скачать книгу бесплатно
“What the hell,” the cop replied wearily. “I don’t know of anybody left.”
Tyree Building, Staten Island
THROWING BACK his head, Alexander Tyree inhaled sharply and then relaxed. Crawling out from under the conference table, the naked blond woman padded over to the mirrored bar set into the wall and poured herself a short Scotch whiskey. Draining the tumbler, she gargled first, then swallowed the rest of the drink.
“You’re the best, baby,” Tyree said, closing his zipper. “See you tomorrow. Same time, eh?”
“No problem, sir,” she said woodenly, rinsing out the glass before placing it in the sink. Stepping into black high heels, the hooker slipped on a full-length mink coat and walked out of the penthouse office, closing the door tightly behind her.
Rubbing his face for a moment, Tyree reached into a pocket and withdrew a small vial of white powder. Thumbing off the cap, the man poured the cocaine onto the polished mahogany table. Taking out a pocketknife, he was about to neatly cut the pile into lines when he heard a wet smack on the window. What the hell? Damn birds had to have flown into the glass again.
Glancing over a shoulder, Tyree blinked in confusion at the sight of a small gray lump of claylike material stuck to the bulletproof glass. There was a nylon rope attached, as if it had been lowered from the roof. Then he spotted the flashing red light of the remote detonator set into the wad of C-4 plastique.
Throwing himself out of the chair, Tyree hit the carpet a split second before the high-explosive wad cut loose and the window stridently imploded across the office, flipping over the conference table and sending the line of wheeled chairs spinning crazily in every direction.
The concussion brutally shoved Tyree hard against the marble wall. He was fighting to regain his breath when a dark figure lowered into view from above and swung in through the smoking ruin of the window.
LANDING ON HIS crepe-soled shoes, Mack Bolan slapped the release buckle of the safety harness around his waist and anchored the line to the splintered ruin of the thirty-foot-long conference table. Dressed for full urban combat, the Executioner was in a black combat suit. A web belt of ordnance and ammo circled his waist, a Beretta 93-R rode in a shoulder holster and a big-bore .357 Magnum Desert Eagle claimed the opposite hip.
A muffled pounding came from the other side of the door to the office, but Bolan ignored it. This was Tyree’s private retreat, his secret bolthole, and the only place in New York where the international arms dealer could relax completely safe. The entire building was a fortress, and this particular floor his personal bunker, the floor, walls and ceiling each composed of two full yards of steel-reinforced concrete. According to the engineering blueprints, the foot-thick titanium door would stop a 60 mm shell, and the magnetic locks could be turned off only from this side. Bolan estimated that Tyree’s bodyguards wouldn’t be able to get through in under an hour. More than sufficient. It had taken Bolan an entire day to track down the hidden location of the retreat, and less than an hour to crack its five-million-dollar security system.
Hauling the crime boss off the ripped carpeting, Bolan slammed him against the Italian-marble wall and pressed the cold pit of the Beretta’s sound suppressor into the man’s stomach.
“What the hell,” Tyree mumbled, clearly still disorganized from the explosion.
Keeping the Beretta in place, Bolan slapped the man across the face. “Get it together, Tyree. This is judgment day.”
Rubbing his stinging cheek, the man sneered at that. “So this is a raid,” he said. “Well, go ahead, cop, read me my rights. Arrest me. My lawyers will have me on the street in an hour!”
Shifting the aim of the weapon, Bolan fired and blood erupted from the man’s shoulder as the 9 mm slug grazed the skin and ricocheted off the cracked marble.
“Stop! You can’t do that!” Tyree shouted, grabbing the shallow flesh wound. “Cops can’t shoot prisoners!”
“I’m not a cop,” Bolan said bluntly, shifting the Beretta to center on the man’s heaving chest.
The implication was clear and Tyree went pale. “It’s a hit? B-but I got connections! I pay protection!”
“Not against me.”
Starting to understand the gravity of the situation, Tyree nervously licked dry lips. “Look, I’m just a businessman. We can cut a deal here,” Tyree said, keeping a palm pressed to his bleeding shirt. “There’s money in the wall safe behind the mirror in the bar. A hundred grand in cash. It’s yours. Take it and go.”
“Wrong answer,” Bolan stated coldly.
“Look, I know the Dragon missiles were shit, but the buyers were al-Qaeda,” he said, the words gushing out in a torrent, “and this is New York, for Christ’s sake! Whack me if ya want, but screw those Afghan dirtbags and the hairy-ass camels they rode in on.”
For one of the very few times in his turbulent life, Mack Bolan found himself caught absolutely by surprise. Then he looked hard into the man’s sweaty face and saw it was the truth. Incredible.
“You sold fake missiles to terrorists,” Bolan repeated slowly.
Filled with the bravado that comes in the face of inevitable death, Tyree gave a snort. “Yeah, fuck him, and fuck you, too!” he retorted, rubbing his aching shoulder. “Go ahead, shoot me! Get it the fuck over with!”
“Not today,” the Executioner said. “Maybe we can cut a deal.”
Hope flared in his eyes and Tyree glanced at the bar.
“Not for cash,” Bolan countered, keeping the weapon level but shifting it off center. “But I’ll trade information in exchange for your life.”
“Done,” Tyree agreed quickly. “What do ya want to know?”
Smart fellow. No wonder he seized control of the East Coast weapons traffic from the Jewish mob. “Some Brazilian muscle is smuggling weapons into the country,” Bolan said, deliberately being as vague as possible. He’d give more details if necessary, but only what was necessary. “Big stuff, small package. Who would they approach to broker a sale? I want a name.”
Gingerly massaging his upper arm, Tyree listened to the thumping on the armored door for a while, but said nothing, deep in thought.
Was he cooking a lie or digging for a name? Bolan wondered. He sincerely hoped the man was going to play it straight, because there was nobody else to ask. This was the end of the line, which was why he had opted for a stunt like swinging in through the window instead of ambushing the man in the elevator.
“Brazilian,” Tyree said slowly. “So it’s the Commies, the rebels, or the S2? Right?”
Bolan nodded.
“The Communists and the rebels ain’t got shit to sell. They’re buyers, but so broke they can’t afford anything important, so that means it’s the S2,” Tyree said at last. “Okay, there’s a guy, lives out in Belmore, Long Island. Deals a lot with those assholes. Name is Michael Prince. Fat guy, silk suits, uses a cigarette holder.”
Yeah, Bolan knew the name, but not much more. Michael Prince, the self-proclaimed Prince of the City. So he was handling weapons now. The rope suddenly had some extra length.
“Call anybody, and I’ll come back,” Bolan said, tucking the Beretta into its holster. “Only next time, we don’t talk.”
“Hey no problem.” The man smiled weakly. “Time for me to retire anyway.”
Attaching the safety belt as a prelude to rapelling down the side of the building, Mack Bolan paused at the window to glance over a shoulder.
“Dummy missiles?” he said, giving a brief hard smile.
“What the hell.” Tyree sighed, looking past the Executioner at the distant Manhattan skyline with a noticeable gap in the line of towering skyscrapers. “It’s a new world.”
Richmond, Virginia
EVENING WAS starting to fall across the lush Virginia countryside as the dark gray sedan rolled off the highway and into the suburbs of Richmond. The streets were astonishingly clean and lined with old trees, the front lawn of each house wide and immaculately maintained, with dogwood flowers sweetly scenting the air. Every car was in a garage or parked on the driveway; nobody was using the street.
“Jeez, it’s like something out of a Disney movie,” Cliff Maynard complained from behind the wheel. “I keep waiting for the music to swell and credits to roll.”
“Got to be a tough commute to D.C. every day,” Eliza Linderholm replied, checking the power-pack in her Taser. Tucking the electric stun gun away, the CIA agent pulled out a Glock 21 pistol and carefully threaded on a sound suppressor. Mr. Osbourne wanted the woman alive, undamaged if possible, but that wasn’t carved in stone.
“Maybe Dupont likes the peace of the countryside,” Cliff continued, reaching under his jacket and snapping off the strap of his shoulder holster. “It’d drive me crazy.”
“Amen to that, brother.” Linderholm smiled. “I’m a big-city girl and plan to stay that way.”
Back in Langley, the Agency was at its most busy when the place was quiet. Casual conversations and laughter meant that nothing important was happening in the world, an uncommon event. To any CIA agent, peace and quiet always meant trouble.
“This must be it,” Maynard said, checking the map on the dashboard display. He turned off his navigational computer and it folded back out of sight.
“You sure this is the right address?” Linderholm asked, sliding a medical pack into her skirt pocket. The boss had sent her along in case Helen Dupont was found in the shower or the agents had to strip search for weapons. After the debacle in London, the Agency was toeing the line on every government regulation. At least, for the present conflict.
“Got it out of her personnel file,” Maynard said, parking the sedan on the street a few houses away. Down the block, a old man watering his lawn studied the strange car in frank disapproval, then turned his back on them to concentrate on the weeding and fertilizing.
Pulling out a monocular scope, Linderholm swept the vicinity for anybody standing guard. The house was a modest two-story. Fake wooden shutters sat alongside the windows for purely artistic effect, which was ruined by the addition of a plastic gnome in the flower garden. Returning the scope to her pocket, the black woman shrugged at the sight. At least it was better than those racist Civil War lawn jockeys.
“Looks clean,” she reported.
“Good enough,” Maynard said. “Then let’s go catch a traitor.”
A low-level G4 clerk in the records department of the Agency, Helen Dupont was rather plain-looking, but known for getting overly friendly on the weekends. Fair enough. Nobody cared about sexual peccadilloes, as long as they were discreet. Consenting adults, and all that. However, a routine security check revealed that Dupont seemed to only be going to bed with people in the technical repair department. And the technicians had been among the very first people told about the plan to recover the Zodiacs so that they would be ready to safely disassemble the bombs.
However, in the opinion of Special Team Leader David Osbourne, that sounded suspiciously like sexual backpay. A crude spy would offer sex in exchange for secret information. Sometimes that worked, mostly it didn’t. On the other hand, a good spy would have sex with the target several times, hundreds of times over many years if possible, to build a good rapport and then have emotional leverage on the victim. Now the requested intel seemed more like a favor, with the implied threat of ending the affair if denied. The Agency did that themselves, and the ploy worked more often than not. To discover it was being done to them was extremely disturbing.
New rules for sexual conduct were already being drafted, but that wasn’t the pressing problem at the moment. Plain, sweet, sexually repressed until the weekend, Helen Dupont had left the office complaining of a migraine headache exactly when the Scion had stolen the truckload of Zodiac bombs.
It could just be a coincidence, those did happen. But the team was taking Dupont to the section chief for questioning. Just routine. Unless she cracked, and then the traitor would be hauled down to the Tank, the soundproofed room in the basement where enemies of the nation could be strenuously interrogated without undue interruptions.
Getting out of the car, the agents started for the house, but froze at the sight of the slightly ajar front door.
Returning to the car, Linderholm pulled out a radio and called for more agents as Maynard moved along the driveway and to the side of the door. Openly pulling his piece, the man waited, holding his breath to try to hear any noises from inside. But the house was silent. A few moments later Linderholm was at the other side of the door, weapon drawn. The agents nodded three times in unison counting down before she kicked open the door as Maynard rushed inside.
The living room was immaculate, not a speck of dust in sight or a book out of place on the shelves. Linderholm eased beside him and jerked her Glock at the hallway when they both caught a familiar smell. Oh, hell.
Rushing into the kitchen, they found nothing out of order. They moved fast down the corridor and into the bedroom. Dupont was tied spread-eagled on the bed, a soup bowl on the nightstand containing her fingernails, teeth and ears. The woman was almost naked, her clothing slashed off her to expose the bare skin, then left there to partially drape the mutilated corpse. Both of her breasts were covered with the circular burn marks of a cigar, the left leg covered with round bruises where the bones had been broken by some sort of blunt instrument, a hammer, or perhaps a baseball bat. As per regulations, Maynard checked her pulse, but there really was no need. The woman was dead, and had been for hours.
“It’s Dupont,” Linderholm said. “But this doesn’t make any sense. There is no way Zalhares could have gotten here yet to do this.”
“And why torture her?” Maynard demanded, making to holster his pistol, then moving to the closet to check. It was empty. “If she was working for them, and it now certainly seems that way, they might kill her to plug the leak. But why torture their own contact?”
Even as he said the words, the truth hit them both.
“Zalhares was a double agent,” Linderholm said, pulling out her radio again.
“Playing us and some other group against each other so that he could steal the bombs? Damn, sounds solid.”
“Hello, base? This a priority two report,” Linderholm said quickly. “Inform Internal Affairs and the chief that our contact has been neutralized, and we now have gate-crashers at the party. We’ll be back in an hour to report.”
Closing and locking every door, the CIA agents returned to their car and raced for the highway. Helen Dupont had only been a pawn and Cirello Zalhares was a double agent. Yeah, made sense. Unfortunately, it didn’t require any great leap of logic to guess who his employers were. Or rather, who they had been, since it seemed he had also cut them out of the deal. The Agency was finally going to go directly against the Brazilian S2. And there was no doubt that the breakage in innocent human life would be very high before this mess was finally settled.
CHAPTER FOUR
Atlantic Ocean
A steady thumping pervaded the small metal room and the air smelled strongly of machine grease. A rack of beds covered the far wall, a folding table stood in the corner, and in the middle of the room was a lead-lined safe draped with a fine wire mesh netting attached to an array of car batteries.
Kneeling by the apparatus, Zalhares carefully checked a voltage meter to make sure the Faraday Cage was working properly. Driving the armored truck into a private garage, there had been plenty of time to burn open the armor and then breech the safe. However, he suspected the CIA of having planted a tracer or even a repeater circuit in the Zodiacs, and thus had taken the precaution of having a Faraday Cage ready. With a steady current moving through the fine mesh, no radio signal could possibly penetrate.
Satisfied for the moment, Zalhares took a seat on the lower bunk and leaned back against the steel wall. The regular beat was oddly soothing, like the rhythm of a living heart.
Sitting at the table, Jorgina Mizne was sharpening a knife, her strokes unconsciously matching the pulse in the walls. Minas Pedrosa was drinking from a bottle of beer, while Dog Mariano groaned softly, holding a bucket between his shaky knees.
“Feeling any better, my friend?” Zalhares asked, crossing his arms behind his neck for a cushion. The thumping eased into a gentle background vibration.
Breathing for a moment, Mariano finally shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “How…soon….”
“Until we disembark? Quite some time.”
“Why couldn’t we take a plane?” the man muttered, closing his eyes. “I like planes.”
“Every airport was covered ten minutes after we left the park. No, my friend, this was the only way.”
“I hate the sea,” Mariano groaned.
“And yet you love the beach,” Mizne said, inspecting the edge on the blade. “One of God’s little jokes, eh?”
Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the hatch that served as a door for the small water-tight compartment.
“Fine,” Mariano corrected weakly, placing the bucket aside. “I hate submarines. Better?”
“Of course.” She smiled, sliding the blade into a sheath behind her back.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Still drinking his warm beer, Pedrosa walked to the hatch and pulled it open on squealing hinges. The air tasted greasy, yet the metal was rusty. And this was considered a reliable transport?
In the corridor stood an unshaven slim man in rumpled coveralls, the tarnished insignia of a Taiwanese naval lieutenant pinned to his limp collar. Nodding to the passengers, the officer stepped through and tossed a casual salute to Zalhares. It wasn’t returned.
“Sir, there is a problem,” the lieutenant said, smiling widely.
Pushing away from the wall, Zalhares sat upright but said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.
“The captain has learned of your identity.” He glanced at the safe. “If not that of your cargo, and believes that our deal needs to be—how shall I say it?—adjusted properly.” The man grinned again, pretending to be embarrassed. “You are very wanted men by a great many people. Rich, powerful people.”
“A deal is a deal,” Zalhares said flatly. “We paid enough to buy this craft, and he wants more?”
With a sigh, the lieutenant shrugged, displaying both palms upward. “What can I say? My captain disagrees.”
For a few minutes the members of the Scion exchanged glances.
“Fine. You leave us no choice then,” Zalhares said. “Dog, pay the man.”
Pulling out a wallet, Mariano removed a wad of cash and offered it to the lieutenant. His eyes bright with greed, the man eagerly reached for the cash. Mariano Dog extended his arm past the hand, a stiletto snapping out from his sleeve to ram into the officer’s stomach. As the lieutenant’s mouth flew open wide to scream, Zalhares stuffed in a bunched glove, careful to not be bitten.
Still sipping the beer, Pedrosa stepped to the hatchway, a silenced Imbel .22 pistol in his other hand. Meanwhile, Mizne grabbed the bleeding sailor by the shoulders to hold him steady as Mariano slowly sawed the razor-sharp blade back and forth straight up the middle of the torso. Thrashing against the grip of the muscular woman, the officer was helpless, his eyes rolling back into their sockets from the incredible pain. Blood poured from the yawning wound as his intestines began to slither out, most of them plopping into the waiting bucket.
With professional detachment, Zalhares watched as the life faded from the man’s eyes and the body went limp, twitching a few times before finally succumbing to death. They all died so easily; it wasn’t even interesting anymore.
“Still feeling seasick, old friend?” Zalhares asked, retrieving the saliva-streaked glove.
“Not any more,” Mariano said excitedly, easing the gory blade out of the corpse and wiping it clean on the coveralls.
