Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  The man’s head jerked back as if he’d been punched, and a swirl of reddish mist hung in the air like a crimson tinctured halo. McMahon rotated his body and aimed the pistol at Mustapha, who was digging into the front of his beltline trying to pull out his own gun, and fired.

  A neat, round hole appeared on Mustapha’s left temple, and he dropped in front of the truck. McMahon stepped over to the supine body of the big Syrian. His dark eyes stared sightlessly upward. The man was dead, but McMahon stepped on the barrel of the Kalashnikov and put another round into the big man’s forehead. Then he did the same to Mustapha, who’d ended up partially on his side. One of the bundles of cash had fallen on top of his chest and was splattered with red droplets. McMahon used the Syrian’s shirtsleeve to wipe the blood off, then replaced the bundles of money in the rucksack and zipped it up. He squatted again and patted Mustapha’s pockets until he located the sat phone.

  He straightened up and went to the big doors again and did a quick peek.

  No one lingered outside.

  Apparently, all of Mustapha’s friends, as well as Omar’s brother, had perished in the raid. It was a slight variance from McMahon’s original plan, which was to get rid of Mustapha at the scene once they’d moved the hostages out. Striker’s team, or rather the man himself, had merely saved a couple of Howlers and now they had a surplus even after taking out those Russian T-90s.

  The art of wet work was flexibility, he told himself as he pressed the release button and inserted a fresh mag into the Creed and started back upstairs. He still had some rounds left, but it was always good to make sure you had a full magazine.

  Capitol Hill

  Washington, DC

  Warren Novak watched the feeding frenzy of the press through the opaque rear window of the limo as he waited for Franklin Rhome to push his way through the crowd being escorted by a contingent of Metro Police. Novak was doubtful his features could be discerned inside the spacious car, especially with the heavily tinted rear windows, but this was no time to take a chance.

  “Sweet Jesus, what a motherfucking mess,” Eddie Meeks said.

  “That’s hardly a word I’d expect a US congressman to be using,” Oliver Burke said from his position behind the wheel of the limousine.

  Novak repositioned himself behind the driver’s seat so he’d be harder to see from outside and told Burke to raise the screen just in case any overzealous cameramen tried to get in front of the vehicle with a camcorder. Filming the three of them together was something to be avoided at all costs.

  The screen rose from its slot of the metal barrier behind the front seats.

  “Eddie, you’d do well to move to the back, just in case,” Novak said. “And remember, don’t touch the booze.”

  Meeks frowned and nodded, shifting his large frame to the rearmost seat with a series of grunting sounds.

  Every eventuality had to be covered, he told himself, and pressed a few keys on his laptop to open a streaming news channel.

  The outside scene came to life on the computer’s screen in miniature, accompanied by a voice-over.

  “Former California Congressman Franklin Delano Rhome was expelled from the congressional committee’s hearing room today after he refused to answer any questions from the committee chairperson, Congressman William Oglethorpe of Illinois,” the announcer’s voice said as the previously shot footage of the committee hearing was broadcast. “The questioning related to Rhome’s recent work as a lobbyist for the Baron & Allan Corporation and a series of government grants in connection with a defense contract.”

  Novak recalled his own appearance there two days prior. The crowds, the cameras, the swelter of the room despite the air-conditioning as he sat at the table, his throat drying up even before he’d been asked one question. Oglethorpe had peppered him with softball questions trying to soften him up, like a player offering up several sacrificial pawns in order to lure his opponent into risking a significant piece. Kaufmann had been right. It was all just a setup laying the groundwork for what was yet to come. The questions merely verified the acceptance of the Aries development project and the accompanying grants. Oglethorpe had been laying the groundwork for his eventual coup de grâce when they got Rhome and possibly Meeks before the committee. The session ended with the Oglethorpe advising Novak that he was through for the day, but still under subpoena and subject to recall.

  Recall... That was where Rhome came in—the lobbyist. Establish the link between him and Baron & Allan, and then the link between the company’s defense contract and Meeks, who was on the Defense Appropriations Committee and the recipient of numerous cloaked campaign contributions from B&A, especially dealing with the Aries Project’s supposed grants. Even though Rhome had been instructed to take the Fifth, no matter what he was asked, the damage to the company and the reputation of those associated with it was severe.

  The resignations and indictments would soon follow, just like spring rains, allowing Oglethorpe to bask in the limelight as the vigilant watchdog of the new guard, and then subsequently announce his run for the presidency.

  “The first openly gay presidential candidate,” Novak said.

  “Huh?” Meeks said.

  Novak shook his head and kept surfing through the news channels, occasionally checking Rhome’s progress toward the limo. Finally, Novak settled on the image of a very pretty blonde woman sitting across from a nondescript newsman. Novak turned up the volume.

  “It all happened so quickly,” Leza Dean said in her clipped British tone. “One man literally swept in and wiped out the terrorists before anyone knew what was happening.”

  “And who was this man?” the other reporter asked.

  They were both in one of those nondescript set rooms, designed to look like a comfortable conference room somewhere, but probably an extension of a sound stage behind a news desk somewhere.

  Leza Dean laughed. “Oh, he wouldn’t say. He wouldn’t even let me take his picture.” She vamped for the camera, holding her fingers to her face to mimic a mask. “Just like the Lone Ranger in those old TV shows that run on the nostalgia channel.” She smiled, showing flawless teeth. “And, true to the legend, I never even got a chance to thank him.”

  The other reporter emitted a forced chuckle, then his voice grew serious. “And what about that new drone we’ve heard so much about lately. The Aries?”

  “Actually, I think the one doing most of the intelligence gathering was the female version called the Athena. They gave us a quick briefing and a press release afterward when we were being taken to the American base for evacuation.” She paused and got a serious expression on her face. “But make no mistake, the real heroes were those men, not the machines.”

  Meeks snorted in obvious disgust. “That damn bitch is ruining all the good press the Aries shoulda got. How we ever gonna get the damn Saudis to stop buying that Chinese crap and start buying our drones?”

  “Relax, Eddie, it could be worse. Besides, she also knocked our buddy’s committee off the lead news cycle, which was what we wanted in the first place. And I’m working on the Saudi angle.”

  “I sure as hell hope so. That would be a real cash cow for us.”

  If he only knew, Novak thought. He glanced out the window and saw that Rhome was almost to the car. One of the Metro cops pushed the crowd back a bit, and Rhome opened the door and slid in with the aplomb of a Texas sidewinder.

  His wide face stretched into a relieved simper.

  “Whooie. Glad that’s over with,” he said.

  “Over with?” Meeks said. “What the hell are you talking about? He just set things up to recall you and grill you harder. And you gotta answer or face incarceration.”

  Rhome grinned. “He’ll end up offering me immunity before he does that.”

  “Immunity don’t mean shit if there’s politics involved,” Meeks said. “And I can’t afford to have this thing lead back to me.”

  Rhome snorted. “At this point, all roads lead to Rome.”

  �
��Thinking of selling your soul for thirty pieces of silver?” Novak said, shutting down the volume on the Leza Dean interview.

  “Does it matter?” Rhome ran his tongue over his teeth and made a sucking sound. “We’re all about to go private anyway, aren’t we? We’ll be on a beach somewhere with an icy drink watching the babes stroll by in their bikinis, right?”

  Novak pressed the intercom button on the seat handle, alerting Burke to drive off. The big limo crept forward as it moved away from the curb, the sea of reporters and camera operators gradually giving way as the vehicle pulled onto the street. The idiot was right. It was time go private, take the money and get ready to run. Of course, it would require a gambit of sorts. He looked at Rhome, then at Meeks.

  “Where can we drop you?” Novak asked Meeks.

  “Over on J Street’s fine. I’ll go in a restaurant and take a cab back to my office.”

  “What about me?” Rhome asked.

  “First we debrief,” Novak said. “Then we figure our next move.”

  “All right,” Rhome said. “But I could use a drink first.”

  “Certainly,” Novak said as he pushed another button on the console. A section of the seat next to him opened with electronic ease, displaying a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses.

  “Help yourself, okay?” Novak held up his laptop with both hands and cocked his head toward the open compartment.

  Rhome grunted and reached across to remove the bottle and glasses.

  “I don’t want one,” Novak said.

  The lobbyist nodded and looked at Meeks, who shook his head.

  “How would it look if I showed up back on the Hill smelling like booze?”

  “Suit yourself,” Rhome said. “More for me.” He poured himself a generous glassful and replaced the bottle in its compartment.

  Perfect, Novak thought. Nobody’s prints on that bottle but yours, asshole.

  Chapter Five

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Bright rays of midmorning sunshine filtered through the glass wall section of the gym as Bolan delivered the series of punches with rapid precision. He peppered the heavy bag with double and triple jabs before stepping in with a hard right followed by a left hook. Droplets of sweat from his leanly muscled arms cascaded outward with each blow, causing Grimaldi, who was holding the bag for more resistance, to shake his head fitfully as he grunted from the force of each strike.

  “All right, already,” he said. “I think the round’s over.”

  Bolan ignored him and did a stutter-step back, pivoting on his right foot to deliver two roundhouse kicks with his left leg.

  Grimaldi’s head bounced against the canvas bag. He grunted again.

  Bolan brought his right foot up with a series of slightly angled front kicks.

  After he completed the series, he moved closer again and renewed his punching.

  “That’s it,” Grimaldi said, his voice low and guttural. He dropped his hands from the sides of the bag and jumped back just as Bolan dug another hook into the canvas surface.

  “Damn,” Grimaldi said, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. “You’ve done more rounds than the rumble in the jungle.”

  Bolan threw a few more punches, sending the bag swinging, then stopped and motioned for Grimaldi to toss him a towel.

  “You still aren’t thinking of hitting the range after this, are you?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan caught the towel and wiped his face off.

  “The day’s still young,” he said.

  “Yeah, but right about now I’m not feeling that way.”

  “Let’s do a couple more rounds. Then we’ll go to the range and maybe a jog through the woods.”

  Grimaldi emitted a groan. “I thought we agreed that I could sleep for a week after we got back from Syria?” He slowly began to take his place behind the bag when Bolan’s cell phone rang. Grimaldi’s face brightened. “Saved by the bell.”

  Bolan stripped off the bag glove on his right hand and picked up the phone.

  “I hate to interrupt your training,” Brognola said, “but I need you to see something you might find interesting.”

  “Yeah, we’ll clean up and come to the Annex.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Bolan and Grimaldi walked into Brognola’s office.

  “Take a seat.” The big Fed gestured toward a news show on a large retractable screen, a banner proclaiming Breaking News scrolling across the bottom. A reporter stood in front of a somewhat bucolic scene that appeared to be a park. The serenity was interrupted by several police cars in the background, as well as the ubiquitous yellow crime scene tape cordoning off the area.

  “What happened there?” Grimaldi asked. “Somebody fart too loud at one of those congressional committee meetings?”

  “Funny, Jack. An ex-congressman’s dead. Sounds like a suicide.”

  “Has he been identified yet?” Bolan watched as the reporter’s image faded and was replaced by a photo of a corpulent man in a suit and tie, smiling into the camera. Below the picture the accompanying script materialized: Former California Congressman Franklin Delano Rhome.

  “Rhome,” Grimaldi said. “That sounds familiar. Wasn’t he in the news a couple days ago?”

  “He was,” Brognola said. “Yesterday, in fact. Took the Fifth after being subpoenaed into some congressional committee investigation.”

  “You said it sounded like a suicide?” Bolan asked.

  Brognola nodded and held up the remote, freezing the image on the screen. “He was found in his car, a gun and an empty bottle of booze keeping him company.”

  Grimaldi shook his head. “What did he take the Fifth for?”

  “He was being investigated for taking possible kickbacks,” Brognola said. “He resigned from Congress a couple of years ago and had been working in DC as a lobbyist.”

  “Got to go where the money is,” Grimaldi said. “Politicians and lobbyists. One standing behind the other with his hand out.”

  “Who did he work for?” Bolan asked.

  Brognola shrugged. “Not sure. Anyway, that’s not the reason I called you guys. Something else has come up.”

  Bolan looked at him, detecting a note of seriousness in his tone.

  “It looks like you guys might not have gotten all that sarin from Yemen. Rumor has it that some more of it has resurfaced.”

  “Where?” Bolan asked.

  “Africa.” Brognola frowned. “And it’s purportedly in the hands of al-Shabaab and our old ‘friend’ Muhammad Farouk.”

  Bolan recalled Ali Sharif’s last words to him: You are too late, infidel.

  Perhaps he’d been right after all.

  The Rook

  Rural Virginia

  This was the one place where Novak felt most secure, and he had old Franklin Delano Rhome to thank for it. Buying this old facility through a dummy corporation and setting up a base of operations within driving distance of DC was convenient, to say the least. It was also obscure. Like hiding in plain sight. With high castle-like walls and massive cornerstones that could withstand a dynamite blast. He didn’t even mind the peeling paint, discarded furniture, or the collected piles of deteriorated ceiling titles and other detritus. It had once been the site of a federal prison, but when a newer, brighter, more humane incarceration facility was built, the Rook was abandoned.

  For many years the massive facility had stood vacant, with weeds springing up through the cracks in the parking lots and the trees and shrubbery surrounding the walls growing with unchecked abandon. Eventually, Rhome, while he was still in Congress, got wind of it, and purchased the property for a song through one of his dummy corporations. He then sold it to B&A for a healthy profit. It was the perfect, isolated location for development and experimentation of the Aries Project, and another way of laundering the enormous payoffs Novak was making to Rhome. Not that he’d pocketed all of it, although he did take a substantial share of what didn’t go to his former colleagues in Congress, li
ke Eddie Meeks, for their perpetual reelection campaign funds. As a lobbyist Rhome was expected to drop bundles of cash in strategic places to get things to fall the right way. Rome wasn’t built in a day, he was fond of saying. The bad part was he’d become a little too glib, bragging to the wrong person at the wrong time.

  Burke had arranged the suicide scene well, using the bottle that Rhome had touched and making sure the man’s prints were also on the untraceable gun. The whole thing had taken less than fifteen minutes once they’d dropped off Meeks and driven the now inebriated Rhome to his car, which had been left in the remote section of the park. Novak recalled watching it through the tinted rear window, like a reality TV show nearing its inevitable climax. He felt a twinge of amusement as Burke walked Rhome to the car and helped him slide behind the wheel.

  “I think I’m too drunk to drive,” Rhome said, the simper still plastered across his broad face. “Can’t you just take me home?”

  Burke’s latex-gloved hand proffered the bottle, and when Rhome smiled and tilted his head back to take a swig, Burke pressed the muzzle of the gun against the dollop of flesh under Rhome’s chin and pulled the trigger. The former congressman died instantly. The bottle fell on the seat next to him. Burke carefully wiped some of the gunshot residue onto the now lifeless hand, and set up the rest of the “suicide” scene.

  Novak felt no pity for the man. At times sacrifices had to be made. He was a nonentity, a chess gambit.

  And what better place to celebrate a bold new opening move than the Rook? Novak had christened it such because of the red-and-black-tiled floors, which had somehow remained intact throughout the office portion of the structure even in this recently remodeled area. The tiles reminded him of an expansive chessboard. The massive brick cornerstones and walls could hold off an army, and this newly constructed hangar and airstrip were perfect for undetected takeoffs and landings. It was the ideal base of operations, especially since Novak had decided they were going to cut ties and go private.