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Khalidi stepped into the building and knew immediately the shopkeeper was doing well. The store had full electrical service and also ran an air-conditioning system. Khalidi nodded at the man and perused the shop for about an hour until he found the perfect trinket. He paid cash, adding a little extra when the proprietor moaned about his large family.
He could empathize with the old man, who did not look to be too healthy. After all, Khalidi had been there once—he was a businessman, not a monster.
Khalidi proceeded directly from the shop to the central marketplace, where he eventually found what he’d been searching for: Jasmina. Yes, a most excellent choice for the mood he was in. Not only was she a beautiful young woman, elegant and graceful for a commoner, but she’d also proved very accommodating to just about anything Khalidi suggested. Willing to please, with skin like bronzed gold and dark, sensuous eyes. He’d not seen her in some time but it only took a moment before the flicker of recognition crossed her features.
She greeted him with a warm smile, her dark eyes sparkling. The light reflected back from the rattan shades drawn over the marketplace that were strung between the buildings to provide shade to shoppers in the brutal heat of the day. They were doubly useful by reflecting the firelight in the evening and reducing the demands for electric lighting. In some parts of the city the local government would still cut power to conserve electricity.
“Good evening, Jasmina,” Khalidi said.
She inclined her head in a bow of respect and replied, “Good evening, Master el Khalidi.”
“Come, come, there is no reason to be so formal.”
“If I seem too formal it is only out of respect and not to offend you.”
“Are you not glad to see me?”
Jasmina nodded with enthusiasm. “I am most glad to see you, Abbas, but your arrival here and at this time took me unaware.”
“Come and have dinner with me,” Khalidi said, moving close and tracing the smooth skin of her arm with the back of his hand. “I am most interested to hear of how you have been.”
“And perhaps interested in something else?” she asked with a knowing expression.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “Perhaps, no...definitely more.”
“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Abbas.”
Khalidi couldn’t ignore the sudden swell in his groin. “And mine.”
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“NO QUESTION ABOUT IT, lady and gents,” Lyons told his colleagues at the Farm. “This is one nasty outfit we’re dealing with. The intelligence you got from that Justice contact wasn’t exaggerated by any stretch.”
“How much information were you actually able to get from the subject Able Team took alive, Cal?” Price asked the Phoenix Force warrior.
“Quite a bit,” James said. “It’s all in the notes I took.”
“Not to mention, most of it shouldn’t be too difficult to verify,” Blancanales added.
Brognola nodded. “Bear’s working on it as we speak. I’d imagine he’ll cook up a mess of data in no time at all.”
The statement didn’t surprise anyone in the War Room. Aaron “Bear” Kurtzman hadn’t been defeated by the bullet in his spine that had confined him to a wheelchair. Lesser men would have suffered an irreversible psychological trauma, adopting an attitude of self-pity that would have crushed them for the duration of their lives. Not Kurtzman. The man’s spirit was nearly as indomitable as his wrestlerlike upper body, a physique he kept in prime condition through exercise and, as his best friend and confidante Barbara Price had pointed out on more than one occasion, “sheer orneriness.”
As soon as they had notified Stony Man of their intelligence gleaned from James’s interrogation of the prisoner—intelligence that the outfit they were fighting actually operated on an international scale—Brognola had ordered a full-alert status for the remaining members of Phoenix Force. They now sat around the table, most in various modes of dress indicative of their actions.
Rafael Encizo had been volunteering for diver duties with the D.C. police in search of a missing mother who’d gone out for a jog as she did every night and never returned home. David McCarter and T. J. Hawkins had been at a local gun-club event, participating in a regional shooting match. Gary Manning had actually been the farthest one out, embarked on a hunting trip with some friends in the deep, rugged forests of the southern Smoky Mountains.
“What’s the general lay of it, guv?” McCarter asked.
Brognola looked at Price. “Barb?”
Price, the Stony Man mission controller, nodded and began, “This group calls itself the Red Brood. At first we thought it was a kidnapping ring with a radical agenda aimed at internal politics. Now, with the information courtesy of the man Able Team managed to take alive, we’re convinced there’s a lot more to it than that.”
“Isn’t there always,” Hawkins interjected in his Texan drawl.
“Look on the bright side,” Schwarz said. “Job security.”
“All right, pipe down and you might learn something,” Brognola said.
As if on cue, Kurtzman entered the War Room and proceeded to his reserved spot. He brought up the computer projector—one much older than the modern facilities in the Operations Center of the Annex—beginning with the picture of a very young and handsome Arab in his twenties.
“I’ve run the gambit on the intelligence you brought back,” Kurtzman told the group. “It’s mind-boggling.”
“That’s serious coming from Bear,” James said.
“All, I would like you to meet Abbas el Khalidi, head of the world news outfit known as Abd-el-Aziz and suspected by Interpol as one of the biggest drug kingpins ever.”
“Drugs?” Lyons shook his head. “I thought we were dealing with a white-slaving group.”
“We are,” Brognola said. “But white slavery’s just the tip of the iceberg. And it’s plainly obvious the Red Brood is only a front for Abbas el Khalidi’s international drug transshipping pipeline. Now that Aaron’s identified Khalidi as a player in this, there’s no doubt left in my mind that we’ve stumbled onto the real threat.”
“Seems a little crazy that someone as high-profile as Khalidi would dabble in drug and human trafficking,” Encizo said. “I don’t get the connection.”
“There’s a big connection,” Price said. “And don’t assume that Khalidi’s a mere dabbler in this thing. Abbas el Khalidi’s been on our radar for quite some time, but up until this point we had no reason to think he posed any serious threat to the United States. Mostly he was suspected of trafficking narcotics out of his home country of Morocco and into areas all over Europe.
“Now it’s plain to see he’s up to much more than that, including using the Red Brood as a way to funnel additional funds to support his main effort.”
“And he’s decided to target American kids to do it,” McCarter said.
His voice edged with quiet anger, Lyons said, “I think I speak for all of us when I say I want a shot at bringing this guy down. Hard.”
“Well, you’re going to get it,” Price said. “Although I’m afraid you may not get a personal meeting. Khalidi is a known recluse and rarely travels outside of Morocco save for the occasional appearance at one of his satellite companies. He’s been known to travel to Spain rather often, but in all cases he manages to operate outside the jurisdiction of either U.S. officials or Interpol.”
“So he sticks to places where Americans are effectively persona non grata,” Hawkins ventured.
“Correct.”
“There are a number of allied intelligence organizations who’ve attempted to assassinate Khalidi,” Brognola said, “but they’ve always somehow managed to miss the target. Mostly because he doesn’t stay in one place long enough to establish a pattern, and his travels are typically kept secret until he’s actually headed to his destination.”
“And as previously indicated,” Price said, “he’s not posed any direct threat to this country. Now the situation has changed and we’re pulling out all of the stops. We have the full cooperation and direction from the Oval Office to handle this in whatever manner we see fit. The assassination of American citizens and kidnapping of their children for the purpose of drug trafficking is unacceptable on any level.”
“What’s the game plan?” Manning asked, obviously itching to join the fight with the rest of them.
“We’re sending Phoenix Force to Morocco. We’ve secured the cooperation of a local policeman there named Zafar Mazouzi. Officially, Mazouzi’s an employee of the police force in Casablanca, headquarters for Abd-el-Aziz, but we have reliable intelligence he’s been cooperating with Interpol officials to pass whatever information he can on Khalidi’s activities. If he’s managed to stay alive this long, we’re confident he must know quite a bit of Khalidi’s movements and should be an excellent liaison. Your mission, David, is to penetrate the country, disrupt Khalidi’s pipeline operations between here and Morocco and, if the opportunity presents itself, terminate with extreme prejudice.”
McCarter nodded, as did the other members of his team.
Price turned her attention to the trio of Able Team warriors anxious for their own assignment. “As for the three amigos, you’ll board a commercial flight for Florida. Your first stop is Daytona Beach, the district in which Congressman Acres maintained his home and headquarters. Acres is our only lead, not to mention the prisoner you took is from that area. The fact they managed to snatch his son means they had him under observation for some time, knew where he lived and where he worked. That’s the most logical starting point.”
“What are we supposed to do once we find them?” Blancanales asked.
“Yeah, do we get to terminate with extreme prejudice, too?”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Brognola said. “Your mission is to run this group to ground, closing the pipeline from this end while Phoenix Force handles the Moroccan angle. A two-headed spear is what we’re shooting for.”
“And we’re not concerned so much about the drug trafficking into Europe,” Price said. “That’s of a secondary concern. The first is to cut the pipeline off at the knees, which will have the effect of not only securing the safety of the American public, but also of removing a major source of funding for Khalidi’s organization. Any questions?”
The men shook their heads nearly in unison.
“Then let’s get it done,” Brognola said.
As the group broke up, the members of the team saying their respective goodbyes or taking a minute to engage each other in lighter conversation, Lyons took the opportunity to grab McCarter, who had stepped outside for a smoke.
“I know exactly what you’re going to say,” McCarter said to his friend. “You wish you were going with us.”
“That’s not exactly what I was going to say, although the sentiment’s implied,” the Able Team leader replied. “I just wanted to ask a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“If you get close enough to Khalidi, I mean really close, take him apart with your bare hands. Not for me—for these kids.”
The fox-faced Briton favored Lyons with a genuine smile of glee. “You can bloody well count on it, mate.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Daytona Beach, Florida
Although the light breeze blew across the sweat that furrowed Carl Lyons’s brow, it didn’t do much to cool him off.
July was one of the hottest and most humid months of the year in Florida, and even being from Los Angeles hadn’t given Lyons any more reason to like the humidity. Blancanales, on the other hand, loved this kind of weather.
“Miserable and muggy,” Lyons muttered as they stepped out of the air-conditioned airport and waited at the curb for their vehicle.
“I love it,” Blancanales replied.
“Did either of you guys consider the fact we were here just a few weeks ago?” Schwarz asked.
“That’s right,” Blancanales said. “I’d completely forgotten.”
“I’m still trying to forget,” Lyons said.
None of the three men had completely shaken off their experiences in Tehran. Lyons had gone on record to say he’d thought their mission in the heart of Iran’s capital had been one of the toughest Able Team had ever undertaken. The Islamic Republican Guard Corps, in concert with Muslim clerics of the Pasdaran, had attempted to overthrow members within their own government while secretly planning to launch attacks against American soil using a Hezbollah unit they were training in the jungles of South America. While Phoenix Force had been occupied trying to find the Hezbollah-IRGC contingent training camp where hostages of the U.S. Peace Corps were being held, Stony Man had elected, been forced really, to send Able Team to Tehran to extract an Iranian intelligence asset claiming to have information about the plot. It had turned into nothing short of a nightmare, resulting in the deaths of two CIA agents and a twenty-four-hour nightmare for Able Team as IRGC and police units hounded their every step.
Lyons shook it away just thinking about how close they’d really come on that one and said, “Let’s leave that behind and talk about the current operation.”
His two friends agreed with solemn nods just as their vehicle, a late-model SUV rental, rolled up.
As Schwarz tossed their shoulder bags into the rear compartment, Blancanales climbed behind the wheel with Lyons on shotgun. This tended to be their modus operandi on most missions, born more from habit than much else.
“I miss Black Betty,” Blancanales said as he put the SUV in gear and eased from the curb.
“Me, too,” Schwarz said.
“Well, unfortunately there wasn’t enough time so we’re just going to have to make do,” Lyons said.
Their remembrance of Able Team’s customized van, a vehicle out of which they normally operated, left each man nostalgic for that home away from home. Painted midnight-black with tinted bullet-resistant windows, Black Betty was an armored tactical and communications center that boasted a comprehensive armory and the latest in surveillance-countersurveillance equipment. Unfortunately, it wasn’t practical to ship to every location within the U.S. Able Team might operate, and Stony Man therefore reserved it only for unique occasions or at the team’s specific request.
“Where to first?” Blancanales asked.
“I’m guessing we need to start with Mrs. Acres,” Lyons said. “She’s going to be our first, best source of information.”
The other two men agreed, reliant on the expertise of Lyons’s former law-enforcement experience as an LAPD tactical sergeant. It was his position as a cop that had first brought Carl Lyons together with Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, although at that time they had technically been on opposite sides of the law. Bolan’s war against la Cosa Nostra had just begun and Lyons had been just one of the many cops with mixed feelings about the game. On one hand, he’d secretly enjoyed watching Bolan mix it up with the criminal empire of Julian DiGeorge and the Giordano family; on the other, he’d sworn an oath to uphold the law against anyone choosing to break it.
Only because of Bolan’s first taking action to save the life of Lyons’s family, and later opting to give Lyons his life back when he could well have snuffed it out in a moment of pitched battle, did Carl Lyons gain a high respect for the man called Mack Bolan. When he’d been offered a permanent position with Able Team as an urban commando against crime and terrorism on the streets of America, Lyons jumped at the opportunity to do something effective, where he could operate outside the official restrictions on law enforcement. Able Team worked because they could operate outside those restrictions while ensuring they didn’t risk the safety of good, law-abiding American citizens.
In fact, they were there to protect the American way of life, and they had become legendary in that regard.
Mrs. Annette Acres lived in a two-story brownstone just off the coastline. While it had a very traditional, almost Georgetown look to it, the decorative side of the heavy metal plates designed to protect the home from hurricanes and the inclement weather of Florida coastal living wasn’t wholly indiscreet. Reinforced plating lined the waist-high walls topped with wrought iron and decorative lighting that ran the length of the property line.
Lyons could feel the additional plating beneath the wood steps ascending the massive front porch with vast columns that supported a second-floor balcony, which probably branched off the master bedroom. The death of Thomas Acres had been kept quiet through the vast connections of Stony Man, so the arrival of the trio at their home—carrying forged credentials identifying them as agents with the FBI—signaled not only their initial interrogation, but also the gruesome duty of making a death notification.
Lyons had done it before; hell, they all had at one time or another. That didn’t make it any easier and he’d never really become used to it. Frankly, he’d never understood how those in the military could do such a job, their whole existence predicated on traveling around specific regions in the country to deliver the news to some family that their beloved soldier had been killed in action. Now that job would suck.
Lyons pressed the doorbell and the singsong chimes echoed from within.
Nearly a minute passed before a short Hispanic woman in a pastel dress with an apron answered. “May I help you?”
Lyons nodded as all three men produced their credentials, immediately getting into their respective roles. They had donned suits before leaving the airport and now stood there with stony expressions behind sunglasses.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lyons said. “Agent Irons, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to speak with Annette Acres.”
The young lady looked immediately distressed. “Um, well, of course...is she expecting you?”
“No.”
“So you don’t have an appointment,” she said.
“I just said that,” Lyons replied.
Blancanales stepped in at that point, reliably assured his friend’s patience wouldn’t hold out if the conversation took a worse turn. “Ma’am, we do need to speak with Mrs. Acres on an urgent matter and it’s not one we’d like to discuss out in the open. Please let us in.”
Blancanales offered a smile that most found utterly irresistible, and the maid returned the smile as she stepped aside to admit them. She closed the door and then led them to a broad, comfortable sitting room decorated in light woods and expensive works of metal. She waved them toward some chairs in the middle of the room and then went to retrieve the mistress of the house, but none of them helped themselves to a seat. They wouldn’t be here long.
Annette Acres entered the room with all of the elegance and grace one might have expected of a congressman’s wife. She had long blond hair and a petite figure. Her eyes were crystal-blue and while most might have called her expression “pinched,” she possessed an obvious cultured beauty within the high cheekbones and thin lips that bore just a hint of lipstick. A pair of tight slacks and an elegant white blouse completed the ensemble.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said as she entered, and all three Able Team men inclined their heads in recognition. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Lyons said as he gestured toward a love seat. “But please, after you.”
