Final Assault

He grabbed the guard’s shirt, whirled him about and snaked his arms around the man’s neck, snapping it. Bolan let the body topple forward and released a sharp breath.

Something dug into Bolan’s side. It didn’t penetrate his body armor, but it took the wind out of him. If Bolan hadn’t been wearing the armor, he would have been dead. The soldier twisted about, clawing for his knife as Claricuzio came at him again. “You asked if I had a gun. I don’t, but I got a knife, and I know just where to put it,” he said as he slashed at Bolan with a thin, medieval-looking stiletto. “You think you can just show up and take me down?”

“That was the plan,” Bolan said, backing away, one hand extended to block Claricuzio’s next blow. As he spoke, he drew his KA-BAR combat knife and held it low.

“Who sent you, hey? Anthony? Salvatore?” Claricuzio licked his lips. “Little Sasha?”

“None of the above,” Bolan said.

Claricuzio shook his head irritably. “You’ll tell me,” he said. He lunged, moving with the grace of a man half his age, almost quicker than Bolan’s eye could follow. The tip of the stiletto scratched a red line across Bolan’s chin as he ducked his head to protect his throat. The soldier drove his own knife into Claricuzio’s side, angling the blade toward the heart. The old mafioso stumbled against him with a strangled wheeze. Bolan extricated himself and the other man slid off his knife and tumbled to the floor.

He sank to his haunches beside Claricuzio but didn’t bother to check for a pulse. The old man was dead. Bolan’s knife had torn through his heart, and his blood was soaking into the floorboards, where it mingled with that of his guards. Bolan examined the withered features for a moment, then looked away. Claricuzio had deserved death, and he’d gotten it. The Executioner pushed himself to his feet and snatched up the UMP. It was time to go. The police likely wouldn’t arrive for some time, but there was no reason to tempt fate.

Bolan’s sat phone rang.

His mind considered and discarded possibilities in the millisecond between the second ring and the moment he accepted the call and raised the phone to his ear. “All finished, Striker?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” There was a brief hesitation. “Claricuzio—I don’t have to ask, I suppose.”

Something in Hal Brognola’s tone caused Bolan to snap alert. “What is it?”

“The usual,” Brognola said grimly.

Bolan looked at the bodies at his feet and said, “Talk.”

3

The Gulf of Aden

“There he is,” Yacoub said softly. He made a surreptitious gesture toward the sky and the black shape moving through its wide, blue expanse.

Garrand glanced up and then back at his watch. He, Yacoub and three of his men stood on the Demeter’s upper deck, between the control room and what Garrand thought of as the cabana—a sheltered wet bar and outdoor swimming pool.

“Right on time,” he said. Ten hours had passed since they’d stormed the ship. The plan had gone off without a hitch, as he’d known it would. Though there were a few bodies to be disposed of, once they had time. He tapped his watch. “I’ll say this for him—he’s prompt.”

“He better be. I’m getting tired of standing out here in the sun so the remoras can film us,” Yacoub said, jerking the barrel of his weapon toward the gaggle of hostages corralled in the cabana. They were mostly press, with a few others mixed in—whose names and faces Garrand found vaguely familiar. Celebrities with nothing better to do than ride around on a retrofitted cargo ship, including three reality show finalists, an advice columnist and one style blogger, none of whom seemed to really understand their predicament. Or if they did, they were hiding it well.

Garrand smiled. He’d allowed the press to keep their cameras, and they had repaid him with a constant stream of camera flashes, equipment squawks and shouted questions. All part of the plan, he reminded himself as he watched the helicopter draw closer.

“I wonder where he got a helicopter,” Yacoub murmured. “Sure as hell not Eyl,” he added after a minute.

“Yemen,” Garrand said, shifting his rifle to a more comfortable position. “He has a finger in every pie.” He tugged at his keffiyeh, wanting a cigarette. Sweat rolled down under his collar. It was hot, and he was getting tired of playing pirate. He glanced at the hostages. They’d selected eight out of the twenty passengers—the most attractive and the most important. This was a photo opportunity, after all. The rest had been sealed below decks with the crew. Well, most of the crew, he thought with a satisfied sigh.

The Demeter had a crew of sixty, thirty of whom were security personnel. Of the thirty, only five weren’t in on the plan. Those five had been confined with the others after judicious application of rifle butts, fists and boots. Garrand had hired most of the security men himself, specifically for this trip, before his very public firing. Who fires somebody on Twitter? he thought. He didn’t even have an account. But that was a silly question. Nicholas Alva Pierpoint was exactly the sort of man who’d fire someone via social media.

“Helicopter’s not going to land,” Yacoub said.

“The pilot’s no fool,” Garrand replied. “Would you land a chopper on the deck of a ship swarming with guys wearing these—” he tugged on his keffiyeh “—and carrying automatic weapons?”

Yacoub laughed. “I suppose not.”

“Besides, you remember how Pierpoint likes to make an entrance.” Garrand pointed at the helicopter, which was now passing overhead. “And there he is now—the sixth most powerful man on the planet.”

As they watched, a tiny figure flung itself out of the helicopter and plummeted toward the Demeter. A rectangular parachute popped open and slowed the man’s descent. Yacoub whistled softly, and Garrand shook his head.

As expected, the hostages were filming the new arrival. At least one of them had managed to maintain a live feed of the “unfolding situation,” thanks to Garrand ensuring that the onboard wireless network was functioning. Garrand had no doubt that every news agency—legitimate, tabloid or otherwise—was salivating over the whole affair in real time. When in doubt, make news, he thought. That was one of Pierpoint’s guiding philosophies, right alongside “all publicity is good publicity.”

Well, he was getting both in spades with this one. One of his men halfheartedly raised his weapon and for a second, Garrand contemplated letting him get a shot off. Then he gestured sharply. The barrel of the rifle was lowered and Pierpoint landed light as a cat on the deck. Clad in black, he was dressed like a little boy playing war. Pierpoint was small and sandy haired and was wearing wraparound shades. Garrand thought he looked a little like a certain American movie star, the one who’d made that film about bartenders and liked to stand on couches. With an elegant flick of his fingers, Pierpoint snapped the deflated parachute loose from his harness and let the wind carry it out to sea.

“How did he manage to land with the sun at his back? That’s what I want to know,” Yacoub muttered. “Did someone teach him how to do that, or—”

“Quiet,” Garrand said. “The cameras are rolling, and the star has made his entrance.”

Pierpoint looked around, hands half raised. “Who’s in charge here?” he called out. Pierpoint wasn’t American, but he’d hired people to make him sound as nonthreatening as possible to his North American business partners. His nondescript accent rolled off his tongue, smooth as cream.

Garrand nudged Yacoub. “Go get him.”

“Why me?”

“You look more like a pirate than I do. Go,” Garrand said. He watched in satisfaction as Yacoub stumped across the deck, weapon held across his chest. Camera phones whirred and clicked, and the world watched as Pierpoint met the pirates.

“I’ve come to talk,” Pierpoint said loudly, playing to the cheap seats. “And to see that no one gets hurt.” He patted his chest, where a heavy duffel was slung. “I’ve got the ransom here.”

“We talk, then,” Yacoub replied in what was not a Somali accent, or even remotely close. Irish, Garrand wondered. Maybe Scottish? He rolled his eyes and fell in behind Pierpoint as Yacoub strutted toward the stairs.

The control room was occupied by two of Garrand’s men, who’d been watching Pierpoint’s arrival through the windows. Garrand hiked his thumb over his shoulder as they entered, and the men filed out. They would take his and Yacoub’s place on deck and pose for the cameras. Garrand took the captain’s chair before Pierpoint could reach it and gestured to one of the lower seats. “Sit. Yacoub, see if anyone is near the galley. A few bottles of champagne were chilling, last I checked. And grab some glasses, as well.” He nodded at Pierpoint. “This is a celebration, after all.”

Pierpoint smiled widely, displaying expensive dental work. He clapped his hands together and laughed. Garrand tugged his keffiyeh down and grinned. “I told you it would work.”

“And that’s why I hired you, Georges,” Pierpoint said. He swung his feet onto a control panel and leaned back. “Remind me to send a thank you card to your previous employer for the recommendation.”

“Given that he’s in prison now, I doubt he’d appreciate the sentiment.” Garrand sat back. Byron Cloud, his former boss, had been an arms dealer. He’d hired Garrand to put the boot to his competition, at a verifiable remove. Garrand had spent two weeks sinking boats full of secondhand military equipment in the South China Sea. A fun way to spend one’s time, but there was little future in the field of hard sabotage; these days it was all about computers and accounts and data tracking.

Pierpoint laughed. “Poor Byron—bit of a wet noodle, that fellow,” he said.

Garrand shrugged. Whatever that means, he thought. “You have the money? I’ve got half a dozen very twitchy shooters wondering when they’re getting paid for this little stunt.” It wasn’t quite as fraught as he made it sound, but it was close. None of his men were what one could call nice, but so far they’d been professional, and that was more important as far as Garrand was concerned.

Pierpoint patted the duffel he’d brought with him. He’d taken it off and was cradling it in his lap. “It’s all here. The most generous severance package I’ve ever provided, if I do say so myself.”

“And we’re worth every penny,” Garrand said. He shook his head. “Still, hijacking your own boat just to raise your profile seems excessive. Especially if you’re trying to get investors interested.”

“Ah, Georges, that’s because you have no idea how brand awareness works. People like narrative— stories—more than they like charts and statistics. Give them a good story and they’ll throw more money at you than you can handle. The best way to convince potential investors of the merits of my design is to show them how much people want it.”

“Yeah, but...pirates?”

“Pirates are hip,” Pierpoint said with a shrug. “They’re in the public consciousness right now, and it makes for a better story. I look like a hero, the public clamors for information about my recycled super-yacht, and the money pours in.” Yacoub returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He set it on the control panel and used his knife to pop the cork. Pierpoint accepted a glass and took a swig.

Garrand took his own glass and said, “I can’t imagine that super-yachts are a—what do you call it?—growth industry.”

“Not even close. But if I have my way, the Demeter will be one of a kind,” Pierpoint said, chuckling. “Damn boat cost me an arm and a leg to build, not to mention outfit. The component parts are more valuable than the whole, in this instance. The Demeter was just about showing what those components could accomplish when brought together. There are hundreds of applications for the technologies aboard this vessel. Everything from sustainable off-shore hydroponics facilities, to green engines, to manmade reefs and shoals that can replace those lost to pollution.”

“So this thing is—what? A marketing stunt?” Garrand said.

“I prefer to think of it as an exercise in synergistic brand building,” Pierpoint said. “This ship is, frankly, useless. It’s too expensive for any individual to maintain, and who needs a yacht with a hydroponics garden? It’s a very expensive floating island, and as I already own several islands, I look forward to rendering this boat down to its component parts once this cruise is finished.”

“It seems a shame. This vessel has a lot of potential.” Garrand looked around.

“Oh?”

“Oh indeed. A few days in the right port of call, and we could turn this thing into the largest drug lab this side of the poppy fields of Afghanistan. Or more...it’s a veritable citadel. Self-sustaining, fast and with enough room for a small army. Imagine what mischief the wrong sort of person could get up to with a ship like this—smuggling, drug-running, piracy...” Garrand trailed off. Pierpoint was staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Sometimes I forget that you and I have very different social circles, is all.”

Garrand snorted. “Not so different as all that.” He took a swig of champagne. “You know, I could take it off your hands, if you like.”

“What?”

“The Demeter,” Garrand said. “Since you’re only going to strip it for spare parts, you might as well give it to me, no?”

“What—just sell it to you?”

Garrand laughed. “Who said anything about selling?” Pierpoint made to rise to his feet, but Garrand was quicker. He drew his pistol from the holster beneath his arm and pointed it at his former employer, even as he took another sip of champagne. He smacked his lips. “This really is quite good.”

“You’re double-crossing me,” Pierpoint said, bewildered. He settled back into his seat, face pale, hands trembling.

“Technically, I’m simply amending the deal,” Garrand said. He holstered his pistol and poured himself another glass of champagne. “I’ve done all that we agreed to, Nick—may I call you Nick?” Garrand smiled and emptied the glass. “I organized this—what do you call it?—‘viral marketing stunt’ for your ‘brand,’” he said, crooking his fingers in air quotes, “and now I am taking my pay.”

“The money was your pay,” Pierpoint said through clenched teeth.

“The money was a guarantor of the safety of your guests and crew. The Demeter is my pay, and as she is now mine, I intend to sell her for several times what you’re worth. In fact, a number of interested parties are already on their way here.” Garrand made to fill his glass again, then thought better of it and simply took a swig from the bottle.

Pierpoint stared at him. “You can’t...”

“I already have,” Garrand said. “It’s not so bad, Nick. Think of the marketing possibilities... ‘The ship so popular, even criminals want one.’ It’ll play well, I think.” Garrand shrugged. “Or not. I admit, that sort of thing is outside of my area of expertise.” He nodded at Yacoub. “Would you be so kind as to take Mr. Pierpoint to his quarters? I think he’s going to need a few hours to recover.”

Garrand watched Pierpoint go and then took another swig from the bottle. He’d played it cool, but he was all too aware that he’d entered a less structured area of the plan. There were more balls in the air, more things that could go wrong at this stage. But the rewards were greater, as well.

He pulled the duffel to him, unzipped it and examined the plastic-wrapped bundles of cash. Then he grunted and zipped it back up. It was a good amount of money, but the boat would bring more. A lot more, if he played his cards right. “People like narrative,” he murmured.

The hostages were no longer bargaining chips. Instead, now they were insurance—as long as the usual suspects thought there was a chance of keeping them alive, they would hold off from any action. Not for long, of course. But long enough. He’d already adapted the cover story—they were no longer pirates, but terrorists seeking to make a statement—and he’d organized the appropriate means of disguising the arrival of his guests. But it was still a matter of timing and precision.

Garrand finished the champagne and set it aside. “Let the show begin,” he murmured.

4

Somewhere South of Yemen

The Executioner had found a number of papers among the late Domingo Claricuzio’s effects—including those naming the men in charge of Claricuzio’s Mediterranean operations. Enforced prostitution, human trafficking, the works... Bolan itched to bring the whole operation down.

But that would have to wait. Instead, he was on an unlisted flight. The plane was private, bankrolled on a black ops budget and stuffed to the gills with enough hardware to make it look like the set of a science fiction film. Bolan sat alongside Hal Brognola and three others in the plane’s state-of-the-art passenger compartment. They were heading toward the gulf, as near as Bolan could tell.

Brognola looked tired. Then, he always looked tired. As director of the ultrasecret antiterrorist Sensitive Operations Group, Brognola got his orders from the President himself.

Bolan looked around. Computer screens lined the cabin, resting above banks of hardware, including what he recognized as control consoles for drones and remote satellite surveillance systems. There were no windows, and the cabin had the blocky design he’d come to associate with stealth vehicles. He could hear the purr of the engines and the soft conversation of the crew. The internal lighting was cold, blue and sterile and it cast chilly shadows across the faces of the men around him.

Bolan knew for a fact one of the men was well out of his jurisdiction. He was African-American with hard features, and his scalp stubble was gray. Bolan met his bland gaze and said, “Still with the Bureau, Ferguson? Or have you traded down and joined the Agency?” He’d first made Ferguson’s acquaintance when a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented, with a little help from the FBI.

“He speaks,” Ferguson said. “And it’s only been, what, three hours since we left Dulles?” He looked at the others and shrugged. “Can you believe this guy?”

“How do you know he has not joined Interpol, hey, Cooper?” one of the others said, leaning forward. Slim and dark, he wore an Italian suit.

Brognola laughed. “Agent Cooper knows better than that, Chantecoq.”

Bolan had first met the French Interpol agent and his subordinate, Tanzir, during a terrorist attempt to enter the United States through Mexico. “How is Agent Tanzir?” Bolan asked, looking at Chantecoq.

“Very well, Cooper,” Chantecoq said. Bolan inclined his head and looked at the third man. Tall and blunt featured with an expensive haircut and even more expensive sunglasses.

“CIA,” the Executioner said without hesitation.

“Among others,” the third man replied. He smiled and extended his hand. “My name’s Tony Spence. Pleasure to meet you, Agent Cooper. Big fan of your work.” All of the men present, save Brognola, knew Bolan by his cover identity, Agent Matt Cooper. Bolan had used many names throughout his long, lonely war, and he suspected that he would use many more before the end. Each name was like a weapon in his arsenal, opening doors and armoring him against the slings and arrows of his enemies.

Bolan didn’t take his hand. “I knew Tony Spence. He had about twenty pounds on you, and you’ve got about six inches on him. And he’s dead.” Spence had been Bolan’s CIA contact for a recent mission to Hong Kong—a mission that had gone dangerously wrong at the eleventh hour. Spence retracted his hand.

“He is. I’m not,” he said, still smiling. Bolan frowned. He had a long, complex relationship with various agents of the CIA. Some of his interactions had fallen somewhere on the spectrum between frustration and anger, but he’d grown to like Spence—the original Spence—in the brief time he’d known him.

“You can let me off at the next airport,” Bolan said. “I’ve got more important things to do than waste my time playing games.”

Brognola cleared his throat. “Ease back, Cooper. You know how these Puzzle Palace types like to complicate things. Every one of them has three names and none of them the one their momma gave them. Tony Spence is just an alias for use by whoever needs it at the moment.”

Spence inclined his head. “And right now, that’s me.”

Bolan sat back. He looked around. “CIA, FBI and Interpol...something smells funny.”

“Might be my aftershave. Wife’s making me try something new,” Ferguson said.

Brognola shook his head. “If you think those are the only letters in this particular alphabet soup, I’ve got some bad news...” He held up a hand as if to forestall the protest Bolan hadn’t been planning to make. “But that’s beside the point. What do you know from yachts, Cooper?”

“Been on a few,” Bolan said without elaborating.

“What about cargo ships?” Spence asked, leaning forward.

“Been on a few of those, too.”

“What do you know about—”

Bolan cut Spence off with an impatient gesture. “Pretend I don’t, since you seem to want to tell me a story,” he said curtly.

Spence smirked. He turned in his seat and pointed to one of the screens that lined the cabin as he tapped at a tablet. The volume increased, and Bolan found himself watching a BBC news report on an ongoing hostage situation somewhere in the Gulf of Aden. “Pirates,” he said. He’d dealt with modern pirates before, both in Somali waters and in the South China Sea. The former were mostly fishermen, out of their depth and desperate. The latter tended toward smuggling and drug running.

“So they’d have you think,” Brognola said. Bolan glanced at him. “Well, they might have been pirates to begin with, but they’re claiming to be terrorists right now. They might be something else tomorrow.”

“It’s not the pirates we’re worried about,” Ferguson said. He made a face. “Show him, Spence.” Spence tapped the tablet again, and a recording began to play on the screen. It was the same ship, Bolan saw, only from a different angle. He squinted.

“Camera phone?” he asked.

“These pirates are very social-media friendly,” Chantecoq murmured.

As Bolan watched, a man parachuted toward the deck. Spence froze the image and zoomed in on the parachutist’s face. “Recognize him, Cooper?” Brognola asked.

Bolan shook his head.

“Nicholas Alva Pierpoint. Sustainable technologies wunderkind,” Brognola supplied.

“Never heard of him,” Bolan said.

“If you had, I’d be more upset than I am now,” Brognola said drily. “He decided to make a public display of idiocy and parachuted onto his own hijacked ship to deliver the ransom, despite the collective scream of his lawyers.” Bolan watched as Pierpoint was led away. Brognola sighed. “Turned out the bloodsuckers were right for once. It was a singularly bad idea, and Pierpoint got added to the hostages, whereupon our merry band of pirates revealed that they were terrorists, and they’d trade the hostages for the release of certain prisoners in the usual places—Guantanamo Bay, Israel, Nigeria.”

“Any pattern?” Bolan asked.

“None. We think somebody picked names out of a hat and went for broke.”

“So it’s a scam. What do they really want?”

“Near as we can figure, to sell the ship to the highest bidder. And in fact, a number of said bidders have shown up. We’ve got surveillance footage from various ports of call, including Hargeisa International Airport, and a drone spotted the whole lot of potential buyers a few hours ago—guess where?—being welcomed aboard the Demeter.” Spence brought a number of grainy pictures onto the screen. One was of an antiquated speedboat hurtling across the water. There were several figures in it.