Dragon dp-10

by Clive Cussler

  “Say again,” Sandecker mumbled in mock distraction.

  “What does the great eagle have in store for us next? A nice week’s vacation, I hope.”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Probably not, but you’re going to tell me, right?”

  Sandecker yawned to prolong the agony. “Well, I’m afraid you two are off on another airplane ride again.”

  “Where?”

  “The Pacific.”

  “Where exactly in the Pacific?”

  “Palau. The team, or what’s left of it, is to assemble at the Information Gathering and Collection Point for new instructions from the Director of Field Operations.”

  “Without the bureaucratic title crap, what you’re saying is we’re meeting with Mel Penner.”

  Sandecker smiled, and his eyes softened considerably. “You have a deft manner of slicing to the gut of the matter.”

  Pitt was wary. He could see the axe was about to fall. “When?” he asked quickly.

  “In precisely one hour and fifty minutes. You’re taking a commercial airline out of Dulles.”

  “A pity we didn’t land there,” Pitt said sourly, “and saved you the drive.”

  “Security reasons. Kern thought it best if you arrive at the terminal by car, pick up the tickets, and board like any other tourists flying to the South Seas.”

  “We could use a change of clothes.”

  “Kern sent a man to pack clean things in suitcases. They’ve already been checked through.”

  “Very thoughtful of him. I must remind myself to change my security alarms when I return—”

  Pitt broke off and studied the reflection in his rearview mirror. The same pair of headlights had been on the Jeep’s tail since they swung onto the beltway. For the last several kilometers they had maintained an exact distance. He punched off the cruise control and increased speed slightly. The lights dropped back and moved forward again.

  “Something wrong?” asked Sandecker.

  “We’ve picked up a tail.”

  Giordino turned and peered through the big rear window. “More than one. I make out three vans in a convoy.”

  Pitt stared thoughtfully into the mirror. The beginning of a grin drew across his face. “Whoever is after us isn’t taking any chances. They’ve sent a full platoon.”

  Sandecker snatched a car phone and dialed the MAIT team safe line. “This is Admiral Sandecker!” he snapped, ignoring any attempt at procedural codes. “I’m on the Capital Beltway heading south near Morningside. We are being followed—”

  “Make that pursued,” Pitt interrupted him. “They’re closing fast.”

  Suddenly a burst of gunfire tore through the roof of the Jeep just above their heads. “Correction,” Giordino said in utter calm. “Change pursued to attacked.”

  Sandecker slouched down on the floor and spoke rapidly into the car phone’s mouthpiece, giving location and instructions. Pitt had already slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The high torque of the big 5.9-liter V-8 kicked in, and the Jeep swiftly leaped down the beltway at 150 kph.

  “The agent on duty is sending out a call for the highway patrol,” announced Sandecker.

  “Tell them to put on some speed,” Pitt urged, whipping the big Jeep back and forth across the three lanes of highway to throw off their pursuers’ aim.

  “They’re not playing fair,” Giordino said contritely. He dropped down on the floor between the seats as another burst sprayed the rear window’s glass over him, passed through the car, and took out half the windshield. “They’ve got guns, and we don’t.”

  “I think I can fix that.” Pitt spared him a quick glance down and back.

  “How?”

  “By getting off this damn highway, where we make a perfect target, and taking every bend in the next road I can find until we hit a town.”

  “The turnoff for Phelps Point is coming up,” advised Sandecker, peeping over the dashboard.

  Pitt stole a quick look in the rearview mirror. He could see now that the vans were painted in the color scheme of ambulances. Even as he observed them, their red and blue flashing lights blinked. Their sirens remained mute, however, as the drivers pulled abreast of each other, covering the entire southbound lanes of the beltway to increase their firepower.

  Pitt could make out men clad in black aiming automatic weapons out the side windows. Whoever planned the assassination had covered every base. There must have been four men to a van. Twelve who were armed to the teeth against three who probably had only one Swiss Army knife between them.

  Pitt had an idea for evening the odds a bit. The off-ramp to Phelps Point was still two hundred meters ahead. No time. The next barrage of massed fire would blow them off the road. Without touching the brakes and warning the pursuing killers of his intention by flashing red taillights, he abruptly threw the Jeep into a crabwise slide and shot across two lanes and down an embankment.

  The timing was perfect. A hail of gunfire missed the big Grand Wagoneer as it swept over the landscaped grass and surfed through a shallow ditch filled with half a meter of water. Then all tires bounced free of the ground as it soared over the other edge of the ditch, landing with a screeching of rubber on a frontage road that paralleled the beltway.

  The pursuers lost time as they skidded to a stop in confusion. Pitt gained almost ten seconds before they regrouped and roared down the off-ramp onto the frontage road and resumed the chase.

  For the second time in nearly as many days, Pitt was driving as if he was competing in a Grand Prix road race. Professional drivers, though, had an advantage. They wore helmets with visors against the wind resistance. The cold morning air washed over Pitt’s face through the bullet-shattered windshield, and he was forced to turn his head sideways and squint against the icy gust.

  They tore onto a long avenue flanked by oak trees before bursting into a residential area. He threw the Jeep into a series of sharp turns, left on one block of houses, left again, and then to the right. The drivers of the vans were well versed in the routine. They split up and attempted to cut him off at the intersections, but he always managed to get there ahead and dash past with scant seconds to spare.

  The killers held their fire amid the populated homes, relentlessly closing the net and cutting off avenues of escape. When Pitt was able to make a turn before they came in sight from the previous block, he turned out his lights and sped through the darkness. Unfortunately, the streetlights gave him away. He tried every trick he knew, gaining a few meters here, a few seconds there, but he could not entirely shake the stubborn killers.

  Pitt circled back and threw the Jeep onto the main avenue into the town. A gas station, a theater, and several small shops flicked past. “Watch for a hardware store,” he shouted above the scream of the protesting tires.

  “A what?” asked Sandecker incredulously.

  “A hardware store. There’s got to be one in town.”

  “Oscar Brown’s Hardware Emporium,” announced Giordino. “I saw it on a sign right after we sailed off the beltway.”

  “Whatever you’ve got in mind,” said the admiral steadily, “you better manage it quick. The red light on the gas gauge just flashed on.”

  Pitt glanced at the dash instruments. The needle was pegged on “empty.” “They must have stitched the fuel tank.”

  “Oscar’s Emporium is coming up on the right side of the street,” said Giordino, motioning through the open windshield.

  “You have a flashlight?” Pitt snapped to Sandecker.

  “There’s one in the glove compartment.”

  “Get it out.”

  Pitt took one final look in the mirror. The first van was sliding around a corner two blocks back. He steered the Jeep into the gutter on the left side of the street, and then cramped the wheel to the right.

  Sandecker stiffened in shock.

  Giordino croaked, “Oh, no!”

  The Jeep spun sideways for an instant, then the four drive wheels dug in and it raced ov
er the curb, across the sidewalk, and crashed through a huge plate-glass window into the hardware store. The Jeep bashed through the front counters, sending cash registers spinning into the darkness. An end display, a cluster of garden rakes on sale, burst up like toothpicks. The car careened down an aisle between shelves hurling plumbing fixtures and nuts, bolts, and screws in the air like grape and canister out of a cannon.

  Insanely, it seemed to Giordino and Sandecker, Pitt didn’t stop. He kept his foot pressed on the accelerator, traveling up and down the aisles as though he was searching for something, leaving total destruction in his wake. The tumult as the Jeep ran wild was enhanced by the sudden whoop of the security alarm.

  At last Pitt shoved the front bumper into a display case, resulting in a great spray of jagged glass. The one remaining headlight flickered dimly on twenty or thirty handguns scattered about the shattered case and stacked rows of rifles and shotguns in a large cabinet against the wall.

  “You sneaky bastard,” Sandecker uttered in awe.

  40

  “CHOOSE YOUR WEAPONS,” Pitt shouted over the banshee cry of the alarm as he kicked open the door.

  Sandecker needed no urging. He was out of the Jeep and ransacking the cabinet for ammunition while clutching the flashlight under his arm. “What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?” he yelled out.

  Pitt snatched a pair of Colt Combat Commander automatic pistols, one with blue finish, the other in stainless steel. He ejected the clips. “Forty-five automatic!”

  Sandecker fumbled through the boxes in the cabinet for only a few seconds before he spotted the right caliber. He tossed two boxes to Pitt. “Winchester Silver Tips.” Then he turned to Giordino. “What do you need, Al?”

  Giordino had pulled three Remington-1100 shotguns off the rack. “Twelve gauge, double-aught load.”

  “Sorry,” Sandecker snapped back. He handed Giordino several boxes of shotgun casings. “Number-four magnum buckshot is the best I can do on short notice.” Then he crouched low and dashed over to the paint department.

  “Hurry and douse your light,” Pitt warned him, smashing the remaining headlight with the butt of one Colt.

  The vans had slammed to a stop up the block and out of sight of the men inside the store. The assassins flowed from the vehicles in their black ninja suits swiftly and smoothly. They did not rush toward the hardware store, but paused, taking their time.

  Their rehearsed tactical operation to riddle the Jeep and its occupants to shreds had been fouled by Pitt’s unexpected dive from the beltway into Phelps Point. Now they were forced to formulate a new tactical operation on the spot. Coolly, they sized up the situation.

  Overconfidence clouded their judgment. Because they had experienced no return fire from the three men in the fleeing four-wheel-drive, and were certain their intended victims were unarmed, they were overanxious to rush through the storefront and finish the job.

  Their team leader was wise enough to gesture for caution. He stood in a doorway across the street and peered into the darkness inside the wrecked hardware store. He could see nothing beyond the debris as evidenced by the glow from a solitary streetlight. The Jeep was lost in the shadows. Nor could he hear sounds from the interior over the annoying wail from the alarm.

  His analysis of the situation was rushed as lights blinked on in apartments above several of the stores. He could not afford to attract a crowd of witnesses. Then there was the local law enforcement agency. He could expect the sheriff and his deputies to charge on the scene within minutes.

  Then he allowed a misjudgment to guide him into a fatal error. He wrongly assumed the men in the Jeep were badly injured in the crash or cowering in fear, and he failed to send a team of his men around to seal off the rear of the store.

  He allowed three minutes to rush the Jeep, finish off his prey, and retreat in the vans. The kill should be quick and easy, he thought. As a precaution he shot out the streetlight, plunging the street into blackness and preventing his men from being outlined when they made the assault. He held a whistle to his lips and gave the signal to prepare weapons and insure that the selector switches were off “safe” on their 5.56-millimeter, 51-round Sawa automatic rifles. Then he blew three short chirps, and they began to move in.

  They glided swiftly through the gloom, like water moccasins in a Georgia bayou, slipping through the shattered display window in pairs and quickly fading into the shadows. The first six men to enter froze in position, muzzles extended and sweeping back and forth, their eyes straining to pierce the blackness.

  Then suddenly a five-gallon can of paint thinner with a burning cloth wick in its spout sailed between them and fell on the sidewalk, exploding in a maelstrom of blue and orange flame. In unison, Pitt and Giordino opened up as Sandecker hurled another can of the volatile fluid.

  Pitt worked the Colts in both hands, pointing but not taking careful aim. He laid down a barrage that dropped the three men who were crouched to the right of the window almost before they realized they’d been hit. One of them had time to let off a short burst that smashed into a row of paint cans, leaving colored spurts of enamel gushing onto the shambles of merchandise broken and trashed on the floor.

  Giordino blew the first man on the left back through the window and half into the street. The other two were only shadows in the darkness, but he blasted away at them until one Remington went empty. Then he dropped it and picked up another he’d preloaded and fired again and again until all return fire had ceased.

  Pitt reloaded his cartridge clips by feel as he stared through the flame and smoke that swirled around the front of the store. The killers in the black ninja outfits had vanished completely, frantically seeking cover or lying in the gutter behind the thankful protection of a high curb. But they hadn’t run away. They were still out there, still as dangerous as ever. Pitt knew they were stunned but mad as hornets now.

  They would regroup and come again, but more shrewdly, more cautiously. And next time they could see—the interior of the hardware store was brightly illuminated by the flames that had attacked the wooden storefront. The entire building and the men in it were only minutes away from becoming ashes.

  “Admiral?” Pitt shouted.

  “Over here,” answered Sandecker. “In the paint department.”

  “We’ve overstayed our visit. Can you find a back door while Al and I hold the fort?”

  “On my way.”

  “You okay, pal?”

  Giordino waved a Remington. “No new holes.”

  “Time to go. We still have a plane to catch.”

  “I hear you.”

  Pitt took a final look at the huddled corpses of strangers he had killed. He reached down and pulled off the hood from one of the dead. Under the light of the flames he could see a face with Asian features. A rage began to seethe within him. The name Hideki Suma flooded his mind. A man he’d never met, had no idea of what he looked like. But the thought that Suma represented slime and evil was enough to prevent Pitt from feeling any remorse for the men he’d killed. There was a calculated determination in him that the man responsible for the death and chaos must also die.

  “Through the lumber section,” Sandecker suddenly shouted. “There’s a door leading to the loading dock.”

  Pitt grabbed Giordino by the arm and pushed his friend ahead of him. “You first. I’ll cover.”

  Clutching one of the Remingtons, Giordino slipped between the shelves and was gone. Pitt turned and opened up one last time with the Colts, squeezing the triggers so hard and fast they fired off like machine guns. And then the automatics were empty, dead in his hands. He quickly decided to keep them and pay later. He stuffed them in his belt and ran for the door.

  He almost made it.

  The team leader of the assassins, more cautious than ever after losing six men, threw a pair of stun grenades in the now blazing store, followed by a sleet of gunfire that sent lead splattering all around Pitt.

  Then the grenades went off in a crushing detonation that to
re the ravaged heart out of what was left of Oscar Brown’s Hardware Emporium. The shock waves brought down the roof in a shower of sparks as the thunderous roar rattled every window in Phelps Point before rumbling out into the countryside. All that remained was a fiery caldron in the shell left by the still-standing brick walls.

  The blast caught Pitt from behind and flung him through the rear door, over the loading dock, and into an alley behind the store. He landed on his back, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He was lying there gasping, trying to regain his breath, when Giordino and Sandecker hoisted him to his feet and helped him stagger through the backyard of an adjoining house into the temporary safety of a park bandstand across the next street.

  The security alarm had gone dead when the electrical wires burned, and now they could hear sirens approaching as the sheriff and the volunteer fire department raced toward the flames.

  Giordino had a talent for getting in the last word, and he rose to the occasion as the three of them lay there under the roof of the bandstand, exhausted, bruised, and just plain thankful to be alive.

  “Do you suppose,” he wondered dryly, staring absently at the fire lighting the dawn sky, “it was something we said?”

  41

  IT WAS A Saturday night and the strip in Las Vegas was alive with cars crawling along the boulevard, their paint gleaming under the brilliant lighting effects. Like elegant old hookers blossoming after dark under expensive, sparkling jewelry, the aging hotels along Las Vegas Boulevard hid their dull exteriors and brutally austere architecture behind an electrical aurora borealis of blazing light that advertised more flash for the cash.

  Somewhere along the line the style and sophistication had been lost. The exotic glitter and brothel-copied decor inside the casinos seemed as dull and indifferent as the croupiers at the gambling tables. Even the customers, women and men who once dressed fashionably to attend dinner-show spectaculars, now arrived in shorts, shirt-sleeves, and polyester pantsuits.

  Stacy leaned her head back against the seat of the Avanti convertible and gazed up at the big marquees that promoted the hotel shows. Her blond hair streamed in the breeze blowing off the desert, and her eyes glinted beneath the onslaught of flashing lights. She wished she could have relaxed and enjoyed the stay as a tourist, but it was strictly business as she and Weatherhill acted out their instructed role of affluent honeymooners.