Enemy Arsenal
Setting the briefcase down on the table with a thump, she didn’t waste time with greetings. “Why haven’t you repainted the boat? It has been three days since you took it, yet it still looks the same.”
Lee Ming concealed his anger under a calm, lazy affectation. “It is difficult to do such work when we are being interrupted by pointless meetings with you all the time.”
She smiled, her white teeth flashing in a vulpine grin. “This meeting is anything but pointless, asshole. I have your next assignment, but first, an object lesson for you and the rest of these dirty pigs.”
Now she had all of the men’s attention. Of course, calling Ming an asshole and the rest of them dirty pigs would do that, Xiang thought. One or two of them tensed, as if they were going to try to jump her, but Lee froze them in place with just a look. He returned his attention to the woman, who stood by the table like a statue, watching them all from behind her dark sunglasses.
“Please, continue.” One could almost miss the gritted strain in his voice, he covered it well.
“In here is money for resupplying the boat, as well as getting the damn thing painted. It had better be done in the next two days, or we’ll find another crew to handle this operation. And if you doubt my word—”
She popped open the locks on the briefcase, opened it and took out a small lacquered box inlaid with gold filigree. “I brought you a gift from my superior.” She set it on the table in front of Lee. “Open it.”
Even Xiang knew that opening a gift immediately after receiving it was bad form, but since it was more of an order than a request, Lee didn’t have a choice. He reached out and undid the tiny metal clasp with one hand, then flipped the cover open. The men behind him gasped in surprise, but Lee showed no hint of any reaction at all.
Xiang carefully sidled closer to the table, overcome with curiosity. He had just gotten a glimpse of something that looked sort of like a dried fleshy finger when Lee slammed the cover shut, his fingers curling into a fist over the box.
The woman continued as if she didn’t notice his boiling rage. “We dropped off the rest of him on the way here. I imagine the sharks dined well. My superior was very displeased with his actions when you took over this boat. He trusts there will be no further incidents like the one that cost Cheng his life.”
Xiang, like many of the other pirates, gaped at her in shock. The woman had overseen one of the most grievous insults to a Chinese person by denying him a proper burial. But instead of acting ashamed, she stood tall and proud, as if pleased by what she had carried out. Xiang hadn’t been overly fond of Cheng, as he was a drunkard and a bully, but even he wouldn’t have considered the thought of doing something that heinous to the man’s body.
The woman stood over Lee, as if daring him to reply. The silence stretched out for many seconds. Finally, the pirate leader looked up. “We shall do everything you require. There will be no further...incidents.”
“Good. You will also need to recruit more men. My superior has decided that we will be taking two vessels for the mission, not just one.”
The shock of the “gift” was replaced by the surprise of this new directive. Even Lee’s eyebrows raised at this. “Taking over one ship was going to be difficult enough, but two—”
“I did not ask for your opinion, I told you what you must do. If this is a problem, then I can find other men willing to undertake this mission, rendering all of you—” her gaze, even through the sunglasses, raked across everyone “—as expendable as that pig there.” She waved a hand at the box. “Get this boat repainted, get more men, preferably some with large ship experience, and be ready to move in two days. We will contact you with further instructions then.”
Lee swallowed, his fisted hands having disappeared under the table. “Everything will be ready as you have requested.” His voice had gone low and very soft. The pirates edged away from him; they knew exactly what that tone meant. Xiang slowly crept back to his place near the hallway entrance; when the time came, he wanted to have his bolt hole close at hand.
“Good. And no more fuck-ups, or you’ll all join your friend as shark bait. Well, except for some parts, perhaps.” She grinned again, turned on her heel and descended back to the boat. With a muffled roar, the powerboat pushed off, then turned and disappeared into the distance, shrinking until it could no longer be seen, and its engine noise was nothing but a loud memory.
Lee sat at the table for a long minute, then took the box and hurled it overboard, contents and all. “I swear, we will complete our job, but before we do, that bitch will be dead.”
He rose with such force that his chair toppled over, skidding on the hardwood deck. “Let’s move, all of you! Get underway, head for the island! We’ll show them just how we get things done!”
He stalked into the main room as the rest of the men scrambled to obey his orders. Xiang ducked into the hallway to the galley and began cleaning the pots, wondering just how much harder their plan was going to be now.
And what exactly did the demon woman mean by two ships?
CHAPTER FIVE
Three and a half hours later, Bolan turned his rented Escalade off the Henry Hudson Parkway onto a forested road, leaving the whoosh and roar of the highway behind as he traveled into a secluded forest park.
He looked out the window at the well-kept lawns and stark trees just beginning to bud in the spring season. He hit his earpiece, speed-dialing Stony Man Farm as a building straight out the Middle Ages came into view, complete with a stone tower rising over the foliage. After the call was routed through a series of cutouts, an operator at the Farm put him through to Tokaido.
“Speak to me.”
“This is Striker. What am I coming up on?” After getting the address from Brognola, Bolan had sent it to Akira Tokaido to gather info during the hour-long drive from JFK to Long Island.
“Hey, Striker. You just entered Fort Tryon Park. That would make the building you’re coming up on part of the Cloisters.” Bolan heard keys tapping. “It’s a part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, is dedicated to the art and architecture of Medieval Europe, and was opened in 1938 to the public—”
“I’m familiar with New York landmarks, so that’s enough of a history lesson, thanks.” Bolan watched the red tile-roofed building grow larger as he approached. “Wonder why Hal suggested this place, instead of any one of a dozen in D.C. that would be as discreet?”
“Offhand, it seems to be about as far from both NYC and D.C. as you could get. Since it’s so isolated, anyone trying to follow either of you would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.”
“Right.” Bolan had known Hal Brognola far too long to suspect the man of trying to lure him into some kind of trap, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others who wouldn’t attempt the same using Hal as bait. “I’ll check in with you afterward.”
“I’ve downloaded a site map to your phone. You sure you don’t want eyes in the sky or ears on the ground?” Tokaido asked.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine. Striker out.” Disconnecting his call as he pulled into an empty space on the graveled parking lot, Bolan took a few seconds to scan and memorize the grounds plan Tokaido had sent him, as well as look around, his trained mind evaluating entrances, exits, hard points, cover. He also took a moment to check his casual rig. His Beretta 93R was nestled in a Galco belt holster at the small of his back, easily concealed by his camel-colored sport coat. Keeping the pistol hidden from casual view, he drew it, checked the load and replaced it before shrugging into his jacket.
He strolled up the driveway to the diamond-shaped main hall, dropping a twenty-dollar donation to the organization that maintained the building. Exits at each point led to a medieval book collection on his right, into what was termed the Romanesque Hall straight ahead, and to the Late Gothic Hall on his left, which led to the garden.
Bolan walked into the larger hallway to his left, not sparing a single glance at the rich collection of artwork adorning the walls. Stepping out into the garden bathed him in the golden light of the late-morning sun, which washed the nearby wall and ground in its warm, glowing radiance.
The garden grounds were arranged in a traditional style, with the large rectangle formed by the walls divided by framed footpaths into four equal areas, each filled with a profusion of plants and color that created a heady mix of floral scents. In the center of the garden, a stone fountain burbled, and next to it, staring into its trickling waters as intently as if he was trying to divine the future, stood Hal Brognola.
Bolan walked to him slowly, his boots making enough noise on the gravel to alert the other man. He took in the big Fed’s appearance as he approached. Normally comfortably attired, if a little rumpled, he now looked as if he had been traveling for the past day or so and hadn’t gotten much sleep. His hands were in the pockets of his slacks, but Bolan couldn’t tell if he was holding something in one or both of them, or just clenching his fists.
He was a yard away when Brognola spoke. “Hi, Striker.” His usually warm, reassuring voice was thin and reedy, more evidence of the stress he was under.
“Hal.” Bolan strode to his side and looked into the bottom of the fountain. The face staring back at him, even distorted by the rippling water, made him pause. His oldest friend’s features were ashen-gray, with red-rimmed eyes surrounded by puffy skin, attesting to his lack of sleep. His graying hair, usually neatly combed, ruffled in the light breeze.
“Hal, are you all right?”
Brognola nodded, holding up a forestalling hand. “I’m fine. It’s just been a very busy past twenty-four hours, that’s all.” He rubbed his tired face with his hands. “Finally I just had to get away for a little bit—but of course, the business at hand always intervenes. That’s why you’re here.”
Bolan had a far less philosophical view of his endless war. It always came down to him versus the evil in the rest of the world. Usually Brognola was right there alongside him, fighting the good fight. To see him shaken this way was anything but normal. Bolan tried to snap him out of it by getting right to the point. “What’s this all about?”
Brognola took a deep breath and raised his head, staring into Bolan’s ice-blue eyes with his own rheumy ones. “In the course of my work in D.C., I’ve gotten to know people throughout the city. One family in particular—the Kirkalls.”
Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “The manufacturing Kirkalls? That’s quite a connection to keep out of sight, particularly on the Hill.” The soldier kept up on the movers and shakers in D.C., and also recognized the surname as a former director of the CIA about ten years ago. “I assume Morgan is part of the family, as well?”
“Of course. Despite our proximity to projects on both sides of the political fence, our families have always been friendly. Morgan’s granddaughter, Rachel...” As soon as he said her name, Brognola gritted his teeth, forcing his next words out. “Those heartless bastards.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a short story. After the spring term, Morgan’s son, Robert, took his family on an around-the-world cruise, a reward for everyone for their accomplishments during the semester. Apparently they had just left the Philippines when their boat was attacked by pirates. According to Robert, they were after the yacht, which will fetch several hundred thousand on the black market. But during the hijacking, Rachel’s boyfriend was shot and died of blood loss soon after. Their bodyguards were subdued, and Rachel was raped by one of the pirates. More than once, that’s all anyone will tell me. Afterward, they put everyone, family and the crew, into one of the speedboats and set them adrift after disabling the engine. They were out there for a day before a Japanese freighter found them and brought them to Singapore. As soon as he found out, Morgan sent his private jet to bring them all home.
“When I found out, I went to the hospital right away. But when I first saw Rachel in that hospital bed, I realized there was nothing I could do. I’ve known Robert for most of his life, but I’d never seen him cry out of sheer helplessness until I saw him that morning.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “I got as much information out of him as I could, under the circumstances. Assuming that the pirates haven’t ditched the boat already, they’ve probably already modified it, replaced the transmitter and are hiding somewhere in the thousands of square miles of ocean in that area, perhaps in one of the hundreds of islands throughout the region.”
He stared at the wall across the garden, as if seeing a place somewhere beyond the garden, beyond the city. “Rachel once was an intern on the Hill. She’s so different from the girl I knew even a month ago. I know she’ll recover from this—she’s strong, like the rest of her family. But she’ll never be the same again. As I was leaving, I saw Morgan—he asked...no, he begged me to do what I could to find those responsible for this. He can’t possibly be involved in any way. If it were found out, the repercussions would destroy his reputation and damage the family’s. I told him that I would do what I could, and then set up the meeting here, with you.
“I could use my Agency contacts. I know a few people who could get the job done. But I don’t want to drag them into this. Last I knew, they were stretched pretty thinly across the region, and sending one off on a personal vendetta, even for me, seems pretty high-handed.”
“But you wouldn’t hesitate to request a favor from a friend in a position to do so, would you?” Bolan said without a hint of rancor. He knew what it was like to lose people, to see them hurt in the line of duty. To see them dead for just trying to do the right thing. A terrible crime had been inflicted on this young woman, which would no doubt haunt her for the rest of her life.
Brognola turned back to him. “We go back a long way, Striker. I know I have no right to ask this of you—and I certainly don’t want you going to any special lengths on my account, or for some former CIA director—but if you have a mission that comes up in that area in the near future, I’d appreciate it if you or one of the others would keep an eye out for the ship or any of the men. Robert’s taking his own steps to find them—
he wouldn’t say how, despite my best efforts to find out—so anyone you send may find some competition there.” He held out a flash drive. “Here’s everything I could get—facial sketches of the pirates, the specifications on the yacht, all of it. I hope it can help in some small way.”
Bolan took the small drive and pocketed it. “I can’t promise Morgan or you anything, Hal, but I’ll see what I can do for you, even if that means just locating these people so you can pass the intel on to Robert.”
“Thanks, Striker.”
A cloud had blocked the sun, casting shadows over the garden, stealing the warmth away from the area. “Are you fixed for getting back to Washington?”
“Yeah, my car’s in the lot.” A wry smile quirked the big Fed’s lips. “Don’t worry. I’m a bit somber these days, but I still remember to know not to leave the area together.”
Bolan smiled as they left the garden, heading back into the Late Gothic Hall, where he shook Brognola’s hand before heading back to his SUV. He pulled out of the parking lot, merging with the freeway traffic back into the city. After five minutes of travel, Bolan plugged the USB drive into an adapter on his cell and hit the hands-free function, speed-dialing a number that would connect him to the Farm.
“Speak to me.”
“This is Striker.”
“How’s Hal?”
“All right.” Bolan filled Tokaido in on the general parameters of the task, leaving names out of it. “I’ll square it with Aaron. You’re my man till we see this through. I’m sending you files on the ship and the perpetrators. Start isolating general traffic in the area, satellite passes, law enforcement bulletins, whatever you can find.” “Aaron” was Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the Farm’s cyberteam.
“Okay. You do realize that this’ll be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack?”
“More like one ship out of a few thousand, but I’m sure you’re the guy to do it. Any word from Calvin on our subject?”
“He’s in the middle of the session now, using that new scopolamine derivative he stumbled across. Probably have a report ready for you by the time you get back.”
“And how’s your infiltration coming?”
Bolan heard a deep breath on the other end of the line. “As far as I know, we’re in. I just got the code of the account to wire the other half of the money. The event starts in four days.”
“Good work, Akira. Ask Aaron to contact Charlie and have him prep the jet. I want to be wheels-up as soon as I hit the airport.”
“You got it.”
“Striker out.”
With the balls in motion, Bolan disconnected, his mind turned to the logistics of such a personal mission, and how to execute it against the framework of a larger one.
CHAPTER SIX
Ninety minutes later, Bolan leaned back in his white leather chair of the Gulfstream G650 that Brognola had arranged to ferry him to New York City and back, grimacing in frustration.
Although there were plenty of crimes going on in the South China Sea—smuggling of drugs, knock-off merchandise and humans, illegal fishing, sweatshops—there didn’t seem to be anything on Stony Man’s radar that would necessitate actually going to the region. Even the fringe Japanese terrorist groups had been lying low recently. It was almost...
Too quiet, Bolan thought. The all-too-apparent lack of activity ironically seemed to point at something going on.
A chime from his combat laptop signaled an incoming videophone message. Bolan opened a window to answer it, and saw Tokaido’s smiling face.
Bolan didn’t mince words. “I assume you’ve got something for me?”
“Yeah. Whoever pulled that file together included every possible scrap of information about the yacht they could find, even down to service records, so my job wasn’t too difficult.”
“And?”
Tokaido tapped keys, and another window opened on Bolan’s screen, showing the lines of a yacht out at sea through the powerful camera of a spy satellite hundreds of miles overhead. The ship’s coordinates were in the upper right corner of the window, roughly 160 nautical miles northwest of the Philippines. As he watched, a speedboat raced in from the north, pulling up to the rear of the large pleasure craft. The detail from the picture was enough to show a dark-haired woman getting off the speedboat, dressed in business attire and carrying a small briefcase.
“Who’s that, and why is a businesswoman meeting with what are supposed to be pirates?” Bolan asked
“The pirates are very real. We found a satellite in the area two days earlier that caught the takeover on the periphery of its camera. They’re definitely hijackers, although they haven’t followed the usual pattern of either stripping and sinking the boat or modifying and selling it. Instead, they’ve stayed on board for the past two days. And now the woman comes aboard, a very unusual piece to this puzzle. We ran her picture through our database and found this.”
A newspaper article from the Hong Kong Standard appeared next to a blow-up and enhancement of the woman’s face. In the picture accompanying the article, an older gentleman was accepting some kind of honor from another suited businessman, the two shaking hands and smiling for the cameras. “The man on the right is Hu Ji Han, a noted businessman and philanthropist in Hong Kong. The man he’s shaking hands with is the chief executive of the city. The woman—” the newspaper photo magnified to reveal her sitting in the first row of the assembled visitors’ area “—is his personal secretary.”
The back of Bolan’s neck tingled with the distinct feeling he got when his instincts told him something much bigger was going on. “Why do I get the feeling that she’s not shopping for a discount watercraft.”
“Hardly. Mr. Hu could buy half the Chinese navy if he wanted, with enough money left over to raise another few skyscrapers in downtown Hong Kong.”
“What do you have on him?”
“Chinese national, sixty-four years old. Rose from nothing to create his business, which specializes in disaster recovery and infrastructure rebuilding. It’s one of the top companies in the nation, notwithstanding the rumors that Mr. Hu overextended himself during the building spree before the Olympics. However, he doubled down on ailing U.S. banks and national companies, such as Ford, Citibank, et cetera, during the fallout from the loan disaster in the U.S., and emerged even richer than before.”
Bolan’s mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. “Well, then, I doubt he’s planning to branch out into actual crime. Legal theft is so much more profitable, as everyone saw recently. Still, this is the highest of high society meeting with the lowest of the low. There’s a bigger picture going on here, and we need to find out more than just this little bit.”
Tokaido smiled. “I figured you might say that. What’d you have in mind?”
Here came the tricky part. While Bolan had investigated the death or abduction of relatives of high-powered Washington players before, he didn’t intend to run a revenge mission to satisfy Brognola’s vendetta. However, if the opportunity arose to eliminate these people while they were committing another, even more serious crime, that could work just as well. But he needed a handpicked member with extensive time in Asia to handle this. Bolan knew exactly whom he could call upon for this mission.
“Get me our contact information on John Trent. My plan’s still to stop off in Africa to investigate the Sale in the Sands. Hopefully Trent will be able to take a bit of a vacation and take a look into whatever is going on in Southeast Asia, not to mention the infiltration of this pirate group.” Bolan’s gaze went back to the open video window, where the woman was leaving, reaching down with one hand to enter the boat, her other hand outstretched to keep her balance.
Her empty left hand.
“She left the briefcase behind.” He peered more closely at the picture, but it faded into static as the satellite passed out of range. His head snapped up, his ice-blue eyes staring back at his computer hacker with steely resolve. “They’re up to something, and I want to find out what.”
“I’m forwarding you Trent’s number right now.”
“Good. Meanwhile, continue expediting the arrangement for Morocco. There’ll be a few unexpected guests attending the convention this year.”
“What, you mean you’re not going to pose as an MS-13 member looking for hardware?”
Bolan shook his head. “No, I want you to spoof that invite to a mercenary leader cover identity I’ve been wanting to get out there for a while. I discussed it with Gary Manning a while back, he can fill you in on the details.”
“Okay, I’ll give him a call and get to work. No rest for the wicked, apparently.”
“Nor for the righteous, either. Striker out.” He signed off and brought up John Trent’s home number, letting the internet dialer connect him.
* * *
JOHN TRENT FACED OFF against his five opponents, all of whom were arrayed around him in a loose circle. Confident and loose, he stood right where he was, not moving a muscle. He was aware of the position and likely initial attack method of each of his foes, and was ready to counter whatever they might throw at him.
As if on an unseen signal, all of them charged at him at once, intending to overwhelm him with their superior numbers. John blocked the forward punch of the one in front of him and moved aside just enough to redirect the force of his blow, knocking the man off-balance and sending him stumbling into the thug next to him—taking both of them out of the fight for a moment. Trent stepped forward into the opening they left even as he felt a hand grab the collar of his jacket.