by Stephen Frey
As he climbed the stairs, Sterling glanced directly at one of the young women kneeling to the left of Gadanz. They were all pretty, but Sterling found her more beautiful than the others. There was a longing for shelter in her sad eyes, and he found it compelling.
“I trust your trip into the jungle was uneventful,” Gadanz said between puffs on the cigar. “A long way to come, but I’m confident you’ll be glad you did.”
“No worries, mate,” Sterling answered in his thick Aussie accent.
Gadanz chuckled. “How appropriate.”
“Excuse me?”
The fat man waved the cigar in the air, leaving a smoke trail between them. “I’d forgotten you were Australian, Liam.”
That didn’t explain anything.
“You’re here tonight to discuss high crime,” Gadanz continued, “and you’re from Australia. If I’m remembering my history correctly, Australia is a nation with its past rooted deeply in crime. I believe England sent her worst criminals to Australia in the late eighteenth century to purge herself. Therein lies the explanation to my insightful observation concerning the appropriateness of our meeting.”
“Right, well—”
“If those poor Aborigines had only known what was coming.”
Sterling kept his mouth shut. The fat man was on a roll. When he was ready, he’d get to the matter at hand.
“Do you approve of the subjects decorating my throne?” Gadanz asked, gesturing grandly around him with the hand clasping the cigar.
Sterling grinned self-consciously.
“I take it from your reaction you do.”
Sterling and the young woman to his left traded glances again, and this time she smiled back. “Of course, mate.”
“Perfect, Liam, just perfect. Now let’s—” Gadanz shut his eyes tightly, leaned forward, put a hand to his forehead, and groaned.
“You all right, Daniel?”
“I’m fine,” Gadanz hissed, straightening back up in the chair. “Come close, Liam,” he gasped, still wincing from the sharp pain that had torn through his skull. “Lean near to me. I don’t want my subjects hearing this.”
When Gadanz finished whispering in his ear, Sterling stepped back and stared down intensely. This would be the mother of all missions. Now he understood why the drug lord was offering him such an immense amount of money to execute this mission.
“I want revenge,” Gadanz said. “And I want it very badly.”
“Obviously.”
“My brother Jacob was a good man,” Gadanz continued, “and he was murdered. His death was not an accident, as the U.S. authorities claim. They murdered him while he was in custody last December, and they must pay. I want their families to feel the same loss I feel. I want the entire country to feel it.”
While Sterling could accept that Gadanz was motivated by revenge, he believed there were other factors involved as well. When the mission succeeded, chaos would reign. And chaos in the United States would only make Daniel Gadanz wealthier. Gadanz was a passionate man, and he’d loved his brother dearly. But Gadanz rarely did anything without a profit motive somehow involved.
“Given the list you just reeled off, I think everyone will—”
“I want to add three more targets to that list.”
Sterling glanced at the young woman again. A few moments ago Gadanz hadn’t wanted the four women to hear anything. Now he was going to mention specific targets aloud?
“Daniel, I don’t think we should—”
“I’ve come to understand,” Gadanz interrupted, “that the United States operates an intelligence unit, code named Red Cell Seven.”
Sterling had been about to divert the conversation again, before anything crucial was said, so the women would stay clear of danger. But the mention of the cell distracted him. “Red Cell Seven doesn’t exist. I’ve heard rumors of it for twenty years, for as long as I’ve been in this line of work. But it’s just a good spook story.”
“Wrong, Liam. Despite its limited number of agents, it is by far the most elite and effective intelligence entity operated by any country anywhere in the world. It is the unit that last December was responsible for stopping my kill-team attacks on America’s civilian population. It is the unit that flushed me out of my Florida base and from which I escaped at the last possible second. And it is the unit that murdered my brother Jacob.”
This was a fascinating development. Gadanz rarely moved on rumors. The drug lord checked facts carefully. He was meticulous about it. “How do you know?”
“I have a source who has described the cell and its operations to me in such detail that I cannot question the veracity of the information. In the end, everyone has a price for information. Fortunately, I can pay any price. So I can get any information. Just like you have a price for taking on this mission, this person has a price for giving up information.” Gadanz puffed on the cigar as he stared at Sterling. “What makes Red Cell Seven so effective is precisely what makes it impossible for most people to find. It operates autonomously, Liam. It has no formal reporting responsibilities to anyone inside the U.S. government. Not DOD, not any of the intel groups, not Congress—technically, not even the president. Equally important, it is funded completely by private interests. There are no official money trails.”
“It’s hard for me to believe that U.S. officials would allow that kind of cell to exist,” Sterling countered. He still wasn’t convinced that Gadanz had the truth about this. “They’re too concerned with doing the right thing, with political correctness, even if it weakens their country.” He hesitated. “Who is your source?”
“You know better than to ask that,” Gadanz replied sternly.
Sterling shrugged. He hadn’t really expected an answer, but it had been worth a try.
Gadanz tapped another ash over the side of his chair. “In addition to the other targets I mentioned, I want you to kill the man who runs Red Cell Seven. His name is Bill Jensen.”
Sterling’s gaze raced to the young woman, who was staring back at him this time. She had no idea of the danger she was now in because Gadanz had mentioned a specific target.
“For many years Bill Jensen ran a powerful Wall Street firm,” Gadanz continued, “but he led a double life. He ran money for Red Cell Seven at the same time. He raised it in the private sector from wealthy patriots. Now he runs everything. He is the leader of Red Cell Seven.” Gadanz took a deep breath as he gazed at the burning ember on the far end of his cigar. “He’s been in hiding for the last nine months because he fears that elements loyal to the president are trying to kill him.” He chuckled. “So, ironically, in this case my interests and President Dorn’s interests are aligned.”
“Why would elements loyal to President Dorn want to kill Bill Jensen?”
“Because they believe that Jensen and others in Red Cell Seven are trying to assassinate Dorn. It’s a kill-or-be-killed situation.”
“Why?”
“President Dorn does not appreciate the cell’s ability to operate autonomously and with total immunity. He detests Red Cell Seven and its tactics.”
“But you just said Red Cell Seven was responsible for stopping your kill-team attacks in the United States last December and for almost catching you. Wouldn’t President Dorn be their biggest advocate? He’s riding a huge wave of popularity because those attacks were derailed so quickly.”
“President Dorn believes that Red Cell Seven was responsible for the attempt on his life last fall. That, of course, trumps any fondness he may have for them stopping my Holiday Mall Attacks.”
The assassination attempt on Dorn had exploded a year ago on an outdoor stage in Los Angeles. Dorn had barely survived after his then–chief of staff had thrown himself in the bullet’s path at the last second and slightly deflected it, Sterling recalled. The bullet had still penetrated Dorn’s chest, but it hadn’t shattered his heart, as it would have without
the redirection.
“Why would Red Cell Seven want to kill President Dorn?” Sterling asked.
“As I mentioned before, Dorn detests them. He’s trying to destroy them. He’s trying to eradicate what legally allows them to exist. He hates that they operate without his direction or knowledge. They know this. So they’re trying to kill him first.”
“Maybe Bill Jensen isn’t in hiding,” Sterling said. “Maybe he’s dead. Maybe those elements loyal to Dorn already got him.”
“According to my source, Jensen is a resourceful man, and he anticipated the danger. So he went underground.” Gadanz gestured at Sterling. “Jensen has two sons, Jack and Troy. I want them dead, too.”
“Why?”
“Troy is a Red Cell Seven agent. If you kill his father, he’ll stop at nothing to kill you and me when he finds out I am behind everything, which he most certainly would.”
“Is the other one Red Cell Seven, too?”
“No. Jack’s a bond trader.”
Sterling sneered. “Those Wall Street guys like to think they’re tough, but—”
“Don’t underestimate this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last fall Jack saved Troy’s life in Alaska.”
“Why did Troy need to be saved?”
“He’d uncovered the plot to assassinate President Dorn by a senior Red Cell Seven agent named Shane Maddux.”
Sterling’s eyes flashed toward Gadanz. He knew that name. Everyone who was anyone in the spook world did. “Shane Maddux is Red Cell Seven?”
“Apparently.”
“Is he your source?”
“Of course not. Maddux would never give away information about Red Cell Seven. He lives for it.” Gadanz pointed the cigar at Sterling. “If you ask me that question again, Liam, I’ll have you executed immediately.”
Sterling glanced back at the doorway. “Easy, Daniel.” He couldn’t tell if Gadanz was kidding.
“As a matter of fact, if you come across Shane Maddux during this mission, kill him, too. As I understand it, he was one of the men directly responsible for finding and overrunning my compound in Florida last December.” A sad expression clouded Gadanz’s face. “I so liked that compound.”
Sterling glanced at the young woman again. She was definitely smiling back this time. That quickly they’d made a wonderful connection. That quickly he wanted to be her knight in shining armor.
“So, Mr. Sterling, are you going to help me?”
There was only one answer, even if Sterling had no intention of being involved. If he were to decline now, Gadanz would never let him leave the compound alive. If he declined later, he’d be on the run for the rest of his life.
But he could deal with that. Last he’d heard there were three bona fide contracts out on his life, all sponsored by very serious people. But they hadn’t found him yet, and neither would Daniel Gadanz. There was always another disguise to invent.
“Of course,” Sterling answered, aware that his voice was trembling slightly. He couldn’t help it. Gadanz had just offered him three hundred million dollars, if he was doing the math correctly. He was saying yes because he meant it, not because he was trying to escape. “I’m all in.”
Gadanz clenched the cigar with his teeth and clapped twice.
The four women stood up. Two of them—including the one Sterling found so lovely—took him by the hands and led him down the stairs to a far corner of the room, where they guided him to the wall until his back was against it.
“My God,” Sterling whispered as the four young women undressed him and then began to kiss every inch of his naked body. “I should dream more often.” The girl he’d traded glances with began to kneel down in front of him, but he caught her gently by one arm. “Stay here with me,” he murmured. “Let the others do that.” He loved the way she was gazing deeply into his eyes. He loved that beautiful, high-cheekboned smile of hers. “Kiss me.”
GADANZ WATCHED the women undress Sterling exactly as he’d ordered them to. He watched them kiss Sterling’s unremarkable body up and down, watched them do all the things he desperately wanted them to do to him. And as he looked on breathlessly, he could feel that anticipation building in every fiber of his being—except the fibers that mattered most.
He was hungry for sex. For years he’d been hungry for it. But since that steamy July night in Colombia three years ago, he’d been unable to perform. It had been horribly embarrassing the next morning when he’d tried to have sex with them again. Out of nowhere nothing had happened, and the two women had giggled at his failure.
They’d wished they hadn’t. He’d had both of them summarily executed, but it hadn’t eased his frustration. Since that morning, he’d been impotent.
Despite the lewd act playing out in front of him, nothing physical was happening. His mind was on fire thanks to the images. But his body was unplugged.
When Sterling cried out loudly with pleasure, Gadanz clenched his teeth so hard one of them chipped, and his mouth was suddenly on fire. Worse, the migraine was intensifying despite the pills he’d popped into his mouth a few moments ago and washed down with a waterfall of scotch from the silver flask he always kept in his robe pocket.
He swallowed the piece of tooth with another belt from the flask, then, with a massive effort, pulled himself out of the large chair and stalked heavily down the stairs. The pain in his mouth and the skull-splitting headache were driving him mad.
Gadanz pushed through the curtains and into the hallway, then headed toward a room where he knew he would achieve gratification and pleasure—not sexual, but a close second.
The old man stood in a corner of the cold dank room, sobbing uncontrollably when he wasn’t shivering. His wrists were secured tightly behind his back, and there was a noose hanging loosely around his neck.
“Shut up,” Gadanz hissed at the old man as he brushed past the lone guard at the door. “Have dignity in your final moments.”
Gadanz moved to a wall and a crank that was attached to a rope leading to the noose around the old man’s neck. The old man didn’t know it, but his granddaughter was one of the young women in the other room pleasing Sterling.
“Are you ready to die?” Gadanz called out as another, lesser bolt of pain seared through his forehead. At some point he was going to find that amateur psychologist who’d told him he could solve his impotence by watching sex acts, and hang that man, too. Then he was going to find the other three doctors who couldn’t cure the migraines and kill them as well. “Well?”
“Please don’t do this,” the old man begged in Spanish.
“I am doing it. Stop begging. Begging will do you no good.”
“What have I done wrong?”
For a moment Gadanz almost felt compassion. The victim had done nothing wrong. He was simply a convenience, a man in the wrong place at the wrong time, the first one the guards had come upon in the village down the mountain earlier this evening.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Gadanz answered as he began slowly turning the crank, any tiny drop of sympathy he’d felt for the old man evaporating. “It’s just your time.”
“No, no, please don’t—” The old man gasped as the noose pulled his chin up and back and then lifted his toes off the wet cement floor.
Gadanz’s breath went short while the old man fought death. Despite his advanced age, he struggled mightily, legs flailing as if he were sprinting through the jungle being chased by a jaguar, Gadanz mused.
It fascinated Gadanz to watch people die. The moment of ultimate desperation was so compelling, and he moved closer as the man twisted and turned in agony so he could see the despair up close. He stared into the old panic-stricken brown eyes from a foot away as the gasps finally eased, the legs dangled straight down, and all went quiet. What had that man seen in those last few moments? Was death as liberating as it seemed to be
from this side of the equation? Gadanz wanted to know so badly. Perhaps suicide wouldn’t be so painful after all.
Another shot of antipleasure knifed through his forehead and down into one eye. When he could see again, Gadanz whipped around toward the guard who was standing ten feet away at the door. “Give me your weapon!” he shouted, pointing wildly at the submachine gun the man was wielding.
“Sir?”
“Give me the goddamn gun,” Gadanz demanded as he strode toward the guard purposefully. He hated that the man had hesitated to obey his order, even for a moment. It never occurred to him that the guard was terrified of his leader committing suicide, and that he was trying to protect, not defy. “Give it to me!”
Gadanz grabbed the weapon away from the wide-eyed man, and for several seconds they stared at each other from close range. Then Gadanz lifted the weapon and fired.
The guard tumbled backward, dead before his body hit the floor, shredded by fifteen bullets.
Gadanz stared down at the corpse grimly. He hadn’t really enjoyed that. It had been over too fast.
He tossed the gun down and began to stalk from the dimly lit room. But before he reached the doorway another bolt seared through his head, and then, for the first time, down into the rest of his body.
He dropped to his knees beside the guard’s corpse. “Why won’t it stop?!” he screamed as he grabbed his long, dark hair and pulled as hard as he could. “Why won’t it fucking stop?”
AFTER EASING the F-22 Raptor down smoothly on the long runway of Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson outside Anchorage, Alaska, Commander McCoy hopped down the last step of the ladder leading from the cockpit to the ground, knelt to the tarmac, and kissed the asphalt. Home again.
Well, almost.
She rose up and began jogging toward the waiting jeep. The jog quickly turned into an all-out sprint. Kodiak Island was so close.
CHAPTER 6
JACK AND Troy stood side by side on the sprawling porch at the back of the Jensen mansion. Constructed on several hundred picturesque acres of rolling fields and forest outside Greenwich, Connecticut, the mansion was the centerpiece of an impressive compound in the middle of an impressive property. Bill Jensen owned other houses around the world, but this was home.
