Thunder Down Under

by Don Pendleton

  She grabbed another tissue, wiped her eyes and then nodded.

  “Good,” Bolan said. “I’ll let someone at Wallcorloo know you’re taking the rest of the week off. Get plenty of rest, try not to use any kind of drugs to cope with this and seek professional counseling assistance if you feel you need to.”

  “I’m not sure that’s going to be necessary,” she replied.

  “And it may very well not be, but sometimes post-traumatic stress symptoms develop weeks, or even months, after the precipitating event,” Bolan said. “All I’m saying is don’t rush back into your normal life after this, just—try to ease into it slowly, okay?”

  She nodded, blinked away more tears and focused red-rimmed eyes on him. “Before you go, I just have one question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Who...who the hell are you? You’re for damn sure not an environmental engineer. You show up here and within a day you’re almost killed and you save me from being killed—twice, I think—and you don’t even look like you’re breaking a sweat over it. So...who are you?”

  Bolan smiled faintly. “I’m a man of many talents. That’s all you have to know. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She looked like she didn’t know how to respond to that, which was fine with him. He wasn’t going to tell her that there were people in the world who stopped bad guys from committing bad acts—by killing them.

  Bolan removed the keys from her car’s ignition and handed them over. “Go inside and get some rest.”

  “You...you’re still going back to WN tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “I have to find out if there’s any more of these people, and see what they’re up to. Oh, and don’t worry about them coming after you again. I’ll have WN set up some security for the next couple of days until we get this situation taken care of. Now go. I’ll be here until you’re safe inside.”

  She nodded. “Thank you...for everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They both got out of the car and she came around and gave him a hug. “I probably won’t ever see you again, will I?”

  “Not likely, unless you come to the States. If you do, look me up,” he said, knowing she’d never be able to find him.

  “Careful—I just might do that,” she replied then released him and walked to the apartment building’s door. Bolan waited to see a light come on in the second-story window before heading over to the Wallcorloo SUV and getting in.

  “Everything all right, sir?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah, although I want you to recommend twenty-four-hour surveillance of this apartment building for the next three days to Travis.”

  The driver glanced back at him. “You believe she’s still under threat of abduction?”

  “It’s possible. This attempt might have been one of convenience, but they may try again. And if you don’t get a team called out, or at least pass along my recommendation—I will.”

  The two security men exchanged glances, then one of them reached for his phone and called in to HQ while the other began the drive to his hotel. By the time they reached their destination, an overnight security team had been dispatched to Cindra Tate’s apartment complex, and Bolan and the pair of security officers had checked in with Travis.

  Bolan thanked them for the lift, turned and strode through the lobby, drawing a curious stare from the night clerk. He got in the elevator, pushed the button for his floor and then leaned against the back wall, fighting the overwhelming wave of exhaustion that swept over him.

  The elevator dinged and he stepped out into the hallway and walked to his suite at the far end, already unbuttoning his shirt as he slid the key card into the door lock. He went inside, hoping he could get maybe four hours’ sleep before having to get up for the trip out to the LNG refinery—

  “Well, hello there.”

  The voice from his room stopped him in his tracks.

  There, lying on the king-size bed, was Mrs. Sunny Martin in all her barely dressed glory. She was wearing a red silk teddy that left even less to the imagination than her dress at dinner.

  She sat up and leaned toward him, her high, firm breasts on full display. “You certainly took your time getting—”

  “Nope.”

  His interruption caught her off guard. “What?”

  Bolan crossed over to her. “I’m flattered, Mrs. Martin, believe me, but since I got here, I’ve been chased, shot at, raced after kidnappers and had one hell of a day. I’m exhausted.” Grabbing her arm and scooping her clothing from a nearby chair, he pulled her, gently but firmly, off the bed.

  “What? Wait, what are you—”

  “I’m putting you outside and then I’m going to get some sleep.” Hustling her to the door, he opened it, ushered her out and then closed it behind her, leaving her openmouthed and fuming in the hallway.

  Just steps away from falling into bed, he noticed a calfskin overnight bag with an SM monogram and a Gucci purse. Bolan grabbed the items, went back to the door and opened it.

  “Thank God you came to your senses!” she said and started to walk back in.

  “Nope, just giving you these.” Bolan shoved both bags at her. “And before you get any ideas about trying to beat on my door, in two minutes I’m going to call the front desk and let them know a drunken woman is up here making a scene. You can either be here when they show up or be somewhere else. Your call.”

  With that he closed the door in her face, then went to the bed and sat by the phone. The next ninety seconds were among the longest in his life, simply because all he wanted to do was to grab some sleep. Finally he got back up, walked to the door and looked out the security peephole.

  The hallway was empty.

  With a relieved sigh, Bolan made sure the door was locked, hurriedly removed his shoes and clothes and walked back to the bed. He lay down and was asleep moments after his head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Barbara Price touched down at Stony Man, the first thing she did was go straight to the office Hal Brognola used when he was at the Farm.

  As usual, every flat surface of the large, wood-paneled room was covered in papers, from military strategy reports to popular newspapers and magazines. Even though he had a state-of-the-art computer, and received plenty of reports and data through it, as Brognola put it, he liked getting his information the old-fashioned way. And he liked paper.

  Price knocked on the frame of his office door then walked in.

  “So, how was lunch?” he asked without preamble. He closed the book he was perusing, set it on his desk and regarded her over his reading glasses. “Productive?”

  “To a point.” She gave him a concise rundown of the first half of the meeting, including her assessment of Payne. “Ultimately, while he could have been a useful ally in this administration, I’m afraid that he’s too close to the President to truly be of any real help to us.”

  “Ah.” Brognola leaned back in his ancient, creaking leather attorney’s chair that he claimed had been around since the Reagan administration. “And what did he offer you?”

  Price blinked once before rolling her eyes at her own surprise. “Your job.”

  The big Fed nodded. “What’d you tell them?”

  “That there was no way I’d take part in any sort of plan to force you out...and that I would have to think about it.”

  “Good answers,” he said. “Smart answers, too. The first one I expected as a matter of course. But I’m not surprised by the second one, either. You’d be a good fit.” His gaze turned shrewd. “Did he say anything about not discussing that portion of the conversation with me?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “They’re getting smarter.” With a slight frown, he tsk-tsked and waved her to a chair. “Take a seat.”

  He didn’t continue until she got comfortable. “So, what do you want
to do now?”

  Price frowned. “Isn’t the question more along the lines of what do you want to do? I mean, Payne made it sound like removing you was practically a done deal, and that all that needed to be done was completing the paperwork.”

  Brognola chuckled. “Of course he’s presenting it that way—it’s an old trick to get people to fall in line. I’ve been on both sides of these kinds of conversations more times than I can remember. Doesn’t mean the situation shouldn’t be handled with care, of course.”

  “So, how do you plan to respond?” she asked.

  “Again, much of that depends on you now, doesn’t it?”

  “Hal—” Price took a deep breath. “You have no intention of retiring anytime soon, we both know this. So why are you dancing around the topic?”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “When Stony Man was founded, I made a promise to myself that I would stop doing this the moment it didn’t have any more meaning for me and when I was sure there was a capable staff on-site to take over if I ever did get the urge to up and leave before I was done on this earth. I know Stony Man has the second part in place...but I’ve never felt any lessening of the first part.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Price said. “I feel the same way about...well, everything here, including our working relationship. I’d rather be overseeing our missions than having to kowtow to the suits up on the Hill.”

  “Good, then that’s settled. Although for what it’s worth, I never kowtow,” Brognola said with a devilish grin. “It’s more of a give-and-take.”

  “Yes, but what about this administration’s plan to jump-start your retirement?” she asked.

  “Let me handle that,” he replied. “Let’s make sure this mission is completed successfully, then you can call Mr. Payne in a day or so and let him know that, regretfully, you won’t able to accept the offered position. I’m sure you’ll phrase it much more gracefully than I would. By that time, I’ll have all my ducks in a row and this whole thing will have blown over. Payne will be looking at some other agency or department to—” he made air quotes with his fingers “—modernize. Meanwhile, let’s get back to more pressing business.”

  “You got it.” Price opened her tablet. “As we had briefly discussed during the conference call, you mentioned evaluating whether Striker might need some assistance on this mission.”

  “I did indeed. Thoughts?” he asked.

  “Well, our resources are stretched a bit thin at the moment. Phoenix Force is still handling that incident up in Alaska involving a Russian prisoner transfer, and they’ve run into heavy opposition from the man’s criminal organization trying to free him, so they’re unable to assist at the moment. Able Team is currently concluding its last operation in South America, so we could have the guys ready to go in approximately twelve hours. But with that, and even putting them on a nonstop military flight to the RAAF base at Williams-Laverton, they wouldn’t be on site for another twenty-eight hours.”

  “All the more reason to call them in now, don’t you think?” Brognola said. “Or do you have another idea in mind?”

  “Well, there is the possibility that Striker may take out the remaining elements of this mystery group before Able Team can even get there.”

  “Hmm, yes, he’s certainly proving adept at neutralizing them so far.”

  “At the very least, before we call in any reinforcements, let me check in to see if Bear or Akira has come up with any leads on the recovered bodies of the kidnapping team. I think if we can find out who they are, then Striker can switch from playing defense to offense, and you know how good he is at that.”

  “All too well, Barbara, all too well.” The big Fed thought over her assessment for a few seconds, then nodded. “All right, I want an update and your final recommendation on this in sixty minutes. Get cracking.”

  “Will do, Hal,” Price said as she rose from her chair. “And thanks for discussing this with me.”

  “Of course,” he said as he picked up his book again. “After all, a good supervisor always facilitates two-way communication on any business subject.”

  “Ouch! That sounded a little too much like a training video.”

  He regarded at her again over the rims of his glasses. “You’d be surprised at what I’ve done during my tenure in Washington.” He returned to his book, leaving the mission controller to exit the office and head out to the Annex.

  * * *

  “What the—damn it!”

  The exclamation, though not aimed at Barbara Price, greeted her as she walked in. Both Aaron Kurtzman and Akira Tokaido were at their computer stations, the former reviewing what looked like a criminal record from Interpol, the latter with earphones on and his back to the room, absorbed in what looked like examining—or maybe deconstructing—frames of a video file.

  She glanced at Kurtzman, who was studiously ignoring the younger hacker. “Do I want to ask?”

  “You could, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” he replied. “Seems he took that message about the 9:00 a.m. deadline as a challenge—but he’s having some kind of problem getting to the bottom of whatever he’s found with the drone footage.”

  Price arched an eyebrow. “And you haven’t asked him to fill you in yet?”

  He held up his hands. “I’ve worked with minds like his often enough to know that they’ll only reach out for assistance when they’ve exhausted all other avenues. Trying to reach them beforehand is pointless at best, as they will only reveal what they wish to reveal when they wish to reveal it, and counterproductive at worse, as you could derail their thought process at a critical juncture.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind...but the deadline still stands,” she said. “Please tell me you’ve got something more concrete.”

  “I do—the name and jacket of our mystery kidnapper.” Kurtzman enlarged the file he had been reviewing until it filled the screen.

  The mission controller leaned in to examine it. “Marie Dobrevi. French-Albanian, military background, National Gendarmerie, convicted of embezzlement in 2009, court-martialed and given a dishonorable discharge. Signed on with Academi—once known as Blackwater—in 2012, left under suspicion of murder ten months later. She had been with Lightstrike Covert Operations as of March 2016.”

  She looked down at Kurtzman. “A mercenary? The AFN is hiring mercenaries to carry out its operations?”

  “Not unless they’ve got a super-rich uncle bankrolling them,” he replied. “You can’t hire even a squad of people like this for less than fifty grand, and wetwork like those two officers starts at six figures and skyrockets from there. AFN barely has a pot to piss in and they aren’t even close to a window to throw it out of. No, someone else is funding these attacks against WN.”

  “But who?” Price was at a loss to come up with a plausible answer. “Obviously you’re looking into their files to find out who the buyer is, right?”

  “Yeah, I am, but tracing these sorts of transactions is never easy,” Kurtzman said. “People who hire armed ex-soldiers to remove their problems really really don’t like any trace of that splashing back on them. They use false companies, shell internet corporations, often diving into the dark web to set up the deal. I’ll find them. It’s just going to take some time, that’s all.”

  “Which is getting more and more finite.” The mission controller clenched her hand into a fist. “I feel like we’re running in circles.”

  “Maybe.” Kurtzman steepled his fingers. “Or maybe we’re being led down a particular road.”

  “But by whom?” she asked. “Another company wouldn’t be crazy enough to actually attack a competitor, right?”

  Kurtzman shook his head. “I’ve heard Aussies can get kinda nuts, but I seriously doubt they ever get that nuts.”

  “Okay, so is there any indigenous person who might have the resources to finance something like this?” Price asked.

/>   “Yes. From a pure funding standpoint, there’s a man from Victoria named Stan Dryden who apparently has the money to make something like this happen. But I can’t make him as the person behind these incidents—it just doesn’t wash, unless it turned out that he’s a closet radical and, let’s be honest, a sociopath to boot.”

  “Right. I’m trying to run through all of our options here.” She tapped a finger on the computer genius’s desk. “The only problem is that we seem to be running out of avenues.”

  “In situations like these, I’ve found that the words of one of the world’s greatest sleuths make for a good rule of thumb. ‘When you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”

  Now Price arched both eyebrows. “Really? You’ve taken to quoting Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Well, Arthur Conan Doyle, actually, a respected physician,” he replied.

  “And, as I recall, a man who spent much of his life trying to prove the existence of spirits and the supernatural,” Price retorted. “Regardless of his interesting hypothesis, we may have eliminated much of the impossible...but we don’t have any evidence of that improbable truth you claim will inexorably be the end result.”

  “Maybe we don’t...but I’ll bet he will.” Kurtzman jabbed a thumb at Tokaido, who was bobbing his head to whatever was playing over his headphones while he dissected another frame of the video. “While I might not know exactly what he’s onto, I know he’s onto something big.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Price said, “before Mack runs into something he might not be able to handle.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  At 8:05 a.m. the next morning, Bolan sat in Angus Martin’s office while the volatile redhead was in the process of blowing up over what had happened the night before.

  The mining mogul was wearing a light blue dress shirt with white French cuffs, making his hands look like they were sticking out of particularly animated bands of paper. He also had red-and-blue suspenders holding up his gray-flannel slacks. Despite the excellent cut and tailoring of his clothes, they already looked rumpled, as if he had been up for hours...or had slept in them for some reason.