“Henrico, let’s go,” he said to De Jager.
De Jager rose from his prone position and they started down the embankment toward the house.
The two men by the vehicle laughed and both inhaled deeply on their smokes.
Three seconds later both of them twisted to the ground, the cigarettes tumbling like mini-glowsticks lighted at only one end.
Preetorius and De Jager met with Mulder and Loots, a wisp of smoke trailing from the circular end of the sound suppressor attached to the end of the barrel of Loots’s Vektor R4 rifle.
They quickly pulled the bodies around the SUV, leaving them lying on the side opposite the house. Mulder had recovered the briefcase and snapped open the catches.
He lifted the lid only enough to verify that it was the ransom money and snapped the catches closed again. He looked at Preetorius who smirked and said, “Leave it with our two friends for now. They aren’t going anywhere.”
Mulder tucked the briefcase between the two bodies and straightened up.
“We’ll go in as planned,” Preetorius said. “Henrico and I up top.”
He adjusted the sling of his MP5, making sure it was clipped and remaining close against his vest and reaffirmed the snugness of his black leather, fingerless gloves.
After a quick check of the front of the house, the four of them rushed to the left side of the door, away from the view of the shuttered windows but in line with the far edge of the balcony.
Preetorius stepped back as the other three formed a quick human pyramid. Once again feeling like his jungle cat namesake—his Christian name, Luan, meant “Lion,” he scrambled up the backs of his teammates. As his hands reached the rungs of the balcony and gripped them, more evidence of the decay of the mansion suddenly became evident: the rungs broke off in his fingers.
Shit, Preetorius thought, still managing to maintain his balance. Using his powerful leg muscles to spring upward, the upper half of his body thrust through more rotted wood and he pulled himself all the way onto the balcony. The floor itself seemed none too sturdy, but it held up as he pressed down on it as a durability test. Satisfied that it would support his weight, and that of another, he spun around and removed the coil of rope from his shoulder pack.
“Henrico,” he whispered as he lowered the rope.
De Jager was the smallest of the three below. He was also the most agile. Preetorius felt the rope stiffen and he braced himself and pulled as De Jager’s feet skipped up the wall. Preetorius dropped the line as soon as his compatriot was on solid footing, then unsnapped his Vektor Z88 from the holster. After screwing on the sound suppressor, he pressed the button and sent the red laser dot onto the wooden framework.
All charged up and ready to go, he thought.
Just like him.
He withdrew the K-bar knife from the sheath on the left side of his body armor. While he preferred the knife for up close and personal killing, they were here on a mission … a paid assignment, so he then invaginated the blade once more.
Business before pleasure, he thought. But perhaps I’ll have an occasion to combine them both.
De Jager was loosening the closed shutters on the window facing them with his knife, and Preetorius knew that Mulder and Loots were already on either side of the front door and the others were positioning themselves for the dynamic entry on his signal.
The anticipated thrill of the next few moments swept through him like an anticipated sexual climax. This was when he felt most alive … knowing that the big cat was about to strike, and other men were going to die.
De Jager popped the shutter loose and Preetorius saw the pane behind it was long ago broken. He motioned for De Jager to enter first and the smaller man slid through the opening with the ease of a black mamba. Preetorius followed, his much larger body slowing his movements slightly. They paused on the floor, testing its resilience with toe-pressing caution. It wouldn’t do to go plummeting through a weak spot, but neither would it be apropos to alert any of their adversaries with noticeable tapping. Letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness of the room, he studied the dimensions. It was vacant, as was the framework of the doorjamb. Light spilled upward from below. Preetorius flipped down his night-vision glasses and the crystal-clear verdant images took form. Keeping the Vektor in a ready position close to his chest, he moved to the edge of the open doorway and did a quick peek. Below, on the first floor, music played and the smell of burning cigarettes, hard liquor, and sweat lingered in the air. Masculine voices drifted upward. It sounded like French, mixed with Kituba. Men talked in low, murmuring tones, occasionally laughing as a woman moaned. He moved with cautious stealth to the edge of the upstairs banister and did another quick peek.
There was enough lighting below from half a dozen or so electric lanterns so he switched off and elevated his night-vision goggles. Seven hostiles were below, one of them in a chair was holding a naked woman. He was naked as well. She was white. Two more women, both black, lay in twisted heaps in the center of the floor surrounded by three more men in various positions around the room. These women were nude as well, but the men were partially clothed. Two of them were shirtless but wearing pants. Another shirtless man reposed on a decrepit sofa, his pants around his knees, and another was taking a swig from a bottle, his head tilted back, a good portion of the liquor spilling down his dark cheeks. Three AK-47’s were carelessly stacked on either side of the sofa and the drinking man’s weapon was leaning against the side wall. The other two held theirs haphazardly.
The principals at the oil company had informed them that seven of their personnel were missing, believed kidnapped, according to the ransom demand. Four men and three women. Preetorius had inquired as to the ages of the women, three of whom were nubile. He informed the principals that time was of the essence because there was a strong possibility that the women, all of them, would be severely mistreated. Norton, the controller, had grimaced.
“Do you mean they’ll be molested?” he’d asked.
Preetorius nodded. It was a given, considering whom they were dealing with.
The man grimaced. “Even if we pay the ransom?”
“There’s a good chance of it,” Preetorius. “They will most likely be killed as well. I would recommend we act quickly.”
“Bastards,” Norton said.
Now it had come to pass, or at least the rape part. The client would undoubtedly not be pleased by this development.
But at least I prepared them for the worst, Preetorius thought.
But was this the worst?
None of the male hostages were visible.
That meant they were either secured in another room or dead.
Preetorius hoped for the former. He had the reputation of the Lion Team to think about.
So maybe the males were still alive. Maybe these negers didn’t want an audience to their debauchery.
He edged back from view and keyed his mic, whispering a quick description of the scene below, and advising Coetzee and Moolman on the rear to assume cover so as not to get caught in a crossfire. He assigned the zones of fire, stating the ones he would take out personally.
“Leave at least one or two alive. We need to find out where they’ve stashed the other hostages.”
The rest of the Lion Team acknowledged and Preetorius then said, “Go.”
Stepping to the edge of the second-floor landing once again, he extended his arms and fitted his index finger through the trigger guard. The Vektor had a double action pull on the first round, then transitioned to single action. Preetorius consistently trained for that first long trigger pull, careful not to allow the adrenalized rush to cause him to drop the first round. This was always a danger, especially with the heavy cam of the silencer. But, as usual, his aim was perfect, punctuated by the plink of the sound suppressor.
The head of the man standing by the wall, the one holding his rifle at port arms, suddenly jerked back and his knees bent in unison as the rest of his body wobbled backward and then forward.
Like he was doing a dance, Preetorius thought as he acquired target acquisition of the man next to the falling one.
This one glanced around, grabbing for the Kalashnikov leaning against the wall.
Preetorius’s second shot hit him in the left temple and he crumpled forward.
He had one more shot he wanted to make before leaving the remaining crew for Loots and Mulder to deal with as they came through the front door.
The man holding the woman dumped her on the floor and stood surveying his collapsing cohorts. Preetorius leaned over and sent a round directly though the man’s meaty right buttocks. He fell forward on top of the woman he’d just dropped.
Sounds of the front door being breached echoed in the room as Preetorius swung his legs over the banister, which was surprisingly sturdy, and made the fourteen-foot drop into the room below. As he landed he peripherally glimpsed another of the hostiles drop, accompanied by the plunking sound of the suppressed rounds. The last hostile standing was in the process of bringing his rifle into a firing position, but Preetorius shot the man through the right bicep and then the abdomen. Before the weapon had fully tumbled out of the man’s hands and onto the floor, Loots surged forward and delivered a quick butt-stroke with his Vekrot R4. It had a metallic, folding stock, but still packed enough punch to knock the dirty neger silly.
“Two clear the other rooms,” Pretorius said into his com as the rest of the Lion Team moved through the room. “Henrico?”
“Second floor clear,” De Jager said from above.
The naked man below him groaned and Preetorius put his boot on top of the man’s back and bore down.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said.
The naked black women were starting to stir. The white one was still underneath her tormentor, so Preetorius pulled the man off her. The white woman’s chest heaved. She was breathing. A trail of blood snaked down her cheek from her hair.
“Section Alpha clear,” Loots said.
“Bravo clear,” Coetzee said.
Moolman chimed in signaling the final quadrant: “Charlie clear,”
“Johannes?” Preetorius said.
“All quiet on the western front, boss,” Rensburg said. “Sounds like I missed all the fun.”
Preetorius smiled. “Next time Gerhardus will be the sniper. Keep watch while we do interrogations.” He glanced as his watch: 2150 hours. Not bad for a night’s work so far. But they still had a ways to go.
Miles to go before I sleep, Preetorius thought, recalling a favorite line of poetry from some obscure American poet that he’d read in grammar school. Perhaps when this was over he’d look up the quote, see who it was. But in the meantime …
He was cognizant of the rest of the team drifting back into the room, checking the bodies for verification.
“Check the women,” he said to Engelbrect and Haarhoff, then motioned to Mulder and Loots. “Bring that one over here.”
They grabbed the wounded man, who was moaning. Blood was spilling out of the wounds on his arm and abdomen. He appeared to be going into shock.
Preetorius grabbed the naked man who’d been shot in the ass and threw him off to the side.
This one would be the most likely squealer. The other one wouldn’t last that long.
Loots dumped the other one on the floor a yard or so away.
“The women are all alive,” Engelbrect said. “Looks like they’ve been beaten and raped.”
“See if you can find some clothes for them,” Preetorius said as he unscrewed the silencer from the end of his Vektor. “Strip those fuckers of theirs if you can’t.”
After slipping the suppressor into his pants pocket, he re-holstered his pistol and withdrew the K-bar. The lighting was sufficient enough make the silver blade gleam as he rotated it. Loots grabbed the arms of the man with the ass wound and twisted his arms behind his back. He screamed in pain.
Sounds like a little girl, Preetorius thought, knowing now he’d made the right choice of which one would break first. Mulder held the man with the abdominal wound. His gut was already swollen and distended from the blood welling up inside. After making sure that ass-wound was watching, Preetorius gripped the ear of the gut-wounded man and jerked his head up so their eyes were locked.
“You’ve been some bad little negers,” Preetorius said, smiling. “Where are the other hostages?”
“S’il vous plait,” the man said.
Preetorius repeated his question: “Where are the other hostages?”
The man mumbled something in French that Preetorius assumed was the equivalent of either a plea for help or some form of profanity. Either way, all that mattered was that the one with the ass wound was watching.
Preetorius stuck the tip of his knife under the wounded man’s chin.
“One more time, asshole,” Preetorius said. “And I don’t speak French or Kituba. Where are the other hostages?”
Again the man mumbled something so Preetorius swiped the blade downward, opening a long, but shallow cut from the man’s chin to the pulsating hole in his side. The blood continuously poured from that wound.
“Please, boss,” ass-wound said. “He no speak English.”
“But you do, eh, boy?” Loots said, exerting more pressure on the man’s bent arms.
“Oui, oui,” the man said. “Yes. Me have English.”
“You certainly don’t look it,” Preetorius said. “The male hostages. Where are they?”
“They in rubber shed out back, boss.”
“Alive or dead?”
“They alive, boss. We no kill ’em. We good. Only wants da money, boss.”
“We saw something that looked like an old rubber drying room back there,” Moolman said. “About a hundred yards back.”
Preetorius checked with Rensburg: “You see anything that looks like a shed in the rear?”
After about fifteen seconds Rensburg replied: “Old wooden shack. Can’t see anyone near it.”
Preetorius told Coetzee and Moolman to check it out. They slipped out the back way. After they’d left Preetorius looked down at ass-wound.
“You know what happens if you lie to me,” he said. It was not enunciated as an interrogative, but rather as a statement.
“I no lie, boss,” ass-wound said. “I no lie.”
They stood in silence for about three minutes before Coetzee’s voice came over the com.
“They’re here. Four of them. Badly beaten, but alive.”
“Bring them to the house,” Preetorius said.
Ass-wound’s eyes widened. “See? See, boss. I no lie to you. I no lie.”
“True,” Preetorius said. “But you’re still going to hell, asshole.”
Drawing back his arm, he smiled right before he drove the knife forward.
He was going to get to use it up close and personal after all.
LaGuardia International Airport
New York City
Cummins settled into the seat of the red-eye, grateful that Fallotti’s reservations had been for first class. It gave him precious breathing room and a bit of distance from Zerbe. After they’d left the office it had been hectic and Cummins had barely had enough time to visit his apartment, empty his mailbox, and toss some clothes in a suitcase. He hadn’t been surprised when Zerbe announced that he had no luggage to speak of, just a carry on.
“It’s best if you just travel light and buy whatever you need in this business,” he said.
Cummins hoped that would include a change of underwear. The man’s pungency was sickening.
After they’d reentered the limo and departed for the airport, Zerbe removed his phone, looked at it, and frowned.
“He hasn’t called me back yet,” he said, then shrugged. “Of course it’s getting on toward the wee hours over there.”
Cummins knew that meant South Africa. They were at least seven or so hours ahead. He’d been surprised that Fallotti okayed the use of a foreign team as back-up to neutralize Wolf, but if these guys were as go
od as Zerbe had said they were, that poor son of a bitch Wolf wouldn’t stand a chance.
Of course, that was what they’d figured before in Mexico.
Zerbe punched in some numbers on his cell and waited.
Cummins could tell it rang several times before going to voice mail.
“Hello, Luan ,” Zerbe said. “Hoe gaan dit? It’s your old comrade in arms, Jason. I’ve got a particularly good assignment in mind for you. Right up your alley. Give me a call back as soon as you can. Oh, by the way, I’m in the U.S. Gesels later.”
He removed the phone from his ear and pressed another button to terminate the call.
“My guess is that he’s out somewhere on assignment,” he said. “Keeps pretty busy, that one. He’s in demand all over the Africa and Europe and the Middle East.”
“So you said. What makes you think he’ll fly all the way here to take this job?”
Zerbe smiled. “For one thing the money will be right. But moreover, once I tell him what happened down in Mexico and who he’s going up against, he’ll be champing at the bit.”
“Why’s that?”
“He won’t be able to resist.” Zerbe slipped his phone back into his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. “He loves a challenge.”
Cummins mulled this over for a few seconds.
That’s exactly what Eagan had said, he thought.
“And what makes you so sure he’ll be able to handle Wolf?” Cummins asked.
Zerbe blew out a burst of air in a mocking scoff.
“I told you,” he said. “He’s the best.”
Chapter Five
The Mcnamara Ranch
Phoenix, Arizona
With the new dawn, Wolf had decided to try and tackle the mountain again. This time he’d used a neoprene wrap around the bruised area and dumped a half dozen ice cubes inside it. The numbness helped for the first part of the run, but then, as he got about halfway through the first mile, the ice had all melted and dribbled away, and the sandpaper returned and started rubbing on his ribcage again. Each jolting step exacerbated it even more.
Devil's Fancy (Trackdown Book 2) Page 7
