Stolen Arrows
“Amen to that, brother.” Linderholm smiled. “I’m a big-city girl and plan to stay that way.”
Back in Langley, the Agency was at its most busy when the place was quiet. Casual conversations and laughter meant that nothing important was happening in the world, an uncommon event. To any CIA agent, peace and quiet always meant trouble.
“This must be it,” Maynard said, checking the map on the dashboard display. He turned off his navigational computer and it folded back out of sight.
“You sure this is the right address?” Linderholm asked, sliding a medical pack into her skirt pocket. The boss had sent her along in case Helen Dupont was found in the shower or the agents had to strip search for weapons. After the debacle in London, the Agency was toeing the line on every government regulation. At least, for the present conflict.
“Got it out of her personnel file,” Maynard said, parking the sedan on the street a few houses away. Down the block, a old man watering his lawn studied the strange car in frank disapproval, then turned his back on them to concentrate on the weeding and fertilizing.
Pulling out a monocular scope, Linderholm swept the vicinity for anybody standing guard. The house was a modest two-story. Fake wooden shutters sat alongside the windows for purely artistic effect, which was ruined by the addition of a plastic gnome in the flower garden. Returning the scope to her pocket, the black woman shrugged at the sight. At least it was better than those racist Civil War lawn jockeys.
“Looks clean,” she reported.
“Good enough,” Maynard said. “Then let’s go catch a traitor.”
A low-level G4 clerk in the records department of the Agency, Helen Dupont was rather plain-looking, but known for getting overly friendly on the weekends. Fair enough. Nobody cared about sexual peccadilloes, as long as they were discreet. Consenting adults, and all that. However, a routine security check revealed that Dupont seemed to only be going to bed with people in the technical repair department. And the technicians had been among the very first people told about the plan to recover the Zodiacs so that they would be ready to safely disassemble the bombs.
However, in the opinion of Special Team Leader David Osbourne, that sounded suspiciously like sexual backpay. A crude spy would offer sex in exchange for secret information. Sometimes that worked, mostly it didn’t. On the other hand, a good spy would have sex with the target several times, hundreds of times over many years if possible, to build a good rapport and then have emotional leverage on the victim. Now the requested intel seemed more like a favor, with the implied threat of ending the affair if denied. The Agency did that themselves, and the ploy worked more often than not. To discover it was being done to them was extremely disturbing.
New rules for sexual conduct were already being drafted, but that wasn’t the pressing problem at the moment. Plain, sweet, sexually repressed until the weekend, Helen Dupont had left the office complaining of a migraine headache exactly when the Scion had stolen the truckload of Zodiac bombs.
It could just be a coincidence, those did happen. But the team was taking Dupont to the section chief for questioning. Just routine. Unless she cracked, and then the traitor would be hauled down to the Tank, the soundproofed room in the basement where enemies of the nation could be strenuously interrogated without undue interruptions.
Getting out of the car, the agents started for the house, but froze at the sight of the slightly ajar front door.
Returning to the car, Linderholm pulled out a radio and called for more agents as Maynard moved along the driveway and to the side of the door. Openly pulling his piece, the man waited, holding his breath to try to hear any noises from inside. But the house was silent. A few moments later Linderholm was at the other side of the door, weapon drawn. The agents nodded three times in unison counting down before she kicked open the door as Maynard rushed inside.
The living room was immaculate, not a speck of dust in sight or a book out of place on the shelves. Linderholm eased beside him and jerked her Glock at the hallway when they both caught a familiar smell. Oh, hell.
Rushing into the kitchen, they found nothing out of order. They moved fast down the corridor and into the bedroom. Dupont was tied spread-eagled on the bed, a soup bowl on the nightstand containing her fingernails, teeth and ears. The woman was almost naked, her clothing slashed off her to expose the bare skin, then left there to partially drape the mutilated corpse. Both of her breasts were covered with the circular burn marks of a cigar, the left leg covered with round bruises where the bones had been broken by some sort of blunt instrument, a hammer, or perhaps a baseball bat. As per regulations, Maynard checked her pulse, but there really was no need. The woman was dead, and had been for hours.
“It’s Dupont,” Linderholm said. “But this doesn’t make any sense. There is no way Zalhares could have gotten here yet to do this.”
“And why torture her?” Maynard demanded, making to holster his pistol, then moving to the closet to check. It was empty. “If she was working for them, and it now certainly seems that way, they might kill her to plug the leak. But why torture their own contact?”
Even as he said the words, the truth hit them both.
“Zalhares was a double agent,” Linderholm said, pulling out her radio again.
“Playing us and some other group against each other so that he could steal the bombs? Damn, sounds solid.”
“Hello, base? This a priority two report,” Linderholm said quickly. “Inform Internal Affairs and the chief that our contact has been neutralized, and we now have gate-crashers at the party. We’ll be back in an hour to report.”
Closing and locking every door, the CIA agents returned to their car and raced for the highway. Helen Dupont had only been a pawn and Cirello Zalhares was a double agent. Yeah, made sense. Unfortunately, it didn’t require any great leap of logic to guess who his employers were. Or rather, who they had been, since it seemed he had also cut them out of the deal. The Agency was finally going to go directly against the Brazilian S2. And there was no doubt that the breakage in innocent human life would be very high before this mess was finally settled.
CHAPTER FOUR
Atlantic Ocean
A steady thumping pervaded the small metal room and the air smelled strongly of machine grease. A rack of beds covered the far wall, a folding table stood in the corner, and in the middle of the room was a lead-lined safe draped with a fine wire mesh netting attached to an array of car batteries.
Kneeling by the apparatus, Zalhares carefully checked a voltage meter to make sure the Faraday Cage was working properly. Driving the armored truck into a private garage, there had been plenty of time to burn open the armor and then breech the safe. However, he suspected the CIA of having planted a tracer or even a repeater circuit in the Zodiacs, and thus had taken the precaution of having a Faraday Cage ready. With a steady current moving through the fine mesh, no radio signal could possibly penetrate.
Satisfied for the moment, Zalhares took a seat on the lower bunk and leaned back against the steel wall. The regular beat was oddly soothing, like the rhythm of a living heart.
Sitting at the table, Jorgina Mizne was sharpening a knife, her strokes unconsciously matching the pulse in the walls. Minas Pedrosa was drinking from a bottle of beer, while Dog Mariano groaned softly, holding a bucket between his shaky knees.
“Feeling any better, my friend?” Zalhares asked, crossing his arms behind his neck for a cushion. The thumping eased into a gentle background vibration.
Breathing for a moment, Mariano finally shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “How…soon….”
“Until we disembark? Quite some time.”
“Why couldn’t we take a plane?” the man muttered, closing his eyes. “I like planes.”
“Every airport was covered ten minutes after we left the park. No, my friend, this was the only way.”
“I hate the sea,” Mariano groaned.
“And yet you love the beach,” Mizne said, inspecting the edge on the blade. “One of God’s little jokes, eh?”
Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the hatch that served as a door for the small water-tight compartment.
“Fine,” Mariano corrected weakly, placing the bucket aside. “I hate submarines. Better?”
“Of course.” She smiled, sliding the blade into a sheath behind her back.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Still drinking his warm beer, Pedrosa walked to the hatch and pulled it open on squealing hinges. The air tasted greasy, yet the metal was rusty. And this was considered a reliable transport?
In the corridor stood an unshaven slim man in rumpled coveralls, the tarnished insignia of a Taiwanese naval lieutenant pinned to his limp collar. Nodding to the passengers, the officer stepped through and tossed a casual salute to Zalhares. It wasn’t returned.
“Sir, there is a problem,” the lieutenant said, smiling widely.
Pushing away from the wall, Zalhares sat upright but said nothing, waiting for the man to continue.
“The captain has learned of your identity.” He glanced at the safe. “If not that of your cargo, and believes that our deal needs to be—how shall I say it?—adjusted properly.” The man grinned again, pretending to be embarrassed. “You are very wanted men by a great many people. Rich, powerful people.”
“A deal is a deal,” Zalhares said flatly. “We paid enough to buy this craft, and he wants more?”
With a sigh, the lieutenant shrugged, displaying both palms upward. “What can I say? My captain disagrees.”
For a few minutes the members of the Scion exchanged glances.
“Fine. You leave us no choice then,” Zalhares said. “Dog, pay the man.”
Pulling out a wallet, Mariano removed a wad of cash and offered it to the lieutenant. His eyes bright with greed, the man eagerly reached for the cash. Mariano Dog extended his arm past the hand, a stiletto snapping out from his sleeve to ram into the officer’s stomach. As the lieutenant’s mouth flew open wide to scream, Zalhares stuffed in a bunched glove, careful to not be bitten.
Still sipping the beer, Pedrosa stepped to the hatchway, a silenced Imbel .22 pistol in his other hand. Meanwhile, Mizne grabbed the bleeding sailor by the shoulders to hold him steady as Mariano slowly sawed the razor-sharp blade back and forth straight up the middle of the torso. Thrashing against the grip of the muscular woman, the officer was helpless, his eyes rolling back into their sockets from the incredible pain. Blood poured from the yawning wound as his intestines began to slither out, most of them plopping into the waiting bucket.
With professional detachment, Zalhares watched as the life faded from the man’s eyes and the body went limp, twitching a few times before finally succumbing to death. They all died so easily; it wasn’t even interesting anymore.
“Still feeling seasick, old friend?” Zalhares asked, retrieving the saliva-streaked glove.
“Not any more,” Mariano said excitedly, easing the gory blade out of the corpse and wiping it clean on the coveralls.
“Good,” Zalhares said, sliding the glove back on his hand to cover a curved scar of teeth marks. “Get the guns. We’re taking over the ship. Minas, you stay with the safe.”
“And if the crew resists?” Mizne asked, opening a metal locker and removing an Uru caseless rifle from the collection inside.
“Kill them,” Zalhares ordered, accepting one of the weapons. “But save the captain for me. Understood?”
“Make it quick,” Mariano suggested, catching an Uru in one hand. “He’s a fellow Brazilian.”
Flicking off the safety, former Sergeant Cirello Zalhares looked at the mercenary with eyes as dead and empty of life as a child’s grave.
“Then he should have known better than to cross me,” the S2 operative rumbled deep in his throat.
“Leave the damn hatch open when you go,” Pedrosa finally spoke, sitting in the corner and resting an Uru on his lap. “It stinks in here.”
Staying low and fast, the Scion moved out of the storage compartment and soon the sound of gunfire filled the submarine, but not for very long. Then the screaming started and it lasted all through the long night.
Belmore, Long Island
THE TRAFFIC in Belmore was heavy, with stop lights at every intersection, taxi cabs, delivery trucks and station wagons fighting for every inch of space. Every street was lined with crowded stores and full parking lots, with cars hunting for any available spot. Long Island seemed to carry the impression that everybody was in a big hurry to get somewhere else, and you were personally in their way.
Mack Bolan turned down a side street, the traffic immediately thinning to a more conventional level. Bolan increased his speed. The Jaguar hummed around the man as if every piece of the luxury car was directly involved in generating speed. Bolan had chosen the X-series because the vehicle blended well into the wealthy suburbs of Long Island and because the four-wheel drive gave it amazing traction at high speeds. A good soldier always planned a retreat route in case the enemy had unexpected reserves of strength. Michael J. Prince was a twenty-first-century monster, and those always had a cadre of devils around to hold back the just. The question was how many devils did he have. Honestly, Bolan didn’t know. This was a crap shoot, the worst kind of a fight to go into, but there was no other way.
Unfortunately, while all of the downtown arms dealers had been mere facilitators and brokers, merchants in the selling of destruction, Prince was a dealer. A hands-on kind of guy who actually moved the physical weaponry, storing a lot of his stock in a warehouse strategically set between an elementary school and a shopping mall. Any kind of an armed assault by the feds or the police, would almost definitely result in civilian casualties. Unless the area was sealed off first, which would give Prince all the time he needed to escape and burn his records. No, this had to be a blitzkrieg, a lightning strike directly into the heart of the enemy.
Parking the Jaguar directly in front of Pierson Importers, Bolan fed the meter some quarters to show that he was planning to be here for a while, then, whistling tunelessly, strolled to the front door of the warehouse and rang the bell.
Bolan knew that he had been under video surveillance ever since he’d turned the corner onto this street. So he wasn’t surprised when the door was instantly opened by a large man in work clothes, two more gorillas standing close behind.
“Private property,” the first man growled, already starting to close the door.
Moving with lightning speed, Bolan drew and fired, the Beretta coughing tribursts of death to the three men. The bodies were still tumbling to the concrete floor when he slipped inside and bolted the door tightly behind.
Pulling out a second Beretta, Bolan moved down the corridor firing at anyone carrying a gun. There could be civilians here—accountants, secretaries—so he had to stay razor sharp. A man stood holding a cardboard box; Bolan shot him in the leg. But as he fell the box went flying, revealing a .38 Walther PPK in a fancy shoulder rig. The Beretta whispered once more and the man no longer felt the pain in his leg.
A big guy swinging an ax charged out of a bathroom, and Bolan ducked fast, feeling the breeze of the blade swish above his head. Still crouching he stroked both Berettas and sent the man tumbling backward to the floor. A shotgun roared and the desk near Bolan exploded into splinters. He dived out of the way, firing both guns, tracking for the target. Across the room, a woman in a crimson-stained business suit collapsed, her shotgun discharging wildly into the ceiling.
Reloading quickly, Bolan swept into the corridor again, catching two more men running his way. They died without even seeing him. Moving deeper into the warehouse, Bolan broached a cross corridor, finding only a spilled cup of coffee steaming on the floor. Listening hard for sounds of movement, Bolan proceeded to the nearest office and found a set of steel doors marked with No Smoking signs in several languages. This was it.
Glancing through the plastic window, he could see that nobody moved among the stacks of crates and endless boxes filling the cavernous room. A billion dollars’ worth of armament sat neatly packed in cushioned crates, waiting to be shipped out. A single loose bullet could start a chain reaction of explosions that would level the elementary school next door. Only a chain-link fence separated the buildings and would do as much as a wall of tissue paper to stop the hellstorm of shrapnel. Even as the dire assessment was made, Bolan accepted the onus. He’d take some lead himself before letting the warehouse explode.
Just then, a scuffling noise from the corridor caught his attention and Bolan turned to fire both Berettas at the left wall. Plaster puffed as the 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched through the drywall and then a bloody man staggered into view dropping an Ithaca shotgun.
“Shit, he got Tony!” another man shouted, swinging around the corner and firing an Uzi machine pistol.
The 9 mm rounds stitched Bolan across the chest and he grunted in pain as his NATO body armor stopped the slugs from penetrating. Then Bolan returned the favor, his own 9 mm rounds smacking the other man backward, but yielding no blood, as the enemy gunner also wore a Kevlar vest. The Uzi fired again as Bolan tracked for the head. The machine pistol dropped from lifeless hands as a third eye appeared in the gunrunner’s forehead.
Dropping the spare Beretta, Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle and headed for the stairs. As he neared, the Executioner fired the Beretta into the dark shadows under the steps and a man grunted in pain, staggering into view and still holding an M-16 assault rifle. Without hesitation, Bolan fired once more. The Magnum rounds smashed the rifle out of the little man’s grasp and he crumpled to the floor.
“Please,” he sobbed, raising his hands for pity, “I only w-work here. I don’t sell the stuff. I’m not one of them!”
Right, just a clerk who carried an M-16 in an easy hold exactly like a pro.
“Where’s Prince?” Bolan demanded.
“B-back room, second floor,” he stammered, jerking his head. “Just take the stairs.”
“You lead the way.”
The gunner looked at the stairs in fear. “No, please, my leg…I can’t walk.”
“Get up,” Bolan ordered, “or die where you are. It makes no difference to me.”
“Okay, okay,” the gunner said, standing easily.
“Up the stairs,” Bolan ordered.
“Please. I only—”
“Move!”
“Jesus, okay already, they’re a trap! Rigged to blow!”
Bolan stepped closer. “Yes, I know.”
He did? Shit. “There’s another set of stairs,” the man said, looking around nervously. “The one the staff uses, ya know.”
“You’re still leading the way,” Bolan said, both weapons held in rock-steady hands. “Get moving.”
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