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WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III stood on the catwalk adjacent to the control room on the platform rig and watched as the helicopter made its landing on the helipad below. Edwin Grimes stood next to him, waiting like a bird dog eager for any sign of approval. Everett shot a quick glance at Grimes and began a mental assessment as to when it would be convenient to dump the man. He had proved useful, but lately his missteps, especially that fiasco with the yacht, had started to get under Everett’s skin.
On the helipad, a squad of fifteen men made their way out of the bird as the rotors slowed to a stop. All of them were dressed in dark, camouflaged uniforms and wore matching helmets with night vision goggles attached.
“You’re sure these guys are clear on the mission?” Everett asked. “I told you, we can’t afford any slipups.”
“Zelenkov assured me they’re top-notch,” Grimes responded. “Like I said, a couple are ex-Spetsnaz, just like him.”
Everett pressed his lips together and watched the squad assembling below. Grimes seemed overly impressed by this Spetsnaz bullshit. If these Ruskies were so special, why had they been drummed out of the Russian army? He concentrated his gaze on the group of them, each one holding his AK-47 at port arms. Zelenkov, whose rifle was slung over his right shoulder, walked back and forth in front of the group, barking something in Russian loud enough for the words to drift up to the catwalk. Vince Tanner, Everett’s assistant security chief, stood off to the side. He was clad in similar combat BDUs and was also armed with an AK-47. Zelenkov barked a command and the group snapped to attention.
“Anyone can look impressive doing D and C,” Everett said. “Have they seen any combat?”
“All vets of the conflict in Chechnya,” Grimes said.
“But do they know anything about ship assaults?”
“Zelenkov says they trained for it. Should be a cakewalk.” Grimes gestured down at the group. “Besides, Tanner’s going with them to keep us updated. What could go wrong?”
“There’s always something that could go wrong.” Everett watched the formation a few seconds more. “Tell Zelenkov I want to see him now. Before he leaves.”
Grimes nodded.
“What about those new Americans that came in?” Everett asked. “You get them checked out?”
“Le Pierre rousted them on the way from the airport. Didn’t find any weapons, which made them appear legit. Then they pulled a fast one at the hotel. Demanded to switch rooms. Smelled something funny, apparently, and the one guy threatened to puke.”
Everett frowned. “Sounds like bullshit. They must have noticed the bugs. They’re probably CIA or something. NSA at the very least.”
“They’re on the way to meet the FBI agent on the mountain plateau as we speak.” The yelling had ceased from below and both men glanced downward. Zelenkov was looking up at them, and Grimes motioned for the Russian to come up to the control room area.
“What’s that FBI agent’s name again?” Everett asked Grimes.
“Tyler. Tim Tyler.”
Everett smirked and thought for a moment. “If the U.S. government is sending more agents down, it’s a given that they’re sure Monk is here. Sooner or later they’ve got to figure I have him.”
Grimes nodded.
Everett stroked the stubble around his upper lip, then traced the lines down to his chin. He liked the feel of it under his fingertips—a reassurance that he still had plenty of testosterone. “Le Pierre’s man still with the corn husker?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” Everett said. “Tell him to stall the meeting a bit. Arrange a little reception party for them. Make it look like it’s the work of Boudrous and his boys. Have them take out a couple of bystanders, too, for good measure. Zelenkov can send one of his goons to supervise it just in case.”
Grimes’s brow furrowed, as if he didn’t think hitting the Feds at this juncture was such a good idea. Everett reconsidered the decision. Tipping their hand this early could bring more heat from Washington, and if things went wrong, more agents would be flying down here, perhaps upsetting his timeline. But Everett decided it would work, and this weasel’s critical expression bothered him. “You got something you want to say about that?”
“No, sir,” Grimes said.
“I didn’t think so.” Everett thought about how much he’d like to get Grimes in the ring and beat the shit out of him, just on general principle. He put it on his list of things to do, and smiled. “As I said before, this little mishap will be something for the French and the Dutch to deal with. Why do you think I arranged for Boudrous to come back from Haiti? He’s the perfect fall guy for any disasters that might beset some American agents. A good chess player is always thinking at least two moves ahead.” Everett smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Regardless, this weak sister we have in the White House now won’t dare do anything until he rehashes all his options. Hell, it might even be beneficial to our big plan. Sow the seeds of public outrage and discontent over the tragic deaths of some more Americans. Get people fired up. Then, when the big bang goes off, the President won’t have any choice but to act.” He let his voice trail off as he looked wistfully at the horizon. “It’ll be a new dawn for the United States of America.”
“It sure will, boss.”
Everett frowned again. Grimes’s ass-kissing sickened him. The weasel was obviously trying to sound convincing, but he was still a little weasel. But they’d been on a one-way track ever since they’d found that Russian sub, and Everett knew he had to finish the game with the players he had. No substitutions, no turning back.
Zelenkov’s heavy, muscular frame sounded like a jackhammer as he ran up the metal stairs to the catwalk. At the top, he whipped a salute at Everett, who returned it. The guy wasn’t even breathing hard.
“You have someone back on the island who can lead an ambush assault on some Americans with a group of Boudrous’s men?” Everett asked. “In a hurry?”
Zelenkov thought for a moment and then nodded. His gray eyes didn’t show emotion. He tilted his head back and the blue-and-black tattoos on his neck seemed to roll upward as the thick muscles shifted. “I do have such a man,” he said, taking out his cell phone.
“Good,” Everett said. “They’ll be on the mountain plateau in about twenty minutes. Three Americans, with an island policeman. Make it look like the work of a band of thugs.”
Zelenkov nodded as he spoke in Russian into his cell. “I will need a few more details,” he added to Everett in English.
Everett turned to Grimes and motioned with his head. “Get with him on this. Make sure it’s hard and clean.”
“Will do, boss.” His smile looked forced. “We’ll take care of it.”
They’d better, Everett thought. I don’t have time for fuck-ups or fools.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_5517a4d9-1f99-51c5-818b-9f942b0bf719)
Bolan and Grimaldi leaned against the three-foot-high cement wall that overlooked the lush vegetation of the valley below. Beyond the trees, they could see the coastline and ocean. The plateau was the perfect place to snap some pictures of the gorgeous island scenery. As the road wound along the next bend, the view would expand to include the ramshackle village that preceded the strip of luxury hotels. This lookout appeared to have been bulldozed flat as the road was cut through the mountains. At one time, perhaps, it had been a peak of some sort. Now it was forty yards of blacktop adjacent to the two-lane road, with several parking spaces and an array of picnic tables in the center. Bolan and Grimaldi’s rental sat in one of the spots nearby, while another Citroën was parked at the opposite end. A young couple, probably in their mid-twenties, took turns posing for photos in front of the scenic background.
Grimaldi drummed his fingers impatiently on the cement. “You think he forgot about us?”
Bolan glanced at his watch. The FBI man was fifteen minutes late. “Hal said it was all set up.”
Grimaldi puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. “What’s this dude’s name again?”
“Tim Tyler.”
“Wasn’t there an old comic strip with that name, or something?”
“Yeah. Tim Tyler’s Luck.”
Grimaldi snorted. “Well, I hope this Fed had some luck getting a line on that Monk guy. I’m starting to get an uneasy feeling about this one.”
“You and me both,” Bolan said. He heard the sound of a car approaching and looked toward the far curve. A white police jeep crested the hill and began veering toward them. The driver wore the crisp blue-and-white island police uniform. The man in the passenger seat was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and necktie. He looked young, maybe twenty-five, and had short cropped red hair and a spray of freckles across his face.
“Will you look at that?” Grimaldi said. “A beautiful, seventy-nine degree Caribbean afternoon and this guy’s dressed like Opie Taylor in a three-piece suit.”
The jeep pulled in next to their Citroën and stopped. The vehicle had no doors and the canvas roof was pulled back. The young guy unbuckled his seat belt, hopped out and walked toward them, holding out his open palm.
“I’m Special Agent Tyler from the Bureau,” he said. “Sorry we’re so late. Are you Cooper?” Tyler’s face was almost boyish.
“I am,” he said, shaking Tyler’s hand. He introduced Grimaldi, who also shook hands with the agent.
“This is Corporal Gaston of the island police,” Tyler said, pointing to the jeep’s driver. “They assigned him to help me check out the hotels and other spots on both sides of the island. He speaks French, English and Dutch.”
“What? No Italian?” Grimaldi shook Gaston’s hand.
Bolan shook the corporal’s hand in turn, noticing that it was damp.
“How do you do?” Gaston asked. He smiled, but his dark face was shiny with sweat, too. “You no doubt have much to discuss in private. I will leave you to your privacy.”
He walked over to the picnic tables, taking out his cell phone as he went. Beyond him, the young couple still flirted playfully, posing for the camera.
“So you two are with the Justice Department?” Tyler asked.
“We are,” Bolan said.
“No offense, but this is a Bureau case.” Tyler’s face scrunched up. “Why did they send you two to investigate?”
“Maybe they figured you could use some backup,” Bolan said. “You down here by yourself?”
“Yeah.” Tyler clicked his tongue. “For the moment, anyway. The agents I was originally paired with got pulled to help check things out in Puerto Rico. The vice president’s going to be there the day after tomorrow to attend the International Caribbean Security Conference.”
“We heard about that,” Bolan said.
Tyler nodded. “Well, anyway, so far we haven’t been able to trace Monk since he was in San Juan. That’s the last recorded place he was at.”
“What about his daughter?”
“She got here about a week ago, but checked out of her hotel room and hasn’t been seen since. Allegedly said she was going to spend some time on a friend’s boat. So at the moment, we don’t know if either of them is on this island. There’s no official record of Monk going through customs here, either.”
“Did you get our tip about that shady customs agent?” Bolan asked.
“Van der Hyden?”
Bolan nodded.
“Yeah, in fact, we just got back from the airport. We checked the man’s station and locker and found a substantial amount of cash.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bolan said. “Did you ask him if Monk came through on a false passport?”
“Yep,” Tyler said.
“Well, what did he say?” Grimaldi asked.
Tyler scratched his head again. “Not much. After we took him off the floor and started questioning him, he clammed up. Immediately asked for a lawyer. I had no choice but to turn him over to the Dutch authorities. He’ll most likely lose his job and be sent back to the Netherlands to face possible charges of official malfeasance.”
Grimaldi frowned and shook his head. “I wish you would’ve waited till we got there. We might have been able to get something out of the guy.”
“Now, now,” Tyler said, waggling his index finger in front of Grimaldi’s face. “Remember, we’re here on the sovereign territory of another country. Actually, in this case two separate countries, which complicates matters even more. We have to make sure our behavior stays within the appropriate confines of international law and go through proper, diplomatic channels.”
Bolan was watching Gaston. His head was jerking back and forth as he spoke on his cell phone. He cast a nervous glance in their direction and resumed talking. The hairs on the back of Bolan’s neck began to rise and he made out the high-pitched whine of an engine approaching. He asked Tyler if he had a weapon.
“I do,” the agent said, patting his chest.
“Better get ready,” Bolan said. “I think you’re going to have to use it.”
A dirty gray pickup truck whipped around the corner. The bed was filled with rough-looking men. The one in the passenger seat turned his pale, shaved head and yelled something at the driver, who angled right for the plateau’s parking area. Two of the men in the back of the truck straightened up and leveled AK-47s over the cab.
“Take cover!” Bolan yelled. “Jack, I’m going for those tourists.”
“Roger that, Cooper.”
Bolan reached under his shirt and pulled out the Beretta 93R as he zigzagged through the picnic tables. “Get down!” he shouted at the couple.
They turned and looked at him, fear fixed on both their faces. Bolan ran past Gaston, who was now standing with his arms stretched over his head. He hadn’t even touched the Manurhin MR 73 revolver holstered on his right side.
Bolan was about three steps away from the couple when the first rifle rounds zipped by him, with an accompanying burst of automatic fire. He crouched and dived into the man, reaching out and grabbing the woman and pulling her down, as well.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” the man asked.
Bolan motioned with his left hand for them to stay down, and whirled to face their adversaries. He flipped the select lever on the Beretta to the three-dot position—3-round bursts—grabbed the bench of the closest picnic table and flipped it onto its side.
Grimaldi and Tyler had taken cover behind the Citroën and were returning fire. Bolan counted eight men total from the truck, spread out across the plateau. Some crouched next to the tailgate of their vehicle, some stood in the bed leaning over the cab, and two others stood out in the open as they fired their Kalashnikovs on full-auto.
Bolan took those two out first. He snapped the front handle down for better control and sent a 3-round burst into each of them. They curled and fell forward. Grimaldi picked off one of the rooftop shooters. The other one ducked down. The big bald guy, shouting orders in what sounded like Russian, held his AK-47 up over the fender and sent a barrage at Grimaldi and Tyler, then aimed the barrel at Bolan. The picnic table’s thick boards deflected the rounds as they pierced the wood. Bolan glanced back at the tourists, who were still on the ground behind him, sheer terror on their faces. If they stayed there, hopefully, they wouldn’t get hit. He fired another 3-round burst toward the big Russian guy just as Gaston ran past him, as fast as he could, away from the fight. Bolan swore at the retreating cop, but as he did so, the back of the corporal’s crisp blue shirt was perforated by a track of bullet holes. Gaston took two more steps, slowed and fell on his face.
Bolan saw the Russian guy smiling as he looked up over the top of his rifle.
The soldier dashed forward, shooting a burst as he ran, then dived between the legs of another picnic table. He continued to roll as more rounds zipped around him. When he stopped, his arms were extended in ready position and he had a clear shot at the Russian.
The bald man’s face reflected surprise, then a grimace as he spotted Bolan. The Russian swiveled the barrel of his rifle toward him, but the soldier had already acquired a sight picture and sent 3-rounds into the man’s side. He lurched back, his rifle still pointed in Bolan’s direction. Bolan fired another burst, this time elevating his aim. The Russian’s head jerked and he recoiled backward, a cloud of scarlet mist exploding from his right temple. As the man crumpled to the asphalt, the Executioner was up and running.
Bolan knew from experience the best way to deal with an ambush was to fight your way out, and he fired more 3-round bursts as he ran. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grimaldi rising and firing his SIG at the shooters in the truck. Two more fell. The remaining two adversaries were crouching by the side of the truck, screaming at each other. It was clear they were panicking, and Bolan ran at an angle to outflank them. He knew that Grimaldi would be doing the same.
One of the men saw Bolan and raised his rifle. The Executioner dived into a slide, and as his left side hit the hard asphalt, he brought the Beretta in front of him and sent two bursts along the ground. The rounds zipped under the carriage of the pickup and into the feet and legs of the last two shooters. He saw them dancing in pain as Grimaldi rounded the other side. Jack took out the one closest to him and Bolan shot the other man in the chest. Both fell to the ground, their AK-47s tumbling out of their hands.
Bolan kept moving, keeping his Beretta trained on the fallen adversaries. He and Grimaldi kicked the rifles away from the bodies as they checked them. When they had determined that each man was, in fact, dead, Bolan straightened up and flipped his Beretta to Safe.
Tyler ran over to them, panting and still holding his pistol. The slide was locked back, indicating he’d fired all the rounds in his magazine.
“Is it over?” the FBI man asked. His voice sounded faraway, distorted.
“Looks like it.” The ringing had started to fade from Bolan’s ears. Grimaldi walked over to them and pointed to Tyler’s gun.
“Looks like you’re out of ammo,” he said.
Bolan stooped and removed a pistol from the big bald guy’s belt. It was a Russian Tokarev 9 mm.
“I’ve never been in anything like that before,” Tyler admitted. “You two guys are unbelievable.”
“First shootout?” Bolan asked.
The agent nodded, his face pinched.
