Stealth Assassin

Intel had estimated that Sharif was in possession of between sixty and eighty. This appeared to be half of them. Bolan wondered if the departing truck held the rest, but there was no time to try to verify that. Grimaldi was definitely going to have to knock it out. He moved back and briefed the others on what he’d seen.

“I’m going to instruct the Black Hawk to take out that pickup in two minutes,” he whispered. “It’s most likely loaded with sarin artillery shells. The rest of them appear to be spread out inside on two pallets. We’ve got no time for any more surveillance, or stealth. Sharif’s inside, third man on the left, and he’s got nine buddies with him. They’re all armed with AKs and are chewing on khat.”

The faces of the four men remained grim.

“Ordinarily, I’d flip them a grenade,” Bolan said. “But we can’t afford to set off that nerve gas or we’ll all be facing a very unpleasant end. So you three move to the far end.” He pointed at Johnson, Washington and Miller. “Vargas and I will hit them first. Controlled fire, aim high, avoid hitting those gas shells or it’s all over.”

“Can’t we just back off and call in an airstrike?” Miller asked.

Bolan shook his head. “No time.”

“How about the Black Hawk?” he suggested.

“He’s got enough to do, and I don’t want to take the chance of his rotors stirring up any gas blowback. It’s up to us to take this stuff out. It’s a binary gas delivery system, so unless the rupture plate inside the shell separating the two gases is broken, the gas won’t be lethal.”

Miller grimaced, then nodded quickly.

“What about Sharif?” Johnson whispered.

Bolan considered that. He had a Taser that they hoped to use to stun the terrorist so he could be brought back alive, as ordered, but his first responsibility was to accomplish the mission and bring his men back safely.

“Let’s see how it plays out,” he said. “Chances of taking him alive are slim, and I’m not about to announce ourselves and ask him to surrender. If we can, we’ll recover fingerprints and DNA for identification, but our survival and the destruction of the sarin are our first priorities here.”

The men nodded again and spread out to approach the curtain from either side. Bolan crept back to the right side and adjusted his select lever to full-auto. He waited a few more seconds to give the others a chance to get into position, but then, fate intervened.

The curtain was ripped back just as Johnson was making his way across. The Arab’s face registered initial shock, but then the man shouted something and his comrades sprang for their weapons. One of them, whose weapon was on his lap, reacted swiftly and sent a deadly spray from his rifle. Johnson twisted in the air and crumpled to the ground.

Bolan shot the man firing the AK-47 first, and then the one at the curtain. As the guy dropped to the ground, the Executioner kicked his adversary’s weapon away, then ducked back behind cover and sent a short burst into one of the other gunners. Three of the Arabs crouched behind the forklift, and the others attempted to run for the far side of the room, away from the stockpile of gas-filled artillery shells. Using controlled fire and quick target acquisition, Bolan picked off three more of the fleeing terrorists. That left four more, including Sharif.

Johnson lay in the center of the gravel expanse. Bolan tapped his helmet directing the others to provide cover fire. He then moved toward Johnson, firing his weapon on full-auto as he ran. The others sent a blistering volley toward the jihadists hiding behind the forklift. As Bolan grabbed his Johnson’s vest handle, several rounds zipped by him. He sent a spray of bullets in the enemy’s direction and began dragging his injured comrade toward the protection of the stone archway. Vargas stepped out and grabbed Johnson’s arm and pulled. More bullets bounced around them as they yanked the man to temporary safety.

“See how bad he’s hit,” Bolan told Vargas. His voice sounded distorted and far away, despite the specially designed earplugs that blocked all sudden noise in the dangerous decibel range. The Executioner then reloaded and made another assessment. Two adversaries were still crouched behind the forklift. Two more, one of them Sharif, were running down a long corridor into the darkness going deeper into the building. Bolan concentrated his aim on the farthest man by the forklift and fired. The man ducked back, the rounds generating sparking flashes against the metallic cover. The closest man glanced around, then stood up. He raced forward, shouting in Arabic while turning and firing his weapon at the pallets containing the shells.

“The son of a bitch’s trying to set off the gas!” Miller shouted.

The other Arab’s eyes widened, and he got up and began to run.

The Executioner zeroed in on the shouting terrorist and fired. The man’s head jerked back, then he collapsed to the ground. Miller sighted on the back of the running man and squeezed off a burst, sending him sprawling, face-first to the ground.

Bolan keyed his mic. “Doerr, sitrep.”

“Still at my post, sir. Looks like a hell of a firefight.”

“Keep alert for any reinforcements. Johnson’s down. We’re going inside.” Without waiting for a reply, Bolan motioned for Washington to accompany him, leaving Vargas and Miller at the opening. “Set some charges on these shells. We’ll be back.”

They moved cautiously down the long corridor, cognizant that an ambush most probably awaited them at some point. Bolan took the lead. The residual light from the generator had completely faded, and he flipped down his night-vision goggles again. The area in front of him immediately materialized in a profusion of clear, green luminosity. Scanning the corridor, he saw one man crouching next to a stone abutment on the left aiming his AK-47 at them. Sharif had positioned himself on the other side of the corridor on his partner’s left. He was ensconced behind crumbled sections of large stones. Both men were obviously without night-vision assistance and most likely were relying on sound to locate their next targets.

Bad mistake, Bolan thought.

He fired a quick burst and zippered the first gunner’s chest. As the man fell, the Executioner quickly shifted to his left, flattening against the wall and far from the center of the corridor, anticipating that Sharif would fire at the last muzzle-flashes.

He didn’t disappoint.

A series of bright wisps of flames ignited in Bolan’s green-tinged viewfinder. Seconds later the definitive green world returned to its previous clarity, providing the Executioner with a clear vision of Sharif’s grimly twisted face. Bolan sent another burst into the man’s chest.

Sharif’s body jerked like an errant marionette whose strings had been severed, and he crumpled into a heap. Bolan moved forward at an oblique angle, as Washington moved in from the other side, stepping on the barrel of the first Arab’s weapon then pulling it free.

Bolan rolled Sharif over. Blood poured from the chest wounds.

“You are too late, infidel,” he said, the blood spraying from his lips as he spoke.

Bolan said nothing as he watched the dying man.

Sharif started to say something else, but convulsed several times, and then ceased moving, his eyes no longer focused on anything.

“He dead?” Washington asked.

“Yeah, he is.” Shifting his weapon, the Executioner squatted and tossed the AK-47 aside, then began to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing except matches, cigarettes and a wrinkled paper containing more khat. He keyed his mic to call Grimaldi, but got no response.

“No reception in here,” he said to Washington. “We’re too deep. Go back to the others and get Doerr down here. We’re shoving off as soon as we set the charges.”

“What about our target?” Washington indicted the fallen Sharif.

“I’ll get an ID sample,” Bolan said, and took out his KA-BAR.

Washington shouldered the recovered AK-47, then grabbed Sharif’s rifle. “No sense leaving these behind.”

“Put them with the artillery shells,” Bolan said. “They can all go up together.”

Washington looked askance. “I was thinking war souvenirs.”

He shrugged. “As long as you carry them.”

Washington grinned and slung the second rifle.

Bolan straightened the index finger of Sharif’s right hand, flattened it against the stone floor, then adjusted the blade of the KA-BAR.

Bringing Sharif’s body back with them was out of the question. Some blood and a bit of flesh would have to do. He pressed the blade downward.

Standing, he placed the samples in a special packet and placed it in his pants pocket. Another glance at his watch indicated that the numbers were counting down rapidly. He jogged back down the corridor, flipping up the night-vision goggles as he got closer to the light. Miller was finishing up. He looked at Bolan.

“We found a bunch of C-4 and some detonator caps,” he said. “Got everything just about set.”

Bolan nodded and went to check on Johnson. Doerr was standing alongside Washington as Vargas applied pressure to Johnson’s leg.

“He needs a medivac,” Vargas said.

Bolan keyed his mic and called Grimaldi again.

“Back at ya, Striker.”

“You still have that pickup in sight?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Bolan paused to smile at his partner’s levity, despite the situation. But that was Grimaldi. Always ready with a wisecrack.

“Light it up, then come back for us. We’ve got a casualty so we’ll designate with red smoke. Stay clear of this structure. We’re igniting some sarin.”

“Roger that.”

A distant burst of fire flickered in the distance. A rumble of sound drifted by them several seconds later.

Bolan indicated that Doerr and Vargas were to carry Johnson. He checked the wind direction and pointed. “Let’s make sure we stay upwind of the detonation.”

Miller grunted and said he’d stay until they were far enough away before setting off the blast.

“We won’t leave without you,” Bolan said, and followed the others down the slope toward the flat expanse of the road, the LZ.

The stuttering sound of the helicopter moving toward them became audible.

Bolan keyed his mic. “Blow it.”

Fifty yards away a yellowish tongue of flames thrust out from the front of the old stone structure, then disappeared into a punctuating rumble of collapsing rocks and mortar. Bolan uncapped the flare and slammed the igniter against his thigh, sending a trail of red smoke upward.

“Got you, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio.

The chopping sound of the helicopter grew closer, and Bolan saw Miller running toward them.

After checking on Johnson, who made a weak thumbs-up gesture, Bolan watched as Grimaldi expertly guided the Black Hawk onto the gravel expanse about forty feet away.

“Let’s go home,” he said, motioning his team toward the chopper.

Chapter Two

Arlington, Virginia

Warren Novak used his index finger to tip over the black king on the far side of the chessboard. He preferred the tactile pleasure of handling the carved, wooden pieces when playing, even if it was only a solitary game taken from one of his many chess problem books. He sighed at the ease with which he’d won, and poured himself another dash of the fine Kentucky bourbon. Novak made a silent vow that if the phone didn’t ring before he finished it, he would give up for the night and go to bed after the conclusion of the evening news. The idiots on television with their pathetic lead-ins had barely touched on the ongoing congressional committee hearings. But then again, those things had become as commonplace as traffic accidents of late.

Train wrecks would be more appropriate, he thought. No one realized that the fate of the whole damn country was affected by the self-serving antics of the political posers. It was all about getting their faces in front of the cameras. To hell with what was actually good for the country.

He smiled as he sipped his drink, and felt the burn going all the way down.

Few things were better than vintage bourbon. If only all his troubles could be washed away with a good drink, but it was never that easy when the politicians, with their hypocritical displays of moral outrage, were clamoring for somebody else to be held accountable.

The several million dollars in purported research grants, the inflated costs of research and development, the violations of the specifics in the defense contract, the special perks that were being funneled back to the Baron & Allan Corporation—and good old Congressman Eddie Meeks would be held accountable if the congressman from Illinois, the self-proclaimed “conscience of Congress,” got his way.

Life was like a game of chess. One had to maintain both perspective and control to win. Still, there were other factors to be considered. Meeks, being African American and of the same party as William “Call me Bill” Oglethorpe, would inject a certain amount of reticence in the committee’s investigation. But that wouldn’t last forever, and they’d be standing in line to throw Meeks under the bus when the time came.

Novak brought the glass to his lips and took a longer sip, swishing it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing and once again delighting in the slow burn as it traveled downward. As CEO of the corporation, Novak knew his own fate was tied to all of this. If Baron & Allan went down, so would he. So would Franklin Rhome, so would Meeks. They were all living in a house of cards.

But again, control was the key, being able to see two or three moves ahead and plan for your opponent’s next move.

He rubbed his other hand over his shaved head, felt the stubble and a layer of dampness, and then wiped his palm on his pajama top.

If B&A went, they were held under the microscope, he’d be hard pressed to explain the payoffs he’d made, the exclusive town house usage, the limousines, the endless parade of escorts to the lobbyists and the members of the appropriations committee... But that was the unspoken price of doing business in this town. All were necessary ingredients to grease the wheels. The way things worked in government. That it hadn’t worked with Congressman Oglethorpe had been a shocker, although Novak now knew he should’ve seen it coming. The man was different. There was something about him. Something telling. A handsome guy like that turning down the dates with the array of beauties Novak had managed to parade in front of him. And the son of a bitch looked like the embodiment of a male model.

The burner phone still reposed on the coffee table, basking in anxious silence.

If only that son of a bitch Oliver Burke would call, Novak thought. What the hell was taking him so long?

If Burke had good news, that the dirt they’d uncovered about the congressman’s dalliance with his aide—his young male aide—had worked, this whole thing might still be manageable.

But unlike chess, life had too many uncontrollable variables. There were no hard and fast rules to the game. Novak’s next moves were dependent on other people carrying them out.

So why didn’t Burke call?

As if in answer, the phone rang, almost making Novak spill the remainder of his drink. Burke’s voice on the other end was low and raspy.

“It’s a no go.”

“What?” Novak had to refrain from hurling the glass against the wall. “Did you show him the photos? The videos?”

“I did, and he laughed. Says he couldn’t care less. Even went so far as to say it’ll be to his advantage to be out of the closet this close to the midterms. It’ll give him more publicity and make him more reelectable. Sets him up to be our first openly gay presidential candidate down the road.”

“That son of a bitch.” Novak couldn’t help himself now and hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered with a sharp crash.

“What the hell was that?”

“Never mind. Shit. Did you get a feel about how much he knows?”

“Hard to say,” Burke said. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

The thought of the subpoena to appear before the committee flashed in Novak’s mind. What was Oglethorpe going to ask? The cost overruns for the B&A defense contracts had been substantial, and they had pitifully little to show for it. Two sets of prototypes. And if Oglethorpe had found out about Meeks’s personal investment ties to the company, it would be indictment time for the lot of them.

The thought of sitting before the committee on the hot seat not knowing exactly what Oglethorpe had up his sleeve, or when he was going to choose to reveal it, made Novak crave another drink. But he was going to need to get as much sleep as he could. The tension gripped his neck and spine as the anxiety and exhaustion washed over him.

Control... He’d deal with it tomorrow. Plus he did have other options.

“Any word from Ted?” Novak asked.

“Yeah, everything’s in place, and he’s waiting for a chance to throw that Hail Mary pass. How much good it’s going to do is open to question.”

“I don’t pay you to question,” Novak said. The Hail Mary pass, as Burke and Ted McMahon called it, was merely to advertise the special capabilities of the Aries drone. The payoff would come when and if they had to go off the grid and into private practice.

“Ted also said there’s a bit of a glitch.”

Novak felt a twinge in this stomach. “What kind of glitch?”

“Somewhere in the food chain they got wind of Sharif and Farouk being involved.”

Ali Sharif... Muhammad Farouk... Two flies in the ointment. Twin pawns steadily moving toward the back row, thinking they were going to be crowned as kings, and not realizing they were merely part of a gambit. But the die was cast. The play had to be made.

“Tell him to continue as planned,” Novak said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early.” Burke laughed and disconnected.

Novak felt like throwing the burner phone against the wall, too. Sure, Burke could laugh. It wasn’t his ass on the line, testifying before a congressional oversight committee, led by some overzealous congressman who wanted to make a name for himself in front of the TV cameras so he could set himself up for reelection and an eventual run for the White House.

The first openly gay presidential candidate, my ass, Novak thought.

If only that little potential blackmail scheme would have worked. The drone had captured excellent photos and video of Oglethorpe and his boy toy aide on that private beach. But in this current topsy-turvy world of ultra political correctness, the old rules didn’t apply any longer. Nothing applied anymore. The inmates were running the asylum.

What happened to the good old days, Novak wondered, when you could get some honest dirt on some politician and use it to your advantage?

He shook his head and fingered the bottle of bourbon.

Okay, Novak thought, if that’s the way the bastard wanted to play it... Sterner measures were called for. After the disposal operations in the Middle East were completed, depending on the amount of good press the Aries got, he could figure out a way to take care of Oglethorpe.

He looked at the bottle, then to the shattered glass. He could get up and get another one, but decided against it.

Novak sighed, braced himself, lifted the bottle to his mouth and tilted it, feeling the burst of astringent fluid saturate his tongue.

Onward and upward, he thought. Knights away.

USS Soley

Somewhere in the Arabian Sea

Bolan entered the small briefing room aboard the ship and saw that Grimaldi and the others were sitting around the table with plastic bottles of water. The captain and his executive officer—XO—stood near the door looking solemn. Kevin McCarthy, the Defense Department liaison officer, was on the other side of the room, by a flip chart with a map of Yemen attached. The frown on his face was evident as he looked at his watch in an exaggerated manner.

“Nice of you to join us.”

Bolan ignored him and grabbed a bottle of water from the iced bucket. He was totally familiar with armchair operatives like McCarthy and had little respect for them. They were career bureaucrats who sat on their asses in carefree safety and comfort while they sent others, who put their lives on the line, into hot zones. Bolan twisted the cap and took a long drink.

McCarthy loudly cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to conduct our debrief.”

Bolan lowered the bottle, looked at the man and addressed the others. “Johnson’s going to be all right.”

Grimaldi held up his open palm and high-fived the other members of the team.

“Glad to hear that, Striker,” he said.

“Well, I’d be glad to hear a bit about the mission,” McCarthy said.

“The presence of the sarin was verified,” Bolan told him. “As was the presence of Ali Sharif. Both were tactically neutralized.”

No one spoke for several seconds as the team members exchanged glances. Bolan reached into his pocket, removed a sealed plastic packet and tossed it onto the table.

“This should provide confirmation.”

McCarthy’s lips drew into a tight line. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear from the onset. The plan was for apprehension and transport back to Guantanamo and then to call in a drone strike to dispose of the gas.”

“That wasn’t possible.”

McCarthy pursed his lips. “And why, pray tell, was that?”

Grimaldi snorted. “Pray what? It’s been a long time since I heard that expression.”

McCarthy glared down at him. “Your orders were to observe, report and reapprehend.”

“Reapprehend,” Grimaldi repeated. “Is that a government word? I’m sure I’ve never seen it in the dictionary.”

Bolan remained silent, but the other team members chuckled.

“I’ve had enough of your smart-ass remarks,” McCarthy said. “I want you to know that I consider this mission an abject failure.”

“Yeah?” Grimaldi snorted. “Well, considering we took out a bunch of terrorists, destroyed a shit load of sarin gas and eliminated the asshole you guys mistakenly let out in the first place, I think we did pretty damn good apart from one of our team getting hit.”

“Do you realize the intelligence value of a target like Sharif?” McCarthy shot back. “The information he could have provided?”

Grimaldi stared at him. “Do you realize that there’s a young American lying in the other room with a couple of holes in him that he got from you sending him on a mission that technically never happened because your screw-up caused it in the first place?”

“And your grandstanding in taking out the gas yourselves put the entire mission in jeopardy. That’s what the drones are for. Did you ever hear of following orders?”

“Did you ever hear of a beat-down?” Grimaldi stood and lifted his right hand, his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Because you’re about this close to getting one.”

Before McCarthy could respond, Bolan stepped forward. “This debrief is officially over.”

“What?” McCarthy whirled toward him. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”

“We don’t work for you,” Bolan said, pausing to take another drink from the water bottle. His voice was even, his face betraying no emotion. He turned to the captain and said, “Sir, we would appreciate it if you could make arrangements to get my partner and me to our scheduled rendezvous with the carrier. And these men need to get back to their regular assignments.”

The captain, a thin man with a weary look to him, smiled. “Already in motion. But I do have to tell you that there’s a crypto Skype call waiting for you in our communications center. We can set it up in here, if you want.”

“In here?” Grimaldi cocked his thumb in McCarthy’s direction. “With little Lord Fauntleroy in earshot? Like the man said, we don’t work for him.”

The liaison strode toward the door, yanked it open and stormed out.

“Think I should’ve told him not to let it hit him in the ass?” Grimaldi asked.

“I think you’ve said more than enough,” Bolan told him. “Captain, if you have a secure and private place for that call, we’d appreciate it.”