Fairfax County
Virginia
Bolan drew his Beretta 93R as Grimaldi sped across two lanes of traffic, over the expanse of grass-covered median, and across two more lanes. The brakes of cars squealed along with several loud bursts of horns. The Escalade managed to make it without striking anything, but bounced hard as Grimaldi steered over a row of decorative rocks that lined the long driveway. The engine roared as the SUV shot up the drive. The white van took off suddenly from the front of the house, heading right for them.
“Oh, you want to play chicken?” Grimaldi growled. “You picked the wrong guy.”
He floored it and started a zigzag motion as he continued to approach the van.
“They’ve got two female hostages,” Bolan said, bracing himself for the coming impact.
The two vehicles roared toward each other, neither swerving. Bolan figured that the Escalade might fare better in a head-on collision due to the longer hood housing the huge engine, but any kind of collision of that magnitude would be disabling. The question was, would the other guy swerve first?
“Want me to ram ’em?” Grimaldi asked, both of his hands gripping the wheel.
Before Bolan could answer the van jerked right, its tires striking the row of decorative rocks along the edge of the drive. One wheel overlapped the high ridge of stones, making a loud grinding sound and causing the van to sway back and forth like a tree in a windstorm. The rear end jerked forward, in the direction of the Escalade, and lurched back and forth. For a moment it appeared as though it would tip over and roll, but the vehicle miraculously stayed upright. Its velocity slowed substantially as it ground to a bumpy halt. Grimaldi cranked the Escalade to the right to avoid a last-second collision, fishtailed to the left, straightened out, fishtailed to the right, and then stopped.
Bolan was already out of the vehicle advancing on the now motionless van, his weapon held in front of him in a tactical combat movement grip.
The side door flew open and a man jumped from the passenger seat holding an AK-47. The driver’s door opened as well, spilling out another thug armed with a handgun. The one with the AK-47 opened up, sending a spray of rounds over the hood and windshield of the Escalade as Grimaldi ducked down in the front seat. Bolan crouched alongside the vehicle’s right front bumper as the glass from the passenger-side window blew over him like errant snowflakes. He aimed and shot the gunner on the right side of the van just as Grimaldi popped up and took out the driver. The Executioner continued to advance.
The rear door of the van burst open and another masked assailant became visible, holding a squirming girl in front of him, his right arm stretching over the girl’s shoulder aiming a pistol at Bolan.
Still on the move, the Executioner extended his Beretta, acquired a target and squeezed off a round. The assailant’s head jerked back and his body slumped to the side. The girl collapsed onto the ground, allowing Bolan to gain a quick glance inside the van. Another black-clad figure moved inside, along with another female. The two appeared to be struggling and it was clear that the male had a handgun. Bolan made it to the open rear of the van in three long steps, jumping over the supine girl at the rear of the vehicle, then leaning inside.
The eyes of the last assailant flashed above the dark ridge of the balaclava and he started to whirl to bring his pistol around toward the Executioner. Bolan’s next shot hit the man right between the eyes, and he fell like he’d been struck by a pole-axe. The woman screamed, tears rushing down her face. Grimaldi appeared at the open driver’s door, looking back toward Bolan, who whisked the gun from the hand of the fallen man in the rear as the Stony Man pilot took the weapon from the other assailant’s limp fingers. After disarming and checking the other two gunmen, Bolan took the arm of the screaming woman.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She continued to sob. Bolan gestured toward the rear and Grimaldi checked the girl.
“She fainted,” he said. “Doesn’t look like she’s hit.”
Bolan pulled the crying woman toward him in a quick but firm embrace. Initially resistant, she quickly became complacent as he reassured her in a quiet voice that she was now safe and they meant her no harm. It took her a few more seconds to calm down.
“You okay?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi nodded. “But it looks like the Escalade’s seen better days.” He pointed toward the black SUV, where a wispy cloud of steam rose from the grille, accompanied by the steady dripping of what appeared to be radiator fluid.
“Let’s take them inside,” Bolan said, helping the woman out of the van.
Grimaldi picked up the girl and began carrying her toward the house when he stopped and cocked his head at the gunman lying on the ground in front of them. The man’s mask had slid off his face when he’d tumbled to the ground.
“Take a look at that,” Grimaldi said. “Look familiar?”
Bolan looked at the fallen man’s features. It was Snyder, the recalcitrant member of the Raptors strike team in Somalia.
The Rook
Rural Virginia
Novak watched with satisfaction as the suitcases were unloaded from the limo under Burke’s supervision. The two Arabs, Malik Maloof and Tariq Bashira, were clad in Western-style business suits, but still decked out in their traditional red-and-white-checkered head cloths. They chatted in Arabic as their three bodyguards, all similarly clad, stood by looking serious and lethal. Congressman Meeks stood next to them in blissful ignorance with a simper plastered on his face. The poor son of a bitch was probably salivating just thinking about the money in those ten suitcases and figuring all his problems would soon be over. If he only knew...
Trusting that Burke would temporarily secure the money in one of the holding cells in the office until it was ready to be transferred to the plane, Novak wondered about doing a quick count. Not that he thought that Maloof and Bashira would try to pull a fast one. This was chump change to them, and after today this group figured they’d be holding all the marbles.
Meeks separated himself from the Arabs and strolled leisurely over to Novak, who noticed the congressman’s face was wet with sweat, as was his shirt.
“Any word on how things are going?” he asked.
“Let me check.” He took out his cell phone and tried to call McMahon, but his phone wouldn’t work.
Novak frowned and replaced it in his pocket. Meeks looked at him.
“Reception’s sporadic around here,” Novak said. “Only good in certain spots.”
Meeks’s eyes widened. “Is that gonna be okay?”
Novak nodded. “It’s no problem. He’s busy checking on the test of the radar absorption and anti-jamming capabilities with the Athena. They’d wait to launch the Aries until strike time was closer.”
Meeks glanced back to the Arabs’ limo and the three bodyguards unloading suitcase after suitcase. He licked his lips, then smiled. He looked nervous.
“Everything’s looking good,” Novak said. “We’ve been flying a test run with the Athena now. So far she’s not showing up on any of our radar scopes.”
Meeks nodded. “I sure hope that thing works as promised.”
Novak leaned closer to the man.
“Relax. Everything’s going according to plan,” Novak said, keeping his voice low.
“My only regret is that I won’t be able to see Oglethorpe’s face when he gets dusted.”
“Depending on where he’s standing, you might be able to. You can watch it all on TV.”
Meeks’s eyebrows rose like twin caterpillars. “No shit?”
Novak gave the congressman a friendly slap on the arm and motioned him toward the Arabs. “Let’s go take a look.”
As they walked down the expansive hallway together, Novak thought about what was yet to come, and how he was going to deal with the unpleasant but necessary task of thinning the herd. He could merely pay them all off and send them on their ways, but what if they got caught and flipped? The whole idea of the Meeks subterfuge was to throw any lingering suspicions on the soon-to-be deceased rogue congressman. Novak knew there was too much invested in the plan to consider any other option.
The remaining members of the supposedly dead Raptor team would be the easiest to jettison. From what McMahon had said, he’d relish the chance to dispose of Snyder and the others once they were no longer needed. The two at the gate could be easily done, and Burke could do the others when they were finished loading the suitcases into the plane, but only after they’d helped take out the Arabs. The kid, Redmond, might be a problem, though. McMahon seemed to have bonded with the little fugitive from a nerd pile. Maybe Burke could do both of them once they got to the island. Novak would simply explain that it would leave more for the two of them. And Burke knew that he couldn’t access the bank accounts without Novak’s assistance, so that would preclude greed overriding fidelity.
That left the skeleton crew of five guarding the Rook, plus Maloof and Bashira and their three guards. He assumed the bodyguards would be armed, but only with handguns. Once the deed had been done in DC, and the money was transferred, it would be a good time to finalize the subterfuge framing Meeks and the Arabs, and then jettison the rest of the guards and the other hostages. Make it look like a shootout gone bad. The ones inside could be quickly disposed of, along with the two guarding the front gate by Burke and McMahon. Then the final tally could be completed once they’d touched down in paradise. By the time all the bodies were discovered, he’d have had enough time to transfer the money into another, secret account, making it untraceable.
It entailed a lot of killing, he thought, but to win the game sacrifices had to be made.
And it left more of the spoils to be divided up among the principals.
“Shall we go watch the drones in action?” Novak said, forcing himself to smile and sound cordial.
The Arabs smiled back.
Novak held out his open palm to usher them around the bend in the hallway, which led to the hangar area and the airstrip beyond.
It was time to kill a royal prince, Novak thought. And an asshole congressman... And maybe even a president to boot... What a checkmate that would be.
Fairfax County
Virginia
The front door of the Cerillo residence had been kicked in. After making sure that the house was clear, and escorting the girl and her mother inside, Bolan told them that he and Grimaldi had to leave.
“But wait,” Mrs. Cerillo said, her voice pleading. “Where’s my husband?”
“We’re going to look for him,” Bolan said. “The authorities should be here soon.”
He turned to go.
“But,” the woman said, “what will I tell them? Who are you?”
“Just two men protecting the innocent,” Bolan replied, opening the door.
He and Grimaldi jogged to the vehicles, with the Stony Man pilot getting in the white van and starting it up. Bolan slid behind the wheel of the Escalade and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered and ground several times before it finally caught. He shifted it into gear and pulled forward, aligning the front bumper with that of the van, which was still hung up on the rim of oversize decorative rocks. Grimaldi manipulated the gearshift and gave a thumbs-up sign. Bolan pressed the accelerator and the slick, clunking sound of metal against metal resounded as Grimaldi floored the van in Reverse. The van’s rear tires spun, making a zinging noise before finally catching and breaking free of the obstructing rocks. He kept backing up at a rapid speed, then slammed on the brakes, causing the vehicle to jerk to a stop. He then started forward, going down the driveway again. Bolan followed in the Escalade, a trail of darkening smoke rolling back over the windshield from the grille.
They turned right out the drive and got on the highway, moving as fast as they could. Traffic was relatively sparse, and Bolan was able to go close to a mile before the Escalade’s engine began to make a grinding, sputtering sound. He flashed his headlights at Grimaldi, who pulled the van over onto the shoulder. Bolan pulled in behind him, shut the engine off and popped the rear lid. After getting out he walked to the rear and removed their two duffel bags with their weaponry. He then ran to the side door of the van, opened it and tossed the two heavily laden bags into the back before getting in. As Grimaldi took off, Bolan took out his cell phone and called Brognola, who answered on the third ring.
“What’s up?”
“A slight problem,” Bolan said, putting the phone on speaker. “We had to abandon the Escalade.” He gave Brognola the location.
“Okay. I’ll take care of it. You find Cerillo?”
“No sign of him. We stopped a strike team trying to grab his wife and daughter.”
“The inside of the house looked trashed, too,” Grimaldi added. “Overturned chairs, busted front door.”
“Need me to assemble some backup?” The concern in Brognola’s voice was evident.
“Not at this time,” Bolan said. “The locals are on the way and they can deal with the dead bodies, but I’m sure they’re going to have a lot of questions.”
“I’d better see about getting that Escalade out of the area now,” Brognola said.
“I’m not sure what we’re dealing with yet, but it’s bigger than a mere abduction. Also, one of the abductors was a supposedly deceased Raptor.”
“The walking dead, huh? Here, Aaron had something he wanted to talk with you about.”
Grimaldi held up a smartphone and a Garmin GPS device as he drove. “Look what I found on the floor.”
Bolan took them and turned the GPS on. It began booting up.
Kurtzman’s voice came on the line.
“You still want to talk with that reporter?”
“Leza Dean?” Bolan said. “Yeah, I’m not sure how she fits into this, but it might help shed some light on the situation.”
“Well, she’s dropped off the radar,” Kurtzman said. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”
“How so?”
“Once I hacked into the system, I tried pinging her cell phone,” Kurtzman said. “That led to a parking garage in DC. No video available. I already checked. There’s no sign of her, but a network camera guy was found DOA at the scene.”
“What happened?”
“He fell from a high place,” Kurtzman said. “Over the wall of the fourth floor of the parking structure.”
Bolan scrolled through the Recently Found section of the GPS. There were only two addresses listed. One he recognized as the Cerillo residence. The other was unfamiliar. He pressed the button to select it and waited for the mapping feature to boot up.
“It appears from her email accounts,” Kurtzman said, “that she’s got quite a few irons in the fire, including some activity on the dark web.”
“Does it point to anything in particular?” Bolan asked.
“Funny you should ask,” Kurtzman said. “In looking for a common denominator, I used an algorithm that checked associations with Leza Dean and the Aries drone and the corporation that manufactured those drones. You’ll never guess what popped up.”
“Enlighten me,” Bolan said.
“She seems to think that there’s a connection between the corporation and Congressman Eddie Meeks. Apparently, he’s a major stockholder, and he was instrumental in getting a research and defense contract for the Aries.”
“Sounds like a conflict of interest to me,” Grimaldi said.
“Ya think? She’s been communicating with one of her sources, sort of a ‘Deep Throat’ type, and that’s who she was going to meet at the parking garage.”
“Bear, check this address for me,” Bolan said, reading off the information on the GPS.
“Huh? Oh, okay.” Kurtzman groaned theatrically. “Give me a minute.”
This was all leading back to the Aries drone, Bolan thought. They just had to finish connecting the dots.
“All right,” Kurtzman said, coming back on the line. “The address is for Gladeville Correctional Center in Virginia. Looks like it was built back about a hundred years ago, and has been closed down for about twenty. Let me check the ownership records.”
“Is that where we’re going?” Grimaldi asked.
“It’s the only lead we’ve got.” Bolan snapped the GPS onto the plastic holder on the windshield. “It’s where our friends from back there started from.”
“Hey, guess what?” Kurtzman’s voice was laced with excitement. “That place was sold a few years ago to a company called FDR Investments Corporation. Digging into that, it looks like a deep cover shell company. Let’s see where that leads us.”
“Just what I always wanted to do,” Grimaldi said. “You and me going to visit an old prison, just like in The Blues Brothers. You want to be Jake or Elwood?”
“Neither,” Bolan said. “I didn’t like their sunglasses and I don’t smoke.”
“More good news,” Kurtzman said a few seconds later. “FDR Investments appears to be nothing more than a front for ex-congressman turned lobbyist Franklin Delano Rhome, who was a lobbyist for the B&A Corporation.”
Bolan scrolled through the messages on the smartphone that Grimaldi had found. The most recent exchange, sent about a half an hour ago, from MM: You got them?
Bolan checked the response: Yes.
What’s ETA back to rook?
Bolan wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but he had a pretty good idea.
“Here’s something else,” Kurtzman said. “Although the place was never reopened, and is still listed as vacant, there’s evidence of significant power and utilities usage there recently.”
“I think we’ve found our next stop,” Bolan said as he glanced at Snyder’s reply: Be there soon.
Make it fast. Shake it up.
We intend to, Bolan thought.