Firestorm

3

“We got her,” said the voice on the phone.

“Okay,” Mike Stephens said. “What’s that mean for me?”

“Watch your bank balance. We’ll make this all worth your while.”

“How much?”

“Quarter million. Just like we discussed.”

Stephens leaned back into the chair, propped his feet up on the coffee table. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “What I did, it was dangerous, you know.”

“Don’t—”

“Seriously, I’m thinking you owe me more. Like one million.”

“Take your money and shut up.”

“Bullshit,” Stephens said. “We both know this would’ve cost you a hell of a lot more if you’d hired someone else.”

“Leave it alone.”

“The hell I will,” Stephens said. He was on his feet now, stalking through the apartment, his cheeks scarlet with rage. “You wanted her. I gave her to you. Now I want some real money. What’s the problem?”

“Take your cash and shut up,” the other man said. “Now’s a hell of a time for you to try to change the terms.”

“Change the terms? Yeah, I’ll change the terms. I can make a couple of phone calls and let people know what you’re up to. That’d put a little crimp in your plans.”

“If you were smart, you’d shut the hell up, take your money and disappear into your haze of booze and hookers. Or else.”

A cold sensation traveled down Stephens’s spine. Don’t back down now, he told himself. Don’t let this piece of Euro-trash push you around. You push back hard enough and he’ll give you what you want.

“Or else? What does that mean?”

“It means Maria Serrano is on her way out. And you keep popping off, something might happen to that little whore you’re keeping at your apartment.”

Stephens felt his pulse quicken, but when he spoke his voice was flat and cold. “Don’t go there,” he said.

The other man laughed.

“Spare me,” he said. “If you’re smart, you’ll just shut up and walk away. Take your lady on a trip or something. Disappear. ’Cause maybe you can take me. Maybe. But you can’t take the people backing me.”

“You mean, Bly?”

“For starters. But he’s got friends. Ones who’d be only too happy to burn you down, if it meant fewer headaches for them. You can’t handle all that heat. By the way, what’s your girl’s name?”

“Go to hell!” Stephen shouted.

“I can make her disappear. You’ll never see the body. You’ll never see that baby she’s carrying. And I’ll have a good time doing it. It will be just like the war.”

Stephens clenched his jaw and he held his tongue.

“We understand each other?” Milt Krotnic asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, why don’t you take that money and buy your lady something pretty.”

The phone went dead and Stephens stared at it for several seconds. He tossed it on the couch and sank onto the cushion next to it. Squeezing his eyes closed, he dropped his head into his hands. His mind reeled from the enormity of what he’d done. He’d betrayed his country, and he’d done it for no reason other than greed. He’d caused a half-dozen people to die.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to work, he thought. The way Krotnic had laid it all out to him had been different. The lying creep had assured him it’d be bloodless. Stephens would pass along the names of his teammates to the Serb who, in turn, would pass them along to Bly. The executive then would quietly ring up his contacts in Washington and tell them he’d identified their agents and that Langley should recall them. They’d go home, alive, and no one would be the wiser for his role in the whole thing.

And he’d walk away with some cash in a bank account in Zurich. Plenty enough cash for him to leave the cloak-and dagger crap and make a real life for himself. Now he had blood on his hands.

His stomach suddenly tightened and he launched himself from the couch, sprinted for the bathroom. Crouched before the toilet, his guts heaved violently and he emptied their contents into the bowl.

He thought of Eva, locks of lustrous black hair set against smooth brown skin. A chill raced down his spine as he remembered that she’d gone shopping. She’d be out in the open, vulnerable to Krotnic.

Stephens got to his feet and staggered to the sink. Setting his hands on either side of it, he leaned his weight on his arms to support himself as he leaned in close and studied his face in the mirror.

You gotta do something, he told himself. Get cleaned up, get out there and handle this.

A BALL OF NERVOUS ENERGY , Krotnic paced the room while he spoke to Bly on the speakerphone.

“He’s going to turn on us,” Krotnic said.

“Stephens? Well, do something about it, then,” Bly said.

“Sure,” Krotnic replied. “You got some guys I can use?”

“Of course.”

“Send them my way. I need maybe ten.”

“He’s not that good,” Bly said.

Krotnic laughed. “Hell no, he’s not. I just want to play it safe. He lives in an apartment building. I think we should do a little housecleaning, if you get my drift.”

“Are you crazy? That will draw all kinds of attention!”

“I’ve got it under control,” Krotnic said. “We drop a little cocaine in there, buy a couple of witnesses, maybe a local cop and it’s done. They’ll write it off as a drug-related killing. The locals won’t press too hard.”

“Where do I send them?” Bly asked.

Krotnic told him. “And send Doyle, too.”

“Why him?”

“Because he won’t fall apart if he has to kill someone.”

“None of my people will,” Bly replied, his irritation audible.

“I’m talking about a pregnant woman,” Krotnic said. “He won’t freak out about killing a pregnant woman. If his people won’t do it, then he’ll do it himself.”

Krotnic heard Bly sigh heavily on the other end. “Yes,” Bly said. “I suppose he would. I assume all this is necessary?”

Krotnic grinned to himself. “You going soft?”

“Ask me that again,” Bly said, “and you’ll learn what a stupid question that is.”

Krotnic felt his mouth go dry like a well-wrung sponge. “Sure,” he said. “Forget I asked.”

“Like hell,” the other man replied. “Give me two hours and you’ll have your people.”

B ROGNOLA PUNCHED HIS FIST into his open palm as he stood in Barbara Price’s office. He always worried when he sent his people on missions, always considered his decisions to send them into certain battles. The searing pain in his stomach and the onslaught of worst-case scenarios that raced through his mind told him this time was no different. The priorities in the field continued to shift as new intelligence flowed into the Farm. He glanced over at Price, who was seated at her desk. He knew she was combing through the various intelligence reports so she could prioritize and present them to him during a briefing that loomed a couple of hours away.

When the secure phone rang, it startled him. The big Fed hurried to it, snagged the receiver, raised it to his ear.

“Brognola,” he said.

“I need you to make a call,” Bolan said.

“What are the particulars?”

“I need Leo Turrin to run some traps for me,” the Executioner said.

“Sure, I’ll contact him. What’s the message?”

“The intelligence I have on Chiun is too spotty,” Bolan said. “I’m wondering if any of Leo’s less-savory friends might have some light they can shed on Chiun and his organization.”

“I’ll make the call,” Brognola said. “Tell me what to ask.”

Bolan recited his questions while the big Fed jotted them down on a canary yellow legal pad. When Bolan finished, Brognola said, “I’ve got other news.”

“Go.”

“Police found the team’s controller, Clark, a couple of hours ago. Dead. He was in some apartment in Bogotá. It wasn’t his, obviously. The CIA and FBI have already scrubbed the place down to the walls.”

“How long had he been dead?”

“Not sure,” Brognola said. “The body sat in the heat for a while and was pretty badly decomposed when they found it. Actually it was the smell that tipped them off. The neighbors complained about the stench. The custodian went into the apartment to check on the smell and found the guy sprawled out on the living-room floor with a dozen bullet holes in his torso. We’re assuming that the shooter used a sound suppressor. The place is pretty upscale. If the shooting had been audible, someone would have called the cops.”

“Great,” Bolan said. “I guess I’ll scratch him off my list of people to talk to.”

“Yeah. Have faith, though. Barb’s been working her contacts in Washington and she’s come up with some interesting information about Mr. Clark.”

“Yeah?”

“Now that the proverbial shit has hit the fan, suddenly everyone understands what’s been happening for the past couple of months with the Garrison investigation. Bly apparently knew it was happening for a while at least. We’re still trying to figure out how he knew, but he knew. Unfortunately for us, he was smart about it. He offered up a couple of sources to the team, and Clark took the bait. They were offering him all kinds of information, some of it too good to be true.”

“Which means it was,” Bolan stated. “He was an experienced field guy. How’d he fall for that?”

“Hard to say,” Brognola replied. “It’s possible that he was too taken with the information to analyze it and determine whether it actually made sense given what we know. Or that it had enough of an air of credibility about it to make it worth pursuing.”

“That’d make sense,” Bolan said, “considering that the guy at the top was the one feeding the information to him.”

“Sure, it could’ve had just enough truth in it to make the lie seem plausible. I mean Bly was pulling the strings on most of what came out, so he could direct traffic and lead the CIA where he wanted it to go.”

“Do we know who was feeding the controller his information?”

“I’ve got a contact,” Brognola said. “There’s a guy on the ground there, name’s Bill Wallace. He’s a ballistics expert and a gunsmith and a former commando. The U.S. sent him to Colombia a couple of years ago to consult with their military. The assignment stuck and he’s still there. Whenever we—meaning Langley, Justice or the Pentagon—send someone into the country covertly, whether for a drug investigation or some other clandestine op, he provides the weapons and equipment. Saves us the headache of smuggling guns through airports. I know him. We go back a long way. The guy’s absolutely incorruptible.”

“Did he arm Serrano’s team?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Brognola replied. “But, it’s likely he did, and he’ll tell us what we want to know. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

B OLAN GUIDED THE CAR into a curved driveway that led to an iron gate. He parked and waited for a guard to appear. Jack Grimaldi undid his seat belt and opened his windbreaker, giving him better access to his handgun.

A minute later, Bolan sensed someone coming. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw three guards approaching the car from the rear. Two of the men stopped a few yards behind the vehicle and stood on either side of it, their FN submachine guns cradled in plain view.

A third man came up alongside the car and stopped just behind Bolan’s shoulder. The position made it easier for him to get the drop on the Executioner, should he make a play for a weapon. The guard, a scarecrow-thin man with a bushy black mustache, his eyes shaded by a billed cap, rested his hand on his sidearm.

“Quick,” Grimaldi said, mock urgency in his voice, “hide the joint.”

“Comedy,” Bolan said. “Just what we need.”

The Executioner rolled down his window. A blast of hot air tinged with oppressive humidity blasted his face.

“Can I help you?” the guard asked.

“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Wallace.”

“ID?”

Bolan dug out the leather carrying case that contained his wallet from the cup holder built into the car’s console. He handed it, already flipped open, to the guard. The man studied it, nodded and handed it back. They repeated the process with Grimaldi. Then the guard reached up and keyed the microphone clipped to his shoulder and ordered the gate open.

Once inside the compound, Bolan navigated the car along the curved driveway. He noticed most of the land around the house was stripped of trees and most shrubs, for security purposes, he assumed.

The rooftop became visible before the rest of the house did. He turned another corner, followed the driveway as it dipped and finally rolled up in front of the big hacienda-style house.

Wallace stood in the driveway and watched them roll in. Except for the Glock that rested on his hip, he otherwise looked like a father waiting to take his kids to soccer practice. He wore a polo shirt, khakis and brown loafers. His wide face seemed to swallow up a pair of glasses with small, round lenses that were perched on his nose.

Bolan parked the vehicle. He and Grimaldi exited it.

Wallace ambled toward them. He shook hands first with Grimaldi and then with Bolan, who found his handshake firm and confident.

“Sorry about the theatrics,” Wallace said. A soft Southern accent colored his voice. He made a sweeping wave that took in his house and a pair of Mercedes SUVs parked nearby. “People see all this and they want to help themselves to it. They can have it. But it’s my family I worry about. Place is filthy with kidnappers.”

“Understood,” Bolan said.

“Come inside,” Wallace said.

They followed Wallace through the house, ascended a circular staircase that led to the second floor and adjourned to Wallace’s luxurious study.

Several bottles of water and a carafe of coffee stood with some cups at the center of a small conference table ringed with chairs.

“Help yourselves to a drink,” Wallace said. “Cop a squat. Do whatever you want. Any friend of Hal’s is a friend of mine.”

Wallace seated himself at the conference table. He took a bottle of water, twisted off the cap and gulped some. Grimaldi took a seat at the table while Bolan continued to stand.

“Did Hal tell you why we’re here?” Bolan asked.

“He told me enough,” Wallace replied. “I work with the Feds on pretty big projects, so my clearances run pretty high. Not bragging. Just letting you know that I have access to things other nongovernment folks can’t touch. Hal said that a CIA ops team that was looking into Garrison went missing. Said you’d come down here to find them.”

“You familiar with the team?” Bolan asked.

“I provided them with some surveillance equipment,” Wallace said. “And a secure phone, along with a few pistols and submachine guns. They were under nonofficial cover, so they couldn’t go through any of the traditional channels. They couldn’t go near the embassy or meet with anyone from the local CIA station. It’d raise too many eyebrows.”

“Meeting with you wouldn’t?” the Executioner asked.

Wallace nodded. “Hell, yeah. But they didn’t meet with me. I have a couple of freelance operatives I run around here. I used one of them to pass things along.”

“Which means they met at least some of the team.”

“Wrong,” Wallace said, a hint of irritation in his voice. “I’ve done this a few times, remember? My guy was brand-new to the area, an unknown quantity to everyone but me. I had him leave the stuff at a dead drop, get the hell out of there before the recipients arrived. He never met anyone face-to-face. I monitored the drop by camera until someone picked up the gear.”

“Was it someone from the team?”

“Of course,” Wallace said. “I would’ve sounded the alarms in Washington if it’d happened some other way.”

Bolan nodded. “Have you heard anything from them since?”

“Not personally,” Wallace said. “But I am hearing other stuff. Funky stuff.”

“Like?”

“I’ve got a couple of buddies with MI-6. Occasionally, I do a little work for them. They have a couple of guys on the ground here in Colombia, including a guy named Richardson. Ethan Richardson. He does a lot of the same work I do here. He’s just not quite as choosy about his clientele. It’s all just business to him, whether it’s Hezbollah or the Chinese. That’s his reputation and he likes it.”

With loud gulps, Wallace guzzled down more water.

“A few hours ago, someone contacted him. An American. The guy was looking for weapons. It was a stupid move on his part, too. He wanted a couple of handguns and an Uzi. This place is lousy with that kind of stuff. But he called the Brit who was more than happy to sell him the guns. And then he immediately called me and passed along the information.”

“For a price,” Grimaldi said.

A weary smile spread across Wallace’s features. “Friend, nothing comes free in Colombia. Anyway, Richardson assumed that I’d want more information on this American even before we spoke. Once he sold him the weapons, he put a tail on him so we know where he’s going. He also gave me a picture.”

He punched a key on his laptop, turned it around so Bolan and Grimaldi could see it. Bolan saw a pair of photos positioned next to each other on the screen. In one, the soldier observed the grainy image of a man wearing a baseball cap. The second depicted a close-up shot of the man’s face. It was a Caucasian with a flat, wide nose and thick black eyebrows and dull brown eyes.

“Michael Stephens,” Wallace said.

“What do we know about him?” Bolan asked.

“Drifter, of sorts. He used to be with U.S. Army intelligence. According to his file, he was sharp. But he couldn’t stand to take orders from anyone. He took a swing at his sergeant over something petty, like a bad evaluation. The guy repaid him with a busted nose and a dishonorable discharge. He blew a twelve-year career over something stupid. He scrounges around for information, occasionally comes across something that he can sell to us, the Colombians, the rebels, whoever might buy it. Most of what he learns is penny ante stuff, including things compiled from foreign newspapers that he rewrites into intelligence reports. I buy it anyway, just to keep some goodwill with him. Occasionally he comes across something I can use or pass along to someone else. But we have to watch him. He’s a backstabber.”

“You have an address?”

“Yeah,” Wallace said. “And that info’s on the house.”

“So who’s he arming himself against?” Bolan asked.

“Hard to say,” Wallace replied. “Maybe you guys.”

“Not too many people know we’re here,” Grimaldi said.

“Then maybe something else scared him,” Wallace offered. “Maybe his erstwhile employers parted company with him. Or he just pissed somebody off. From what I know about this little turd, there’s no shortage of people who’d happily snap a cap on his ass for free. Hell, a couple might even pay for the privilege.”

“Which means that someone else is going to be heading out there to talk with him,” Grimaldi said.

Wallace nodded again. “Probably. By the way, Hal gave me a shopping list. I have your gear packed in a helicopter and ready to take you wherever you want to go.”

A smile ghosted the Executioner’s lips. “Thanks,” he said.

“W HAT IS GOING ON ?” Eva asked. Her voice was marked by fear. “Why are you doing this?”

Stephens shot her a withering look. “Shut up and pack,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ve asked me three times, and it’s the same damn answer every time. So do as I say.”

Anger flared in her eyes, and her lips tightened into a thin line. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared after him for a few minutes while he packed. Stephens could see at least part of this from the corner of his eye, but ignored her, knowing she’d give up quickly.

After several tense seconds, Eva spun on her heel and headed for the bedroom to pack.

Once she was gone, Stephens pulled his shirttails from the waistband of his pants and let them drape around his waist. He reached inside his nearby briefcase, rooted around inside it for a moment until he found his newly acquired Glock still sheathed in a nylon holster. Lifting his shirttails, he clipped the weapon to his waistband and let his shirt drape over the weapon’s butt. He’d already stowed the second pistol in an ankle holster before Eva had returned home. He didn’t want her to see the weapons. He knew she’d panic and bombard him with questions he didn’t want to answer. Maybe he’d tell her more when they got to the United States. Maybe not. But he’d make that decision later. Right now, getting the hell off the bull’s-eye was the main priority. And, if she had any gratitude, she’d shut her mouth and let him handle the situation. He was, after all, doing all this for her and the baby, which was all she needed to know.