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“How long had he been dead?”
“Not sure,” Brognola said. “The body sat in the heat for a while and was pretty badly decomposed when they found it. Actually it was the smell that tipped them off. The neighbors complained about the stench. The custodian went into the apartment to check on the smell and found the guy sprawled out on the living-room floor with a dozen bullet holes in his torso. We’re assuming that the shooter used a sound suppressor. The place is pretty upscale. If the shooting had been audible, someone would have called the cops.”
“Great,” Bolan said. “I guess I’ll scratch him off my list of people to talk to.”
“Yeah. Have faith, though. Barb’s been working her contacts in Washington and she’s come up with some interesting information about Mr. Clark.”
“Yeah?”
“Now that the proverbial shit has hit the fan, suddenly everyone understands what’s been happening for the past couple of months with the Garrison investigation. Bly apparently knew it was happening for a while at least. We’re still trying to figure out how he knew, but he knew. Unfortunately for us, he was smart about it. He offered up a couple of sources to the team, and Clark took the bait. They were offering him all kinds of information, some of it too good to be true.”
“Which means it was,” Bolan stated. “He was an experienced field guy. How’d he fall for that?”
“Hard to say,” Brognola replied. “It’s possible that he was too taken with the information to analyze it and determine whether it actually made sense given what we know. Or that it had enough of an air of credibility about it to make it worth pursuing.”
“That’d make sense,” Bolan said, “considering that the guy at the top was the one feeding the information to him.”
“Sure, it could’ve had just enough truth in it to make the lie seem plausible. I mean Bly was pulling the strings on most of what came out, so he could direct traffic and lead the CIA where he wanted it to go.”
“Do we know who was feeding the controller his information?”
“I’ve got a contact,” Brognola said. “There’s a guy on the ground there, name’s Bill Wallace. He’s a ballistics expert and a gunsmith and a former commando. The U.S. sent him to Colombia a couple of years ago to consult with their military. The assignment stuck and he’s still there. Whenever we—meaning Langley, Justice or the Pentagon—send someone into the country covertly, whether for a drug investigation or some other clandestine op, he provides the weapons and equipment. Saves us the headache of smuggling guns through airports. I know him. We go back a long way. The guy’s absolutely incorruptible.”
“Did he arm Serrano’s team?”
“Can’t say for sure,” Brognola replied. “But, it’s likely he did, and he’ll tell us what we want to know. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
B OLAN GUIDED THE CAR into a curved driveway that led to an iron gate. He parked and waited for a guard to appear. Jack Grimaldi undid his seat belt and opened his windbreaker, giving him better access to his handgun.
A minute later, Bolan sensed someone coming. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw three guards approaching the car from the rear. Two of the men stopped a few yards behind the vehicle and stood on either side of it, their FN submachine guns cradled in plain view.
A third man came up alongside the car and stopped just behind Bolan’s shoulder. The position made it easier for him to get the drop on the Executioner, should he make a play for a weapon. The guard, a scarecrow-thin man with a bushy black mustache, his eyes shaded by a billed cap, rested his hand on his sidearm.
“Quick,” Grimaldi said, mock urgency in his voice, “hide the joint.”
“Comedy,” Bolan said. “Just what we need.”
The Executioner rolled down his window. A blast of hot air tinged with oppressive humidity blasted his face.
“Can I help you?” the guard asked.
“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Wallace.”
“ID?”
Bolan dug out the leather carrying case that contained his wallet from the cup holder built into the car’s console. He handed it, already flipped open, to the guard. The man studied it, nodded and handed it back. They repeated the process with Grimaldi. Then the guard reached up and keyed the microphone clipped to his shoulder and ordered the gate open.
Once inside the compound, Bolan navigated the car along the curved driveway. He noticed most of the land around the house was stripped of trees and most shrubs, for security purposes, he assumed.
The rooftop became visible before the rest of the house did. He turned another corner, followed the driveway as it dipped and finally rolled up in front of the big hacienda-style house.
Wallace stood in the driveway and watched them roll in. Except for the Glock that rested on his hip, he otherwise looked like a father waiting to take his kids to soccer practice. He wore a polo shirt, khakis and brown loafers. His wide face seemed to swallow up a pair of glasses with small, round lenses that were perched on his nose.
Bolan parked the vehicle. He and Grimaldi exited it.
Wallace ambled toward them. He shook hands first with Grimaldi and then with Bolan, who found his handshake firm and confident.
“Sorry about the theatrics,” Wallace said. A soft Southern accent colored his voice. He made a sweeping wave that took in his house and a pair of Mercedes SUVs parked nearby. “People see all this and they want to help themselves to it. They can have it. But it’s my family I worry about. Place is filthy with kidnappers.”
“Understood,” Bolan said.
“Come inside,” Wallace said.
They followed Wallace through the house, ascended a circular staircase that led to the second floor and adjourned to Wallace’s luxurious study.
Several bottles of water and a carafe of coffee stood with some cups at the center of a small conference table ringed with chairs.
“Help yourselves to a drink,” Wallace said. “Cop a squat. Do whatever you want. Any friend of Hal’s is a friend of mine.”
Wallace seated himself at the conference table. He took a bottle of water, twisted off the cap and gulped some. Grimaldi took a seat at the table while Bolan continued to stand.
“Did Hal tell you why we’re here?” Bolan asked.
“He told me enough,” Wallace replied. “I work with the Feds on pretty big projects, so my clearances run pretty high. Not bragging. Just letting you know that I have access to things other nongovernment folks can’t touch. Hal said that a CIA ops team that was looking into Garrison went missing. Said you’d come down here to find them.”
“You familiar with the team?” Bolan asked.
“I provided them with some surveillance equipment,” Wallace said. “And a secure phone, along with a few pistols and submachine guns. They were under nonofficial cover, so they couldn’t go through any of the traditional channels. They couldn’t go near the embassy or meet with anyone from the local CIA station. It’d raise too many eyebrows.”
“Meeting with you wouldn’t?” the Executioner asked.
Wallace nodded. “Hell, yeah. But they didn’t meet with me. I have a couple of freelance operatives I run around here. I used one of them to pass things along.”
“Which means they met at least some of the team.”
“Wrong,” Wallace said, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I’ve done this a few times, remember? My guy was brand-new to the area, an unknown quantity to everyone but me. I had him leave the stuff at a dead drop, get the hell out of there before the recipients arrived. He never met anyone face-to-face. I monitored the drop by camera until someone picked up the gear.”
“Was it someone from the team?”
“Of course,” Wallace said. “I would’ve sounded the alarms in Washington if it’d happened some other way.”
Bolan nodded. “Have you heard anything from them since?”
“Not personally,” Wallace said. “But I am hearing other stuff. Funky stuff.”
“Like?”
“I’ve got a couple of buddies with MI-6. Occasionally, I do a little work for them. They have a couple of guys on the ground here in Colombia, including a guy named Richardson. Ethan Richardson. He does a lot of the same work I do here. He’s just not quite as choosy about his clientele. It’s all just business to him, whether it’s Hezbollah or the Chinese. That’s his reputation and he likes it.”
With loud gulps, Wallace guzzled down more water.
“A few hours ago, someone contacted him. An American. The guy was looking for weapons. It was a stupid move on his part, too. He wanted a couple of handguns and an Uzi. This place is lousy with that kind of stuff. But he called the Brit who was more than happy to sell him the guns. And then he immediately called me and passed along the information.”
“For a price,” Grimaldi said.
A weary smile spread across Wallace’s features. “Friend, nothing comes free in Colombia. Anyway, Richardson assumed that I’d want more information on this American even before we spoke. Once he sold him the weapons, he put a tail on him so we know where he’s going. He also gave me a picture.”
He punched a key on his laptop, turned it around so Bolan and Grimaldi could see it. Bolan saw a pair of photos positioned next to each other on the screen. In one, the soldier observed the grainy image of a man wearing a baseball cap. The second depicted a close-up shot of the man’s face. It was a Caucasian with a flat, wide nose and thick black eyebrows and dull brown eyes.
“Michael Stephens,” Wallace said.
“What do we know about him?” Bolan asked.
“Drifter, of sorts. He used to be with U.S. Army intelligence. According to his file, he was sharp. But he couldn’t stand to take orders from anyone. He took a swing at his sergeant over something petty, like a bad evaluation. The guy repaid him with a busted nose and a dishonorable discharge. He blew a twelve-year career over something stupid. He scrounges around for information, occasionally comes across something that he can sell to us, the Colombians, the rebels, whoever might buy it. Most of what he learns is penny ante stuff, including things compiled from foreign newspapers that he rewrites into intelligence reports. I buy it anyway, just to keep some goodwill with him. Occasionally he comes across something I can use or pass along to someone else. But we have to watch him. He’s a backstabber.”
“You have an address?”
“Yeah,” Wallace said. “And that info’s on the house.”
“So who’s he arming himself against?” Bolan asked.
“Hard to say,” Wallace replied. “Maybe you guys.”
“Not too many people know we’re here,” Grimaldi said.
“Then maybe something else scared him,” Wallace offered. “Maybe his erstwhile employers parted company with him. Or he just pissed somebody off. From what I know about this little turd, there’s no shortage of people who’d happily snap a cap on his ass for free. Hell, a couple might even pay for the privilege.”
“Which means that someone else is going to be heading out there to talk with him,” Grimaldi said.
Wallace nodded again. “Probably. By the way, Hal gave me a shopping list. I have your gear packed in a helicopter and ready to take you wherever you want to go.”
A smile ghosted the Executioner’s lips. “Thanks,” he said.
“W HAT IS GOING ON ?” Eva asked. Her voice was marked by fear. “Why are you doing this?”
Stephens shot her a withering look. “Shut up and pack,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ve asked me three times, and it’s the same damn answer every time. So do as I say.”
Anger flared in her eyes, and her lips tightened into a thin line. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared after him for a few minutes while he packed. Stephens could see at least part of this from the corner of his eye, but ignored her, knowing she’d give up quickly.
After several tense seconds, Eva spun on her heel and headed for the bedroom to pack.
Once she was gone, Stephens pulled his shirttails from the waistband of his pants and let them drape around his waist. He reached inside his nearby briefcase, rooted around inside it for a moment until he found his newly acquired Glock still sheathed in a nylon holster. Lifting his shirttails, he clipped the weapon to his waistband and let his shirt drape over the weapon’s butt. He’d already stowed the second pistol in an ankle holster before Eva had returned home. He didn’t want her to see the weapons. He knew she’d panic and bombard him with questions he didn’t want to answer. Maybe he’d tell her more when they got to the United States. Maybe not. But he’d make that decision later. Right now, getting the hell off the bull’s-eye was the main priority. And, if she had any gratitude, she’d shut her mouth and let him handle the situation. He was, after all, doing all this for her and the baby, which was all she needed to know.
He checked his watch and muttered a curse.
“Eva,” he shouted, “get moving! We’ve got to go.”
“Why do we have to go?” she shouted from the bedroom.
“Shut up. Pack. No questions!” he shouted.
The phone on his belt trilled. He cursed again and answered it.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Hello, Mike,” Krotnic said.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Do you like the guns you bought? Do you think they’ll keep you safe?”
Unconsciously, Stephens’s hand dropped to the Glock moored to his hip. “What do you want?”
“I asked you a question,” Krotnic said.
“Why don’t you come up here and I’ll answer it.”
“Sorry,” Krotnic said. “I can’t make it. But I sent some friends over for a visit. I hope you’re a good shot. There are a lot of them.”
The phone went dead.
4
Doyle pulled open the van’s rear doors to reveal five men seated in the back. The gunners, all togged in street clothes, stared at him, awaiting their orders. He stepped away from the door and gestured for them to disembark.
“Look alive, ladies,” he said. “Got no time for you to be back there, darning your socks, for pity’s sake.”
Silently, the men filed out of the vehicle. Doyle swept his gaze over the whole crew.
Each carried a duffel bag strapped over his shoulder. All the bags contained an identical weapon, a Ruger MP-9, and extra clips. They also carried Beretta 92 pistols fitted with sound suppressors. Every last one of them hailed from a military background, and they were veterans of some of the world’s worst killing fields. This particular group consisted of three South Africans, an Israeli and a Russian, each formerly from the special forces of his respective country.
When it came to technical proficiency, each was a top-notch fighter, unafraid to mix it up with anyone. However, they all had little discipline and even less desire to develop what they did have. They were fighting for money, not cause or country. Doyle knew that made them inherently weaker than traditional soldiers.
A second van rolled in behind them, bits of gravel popping as it approached. The driver guided the vehicle left and parked it next to the first van. A second group of mercenaries joined the first. Doyle had split them into two teams. One would hit the building from the outside. The second would scour the inside for their targets.
“We need to take out the bastard,” Doyle said. “He’s starting to make noises, ones we don’t like. Sounds like he’s starting to have pangs of a conscience.”
A couple of the gunners shot Doyle a knowing smile. He ignored them.
“We find his change of heart unacceptable,” the Irishman said. “Another important point. Your target has a housemate, a young woman who’s carrying his child. We want no witnesses, period. Zero. Variation from that plan is unacceptable. She takes a bullet. If anyone’s too squeamish to drop the hammer on her, speak now or forever shut up. The last thing I need is for one of you nancy boys to choke when you get that stupid wench in your gunsights. Clear?”
He fell silent and slowly dragged his eyes over the motley assortment of hired guns lined up before him, made sure his expression telegraphed heavy doses of disdain for each of them. He wanted them to know that, while they got paid handsomely for their work, he had no personal regard for them. More important, he didn’t fear them or care what happened to them, as long as the mission succeeded.
“You also need to go from apartment to apartment,” he said. “Take out anyone unlucky enough to be home tonight. Do we all understand?”
A couple of them nodded, while others fixed their thousand-yard stares somewhere over his shoulder, like they’d heard enough.
“No questions? Fine, then get your damn asses in that building and raise some hell.”
