Of course, Jo Ann Vega invented most of the more lurid details of the ordeal in her own fertile, twisted mind. Henri Cazaux had been imprisoned and abused for two days in the hands of the American Air Force, that much was known--exactly what had happened to him, Cazaux never said beyond only the vaguest hints. It certainly explained his bloodthirsty attitude toward the Americans, his intense fear and revulsion to the thought of capture, and his intense desire for revenge.
In her own way, Vega relished the idea of some big black soldier treating Henri like a ten-dollar whore... It was a fantasy that got her wet just thinking about it.
In any case, the Antwerp incarceration was for Cazaux's third felony crime. He had a choice--ten years in the Auxiliaries (the virtual slave-labor arm of the Belgian Army), or ten years in prison.
Cazaux willingly, even happily, joined the Auxiliaries. He reformed himself enough to join the regular army, then the First Para, the special-operations quick-strike brigade known as the Red Berets, flight school, and even received a commission. He stayed on an extra two years after his now long-forgotten sentence, then, as with most soldiers, he was given a Reserve assignment.
He left the regular army a finely tuned, well-trained, precision killing machine--and as mentally twisted as a Swiss mountain road.
"I need to know if my plans of destruction will be successful, Madame Vega," Cazaux said.
"I need your advice. I cannot issue commands to my staff without some assurances that my plans will be successful." "I saw much blood, much destruction," Vega said. "I saw death, Henri, lots of death--but I did not see yours, although death is all around you. I saw the wings of the angel of death, the dark master, sweeping across the skies in a fiery chariot, driven by you." "Your visions are not helping me, Jo Ann," Cazaux said irritably.
"All I need to know is, will my campaign be successful?" he soaked a clean gauze pad with hydrogen peroxide and, without warning or fanfare, scrubbed the exposed wound to loosen the blood and dirt.
Fresh water was necessary to clear away the bubbling flesh, but Cazaux did not cry out or even flinch from what had to be incredible pain. "I can see exposed muscle, Henri," Jo Ann said.
"You'll need stitches and antibiotics." "Runyon," Cazaux replied. She nodded.
Lewis Runyon was a decertified physician who had tried to set her up as a drug dealer until Cazaux caught up with him. Rather than kill him, he convinced him to become the Cazaux operation's medical officer, and now lived in Newark, New Jersey, under the watchful eyes of Cazaux's lieutenants.
"Continue to clean the wound, and pack it tightly.
I need to travel within the hour." "All right." She made no attempt to be gentle, but used her weight to scrub the wound until it bled. She knew she was working harder than necessary-- was she trying to cause him pain? Why?
"Tell me what you are thinking, Jo Ann," Cazaux ordered.
"You have not answered my question, and you are bound as my spiritual adviser to do so." She looked up at him, her eyes pausing for a moment on his naked crotch before affixing on his stone-hard face. "I see more blood in your chart, Henri," she said. "I see much more blood, by your hands." "Yes, yes," he responded impatiently.
"My campaign?" "Have you taken any drugs, any painkillers, any cocaine?" She knew the answer to that even before his flaming eyes rested on hers.
Henri Cazaux never did drugs except for antibiotics and aspirin.
She touched the leg wound again, with her fingernail.
The touch did not register in even one muscle in his angular face. "You have transcended pain, Henri," she said. She wrapped her hand around his calf, stroking his leg. "I see other human traits that are now missing in your soul. You have been touched by Death, Henri, and for some reason, the dark master has released you--for now." "Yes," he said, his eyes widening as he accepted her words as truth.
He couldn't rationalize it before, but her words confirmed what he was thinking: the mission he had just completed, escaping the jaws of death so narrowly as he did, had changed him.
"You have completed a deal with the Devil," she continued as she stroked his right leg, then kissed his left leg, then stroked his rock-hard buttocks.
"You have traded what was left of your humanity for a few extra days of life. Show me your right hand." She opened his right hand when he extended it to her. A fresh three-inch-long burn, caused by his grip on the nylon webbing of his parachute risers during his low-altitude bailout over San Francisco International, was etched across his palm, perfectly perpendicular to his already very short lifeline. "Here is the signed contract, Henri. You didn't know this wound was here, did you?" Obviously he did not, because he stared at the cut. "I don't know how long you have--maybe hours, maybe days.
Perhaps only... minutes." His eyes flared, knowing she had added that last warning selfishly, that she wanted the next few minutes with him.
"No--longer," she admitted. "I see blood, too, a lot of blood.
Not all of it is yours." "It won't be. I can guarantee that." "This is a serious contract, Henri, a contract with the dark master," Jo Ann said angrily, returning to her nursing. "The contract is irrevocable. The dark master offers you incredible strength, a life without pain, with a tireless body, with sharp eyes. He demands a price for these gifts." "A price? From me?" "Yes, damn you, the ultimate price--your very life, your future, was she said. "Your soul is already his--now he wants control of your mind.
He gave you these gifts because he wants to turn you loose on the mortal world, taking your revenge." "That's exactly what I intend to do." Her eyes flared, and she took a deep breath as the excitement welled in her chest. He could do it, she thought. "Then do it, Henri," Vega said.
"I'm telling you, Henri, you've been chosen by the dark master to carry out a baptism of fire on planet Earth. He has given you the gift of freedom from mortal pain. You will not feel hunger, or pain, or weariness. You will defy the laws of nature. You will see with the eyes of a hawk, hear with the ears of a wolf, move with the speed of a cheetah. You will think like no other general has ever done before.
It is time to set it all into motion, Henri." "I have already set it in motion, Jo Ann," Cazaux said, his voice as deep and hollow as if from the bottom of a grave. "Death from the skies, from nowhere, from everywhere. Men think they have conquered the sky; I say they will fear the skies, fear the machines and the physics that carry them aloft. My lack of pain is the sign that I have been given this assignment and that I must carry it out." "Turn your hatred into blood-lust, Henri," Vega pleaded with him.
"You're not just a soldier, not a machine--you're the sword of Satan.
Be all that he has commanded you to be. Do it. Do it!" She saw the smile creep to his lips, and it was then that she noticed his erection, and she knew he had indeed changed. Henri Cazaux was not interested in aides, or soulmates, or advisers--he was interested in conquest. The dark master had told him that anything he desired was within his grasp. She had confirmed the voice. Now he was going to act upon that advice.
Her blouse and brassiere ripped off her body in his grasp as easily as if they were of paper. The creature inside Henri Cazaux was free once again, and this time there was no restraining it.
An hour later, Jo Ann Vega wondered with the darkest sense of doom if the country would survive what Henri Cazaux had in mind for it. If the pain and the blood she had just experienced was going to be multiplied by even a fraction of this country's three hundred million inhabitants, she knew that it could very well not survive his onslaught.
Near Bedminster, New Jersey That Evening "That is what I desire," Cazaux told the men assembled around him.
The staff meeting was in an isolated house in rural New Jersey, owned by Harold Lake through several layers of U.s. and offshore corporations, as safe from government scrutiny as possible. The night was warm and humid, but Cazaux's security forces kept all of the windows and doors tightly closed. Human and canine patrols roamed the thirty-acre walled and gated estate, and electronic t
rip wires and sensors ringed the compound. Every room of the seven bedroom home was occupied by an armed guard who constantly checked in with a security monitor.
The men present were members of Cazaux's "senior staff," organized much like an army battalion headquarters with operations and plans, intelligence, logistics, transportation, maintenance, security, and munitions staff officer.
Of all of them, Harold Lake--who did not consider himself a staff officer but was generally in charge of procurement, purchasing, and finances for Cazaux's organization-had been with the organization the longest. Surrounded by some of the world's most wanted terrorists, smugglers, murderers, and mercenaries, Lake was definitely the most out-of-place person there.
The "security officer," Tomas Ysidro, was probably the most notorious officer besides Cazaux himself, and Lake had to be careful at all times to not do or say anything to piss the bastard off.
Born and raised in Mexico, Ysidro had been one of the Colombian drug cartel's deadliest enforcers before joining Cazaux's small army, and he was quickly elevated to a status very nearly equal to Cazaux himself simply because no one else dared challenge him. Ysidro was in charge of recruitment and training, and his tactics and forms of discipline were a lot harsher than anything the Colombian drug lords used. Only Henri Cazaux's strength and sheer force of superior will could keep Ysidro's psychopathic tendencies in check. They were like two peas in a pod.
"Henri, you're insane," Lake declared. "I don't believe it.
You want to blow up three major airports in the United States?" "What I want is revenge on the United States government for chasing me like a scared rabbit," Cazaux said. "What I want is to see the people of this country tremble when they hear my name. What I want is to see this country, this so-called democracy, destroyed by its own military forces. They shot at me, Lake, they dared shoot at me!
I want to destroy the American military by creating fear and distrust in them by their own people. I want to show the world what kind of butchers and wild dogs they really ale." "Hey, Henri, you want it, you got it," Ysidro said, taking his first post-meeting slug of bourbon from a bottle. "Man, this is gonna be awesome. We don't just take out one plane, we take out the whole airport, the whole fucking airport!" He laughed.
"Why, Henri?" Lake protested, ignoring Ysidro for the moment.
"Why are you doing this? You've already got half the federal government on your tail. You're already the most-wanted man in fifteen countries--" "Shut up, Drip, you asshole," Ysidro hissed to drown out Lake's voice. Harold Lake shot an angry glance at Ysidro--he hated the nickname "Drip," but everyone there used it in fear and deference of Ysidro. "The man gave us our orders, and now we march. You just need to bring us the money, mule." "Three airports within thirty days, all attacked by heavy cargo planes or commercial airliners filled with explosives," Gregory Townsend, the British-born chief of plans and operations, mused.
Townsend was a former British S.a.s commando, an expert in planning and setting up all sorts of military operations all around the world. He had lost an eye in a hostage-rescue situation in Belfast several years earlier, and after fifteen illustrious years with the British Army, had been sent packing with only a modest monthly stipend.
When Cazaux invited him to join his organization, he readily agreed.
"Considering a one- or two-million-dollar deposit per plane, plus a million for fuel, plus a million or two for explosives-- we're talking eight to nine million dollars for this operation, Henri, ten million tops. As I recall, we had a balance of eleven million in the war chest.
This'll tap us out. What sort of deal did you make with the client?
I'd say at least ten million per target struck would be reasonable." "No client," Cazaux said. "No fee. This I do for myself." Many of the officers around him averted their eyes, disappointed in Cazaux's decision but fearful of showing any hesitation or protest.
Lake looked stunned, and showed it; Ysidro looked immensely pleased.
"So, Drip, you might as well close the bank accounts and convert the whole enchilada into greenbacks," Ysidro said. Townsend nodded his agreement. "We expect the cash in three days. Tawney, I want to review the aircraft list with you by tomorrow afternoon.
We'll have to rig up a trainer system, get charts of the targets, recruit some more flyboys, all that shit. There may be a way to get our hands on some military hardware--imagine using a couple Harpoon missiles or laser-guided bombs on O'Hare or LAX!" Ysidro took another swig, chuckling at Cazaux's stern expression, noting with relief that Cazaux's anger seemed to be all directed at Lake. Ysidro was a good friend of Henri Cazaux's--at least, if Cazaux had a friend, it was Tomas Ysidro--but he still didn't want to show any weakness to his boss or to the other officers, ever. If Cazaux ever failed to make it back from one of his missions, Ysidro and Townsend would battle for control of the organization and its assets, and he had to appear strong at all times. Townsend was smart and tough, but all those years as a Brit officer gave him an air of superiority that made everyone distrust him.
"Relax, Henri, everything's gonna be fine," Ysidro said to Cazaux.
"We got enough in reserve to get started on the explosives payloads for the first couple missions. Butcher and Faker can pick over that Seneschet warehouse in Massachusetts and see what they got, but it'll be no sweat--I think we can pick up about seven or eight thousand kilos of ammonium nitrate from the waste-storage area, and we got about a thousand kilos of TNT in storage for the primer loads. The fuzing will be toughen-we may have to go out on the market for the first few. I got a contact in a National Guard armory in North Carolina where we might get some fuzes." "I have information on some military ordnance," Townsend said.
"Several Air National Guard units recently returned from a European deployment, and much of their ordnance is in warehouses right over at Stewart International awaiting transportation to their home units.
Their inventory counts never come out right after a big deployment. We can get gravity bombs, incendiaries, night-vision gear, the works.
Drip, I'll need some cash for earnest money." "The name isn't "Drip," you asshole, and there's no fucking cash," Lake finally snapped.
All of the other officers turned to him in horror--all but Henri Cazaux, who had been looking in Lake's direction for most of the meeting.
Ysidro cursed. "What the fuck are you talking about? We got eleven million fucking dollars in the bank, Drip. The last meeting before the Chico mission was only eight days ago, and before that we had twenty million." "That was before Korhonen flew that transport plane into San Francisco International and killed several hundred people," Lake retorted angrily. "That was before three-quarters of the air traffic to the west coast was shut down. That was before every investor in Europe told me to fuck off backwards." "You telling us you blew eleven million dollars in the stock market just since yesterday.
?" "I'm telling you that I lost one hundred million dollars yesterday, including this organization's eleven million, because you"--Lake jabbed a finger at Cazaux, who was still staring at him --"decided to go on a joyride and blow up S.f.o. I lost everything I have, damn you, everything! I'm broke! I'm worse than broke.
I'm ruined..." Ysidro was on him like a panther, and before Lake could blink, Ysidro had him pressed up against the wall, a knife point pressed into his throat.
The other staff officers had surrounded the two to watch the execution. "I think," Ysidro said, his face pressed right up against Lake's so he could feel his last breath as it gushed from his lungs, "we are about to need a new logistics officer." "No," Cazaux said evenly. "Let him speak." "This fucker's ripping us off, man." "Let him speak, was Cazaux ordered.
His voice did not change, but the force behind Cazaux's order seemed to everyone several magnitudes higher than the first. Ysidro glared at Lake, then held his head steady, gave him a cut on his neck about two inches long, licked the rivulet of blood, then spit it back in Lake's face. "Fucking bean-counter," he growled. "Unfortunately, you live for n
ow." The air in the room seemed to relax as Ysidro backed away.
Lake was shaking like a man possessed, but more from anger than fear.
He wiped blood from his eyes, put a handkerchief to the cut on his neck, and said, "I've been laundering money for this organization for three years, finding legitimate investments and creating legitimate business fronts, and I've done a very good job, was Lake said.
"I've done a good job because I have been steering each mission, preparing the businesses beforehand." "You haven't done shit, Drip," Ysidro said. "We hardly see you, and all you give us is jew banker's mumbojumbo." "You think you can just walk into a bank with your terrorist checkbook and write a check for three or four million dollars?" Lake asked angrily. To Townsend he continued, "You think you can take seven million pounds sterling that you just got from an IRA bomber, convert it to dollars, and drop it in the automated teller machine at the corner bank, Townsend? The money has to look clean, and that takes work. The money has to be legitimately traceable down three dozen levels in the United States alone, and a dozen layers down in twenty other countries, all at the same time. Plus, you want me to research the financial on your targets, your clients, their governments, and their relations and principals all the way to the highest levels. I do that, each and every time, so when you make the deal or make the hit, we know exactly what all the players are going to do or say all over the world.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 18
