Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  Novak brought the glass to his lips and took a longer sip, swishing it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing and once again delighting in the slow burn as it traveled downward. As CEO of the corporation, Novak knew his own fate was tied to all of this. If Baron & Allan went down, so would he. So would Franklin Rhome, so would Meeks. They were all living in a house of cards.

  But again, control was the key, being able to see two or three moves ahead and plan for your opponent’s next move.

  He rubbed his other hand over his shaved head, felt the stubble and a layer of dampness, and then wiped his palm on his pajama top.

  If B&A went, they were held under the microscope, he’d be hard pressed to explain the payoffs he’d made, the exclusive town house usage, the limousines, the endless parade of escorts to the lobbyists and the members of the appropriations committee... But that was the unspoken price of doing business in this town. All were necessary ingredients to grease the wheels. The way things worked in government. That it hadn’t worked with Congressman Oglethorpe had been a shocker, although Novak now knew he should’ve seen it coming. The man was different. There was something about him. Something telling. A handsome guy like that turning down the dates with the array of beauties Novak had managed to parade in front of him. And the son of a bitch looked like the embodiment of a male model.

  The burner phone still reposed on the coffee table, basking in anxious silence.

  If only that son of a bitch Oliver Burke would call, Novak thought. What the hell was taking him so long?

  If Burke had good news, that the dirt they’d uncovered about the congressman’s dalliance with his aide—his young male aide—had worked, this whole thing might still be manageable.

  But unlike chess, life had too many uncontrollable variables. There were no hard and fast rules to the game. Novak’s next moves were dependent on other people carrying them out.

  So why didn’t Burke call?

  As if in answer, the phone rang, almost making Novak spill the remainder of his drink. Burke’s voice on the other end was low and raspy.

  “It’s a no go.”

  “What?” Novak had to refrain from hurling the glass against the wall. “Did you show him the photos? The videos?”

  “I did, and he laughed. Says he couldn’t care less. Even went so far as to say it’ll be to his advantage to be out of the closet this close to the midterms. It’ll give him more publicity and make him more reelectable. Sets him up to be our first openly gay presidential candidate down the road.”

  “That son of a bitch.” Novak couldn’t help himself now and hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered with a sharp crash.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Never mind. Shit. Did you get a feel about how much he knows?”

  “Hard to say,” Burke said. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

  The thought of the subpoena to appear before the committee flashed in Novak’s mind. What was Oglethorpe going to ask? The cost overruns for the B&A defense contracts had been substantial, and they had pitifully little to show for it. Two sets of prototypes. And if Oglethorpe had found out about Meeks’s personal investment ties to the company, it would be indictment time for the lot of them.

  The thought of sitting before the committee on the hot seat not knowing exactly what Oglethorpe had up his sleeve, or when he was going to choose to reveal it, made Novak crave another drink. But he was going to need to get as much sleep as he could. The tension gripped his neck and spine as the anxiety and exhaustion washed over him.

  Control... He’d deal with it tomorrow. Plus he did have other options.

  “Any word from Ted?” Novak asked.

  “Yeah, everything’s in place, and he’s waiting for a chance to throw that Hail Mary pass. How much good it’s going to do is open to question.”

  “I don’t pay you to question,” Novak said. The Hail Mary pass, as Burke and Ted McMahon called it, was merely to advertise the special capabilities of the Aries drone. The payoff would come when and if they had to go off the grid and into private practice.

  “Ted also said there’s a bit of a glitch.”

  Novak felt a twinge in this stomach. “What kind of glitch?”

  “Somewhere in the food chain they got wind of Sharif and Farouk being involved.”

  Ali Sharif... Muhammad Farouk... Two flies in the ointment. Twin pawns steadily moving toward the back row, thinking they were going to be crowned as kings, and not realizing they were merely part of a gambit. But the die was cast. The play had to be made.

  “Tell him to continue as planned,” Novak said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Bright and early.” Burke laughed and disconnected.

  Novak felt like throwing the burner phone against the wall, too. Sure, Burke could laugh. It wasn’t his ass on the line, testifying before a congressional oversight committee, led by some overzealous congressman who wanted to make a name for himself in front of the TV cameras so he could set himself up for reelection and an eventual run for the White House.

  The first openly gay presidential candidate, my ass, Novak thought.

  If only that little potential blackmail scheme would have worked. The drone had captured excellent photos and video of Oglethorpe and his boy toy aide on that private beach. But in this current topsy-turvy world of ultra political correctness, the old rules didn’t apply any longer. Nothing applied anymore. The inmates were running the asylum.

  What happened to the good old days, Novak wondered, when you could get some honest dirt on some politician and use it to your advantage?

  He shook his head and fingered the bottle of bourbon.

  Okay, Novak thought, if that’s the way the bastard wanted to play it... Sterner measures were called for. After the disposal operations in the Middle East were completed, depending on the amount of good press the Aries got, he could figure out a way to take care of Oglethorpe.

  He looked at the bottle, then to the shattered glass. He could get up and get another one, but decided against it.

  Novak sighed, braced himself, lifted the bottle to his mouth and tilted it, feeling the burst of astringent fluid saturate his tongue.

  Onward and upward, he thought. Knights away.

  USS Soley

  Somewhere in the Arabian Sea

  Bolan entered the small briefing room aboard the ship and saw that Grimaldi and the others were sitting around the table with plastic bottles of water. The captain and his executive officer—XO—stood near the door looking solemn. Kevin McCarthy, the Defense Department liaison officer, was on the other side of the room, by a flip chart with a map of Yemen attached. The frown on his face was evident as he looked at his watch in an exaggerated manner.

  “Nice of you to join us.”

  Bolan ignored him and grabbed a bottle of water from the iced bucket. He was totally familiar with armchair operatives like McCarthy and had little respect for them. They were career bureaucrats who sat on their asses in carefree safety and comfort while they sent others, who put their lives on the line, into hot zones. Bolan twisted the cap and took a long drink.

  McCarthy loudly cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to conduct our debrief.”

  Bolan lowered the bottle, looked at the man and addressed the others. “Johnson’s going to be all right.”

  Grimaldi held up his open palm and high-fived the other members of the team.

  “Glad to hear that, Striker,” he said.

  “Well, I’d be glad to hear a bit about the mission,” McCarthy said.

  “The presence of the sarin was verified,” Bolan told him. “As was the presence of Ali Sharif. Both were tactically neutralized.”

  No one spoke for several seconds as the team members exchanged glances. Bolan reached into his pocket, removed a sealed plastic packet and tossed it onto the table.

  “This should provide confirmation.”

  McCarthy’s lips drew into a tight line. “I thought I’d made mysel
f perfectly clear from the onset. The plan was for apprehension and transport back to Guantanamo and then to call in a drone strike to dispose of the gas.”

  “That wasn’t possible.”

  McCarthy pursed his lips. “And why, pray tell, was that?”

  Grimaldi snorted. “Pray what? It’s been a long time since I heard that expression.”

  McCarthy glared down at him. “Your orders were to observe, report and reapprehend.”

  “Reapprehend,” Grimaldi repeated. “Is that a government word? I’m sure I’ve never seen it in the dictionary.”

  Bolan remained silent, but the other team members chuckled.

  “I’ve had enough of your smart-ass remarks,” McCarthy said. “I want you to know that I consider this mission an abject failure.”

  “Yeah?” Grimaldi snorted. “Well, considering we took out a bunch of terrorists, destroyed a shit load of sarin gas and eliminated the asshole you guys mistakenly let out in the first place, I think we did pretty damn good apart from one of our team getting hit.”

  “Do you realize the intelligence value of a target like Sharif?” McCarthy shot back. “The information he could have provided?”

  Grimaldi stared at him. “Do you realize that there’s a young American lying in the other room with a couple of holes in him that he got from you sending him on a mission that technically never happened because your screw-up caused it in the first place?”

  “And your grandstanding in taking out the gas yourselves put the entire mission in jeopardy. That’s what the drones are for. Did you ever hear of following orders?”

  “Did you ever hear of a beat-down?” Grimaldi stood and lifted his right hand, his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Because you’re about this close to getting one.”

  Before McCarthy could respond, Bolan stepped forward. “This debrief is officially over.”

  “What?” McCarthy whirled toward him. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”

  “We don’t work for you,” Bolan said, pausing to take another drink from the water bottle. His voice was even, his face betraying no emotion. He turned to the captain and said, “Sir, we would appreciate it if you could make arrangements to get my partner and me to our scheduled rendezvous with the carrier. And these men need to get back to their regular assignments.”

  The captain, a thin man with a weary look to him, smiled. “Already in motion. But I do have to tell you that there’s a crypto Skype call waiting for you in our communications center. We can set it up in here, if you want.”

  “In here?” Grimaldi cocked his thumb in McCarthy’s direction. “With little Lord Fauntleroy in earshot? Like the man said, we don’t work for him.”

  The liaison strode toward the door, yanked it open and stormed out.

  “Think I should’ve told him not to let it hit him in the ass?” Grimaldi asked.

  “I think you’ve said more than enough,” Bolan told him. “Captain, if you have a secure and private place for that call, we’d appreciate it.”

  “You can use my office,” the XO said.

  Bolan thanked the two officers, who then left. He turned to the team and held out his hand in front of the closest one.

  “Nice working with you guys,” he said, shaking Washington’s hand first. “You all did well, even if what we did never officially happened.”

  “We’ll go with you anytime, anyplace, Striker,” Vargas said, shaking his hand next.

  A few minutes later Bolan and Grimaldi were making their way to the XO’s office.

  “This has got to be Hal,” Grimaldi said.

  “Most likely.”

  “I wonder what he wants. Maybe he wants to put us in for a couple of medals or something.”

  “Very funny.” Bolan stopped in front of the XO’s office door and knocked.

  Upon entry they saw a large screen set against one wall. The XO handed the remote to Bolan, then stepped out of the room. The Executioner pressed the button and the screen came to life with an image of Hal Brognola sitting at the desk in the office he used whenever he was at Stony Man Farm. An unlit cigar dangled from his mouth as he looked up.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Mission complete, target tactically neutralized, WMD destroyed,” Bolan said.

  The big Fed grunted his approval. “How’d that makeshift team we threw together perform?”

  “They did well,” Bolan said. “One sustained injuries, but it appears he’ll be all right.”

  Brognola’s face contorted into a frown. “Sorry to hear that. But...”

  He let the sentence trail off. Bolan could tell Brognola was holding something back. He waited a few beats, then asked, “Hal, what’s up?”

  Brognola removed the cigar from his mouth and stared at it. “You know, I’ve been trying to cut down on these things, but I’m seriously thinking about lighting this one up.”

  “In celebration, I hope,” Grimaldi said, stepping up to insinuate himself into the camera lens. “That we accomplished the mission and are all still on the right side of the grass.”

  “I wish.” Brognola’s frown deepened. “Ready for some bad news?”

  Here it comes, Bolan thought. The reason for the call.

  “Another mission?” he asked.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” Grimaldi said.

  Brognola’s smile looked weak. “Look, I know you guys are just coming off one, but the President’s asking for a special favor.”

  “Aren’t they all special favors?” Grimaldi asked. “At least when we’re involved.”

  Bolan silenced him with a look and turned back to the screen. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay. A couple hours ago a UN aid station was hit in northeastern Syria, near Bagouz. Three doctors and four nurses were taken. Three French nationals, four Americans.” He paused and stuck the cigar back between his teeth. “To make matters worse, there was an American news team there about to do an interview. They got grabbed, too.”

  “How many total?” Bolan asked.

  “Seven medical, three journalists. They’re threatening to start beheading the hostages on camera again. Time is of the essence. As always, you guys don’t have to go, but you’re the best, as well as the closest. Plus, you’ve got a team already with you.”

  “A partial team,” Bolan said. “They’re pretty worn out from just getting off a mission. And we’re a man down.”

  Brognola’s face took on a pained expression. “Yeah, I know, but the nearest SEAL team’s tied up on a mission of their own in Afghanistan.”

  “Does the Agency have anybody in place?” Bolan asked.

  “They’ve got an intel team on the ground there, but they’re strictly monitoring things with some drones.”

  “A fat lot of good those damn things will do,” Grimaldi said.

  “Let me see if I can get you some more support,” Brognola said. Then his face twisted with an inquisitive expression. “That is, if you’re in.”

  Bolan shot a quick glance at Grimaldi, then said, “I can’t speak for the others, but Jack and I are.”

  Grimaldi snorted. “I’m glad you told me.”

  The big Fed exhaled loudly. “Good. Transport’s already on the way to your location.”

  “You were pretty sure of yourself,” Bolan said, allowing himself a rare smile.

  Brognola replied with a nod and a wink before the screen went blank.

  Chapter Three

  Bagouz, Syria

  The bells announcing the approach of zuhr, the midday prayers, still chimed in the silence of the war-torn city as the stillness began to settle over the desert metropolis. Bolan and his team were going on forty-eight hours or so with virtually no sleep, save for the dubious combat naps they’d managed to sneak in during transit time. The hollowed-out shell of a building they were now in offered little in the way of comfort, despite the hospitality offered by the six-man drone team, code-named the Raptors, that was already in place. Its leader, Ted McMahon, was a tall barrel-chest
ed guy with short-cropped sandy-brown hair and a Marine Corps tattoo on his thickly muscled left forearm. The other members of the group, all young males, looked like they could handle themselves in a fight, with the exception of one who resembled a refugee from a geek squad as he sat hunched behind twin computer screens. A joystick was positioned next to each of the two keyboards. Most of the space inside the room was taken up by computers and monitors perched on numerous flimsy card tables. A black cloth hung over the room’s only window, and a number of AK-47s were stacked in a cleared-out section in the middle of the room. McMahon gestured to a stack of wooden boxes near the wall. A coffee maker heating a half-full pot was on top.

  “Help yourselves to the coffee,” McMahon said.

  “Thanks,” Bolan said. “We can use some.”

  Grimaldi moved to the pot, grabbed two foam cups and poured some of the dark liquid in each. He handed one to Bolan and sipped the other himself.

  McMahon pointed to the screen and turned to the young man with an unruly mop of red hair and elliptical glasses seated behind an open laptop. “Redmond, put the image up on one, will you?”

  The techie brushed a few long strands of curly hair back from his forehead and bumped up the frame of his thick, black-framed glasses. “Roger that.”

  A structure appeared, and McMahon said, “This is the building where they’re being held. They arrived there by truck about an hour or so ago.”

  “And you know this how?” Grimaldi asked. “Those eyes in the skies?”

  McMahon shot him a wry look, then said, “Redmond, you want to answer that one.”

  The guy at the computer spoke in a high, nasal voice. “The Athena is one of our new line of prototypical drones equipped with 360-degree optical sensors that can monitor anomalies on the ground from up to thirty-six thousand feet and transmit that information back to me or to another drone.”

  “At that altitude,” McMahon said, “even the Secret Service would have trouble jamming it if it flew over the White House.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Grimaldi said.

  “The Athena?” Bolan asked.

  “That’s the name we’ve given this one,” Redmond said, his lips curling back over small, dainty teeth. “Named after the Greek goddess of wisdom and knowledge. It’s an observation drone that monitors the information and transmits it to—”