by Brian Drake
Stiletto rose high enough to bring up his weapon. The hooded shooters were spread out on the road. Two of them dragged Miller into the brush. Stiletto flipped the selector switch to single shot and aimed to shoot Liam Miller in the head, but dropped back as the other shooters saw him and opened fire. Stiletto dropped as the slugs cut through the brush, sharp bits of bark and branches striking his face and neck, the bullets whistling overhead. Stiletto rose again and returned fire. The hoods retreated into the forest as his salvo reached their last position. He struck none of them. He climbed onto the road and had both feet on the pavement when a fifth RPG shrieked from the forest. The remains of his SUV took the hit. The explosion lifted Stiletto off his feet and back over the edge of the road.
STILETTO LANDED like a ten-ton brick.
He forced himself to hands and knees, fighting the searing pain he now couldn’t so easily ignore as the threat of unconsciousness approached like fog. His head still spun and he rose only to find he had no balance. Back on hands and knees, he vomited and rolled onto his side, eyes shut, a low groan escaping his lips.
The enemy was getting away.
And they had Miller.
No cavalry coming to save the day.
Radio transmission jammed.
An inside job!
Stiletto beat back the agony and forced himself up. The small section of exposed barrel at the front of the HK had bent in the fall. Useless. He discarded the weapon and the leftover spare mags and climbed to the pavement. The dead security agent lay on the ground next to his SUV, which was still on fire, the heat intense, almost like a force field Stiletto couldn’t penetrate. He stepped close enough to grab the security agent’s ankles and dragged the body away from the vehicle, leaving a thick trail of blood and bits of flesh on the pavement. He took the man’s weapon, an HK submachine gun like his own but a nine-millimeter MP5 instead. He also took the man’s spare ammo.
He charged into the forest. The gunmen had worn heavy-duty combat boots. Stiletto easily followed their sunken steps. He stopped every ten to fifteen yards to examine the tracks. No booby traps to entangle pursuers, he noticed, because they didn’t think there were any.
When he heard the distant thump of a helicopter. His gut told him that it was not a government aircraft but the attackers’ getaway ride. He powered forward, legs sore from the uphill climb, his lungs burning, the pain biting his insides with more intensity every time he took a step. He kept going. Pain meant he was alive; it felt good to be alive.
Stiletto passed over the discarded RPG launchers. Still on track. The helicopter sounds grew louder. A burst of sunlight ahead signaled a clearing. He ran, leaping over a fallen tree trunk, and the hooded gunmen came into view. One of them held Miller face down in the dirt. Stiletto braced against a tree and triggered the MP5.
He missed, the shots having no effect on any target. Stiletto shifted and tried again. Another miss. He hit the dirt as return fire snapped his way. Another grenade bounced off a tree, landing nearby, the explosion a deafening roar. Stiletto fired but there were no more targets. The shooters had taken cover in the foliage.
The chopper dipped into the clearing, a large black passenger helicopter with no visible markings. The hood with Miller shoved him toward the chopper. The other shooters fired on Scott’s position with enough accuracy to hit the tree he lay beside and kick up the dirt around him. He fired a blind burst in return and the MP5 clicked empty and Stiletto tore the .45 from his hip.
The covering fire stopped. Stiletto lifted his head again and saw why.
The last of the hooded gunmen climbed into the helicopter, the pilot lifting off before his passengers had the side door shut. Stiletto ran into the clearing. He raised his pistol in a two-hand grip. The stainless M1911-style pistol had been customized to his specifications, which included a light trigger, and he fired so fast the pistol spat lead like a machine gun. The slugs sparked against the fuselage but did no damage. And, nine rounds gone, the pistol locked open. The chopper flew over the trees and out of sight.
Stiletto dropped to his knees, gasping; he fell over and passed out.
Chapter Three
STILETTO AWOKE flat on his back in a hospital bed.
He quickly took in his surroundings. Small room, white walls. No window. No television. A man sat in a corner chair. Stiletto sat up.
“Where am I?”
General Ike Fleming, wearing a black suit, white shirt, thin black tie, stepped over to Stiletto’s bed side.
“Black site clinic,” Fleming said. “You’re in rough shape.”
Stiletto’s head started to spin so he lay back down. The pillow was soft. He said, “How did you find me?”
“We didn’t,” Fleming said. “Somebody noticed the smoke and sent a crew to investigate. They were hauling the wreckage away when you came out of the forest like a wild animal. You fell and passed out on the road.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Feel like talking about it?”
Once he started talking, Stiletto couldn’t stop. He related everything from the start of the convoy to the chopper pick-up in the clearing.
“We found the radio jammer with the RPGs,” Fleming said.
“Somebody inside betrayed us, sir. But it’s the last thing I saw that makes no sense.”
“What?”
“When they were waiting for the chopper one of them had Miller face down in the dirt. Miller didn’t look like he was being rescued.”
“More like—”
“Kidnapped.”
The General considered his reply a moment. “You’re right, makes no sense at all.”
“How long do I have to stay here?”
“Couple of days. Doctor wants to observe you. And I’m ordering you to follow his advice.”
“But, sir—”
“No argument.”
“He was my responsibility.”
“And what happened was totally out of your control.”
“General—”
“I didn’t say you were off the case,” Fleming said. “Our best leads are the shooters you took down. After a few days, when you’re back on your feet, we’ll know something.”
Stiletto let out a breath. “Okay.”
“You want anything to read? I can have a TV brought in.”
“Just a sketch book or some paper to draw on.”
Fleming grinned. “I’ll be back.”
The General left the room. Stiletto stared at a spot on the ceiling, and wondered what he could have done differently. He never thought twice about the successful jobs. The ones that went south, even with a minimum level of fallout, always lingered.
But this one had a ton of fallout. Forget Miller. His thoughts were with the dead men and their families.
Once out of the hospital he’d make sure whoever was behind the attack would dearly pay for what they had done.
LIAM MILLER came to on an airplane.
A Lear jet. There were three other people sitting around. Two men and a woman. The woman sat alone. She avoided Miller’s look but he knew her. The two men sat together and spoke quietly; when they noticed Miller had awakened, they stopped and turned to him.
“Nice nap?”
The man who spoke had short blonde hair, cut close to his scalp. Blue eyes, chiseled jaw, the look of a leader. The man came over to Miller’s chair. He carried no weapons.
“Would you like a beer?” the blonde man said. “I brew my own. Brought a stash. Oh, wait. Your hands are tied behind you. We’ll have to feed you like a baby.”
The blonde man and the other man laughed. The woman did not, and she still would not raise her eyes to Miller.
“My name is Karl Staar,” the blonde man said.
“Hello,” Miller said.
“My associates are Paul Raeder and Lisbeth Kalls.”
“Great. Why am I tied up? This isn’t much of a rescue.”
Staar and Raeder laughed.
“This wasn’t a rescue. You’re being held
for ransom.”
Miller stared in disbelief. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
“The C.I.A. spent a lot of money to get you and we think they’ll spend some more to get you back.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I suppose they could mount another raid. . .if they can find us.”
“If you want money, I can pay you to release me.”
“Not so,” Staar said. “Your accounts have already been frozen by the U.S. Justice Department and whatever you have stashed in accounts they don’t know about isn’t enough.”
The pilot paged Staar to the cockpit.
“Excuse me,” Staar said. “I must pass on some code words to get us on the ground without being bothered.”
Staar went forward, Raeder behind him, and entered the cockpit Raeder pulled the door shut.
Miller turned to Lisbeth Kalls. “Are you ever going to look at me?”
“What do you expect, Liam?”
“Was this your idea?”
She finally met his eyes. Large, dark, brown eyes. She had a petite but strong body, her small head framed by shoulder-length black hair. Her jeans tapered at the ankles and their tight fit made her legs look skinny.
“Of course not. And nobody knows we were once lovers.”
“Staar can’t expect this to work.”
“He’s just a soldier.”
“Who are you people?”
“New World Revolutionary Front,” she said. “Neo-Nazi lifers who want to give world domination one last try.”
“Do I detect sarcasm?”
She scoffed.
“Since when are you a neo-Nazi?”
“I’m not. Gotta eat.”
Miller laughed. “Go work in a dress shop.”
“Take it easy,” Lisbeth said. “I’ll try and—”
The cockpit door opened and Staar’s voice preceded him. Miller paid no attention. Staar and Raeder returned to their seats.
Miller glanced at Lisbeth once again, but she’d turned to look out the window. Miller shifted in his seat to relieve the pressure on his arms. They were already numb.
Lisbeth being in the group complicated his thoughts. If he had a chance to escape, he’d have to be careful not to shoot her. Unless she wanted to go with him. Miller dismissed the silly idea. She’d left him once. For good. She wasn’t going to come back.
What a mess. Bunch of silly neo-Nazis. But there had been nothing silly about the attack on the convoy. As Miller sat in his seat and considered his options, he reminded himself not to take them lightly.
THE DOCTOR let Scott go after 72 hours.
He’d slept most of the first 48, and spent the third day up and in his room doing light exercises to get the blood flowing and muscles working. It hurt at first but later he was only sore, and after a night at home and his own bed, helped along by a few beers, Stiletto reported for work bright and early on the fourth day.
Stiletto crossed the Agency seal in the main lobby and paused a moment to glance at the Memorial Wall where anonymous stars represented the deaths of C.I.A. agents in the field. Soon, more stars representing the murdered security team would be added. Scott let out a long breath. Sometimes he didn’t even notice the memorial was there. He hated to admit it, but the wall blended in with the rest of the scenery. He figured it was that way with everybody else, too. Nobody paid attention until there was a ceremony to honor another anonymous addition, and such ceremonies happened so few and far between some employees retired having never attended one.
Every morning he crossed the seal and passed the wall with his thoughts only on the coffee counter beyond the security gate. But he saw it now, a grim reminder he could end up on that wall too.
When Stiletto turned eighteen he followed in his father’s footsteps and served four years as a paratrooper in the 173rd Rangers followed by two years with Special Forces, leaving the army with enough civilian job skills to qualify as a checker at Wal-Mart. His mother had passed on during his stint, but after his honorable discharge Stiletto moved back home to be close to his now-retired father. He took a job driving cement mixers to construction sites and spent the road time wondering what in the world he was going to do with his life. He could use his GI Bill money and go to college, but to study what? His search of the many career options available sparked no interest. He had wanted to try putting down roots after his nomadic childhood and his own term of service, but stability eluded him.
Then came 9/11, and Stiletto discovered a roaring desire to once again serve his country, but he didn’t want to be a regular soldier this time. One evening while having dinner with his former A-Team captain, Stiletto aired his wish to rejoin the military and take part in the battle against the new enemy. His captain, who had already guided several other former members of the unit into the Central Intelligence Agency, suggested he go in the same direction. Stiletto asked how he could contribute. The captain outlined a career path that made Stiletto more excited about his future than ever before. An interview with a recruiter began the entry process. Six months later, after an exhausting series of interviews and background checks, Stiletto arrived at The Farm, the C.I.A.’s training center; it didn’t take long for him to come to the attention of General Ike’s unit.
He'd always be on the move as long as he was with S.A.D.; he knew that. Perhaps that’s where he needed to be.
Stiletto joined the line of agents passing through the front security checkpoint. They resembled the line for a roller coaster except almost everybody carried take-out coffee and armed security agents watched every move. Beyond the checkpoint were the elevators and offices instead of a thrill ride.
Most Agency employees wore green badges to identify themselves. Contract employees, of whom there were too many, in Scott’s opinion, wore blue badges. The operatives in Stiletto’s division were a different animal. They wore black badges, which allowed only them access to the sub-basement offices of the Special Actions Division. Their badge color and department name generated some good jokes through the building, with S.A.D. operatives being called the Black Death Legion, the Executioners, and Stiletto’s favorite, the Xanax Squad.
The elevator opened on the sub-basement hallway. Doors lined the hall on both sides, behind which he and his colleagues shared working space. Stiletto headed straight for the door at the end of the hall. General Ike’s office.
Fleming’s chief-of-staff, David McNeil, sat behind the outer office desk. “Feeling all right?” he said.
“Still a little sore, but I’ll walk it off.”
“Go on in.”
Stiletto crossed to another door, opened it and stepped through.
The General said hello. A folder sat on his desk. “Ready to work?”
“Point me at a target, sir.”
Stiletto eased into the chair in front of the General’s desk. He winced.
Fleming lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Working out the kinks. I’m fine.”
“I’m sure this will stun you, but we actually got a lot of work done while you were out.” He tapped the folder. “I wish I could say I was happy with the results. We have more questions than when we started.”
“Your head hurt yet?”
Fleming shot Stiletto a look. He said, “A trace on some of the dead bodies led us to a group calling itself the New World Revolutionary Front. Mean anything to you?”
“Never heard of them.”
“Recently they’ve robbed banks in Europe, with varying degrees of success, with only a few arrests. Those people only know their immediate controllers, so they operate in cells with no connection to one another. We don’t have a lot of information on them, so we think they’re fairly new.”
“Why grab Miller?”
“Our theory right now goes along with why we wanted to question him in the first place. They need him to help buy the Delta Nine nerve gas.”
Stiletto blinked.
“The question is,” Fleming continued, “what does the NWRF want th
e gas for?”
“Are we sure they intend to buy?” Stiletto said. “If they’re still new on the scene, rescuing Miller would be quite a coup.”
“Those bank robberies I mentioned. They started in earnest as soon as word of the sale started to spread. The last robbery was three weeks ago, and now they’ve grabbed Miller.”
“So they have the money they need and now they require Miller to finish the deal.”
“Apparently so.”
“Where do we start?”
“The reported leader is a man named Karl Staar. But there is a curious twist we found suggesting somebody else truly pulls the strings.”
Fleming selected a photo from the folder and handed it to Scott, who examined the two men featured. Staar was labeled with a circle over his face. Blonde hair, close cropped, typical Aryan features. The man beside Staar, also circled and labeled, was another man with a short haircut named Heinrich Zolac. The name meant something to Scott. Both were standing outside a restaurant, Zolac about to get into a limo.
“Staar is a former gunman for various neo-Nazi groups,” General Ike said. “Broke off to join NWRF. Notice the other man?”
“Zolac. Billionaire. Developed silly games for mobile devices. Tech crowd loves him.”
Stiletto handed back the photo.
“Both Germans,” Scott said. “Zolac wrote for some radical newspapers and websites before he made his pile. Could be a financer. Zolac doesn’t write anymore so he can’t be cultivating information. Worth checking out.”
“He has a mansion in Austria, just outside Vienna,” Fleming said. “Well-guarded. But he’s not there now. He’s checked in at a resort in Monte Carlo.”
“I could use a trip to Monte Carlo,” Stiletto said.
“The resort is operated by a Russian woman named Elisa Yanovna. Ex-FSB. A corporation owns the place but nothing connects it to Zolac so far. Meanwhile, the Austria place is under surveillance.”
