Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  The Arab crumpled to the floor and Novak turned to McMahon.

  “You fucking idiot. They haven’t transferred the money yet.”

  McMahon moved toward the fallen group. He brought his pistol up and shot the bodyguards in the head. Each man gasped. Then he picked up the prone Maloof and yanked at his shirt. The dark velvet of a bulletproof vest was visible.

  “I could tell they were wearing vests,” he yelled. “This one can still do the transfer,”

  Novak’s ears were ringing and he could barely hear anything, but he was somehow able to discern McMahon’s words. He ran over and helped Redmond get up and resume his position at the monitors. Then Novak turned, grabbed the Arab’s red-and-white-checkered head cloth and pulled the man toward the open laptop. Novak pressed his Glock against the man’s temple and leaned close.

  “Transfer that damn money now, asshole,” Novak said. “Or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  “You take care of that,” McMahon said, slipping a fresh magazine into his Creed. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

  * * *

  Bolan told Cerillo to stay put and leaned partially out of the recessed doorway to survey the scene at the bend in the hallway. He caught sight of two men crouching next to a metal cart. No McMahon.

  He slammed a fresh magazine into the MP5, his last one. It was suicide to remain where they were. With no backup on the way, and not knowing how many adversaries he was facing, staying in place would only forestall the inevitable. Plus, the clock was ticking for that drone strike. With his MP5 still on full-auto, Bolan shot across the hall, squeezing a rapid burst toward the two men by the cart. The return fire tore by him, nicking the wall to his left and the floor to his right. Bolan fired again, figuring that this blast would probably deplete his magazine, but the cart offered them little in the way of ballistic protection. One of the men grabbed at his chest. The other glanced at his comrade, and then as Bolan continued to fire, the second man performed a convulsing dance and crumpled.

  Bolan checked his weapon and saw it was indeed empty. He slipped off the MP5, dropped it to the floor, unholstered his Beretta and yelled to Cerillo. His voice sounded distorted and distant, and he realized immediately that the auditory functions of both of them had most likely been temporarily compromised. The Executioner ran back to the doorway and pulled Cerillo to his feet. He leaned close to the man’s ear and shouted, “Get ready. We’re almost there.”

  The scientist’s eyes had the vacuous, thousand-yard stare of a man in the midst of emotional crisis. Bolan pulled him along toward the bend in the hallway. At the juncture he paused, flattened Cerillo against the wall and took a quick look around the corner.

  McMahon was advancing toward him in a combat crouch, his Walther Creed stretched out in front of him.

  Bolan gripped the Beretta and got ready to lean out and take a shot, but McMahon suddenly stopped and stooped, reaching for something next to a supine body. He rose with what appeared to be a Desert Eagle in his left hand, the Creed still in his right. Bolan squeezed off a round and McMahon’s body jerked. He raised the Creed, fired and began running toward a group of vehicles. The bullets struck the wall by Bolan’s head, sending a flood of stinging chips into the right half of the Executioner’s face. He readjusted his aim and fired three more rounds slightly leading the running man.

  McMahon took three more steps and then slowed. He brought up the Creed again and grimaced, pointing the gun in Bolan’s direction. He fired. The Executioner squeezed off another round, and the big man’s face changed from a maniacal grin to a more placid expression. His lips curled back in a beatific smile as both pistols spilled from his hands. He fell forward, his head bouncing on the floor and then twisting to the side.

  Bolan advanced and kicked the two guns away from him. McMahon’s glazed eyes stared at nothing.

  About a hundred feet away Bolan saw a thin, waspish man with a shaved head standing among several bodies holding a gun on a Saudi Arab as they both were hunched over a laptop. About fifteen feet away Redmond sat in front of two computer monitors, each of his hands on a joystick.

  That bald guy had to be Novak, Bolan thought as he advanced at a quick trot.

  Novak struck the Saudi on the head with his fist, pressed the gun against the man’s head and fired. The Saudi stiffened, the laptop clattering to the floor. Novak glanced over at Bolan and then took off running toward the open expanse beyond the large doors of the hangar.

  “Fire, Redmond,” Novak shouted. “Do it!”

  Bolan swiveled his Beretta toward the computer geek. It was at least a thirty-five-yard shot, and Bolan knew it had to be a brainstem hit. He fired, and Redmond’s body stiffened, a red mist exploding around his head as he slumped over onto the table with the keyboards.

  A bullet whizzed by Bolan, and he saw Novak firing what looked like a small Glock pistol.

  The Executioner adjusted his aim and got off two shots, one punching into his adversary’s chest and the other opening a hole in the top of his shaved head. Novak went sprawling.

  Bolan grabbed Cerillo’s arm with his left hand and hoisted him to his feet.

  “Come on. The drones.”

  Cerillo stumbled along, being half dragged by Bolan to the computer monitors. He released the scientist and pulled Redmond’s limp body from the keyboards. He checked the monitors and saw a picture of the White House.

  “Get to work,” Bolan said, pulling Cerillo in front of the monitors. “It doesn’t look like there’s much time.”

  The picture on the screen showed the figures around the limos starting to scatter. Cerillo grabbed the joystick with his right hand as the fingers of his left danced over the keyboard. Sweat poured from his face.

  Bolan kept watching the monitors. First one picture on the screen shifted away from the view of the White House and was replaced by dark sky, then the lighted cityscape and finally a flat blackness. The screen suddenly showed nothing but static. Cerillo reached for the second joystick.

  “That was the Aries,” he said. “I put it down in the Tidal Basin. The Athena isn’t armed, so I’m doing that one next.”

  The capital cityscape flashed on the second screen, then was replaced by the dark rippling water and finally by another burst of static.

  Cerillo heaved a sigh of relief, slowly sank to a sitting position on the floor and started to cry.

  “Good job, Professor.” Bolan gave the man’s shoulder a reassuring pat and looked at the bodies strewed around them. Except for Redmond and Novak, Bolan knew that he hadn’t shot any of this group, which meant they’d apparently quarreled among themselves.

  He watched the constant flow of the black-and-white static on the screen, waiting while his hearing gradually returned to normal. He became cognizant of a scuffling noise coming from the hallway. He raised his Beretta just as Grimaldi ran into the room, holding his MP5 at the ready. He surveyed the scene and lowered the weapon, nodding slightly as he looked around at the carnage. His bare arms were covered with a grayish film and wispy tendrils of spiderwebs trailed from his hair like phantom braids.

  “Looks like you had all the fun without me,” he said, brushing his hand over his head.

  “I see you gave the tunnel some cleaning,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi grinned. “Yeah, it hadn’t been used in a while, and I had to shoot the lock off at the other end, but aside from a bit of seepage, it was in perfect condition.” He brushed at his hair again and came up with more sticky wisps. “That thing was built better than a brick shithouse.”

  “You get hold of Hal?”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Yeah, he’s sending the cavalry. How about the drones?”

  Bolan held up his hand and rotated it showing a thumbs-down. “Deep-sixed.”

  “Great,” Grimaldi said. “See? It’s just like I told you. Those things aren’t worth a shi—”

  “How’s Leza Dean?” Bolan asked.

  “She’s okay. I left her on the outside, then came back to help you.” He shru
gged. “And you didn’t need me, did you?”

  “Just this once, Jack.”

  Epilogue

  Washington, DC

  The National Mall

  A week later it was one of those beautiful late-autumn days, and the brightness of the afternoon sun filtered through the trees and speckled the grassy lawn of the National Mall. Groups of tourists strolled by the museums, along with couples pushing baby carriages and a few joggers. A thin black man sat with a small keyboard playing a jazzy tune that was in competition with the carousel with its calliope music that floated pleasantly in the warm air. Bolan watched as Grimaldi approached him and Leza Dean carrying two ice cream cones. He stopped in front of them and handed one to her.

  “Yeah, there’s nothing like eating an ice cream cone in the sunshine alongside a pretty girl,” Grimaldi said. He switched his gaze to Bolan. “I figured you didn’t want one.”

  “You figured right.”

  Leza Dean, her left arm still in a cast and sling, accepted the cone but didn’t taste it. Instead, she looked at Bolan.

  “So I’m really glad you contacted me,” she said. “It was really quite unexpected.”

  “It was his idea,” Bolan said, nodding toward Grimaldi. “He wanted to see you again to make sure you were all right.”

  “Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “I’m the one who set your arm at the old prison, you know.”

  Leza Dean smiled and licked her cone. She raised an eyebrow as she stared at Grimaldi.

  “Thank you for that,” she said. “But doesn’t that also mean that you’ve seen quite a bit of me already?”

  Grimaldi blushed and Leza Dean laughed.

  “Oh, it’s quite all right,” she said. “I’m sure it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before.”

  “Well...” Grimaldi shrugged, flashing a grin.

  “We need to get a few things straight about the story you’re writing,” Bolan told her.

  “Or not writing,” Grimaldi said.

  Dean canted her head. “I’m listening.”

  “Due to the sensitive nature of our work,” Bolan said, “we need to keep a low profile.”

  “In other words, are you saying I can’t mention your heroics?” she asked.

  “Preferably, you won’t mention either of us.”

  “But you did so much,” she protested. “Both here and overseas. Why, you saved the royal prince, and quite possibly the President, as well.”

  “Yeah, well, nobody can write about us or they’ll invoke the National Security Act,” Grimaldi said.

  Dean’s brow furrowed.

  “Say,” he said. “How would you like to go for a ride on the merry-go-round over there? Ever been on one? I haven’t since I was a kid!”

  “No,” she said. “And as a reporter, I have a responsibility to tell the truth.”

  “Truth is a funny thing sometimes,” Bolan said. “It’s rarely pure and never simple.”

  Leza Dean’s brow furrowed. “I’ve heard that quote before. From one of your presidents, isn’t it?”

  “Actually,” Bolan said, “Oscar Wilde. But the words still ring true today.”

  “Speaking of rings,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll even let you sit on the outside horse so you can try for the brass ring. If you manage to snatch it, you get a free wish.”

  Dean said nothing, her eyes on the Executioner.

  “Well, I do owe you my life,” she said.

  “And don’t forget about that splinting job I did on your arm,” Grimaldi said. “Did I mention that I made Eagle Scout?”

  Leza Dean ignored him. “So you’re not going to tell me who you really are, are you?”

  “Oh, we could tell you,” Grimaldi said, trying to edge into her view with a deadpan expression. “But then, as the saying goes, we’d have to kill you.”

  Her face registered a sudden expression of mild shock.

  Grimaldi grinned and added, “Hey, don’t worry. That would make both of those rescue exercises futile, wouldn’t it? Not to mention that splint job.”

  Dean smiled. “And we certainly wouldn’t want that, would we?” After a few seconds of awkward silence, she looked up at Bolan. “But I do so want to tell your story. Can’t we come to some sort of mutual accord?”

  “Maybe you should write a novel,” Bolan said.

  She smiled. “Perhaps I shall.” She turned toward Grimaldi. “You know, I think I will try for that brass ring after all, if you promise to stand next to me and catch me if I fall.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan watched them stroll leisurely toward the merry-go-round. He always enjoyed coming to the Mall; usually it was to meet Hal Brognola for a briefing on a potential mission. This time he could spend a few minutes enjoying the day, watch the carousal make its endless rotations to nowhere accompanied by the effervescent calliope.

  Calliope, Bolan thought. The Greek muse of heroic poetry and eloquence. And also a lover of Ares, the god of war. An appropriate companion to celebrate the demise of the Athena and the Aries. And the merry-go-round, circling endlessly and going nowhere, was also an appropriate and rather unpleasant metaphor for the war that never ended.

  The Executioner’s war.

  And in a moment of brief fancy, he allowed himself to wonder what he would wish for should he ever be fortunate enough to catch that brass ring Grimaldi talked about. Perhaps a prolonged period of blissful tranquility where he didn’t find himself rushing off to deal with some impending crisis?

  Wishful thinking indeed. That would never happen, he thought. Not in this lifetime.

  * * *

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