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Worried for the fate of the other missionaries, she said, “Shouldn’t I be near the other hostages?”
“You are different. They will be part of a larger negotiating package. You will be ransomed separately.”
“I don’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else,” she snapped.
He stopped and spun. His eyes bored into her, dark and fierce.
“Sometimes, it is necessary to kill a hostage or even several to make a point. If you are with them and this happens, you would be just as likely to be chosen for death as the others, as no one but myself knows your true identity. If you want to live, you come with me. If you want to take your chances…” He shrugged and released her hand. “Then go with them.” He pointed to where the other hostages huddled in a small group.
One man was yanked to his feet in front of a video camera. He attempted to flee, but the pirate was quick and efficient, slitting his throat with a large blade, as the other hostages screamed in horror. The crimson spray splattered all of them, adding to the terror of the scene. The man’s body dropped to the deck. Daniels looked at Rajan.
“This is not a game, Heather.” He pointed at a dark sedan rolling to a stop on the edge of the pier. “The man who is about to get out of that car is Kabilan Vengai, the leader of the Ocean Tigers. He is not a patient or kind man, so keep your answers short and direct.”
The combination of Rajan’s warning and the arrogant stride of Vengai as he moved down the pier had Daniels cringing inside. His arrival brought the activity on the pier to a near standstill. Everyone watched as he approached. He was about her height, just under six feet, and reminded her of a tiger stalking its prey. The military-style clothing didn’t hide the scars on his arms that looked as if someone had tried to fillet them and, failing that, had burned the skin.
Rajan didn’t wait for him, but closed the distance and started his report. Daniels caught only every few words, but what she did understand was the look of disdain that Vengai was sending her way. They finished speaking and Vengai strolled in front of her, looking her up and down as though she were a particularly interesting painting rather than a person.
“I did not believe it when Rajan first told me, but he is right. You are the daughter of President Jefferson Daniels of the United States.”
“He’s not the President anymore,” she said. “Just a man.”
Vengai chuckled under his breath. “If you believe that, you must think quite poorly of him. No man is ever an ex-President of your country, for he is still addressed as Mr. President, is this not so?”
She bit her lip and nodded her agreement.
“You are truly a treasure fished from the sea and were you my daughter, I would never allow you to travel in such a dangerous place as the Bay of Bengal. What will he pay, I wonder, for your safe return?”
Remembering her father’s time in office, Daniels shrugged. “I doubt he’ll pay you anything,” she said, trying to hold on to her courage. “President Jefferson Daniels does not negotiate with terrorists.”
Vengai chuckled once more. “He will for you,” he said. “You see, presidents and politicians like to say things like that, but they only mean that for other people. They never mean it when it will actually affect them. He will negotiate for you, of this I am very certain.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. From another pocket, he removed a small business-card-size piece of paper. He dialed a series of numbers, then handed the phone to her. “Call him. Now.”
She took the phone and saw that all the prefix numbers were entered. She added the area code and phone number for her father’s cell phone, then pressed Send. After several long seconds and a handful of clicks and beeps, the call connected.
Her father answered on the second ring. “Who’s this?” he said.
“Dad, thank God you answered, it’s me,” Daniels said. “Don’t hang up.”
“Heather, where are you calling from? I didn’t recognize the number.”
Before she could respond, Vengai snatched the phone from her hand, activating the speaker-phone function. “President Daniels, now you know that your daughter is alive, we can proceed with business. We are holding your daughter and if you want to see her alive again, you will follow my instructions exactly.”
“Who the hell are you?” her father snarled. “Where is she?”
“This will be the only call, Mr. President, so I suggest you write down what I’m about to tell you. Within ten days, you will transfer…twenty-five million dollars in U.S. funds into the following account.” He rattled off a string of numbers. “When the money is received, your daughter will be released. That is all.”
“Dad!” Daniels said. “I’m on an island somewhere near—” The slap that interrupted her came out of nowhere and she couldn’t stifle the yelp of pain as she went down. Rajan was standing over her.
“Ten days, Mr. President, or your daughter dies.”
He clicked the end button on the sound of her father’s nearly incoherent yelling.
“This is all so unnecessary,” she said. “We have nothing to do with your war or your money. We’re here trying to help the people of your country.”
“Miss Daniels, what you arrogant Americans seem to misunderstand is that we want no help from you. We don’t want your people in our country, but you refuse to go home and continue with these…useless efforts.”
Daniels held her tongue. She knew better than to argue with an extremist. But with her father there were two things she knew for certain. She’d never heard him sound so angry.
And he would never pay money to a terrorist, not even for her.
CHAPTER TWO
As a soldier, Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, fundamentally believed that there would never come a time in his life when training was unnecessary. On the other hand, even an experienced soldier could find that he’d bitten off a bit more than he wanted to chew. While that wasn’t the case this time, Bolan felt that the Le Parkour training he’d been spending his time on was pushing him toward his limit.
The course he was facing today was the last challenge in this training run, and for all of his previous training—Special Forces, rappelling, high-altitude jumps and just about every kind of military work in the world—none of it could have prepared him for the intensity of Parkour. Bolan had become interested in the discipline that was sometimes called freerunning after watching some action film extras on a DVD. Realizing that not all of the stunts were special effects or done with wires, he’d listened to one of the film consultants talk about Parkour and the discipline of body manipulation, jumping, climbing and negotiating obstacles with the most speed and efficiency. As the stuntmen and -women were launching themselves up the sides of buildings, leaping over concrete barricades and moving with amazing swiftness, Bolan determined to explore Parkour for himself, adding it to his already formidable battlefield skills. For a man in his line of work, those kinds of skills might make the difference between life and death.
Standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower, Bolan waited with his instructor for the signal to begin. It had been a grueling five days of training, and he felt as though he’d mastered the basics, but there were maneuvers he still longed to perfect. They had received a special dispensation to use any means necessary to reach the top of the Eiffel Tower, rescue the mock hostages and disarm the terrorists. Nothing else compared to the challenge.
The monitor dropped the flag and Bolan raced up the stairs. The steep staircases surrounded by mesh fencing for protection worked as more of a launch pad than an obstacle. Bolan turned one corner and saw a shrapnel grenade. Using the momentum from running, Bolan launched to the top of the fence, anchoring with his hands but pulling his body up and over in one graceful movement. The small explosion behind him didn’t diminish his movement, pushing off with his feet and jumping through the air to an adjacent set of stairs.
Bolan pushed off of the top of the fence with one foot, jumping in a zigzag motion down the mesh walls that enclosed the stairs and moving back after his prey. There were three opponents waiting for him at the next turn. He leaned back as the larger one in the middle swung a bat, then reached out as it went past him, grabbing the end. He swung his weight with the bat and knocked the other two down as the extra pressure brought with his speed made a complete circle.
Angry, the opponent dropped the bat and tried to grapple Bolan. The Executioner picked up the discarded bat, jabbed the last guard in the solar plexus and then rushed past him. The final turn was filled with small gadgets on the steps that were to mimic explosives that would detonate on impact. Bolan ran back three steps to pick up speed, launched over the first two and bounced off the side of the fencing like a trampoline without touching the step. Back and forth across until he was clear of the devices. His last jump he rolled on the landing where the hostages were being held. He pulled his pistol with paint rounds and fired off two quick shots, killing the villains.
Everyone in the tower clapped. Bolan smiled, out of breath but elated that he was able to clear the obstacles. He stood on the platform and talked to his hostages, members of the team that had been training with him. They congratulated him, impressed at how quickly he had learned the skills, and talked about springing from one set of stairs to another and the risks of jumps from a given height or a moving object. He enjoyed training with other like-minded military men, and while France wasn’t known for its military prowess, the men he’d been training with were all part of a special antiterrorist unit and were as good as anyone he’d ever worked with.
Just as he’d caught his breath, Bolan’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out and glanced down at the number, which he recognized at once as belonging to Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The most elite anti-terrorism agency in the world that answered only to the President of the United States, Stony Man Farm, Virginia, had been his brainchild. Now he worked with them on select missions, keeping a good arm’s length away from any kind of permanent arrangement. Still, when Brognola called, there was always a good reason.
He tapped the key that accepted the call. “Yeah.”
“Striker.” Brognola’s voice came over the line. “I’m glad I could reach you. Are you still in Paris?”
“Still here,” he said. “It’s been good, but long. Today’s the last day. What’s going on?”
“There’s a situation that I’d like to bring you in on. How soon can you be back in D.C.?”
Bolan could almost hear the sound of Hal chewing on one of his expensive cigars and realized that whatever was going on must be pretty serious. He almost never asked him to come in for a mission briefing. Remembering an invitation from a new friend about the chance to accompany him on a test flight of a new plane, he said, “If all goes well, I can be on the ground by eight tonight.”
“From Paris?” Brognola asked, his voice a bit incredulous. “The Concorde isn’t flying anymore, you know.”
“It’s a new plane of sorts. Where do you want me?”
“The White House,” he replied. “I’ll make sure you’ve got gate clearance as Colonel Stone. Stop off at the Farm and get a uniform from Stores, Striker.”
“It must be my day to be surprised,” Bolan said. “You’ve asked me to come in for a mission briefing and you want me at the White House in a military uniform.”
“The situation is…delicate. Just get back here ASAP and I’ll have more details for you when you arrive.”
“On my way,” he said, ending the call. He quickly thanked his hosts and explained that a personal emergency had come up and he had to leave right away, rather than stay for the celebration planned for that evening. Everyone shook hands, and Bolan made his way back down the Eiffel Tower before he placed another call to arrange his transportation back to the U.S.
THE TEST FLIGHT TO D.C. went off without a hitch, and the plane had performed flawlessly.
A quick call to Stony Man Farm had resulted in an Army colonel’s uniform and credentials being dropped off at a hotel Bolan occasionally used when he was in Washington.
The pilot of the experimental plane had decided to play tourist in D.C. for a few days, so the plane would remain in a private hangar that had been arranged before he’d left France.
The soldier showered, shaved and changed into his uniform, then arranged for a car service to take him to the White House. The process at the gate couldn’t have been more simple. His uniform commanded automatic respect and when he gave his name—Colonel Brandon Stone—and provided his credentials, he was immediately given access and an escort inside the building.
Once inside, he was met by a man in a nondescript, dark blue suit that all but screamed Secret Service. “Colonel Stone, if you’d follow me, please?” he said.
“Of course,” Bolan replied, not bothering to look around too much. It wasn’t his first time inside the White House and given his line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last time. Still, it was an impressive landmark and the source of many of the missions he’d undertaken over the years. He wasn’t inside the building often, but he’d had more than the tourist tour. That said, he was a bit surprised when he was led down a short hallway to an elevator. He knew where they were headed, but asked anyway.
“Where are we going?” he asked the agent.
“To the bunker, sir,” he said, punching a code into the panel next to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped inside. Bolan followed him, and as the doors shut, he noted that there was no panel or buttons indicating different floors. Instead, there was a keypad and a small, rectangular scanner.
The agent punched in another code, then stepped forward. A brief flare of light passed over his eyes, conducting a retinal scan. Finally a tone sounded, then an unseen voice said, “Voice authentication protocol.”
“Agent Reilly Summers,” he said.
“Voice authentication accepted,” the system responded. “Destination?”
“Bunker,” he replied.
The elevator began moving quietly down. Impressed at the security, Bolan kept quiet. It took less than a minute for them to descend to their destination and then the elevator doors chimed once and opened. The agent stepped out and Bolan followed.
“This way, Colonel Stone,” he said, turning left and going down the hallway. He stopped outside a closed door. “Please go right in, sir. They’re expecting you.”
“Thank you, Agent Summers,” he said. He opened the door and stepped inside, then paused in genuine surprise. Seated at the conference table was Hal Brognola and past President of the United States Jefferson Daniels. Seated next to Daniels was a woman Bolan didn’t recognize, but who he assumed was his personal secretary or, perhaps more likely, his Secret Service agent.
“Mr. President,” he said, entering the room and offering a salute, which Daniels returned. “Hal, it’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks for coming,” Brognola replied. “Mr. President, you know who this is. Colonel Brandon Stone.”
“Colonel Stone,” President Daniels said. “I appreciate you coming. I understand you were overseas when Hal got in touch.”
“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. “But that’s hardly important. When Hal calls, I answer.”
“Take a seat, Colonel,” Daniels said. “And Hal can bring you up to speed on the situation.”
Bolan sat and looked questioningly at Brognola. The very fact that they were meeting inside the White House—in the secure bunker, no less—meant that whatever was going on had already been sanctioned by the current President. Most likely, this was deemed the most secure location for President Daniels to have a meeting with someone like Brognola. Too many questions would have been asked if they’d tried to do it at the Pentagon.
Daniels didn’t speak and didn’t look at Bolan, his eyes focused on a problem that wasn’t in that room. As President, he had been known to be principled and unwavering. There were many who liked him, but once his mind was made up there was little that could be done to change his position. His complete support of the military was widely known, but his tunnel vision had caused problems, as well. Whatever this problem was, weighed on him. He looked tired. The salt-and-pepper hair that he’d sported as President was now almost completely gray, and the lines in his face were that of a worn battle commander.
“Okay, Hal, let’s have it,” Bolan said.
“On the surface, the situation is fairly simple. President Daniels’s daughter, Heather, has been kidnapped in the Bay of Bengal. They’re demanding a twenty-five-million-dollar ransom within ten days, or they say they’ll kill her,” he said. “The problem is that it isn’t that simple.”
“Clarify, please,” Bolan replied. “While I admit that’s a large sum of money, they obviously know who she is.”
“They do,” the big Fed said. “When President Daniels got the call, he contacted me. Fortunately, he recorded the call. We’ve got some audio people working on breaking it down completely right now. But what tipped me off that something was different was how they wanted the money.”
“My understanding is that most pirating operations work on a cash-and-carry basis,” Bolan said. “Euros usually.”
“They provided an account number and wanted the money to be wired,” Daniels said.
“That is unusual,” Bolan said. “I assume you looked into it?”
“We did,” Brognola said. “That’s when things began to get interesting. It’s not just a dummy account. It’s buried under five different holding corporations that we’ve found so far, not a one of them real.”
Bolan considered this information for a moment. “These aren’t pirates,” he said. “They don’t have the kind of money or structure to set up something like that.”
“Exactly,” Brognola said. “It’s got to be a terrorist organization of some kind, but we don’t know who yet.”
It could be any one of a number of large organizations that operated in that part of the world, and—he couldn’t rule it out completely—it was possible, however unlikely, that it was simply a very evolved pirate operation. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mr. President,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but is it possible that they’ll release her if you do pay?”
“That’s a fair question,” Daniels replied. “The short answer is that I can’t care about that.”
“Sir?”
“I think Hal’s right. This move smacks of a highly organized terrorist organization. I’m heartsick that they have Heather, and there’s not much I wouldn’t do to ensure her safe return. But this isn’t just a question of negotiating with terrorists, Colonel. This would be funding them. And twenty-five million dollars in that part of the world might make them all but unstoppable. They could take over an entire region or buy arms and equipment that we don’t want those kinds of people to have.” His voice was hoarse and tired, and he shook his head. “I can’t pay them, Colonel. That’s where you come in.”
“You want me to go and get her,” Bolan said.
“That’s part of the mission,” Brognola said, “but, with all due respect to President Daniels, it’s just as important that we figure out who these people are and put a stop to them. If we don’t, the precedent could make every high-ranking politician’s family in the world a potential target for this kind of activity. Right now, the illusion of security and the threat of extreme violence is a powerful shield. If we fail, that illusion goes away in a hurry.”
“Understood,” Bolan said. “I’ll need all the intelligence you’ve gathered so far, and then I’ll get started on finding a solid lead.”
“When will you leave for the region?” Daniels asked.
“When I know where I’m going, sir,” Bolan replied. “It doesn’t do us any good to thrash about blindly over there. It’s a highly corrupt area and we’d be spotted before we could do your daughter or the country any real good.”
“I don’t like it,” he admitted, “but I don’t have to.” He turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him. “Colonel Stone, I’d like you to meet Michelle Peterson. She’s part of my Secret Service detail these days, but she worked with both CIA and NSA before that. I’d like her to join in your investigation and your mission as my personal representative.”
Bolan caught Brognola’s warning look, though it had been unnecessary. His old friend knew that he far preferred to work alone. “Mr. President,” he said, once more choosing his words with caution, “you know that I’ve been working in special operations for a long time, and I generally work alone. Many of the missions that you know we undertake are too dangerous for someone without the proper training and I’m not usually in a position, for lack of a better phrase, to play babysitter.”
“I respect what you’re saying, Colonel Stone, and your service,” Daniels said. “I can even set aside my feelings enough to know that the mission priority has to be taking out these terrorists. But don’t think for a minute that this isn’t personal. I want my daughter back, alive, and I want the bastards who did this as dead as old dad’s hatband. Agent Peterson will be going along with you, and she won’t need any babysitting. I can assure you of that.”
Until now, Bolan hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the woman seated on the other side of the table. Secret Service agents specialized in blending into the background, and until the President had brought her up, he’d assumed that her only purpose in being there was for him. Now he turned his blue-eyed gaze on her. While she was dressed in what he’d come to think of as the unofficial uniform of those who served in protection details—a black, button-down dress with a white blouse beneath that showed a hint of cleavage. She had dark brown hair that brushed the tops of her shoulders in waves and a very attractive face, with full, almost pouty lips.
“Did you want me to stand up, Colonel? Maybe take a turn about the room so you can get a complete examination?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow slightly. “Maybe you’d just like to see my résumé?”
“Agent Peterson,” Brognola said, trying to ease the tension, “I’m sure you can understand why the colonel might wish to know more about your qualifications for a mission like this.”
She got up out of her chair and walked around the conference table. At a guess, Bolan put her at not much over five feet tall when she wasn’t wearing heels. She stopped when she was close enough to his chair that she could reach out and touch him. “Colonel Stone,” she said, “I’ve done field operations in Africa, the Middle East and South America for both the CIA and the NSA. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, and if the President had been willing to allow it, I would’ve taken this operation on my own. I’ve known Heather for most of her life, and I’d willingly take a bullet for her. Can you say the same?”
Bolan got to his feet and stared down at the woman in front of him. Without changing the direction of his gaze, he said, “That’s the problem here, Mr. President. This is personal for her and on these kinds of missions, it can’t ever be personal.”
“She goes, Colonel,” Daniels said. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
