Stiletto #1: The Termination Protocol: Book One of the Scott Stiletto Thriller Series

by Brian Drake

  Stiletto stood up, the chair scraping the floor again. “Think about your options.” He left the photos on the table.

  Stiletto banged on the door. The Marine let him out.

  STILETTO SCOOTED close to the computer console and logged in.

  He clicked the Skype icon and waited. He sat in another cramped room on the ship, a secure communications booth for “special guests”. It was more like a closet with the walls closing in on him. Stiletto felt less and less special by the minute.

  The screen flicked and the General appeared.

  “How’s your head, sir?”

  “I’ve had my quota of aspirin for the day. How’s it going?”

  Stiletto gave his boss an update.

  “He’ll crack,” Fleming said.

  “I should get an Oscar,” Stiletto said. “Best performance of my life.”

  And quite a performance, yeah. If he’d been ordered to shoot the sister, he’d have refused. There was a line one couldn’t cross. But he knew the General wouldn’t have given the order anyway. The psychological manipulation, however, he was happy to implement. They had to get the Delta Nine. Fast.

  “As soon as you get him to the Blue Ridge black site, let me know and we can properly get to work on him.”

  “Yes, sir, see you soon.”

  “How long?”

  “About four days.”

  “You’re going to go bonkers.”

  “I have plenty of seasick pills, sir,” Stiletto said.

  STILETTO RETURNED to his cabin.

  From his pack of personal items to took an iPad and sketch book. He called up his music library and hard rock, the volume low, played from the tablet. Sitting up on his cot, he opened the sketch book. He had to admit he identified with Miller a little. Certainly, he was no orphan, but his father’s various postings around the world had made him an army brat who had a hard time making friends. After a while, he stopped trying. It was a habit he was still trying to break as an adult. Sometimes he thought he was getting better at it. He was fiercely loyal to the connections he did have, though, and understood Miller’s “code”, but he wasn’t willing to identify with the man any further. When you set yourself up as the opposition to evil, you can’t make the enemy human otherwise you’ll find you’re fighting in a gray area rather than black-and-white. Stiletto knew he was deceiving himself, but he preferred life’s simple answers.

  To take his mind off being alone so much as a child, he’d learned to draw, a sketch book as constant a companion as his book bag in school, and his pistol as an adult. His current project was a half-finished forest, not a specific place, but a forest out of his imagination. With a fresh pencil, he started drawing more of it. He drew hurriedly, as if he needed to finish, as if the forest held the answer to a question he hadn’t yet been able to articulate.

  Heinrich Zolac steered the bright red sports car around a tight corner and pressed the gas, then cursed and stomped the brakes to avoid crashing into a slow-moving minivan. He weaved around the van, the engine responding with a low grumble. The wind skimmed over the windshield and brushed his short-but-spikey hair. He felt the heat of the sun on the top of his head, the close haircut exposing enough of his skull that he often risked a burn, but he had too much fun driving with the top down to care. He wore a custom-fitted blue Savile Row suit and aviator shades. Flash and dash.

  He downshifted to get more grunt from the motor for the last straight, slowed and turned the low-slung roadster into the gated driveway of a steel-and-glass skyscraper. The young guard at the gate waved him through, and Zolac powered into the underground garage where he swung into his reserved parking slot. The two empty slots next to his car were also reserved—for him. Nobody would be scratching his baby.

  A short elevator ride brought him to the main lobby, bright sunlight blasting through the glass front. Two security guards behind a desk rose and greeted Zolac as the man in the suit headed for the elevators.

  Near the elevators stood the third guard, an older man, his blue blazer buttoned and ID badge pinned straight. He said, “Good afternoon, sir,” as Zolac pressed the call button.

  “Mr. Reed, you should be sitting at the desk.”

  The older man smiled. “If you don’t use it, you lose it.”

  “Indeed.”

  The elevator opened and Zolac stepped in. The doors slid shut.

  Zolac rode up to the 20th floor where the boardroom was located.

  He left the elevator and surveyed the high-ceilinged boardroom, bright from the forward window which took the place of a wall. The twelve men seated around the oval table ceased their chatter as Zolac crossed the room and sat at the head of the table, his back to the glass. The bright light obscured his features, but all twelve men were familiar with his playboy lifestyle and acne-scarred face. He hadn’t always been rich.

  Zolac said, “Thank you for being here.” He scanned the faces, all of which were turned his way. Astute members of the public would recognize some of the twelve from industrial and corporate enterprises. The rest were unknown because of their criminal endeavors. To Zolac it was a good mix of minds for his New World Revolutionary Front.

  After Zolac finally made a killing in the tech industry as an app designer, specifically for a series of mobile phone games, he decided he now had the responsibility to do something useful with his riches.

  As a writer for leftist newspapers in Europe in his 20s, Zolac had seen life from top to bottom and formed opinions on how governments should respond to their communities. He also decided the citizenry were far too slothful and irresponsible to be able to self-govern in any form.

  The NWRF existed to break down the walls of governments who feared going too far in taking charge of their populations. Zolac envisioned a world where the world’s citizens answered to one leader, a benevolent dictator, who would do for them what they could not or refused to do for themselves.

  By force, if necessary.

  “Let’s talk about the latest doings. Mr. Grunberg?”

  A bald man midway down the left side, his round belly partially concealed by the table, consulted notes in front of him.

  “The Baden-Solitron merger is not yet resolved, but negotiations continue on both sides.”

  “What’s holding things up? Did the U.S. representatives not raise their offer?”

  “They did, but Baden’s owner is reluctant to merge despite the benefits.”

  “Are we persuading him?”

  “We have pictures of him with a woman who is not his wife. He will do whatever it takes to keep those pictures hidden. The merger should yield a dividend of ten million dollars.”

  “Good,” Zolac said. “Mr. Frye?”

  Another man, he with pasty-white skin and wire-framed specs, said, “Our sabotage of the Alaskan oil pipeline resulted in a longer delay than we expected. The pipeline will be down for six weeks, and crude oil prices should rise beyond our prediction as a result.”

  “Estimated dividend?” Zolac said.

  “Four million dollars.”

  “Not bad for six weeks’ work,” Zolac said. “Good, Mr. Frye.” He cleared his throat. “Now we talk about our most ambitious project yet, and it is already well underway. Much must remain secret for now, but I can tell you the new project concerns a chemical weapon strike against a target we will decide later by simple vote. We expect the dividends from clean-up, decontamination, and increased military spending around the world to be huge. The demands we later make for the world to surrender to us will be icing on the cake. Mr. Bell, the latest, please.”

  A stocky man near Zolac’s chair, a European free-lance terrorist named Arnold Bell, said, “I met personally with Mr. Mustafa in North Africa, and we now own two warheads that can be placed inside missiles the size of a standard Tomahawk.”

  “What is the status of Mr. Mustafa?”

  “Quite dead,” Bell said.

  Zolac nodded. “And the Delta Nine gas canisters?”

  “Negotiations with Mr
. Fahzil are in progress,” said Bell. “But, Heinrich, you have noticed we are still short of the money we need for the Delta Nine purchase. Do you expect us to dip into the reserve?”

  “The remaining balance will be taken care of with our next operation. We’ll be extorting the American government. Specifically, the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  The faces around the table stared blankly is disbelief.

  “The plan is well underway,” Zolac said, “thanks to our insider at the C.I.A. A high-value target has been captured in Libya. A man named Liam Miller, who, as you may know, is known in the underworld as the man to see when you want to buy or sell on the black market. We have an opportunity to send the Americans into a state of confusion which will help our efforts. Our insider has provided the means for mounting a rescue operation.” Zolac grinned. “Sort of.”

  “Do you expect this man Miller,” Grunberg said, “to reward us if we free him? We’re already making a deal with Fahzil, why do we need him?”

  “No,” Zolac said. “I expect the C.I.A. to pay for his return. Then we’ll have the money we need to buy the nerve gas. They’ll waste time questioning Miller about things he doesn’t know while we proceed with our mission.”

  “Heinrich,” Bell said, swallowing hard, “that is insane.”

  “No, it’s brilliant,” Zolac said. “Classic misdirection. The Soviets excelled at such plans in the Cold War and the Americans fell for it every time, because they thought then, and still today, that they’re smarter than everybody. The Aldrich Ames case is the best example. The KGB set so many false trails the C.I.A. didn’t discover the truth for years.”

  Zolac further outlined the plan and watched faces of doubt turn to surprise. He grinned at his ingenuity as the plan was of his own design. He ended the meeting without taking questions and dismissed the gathering, but remained seated. He asked Bell and Frye to remain. Arnold Bell stayed in his seat. As Frye sat down once again, his hands started to shake.

  The others, talking amongst themselves, cleared the room. Zolac smiled. The smile did not brighten his gray eyes.

  “Stand up, Mr. Frye.”

  The man with the wire-framed specs, sweat now covering his pale skin, stood. The door opened. A blonde-haired man in black with a barrel torso entered and approached the table. Bell and Zolac watched the new arrival. Frye did not. Frye’s face stayed on Zolac.

  “Mr. Frye,” Zolac said, “I don’t mind you making money on the side, but I do mind when you do it by selling me out.”

  “But—”

  The rest of Frye’s words stopped in his throat as the barrel-chested man snapped a wire garrote around the pale man’s neck and pulled tight. Frye gurgled and struggled. The big man grunted with effort and pulled tighter. Presently Frye’s body slackened with one last, choked rattle.

  “Remove him,” Zolac said.

  The big man hoisted Frye over his shoulders and carried him out of the room.

  Bell said, “What did he do?”

  “He was planning to steal the Delta Nine and sell it on his own,” Zolac said.

  “I hope we don’t have too many similar complications, Heinrich.”

  “We won’t. All we have to do now is remain patient.”

  FOUR DAYS later the U.S.S. Bataan docked at the Norfolk Navy Shipyard.

  The ship did not pull into one of the regularly-used docks, but instead one at the far end of the shipyard sealed off by a fence and armed security.

  Waiting at the end of the off-ramp sat four black GM SUVs with tinted windows. Each vehicle had been fortified with armor to repel small- and intermediate-arms fire, each fitted with fancy com systems and anti-personnel features, such as tear gas canisters mounted under the chassis. Men in black, armed with a variety of submachine guns, waited outside the vehicles. The engines of all four were already running.

  Stiletto and one of the ship’s Marines escorted a handcuffed Miller down the off-ramp. Scott had put his fatigues—cleaned and pressed—back on, with the .45 on his hip and HK SMG stashed in a tote bag around his right shoulder. He would have preferred a helicopter ride to the black site but the bean counters overruled. Miller was a high-value target, but also a low-risk. Nobody was coming to rescue him. The risk and expense of a chopper crash were much higher. In a compromise, Stiletto asked for and got a double security crew. The original transport plan had called for only two SUVs.

  “Gonna be a long ride, Miller.”

  “I have to pee, Daddy.”

  “Idiot. You had a chance earlier.”

  “I didn’t have to go then.”

  “Another word out of you and I’ll put tape over your mouth.”

  They reached the end of the off-ramp and the C.I.A. team took over, grabbing Miller and leading him into the second SUV, shoving him in back. Stiletto climbed into the front and looked over his shoulder. With one security officer on each side, Miller was jammed in tight. He frowned at Stiletto. Stiletto grinned and faced forward. From his tote, he removed the Heckler & Koch UMP and snapped a mag in place.

  The security team communicated over their radios, and the convoy set off, a conspicuous sight for sure, but it was a military town. The residents had seen military vehicles so often the government presence didn’t register.

  The convoy turned east and followed Cumberland to Market, the traffic delays moderate, and finally reached I-264.

  They stopped every other hour for fuel and bathroom breaks.

  Five and a half hours passed in mind-numbing but scenic dullness.

  Then the first RPG struck.

  Chapter Two

  THE CONVOY moved at an accelerated pace.

  The SUVs followed one of the many winding back roads of the mountain range, well off the normal civilian routes. On Stiletto’s right, the forest stretched upward for miles. To the left of the vehicles, a steep drop led only to one’s doom.

  The convoy slowed as the two-lane road narrowed to one.

  Stiletto didn’t believe it when he saw it, but there was also no mistake. A puff of smoke off the road, followed by the shriek of a finned rocket propelled grenade closing the gap between forest and target.

  Stiletto shouted, “RPG!” as the SUV in front of them exploded. The other vehicles screeched to a halt, the one behind Scott’s SUV slamming into the rear bumper.

  The security team lit up the radio.

  “Back up, back up!”

  The three surviving SUVs moved in reverse, the drivers expertly guiding the big vehicles through the curves.

  The next rocket struck.

  Stiletto twisted around as the rearmost SUV became a ball of flame. The other two vehicles halted, a burning hulk in front and behind.

  Over the radio,

  “We’re sitting ducks!”

  “Gunmen two- and three-o’clock!”

  The shooters wore hoods and carried assault weapons. They peppered the armored SUVs with ineffective fire, and Stiletto knew that was hardly the last card in their deck.

  An accented voice intruded on the radio chatter: “Surrender Miller now.”

  “Who the hell is talking?”

  “Tear gas! Deploy tear gas!”

  The driver pressed a button on the dash and a white cloud enveloped the SUV as the canisters mounted on the chassis, designed to push back attackers, popped open to let out the gas. The driver stepped on the accelerator and charged ahead, clearing the cloud and plowing through the wreckage of the first SUV.

  The second SUV followed. Stray rounds continued to pelt the armor.

  “You will stop and surrender your prisoner.”

  Stiletto snapped to Miller, “Who are they?”

  “No idea, I swear!”

  Another RPG flashed past Stiletto’s vehicle and blasted the front end of the rear SUV. The secondary explosion destroyed the rest of the machine.

  Stiletto faced forward. More hooded gunmen exited the forest ten yards ahead. Their automatic weapons fire popped against the windshield. When the forth RPG raced toward them, St
iletto braced for the impact.

  The rocket struck the pavement ahead of the front driver’s side tire. The blast lifted the SUV, caving in the front side, the driver screaming as sharp pieces of metal impaled him and ripped open his neck, blood spurting out and landing on Stiletto’s left arm. Stiletto held an arm up to cover his face, felt shrapnel tearing his clothes. The SUV overturned halfway, landing on the passenger side. He unbuckled and shouted for everyone to get out as the hooded gunmen converged. He pressed a button on the dash and what remained of the windshield ejected onto the pavement. Rounds struck the body and ripped up the interior as Stiletto rolled out, got to one knee and raised the HK with his support hand gripping the front firing handle.

  He triggered a long burst of .45 slugs. The rounds cut through his target, stitching the hooded shooter from chest to face. The back of the man’s head sprayed blood and bone on the shooter behind him. Stiletto’s next burst put down the second man. As the other hoods scrambled for cover, Stiletto raced to the protection of the SUV’s opposite side and dropped flat behind a wheel. The heat of the car’s underbody burned through his clothes and touched the back of his neck.

  Stiletto fired into the forest but did not see any hits. One of the security officers joined him. “Miller’s secured behind the car.”

  “Anybody call for help?”

  “Our transmissions are jammed!”

  “How can they be jamming—”

  A salvo of gunfire rocked the SUV, smacking the pavement, one slug punching through the security agent’s head. Hot blood splattered Stiletto as the man fell. Stiletto returned fire and saw one hood drop and tumble onto the road.

  Somebody tossed a grenade. It sailed overhead, aimed right for Scott’s position. As it reached the top of its arc and started down, Stiletto rolled to the opposite edge of the road and went over the side. The grenade blast shook the ground. Shrapnel rained overhead. Stiletto kept falling, landing hard on a wooded slope, the wind knocked out of him. No time to recover. He shoved a fresh mag into the UMP and climbed back to the edge of the road, struggling to climb around the overgrowth. His vision spun and he sucked air in short gasps. Every bone in his body hurt but he focused only on the task before him. Injuries were not the priority.