Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  Grimaldi faked a sudden sneeze that came out sounding like the word “Bullshit!” He then canted his head and shrugged. “Sorry, but those hunks of junk will never replace a good pilot behind a stick who knows what he’s doing. And what he’s seeing.”

  Redmond’s mouth puckered. “Listen, I can fly the Athena as good as any regular pilot. In fact, I can even fly two aircraft simultaneously.”

  “Yeah, right. Calling those things ‘aircraft’ is flattery,” Grimaldi said.

  “They are aircraft.”

  “Keep thinking that way, kid. Maybe someday I’ll take you up in an F-22 and show what the world looks like from a real aircraft’s vantage point.”

  “Those are live photos,” McMahon said. “As good as you’re going to get, buddy. And it’s got a highly developed AI program that includes facial recognition software. It can be programmed to spot a hair on your ass from twenty thousand feet, and nobody even knows the drone’s up there.”

  Grimaldi faked another sneeze, making the “bullshit” sound again. Then he grinned.

  It did little to mitigate the scowl on McMahon’s face.

  Bolan was curious about the man. Despite extolling the virtues of the drones, and obviously being in charge here, McMahon seemed a bit out of place, like a big predatory wolf riding herd on a bunch of scavenger coyotes.

  “How solid is your intel on the ground?” Bolan asked.

  He wanted to get his plan in place as soon as possible. Not only were he and his beleaguered team fighting exhaustion, they were also battling the clock.

  “Our man on the ground’s confirmed it,” McMahon said. “Seven hostages, all of them civilians. Word is they’re threatening to begin the beheadings this afternoon if their demands aren’t met.”

  “Which are?” Bolan asked.

  McMahon shrugged. “A jumbled mess of anti-everything. As far as I can tell, these guys are a splinter group of hardcore jihadists wanting to impose Sharia law on the world.”

  Bolan said nothing, but kept watching the screen. The drone continued to beam back some high-resolution photo imagery as Redmond slowly rotated the joystick.

  “There’s also the threat that our buddies in Damascus will use this as an excuse to launch another chemical attack to wipe everybody out,” McMahon said.

  “They’d do that with Western hostages?” Grimaldi asked.

  “I wouldn’t put anything past them,” McMahon said. “Control of the whole area has been bouncing back and forth between the Syrian army, which is another name for the Russians and the Iranians, and the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces, and the Syrian rebels and jihadists. And now it appears that our Islamic State boys have gained a toehold.”

  “I thought the people in this area were supposed to be on our side,” Grimaldi said.

  McMahon snorted. “Yeah, right. The wind must’ve changed direction. Anyway, the hostage takers allegedly have ties to Al Qaeda, so you can bet they’re serious about those executions.”

  Bolan studied the layout on the screen. The building was three stories, as were most in that cluster, but all were badly damaged by shelling. Flying in and getting dropped on what was left of the roof was probably way too risky. For one thing, the plethora of RPGs in this area was probably excessive, given that the Iranians, the Russians and the Americans had been supplying their respective proxy fighters with various arms deliveries for several years. Plus, they had no helicopter readily available, unless they could appropriate one from the nearest American forces, which weren’t at all close. He studied the roads around the building, and asked Redmond to give him a more distant view.

  The techie pressed a couple of keys on the computer, and the viewpoint shifted to a larger view of the scene.

  “You say you’ve got some assets on the ground there?” Bolan asked.

  “Right,” McMahon replied. “A couple locals on our payroll.”

  “Can they be trusted?”

  McMahon nodded. “I think so. They’ve been pretty reliable and helped us set up this temporary base here.”

  Bolan looked around the room. It was on the second floor of a shell-shocked building. Most of the bricks and mortar were still in place, and plywood sheets covered all the windows. Black curtains had also been hung to prevent any traces of light from escaping through the cracks. The two dilapidated pickup trucks that had transported them here in the early-morning hours were parked in a hollowed-out section in the rear of the building. Bolan wished they had a better means of evacuation, but he knew Brognola would be working on getting some jets to fly interference once the hostages had been rescued and they were on their way out of here. He looked at the weary faces of his team, and wanted that to be sooner rather than later.

  “Where exactly are your assets in reference to the target?” Bolan asked.

  “Right now, they’ve been keeping an eyeball on things from across the street.” McMahon pointed to the large screen. “When we get there they can help us get set up for the assault.”

  That concerned Bolan. He didn’t know who these assets were, and had never worked with them before. He shook his head.

  “I don’t like the sound of that. We’re going to have to go in fast, since it’s daylight, and trying to figure out which players are on our side without a dance card is going to be tricky, to say the least.”

  “That’s why I’m going with you,” McMahon stated. “They know me.”

  “I thought you guys were strictly an observation team,” Grimaldi said.

  “I’ve done wet work on three different continents.” McMahon stepped over and picked up a black nylon rucksack. He unzipped it, reached inside and pulled out a Heckler & Koch MP5. The weapon had a banana-clip magazine inserted, and a second, inverted mag securely taped to the inserted one for a quick, combat-style reload. McMahon tapped the magazine, ensuring it was properly seated, then took out a 9 mm Walther Creed in a tactical holster.

  “Do you have any information on what the inside of the target looks like?” Bolan asked.

  “Most of the buildings here were all built along the same style,” McMahon said. “The Russians dropped some bombs there a few days ago, so a lot of it’s rubble. When we get there, Mustapha, that’s one of my guys on the ground, will hopefully be able to tell us more, but it’s going to be a crapshoot. But I’ll be in radio contact with Redmond here, and he’ll be keeping an eye on us with the drones.”

  Bolan wished he could have Grimaldi flying backup in a Black Hawk, but with one man down, he was needed on the ground. He glanced at his watch. Midday prayers would soon be over and the population would begin moving again. If they hoped to merge into the masses, they had to leave soon.

  “I’ll give Mustapha a call and let him know we’ll be coming,” McMahon said.

  “You’ve got cell phone coverage here?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Sat phone,” McMahon said, holding it up. “I gave Mustapha one of ours.”

  “Uh-oh,” Redmond said, clicking his tongue. “Better take a look at this, Ted.”

  Bolan and McMahon both turned to him.

  “Check this out,” Redmond said, directing an arrow mouse on the screen of the left monitor depicting a section of road leading to the outskirts of the province.

  The image enlarged, and Bolan could distinguish a halted armored column of four Russian tanks in line formation pointed toward the city.

  “Shit, looks like the Syrian army’s moving in,” McMahon said.

  “They’re stationary now,” Bolan said.

  McMahon chuckled. “That means the Iranians are running the show. Some of their Quds force. Probably ordered a stop for afternoon prayers.”

  “Backed by a bunch of T-90s,” Redmond said, adjusting his joystick to get a closer view. “Probably got some Mi-24 helicopters getting ready for a flyover to soften things up.”

  “Let’s get ready to move out,” Bolan said.

  He held his fist out and each of the five men in his group touched their gloved hands to his.

  A
rlington, Virginia

  Novak pressed the call button on his burner phone again and waited as it rang several more times. Why wasn’t that idiot answering? What was he getting paid for, if he wasn’t available at all times?

  The ringing stopped and a voice said, “You have reached the law offices of Kaufmann, Perryman and Rose. We are currently not in the office at this time, but if you’d like to leave a message, please wait for the tone, and someone will get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please press the star key. Thank yo—”

  Novak pressed the star key. When the recording started, he spoke in a low and even voice. “Call me back now, asshole.”

  He terminated the call, looked at his watch and noted it was only a little past 5:00 a.m. He hadn’t slept since he’d woken up at about three thirty. He’d played several games of chess on his laptop, failing to beat the computerized opponent in game after game. He reset the latest incarnation and blew out a slow breath as he tried Burke’s number again. This time the call was answered almost immediately.

  “I’m pulling up to his residence now,” Burke said. “Give me a minute to wake him up.”

  Novak grunted in frustration. “All right, but hurry. He’s not answering, and we have to be in the hearing by nine thirty.”

  He suddenly realized he was talking to dead air. That prick Burke had hung up on him.

  Well, we’ll just see about that when it comes time to give him his check, Novak thought.

  But in reality, he knew better. Burke was an integral part of the team, and although he was stateside, and not over there in the Middle East with the rest of them, he was still nobody to mess with. Novak figured he’d roust that fat ass lawyer out of bed posthaste.

  And he was right. Approximately four minutes later his burner phone rang.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Irwin Kaufmann demanded.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Novak said, lacing a healthy dose of sarcasm into his tone. “Did I wake you?”

  “You’re damn right. It’s not even five o’clock yet.”

  “Well, I’ve been up practically the whole night. I thought we were going to meet so you could prep me for my testimony.”

  “Warren, calm down. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Novak felt himself bristle at the advice. “You know I don’t like speaking on the phone. You never know who’s listening.”

  Kaufmann sighed. “I’m your attorney. Anything you say to me is privileged.”

  The prick didn’t have a clue, Novak thought. Big Brother was out there, all right. But what the hell. Most likely William Oglethorpe already knew about the incestuous relationship between B&A and Franklin Rhome and Eddie Meeks anyway. The conscience of Congress, as that sanctimonious bastard called himself, must have had the goods on everybody or he wouldn’t have subpoenaed Novak in the first place.

  “Warren?” Kaufmann said. “You all right?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m accustomed to having people answer when I call them.”

  He heard the lawyer sigh. Or was it a yawn? Regardless, Novak didn’t care. All he wanted was to get past this testimony today. The Hail Mary Plan had already been set in motion, and that would give him some breathing room. Oglethorpe could be dealt with down the road.

  Novak took a deep breath and imagined the pleasure that was going to bring. He glanced at his watch, wondering what time it was over in Syria. Kaufmann would probably know, but Novak knew he dare not ask on this phone. Big Brother could be and most probably was listening. Besides, a good chess player always kept his planned gambits to himself.

  “Get dressed and meet me at the usual place,” Novak said. He finally managed to look at the screen and advanced his queen’s pawn two spaces. The computer mirrored his move.

  Kaufmann sighed again. “All right. Give me an hour. And keep your cool.”

  Novak terminated the call. He advanced his knight and then his black bishop.

  Keep my cool, he thought. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who was about to be raked across the coals in front of the TV cameras. Novak hated not being the one in ultimate control.

  Suddenly, his satellite phone chimed, warning of an incoming text. Novak removed it from the charger and pressed the appropriate buttons. The computer’s red bishop took Novak’s knight, and he responded in kind, using his own bishop to take the aggressor and put the computer’s king in check. The computer then moved its king to an adjacent, empty square.

  The message was succinct: Hail Mary in place. Moving out now.

  At least that much was going right, Novak thought. He compressed his lips, trying to come up with an appropriate reply. He advanced his queen and put the computer’s king in check once more before deciding that brevity was the best policy.

  Keep me advised. No slip-ups. No loose ends.

  The response was equally brief: Roger that.

  The computer had little choice but to move its king out of check, thus exposing its queen to Novak’s black bishop. He took the piece and waited. The computer brought its knight back in an L-shaped defensive move to block the threat, and in doing so threatened to take Novak’s black bishop with its next move.

  Too little, too late, he thought and sent his queen down the open lane before her, taking the knight and stopping on the black square adjacent to the computer’s king, which was protected from being taken by his previously positioned knight.

  Check and mate, he thought.

  If only things were that easy in real life.

  Bagouz, Syria

  The adrenaline jolt due to the pending mission swept away the fatigue that Bolan had been feeling. The road was bumpy and pockmarked with potholes, some large, some small. McMahon drove the Toyota pickup truck through the teeming streets with a practiced ease, dodging the throngs of pedestrians who had reappeared now that midday prayers had been completed. Bolan kept his M4 out of sight resting between his knees as he rode shotgun. He also kept his Beretta 93R in his right hand in case of any trouble. He had the selector switch on 3-round-burst mode. Washington and Doerr rode in the back of this pickup, and the second one, which was being driven by Grimaldi, had Vargas and Miller in the rear bed. Before they’d started Bolan told them to keep their weapons ready, but out of sight, except for the confiscated AK-47s they’d picked up on the Yemen raid. They’d all dressed in camouflaged uniforms and had traditional Arab head cloths covering most of their faces. The idea was to look like just another group of armed local thugs traveling in this war-ravaged city. The truck swerved around an idle bucket loader parked next to the sagging walls of a collapsing building that had evidently been struck by an artillery shell.

  “How much farther?” Bolan asked, committing various points along the way to memory. He didn’t like going into this unfamiliar terrain and having to depend solely on McMahon. The guy seemed all right, but Bolan regarded everyone as an unknown quantity until he knew better.

  “A couple more blocks,” McMahon said, then removed one hand from the wheel and keyed his radio mic. “Redmond, you showing any blockades ahead of us?”

  “Route looks clear,” Redmond’s nasally voice answered. They were all on the same, shared frequency.

  McMahon hit the horn and swerved to avoid a man pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with yellow and green fruits. A motor-scooter piloted by two young men zoomed between them, stirring up a cloud of dust. He keyed the mic again and asked, “How’s our other problem?”

  After a few seconds of silence Redmond’s voice came back over the radio. “Still stationary, but I see some animation. It looks like they’re getting ready to move.”

  McMahon looked at Bolan. “Sounds like our timetable just got tightened up again.”

  Bolan said nothing. The die was cast. They had no other choice but to hit the place hard and fast, and hope they could get out quick enough to avoid tangling with a numerically superior force with heavy weapons.

  McMahon lifted his sat phone and pressed the button. After what apparently were two rings
, he said, “Mustapha, we’re pulling up.”

  He dropped the phone onto the seat and pointed. “There he is.”

  Bolan saw a short, burly man step out of the alley between two buildings. He had dark hair and features, and was dressed in a dirty tan shirt and blue jeans. He smiled as the pickup rolled to a stop. When Bolan got out the man’s smile disappeared, and he eyed the big American with suspicion.

  “Peace be with you,” McMahon said, and waited for Mustapha to return the greeting.

  “Who is this?” Mustapha asked in English, indicating Bolan. His eyes widened as he glanced toward the other truck. “And them?”

  “Friends of mine,” McMahon said. “No worries. I got your back.”

  The Syrian said nothing, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips. Finally, he nodded.

  “Where are they holding the hostages?” McMahon asked.

  “It’s that house on the next street,” Mustapha said. “Come. You can see it from here.”

  He disappeared into the alley again, Mustapha leading them between the walls of two brick buildings. The ground was littered with the detritus of war and neglect: expended shell casings, discarded cans, plastic bottles, papers and dead rodents. It crunched under Bolan’s feet as they walked in the shadows. He keyed his mic and told the rest of the team to join him in the alley, adding, “Washington, you stay as rear guard.”

  “Roger that,” Washington said.

  They reached the end of the passage, and Bolan looked out over a pile of bricks, topped with an upside-down red wheelbarrow, three bullet-riddled air-conditioning units, the torn remnants of a couple of office chairs, and numerous piles of shattered bricks and concrete that formed a series of small hills in the intervening expanse.

  “There,” Mustapha said, pointing to an intact three-story tan structure about one hundred yards across the way. The scalloped mini-hills of loose brick and partially crushed mortar created an uneven landscape between the buildings. Bolan heard the others approaching to the rear. He continued to scan the target and saw the slight hint of movement on the flat roof as what appeared to be a man’s head elevated over the high scallops of the crenulated edge.