So he had played hard, bringing along European playmates, a few ounces of cocaine and several cases of Scotch whiskey flying with himself and his elite guards in the Learjet that had left Riyadh six weeks ago, their Saudi contacts making all the prior logistical arrangements and handing over the party favors. Trouble was, he was having great difficulty enjoying the good times these days when he was juiced with anxiety all the time. The Saudis, he knew, could get away with it, lopping off the heads of drug dealers and addicts, publicly flogging women of loose morals, all sinners guilty until proven innocent, then jet off for a weekend in Paris or Amsterdam or London, gambling and drinking, drugging and whoring. There had been a time when he would have found that an abominable hypocrisy in the eyes of God, an evil lie that betrayed the strict tenets of the Koran. Six weeks in the Seychelles, though, and he wasn’t so sure any longer. He was only flesh, only a man, after all, with needs and wants. Could be, he concluded, the Saudis had the right idea—do as I say, not as I do. Anyway, who could fight or stand up to the power of money?
He was out of the pool, one of his Swedish playmates bringing him a towel and a glass of champagne. He dismissed her with a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of buttocks. Playtime was over. He needed to go to the suite, place calls to various contacts and cutouts who would get in touch with their leader. He needed to know something. All the sex, drugs and rock and roll was fine, as the infidels referred to their sinful indulgences, but he was antsy for answers. And being a man of action, a fighter who both planned and carried out operations against the enemy, he needed to get back out in the battlefield.
Toweled off, killing the drink, he spotted Baluq, his big guard, mingling with some of the locals near the bar. He caught his eye, waved him over, slipped into his sandals and Hawaiian shirt and began walking for the back entrance to the lobby on the far side of the pool. He took his cell phone, dialed up to the suite. Four, then five rings and he found himself becoming angry, aware his men were up there, most likely huffing blow and perhaps catching an early-morning hummer from one of the Euro-strumpets.
“Yes!”
Hamadan froze, felt his jaw clench, ears buzzing with rage as he tuned in to the party antics. Ahmad had to practically shout over the thunder of American rock and roll, Hamadan catching some giggling in the background. It galled Hamadan even more that Ahmad actually sounded annoyed he had to answer the phone. Oh, but it was time to put an end to the nonsense.
“Get rid of the whores!” Hamadan snarled, watching as Baluq rolled toward him, looking miffed that he had to leave his new lady friends at the bar. “I am coming up and I want them gone by the time I get there! And turn off that racket! We have work to do!”
Hamadan punched off, dropped the cell phone in his pocket. It was time to announce to all of them it was back to work in no uncertain terms. A warrior needed to stay sharp, focused, alert, aware his destiny was far greater than wallowing around in the sludge of self-indulgence.
He was moving past the bar when three men seemed to suddenly materialize out of the vegetation that jumbled around the cabana. It was just a feeling, but something didn’t look right about the trio. For a fleeting second he had the feeling they knew who and what he was, that they had come looking expressly for him. Or were his nerves simply shot, too much of everything paradise had to offer dulling the warrior’s senses, replacing martial talent with simple paranoia and fear? Right then, not even he could be sure what was real or imagined. They were dressed for paradise, sure enough, checking out the sights poolside, one of them easing toward the bar as if to order. The one with the black sunglasses appeared to ogle a few of the bathing beauties, but there was something in the way the tall dark one moved that left Hamadan wondering if he was being stalked as he felt the hackles bristle on his neck. Sure, the island was a tourist magnet, and they came from all over Europe, the Middle East, provided their wallets were fat, and rich Westerners were a common sight. Paradise, he knew, wasn’t meant for the poor, unless they bussed tables or cleaned rooms.
He looked away from the trio, picking up the pace, sweeping past the gaggle of couples just rousing to hit the pool or the hotel restaurant for a late breakfast of Bloody Marys and stuffed lobster. He was somewhat comforted by the fact Baluq carried a Browning Hi-Power beneath his white sports coat, but suddenly wished he was armed. He was tempted to look back over his shoulder, but if he was being followed he didn’t want to betray his suspicions. If he wasn’t, then he would feel foolish, perhaps even look silly, or worse, a coward in the eyes of Baluq.
The lobby was bustling with tourist traffic. In his heightened state of anxiety, the polished chrome, the white marble of countertops and floor seemed to drive hot needles into his eyes as the sunlight knifed through the ceiling window. He beelined for the bank of elevators, found one of them opening just as he stepped up, the car disgorging a mosaic of peoples and cultures from the island and the world over. He was inside, keying the slot that would take him to the top floor, turning, grateful to be alone, on his way up top to shake up the troops when—
The trio of strangers rolled into the car. It was a frozen moment, one for the ages as Hamadan saw his worst suspicions and imaginings become reality.
A glimpse of the sound-suppressed weapon, the doors closing, and Hamadan heard the soft chug. He didn’t have to look to know Baluq was on his way to true Paradise, as he heard the heavy thud of deadweight and tasted blood on his lips.
IT WAS CALLED the Hotel California of all damn things. According to Collins, it was recently built by a Saudi construction company believed to have ties to the bin Laden family. According to Collins the Seychelles were the favorite stomping grounds for Saudi fat cats, Islamic extremists or other fugitives with money to burn on the run these days. Collins, Bolan recalled, stated a good portion of intelligence had come to him concerning a connection between the Iranian fundamentalists and Saudi sponsorship. That, Bolan knew, at least gibed with his own experience since the Saudis were notorious for talking out of both sides of their mouths, saying one thing about America and doing another. Bottom line the Seychelles was expensive, remote and the local authorities had no problem turning a blind eye to suspicious visitors if the price for blissful ignorance was right. It all made sense in the way of corruption to Bolan, but he knew there was no time now to debate where the truth ended and the bullshit began.
They were no sooner in the elevator than Gambler had the sound-suppressed Beretta out and coring a neat red hole between the eyes of Hamadan’s bodyguard. Blood splashed the teakwood wall, gore spraying the Iranian. Before the body crashed to the floor, Collins was all over Hamadan in the next eye blink, his own sound-suppressed Beretta thrust under the Iranian’s chin.
“Who are you?” Hamadan rasped.
“We ain’t tour guides, fella, unless you want to take a trip into the twilight zone,” Gambler said, hauling out the mini-Uzi from his open bag, attaching the sound suppressor, cocked and locked.
“How many in the suite?”
The bells chimed, Bolan arming himself, sound suppressors already fixed during the drive in on his mini-Uzi and Beretta 93-R. It would be awkward, hitting the enemy while draping the nylon satchel over his head, hanging it from the other shoulder, but there was no choice.
“Seven,” Hamadan told Collins.
The seventh floor was where the action would take place. Collins demanded the elevator key, and Hamadan handed it over.
“Lock the car when we get there, and keep the key in your pocket,” Collins told Gambler.
“Any guests?” he asked Hamadan.
“No.”
“No whores?”
“I sent them out of the suite.”
“The doors, they open in or out?”
“In.”
“I’ll need the keys.”
“You won’t need them,” Hamadan said. “They are left unlocked.”
“Cocky little shits,” Gambler said, watching the lights and the doors.
“Yeah,” Collins said. “
Well, even terrorist scum needs to unwind once in a while, but all this lax time is about to get a few of them killed. Turn around, asshole. Anything cute, you shout a warning, and I’ll pump one through your head. Makes me sick just to look at you, down here, pumping good-looking broads of European persuasion, good food, big suite, boozing it up, even doing a little blow, I hear, the time of your life.”
Hamadan grinned, defiant. “I hear envy.”
“You hear the voice of alpha-male pride, shitbag,” Collins growled. “Something I’m sure you don’t know a goddamn thing about.”
“And if he’s lied about the doors?” Bolan wanted to know.
“Then frag ’em,” Collins said. “He lies, he ends up like his pal here, and I’m sure he can see this guy just had his last foo-foo drink down at the bar.”
Collins spun him, fastened the plastic cuffs. “You know the drill, gentlemen. I laid out the specs I got on the suite. Stick to the plan, by the numbers. I get in position, I’ll give you a three count. Let’s hit and git. Look alive—if there’s a jihad goon waiting when these doors open, drop him.”
The doors opened, Bolan lifting both weapons, braced for armed competition waiting or lurking in the hall. It was clear, Bolan out and scanning the empty hall, taking point against his better judgment as he led Gambler to the main double doors at the far south end of the hall. As planned, Collins would go in through the north doors that led down an alcove to the kitchen and dining area. The living room was for the soldier and Gambler to sweep. If it played true to the blueprints Collins had gotten from his island contacts, the idea was to catch them in a scissors pinch.
Bolan flanked one side of the doors, wedged the Beretta in the waistband at the small of his back, Gambler on the other, the soldier eyeballing his black ops counterpart. He looked down the hall where Collins was in position, the soldier suddenly not trusting the setup in the least. For one thing, it was damn convenient that Collins was going in with human body armor, while plastering Gambler to his rear. That itch was back, so strong now, the soldier was hearing bells and whistles.
As Collins showed three fingers, counted off, Bolan told himself to watch his own back.
The Executioner grabbed the handle, twisted, opened and went in, both mini-Uzi and Beretta leading the way and searching for targets.
CHAPTER TEN
He was going to do it his way. Hell with it, if the major had a problem with the call he’d live with the end result, come to see reason why it was done here and now. First the body would have to be left behind in the suite, since they couldn’t very well lug a bloody corpse all over Grand Anse with tourists and local babes gawking and gaping at them on their way out of town. Second they were so far away from the real world, the corpse might never see U.S. soil, especially if a few bucks could be spread around to some hungry Seychellois mouths to make sure the body was buried at sea. Last but certainly not least, he just plain didn’t trust or like the damn guy.
He didn’t have a problem with going through the motions of the mission with the other commandos who weren’t on board for the full ride. In time, they would receive the same treatment, but he read the big dark guy as something way different, something else than a standard-issue black ops commando. What, he wasn’t sure. Some Company or NSA plant, the head shed having sniffed out the real deal? Who knew, and what’s more, he didn’t care.
Gambler only knew he had to put one in the back of the guy’s head, end of story.
They were in, advancing down the foyer when the big guy got it started. Man, Gambler thought, but he could move, breathing steady, blasting away with both barrels, scanning the room, cover and concealment wherever he could take it. Palm trees, couch, shooting, advancing, hurling up a fat mahogany table as return fire sought him out, thick wood absorbing rounds with a thundering drumbeat. There was a chance—a damn remote one, the way the bad guys were getting shot to feces in two shakes—his problem would get taken care of by the Iranians.
That didn’t appear about to happen.
Gambler figured he could at least make it look good, marching down the short flight of steps, drilling a burst of 9 mm scorchers into a machine-pistol-brandishing fanatic on the far side where interior decorators had brought the jungle to the joint. He cored him with a rising burst, a giant-screen TV with a lesbian scene going full core—quadruple-X action if he glimpsed it right—in living color right behind the jigging extremist. The image was there, then gone, as the extremist hammered back through the screen, arms flailing in the smoking and sparking ruins as the lesbians blinked out to just another masturbatory fantasy.
Gambler sighted down on Stone, the big guy catching another fundamentalist too slow on the draw. The aloha shirt chopped to red rags, the body sailed and crashed down through a coffee table littered with all manner of party goodies. Gambler counted up four bad guys down and out, heard the din of weapons fire from the north end of the suite. If all went well, Collins would get bogged down for a few critical seconds, never see the curtain fall on this Wild Card character. If it played out that way, Gambler saw himself in the near future, shrugging it off. “Shit happened, Major, one of the bad guys nailed him.”
It sounded like a solid plan, but Stone was alternating his attention to one Iranian dashing for a hallway across the suite and looking back his way. No way, Gambler thought, the guy was probably one of the best shooting ops he’d ever seen, but he was no mind reader.
Gambler let him get the chase started, allowed for ten or so feet lag time, then charted his own hunt on an angle to his right flank. He was lifting the Beretta, the big guy spraying autofire down the hall, when he spotted his TV star rising from the smoke and glass. How the…?
Gambler swung his aim, chugged two rounds into his forehead, shattering skull like rotten eggshell. Stone, he saw, moving two, three steps closer to his rear, was changing clips in his mini-Uzi. Never a better opportunity, Gambler decided, and swung the Beretta up, finger taking up slack on the trigger.
BOLAN KNEW it was coming, and he was ready. Time and again, pure and simple, gut instinct had paid off, saved his life. When the stakes were life-and-death, there were no second chances. And in the Executioner’s world traitors were shown no mercy, no exceptions.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan read the look, the gun hand swinging up, no mistaking where it was aimed. One swift pivot, and the Executioner hit the Beretta’s trigger, pumped a 9 mm Parabellum shocker dead center between Gambler’s eyes.
The soldier had just cut down what appeared the last of the extremists, or at least those armed combatants within sight. The moment seemed to suspend itself before Bolan. It was no more than a second, two tops, but Gambler was a statue, a strange expression of confusion and betrayal paralyzing his face before he toppled to his back.
The soldier checked the carnage, scouring the vandalized furniture where crimson sacks littered the living room. The shooting had abruptly stopped, Bolan turning when he spotted Collins jacking his prisoner into the living room. The look on the Cobra leader’s face told Bolan he’d seen what happened.
Bolan jerked a nod at Gambler, then aimed his Beretta at Collins. “Do you want to explain that?”
“WHOA, HOLD UP, Colonel!”
Collins didn’t have to look real hard at Stone’s face to know his life depended on how he played the next few seconds, which, he knew, meant he had to lie. The big question was would the man know or even sense he had an inkling Gambler had wanted to take him out since first laying eyes on him.
“I saw it happen, Stone.”
“You did.”
Flat and cold, Stone standing there, eyes boring into him, measuring the soul inside the man, and Collins began to feel his knees shake. He clawed his hand harder into Hamadan’s shoulder to steady himself.
“I think I can explain.”
“You can.”
He stared into the ugly snout of the sound suppressor. “You mind taking that off my face?”
“I do.”
“Listen, tha
t guy—and not even I know who he really was, or what agency he worked for—was acting on his own.”
“He was.”
“Goddammit, I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know how much murder of heart he had toward you.”
“Until now.”
“Yeah!”
“Convenient.”
“Goddamn you, Stone, I—we—are walking out of here now!”
“No, we’re not. Not until I know why your boy wanted to shoot me in the back of the head.”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Little hard to do now.”
“No shit, unless you want to do a séance before we leave.”
“What’s going on here, Collins? What’s this mission really all about?”
Collins managed to steady his breathing, held Stone’s stare, unwilling to flinch, wilt under the penetrating drill of those blue eyes. He shook Hamadan some, then said, “It’s about a bunch of murdering scumbags like this here beauty who wish only to kill Americans and Jews. It’s about rounding up some of the worst of the worst to, one, be interrogated so we know what said scumbags are planning and, two, to stand trial for crimes and other assorted atrocities against the human race. Beyond that, hell, I might go on CNN with proof for anyone straddling the fence that the so-called religion of Islam is a sham, a whopping lie, little more than a doctrine of violence, hate and intolerance. Maybe I’ll get my own talk show. That’s it, end of story. Whatever paranoid fantasies you might be having, I’m here to tell you I’m an American, a soldier who is committed solely to his duty. I have a job to do and I am going to do it. Whatever that one over there was up to, I have not the first fucking clue. Take it or leave it.”
Predator Paradise Page 11
