M.I.A. Hunter

by Mertz, Stephen

  The husky six-foot-plus Wiley lobbed a stun grenade of his own, just as Stone spotted him. Hog could float like a butterfly despite his size, but he always stung like a two-ton bee.

  Stone and Hog covered their eyes with their arms against the blinding white flashes of the grenades. The blasts were loud, but for this particular operation ear plugs solved that problem.

  The three sentries in the hallway caught the full effect of the double whammy that kicked them flailing backward against the walls.

  Stone and Wiley closed in. Three well-placed chops finished the job on these guards. The two combat specialists then hurried toward the door these men had been guarding.

  Stone went in first, with another kick that propelled another door inward from its hinges. Hog lumbered in behind him as backup, a long-barreled .357 looking like a toy in his ham-like right fist.

  Another Stone ally, Terrance Loughlin, was at that moment dropping into the room from an overhead ventilation duct.

  Loughlin was a red-haired British-version of Mark Stone; he had the same size and build as Mark, and like Mark, Loughlin handled his weapon as if it were an extension of himself. The Brit had served as a demolitions expert in the U.K.'s crack antiterrorist Special Air Service commando unit until his effectiveness was compromised during an embassy hostage rescue action, when a terrorist yanked away Loughlin's mask before he could blow the guy away. A news camera caught Loughlin's unmasked features for posterity, and for terrorist files, so he had been mustered out, albeit honorably, to become yet another ex-military man who hired himself out as a professional mercenary.

  The Brit exile occasionally exhibited traces of bitterness for having been retired prematurely after his years of outstanding service, but Loughlin was melancholy by nature and it never interfered with his reputation as the best demo expert merc in the business. The tough Englishman had more than once proved his value to Mark Stone in tense combat situations.

  Loughlin dropped to a springy crouch in front of Stone and Wiley without loosening his grip on the 9mm Ingram submachine gun he toted.

  The three men then turned as one to look expectantly at the lone occupant of the room.

  Carol Jenner rose from the armchair where she had been sitting. She clicked off the stopwatch she held.

  "Sixty-three seconds, on the nose," she told them.

  The tension in the room dissipated. Stone, Loughlin, and Wiley lowered their weapons.

  Hog cursed colorfully.

  "I don't get it. Where did we pick up three extra seconds?"

  "My fault," said Mark. "I had to take out a sentry in front who wasn't supposed to be there."

  "Fault, hell," Carol beamed. "That was still record time."

  Big, beautiful, and tough, with a touch of class, blonde, blue-eyed Carol was proportioned like a midnight sex fantasy—everything the songwriters and poets have in mind when they talk about woman's magic and power. The knowledge that she was all of this and that she was all his because that was the way she wanted it, anytime he wanted it, did nothing to dull the warm quiver that Mark felt every time he saw her, like now. Carol was some kind of lady. She was Mark Stone's steady lover.

  She joined the men as they walked from the room into a hallway littered with bodies that were slowly reviving themselves to life amid groans and grumbles and grudging admiration for the assault that had defeated them.

  "Uh-oh," said Terrance Loughlin at Stone's side. "Visitors."

  Two men stood at the end of the hall, blocking exit via the front double doorway. The big guy on the right faced Stone with hard eyes and a look that said he could handle himself anywhere. The smaller man who stood beside him was mousy, gripping a briefcase as if for protection.

  "You folks have time to spare?" asked the big one in a steel-edged voice that said this was only a preliminary nicety; the hard punch would take a while, if it came at all this time.

  Mark still held his Beretta in his right hand, aimed down at his side, but the pistol's magazine held only cartridges that fired red paint pellets to verify hits, as did the weapons of Loughlin and Wiley. But Stone was nonetheless prepared in case this confrontation, whatever it was, split the wrong way and exploded. He sensed that the same was true of the woman and two men who had fanned out behind him.

  The air was electric.

  "I.S.A.?" asked Stone.

  The big guy flipped open a leather-bound folder and extended International Security Affairs credentials for Mark's inspection. The I.S.A. was parent organization to the Defense Security Assistance Agency, which dealt with the P.O.W./M.I.A. issue.

  "Harker." The cold-eyed Fed pocketed the ID and nodded to the mousy guy alongside him. "This is Fred Derring."

  Stoner recognized the name although he had never met Derring.

  "Well, well. The chief counsel for Senator Ordway's subcommittee. Blow the whistle on any covert U.S. operations today, counselor?"

  Derring bristled but stayed well behind Harker's bulk.

  "See here, Stone. You can be resubpoenaed, you know. You're a licensed private investigator in this state. That does not give you the right to—"

  "Balls," grumbled Hog Wiley. "Them politicians went over Sarge with a microscope. We're one hundred percent legal, and you dudes know it, and that's stuck right in your craw and you all can't do a damn thing about it, can you?"

  Hog seemed to take a fair amount of amusement in this.

  Stone told the mismatched Feds exactly what he'd told Ordway's subcommittee under oath during closed hearings earlier that year.

  "I'm a private eye to make a living. What I do on my own time, and where I do it, is my business."

  "Even when you illegally infiltrate foreign countries without U.S. authorization on paramilitary operations in search of P.O.W.'s that do not exist?" demanded Derring.

  "Yeah, even then," grunted Mark. "Especially then."

  "The official position of this government is that the Vietnam War is over. All P.O.W.'s and M.I.A.'s have been accounted for. Case closed, Stone."

  Hog Wiley put into one word what Mark Stone was thinking.

  "Bullshit," groused the big man. "I say we toss these cruds out on their ears, Sarge," he added.

  Hog's patience with authority was nonexistent, but the big Fed, Harker, appeared unimpressed.

  "Put your animal on a leash," he told Stone coolly. "Private investigators are licensed. Licenses can be pulled."

  A little of the tension dissipated when another man walked over to them. The guy was one of the sentries from in front of the house, the one Mark had stilettoed on his way in. The man tugged the stiletto from his nylon-weave protective vest and handed it back to Stone.

  "Good work, fellas," he said with a grin. "You guys are tops. We learn plenty from these exercises. All the guys in the precinct wish they could get in on it. Same time next week?"

  Mark sheathed the stiletto and gave a thumbs-up sign to his opposite team leader.

  "If we can, pal. Thanks."

  The other man picked up on the scene then, and turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Stone, warily facing the Feds.

  "You guys need some help?" the team leader asked Mark.

  "Not this time, Tony. It's cool. Thanks anyway."

  The man paused long enough to make sure, then turned and went back down the hallway to help his teammates, all off-duty rookie cops, to their feet and out through the other door.

  Derring's face pinched with distaste.

  "A farm made into a course for survivalist war games. What a way for grown men to pass their time. Why not place a bit more faith in your government, Mr. Stone?"

  "My government is responsible for allowing those P.O. W.'s to rot to death in 'Nam while we stand here talking," rasped Mark. He locked eyes with Harker. "If this is a bust, let's go. If it's a subpoena, serve it. Otherwise, move out-of our way."

  "Word on the merc grapevine is that you're going into the field again," said Harker. "Is that what this workout tonight is all about? Last-minute training
?"

  "I'll ask you politely one last time, because you do represent my government," said Mark, very softly. "Step aside."

  "I say we take 'em apart for the bloody sport of it," grunted Loughlin.

  "Guys, please—" began Carol.

  Harker ignored the others. He glared at Mark.

  "I lost a son in 'Nam. You make me think of what Jerry might've been like, Stone—if he'd come home alive. I know what you stand for and what you're trying to do. No one wants to see American GIs still held as prisoners of war. But you can't solve this issue with vigilante justice. The government is planning steps. But the only way to play it—for the sake of those P.O.W.'s, if they do exist—is by the damn rules."

  "And what if the rules don't work?" Stone asked quietly. "What then, Harker?"

  "We're not here to debate this issue," the mouse piped up almost primly from where he still stood, well behind Harker. "We are here to serve notice to you and your men, Stone, that you will be in very serious trouble if we do find proof that you're going over again."

  "What Derring is trying to say is that you'll be resubpoenaed, I'll see that your private investigator's license is pulled, and I'll show you tricks to make a man miserable that you never thought of," said Harker.

  "Fair enough," said Stone. "Now if you'll excuse us, gentlemen?"

  Harker finally stepped out of the way. Derring receded with him.

  Mark and his crew exited the house, into the night, and walked across the short distance to where their vehicles were parked.

  "Stay at your contact numbers from here on out," Stone instructed Loughlin and Wiley in a whisper. "I'm connecting with our new client as soon as I get this goo off my face and change clothes. It'll go down anytime now."

  "I'll take the bloody phone to bed with me," was the Englishman's parting shot. Loughlin strode off toward his sporty rental car.

  "I'll be on tap if you need me, Sarge," grunted Wiley. "I know you will. Thanks."

  Stone watched Wiley amble off toward his Harley. Then Mark walked Carol over to her car, where he held the door open for her to slide in.

  "It wasn't a good idea, you coming here tonight," he told her.

  "Mark, I'll only be on the Coast for these two days." Lush, full lips curved into a smile that was pure Mona Lisa with spice. "And you know how I like to watch you work." The blonde smacked her lips appreciatively and her smile widened.

  He grinned back at her. "I dig you too, lady. But what would Derring and Harker say if they recognized the woman I'm with as an intel processor at the Defense Department?"

  "I can take care of myself."

  "I know you can, but so can they. If Harker IDs you and your position at Defense, and learns that your brother was listed as M.I.A. during the war, then he won't have any trouble figuring out where I get my logistical intel before I head out on a mission. Those recon photos and maps come in real handy. Maybe they'll help me find your own brother someday. They've helped bring home several men already. Your role in this operation is too vital to endanger."

  "You're right, of course," she said contritely. "I'll be more thoughtful in the future, Mark. We've all put in too much to throw it away now."

  "I gotta go, Carol," he said, pulling her toward him. "Be careful, honey."

  There was time for a quick but soulful kiss, and Mark Stone watched Carol drive away. Then he turned and walked toward his own vehicle, a Lancia. He could feel eyes watching his every move from somewhere in the darkness around him. He knew his mission had already begun.

  Chapter Two

  It took Stone all of ten minutes to lose the unmarked car that tailed him away from the survivalist game course. Mark had expected no less of Harker. He commenced evasive action the minute his northward drive took him to the outer reaches of suburbs at the very southern tip of the Los Angeles megalopolis.

  Stone steered his Lancia with all the finesse at his command. Traffic was sparse at this late-night hour, but he played the winding residential streets for all they were worth, leading the tracking Impala on a spirited maze of hide-and-seek that ended with the Fed car still seeking while Stone resumed heading north for another ten minutes to Newport Beach, where he was scheduled to make initial contact with the woman who wanted to hire him.

  Mark Stone had been a master sergeant in a Green Beret Special Forces unit stationed at Da Nang during the Vietnam War. His specialty had been covert actions of all kinds, usually involving hit-and-run, cross-border operations into Laos, Cambodia, and North Vietnam. He had gone through extensive stateside training in all of the classic infiltration techniques, including weapons, demolitions, hand-to-hand combat, survival, paratroop training, and camouflage. Stone had played a vital part in many of the most sensitive operations of that war, including the assassination of General Nu Trang, which had significantly sabotaged the enemy's infamous Tet Offensive.

  Mark had the distinction of having served more tours-of duty in Indochina than any other Special Forces soldier, so that by the time he left South Vietnam during the last days of the fall of Saigon, the lean, muscular, six-foot-one penetration specialist knew that corner of the world better than most soldiers at combat level. Stone was totally conversant with the languages, people, politics, and terrain of that exotic world of lush jungle and mountains and ancient civilizations and customs that flow uninterrupted from history into the future. Stone particularly understood the very special conditions of combat that hedged the bets for a warrior's survival in a green hell that had been ravaged by war and grief since long before the time of Christ.

  Since the pullout of U.S. troops from 'Nam, Mark had been living stateside in the Southern California wasteland of sun and sleaze, where he stayed in shape and had found financial success working as a private detective for the fast-lane Hollywood set.

  Private-eyeing was a job to Stone, nothing more. He was his own boss, with enough financial security to accommodate a beach house in Venice, California, and a quiet personal life. But Stone's blue-gray eyes, which had seen so much in war-torn 'Nam, could never lose the objective cool of an outsider in smoggy, sinful L.A. Mark was extremely competent, but not terribly dedicated to his work as a private investigator.

  The only activity that gave meaning to the thirty-five-year-old ex-Green Beret's life was his "second job" as an M.I.A. hunter.

  Mark returned periodically to Southeast Asia in search of American missing-in-action prisoners of war for the families of such men who hired him. Mark would also come back with any American he found being held prisoner during his specific missions.

  Of necessity, Mark kept a very low profile. The most important condition that he always insisted upon from those who hired him was complete confidentiality. Mark did not advertise his services. The cover of Stone Investigative Consultants was perfect for potential clients who wished to contact him. That was how this nocturnal appointment with Nora Bradford had been arranged. Stone's potential clients never actually came to Stone's North Hollywood office, which he was certain was under government surveillance.

  The contact point with Mrs. Bradford was a public parking lot adjacent to a stretch of beach, deserted at this hour, bathed in moon glow and caressed by the eternal lapping of the Pacific.

  Mark steered his Lancia into the parking area and braked alongside the only other car in sight, a late-model Camaro.

  He left his car and approached the other vehicle. He leaned down and looked into the car from the open window on the passenger side.

  A woman sat behind the Camaro's steering wheel, nervously puffing on a cigarette, obviously waiting.

  "Mrs. Bradford?"

  "Yes. Mr. Stone?"

  "That's right."

  "Please get in."

  He did. In the brief illumination from the car's overhead light he saw that Nora Bradford was an attractive brunette in her early forties. He also noted a strained tightness around the woman's mouth and in her eyes, and in the jerky concentration of her smoking.

  Stone had come to recognize these as
standard symptoms of those who had only very recently learned shocking good news, immediately overshadowed by the even more shocking truth concerning the bureaucratic bumbling of their government, before being forced to resort to other channels that had led this woman to a moonlit beach in Southern California at what she probably, and quite rightly, perceived as her last chance, her last stop before giving up altogether on an ephemeral hope that had at first ignited so much joy and been almost real enough to touch.

  "Mr. Stone, your name was given to me by Mrs. Virgil Shumway of Fort Worth," she told him without preamble. "I was put in touch with the Shumways by an organization for families of M.I.A.'s."

  Stone had brought back the son of Mr. and Mrs. Shumway, now a man in his mid-thirties, who had spent the last decade of his life as an M.I.A./P.O.W. at a prison camp in northern Laos that Mark and his team had decimated before pulling out with Chris Shumway and three other P.O.W.'s, two Americans and an Australian. As usual, the operation had been concealed from all media and government authorities.

  "Husband or brother?" asked Mark.

  Nora Bradford handed him an envelope. Mark opened it and extracted a snapshot of a husky-looking man in U.S. Army fatigues, against a backdrop of green jungle hills and washed-out blue sky that Mark recognized as Vietnam.

  "My husband, Alex," she said as Stone studied the picture. "That's the last known photograph of him. It's years old, of course. Alex was a pilot. He was lost over Laos in the last year of the war. He was listed as M.I.A. I thought . . . all of these years . . . I thought he was dead."