two foreign governments, North Korea and Iran. The Asian you killed during the raid must have been Korean.”
Bolan said nothing, even though he had already surmised that much.
“Ruiz told us that the bribes were significant,” Martinez continued. “And these agents are still in Mexico, in Culiacán. They are meeting with some Americans.”
That got Bolan’s attention. “Do you know where?”
“They are at a resort called Punta de las Sueños. I have already sent a squad of my best marines there. They wait for me to join them.”
“Do you know who the Americans are?”
“At this time, I do not.”
Bolan thought about this new wrinkle in the scenario. How did Americans figure into it, if this whole thing was about old Soviet missiles? Obviously, there were more than just a few pieces of the puzzle still missing. He also thought about the firefight on
the ship involving the North Korean special forces squad.
“Jesus,” Bolan said. “I’ve already tangled with a few of those North Koreans over here. They’re some pretty rough hombres. Special forces from the looks of them. Can you wait until I get there?”
Martinez laughed. “Are you trying to question my ability? Or appeal to el machismo mexicano?” He snorted another laugh. “I appreciate the warning, but we cannot afford to wait.”
Bolan thought about that and realized he was too far away to make a difference. But he had to get to Culiacán fast.
“Good luck, Jesus,” the Executioner said. “You can tell us all about it when we get there. Stay safe.”
“Gracias, my friend. I will see you later.”
Bolan immediately called Brognola back and gave him the update.
“Americans?” the big Fed said.
“We need to get to Culiacán now,” Bolan told him. “Can you grease some wheels for us?”
“Leave it to me.”
Bolan terminated the call and went back to the waiting area. Grimaldi apparently had Stevenson enthralled with some kind of story. The Executioner beckoned him over and said softly, “I just wanted to let you know we’ve got to go to Culiacán.”
Grimaldi nodded. “Just say when.”
After getting more coffee, Bolan explained to Stevenson that he and Grimaldi had to leave.
“I don’t how I’m going to be able to write all this up in a report,” she said. “At least how to do it so I can keep my job.”
“Write it up as it happened,” Bolan said. “And as far as keeping your job, don’t worry about it. I’ll make a few phone calls.” He pointed to the suitcase. “Just make sure you take care of that. It’s evidence.”
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