Stony Man Farm
Virginia
Bright rays of midmorning sunshine filtered through the glass wall section of the gym as Bolan delivered the series of punches with rapid precision. He peppered the heavy bag with double and triple jabs before stepping in with a hard right followed by a left hook. Droplets of sweat from his leanly muscled arms cascaded outward with each blow, causing Grimaldi, who was holding the bag for more resistance, to shake his head fitfully as he grunted from the force of each strike.
“All right, already,” he said. “I think the round’s over.”
Bolan ignored him and did a stutter-step back, pivoting on his right foot to deliver two roundhouse kicks with his left leg.
Grimaldi’s head bounced against the canvas bag. He grunted again.
Bolan brought his right foot up with a series of slightly angled front kicks.
After he completed the series, he moved closer again and renewed his punching.
“That’s it,” Grimaldi said, his voice low and guttural. He dropped his hands from the sides of the bag and jumped back just as Bolan dug another hook into the canvas surface.
“Damn,” Grimaldi said, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. “You’ve done more rounds than the rumble in the jungle.”
Bolan threw a few more punches, sending the bag swinging, then stopped and motioned for Grimaldi to toss him a towel.
“You still aren’t thinking of hitting the range after this, are you?” Grimaldi asked.
Bolan caught the towel and wiped his face off.
“The day’s still young,” he said.
“Yeah, but right about now I’m not feeling that way.”
“Let’s do a couple more rounds. Then we’ll go to the range and maybe a jog through the woods.”
Grimaldi emitted a groan. “I thought we agreed that I could sleep for a week after we got back from Syria?” He slowly began to take his place behind the bag when Bolan’s cell phone rang. Grimaldi’s face brightened. “Saved by the bell.”
Bolan stripped off the bag glove on his right hand and picked up the phone.
“I hate to interrupt your training,” Brognola said, “but I need you to see something you might find interesting.”
“Yeah, we’ll clean up and come to the Annex.”
Thirty minutes later, Bolan and Grimaldi walked into Brognola’s office.
“Take a seat.” The big Fed gestured toward a news show on a large retractable screen, a banner proclaiming Breaking News scrolling across the bottom. A reporter stood in front of a somewhat bucolic scene that appeared to be a park. The serenity was interrupted by several police cars in the background, as well as the ubiquitous yellow crime scene tape cordoning off the area.
“What happened there?” Grimaldi asked. “Somebody fart too loud at one of those congressional committee meetings?”
“Funny, Jack. An ex-congressman’s dead. Sounds like a suicide.”
“Has he been identified yet?” Bolan watched as the reporter’s image faded and was replaced by a photo of a corpulent man in a suit and tie, smiling into the camera. Below the picture the accompanying script materialized: Former California Congressman Franklin Delano Rhome.
“Rhome,” Grimaldi said. “That sounds familiar. Wasn’t he in the news a couple days ago?”
“He was,” Brognola said. “Yesterday, in fact. Took the Fifth after being subpoenaed into some congressional committee investigation.”
“You said it sounded like a suicide?” Bolan asked.
Brognola nodded and held up the remote, freezing the image on the screen. “He was found in his car, a gun and an empty bottle of booze keeping him company.”
Grimaldi shook his head. “What did he take the Fifth for?”
“He was being investigated for taking possible kickbacks,” Brognola said. “He resigned from Congress a couple of years ago and had been working in DC as a lobbyist.”
“Got to go where the money is,” Grimaldi said. “Politicians and lobbyists. One standing behind the other with his hand out.”
“Who did he work for?” Bolan asked.
Brognola shrugged. “Not sure. Anyway, that’s not the reason I called you guys. Something else has come up.”
Bolan looked at him, detecting a note of seriousness in his tone.
“It looks like you guys might not have gotten all that sarin from Yemen. Rumor has it that some more of it has resurfaced.”
“Where?” Bolan asked.
“Africa.” Brognola frowned. “And it’s purportedly in the hands of al-Shabaab and our old ‘friend’ Muhammad Farouk.”
Bolan recalled Ali Sharif’s last words to him: You are too late, infidel.
Perhaps he’d been right after all.
The Rook
Rural Virginia
This was the one place where Novak felt most secure, and he had old Franklin Delano Rhome to thank for it. Buying this old facility through a dummy corporation and setting up a base of operations within driving distance of DC was convenient, to say the least. It was also obscure. Like hiding in plain sight. With high castle-like walls and massive cornerstones that could withstand a dynamite blast. He didn’t even mind the peeling paint, discarded furniture, or the collected piles of deteriorated ceiling titles and other detritus. It had once been the site of a federal prison, but when a newer, brighter, more humane incarceration facility was built, the Rook was abandoned.
For many years the massive facility had stood vacant, with weeds springing up through the cracks in the parking lots and the trees and shrubbery surrounding the walls growing with unchecked abandon. Eventually, Rhome, while he was still in Congress, got wind of it, and purchased the property for a song through one of his dummy corporations. He then sold it to B&A for a healthy profit. It was the perfect, isolated location for development and experimentation of the Aries Project, and another way of laundering the enormous payoffs Novak was making to Rhome. Not that he’d pocketed all of it, although he did take a substantial share of what didn’t go to his former colleagues in Congress, like Eddie Meeks, for their perpetual reelection campaign funds. As a lobbyist Rhome was expected to drop bundles of cash in strategic places to get things to fall the right way. Rome wasn’t built in a day, he was fond of saying. The bad part was he’d become a little too glib, bragging to the wrong person at the wrong time.
Burke had arranged the suicide scene well, using the bottle that Rhome had touched and making sure the man’s prints were also on the untraceable gun. The whole thing had taken less than fifteen minutes once they’d dropped off Meeks and driven the now inebriated Rhome to his car, which had been left in the remote section of the park. Novak recalled watching it through the tinted rear window, like a reality TV show nearing its inevitable climax. He felt a twinge of amusement as Burke walked Rhome to the car and helped him slide behind the wheel.
“I think I’m too drunk to drive,” Rhome said, the simper still plastered across his broad face. “Can’t you just take me home?”
Burke’s latex-gloved hand proffered the bottle, and when Rhome smiled and tilted his head back to take a swig, Burke pressed the muzzle of the gun against the dollop of flesh under Rhome’s chin and pulled the trigger. The former congressman died instantly. The bottle fell on the seat next to him. Burke carefully wiped some of the gunshot residue onto the now lifeless hand, and set up the rest of the “suicide” scene.
Novak felt no pity for the man. At times sacrifices had to be made. He was a nonentity, a chess gambit.
And what better place to celebrate a bold new opening move than the Rook? Novak had christened it such because of the red-and-black-tiled floors, which had somehow remained intact throughout the office portion of the structure even in this recently remodeled area. The tiles reminded him of an expansive chessboard. The massive brick cornerstones and walls could hold off an army, and this newly constructed hangar and airstrip were perfect for undetected takeoffs and landings. It was the ideal base of operations, especially since Novak had decided they were going to cut ties and go private.
He poured himself a quick drink as he waited for the Skype connection to come through.
The laptop beeped and Ted McMahon’s face popped up on the screen.
“Status report,” Novak said without preamble.
“Our associates are en route to K-Fifty Airstrip as we speak.”
Novak felt a bit relieved. Everything was going according to plan. McMahon was good. He had to give him that.
“And the cargo?” Novak asked.
“All set,” McMahon stated. “It’s on its way, and Redmond is monitoring its progress. Any problems with the notifications on your end?”
Novak didn’t answer. Meeks had already done his part to send the alert through the proper Agency channels. The right people had been advised of the report. Now all that was left was for the accompanying attack and the political response. He saw McMahon raise a glass to his lips as a dark, feminine hand caressed his cheek. “What the hell? I thought you’d be alone.”
“Relax,” McMahon said. “Her knowledge of English is limited to about three words. Want to guess what they are?”
“Get rid of her. Now,” Novak said.
“When I’m ready,” McMahon replied. “A man has needs.”
“I said get rid of her.”
McMahon sighed in exaggerated fashion then turned and murmured something.
Novak heard a feminine giggle and saw the edge of a smooth shoulder and back as the woman got up and moved out of the range of the camera. Novak could tell she was naked.
“Satisfied?” McMahon said.
“Obviously her English is more than just three words.”
McMahon raised his eyebrows and then nodded. “She’s a quick learner.”
Novak blew out a slow breath. “I assume you heard about Franklin?”
McMahon clucked his tongue. “Tragic. Simply tragic.”
“It’s only a matter of time before this house of cards comes tumbling down,” Novak said. “A question of when, not if. Oglethorpe will put it all out there. It’s probably going to be right before the midterms.”
“Sounds like something our buddy Burke could handle pretty easily.”
Novak shook his head. “Not right now. This is like a chess game.” He looked around at dark walls. He’d purposely kept them devoid of any decorations, like a medieval castle. “And Oglethorpe’s my opponent.”
“I figured he’d be the queen.”
Novak rolled his eyes. “We’ve got to wait for the right moment. And in the meantime, start offering our services to the highest bidder.”
“Redmond’s already working on that,” McMahon said. “He’s a wizard with that dark web stuff. The party south of the border’s interested. Real interested. So are the Saudis.”
“Which is why we need a bit of advertisement to nail things down,” Novak said.
“Leave it to me.”
A second naked girl sauntered across the room, giggling and pointing to the open laptop.
“I’d feel more comfortable doing that,” Novak said, “if I thought you were keeping your mind on business.”
“I believe in business and pleasure.”
“Just don’t forget which one comes first.”
“I won’t, but speaking of business...”
Novak felt a tightening in his gut. “What?”
“Redmond’s noticed a few glitches that have been popping up in the software.”
“For the Aries?”
McMahon nodded. “The facial recognition stuff is malfunctioning sometimes. I’m not sure that antiradar jamming function’s going to be fully operational in the other model.”
That was troubling. It also meant that the ultimate mission of the Aries drone wasn’t a sure thing after all, as Novak had hoped. These problems needed to be corrected immediately. And they would be. “I’ll look into that. In the meantime, make sure our little demonstration over there goes off without a hitch.”
“Everything’s in the works,” McMahon said. “Anything else, before I get back to my evening’s delight?”
Novak felt his anger rising. “I thought I told you to concentrate on business, dammit.”
McMahon grinned. “I was talking about the surveillance.”
The man’s insouciance grated on Novak. “Get rid of the whores and stay sober. I really don’t have time for your antics.”
On the screen McMahon’s face froze for a good five long seconds in obvious exaggerated faux umbrage, and then he smiled and leaned back, his extended index finger aiming like a pistol at the camera on his end.
“You’re the boss.”
Novak thought about showing his anger, but decided not to give the idiot the satisfaction.
He knew what to do, Novak thought. If he didn’t do precisely as planned, he wouldn’t get paid.
McMahon was getting to be a liability. When the time came, Novak would jettison both him and his boy sidekick, Redmond, but for the moment they were necessary.
He pressed the button to terminate the call without even reminding McMahon to keep him in the loop.
Mogadishu, Somalia
The heat and humidity of the fading afternoon showed little abatement. Bolan watched the people in the crowded marketplace as the three of them, Grimaldi, McMahon and himself, sat in the corner of the outdoor restaurant and drank the tea. They each wore loose-fitting BDU blouses that easily concealed the weapons holstered on their belts. McMahon’s blouse looked like a worn-out leftover from the first Gulf War with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder seams, haphazardly displaying a set of heavily developed biceps and forearms. Both Bolan’s and Grimaldi’s garments were expertly tailored and solid black.
“What’s your latest intel about the sarin?” Bolan asked.
“Word is our al-Shabaab buddies got hold of some of that stuff from Yemen.”
“Any idea what they’re planning?”
McMahon took a deep breath, then shook his head. “Word is that Muhammad Farouk’s involved. He’s the one who claimed responsibility for the last attack here. My guess is the gas is already close. A plane flew in from Djibouti to K-Fifty Airstrip late yesterday. Supposed to have a bunch of artillery shells loaded with sarin on board.”
“Any idea how many?” Bolan asked.
“Unknown. From there, things get kind of sketchy. But not to worry. My boy Redmond’s on the case.”
“Redmond?” Grimaldi said. “That fugitive from a geek squad we met in Syria?”
McMahon chuckled and drank some more tea. “Don’t knock him. He may not look like much, but he’s the fastest keyboard in the West.”
Grimaldi snorted and shook his head.
“Where’s your base of operations?” Bolan asked.
“Me and my boys rented a little shithole not too far from here,” McMahon said. “Redmond’s actually up in Djibouti with the others. That’s the beauty of the drones. The pilot can be a couple thousand miles away and still have eyes on the target.”
“I got a problem calling that guy a pilot,” Grimaldi said.
“Better get used to it, fly boy.” McMahon leaned back, smiled and pointed skyward. “As we speak, he’s got the Athena flying overhead.”
“A fat lot of good that’s gonna do,” Grimaldi said. “Probably another case of too little, too late.”
“Nah,” McMahon said. “I told you before. The Athena’s got this state-of-the-art facial recognition software. We’ve got Muhammad Farouk’s pin-up shot programmed into it. Once he’s spotted, the Athena will notify us.”
McMahon began looking around and then a wide grin spread over his face. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”
Bolan turned and saw Leza Dean and two of her associates walking in the crowded street about thirty feet away. One of the associates wore a huge backpack and carried a camcorder. The other had a black suitcase and a collapsible metal pole. McMahon waved and the female reporter’s eyes widened. Dean turned and said something to her two cohorts, who immediately began tinkering with their recording equipment as she approached the three men at the restaurant.
“Fancy meeting you here, gents,” she said in her clipped British accent.
Bolan eyed the two technicians, then looked at her.
“I’d advise against your crew trying to film us,” he said.
Her smile broadened. “Don’t tell me a big handsome man like yourself has an aversion to being photographed?”
“Actually,” Bolan said, “we do. But it’s probably not the safest place for them to be brandishing a lot of expensive camera equipment.”
The one with the camcorder already had removed the strap and placed the device on his right shoulder. The other set down his black suitcase, opened it and removed a boom mic. He began extending the collapsible metal pole.
“This city’s full of thugs who’ll take that stuff away from them in a heartbeat,” Grimaldi added. “And it’s too damn hot for me to go chasing them down to get it back for you.”
Dean’s head lolled back slightly as she laughed. Then she turned back to her crew and made a motioning gesture with her hand that seemed to indicate that they should hurry up and approach. But the two technicians saw her signal and momentarily stopped what they were doing.
As if on cue, a group of five teenage Somali boys rushed from the crowd and began battering the two technicians. One of the Somalis grabbed the camcorder. The crowd of people in the street fanned away from the scene of the struggle as a tug of war ensued.
“Oh, shit!” Dean said, an expression of horror on her face.
McMahon stood up quickly and reached inside his open shirt. He smirked as he withdrew a 9 mm Walther Creed from a holster on his hip, aimed the pistol and fired off a round. It kicked up a small cloud of dust next to the feet of the Somali who’d been wrestling for control of the camcorder. The boy’s eyes opened wide and he quit pulling and ran off. The other four followed. Gradually, the throngs of people resumed their former positions and began going on about their business.
McMahon holstered the weapon.
“That was rather reckless, wasn’t it?” Dean said, her brows knitting in concern.
McMahon shrugged and sat down. “Well, we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
Bolan remained silent. Although he didn’t condone the act of attempted theft by the Somalis, McMahon’s move had indeed been reckless. Moreover, it called unnecessary and unwanted attention to the three of them. He stood.
“Let’s get out of here before what passes for the local law arrives,” he said.
Grimaldi stood, too.
“Local law?” McMahon said, the smile still plastered on his face. Then he got up. “Yeah, you’re right. I got better things to spend my money on.” He took out his sat phone.
“But you can’t just leave,” Dean said. “I’m working on a story here. A big one.” She glanced around and leaned close. “A pending attack involving a WMD. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Bolan regarded her sharply. How had she heard about the possible sarin situation? There was a leak somewhere, and that meant the whole mission could be compromised.
McMahon was on his sat phone talking. A nondescript white van, replete with scrapes and dents over the entire body surface, began trundling through the crowd, its horn blaring. The vehicle barreled through the last of the crowd, the pedestrians scattering with practiced ease to avoid being hit. When the van pulled to a stop by the restaurant, McMahon walked over and put his hand on the door handle.
“Ms. Dean,” he said, “we gotta go. I’d advise you to do the same. Where you staying?”
“The Hotel Inesco,” she said. “At least until something happens.”
“Oh, it will,” McMahon said, winking as Grimaldi pulled open the side door of the van and hopped inside.
Bolan followed, noticing the driver was one of the same guys he’d seen back at the safehouse in Syria. McMahon opened the front passenger door and got in. Before he closed it he leaned out and addressed Leza Dean again.
“Hotel Inesco, huh?” he said. “Don’t drink the water.”
He laughed, slammed the door and the van took off down the crowded street, the driver constantly honking the horn.
The Rook
Rural Virginia
Novak was pondering his latest chess game against the computer when one of the men came in to say that McMahon had called on the sat phone. Anxious for news, but determined to let him wait, Novak got up and walked to the windows that overlooked the rest of the facility and pressed the button to raise the steel vented curtain electronically.
This office had once been for the warden, and provided a good overview of the front gate and long courtyard. It also contained a hidden escape tunnel that led to the guard’s checkpoint nearest the exit, although Novak had never inspected it. Just knowing it was there was enough. He called it the king-castle option, again alluding to the chessboard feel of the place. The curtain finished rolling into the metal box above the window, and bright early-morning sunlight filtered through the rain-streaked glass that was covered with several decades of grime.
Novak surveyed the yard and the steep wall, then pressed the button to lower the window and accompanied the guard to the hangar area, which was the only place in the facility where adequate wireless reception and transmission could be achieved. It was a good four-minute walk down the winding hallways.
“Christ,” McMahon said. “It took you long enough.”
Novak ignored the rebuke. “I hope you have good news.”
“That depends,” McMahon said. “Everything’s pretty much on schedule, except that we got some unexpected company. That guy Striker and his partner are here.”
“Who?”
“The guy I told you about from Syria. The one-man wrecking crew and his fly boy partner. Claim to be with the DOJ on some kind of specially authorized diplomatic investigation.” McMahon snorted. “It’s about as believable as one of our cover stories. Plus, they knew how to contact us and right where to hook up.”
Novak considered that. Once the word got out that more nerve gas was out there, the system of checks and balances kicked into high gear. The clock was ticking and the time deadline was shortened.
“That fits,” he said. “We knew they’d be sending somebody, even with you guys still in the area.”
“Yeah,” McMahon said. “But I didn’t know it’d be him.”
“So deal with it. What else?”
“Remember that glitch I mentioned? That facial recognition software’s not responding like it’s supposed to. Redmond’s been doing all the work tracking this stuff manually, and we still haven’t sighted our buddy.”
That was bad. Real bad. The major selling point of going private was the surgical precision targeting of the Athena. Without that, the Aries was just another high-flying drone with hellfire missiles.
“But,” McMahon said, “there is some good news. That reporter, Leza Dean, is here and looking for a WMD.”
“She should be. Eddie had it leaked through one of his congressional snitches.” Novak was still considering the narrowing timetable. Should they hold off long enough for the Athena’s facial recognition software to zero in on Muhammad Farouk, so they could get video confirmation? It would be a good selling point if the new customers were vacillating. Nothing beat the recording of a surprised face right before the lights went out. He often wished he could somehow incorporate something like that into the game of chess.
“In fact,” McMahon said. “I had to save her camera equipment from getting ripped off today.” He described the incident.
“That flaky bitch.” He wanted an independent confirmation of the drone’s prowess to hit the news channels to augment his own video stream. “Chances are good that Farouk’s now with the shells, right?”
“Probably,” McMahon said. “He wasn’t at the purchase point, but that’s par for the course.”
“Can you go verify that he’s there and then call in the strike?”
“Hey,” McMahon said. “I don’t want to be anywhere near that stuff when it goes off. You forgetting how those GIs got sick burning up Saddam’s chemical weapon stockpile back in the day?”
Novak let about ten seconds of silence precede his response. “Make sure he’s there and that we can get a video. Blow up the whole goddamn neighborhood if you have to. That asshole’s got to be there somewhere.”
“Don’t worry. Once the Aries zeroes in, it’s gonna light up the sky around here like a Christmas tree.”
“Then have somebody tip off Ms. Dean. Make sure she gets told about Farouk and the gas. Our friends down Mexico way are next on the hit parade, and they’re going to be watching this very closely. This has to be our best commercial if we’re going private.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll save the day, so don’t worry.”
Novak terminated the call.
Bolan watched as McMahon came through the stairwell that led up to the roof and into the main room. One of his men, a burly guy named Snyder, was sitting in front of a laptop that displayed a grid map of the city. The other guy, Charles, who’d picked them up in the van, sat across the room smoking a cigarette.
“Good news and bad news,” McMahon said. “Redmond’s definitely tracked the goodies to an old canning factory about three klicks from here. The bad news is he still isn’t sure if Farouk’s there.”
“Let’s go check it out,” Bolan said.
McMahon smiled. “My sentiments exactly, but we’re kind of light, weapon-wise.” He pointed to three backpacks leaning against the wall. “We’ve got ours. MP5s. Couple extra magazines. But no body armor and no protective masks. We were planning on having the Aries take them out in a blaze of glory.”
“That might not be advisable,” Bolan said. “We’re right in the middle of a densely populated area, and an explosion would create a lot of civilian casualties, not to mention a major hazmat scene that these people are ill-equipped to deal with.”
“Yeah, I guess they got enough problems on their plates,” McMahon said. “But let’s face it. I’m not too crazy about being around that stuff when it goes up, either.”
“So why don’t we take a ride over to where it’s at and see if we can liberate it?” Grimaldi said. “Maybe we can pick off Farouk on the way.”
“If he’s there,” McMahon said.
“Only one way to find out,” Bolan said. He took out his Beretta 93R and dropped the standard mag, replacing it with an extended one.
McMahon raised an eyebrow. “I been meaning to ask you where you got that thing.”
Bolan said nothing as he replaced the weapon in its holster.
McMahon looked at him askance. “I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it?”
“You got that right,” Grimaldi said. “It’s his pride and joy.”
Bolan gestured for the others to get their weapons. “Let’s move out.”
The five of them piled into the van, with Charles driving again and McMahon riding shotgun. Bolan didn’t like being relegated to the rear area, but he and Grimaldi were tagging along on this trip. McMahon apparently had the information and location, so the Executioner was all right with letting him take the lead, at least for the first act.
The streets were beginning to clear for afternoon prayers, and Charles was able to proceed according to the GPS device at a fairly rapid pace.
“Hopefully, Farouk and friends will be just getting out their prayer rugs when we get there,” McMahon said. “And we can get the drop on them.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Grimaldi said.
The guy named Snyder smirked but said nothing. He pulled back the cocking hammer on his MP5, locked it, then pushed the selection lever to Safe.
Bolan felt a growing uneasiness about this situation. He was used to being in control, and at this point he was anything but. Plus, although he’d worked with McMahon briefly in Syria, and he’d performed well, something niggled at the Executioner as they rode through the dusty streets with ramshackle buildings on both sides. He had a feeling that a storm was coming. The only question was how bad it would be.
McMahon grunted a command to Charles, and the van rolled to a halt. He half turned and pointed to a large building seemingly constructed out of rippled sheet metal. It extended beyond the encroachment of houses leading up to it.
“Let me check with Redmond,” McMahon said, taking out his sat phone. He pressed a button, then held it to his ear. Redmond’s voice was a faint, almost indistinguishable whine to Bolan.
“You sure?” McMahon asked, the phone still pressed to the side of his head.
Bolan heard the barely audible sounds of more whining.
McMahon nodded, then said, “Okay, stay on it. In the meantime, we’re gonna hit this place.” He terminated the call and looked at Bolan.
“It’s for sure that the shells are inside here. Redmond tracked them from K-Fifty Airstrip, and they’re being transported here in a red pickup. There are at least five of them inside, but Farouk’s nowhere to be seen yet.”
Bolan regarded the man closely. “How does he know these are the sarin shells?”
McMahon shrugged. “I told you, he’s been tracking them from the airstrip with the Athena. It’s got the best 360-degree optical sensors—”
“You told us that before,” Bolan said, interrupting. “Did he see them loading the shells into the truck?”
McMahon shrugged again. “He practically said as much. Why? I told you Boy Wonder is completely reliable.”
Bolan waited a solid five seconds before replying. “I was just wondering why he didn’t use a drone strike to take out the truck before it reached a populated area.”
McMahon raised his eyebrows. “Good point. Sometimes he isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s been trained to wait for authorization. We left him in Djibouti while we beat feet down here. When we left, we weren’t sure where the stuff was.”
This story seemed a bit flimsy to Bolan, but in terms of the flow of authorization through governmental channels, it was possible. He reached for the door handle.
“We’d better beat feet, as well,” he said. “If we want to take advantage of them being distracted by afternoon prayers.”
McMahon grinned. “Yeah. Right. I love it when these fanatics are so busy praying that we can catch them with their drawers down.”
“We haven’t caught them yet,” Grimaldi said, shifting so he could get out of the van after Bolan.
The Executioner drew the Beretta, then flattened against a nearby shack and did a quick survey of the area. It was a typical Mogadishu neighborhood: ramshackle buildings pieced together with wood, metal sheets and chicken wire. The paved street in front of them gave way to a rock-strewed mixture of sandy earth and detritus. Across the way, the abandoned factory looked equally decrepit. The doors were closed and the windows had been boarded up. Bolan saw what appeared to be relatively fresh tire tracks leading to a pair of closed doors on the side of the building. A sagging sign in Arabic hung lopsided across the front. He studied the scene intently for several seconds. No sentries were visible.
Bolan took point as soon as the others had filed in behind him, and he led the group across the street at a quick run, his Beretta up and ready. When he got to the front entryway, he pressed himself against the wall. A foyer offered the shade of a small enclosure housing the front door.
It hardly looked sturdy enough to withstand a solid kick, but advertising their presence without knowing how many enemies they were dealing with or how heavily armed they were wasn’t prudent. Instead, Bolan crept forward and slipped his knife from the pocket of his cargo pants, flipping open the blade one-handed. He worked the long shank of metal in between the door and the jamb, prying it open to provide a sliver of visibility of the inside. Little could be seen other than darkness. He worked the knife upward slowly until it encountered resistance about six inches above the door handle. Bolan applied more pressure, bending the door open a bit more and saw what appeared to be the flat surface of a board fitted horizontally against the other side. He withdrew his knife, returned it in his pocket and turned back to the others.
“It’s blocked,” he said. “No chance for a stealth entry.”
“I’ll take my team around the other side and look for another way in,” McMahon said.
“Not much time if we want to surprise them during prayers,” Bolan said. He pointed to the boards covering the window on the left. “See how secure they are.”
Grimaldi went to the window and gripped the middle board. He pulled back and the wood cracked and crumbled away from the securing nails. He smiled. “A crackerbox.”
Bolan motioned for McMahon and his crew to move to the adjacent set of windows to the right of the entrance.
“We got your back,” McMahon told him.
They quickly assembled by that window and began peeling off the boards, while still holding them in place. McMahon held a thumbs-up toward Bolan.
The Executioner holstered the Beretta and assisted Grimaldi in removing the two lowermost boards. He pulled out his mini-flashlight and shone it through the window. The room inside was dark and barren. Bolan kept the beam pointed low, sweeping it across the floor and settling the light on an interior door that apparently led to the inside of the structure.
He turned to Grimaldi and whispered, “Ready?”
“I was born ready.”
Bolan pocketed the flashlight. Gripping the window sill he pulled himself up through the opening, sliding under the remaining boards while Grimaldi guided Bolan’s feet from the other side. As noiselessly as he could, he worked his way over the sill and all the way inside until his palms rested on the floor. He pulled his feet through the opening and did a quick check of the surrounding area before extending his hand through the opening for Grimaldi, who slithered inside moments later.
After drawing the 93R and giving the pilot a chance to acclimate himself, Bolan moved to the door and pulled it open a crack. Inside he saw the red pickup truck and five men rolling up their prayer rugs. Some AK-47s had been placed against the side of the pickup. He hoped that McMahon and his crew had succeeded in gaining entry, but there was no time to wait. Bolan turned back to Grimaldi and said, “Five hostiles straight ahead. The pickup’s there, too.”
“Marvelous,” Grimaldi muttered. He took out his 9 mm SIG Sauer and nodded.
Bolan pushed through the door and advanced in a rapid combat crouch, his Beretta held in front of him, the selector switch on 3-round-burst mode. One of the hostiles looked up, his face registering shock and surprise. He reached for an AK-47.
The Executioner squeezed off a quick burst and the man fell. His companions began to scramble as Bolan continued to fire. Grimaldi was next to him now, his pistol spitting lead. The remaining four hostiles twisted and dropped to the ground. Bolan glanced around, his ears ringing from the sudden explosion of rounds. He was suddenly cognizant of movement to his right and started to swivel, but McMahon was already there, his arms outstretched, aiming at a slight elevation. His weapon sent a burst of bright flame from its barrel. Bolan’s eyes traced the trajectory and saw a hostile above on a catwalk, his face contorted as his grasped his chest, a rifle slipping from his hands. McMahon fired again, and the rifle slid completely from the man’s grasp and he tumbled off the catwalk and made a sodden crunch as he landed about twenty feet below.
Bolan nodded a “thanks.”
McMahon acknowledged the gesture, and continued forward.
The Executioner advanced, scanning on the move. The room was large but mostly empty, offering little in the way of concealment. They had it cleared in under a minute. After checking each hostile for signs of life, and finding none, Bolan walked back to the back of the pickup truck. A vertically stacked assortment of white-tipped artillery shells labeled GB 105 mm—the same as those in Syria—were in the bed of the truck.
“Jackpot,” McMahon said, taking out his cell phone and snapping a couple pictures. He turned and took a few more shots of the dead bodies. “Just in case the brassholes think we were sloughing off.”
“None of these is Farouk,” Grimaldi said, stepping up to them. He slapped McMahon on the shoulder. “Nice shooting.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Let’s get these shells out of here,” Bolan said. “We can drive the truck to a remote area, and then you can have your drone blow them up.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He turned to Snyder. “Get this thing started while we open those big doors.”
The other man recoiled. “Me? I don’t want to be in the same truck with that stuff. I’ve seen what it can do.”
“It’s a binary gas,” Bolan said. “There’s a rupture plate separating the two sections that’s designed to break upon impact. There’s no danger unless the gases mix.”
“No way,” Snyder said. “I’m not doing it.”
McMahon grabbed the other man’s blouse and pulled him close so their faces were inches apart. “I got a low tolerance for anybody not following orders on my strike team.”
Bolan didn’t like the way this was shaping up. Disunity was a surefire path to disaster in a fluid field situation. He rested his palm on McMahon’s shoulder. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I’ll drive the truck.”
“The hell you will,” McMahon said. “Snyder and I are gonna do it. You follow along in the van.”
Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances, then nodded. He knew it was ultimately better to let McMahon maintain control over his own team. If he was going to remain with Snyder, it would assure the other man’s cooperation, at least for the present. The disciplinary problem was McMahon’s to deal with at a later time.
“What about Farouk?” Grimaldi asked.
“I’ll tell Boy Wonder to keep an eye-in-the-sky out for him,” McMahon said, releasing Snyder’s blouse but still glaring at the man. “Remember, the Athena’s got 360 degrees of high-quality optical scanners.”
“How can we forget when you keep reminding us?” Grimaldi said.
Twenty minutes later they stopped in a bleak stretch of desert with nothing in sight in the encroaching twilight. McMahon and Snyder got out of the truck. McMahon slapped the other man on the back and gave him a gentle push toward the van. Snyder, his head down, walked slowly toward the other vehicle.
“That guy McMahon’s got balls,” Grimaldi said. “You gotta give him that.”
Bolan said nothing, but he was in basic agreement. McMahon had proven to be dependable and an effective leader.
“Okay, Redmond,” McMahon said into his sat phone. “You got our location?” He paused and a smile crept over his face.
Bolan could hear some scrambled, but excited, tones coming from the sat phone.
“Great,” McMahon said. “You make the call?” He listened a few seconds and then added, “Zero in on him, click him and light his ass up.”
McMahon looked toward Bolan and Grimaldi as he closed the sat phone. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his regular cell. “Redmond’s got Farouk pulling up in a car outside the warehouse. Excuse me, but this is what they used to call a real Kodak moment. Here comes the Howler.”
He raised his arm and pointed his cell phone toward the distant city. A split second later an orange flower blossomed in the distance and coalesced upward forming a small mushroom cloud. The reverberations of the blast came rolling over them in a concussive wave moments later.
McMahon laughed.
“Mission accomplished,” he said. “Come on. Let’s book. I told him to give us twenty minutes to get clear, and then he’s gonna swoop in and do the same to that hunk of junk.” He gestured toward the truck, then turned and removed his pistol. “No sense taking any chances, although Boy Wonder’s watching the whole thing on closed-circuit TV.” McMahon fired off two shots, placing one in each tire of the pickup.
“Nice shooting,” Grimaldi said.
McMahon watched as Snyder got into the van, then said to Bolan, “Sorry you had to see that before.”
“Not a problem,” Bolan said. “It happens.”
“Not with my team it doesn’t.” McMahon’s solemn expression faded and was replaced by a smile. “But right now, all I want to think about is getting out of this hellhole. It’s time for us to go home.”