Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  “No, no, no,” Cerillo said. “You don’t understand. I designed a radar jamming capacity into them. The special coating absorbs the radar waves instead of reflecting them back. It makes no more than an occasional whisper on the monitor. Like a small bird, if that.”

  “What else can you tell us about the intended target?”

  Cerillo tried to compose himself. He took a deep breath, blinked a couple of times. “They launched the Athena first. That’s standard operating procedure. The Athena locates and fixes the target, then the Aries delivers the payload. Hellfire missiles.”

  “Nicknamed the Howler,” Grimaldi said. He was buttoning the blouse around Leza Dean now. “We’ve seen it in action.”

  Cerillo swallowed. “They had me there to make sure the Athena wasn’t being picked up by any radar. They have their own scope to test it. It wasn’t.”

  “What else can you tell us?” Bolan asked. “Who else is over there?”

  “Novak, Eddie Meeks, the congressman, and some Arabs wearing head cloths.”

  “Meeks?” Grimaldi said. “He’s mixed up in this?”

  Cerillo nodded.

  “What color are the head cloths?”

  Cerillo blinked a few times, then said, “Red-and-white-checkered.”

  That sounded like Saudis, Bolan thought, his mind racing. What did all this mean?

  He remembered the partial newscast he’d seen in Brognola’s office the day before.

  “Jack,” Bolan said, “remember that newscast we saw in Hal’s office?”

  “Huh?” Grimaldi was knotting the sleeves of his blouse forming a makeshift sling for Dean’s left arm.

  “About the Saudi crown prince coming to the White House to meet with the President,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi stiffened. “Oh, hell. You don’t think...”

  Bolan turned to Cerillo, whose face was chalk white.

  “They were...” the scientist started to say. He leaned back against the wall and slowly sunk to a sitting position.

  “They were what?” Bolan said.

  Cerillo swallowed. “They were watching some sort of motorcade on the monitors. Three limousines in DC heading toward the White House.” He wiped at his eyes. “You don’t think that...that they’re planning to assassinate the President, do you?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He took out his cell phone and started pressing buttons, then stopped. The screen posted No Signal.

  “Cells don’t work around here,” Cerillo said, drawing his knees up and circling them with his arms. “One of them had to keep going outside somewhere to catch a receptive spot.”

  “How do the drones work then?” Bolan asked.

  “They’re fed electronically,” Cerillo said. “They have built-in boosters to augment their frequency and jam all the others. It’s all very complicated.”

  “Speaking of complicated.” Grimaldi stood. “What’s the plan?”

  Bolan slipped the cell back into his pocket. “We’ve got to stop the Aries from striking DC.”

  He turned to the scientist. “Who’s piloting them?”

  “A young man with red hair,” Cerillo said. “He seemed very adept. Was even handling both of them at the same time.”

  Redmond, Bolan thought. And McMahon... It sounded like the gang was all here.

  “Is the Aries armed?” Bolan asked.

  Cerillo nodded, then placed his face into his hands. “My God. What have I done?”

  Bolan considered the options.

  “Professor, can you stop or redirect those drones if I get you to the monitors?”

  Cerillo’s eyes widened. “What? No, no, I couldn’t. I can’t go back in there.”

  “We don’t have a lot of options,” Bolan said. “We can’t afford to have those things crash into anything—or anyone. Those missiles will cause a lot of collateral damage.”

  Cerillo shook his head. “I’m no hero.”

  “Hey,” Grimaldi said. “Being the hero is our job. Now you got to suck it up.”

  “You don’t know what they did to me before,” Cerillo said. Tears began streaming down his face.

  “I’ll do my best to protect you,” Bolan said. “But we need your help. There are a lot of innocent lives at stake, not to mention the stability of our country.”

  Cerillo closed his eyes and cradled his head on his arms for several seconds, then said, “Okay, I’m not sure I can do it, but I’ll try.”

  Bolan turned back to Grimaldi.

  “Aaron mentioned an escape tunnel in the warden’s office.”

  “Yeah. Supposed to lead outside the walls.”

  “Let’s see if we can find it,” Bolan said. “You take her out of here and find a clear spot where you can get hold of Hal.”

  “And leave you to face a bunch of hostiles with Professor Peabody here as backup?” Grimaldi shook his head. “No way.”

  “We don’t have any choice,” Bolan said. “We’ve got to try to warn the President, and Hal’s our only shot to do that.”

  Grimaldi compressed his lips and looked at the floor, frowning. “Damn.”

  * * *

  Novak closed the laptop and set it on the table, figuring that the Feds would be able to easily decode it once they eventually zeroed in on this place, and he had to believe that sooner or later, they would. What they’d find, depending on how quickly they found it, would be an overabundance of clues along with a whole bunch of dead bodies, including one of a US congressman. Eddie’s tie-in to B&A was bound to be revealed, especially with the spectacular and untimely demise of his archnemesis, Oglethorpe. Novak was actually relishing the chance to sit back on the beach somewhere and read the account of how the brilliant federal investigators had traced the nefarious plot back to its ungainly source. Depending on what happened in Saudi, and who came out on top in that regime, more heads would roll in the square in Riyadh, but the good old U S of A would endure.

  Novak glanced at McMahon and leaned close.

  “I’m going to set up the wire transfer on my computer so that they can complete it as soon as the strike’s complete,” Novak said. “Then we’ll do Meeks and the rest of them.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” McMahon said.

  “Burke should have gotten rid of the hostages by now,” Novak said.

  “Just like folding up your chessboard, eh?” McMahon’s face had a sneering cast to it, and Novak didn’t like it.

  “Take some of the men and get those suitcases onto the jet.” Novak gestured toward a metal cart. “I want to be ready to get the hell out of here as soon as we’ve wrapped it all up.”

  McMahon did a little mock salute and motioned for his remaining Raptor team members to join him. The cart made a loud rattling noise as one of the Raptors pushed it, clattering across the long expanse of concrete toward the hallway that led into the prison. Novak wondered again how far he should trust McMahon. But that could be addressed later, in the islands, with Burke’s help.

  Chess pieces were so much easier to handle when they were inanimate. He walked over to Meeks and the group of Arabs who were crowded around the monitors behind Redmond. Novak affected an air of casual joviality and forced himself to smile.

  “How does it look?” he asked Meeks.

  The congressman’s face was dripping wet, and his body gave off a pungent odor. Novak took a step back.

  “They’re pulling onto Alexander Hamilton,” Meeks said. “Going to come up on the back way into the White House.”

  Novak felt a surge of adrenaline. They were only about a minute away from having the Aries swoop in to deliver the coup de grâce.

  * * *

  It took Bolan and Grimaldi less than a minute to carry Leza Dean to the warden’s office and set her on an old desk in the middle of the room. Bolan told Cerillo to stand beside her and monitored the long hallway as Grimaldi searched for what they hoped would be the purported tunnel entrance.

  “I wish we would’ve had Aaron send us that schematic,” he said.

  “Hinds
ight’s always twenty-twenty,” Bolan said. He turned and surveyed the area. As in the adjacent room, the paint had been scrapped from the walls here and the piles of disintegrating ceiling tiles had been swept up. The floor’s red-and-black checkerboard tiles were not only visible but relatively clean. Someone, perhaps the man Cerillo had mentioned, Novak, had been using it as an office of sorts. He saw a series of wooden doors that he assumed had once been closets. One of them stood apart from the others near the outer wall.

  “Try that one,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi checked the doorknob and found it locked. He turned and winked.

  “We might have a winner.” Taking out his knife, he quickly inserted it under the uppermost hinge and pried the pin loose. After doing the same for the other hinge, he slid the door out of the jamb. The space inside was unlighted, so he took out his mini-flashlight and shone the beam inside. A trapdoor was visible in the center of the floor.

  Grimaldi flashed a thumbs-up and bent down. The trapdoor was secured by two heavy-duty latches.

  “Doesn’t look like anybody’s used this thing recently,” he said as he pushed the latches open with some difficulty.

  Bolan surveyed the hallway once more, then moved to the open door. The pungent smell of mold emanated from the opening, which was crisscrossed with a myriad of dangling gray spiderwebs. A ladder-like set of iron rungs had been imbedded into the concrete wall, which descended about ten feet to a solid-looking concrete floor that extended into darkness. Bolan moved to the room entrance and surveyed the hallway. It still looked clear.

  “Jack,” he said, “test the integrity of those rungs. I’ll lower Leza down to you.”

  Grimaldi disappeared into the trapdoor. About twenty seconds later his head reappeared at the opening. “Looks like they’re solid.”

  Bolan stepped over to the desk, unslung his MP5 and stripped off his BDU blouse. After gently sliding the garment beneath Dean’s hips and buttocks, he carefully moved his arms under her legs and back. He picked her up and went to the trapdoor. Grimaldi reached up and grabbed the woman’s legs as Bolan used the extended sleeves of his blouse to help lower her downward. She groaned in pain several times.

  “Okay,” Grimaldi said. “I got her.”

  He placed her on the floor and then came partially up the ladder once again, lifting his right arm upward toward Bolan.

  “Watch yourself, big guy,” Grimaldi said. “Good luck.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Here goes nothing,” Grimaldi said, descending the ladder.

  Bolan closed the trapdoor but didn’t relock it. He went to the desk and beckoned Cerillo to his feet. The scientist looked pale and was sweating profusely.

  “You ready?” Bolan asked.

  Cerillo’s face shook. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “We’ve got to try,” Bolan said. He pulled the Velcro straps securing his bulletproof vest in place, took it off, then thrust it toward Cerillo. “Put this on. It’ll offer you some ballistic protection while we move.”

  “What about you?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He looped the sling of the submachine gun over his head and right arm. “Let’s go. Stay behind me and follow my lead. Don’t move from cover unless I tell you to. Understand?”

  Cerillo nodded.

  It was obvious that the man was terrified, but Bolan knew the scientist’s expertise was the only hope of preventing a disaster with the drones. Even if Redmond was neutralized, the aircrafts had to be prevented from crashing.

  Bolan half dragged Cerillo to the doorway and then paused to take a quick look.

  The hallway was still clear. Bolan turned and said, “Okay, we’re going to proceed toward that hangar area as quickly as we can. If we encounter anybody, I’ll make sure you have cover and take care of them.”

  Cerillo’s breathing was rapid, but he nodded. Bolan started to move, but the scientist grabbed his sleeve.

  “Wait. What about a gun for me?”

  Bolan had considered giving Cerillo a handgun but decided against it. Without knowing the scientist’s training and capabilities, he figured giving the man a weapon posed more risk than benefit. He shook his head.

  “I’ll do my best to keep you alive,” Bolan said. “Follow my instructions.”

  He hoped the man would hold up.

  The scientist seemed frozen in place. Bolan grabbed Cerillo’s arm and pulled him along. They began moving down the long hallway, passing the administration office and beyond. The crumbled tiles on the floor made a crunching sound as they moved past a section of recessed doorways, then past an extended section of solid brick wall. Another grouping of recessed doorways was perhaps thirty yards away, followed by a right-angled bend.

  After proceeding about fifty more feet Bolan heard something. He held his arm out and stopped Cerillo’s advancement.

  The Executioner strained his ears to listen.

  A metallic clattering noise floated in the air... And voices.

  Bolan scanned the area. “Get to those doorways.”

  He took two long steps and realized Cerillo wasn’t with him. Bolan glanced back and saw the scientist was paralyzed by fear.

  Bolan ran back and grabbed Cerillo’s sleeve, pulling him along. The scientist’s legs jerked haltingly at first, but then began to move. They had perhaps fifteen more yards to go when a flash of movement appeared at the right-angled corner ahead of them. A man rounded the corner. He was engaged in conversation, his head turned, but his peripheral vision must have caught Bolan and Cerillo’s movements. The man whirled to face them, and the Executioner saw it was McMahon. A glimmer of surprise was followed by a smile.

  “Striker,” McMahon said, reaching down and pulling out his pistol.

  Bolan kept his forward momentum, bringing up his MP5 and thumbing up the select lever to full-auto.

  McMahon fired his pistol while grabbing one of the men next to him, pulling the figure into Bolan’s line of fire. The “shield” squirmed and grunted as the Executioner’s rounds struck him.

  Bolan managed to push Cerillo into the recess and sent another burst down the hallway as bullets tore chunks of brick and mortar from the wall next to his head.

  * * *

  The eruption of gunfire started Novak.

  What the hell was going on? Had Burke and McMahon started getting rid of the hostages?

  Novak then wondered if it might be them thinning the herd before the money transfer was completed.

  More gunshots sounded, and Novak was certain he heard automatic fire mixed in.

  That had to be more than some summary executions. He removed his own Glock G19 and jogged to the doorway of the hangar. Maybe a hundred feet away, down by the bend in the hallway, he saw McMahon crouching and shooting behind two of his men.

  “What’s going on?” he yelled, and regretted it seconds later.

  It was obvious that McMahon couldn’t hear him, and his call had alerted the Arabs and Meeks at the monitors. Malik Maloof and his bodyguard hurried to join him. Meeks just stood there looking nervous and stupid.

  “What is happening?” the Arab asked.

  His face showed little emotion, which Novak sought to use to his advantage.

  Keep the prick calm and have him transfer the money. Then, worst-case scenario, Novak could get on the plane and fly out of there.

  But who would he get to fly it? Burke was the only one who had a pilot’s license. Novak hoped that Burke wasn’t hurt. He’d have to trust McMahon to handle whatever it was, or at least buy them some time. Affecting an air of nonchalance as best he could, he turned to the Arab.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Novak said. “Just some minor, unforeseen business. My men are taking care of it.”

  More automatic fire echoed in the hallway.

  “That does not sound so minor,” Maloof said. He turned to his bodyguard and said something in Arabic. The big man nodded and glanced at Novak.

  “I told you,” Novak said. “It’s nothing. But
let’s do this.” He pointed to his open laptop on the nearby table. “Let’s get that money transfer completed, shall we? That way we can leave right after the drone strike. All right?”

  Maloof shook his head. “No. It is our agreement that the assassination be first completed.”

  Novak felt a surge of frustration. More gunfire. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw McMahon moving down the hallway toward the hangar. One of his men was lying on the floor, and the other two were firing their weapons. Turning back to the Arab, Novak said, “Fine. I’ll just have him blow up all three limos now. Will that satisfy you?”

  Maloof’s nostrils flared. “No, we must be certain that the prince is killed. You stated before that you had the facial recognition software to assure us of this.”

  Novak’s frustration turned to anger.

  This idiot wouldn’t be satisfied until the damn prince’s face was on the screen.

  McMahon jogged up next to them, panting and out of breath.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Novak yelled.

  “It’s that guy... Striker...” McMahon said. “They must’ve found us somehow.”

  “Striker?” Maloof said. “Who is this?”

  “No one,” Novak replied.

  “He does not sound like no one.” The Arab gestured to the big bodyguard, who reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a big semiautomatic Desert Eagle, which he started to aim at Novak.

  McMahon raised his Walther Creed and shot the bodyguard in the face. Novak used his own gun to shoot Maloof. As the others turned, Novak pointed toward the two other bodyguards and yelled at McMahon.

  “Kill them!” He raised his gun and began firing, too. Redmond jumped from his seat and flattened out on the floor, his eyes behind his thick glasses looming large and wide.

  Meeks’s hands flew to his chest, and he stomped around in a small circle before falling.

  Novak realized he had accidentally shot the congressman, but no matter. It had to be done sooner or later.

  McMahon adjusted his aim and shot both bodyguards. The last Arab standing, Tariq Bashira, raised his hands, and McMahon shot him in the chest as Novak screamed, “Noooooo!”