Deadly Salvage

by Don Pendleton

  Grimes’s brow furrowed, as if he didn’t think hitting the Feds at this juncture was such a good idea. Everett reconsidered the decision. Tipping their hand this early could bring more heat from Washington, and if things went wrong, more agents would be flying down here, perhaps upsetting his timeline. But Everett decided it would work, and this weasel’s critical expression bothered him. “You got something you want to say about that?”

  “No, sir,” Grimes said.

  “I didn’t think so.” Everett thought about how much he’d like to get Grimes in the ring and beat the shit out of him, just on general principle. He put it on his list of things to do, and smiled. “As I said before, this little mishap will be something for the French and the Dutch to deal with. Why do you think I arranged for Boudrous to come back from Haiti? He’s the perfect fall guy for any disasters that might beset some American agents. A good chess player is always thinking at least two moves ahead.” Everett smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Regardless, this weak sister we have in the White House now won’t dare do anything until he rehashes all his options. Hell, it might even be beneficial to our big plan. Sow the seeds of public outrage and discontent over the tragic deaths of some more Americans. Get people fired up. Then, when the big bang goes off, the President won’t have any choice but to act.” He let his voice trail off as he looked wistfully at the horizon. “It’ll be a new dawn for the United States of America.”

  “It sure will, boss.”

  Everett frowned again. Grimes’s ass-kissing sickened him. The weasel was obviously trying to sound convincing, but he was still a little weasel. But they’d been on a one-way track ever since they’d found that Russian sub, and Everett knew he had to finish the game with the players he had. No substitutions, no turning back.

  Zelenkov’s heavy, muscular frame sounded like a jackhammer as he ran up the metal stairs to the catwalk. At the top, he whipped a salute at Everett, who returned it. The guy wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “You have someone back on the island who can lead an ambush assault on some Americans with a group of Boudrous’s men?” Everett asked. “In a hurry?”

  Zelenkov thought for a moment and then nodded. His gray eyes didn’t show emotion. He tilted his head back and the blue-and-black tattoos on his neck seemed to roll upward as the thick muscles shifted. “I do have such a man,” he said, taking out his cell phone.

  “Good,” Everett said. “They’ll be on the mountain plateau in about twenty minutes. Three Americans, with an island policeman. Make it look like the work of a band of thugs.”

  Zelenkov nodded as he spoke in Russian into his cell. “I will need a few more details,” he added to Everett in English.

  Everett turned to Grimes and motioned with his head. “Get with him on this. Make sure it’s hard and clean.”

  “Will do, boss.” His smile looked forced. “We’ll take care of it.”

  They’d better, Everett thought. I don’t have time for fuck-ups or fools.

  Chapter 4

  Bolan and Grimaldi leaned against the three-foot-high cement wall that overlooked the lush vegetation of the valley below. Beyond the trees, they could see the coastline and ocean. The plateau was the perfect place to snap some pictures of the gorgeous island scenery. As the road wound along the next bend, the view would expand to include the ramshackle village that preceded the strip of luxury hotels. This lookout appeared to have been bulldozed flat as the road was cut through the mountains. At one time, perhaps, it had been a peak of some sort. Now it was forty yards of blacktop adjacent to the two-lane road, with several parking spaces and an array of picnic tables in the center. Bolan and Grimaldi’s rental sat in one of the spots nearby, while another Citroën was parked at the opposite end. A young couple, probably in their mid-twenties, took turns posing for photos in front of the scenic background.

  Grimaldi drummed his fingers impatiently on the cement. “You think he forgot about us?”

  Bolan glanced at his watch. The FBI man was fifteen minutes late. “Hal said it was all set up.”

  Grimaldi puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. “What’s this dude’s name again?”

  “Tim Tyler.”

  “Wasn’t there an old comic strip with that name, or something?”

  “Yeah. Tim Tyler’s Luck.”

  Grimaldi snorted. “Well, I hope this Fed had some luck getting a line on that Monk guy. I’m starting to get an uneasy feeling about this one.”

  “You and me both,” Bolan said. He heard the sound of a car approaching and looked toward the far curve. A white police jeep crested the hill and began veering toward them. The driver wore the crisp blue-and-white island police uniform. The man in the passenger seat was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and necktie. He looked young, maybe twenty-five, and had short cropped red hair and a spray of freckles across his face.

  “Will you look at that?” Grimaldi said. “A beautiful, seventy-nine degree Caribbean afternoon and this guy’s dressed like Opie Taylor in a three-piece suit.”

  The jeep pulled in next to their Citroën and stopped. The vehicle had no doors and the canvas roof was pulled back. The young guy unbuckled his seat belt, hopped out and walked toward them, holding out his open palm.

  “I’m Special Agent Tyler from the Bureau,” he said. “Sorry we’re so late. Are you Cooper?” Tyler’s face was almost boyish.

  “I am,” he said, shaking Tyler’s hand. He introduced Grimaldi, who also shook hands with the agent.

  “This is Corporal Gaston of the island police,” Tyler said, pointing to the jeep’s driver. “They assigned him to help me check out the hotels and other spots on both sides of the island. He speaks French, English and Dutch.”

  “What? No Italian?” Grimaldi shook Gaston’s hand.

  Bolan shook the corporal’s hand in turn, noticing that it was damp.

  “How do you do?” Gaston asked. He smiled, but his dark face was shiny with sweat, too. “You no doubt have much to discuss in private. I will leave you to your privacy.”

  He walked over to the picnic tables, taking out his cell phone as he went. Beyond him, the young couple still flirted playfully, posing for the camera.

  “So you two are with the Justice Department?” Tyler asked.

  “We are,” Bolan said.

  “No offense, but this is a Bureau case.” Tyler’s face scrunched up. “Why did they send you two to investigate?”

  “Maybe they figured you could use some backup,” Bolan said. “You down here by yourself?”

  “Yeah.” Tyler clicked his tongue. “For the moment, anyway. The agents I was originally paired with got pulled to help check things out in Puerto Rico. The vice president’s going to be there the day after tomorrow to attend the International Caribbean Security Conference.”

  “We heard about that,” Bolan said.

  Tyler nodded. “Well, anyway, so far we haven’t been able to trace Monk since he was in San Juan. That’s the last recorded place he was at.”

  “What about his daughter?”

  “She got here about a week ago, but checked out of her hotel room and hasn’t been seen since. Allegedly said she was going to spend some time on a friend’s boat. So at the moment, we don’t know if either of them is on this island. There’s no official record of Monk going through customs here, either.”

  “Did you get our tip about that shady customs agent?” Bolan asked.

  “Van der Hyden?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “Yeah, in fact, we just got back from the airport. We checked the man’s station and locker and found a substantial amount of cash.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Bolan said. “Did you ask him if Monk came through on a false passport?”

  “Yep,” Tyler said.

  “Well, what did he say?” Grimaldi
asked.

  Tyler scratched his head again. “Not much. After we took him off the floor and started questioning him, he clammed up. Immediately asked for a lawyer. I had no choice but to turn him over to the Dutch authorities. He’ll most likely lose his job and be sent back to the Netherlands to face possible charges of official malfeasance.”

  Grimaldi frowned and shook his head. “I wish you would’ve waited till we got there. We might have been able to get something out of the guy.”

  “Now, now,” Tyler said, waggling his index finger in front of Grimaldi’s face. “Remember, we’re here on the sovereign territory of another country. Actually, in this case two separate countries, which complicates matters even more. We have to make sure our behavior stays within the appropriate confines of international law and go through proper, diplomatic channels.”

  Bolan was watching Gaston. His head was jerking back and forth as he spoke on his cell phone. He cast a nervous glance in their direction and resumed talking. The hairs on the back of Bolan’s neck began to rise and he made out the high-pitched whine of an engine approaching. He asked Tyler if he had a weapon.

  “I do,” the agent said, patting his chest.

  “Better get ready,” Bolan said. “I think you’re going to have to use it.”

  A dirty gray pickup truck whipped around the corner. The bed was filled with rough-looking men. The one in the passenger seat turned his pale, shaved head and yelled something at the driver, who angled right for the plateau’s parking area. Two of the men in the back of the truck straightened up and leveled AK-47s over the cab.

  “Take cover!” Bolan yelled. “Jack, I’m going for those tourists.”

  “Roger that, Cooper.”

  Bolan reached under his shirt and pulled out the Beretta 93R as he zigzagged through the picnic tables. “Get down!” he shouted at the couple.

  They turned and looked at him, fear fixed on both their faces. Bolan ran past Gaston, who was now standing with his arms stretched over his head. He hadn’t even touched the Manurhin MR 73 revolver holstered on his right side.

  Bolan was about three steps away from the couple when the first rifle rounds zipped by him, with an accompanying burst of automatic fire. He crouched and dived into the man, reaching out and grabbing the woman and pulling her down, as well.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” the man asked.

  Bolan motioned with his left hand for them to stay down, and whirled to face their adversaries. He flipped the select lever on the Beretta to the three-dot position—3-round bursts—grabbed the bench of the closest picnic table and flipped it onto its side.

  Grimaldi and Tyler had taken cover behind the Citroën and were returning fire. Bolan counted eight men total from the truck, spread out across the plateau. Some crouched next to the tailgate of their vehicle, some stood in the bed leaning over the cab, and two others stood out in the open as they fired their Kalashnikovs on full-auto.

  Bolan took those two out first. He snapped the front handle down for better control and sent a 3-round burst into each of them. They curled and fell forward. Grimaldi picked off one of the rooftop shooters. The other one ducked down. The big bald guy, shouting orders in what sounded like Russian, held his AK-47 up over the fender and sent a barrage at Grimaldi and Tyler, then aimed the barrel at Bolan. The picnic table’s thick boards deflected the rounds as they pierced the wood. Bolan glanced back at the tourists, who were still on the ground behind him, sheer terror on their faces. If they stayed there, hopefully, they wouldn’t get hit. He fired another 3-round burst toward the big Russian guy just as Gaston ran past him, as fast as he could, away from the fight. Bolan swore at the retreating cop, but as he did so, the back of the corporal’s crisp blue shirt was perforated by a track of bullet holes. Gaston took two more steps, slowed and fell on his face.

  Bolan saw the Russian guy smiling as he looked up over the top of his rifle.

  The soldier dashed forward, shooting a burst as he ran, then dived between the legs of another picnic table. He continued to roll as more rounds zipped around him. When he stopped, his arms were extended in ready position and he had a clear shot at the Russian.

  The bald man’s face reflected surprise, then a grimace as he spotted Bolan. The Russian swiveled the barrel of his rifle toward him, but the soldier had already acquired a sight picture and sent 3-rounds into the man’s side. He lurched back, his rifle still pointed in Bolan’s direction. Bolan fired another burst, this time elevating his aim. The Russian’s head jerked and he recoiled backward, a cloud of scarlet mist exploding from his right temple. As the man crumpled to the asphalt, the Executioner was up and running.

  Bolan knew from experience the best way to deal with an ambush was to fight your way out, and he fired more 3-round bursts as he ran. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grimaldi rising and firing his SIG at the shooters in the truck. Two more fell. The remaining two adversaries were crouching by the side of the truck, screaming at each other. It was clear they were panicking, and Bolan ran at an angle to outflank them. He knew that Grimaldi would be doing the same.

  One of the men saw Bolan and raised his rifle. The Executioner dived into a slide, and as his left side hit the hard asphalt, he brought the Beretta in front of him and sent two bursts along the ground. The rounds zipped under the carriage of the pickup and into the feet and legs of the last two shooters. He saw them dancing in pain as Grimaldi rounded the other side. Jack took out the one closest to him and Bolan shot the other man in the chest. Both fell to the ground, their AK-47s tumbling out of their hands.

  Bolan kept moving, keeping his Beretta trained on the fallen adversaries. He and Grimaldi kicked the rifles away from the bodies as they checked them. When they had determined that each man was, in fact, dead, Bolan straightened up and flipped his Beretta to Safe.

  Tyler ran over to them, panting and still holding his pistol. The slide was locked back, indicating he’d fired all the rounds in his magazine.

  “Is it over?” the FBI man asked. His voice sounded faraway, distorted.

  “Looks like it.” The ringing had started to fade from Bolan’s ears. Grimaldi walked over to them and pointed to Tyler’s gun.

  “Looks like you’re out of ammo,” he said.

  Bolan stooped and removed a pistol from the big bald guy’s belt. It was a Russian Tokarev 9 mm.

  “I’ve never been in anything like that before,” Tyler admitted. “You two guys are unbelievable.”

  “First shootout?” Bolan asked.

  The agent nodded, his face pinched.

  Bolan turned and went to check on the young couple. He found them right where he had left them, lying prone on the ground in back of the overturned picnic table. He stooped down and gently placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. His head shot up, terror still etched across his face. Bolan smiled. “The worst is over,” he said, gesturing toward the young woman. “Are you both okay?”

  She looked up, her face streaked with tears. “We are not harmed,” she said.

  Bolan gave them a reassuring nod and did a quick assessment of the situation. He went over to examine the fallen island policeman. The man was dead, his weapon still in its holster. A cell phone lay in pieces next to his outstretched hand. Bolan would have liked to have been able to check the last call the dead man had made, or maybe scroll through his contacts, but he already had a pretty good idea who Gaston had phoned. The timing of this ambush had been a little too coincidental.

  In the distance Bolan heard the wail of a siren. Sounds like the cavalry’s coming, he thought. Late, as usual.

  Chapter 5

  Everett watched the television monitor intently in the platform rig’s control room. Next to him, Andrei Rinzihov, an older man with sparse gray hair and thick-framed, circular glasses, gazed at the screen, as well. Grimes stood behind them. The camera showed the first submersible’s mec
hanical arm reach into the square hole in the side of the submarine and pull away another piece of metal debris. The divers, specially outfitted in heavy-duty wasp suits, stood by with their welding tools. The arm of the second submersible hovered above them.

  “What the hell are they waiting for?” Everett asked. “They’ve been working on that damn thing for days.”

  Grimes turned to the technician manning the control panel. “Find out what’s up down there?”

  The tech nodded and spoke into his microphone, asking the dive team leader for a progress report.

  “Checking the radiation levels again,” he replied.

  “I thought they just did that,” Everett said. “Tell them to speed it up. We’re on a timetable here.”

  The tech relayed Everett’s message to the team.

  “Roger that, base,” the team leader said. “We’re moving as fast as we can.”

  Everett’s face darkened. “Tell him it’s not fast enough.”

  Again the tech relayed the information.

  “We’ve been at this around the clock,” the diver answered in a weary voice. “You think you can do better, come on down.”

  Everett felt a growing rage. “That son of a bitch is asking to get fired. Tell him I’m the one calling the shots up here.”

  The tech looked nervous. “Be advised, team leader,” he said into the microphone, “that the boss is topside in the control room.”

  Silence, then, “Sorry, sir. But we have to make sure the area’s safe to enter.”

  Safe? Everett thought, still feeling the burn of anger. I don’t have time for safe.

  * * *

  GRIMES WATCHED AS the flush slowly began to dissipate from his boss’s face. The dive team leader no doubt knew he’d be disciplined regardless of the apology. Being fired wouldn’t be his biggest fear, either. Not with Everett’s top-secret plan in the works. If Everett wanted to let the man go, it would be with a gunshot, not a pink slip. No wonder the diver was so contrite.