Missile Intercept

The second floodlight along the fence line exploded and went dark. Bolan figured the marine in the tower was taking them out to cover the advance of his teammates. He had an M-16, which gave him greater range.

Ahead, two more cartel guards appeared around the corner, the red flashes of their firing weapons bright blossoms in the darkness. Bolan veered left as several rounds zipped by him. One of the marines fell.

Bolan brought the MP-5 to his shoulder and fired two three-round bursts at the cartel guards. Both men danced and twisted, silhouetted by the final set of floodlights as they dropped to the ground.

“Front gate and tower secure,” Martinez said over the radio.

Intel had estimated the number of hostiles to be between ten and fifteen, more if one of the cartel bosses was on-site. One could be aboard the incoming plane, in which case Bolan’s team could momentarily be facing a more substantial force. He slowed as they closed in on the front of the building. It was time to take out the remaining floodlights.

The Executioner took aim and shot the last two lights. Despite the ringing in his ears, he heard a mechanical squeal and knew that the big overhead door was rising.

Keying his mic, he checked with Martinez. “You might have trouble coming out the front end.”

“We have the front secured,” Martinez said over the radio, sounding breathless. “The van went inside. We are— Mierda!”

Bolan glanced around the corner and heard the sound of a metal-on-metal ripping crash as the van barreled through the opening, scraping the bottom of the rising door and sideswiping the door frame.

Martinez’s crew began firing at the vehicle. Bolan ducked back, avoiding a cross fire. The blasts of loud automatic fire emanated from the van, which continued toward the front gate. Bolan fired off a burst at it, then realized the futility and ceased.

“Send two of your men after it,” Bolan said into his mic. “The rest of us need to secure the warehouse. Perimeter containment, hold your positions.”

Two marines from Martinez’s team broke off toward the airstrip. Bolan motioned the man next to him to follow, then slipped through the open overhead door and headed to the right. The warehouse was fully lit and he could see three cartel guards running forward, sweeping the area in front of them with autofire.

Bolan stopped behind a section of rooms jutting from the wall. Several rounds pierced the wood and plasterboard. Bolan knew that his position offered only a modicum of cover and little concealment. His adversaries obviously knew where he was. Martinez surged forward, his MP-5 spitting out rounds. The cartel guards switched their aim, giving Bolan the momentary respite he needed to zero in on them with a pair of short bursts of fire. Two fell almost simultaneously, and as the third cartel guard switched his rifle back toward Bolan, Martinez popped up and shot the man.

Aside from the crudely constructed rooms along the eastern wall, the warehouse was basically free of obstructions. Some packaged items were stacked on the opposite side, and four box trucks were parked in the center aisle. Another cartel guard leaned around the corner of one of the trucks and brought up his weapon, but before he could fire, the Executioner sent a zipping stitch of rounds across the man’s chest. He tumbled forward. Across the room, Martinez and his team brought down two more hostiles.

An eerie silence descended over the room. Bolan, Martinez and the rest of the marines continued to clear the warehouse, encountering no apparent resistance.

Grimaldi’s voice sounded in Bolan’s ear mic. “There’s a firefight going on at the airstrip. Looks like that plane is turning around for a takeoff.”

Bolan glanced at Martinez. “There’s trouble at the airstrip.”

“Go! We’ve got this one covered.”

The Executioner nodded and worked his way outside, moving with caution and deliberation toward the airstrip as he inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon. Ahead, he could see flashes of gunfire. The twin propellers of the plane were spinning with increasing power as the aircraft started to move.

“Want me to do a flyover to try to keep them on the ground?” Grimaldi asked.

“Go for it,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi buzzed the airstrip, flying directly in the path of the accelerating plane.

The craft jerked to the left, slowing appreciably. The side door flew open and a figure jumped to the ground. Thin streams of red fire zoomed upward.

Tracer rounds, Bolan figured.

The bodies of two marines lay in the field before him. No time to check them now, he thought. He was almost to the airfield.

“Whoever the hell that guy is,” Grimaldi said over the radio, “he can shoot. I’m taking fire, and it’s coming close.”

Bolan paused, acquired a sight picture of the hostile and squeezed off a quick burst. The man twisted in his direction, and the Executioner saw that he was Asian. Bolan fired again, and his target jerked slightly.

He was hit. The question was, how badly?

Seconds later the Executioner had his answer as red tracer rounds began zipping past him. He ducked, rolled to the left and came up on one knee just as the firing stopped. He acquired a sight picture and saw the hostile leaning back, his right arm extended behind him.

Grenade, Bolan thought, and didn’t hesitate. He shot the man, and seconds later the flash and concussion of an explosion washed over him, accompanied by a second, larger conflagration as the plane went up in a gigantic fireball.

Bolan keyed his mic and asked Martinez for a sitrep.

“We are secure inside,” the sergeant replied. “One prisoner.”

“Casualties?” Bolan asked.

“One of my men wounded. One KIA.” Martinez’s voice cracked when he said the last part. “Captain Ruiz has called for a medevac, and reinforcements to take control.”

Bolan frowned. Too many casualties. This had been a debacle.

He radioed Grimaldi, saying they had a wounded marine, and asking if he could set the chopper on the airstrip.

“No problem,” the pilot said. “You just get that marine over to me and I’ll fly him out.”

Bolan radioed the information to Martinez, who offered his thanks for Grimaldi’s assistance.

After the wounded man had been loaded into the chopper, with another of his comrades to direct the flight, Grimaldi lifted off.

Bolan tagged up with Martinez, who was standing near the rest of the team. A man in a bright orange short-sleeved shirt sat in the middle, his hands fastened behind his back, a briefcase on the floor in front of him. He was whistling softly, and when Martinez told him to shut up, he kept on whistling. Enraged, the sergeant walked over and slapped him across the face.

“Is that the best you can do?” the seated man asked in Spanish, then spit on the floor. “You are the dirt beneath my feet.”

Martinez cocked his hand back to deliver another blow.

“Sounds like he’s trying to get to you,” Bolan said. “He’s trying to bait you.”

“You are American?” the prisoner asked in English, looking at Bolan. “Yeah, you must be. You don’t have a mask on, like these cowards.”

Martinez kept his arm cocked for a few moments more, the expression of fury locked on his face, then he slowly lowered his hand and joined Bolan.

He leaned close and said in English, “I think he’s Cuban, from the sound of him.”

Bolan had the same thought, noticing the Cuban inflection.

“Yeah, you’re right, chief,” the prisoner said. “I am Cuban. And now let me talk to the man in charge.”

“I am in charge here,” Martinez said, turning toward him. “What do you want?”

“Not you,” the Cuban said. “The American. I’ve got information to trade. No way you can give me what I want.”

“And what might that be?” Bolan asked.

The Cuban leaned back and smirked. “A condo in Miami for starters.” He laughed. “You’re gonna be interested in what I’ve got to say.”

Bolan said nothing.

The Cuban smirked again. “American, you’re not gonna believe what I’ve got. No way. But it’s big. Real big.”

Bolan watched the man sitting there smiling, a look of total confidence on his face.

This could be interesting, he thought.

NIISA Headquarters

Adobe Flats, New Mexico

JAMES HUDSON WATCHED from the back of the auditorium. Dr. Phillip McGreagor, as he liked to be called, stood on the stage holding the microphone like a rock star, gesturing toward the ceiling-to-floor screen behind him as it depicted the white, streamlined rocket on the launchpad, braced by the accompanying assemblage. McGreagor had used every means at his disposal, from liposuction to Botox, to maintain his lean-and-mean, youthful appearance, and now he strode around shaking the dark crown of his expertly woven hairpiece.

“This, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor said, extending his hand toward the image, “is the future.”

Hudson thought it looked like an insignificant Roman candle waiting to blow, in contrast to the bleak mesquite-covered hills and distant mountains. He continued to watch as his boss spoke about the upcoming planned launch to his movie star friends, rich investors and a small, select group of reporters. Several professional photographers scurried around unobtrusively, snapping pictures, while others panned back and forth with cameras mounted on tripods. It was McGreagor’s show, and Hudson wondered which turned the rich son of a bitch on more, the spectacle or the actual thought of space travel.

“This is your chance, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor continued, “to be part of the future. To make what we see in the movies a reality.” He paused and milked the silence for all it was worth before adding, “You can get tickets for the first civilian, commercial trip into outer space, and have a time share in our fully inhabited station on the moon by the end of the decade.”

A murmur of excitement snaked through the audience. Hudson watched and listened as the images changed on the big screen behind McGreagor, first showing the previously depicted rocket blasting off and coasting comfortably in orbit. The computer-generated image alternated for a while with shots of Earth obviously borrowed from one of the actual space shuttle flights, then the sleek rocket was shown reentering the atmosphere and landing on a desert airstrip with the ease of a descending 747.

“We’re on track to have our first test flight in a few months,” McGreagor said, moving to the edge of the stage as the screen behind him filled with more images of the spaceship maneuvering through the skies and landing again and again. “Our reentry technology is this close—” he held up his thumb and index finger an inch apart “—to being completed. Thanks to the efforts of two of the greatest scientific minds of the past and current centuries.” He smiled and extended his arm toward the two older men, Terry Turner and Vassili Nabokovski, seated on the far side of the stage.

The audience applauded.

“This is your chance, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor said on the tail end of the fading applause. “Your chance to be part of the greatest adventure of our era. Your chance to be part of the New International Independent Space Agency, NIISA.”

More applause filled the auditorium.

The old son of a bitch has them eating out of the palm of his hand, Hudson thought. He’s already got more money than the US Mint, and these rich bastards are going to be lining up to give him more. Hudson shook his head. Too bad it would soon be time to rain on this little parade. But any regrets he might have had were vastly overshadowed by the thoughts of how rich he himself was going to be. All he had to do was play his hand right, and make sure everything went according to the plan.

He pressed his left arm against his side, feeling the comforting reassurance of the Smith & Wesson M&P 40L. It was a bit bigger than he needed, but it was a mean-looking piece of steel and polymer. Hudson never knew when McGreagor would pull him aside, in one of his braggadocio moments, and urge Hudson to show one of the movie-star idiots what “a real weapon” looked like. Thus, the larger frame .40-caliber pistol was an appropriate choice.

Everything McGreagor did was based more on image and speculation than on results. And Hudson, as the chief of security, was expected to be part of the program, just like the two new rocket scientists his boss had recruited, Turner and Nabokovski. One American, one Russian, and both experts in the field of old ICBMs from another era, Turner from NASA and Nabokovski from the Soviet space program. If anyone could lick the puzzle of how to achieve a successful atmospheric reentry, it was those two. But Hudson knew the New International Independent Space Agency would never see the first civilian commercial space travel, much less build that station on the moon. Especially after Hudson made good on his delivery to the North Koreans: the proposed telemetry for NIISA’s reentry system and two slightly worn nuclear physicists.

American Embassy

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI sat in the darkened room as the full-screen Skype image of Hal Brognola came into view. Seeing Brognola’s scowling face as he set his ceramic mug on the desk before him let them know all was not well at Stony Man Farm.

“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “Is your scowl a reflection on the results of the raid?”

“I just got off the phone with the White House.”

“How’d that go?” Bolan asked.

Brognola sighed. “About as good as could be expected, considering the circumstances.”

Bolan compressed his lips. More than just a few things about the ill-fated raid bothered him, but something indefinable danced through the inner recesses of his memory... Something out of place, but so far, he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.

“What about it, Striker? Is there any way to put lipstick on this pig?” the big Fed asked.

Instead of the mother lode they’d hoped for, they had recovered a small, rather disappointing amount of unprocessed coca plants and other drugs from the warehouse, and lost three Mexican marines, all good men, in the process.

“The drug seizure wasn’t that impressive,” Bolan said. “Which probably means that the full shipment was still being picked up and hadn’t been deposited in the warehouse yet.”

“It was bad intel from the get-go,” Grimaldi said.

“What about the plane?” Brognola asked.

“It was destroyed,” Bolan said. “Apparently, the guy who engaged me in the firefight dropped the grenade he was about to throw. It detonated and then set off the fuel tanks. The plane was a complete loss. They’re going through the shell now. Preliminary reports showed five bodies inside. Six, if you include the grenadier.”

“We recovered a briefcase loaded with American currency and euros,” Grimaldi said. “Somebody was about to make a purchase.”

“Which brings up the matter of our special prisoner,” Brognola said. “The Cuban national. You got any idea what his angle is?”

“He’s playing it close to his vest,” Bolan said. “We’ll know more once we can interrogate him.”

“The Bureau’s sending a pair of special agents down there to do just that.” Hal sat back in his chair and held his coffee mug in both hands. “I know that look, Striker. Is something else bothering you?”

“Somebody tipped them,” he answered.

“You think they were tipped off in advance?”

“Not in advance,” Bolan said. “Otherwise they would have set up an ambush. This was more like a last-minute notification. If they’d known we were coming, that plane wouldn’t have landed, either.” The events of the raid were running through his mind like a movie at double speed. The approach, the interdiction, the firefight... Then it hit him. Someone inside the warehouse had yelled that the marines had arrived, not the police. How did the person know it was the marines?

“I need to have a talk with Sergeant Martinez,” Bolan said. “I think he’s got a traitor in his group. Someone on the raid team tipped them as we were making the final approach.”

Brognola raised his eyebrows. “That’s not going to go over well with the administration, either here or in Mexico City. Do you have any hard proof?”

“Just a feeling,” Bolan said.

“But when he gets a feeling,” Grimaldi broke in, “you can pretty much take it to the bank.”

“I don’t know,” Brognola said, shaking his head. “One of the reasons the marines were sent in was to prevent leaks to informants.”

“This had to have been a last-minute tip-off. We were in close proximity up until the execution. Somebody must have had a cell phone and made a quick call, maybe contacting someone to call the compound and warn them.”

Brognola heaved a sigh. “Okay, I’ll pursue it from this end, too. See if Bear can pull some cell phone transmission records. So are you sure you can trust that Martinez guy?”

Bolan considered that, then nodded. “As sure as I can be. He was right there alongside us when it all went down. And he was pretty upset about losing his men. You can’t fake that kind of emotion.”

Brognola nodded. “Keep me posted.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there something else?”

“Another inconsistency. One of the hostiles down there, the guy from the plane who tried to take us out... I got a glimpse of his face before the grenade detonated. He looked Asian. Just thought I’d pass that along.”

“Thanks. As I said, the FBI’s sending a team to Mexico to interview the Cuban. I thought maybe you two could stick around and give them a hand.”

“Give them a hand?” Grimaldi repeated with an exaggerated groan. “What does that mean?”

“See if the guy’s legit, for one thing,” Brognola said. “We know the Cubans have been working hand in hand with the cartels for years, smuggling drugs. With these new normalized relations with Havana, we’re going to need all the intel we can gather to keep on top of things.”

“We’ll need a better cover,” Bolan stated. “We were down here as ‘civilian contractors’ assisting the marines, remember?”

“I’ll have your usual DOJ credentials flown down to the embassy tonight.”

2

Tocumen International Airport

Panama City, Panama

Colonel Yi flipped shut the fake Chinese passport and placed it into his pocket as he waited for his luggage to clear customs. The rest of the Black Tiger team was going through customs, as well. Yi directed one of his men to take charge of the bags and strolled leisurely outside to stand in the nighttime air. He scanned his surroundings, looking for any possible foreign agents or police who might be suspicious of an arriving group of Asians. Their passports listed them as Chinese, a Hong Kong acrobatic team, which explained their elaborate equipment. And to the untrained eyes of the Panamanians, the distinctions between Koreans and Chinese would be indistinguishable.

Seeing no telltale prying eyes, Yi removed a cigarette pack from his pocket. He shook one out, placed it between his lips and lit it as he moved to a position of modest seclusion under a high concrete arch. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Yi casually took out his satellite phone and called Song.

“We have arrived in Panama,” Yi said in Chinese, to maintain his team’s cover.

“Did you encounter any problems?” General Song asked, also in Chinese.

“None so far. We are clearing customs and waiting for our local contact to pick us up. We will then obtain the rest of our equipment. Are the ships in position?”

“Their arrival is imminent.” Song cleared his throat, which Yi knew was a bad sign. “However, there has been an unforeseen complication. The meeting in Mexico did not go well. Apparently, the Americans and some of their Mexican puppets interceded.”

Yi considered that. “How much damage was done?”

“Sergeant Kwon acquitted himself most admirably, from what I’ve been told. He fought back gallantly and blew up the plane containing the others before the majority of the principles could be identified or captured.”

“So the Iranians were not discovered?”

“Apparently not,” Song said. “But the briefcase with the money was.”

Yi knew that the Iranians had plenty of money to spend, so that was of little concern to him so long as the Americans did not link the money to Iran. It was, however, yet another reminder of the complexity of the plan—so many individual moving parts each dependent upon the other for the proper execution of purpose.

“Two prisoners were taken,” Song said. “One is a simpleton guard, who has already been dealt with.” He paused and exhaled loudly. “The other is one of the Cubans.”

This information concerned Yi. He said nothing, awaiting further information.

“It seems,” Song continued, “that this Cuban is withholding information at this time, so he can negotiate with the Americans. I have the information as to where he is being held. You must send the Black Dragon to silence him immediately.”

Yi was not thrilled about sending his best man to effect an assassination in an unfamiliar land, but still, the Dragon had accomplished such difficult tasks before on foreign soil. Yi decided he would send a Black Tiger with the Dragon. It would impinge upon the operational effectiveness of his own assignment in Panama, but two men would assure success. While it wasn’t certain how much the Cuban knew, or even if any early disclosure about the missiles would upset the delicate timetable, it was far better to leave nothing to chance.

“It will be done, sir,” Yi said. “And what of Kim Soo-Han? All goes well with the American?”

The other man chuckled. “Of course. That part of the plan is my least concern.”

Punta de las Sueños

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

JAMES HUDSON STOOD by the bed with the phone, watching the woman stroll around the room in her high heels and one of his white shirts, unbuttoned. The sight delighted him, even as he listened to the repetitive instructions from Dr. Phillip McGreagor over the cell phone.

“Remember,” McGreagor said, “we’re pulling out all the stops on this one. Besides employees, we’ll be hosting investors of all sorts, most of whom are accustomed to having their every whim satisfied. Am I making myself clear?”

“Absolutely,” Hudson said, watching as his companion plucked ice cubes from the plastic bucket and dropped them, one by one, into the two glasses.

“And make sure you’ve hired enough local police to maintain security down there,” McGreagor said. “We can’t afford to have anything untoward happen.”

The hotel was set on the beach, well away from the ramshackle houses of the nearby town. The beach and the grounds were patrolled by uniformed security carrying weapons. Hudson was sure of all this because he had already figured out a way to defeat all the measures. “I’ve gone over everything down here, sir,” he said. “Believe me, it’s tighter than a drum.”

Hudson heard McGreagor sigh. “And have you made arrangements for the...entertainment? A couple of these high rollers have exotic tastes.”

Exotic... The word fitted his companion to a T, he thought as she ambled back toward him, a glass of gin in each hand, the open front of the shirt giving him more than an eyeful of her stunning cleavage, her tight abdomen.

“Did you hear me?” McGreagor asked, his voice imbued with the customary irritation and truculence that set Hudson’s teeth on edge.

“Yes, Doctor,” Hudson said, figuring that the mention of the man’s PhD would stroke his ego enough to lessen the customary chastisement.

“Well, then, say something, dammit. You know I hate it when you don’t answer.”

Hudson frowned as he accepted the drink, so angry at the long-distance criticism that he felt like throwing the glass against the wall. But he didn’t. There would be time, later, to deal with this unctuous, demanding prick of a boss.

“I’ll make sure the hookers are first-class,” Hudson said.