Decision Point

The course he was facing today was the last challenge in this training run, and for all of his previous training—Special Forces, rappelling, high-altitude jumps and just about every kind of military work in the world—none of it could have prepared him for the intensity of Parkour. Bolan had become interested in the discipline that was sometimes called freerunning after watching some action film extras on a DVD. Realizing that not all of the stunts were special effects or done with wires, he’d listened to one of the film consultants talk about Parkour and the discipline of body manipulation, jumping, climbing and negotiating obstacles with the most speed and efficiency. As the stuntmen and -women were launching themselves up the sides of buildings, leaping over concrete barricades and moving with amazing swiftness, Bolan determined to explore Parkour for himself, adding it to his already formidable battlefield skills. For a man in his line of work, those kinds of skills might make the difference between life and death.

Standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower, Bolan waited with his instructor for the signal to begin. It had been a grueling five days of training, and he felt as though he’d mastered the basics, but there were maneuvers he still longed to perfect. They had received a special dispensation to use any means necessary to reach the top of the Eiffel Tower, rescue the mock hostages and disarm the terrorists. Nothing else compared to the challenge.

The monitor dropped the flag and Bolan raced up the stairs. The steep staircases surrounded by mesh fencing for protection worked as more of a launch pad than an obstacle. Bolan turned one corner and saw a shrapnel grenade. Using the momentum from running, Bolan launched to the top of the fence, anchoring with his hands but pulling his body up and over in one graceful movement. The small explosion behind him didn’t diminish his movement, pushing off with his feet and jumping through the air to an adjacent set of stairs.

Bolan pushed off of the top of the fence with one foot, jumping in a zigzag motion down the mesh walls that enclosed the stairs and moving back after his prey. There were three opponents waiting for him at the next turn. He leaned back as the larger one in the middle swung a bat, then reached out as it went past him, grabbing the end. He swung his weight with the bat and knocked the other two down as the extra pressure brought with his speed made a complete circle.

Angry, the opponent dropped the bat and tried to grapple Bolan. The Executioner picked up the discarded bat, jabbed the last guard in the solar plexus and then rushed past him. The final turn was filled with small gadgets on the steps that were to mimic explosives that would detonate on impact. Bolan ran back three steps to pick up speed, launched over the first two and bounced off the side of the fencing like a trampoline without touching the step. Back and forth across until he was clear of the devices. His last jump he rolled on the landing where the hostages were being held. He pulled his pistol with paint rounds and fired off two quick shots, killing the villains.

Everyone in the tower clapped. Bolan smiled, out of breath but elated that he was able to clear the obstacles. He stood on the platform and talked to his hostages, members of the team that had been training with him. They congratulated him, impressed at how quickly he had learned the skills, and talked about springing from one set of stairs to another and the risks of jumps from a given height or a moving object. He enjoyed training with other like-minded military men, and while France wasn’t known for its military prowess, the men he’d been training with were all part of a special antiterrorist unit and were as good as anyone he’d ever worked with.

Just as he’d caught his breath, Bolan’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out and glanced down at the number, which he recognized at once as belonging to Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The most elite anti-terrorism agency in the world that answered only to the President of the United States, Stony Man Farm, Virginia, had been his brainchild. Now he worked with them on select missions, keeping a good arm’s length away from any kind of permanent arrangement. Still, when Brognola called, there was always a good reason.

He tapped the key that accepted the call. “Yeah.”

“Striker.” Brognola’s voice came over the line. “I’m glad I could reach you. Are you still in Paris?”

“Still here,” he said. “It’s been good, but long. Today’s the last day. What’s going on?”

“There’s a situation that I’d like to bring you in on. How soon can you be back in D.C.?”

Bolan could almost hear the sound of Hal chewing on one of his expensive cigars and realized that whatever was going on must be pretty serious. He almost never asked him to come in for a mission briefing. Remembering an invitation from a new friend about the chance to accompany him on a test flight of a new plane, he said, “If all goes well, I can be on the ground by eight tonight.”

“From Paris?” Brognola asked, his voice a bit incredulous. “The Concorde isn’t flying anymore, you know.”

“It’s a new plane of sorts. Where do you want me?”

“The White House,” he replied. “I’ll make sure you’ve got gate clearance as Colonel Stone. Stop off at the Farm and get a uniform from Stores, Striker.”

“It must be my day to be surprised,” Bolan said. “You’ve asked me to come in for a mission briefing and you want me at the White House in a military uniform.”

“The situation is…delicate. Just get back here ASAP and I’ll have more details for you when you arrive.”

“On my way,” he said, ending the call. He quickly thanked his hosts and explained that a personal emergency had come up and he had to leave right away, rather than stay for the celebration planned for that evening. Everyone shook hands, and Bolan made his way back down the Eiffel Tower before he placed another call to arrange his transportation back to the U.S.

THE TEST FLIGHT TO D.C. went off without a hitch, and the plane had performed flawlessly.

A quick call to Stony Man Farm had resulted in an Army colonel’s uniform and credentials being dropped off at a hotel Bolan occasionally used when he was in Washington.

The pilot of the experimental plane had decided to play tourist in D.C. for a few days, so the plane would remain in a private hangar that had been arranged before he’d left France.

The soldier showered, shaved and changed into his uniform, then arranged for a car service to take him to the White House. The process at the gate couldn’t have been more simple. His uniform commanded automatic respect and when he gave his name—Colonel Brandon Stone—and provided his credentials, he was immediately given access and an escort inside the building.

Once inside, he was met by a man in a nondescript, dark blue suit that all but screamed Secret Service. “Colonel Stone, if you’d follow me, please?” he said.

“Of course,” Bolan replied, not bothering to look around too much. It wasn’t his first time inside the White House and given his line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last time. Still, it was an impressive landmark and the source of many of the missions he’d undertaken over the years. He wasn’t inside the building often, but he’d had more than the tourist tour. That said, he was a bit surprised when he was led down a short hallway to an elevator. He knew where they were headed, but asked anyway.

“Where are we going?” he asked the agent.

“To the bunker, sir,” he said, punching a code into the panel next to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped inside. Bolan followed him, and as the doors shut, he noted that there was no panel or buttons indicating different floors. Instead, there was a keypad and a small, rectangular scanner.

The agent punched in another code, then stepped forward. A brief flare of light passed over his eyes, conducting a retinal scan. Finally a tone sounded, then an unseen voice said, “Voice authentication protocol.”

“Agent Reilly Summers,” he said.

“Voice authentication accepted,” the system responded. “Destination?”

“Bunker,” he replied.

The elevator began moving quietly down. Impressed at the security, Bolan kept quiet. It took less than a minute for them to descend to their destination and then the elevator doors chimed once and opened. The agent stepped out and Bolan followed.

“This way, Colonel Stone,” he said, turning left and going down the hallway. He stopped outside a closed door. “Please go right in, sir. They’re expecting you.”

“Thank you, Agent Summers,” he said. He opened the door and stepped inside, then paused in genuine surprise. Seated at the conference table was Hal Brognola and past President of the United States Jefferson Daniels. Seated next to Daniels was a woman Bolan didn’t recognize, but who he assumed was his personal secretary or, perhaps more likely, his Secret Service agent.

“Mr. President,” he said, entering the room and offering a salute, which Daniels returned. “Hal, it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks for coming,” Brognola replied. “Mr. President, you know who this is. Colonel Brandon Stone.”

“Colonel Stone,” President Daniels said. “I appreciate you coming. I understand you were overseas when Hal got in touch.”

“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. “But that’s hardly important. When Hal calls, I answer.”

“Take a seat, Colonel,” Daniels said. “And Hal can bring you up to speed on the situation.”

Bolan sat and looked questioningly at Brognola. The very fact that they were meeting inside the White House—in the secure bunker, no less—meant that whatever was going on had already been sanctioned by the current President. Most likely, this was deemed the most secure location for President Daniels to have a meeting with someone like Brognola. Too many questions would have been asked if they’d tried to do it at the Pentagon.

Daniels didn’t speak and didn’t look at Bolan, his eyes focused on a problem that wasn’t in that room. As President, he had been known to be principled and unwavering. There were many who liked him, but once his mind was made up there was little that could be done to change his position. His complete support of the military was widely known, but his tunnel vision had caused problems, as well. Whatever this problem was, weighed on him. He looked tired. The salt-and-pepper hair that he’d sported as President was now almost completely gray, and the lines in his face were that of a worn battle commander.

“Okay, Hal, let’s have it,” Bolan said.

“On the surface, the situation is fairly simple. President Daniels’s daughter, Heather, has been kidnapped in the Bay of Bengal. They’re demanding a twenty-five-million-dollar ransom within ten days, or they say they’ll kill her,” he said. “The problem is that it isn’t that simple.”

“Clarify, please,” Bolan replied. “While I admit that’s a large sum of money, they obviously know who she is.”

“They do,” the big Fed said. “When President Daniels got the call, he contacted me. Fortunately, he recorded the call. We’ve got some audio people working on breaking it down completely right now. But what tipped me off that something was different was how they wanted the money.”

“My understanding is that most pirating operations work on a cash-and-carry basis,” Bolan said. “Euros usually.”

“They provided an account number and wanted the money to be wired,” Daniels said.

“That is unusual,” Bolan said. “I assume you looked into it?”

“We did,” Brognola said. “That’s when things began to get interesting. It’s not just a dummy account. It’s buried under five different holding corporations that we’ve found so far, not a one of them real.”

Bolan considered this information for a moment. “These aren’t pirates,” he said. “They don’t have the kind of money or structure to set up something like that.”

“Exactly,” Brognola said. “It’s got to be a terrorist organization of some kind, but we don’t know who yet.”

It could be any one of a number of large organizations that operated in that part of the world, and—he couldn’t rule it out completely—it was possible, however unlikely, that it was simply a very evolved pirate operation. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mr. President,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but is it possible that they’ll release her if you do pay?”

“That’s a fair question,” Daniels replied. “The short answer is that I can’t care about that.”

“Sir?”

“I think Hal’s right. This move smacks of a highly organized terrorist organization. I’m heartsick that they have Heather, and there’s not much I wouldn’t do to ensure her safe return. But this isn’t just a question of negotiating with terrorists, Colonel. This would be funding them. And twenty-five million dollars in that part of the world might make them all but unstoppable. They could take over an entire region or buy arms and equipment that we don’t want those kinds of people to have.” His voice was hoarse and tired, and he shook his head. “I can’t pay them, Colonel. That’s where you come in.”

“You want me to go and get her,” Bolan said.

“That’s part of the mission,” Brognola said, “but, with all due respect to President Daniels, it’s just as important that we figure out who these people are and put a stop to them. If we don’t, the precedent could make every high-ranking politician’s family in the world a potential target for this kind of activity. Right now, the illusion of security and the threat of extreme violence is a powerful shield. If we fail, that illusion goes away in a hurry.”

“Understood,” Bolan said. “I’ll need all the intelligence you’ve gathered so far, and then I’ll get started on finding a solid lead.”

“When will you leave for the region?” Daniels asked.

“When I know where I’m going, sir,” Bolan replied. “It doesn’t do us any good to thrash about blindly over there. It’s a highly corrupt area and we’d be spotted before we could do your daughter or the country any real good.”

“I don’t like it,” he admitted, “but I don’t have to.” He turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him. “Colonel Stone, I’d like you to meet Michelle Peterson. She’s part of my Secret Service detail these days, but she worked with both CIA and NSA before that. I’d like her to join in your investigation and your mission as my personal representative.”

Bolan caught Brognola’s warning look, though it had been unnecessary. His old friend knew that he far preferred to work alone. “Mr. President,” he said, once more choosing his words with caution, “you know that I’ve been working in special operations for a long time, and I generally work alone. Many of the missions that you know we undertake are too dangerous for someone without the proper training and I’m not usually in a position, for lack of a better phrase, to play babysitter.”

“I respect what you’re saying, Colonel Stone, and your service,” Daniels said. “I can even set aside my feelings enough to know that the mission priority has to be taking out these terrorists. But don’t think for a minute that this isn’t personal. I want my daughter back, alive, and I want the bastards who did this as dead as old dad’s hatband. Agent Peterson will be going along with you, and she won’t need any babysitting. I can assure you of that.”

Until now, Bolan hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the woman seated on the other side of the table. Secret Service agents specialized in blending into the background, and until the President had brought her up, he’d assumed that her only purpose in being there was for him. Now he turned his blue-eyed gaze on her. While she was dressed in what he’d come to think of as the unofficial uniform of those who served in protection details—a black, button-down dress with a white blouse beneath that showed a hint of cleavage. She had dark brown hair that brushed the tops of her shoulders in waves and a very attractive face, with full, almost pouty lips.

“Did you want me to stand up, Colonel? Maybe take a turn about the room so you can get a complete examination?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow slightly. “Maybe you’d just like to see my résumé?”

“Agent Peterson,” Brognola said, trying to ease the tension, “I’m sure you can understand why the colonel might wish to know more about your qualifications for a mission like this.”

She got up out of her chair and walked around the conference table. At a guess, Bolan put her at not much over five feet tall when she wasn’t wearing heels. She stopped when she was close enough to his chair that she could reach out and touch him. “Colonel Stone,” she said, “I’ve done field operations in Africa, the Middle East and South America for both the CIA and the NSA. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, and if the President had been willing to allow it, I would’ve taken this operation on my own. I’ve known Heather for most of her life, and I’d willingly take a bullet for her. Can you say the same?”

Bolan got to his feet and stared down at the woman in front of him. Without changing the direction of his gaze, he said, “That’s the problem here, Mr. President. This is personal for her and on these kinds of missions, it can’t ever be personal.”

“She goes, Colonel,” Daniels said. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

“It’s all right, Colonel,” Brognola said. “Maybe an extra set of hands and eyes will be a good thing.”

Bolan grudgingly nodded his acceptance, then held out a hand toward the woman, which she took, and they shook on it. Then he leaned down, casting his voice so that only she could hear him. “Agent Peterson, if you get killed, I won’t shed a tear. I won’t stop to bury your body and I won’t ship you home with a nice flag-draped coffin. And if you get in my way or make it impossible for me to do my job, I’ll take you out myself. Do we understand each other?”

Keeping her own voice at a whisper, she said, “We understand each other fine, Colonel. Just remember that it goes both ways.”

Her tone was completely serious and in that moment, Bolan decided that he might like this woman. She had guts and was willing to stand up to him—so far, at least. He wondered if she’d live through what they were about to do, then shrugged off such considerations. For now, the mission was all that mattered.

“I think we’re all set here, Hal,” he said. “Unless there’s anything else, Mr. President?”

“Not at the present, Colonel,” he said. He, too, got to his feet, and they shook hands. “Bring her back for me, Colonel, and kill those bastards who did this.”

“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. He saluted once more, then turned to Brognola. “You’ll send me everything you’ve got?”

“You’ll have it first thing,” the big Fed said. “Thanks for coming in, Colonel.”

Bolan shrugged. “It’s what I do.” He turned to the woman. “I’m staying at the Premier Hotel. Meet me there at 0800 tomorrow morning and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, then turned her back on him.

Bolan let himself out of the room, knowing that the man in the hallway would escort him to the upper floors and ensure that he got out of the building. He’d head back to the hotel and grab a quick bite before hitting the rack and trying to catch a little sleep.

The next day promised to be a long one.

CHAPTER THREE

In spite of his first-class accommodations, the red-eye flight from Singapore to Washington, D.C., hadn’t been very restful. But Kabilan Vengai was used to going without sleep. He’d been running nonstop for almost a year and rarely slept more than a few hours a day. Many men would be exhausted under such a strain, and it would show in everything about them: their appearance, mental state and the decisions they made would be compromised by the constant drain. Kabilan, however, thrived on his role, and if someone were to compare him to a vampire that feeds on power, he wouldn’t have been deeply offended.

Standing in a small ballroom in the Ritz-Carlton, he looked up at the ornate ceilings and took a deep breath. Part of him wished that his army was nearby so that he could order the hotel ransacked, hostages taken for ransom, and then allow his men hot showers and a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. The other part of him knew that such luxuries weakened men like those who served him—they were field men, one and all, and while they might enjoy the sleep, it would only distract them from their true purpose. He slugged down the last swallow of the watery cocktail he was holding and shook his head. This wasn’t where he wanted to be at the moment.

But the ostentatious reception for the Tamil People’s Action Committee meant to raise funds for his people was necessary. It was another tool—a sometimes laughable, often degrading one—but a tool nonetheless. Kabilan knew that perception mattered a great deal in the world, and if he was going to restore the rightful sovereignty of the Tamil people, he had to play on this stage equally as well as he did when he was leading his men to successful raids on the ocean. He put his empty glass on the bar and ordered another, then turned his attention to the room.

Most of the people here were displaced Tamils who had come to the United States and made enough money to support the cause of their people back in Sri Lanka, India and other parts of Indonesia. A handful were businessmen with interests in that part of the world—a couple of whom were more than willing to overlook the defeat of the Tamil Tigers and continue to use them to work around the Sri Lankan government whenever possible. He would walk through the room, shake hands, nod in understanding at their sincere concern at the plight of his people. He would watch as they opened their checkbooks and tried to solve problems with money. In turn, he would present those checks to the executive director of TPAC, then take the money for himself, buy the weapons and equipment he needed, and so, in a sense, solve problems with money. He hated the deception, and it was a far greater crime than any piracy he sanctioned. It was also necessary.

Still, the money raised here was simply a cover for his true purpose, and Kabilan scanned the room once more. While holding the hat here and conducting good raids on the seas had proven lucrative, neither was cost-effective or fast enough for his long-term goals. Though his recent capture of President Daniels’s daughter had been unanticipated, and he held few doubts that the man would pay her ransom as soon as he realized that her death would be the only thing he could accomplish by not paying. If they didn’t pay, her death would serve their cause just as well. Killing such a high-profile hostage would be a show of power unlike any other and show the world that they weren’t to be trifled with. But money wasn’t everything and while it could buy many things—weapons, especially—what he truly needed was something that would level the playing field.

This night he was going to take delivery of that weapon. The Ocean Tigers, who had once been known as the KP Branch of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, were one of the few remaining hopes for the Tamil revolution. When Kumaran Pathmanathan had disappeared at the hands of the Sri Lankan Secret Police, it had been left to him to find a way to continue.

Vengai had immediately moved his forces into a new area and modified the immediate mission to piracy on the high seas. Much of the work his men had done was blamed on other groups, and the ransoms paid were an excellent way to raise funds. They simply weren’t enough, the Daniels girl notwithstanding. Using contacts he developed in the technology field, he’d groomed a new contact over the past year and the moment of delivery had finally arrived.

Unfortunately his contact had yet to put in an appearance.

He moved away from the bar and began making his way across the room. He paused from time to time to talk with someone or to answer a question. About halfway, he felt a light touch on his arm and looked down to see the executive director of TPAC, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties, hired for her lobbying skills, staring at him. She was Tamil, but only in the most remote sense. Her grandparents had been from there, but she had no real idea what being from Tamil meant.