“Cleaning crew,” Brandon said as he stepped up beside his partner. “Making sure their visitor didn’t leave any fingerprints behind.”
“Covering themselves,” Valens said. “They don’t miss a trick.”
“It’s nice to be tidy,” Blancanales said as he went from body to body, checking for vitals. But the four would-be shooters were all dead.
Schwarz joined him and they checked each man for ID and cell phones.
Lyons turned to Valens. “That was a fast move,” he said. “I owe you one.”
Valens shrugged. “They train us well.”
“He never thanks us when we save his ass,” Schwarz said.
“That’s true,” Blancanales said.
“Couple of phones,” Valens sighed when the two had finished their search. “No IDs and not much else. These guys travel light.”
Schwarz examined the phones. “Couple in Chinese.”
“We need to send the content home,” Lyons said. “Dukas will run the downloads and translate. If there’s anything of use, she’ll let us know.” Lyons gave Schwarz the nod to contact the Farm.
Schwarz had a detailed conversation with Kurtzman, explaining what they’d found and what they needed. In a matter of minutes he was able to transmit the data from the dead men’s phones to the cyber team at Stony Man.
As each cell was drained of its information, Lyons found himself once again impressed by the skill of Kurtzman’s cyber team. He saw the results they achieved, took the help they offered. It made no difference how many times he was privy to their technical skill—Lyons understood very little of the way they did it. He could operate a computer on a basic level, yet some of the things Kurtzman’s people achieved were beyond him.
Before they left, Lyons took pictures of the dead men and sent them through to the Farm.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Okay, we have it all,” Kurtzman said. “Looks like it’s mostly in Chinese, with a few pages of what appear to be phone numbers in English. I’ll send it to Erika. She’ll translate and get back to us. Heads up as soon as we have anything.”
He transferred the files over a secure connection. One of the high-tech printers was already sliding out printed sheets. By the time the downloads had been collated, there were more than twenty-five pages covered in Chinese characters. Among them were what looked like telephone numbers in English characters.
The pictures Lyons had sent along were being run through databases for facial recognition. Results came through quicker than expected.
The Caucasian from the apartment turned out to be Eddie Kessell. He had priors. Known associates were flagged and two were from Able Team’s earlier shootout at the house of the kidnappers. The main piece of information tied the men to a Jake Moretti, an ex-military man who had turned his hand to setting up a private security unit. His clients were a step away from being upright citizens and the least surprising connection was to Nan Cheng.
“It might be useful if we sent the details about Moretti’s crew through to Valens’s Detective Zeigler,” Brognola said when Kurtzman told him. “I’m sure the police should be able to pull it all together. Let them handle the evidence.”
* * *
ABLE TEAM RETURNED to Stony Man and joined the others around the table in the War Room. Brognola and Price were there, as well as Kurtzman. Price had activated the link so that Phoenix Force could listen in and comment. Phoenix Force was seated in Valens’s office, where she and Brandon had just made their way back.
Brognola was just wrapping up the call, saying, “That’s another reason to get you people on a plane and across to Switzerland. Barb will set you up as soon as we finish speaking.”
“We can leave here right away,” McCarter said.
As soon as the call was ended, Brognola turned to Able Team.
“Aaron has updates for you. So don’t get too comfortable. You’ll be heading out shortly.”
Blancanales leaned back in his chair. “Ain’t life grand?”
“The various phones, downloaded images and data have let us do some matching up,” Kurtzman said.
He passed his hand over the touch pad on the conference table and set up the sequence.
“From Chan down, we have Nan Cheng, aide to the colonel. Connected to Chan is Yang Zhou. This guy is a hard case. He has form as a strong-arm enforcer. Chan has previous history with Dr. Luc Melier.” Kurtzman couldn’t repress a smile. “It’s amazing what comes to the surface when you start raking the bottom of the pile. Have to thank various agencies for their assistance, albeit unknown. CIA, NSA, even the FBI. French and British secret services. It’s like some days I could just sit at home and let them hand me what I need.
“Internet trawling and bank accounts give up a lot of data. Who pays who. Cell phone records. We lucked out here and got a slew of calls from Jake Moretti. He runs the outfit the hired guns Able tangled with come from. I think we can safely say Moretti is the US side of Chan’s business. Hired to supply guys and guns to do the Chinese group’s down-and-dirty business. He made contact with Chan just after Able took down his guys. Only got a tail end but it looks like you spoiled his contract with Chan. He had to man up and admit he’d screwed the pooch to his paymaster. We didn’t tap into anything Chan said, but I don’t imagine he’d be all that happy.”
“Give them the last call,” Brognola said.
“This was from Moretti. Way it sounds, he was talking an upcoming mission these guys were supposed to be involved in. Hunt picked up a trace on the call and found it came from a location upstate. An old farm site that’s stood empty for a few years. When we dug a little deeper, guess who the Realtor was?”
“Kam Ho?” Blancanales ventured.
“None other. Chan’s Realtor buddy rented it out a few weeks ago. Before that, there hadn’t been a query for months.” Kurtzman swiped the documentation on screen. “All looks sound. Only, when you follow the trail back it doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Dummy deal?”
“All signed and sealed to keep everyone happy, but I’d be surprised if the new tenants have a cow to milk or a chicken to lay eggs.”
“What the hell does Chan want with a derelict farm?” Schwarz said.
“Stands on its own on an open tract of land,” Blancanales observed. “Lets people do what they want without being overlooked.”
“While they plan something,” Lyons said.
“Plan what?” Brognola said.
“That’s for them to know and us to find out,” Lyons said.
“Jack is waiting outside to fly you to the location,” Brognola said. “Wheels up in thirty.”
“Let’s go talk to Cowboy,” Lyons said, referring to John Kissinger, the Farm’s weaponsmith. “And load up for Bear.”
“I hate it when he talks all gung-ho,” Blancanales said as they left the War Room and headed for the Farm’s armory.
“Pol, he always talks like that. That guy must have gung-ho dreams. Or nightmares,” Schwarz added with a smirk.
Blancanales slapped his partner on the shoulder. “Nightmares for anyone else. Just dreams for Carl.”
It wasn’t long before Kissinger had the team fully outfitted.
Lyons carried his Colt Python .357 Magnum and a razor-sharp lock knife in a leather sheath on his belt. For Blancanales and Schwarz, it was a 9 mm Beretta 92FS model. The autopistol came with 15-round mags. They each had a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife clamped to their belt.
As they prepped to leave, they finalized their gear inspection. They were all clad in blacksuits and each man had a thin harness over the ballistic armor he wore. The harness carried extra magazines for their weapons. The duffels they carried held larger weapons.
Lyons had his Atchisson Assault shotgun—the AA-12. The combat weapon handled a combination of 12-gauge s
hells, delivering them from either an 8-load magazine or a 20/32-round drum. Gas operated with little recoil, it was a powerful piece of hardware that was easy to operate yet delivered a deadly rate of fire. A single pull of the trigger fired one shot, while holding back turned it into a full-auto burner.
Blancanales and Schwarz went for the more conventional 9 mm SMGs. This time around they were both equipped with Uzis. A veteran of many wars and agency uses, the Israeli subgun was still a reliable and accurate weapon in the right hands.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Able Team walked out of the Annex, they saw Jack Grimaldi waiting in the pilot seat of Dragon Slayer, Stony Man’s helicopter. He waited as they loaded their gear and settled in, taking off with a minimum of sound.
The powerful mat-black aircraft, equipped with an array of sophisticated equipment and fearsome ordnance, had been designed and built for the Farm with a great deal of input from Grimaldi himself.
State-of-the-art barely covered Dragon Slayer’s capabilities, one of which was an effective silent-mode system that reduced engine noise to a whisper. A feature that allowed Grimaldi to get his teams in close, often before anyone was the wiser.
By the time Able Team had double-checked their weapons, the ace pilot had put down less than a quarter mile from where they needed to be.
With the chopper on the ground, Grimaldi shut down. He flicked a switch that rendered the cockpit and side windows to a blackout condition. They could see out, but no one would be distracted by movement inside the helicopter.
“You sure you don’t want me to come along to hold your hands?” Grimaldi teased.
“Gee, Dad, there has to be a first time we do this on our own,” Blancanales said.
“Check your com sets?” Grimaldi said, grinning.
Each Able Team member wore a lightweight communications setup that allowed them contact with each other and Grimaldi. They went through quick checks.
“If you get the call,” Lyons said, “you come in fast. And you can shoot everyone who isn’t me, Pol or Gadgets.”
“I hope I can remember those instructions,” Grimaldi said. “Bit technical for a mere chopper jockey. Now get out of here.”
The side hatch opened with a soft hiss of hydraulics. Able Team slipped out and moved off, the hatch closing behind them. They moved through trees and grass as they approached their objective.
The day was cool, the air heavy with the scent of fir and brush, the light casting a brightness so startlingly clear it was not difficult to see their way. On the higher ground the air was clear and fresh, a contrast to the less pure stuff they breathed down in the city.
Able Team trekked to the target area, using the plentiful timber for cover.
“I could get to like this country life,” Blancanales said into his throat mike.
“Too quiet for me,” Schwarz said.
“Nowhere could ever be quiet with you two around,” Lyons growled.
“Remarks like that can hurt,” Schwarz said.
Lyons raised a clenched fist and they all stopped, crouching.
“Two o’clock,” Lyons warned. “By that single tree.”
“I see him,” Blancanales said.
The guy was armed with a subgun.
“For sure he isn’t out hunting varmints with that thing,” Schwarz said.
Lyons passed his Atchisson to Blancanales and slid his lock knife from its sheath. There was no need for him to issue orders or to explain what he was about to do.
While Schwarz kept his eyes on the lounging sentry, Blancanales followed Lyons as the Able Team leader made a circuitous route to where the man stood. Likely supposed to be watching the surrounding area, the guy had his back to them and was facing the low silhouette of the farmhouse.
Big as he was, Lyons moved smooth and silent, staying low until he was directly behind the sentry, who was totally unaware of his presence.
Blancanales saw the Able Team commander rise. One of his big hands reached around to grasp the guy’s hair and yank his head back, tautening the flesh of his throat to offer the open lock knife a clear area to cut.
Lyons’s right hand brought the ultra-sharp blade across the guy’s throat, cutting deep to sever flesh and sinew, slicing from left to right. Blancanales couldn’t see from his position but knew a rush of blood would burst from the deep gash and spill down the sentry’s front in a warm flood.
Lyons kept his hold on the guy’s hair as he jerked, his body shuddering in a resistant response to what was happening. His body weakened quickly and Lyons allowed him to sink to his knees and then fall face-forward on ground already spattered with his blood.
Lyons turned and snapped his hand to bring Schwarz and Blancanales to him quickly.
“Let’s hope the rest of these guys are as slack as this one,” Lyons said as Blancanales handed him his shotgun.
“We’re catching them at the right time,” Blancanales said. “Early morning. Low response time.”
“Unless they’re all non-sleepers,” Schwarz said.
“Let’s do this,” Lyons grumbled.
They came in close and paused to survey the area with a red-painted old barn between them and the house. They were able to see a couple of SUVs parked up near the front of the house. As the trio paused to take stock, the relatively peaceful scene was suddenly changed as the chatter of an SMG broke the silence. Slugs hit the wall of the barn they were passing, tearing ragged holes in the weathered timber.
“That’s an extreme welcome,” Blancanales said. “Somebody is nervous.”
“Maybe it’s the guns we’re holding,” Schwarz quipped.
“Could be.”
“Luckily he’s a guy who can only hit a barn door,” Schwarz said.
“Not the damn door I’m bothered about,” Blancanales muttered.
Lyons had spotted the shooter’s position. “South corner of the house.”
“I see him,” Blancanales said.
“And another one,” Schwarz said as a figure broke cover and ran for the protection of a rusting John Deere tractor. “That house could be full of them,” he added.
The man behind the tractor opened up, sending a long burst that ripped more wood from the barn wall. Wood chips dusted the air.
“Sooner or later,” Blancanales said, “they are going to get too close.”
“Only if we let them,” Lyons said. He checked the shotgun. “Give me some cover.”
Knowing better than to even question what he was about to do, Schwarz and Blancanales raised their SMGs and laid down hard fire on the two shooters. The second they opened fire, Lyons moved out from cover and ran in the direction of the tractor; when it was needed, Carl Lyons could move fast, and that was what he did now. As he closed in on the covered shooter, the guy angled his weapon around but was blocked by the metal frame of the machine.
It was what Lyons had been hoping for. With seconds to go, he took a rolling dive, hitting on his left shoulder and letting his forward momentum take him in close to the front of the tractor. He pushed the Atchisson in front, raising the muzzle, as the shooter leaned forward and triggered a burst.
Slugs hacked at the metal surrounding Lyons and slammed into the ground, kicking up dirt. He felt something tug at his sleeve, and that was as close as Lyons wanted it to be. His finger squeezed the shotgun’s trigger and the Atchisson boomed. The concentrated burst caught the shooter in the torso, enough of the shot getting through to open him up. The guy stepped back, the front of his jacket shredded and starting to glisten with blood. He gave a startled yell as the pain registered.
Lyons had pushed to his feet by this time, stepping around the tractor and coming face-to-face with the shooter, who still had the ability to lift his weapon. There was no hesitation in Lyons’s actions as he triggered his shotgun again. Up
close, the concentrated blast took the guy’s face off, leaving a shattered and bloody mask behind.
Seeing his partner go down made the shooter behind the house corner hesitate for a few seconds. Schwarz and Blancanales took the moment to push forward, splitting up as they powered in the direction of the house. By the time the shooter realized what was happening, the Able Team partners had gained the advantage and opened up, firing at the shooter’s position. Their combined autofire chewed at the timber frame, splitting the corner post and peppering the shooter with 9 mm slugs and a hail of shredded wood. The guy twisted away from cover, body riddled and torn, and walked into a burst from Blancanales’s subgun. He dropped to the ground, body shivering in a final spasm.
“Cover the rear,” Lyons said as he appeared, waving a hand at Schwarz.
Schwarz nodded and ran along the side wall toward the rear of the house.
With Blancanales at his heels, Lyons hit the front porch steps, booting the front door open and moving aside so Blancanales could rake the interior hall with a burst. As the salvo ended, Lyons went in through the door, his SMG tracking ahead.
* * *
SCHWARZ REACHED THE house’s rear corner. He picked up the approaching thud of boots from inside the back door. The Able Team member saw the rear door crash open and an armed figure burst out onto the porch. The guy spotted Schwarz as he emerged and brought his SMG up from waist level, face contorting in a twist of anger. Schwarz dropped to a low profile as he centered his already raised weapon. He fired a second later, the stream of 9 mm slugs hitting the guy above his waist. The man slipped sideways, hitting the door frame as he crumpled to his knees, letting go of his weapon as he clutched his middle.
A burst of autofire from behind the guy sent slugs over Schwarz’s head. He made out the shadowy form of a second shooter moving forward. As the guy, unable to halt his forward progress, stepped into the light, Schwarz fired again, angling his trajectory over the head of the man on his knees. The burst slammed into the target’s throat and face, tearing at flesh and bone alike. The wounded shooter fell back over the exit, and Schwarz had to step across his body as he moved into the kitchen.
Death Minus Zero Page 11
