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Hell Dawn
Don Pendleton


Forged in the hellfires of combat, the paramilitary operatives of the covert organization known as Stony Man are the President's first response team when crisis strikes. Unencumbered by red tape or protocol, they've got no margin for error.If Stony Man can't stop it, most likely nobody else can– especially now, as they race to halt the release of a computer virus before hell on earth becomes a reality….Project: Cold Earth is a malignant computer worm capable of destabilizing nuclear reactors to the point of meltdown. It's the brainchild of a CIA freelancer who's become a high-value target for the good guys and the bad. Now the virus is in the wrong hands, along with its creator, and everybody–the hunters, the buyers and the sellers–are crowding the front lines. It's a desperate countdown for Stony Man, a nightmare made in the U.S., but poised to take down the rest of the globe…









“IS OUR PACKAGE BACK THERE?”


“Unknown,” Jack Grimaldi replied. “But these guys put down a cop.”

Lyons cursed under his breath. An instant later Blancanales fell in step with him. At the same time the Able Team leader caught the sound of sirens closing in from the distance, the wails eliciting another oath.

The ex-LAPD cop keyed his throat mike and spoke. “Get the bird into the air. And call the Farm for a cleanup crew on this. Tell Hal or Barb to start greasing the wheels. Otherwise we’ll be stuck here.”

“Roger that, Ironman,” Grimaldi said.

Blancanales had stepped in close to a nearby building, raising his weapon to cover Lyons while the man edged along the line of the store until he reached the mouth of an alley. Halting, he craned his neck to peer around the corner. Another shot rang out, followed by a strangled cry.

Gabe Fox was nowhere in sight.




Other titles in this series:


#19 NUCLEAR NIGHTMARE

#20 TERMS OF SURVIVAL

#21 SATAN’S THRUST

#22 SUNFLASH

#23 THE PERISHING GAME

#24 BIRD OF PREY

#25 SKYLANCE

#26 FLASHBACK

#27 ASIAN STORM

#28 BLOOD STAR

#29 EYE OF THE RUBY

#30 VIRTUAL PERIL

#31 NIGHT OF THE JAGUAR

#32 LAW OF LAST RESORT

#33 PUNITIVE MEASURES

#34 REPRISAL

#35 MESSAGE TO AMERICA

#36 STRANGLEHOLD

#37 TRIPLE STRIKE

#38 ENEMY WITHIN

#39 BREACH OF TRUST

#40 BETRAYAL

#41 SILENT INVADER

#42 EDGE OF NIGHT

#43 ZERO HOUR

#44 THIRST FOR POWER

#45 STAR VENTURE

#46 HOSTILE INSTINCT

#47 COMMAND FORCE

#48 CONFLICT IMPERATIVE

#49 DRAGON FIRE

#50 JUDGMENT IN BLOOD

#51 DOOMSDAY DIRECTIVE

#52 TACTICAL RESPONSE

#53 COUNTDOWN TO TERROR

#54 VECTOR THREE

#55 EXTREME MEASURES

#56 STATE OF AGGRESSION

#57 SKY KILLERS

#58 CONDITION HOSTILE

#59 PRELUDE TO WAR

#60 DEFENSIVE ACTION

#61 ROGUE STATE

#62 DEEP RAMPAGE

#63 FREEDOM WATCH

#64 ROOTS OF TERROR

#65 THE THIRD PROTOCOL

#66 AXIS OF CONFLICT

#67 ECHOES OF WAR

#68 OUTBREAK

#69 DAY OF DECISION

#70 RAMROD INTERCEPT

#71 TERMS OF CONTROL

#72 ROLLING THUNDER

#73 COLD OBJECTIVE

#74 THE CHAMELEON FACTOR

#75 SILENT ARSENAL

#76 GATHERING STORM

#77 FULL BLAST

#78 MAELSTROM

#79 PROMISE TO DEFEND

#80 DOOMSDAY CONQUEST

#81 SKY HAMMER

#82 VANISHING POINT

#83 DOOM PROPHECY

#84 SENSOR SWEEP



Hell Dawn




STONY MANВ®


AMERICA’S ULTRA-COVERT INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

Don Pendleton







This book is dedicated with sincere respect and appreciation to the 3rd Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment, Ohio Marine Reserve, for its service in Iraq. You’re heroes all. “Thank you” seems woefully inadequate recompense, particularly for those who made the ultimate sacrifice. We owe you so much.

Also dedicated to the loving memory of Carol—wife, mother and my favorite reader. Charlie misses you and so do I.

And, last but not least, to Bill C., my other favorite reader. Keep fighting the good fight, my man.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE (#u91e7908e-fcb1-57f4-8bdf-e699078306fe)

CHAPTER ONE (#u9a42aa25-463e-5eed-92bf-8778c98b28dd)

CHAPTER TWO (#uf272e6b0-0bb6-5b1c-a285-917b01aee6ca)

CHAPTER THREE (#u79f1833d-a9bd-5bb8-ad89-af9c8802a303)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2a7cc89c-a4db-5c00-97a7-5d9b47fc2a53)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u0a05ab05-f039-5e16-950a-8fb7cb1eaf49)

CHAPTER SIX (#u1ea417bc-f8c6-5ecf-9517-835496ccff01)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ua84638d3-d34d-519a-bc0a-3fcca3d2e854)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#u5338809b-8125-5a1a-9f4c-d989ba7be963)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE


Frisco, Colorado

Rolling his chair back from the desk, Gabriel Fox stared once more at his latest creation, shivered, then cursed himself under his breath. He’d created a monster, one he damn sure intended to slay. But first, he’d have a cigarette and maybe another drink.

Getting to his feet, he crossed the luxuriously appointed bedroom, moved to a window and, turning a small hand crank, opened it. He was supposed to leave them shut. That’d been the first thing the craggy-faced CIA agent had warned him against.

We have the whole place wired, every entrance, every door, the guy had said. You want to open a window, you come find me and we’ll bypass the alarm for you. I’ll have a couple of guys sit in here and baby-sit you. Otherwise, leave the windows alone. Don’t fuck with me on this, Gabe.

Which, of course, had been all the challenge Fox needed. It had taken him all of five minutes to bypass the alarm system, allowing him to open the window—a heavy pane of bulletproof glass—undetected and at will. With the grounds outside the mountain chalet crawling with armed guards, he assumed it’d only be a matter of time before he got busted by the dour security chief, a tight ass named Oliver Stephens, and suffered a severe tongue-lashing for it.

But hell, getting caught was half the fun.

Grinding out his cigarette, he tossed the butt out the window and watched as it fell three stories before hitting the sidewalk, joining two others he’d dropped earlier that night. He figured the guards would eventually see them there, put two and two together, and figure out that he was opening his window and having a smoke. Let them, he decided. He already was a dead man. Why delay the inevitable?

Leaving the window open, he walked to the bed, perched himself on the edge of the mattress and considered whether to light another cigarette. Or maybe dive into that glass of whiskey he’d promised himself. Dive in and drown.

That seemed to sum up how he felt. His life to this point had been anything but seamless. But, within the last couple of weeks, it had turned into a damned horror show. The cold mountain wind blew through the window, raising gooseflesh on his tattooed arms. He rubbed them, trying to generate some heat. At six feet, six inches, head shaved bald, body covered in tattoos—a multicolored montage of eagles, Sanskrit symbols, big-busted women and alcohol logos—Fox usually turned heads. Not admiring glances, but the surreptitious kind people cast after you’ve already passed, a sort of morbid fascination, like watching paramedics drag a bloodied corpse from a mangled car. He didn’t care. His rule in life had been that negative attention was better than no attention, so he took what he could get.

And lately he’d been getting plenty of attention, all of it negative.

He headed for the dresser, stopping only long enough to close the window, and poured himself three fingers of whiskey. He downed it in a loud gulp, poured another and returned to his desk. Seating himself, he enjoyed the whiskey’s warmth as it enveloped the inside of his stomach. A glance at the laptop’s screen doused the pleasant burn and brought him back to reality.

Lord help him, what had he done? Fox stared at the lines of code he had written and felt an avalanche of guilt fall over him, smothering him. When the lines had sprung from his fingertips, he hadn’t fully considered their implications. He’d been in the zone, unaware of reality. He’d felt more like a pianist, like Ray Charles or Ahmad Jamal, a maestro unleashing his creative juices, making something beautiful, an extension of himself.

Only after he’d completed the worm, the product of three days’ straight work, his weary body fueled by caffeine and alcohol, had he realized just what he’d created. And it was horrible.

His handlers at the CIA had dubbed his latest work Project: Cold Earth. It was a benign name for a malignant computer worm capable of shutting down the cooling systems for nuclear reactors. It was, for all intents and purposes, a digital gateway into hell. It was his, and he couldn’t wait to be free of it.

Unfortunately he wasn’t sure when that moment might come. Once he created one of these little beauties, he then had the unenviable task of reverse engineering them, tearing them apart and creating defenses for them. He had created the disease and it was up to him to find the cure. And until then, he’d stay locked away in this mountain chalet with Agent Tight Ass and his posse of paramilitary robots, having them try to control his every move and him having to score little victories, like figuring out how to bypass the alarm and open a window.

It was just like reform school, where he’d first shown an aptitude for computers, not only as a programmer and repairman, but also as a practitioner of the dark arts, particularly hacking and authoring malignant code. Except now the government gave him a security clearance, a paycheck and at least feigned respect for him.

Scanning his surroundings again, taking in the stone fireplace, the mahogany furniture and fully stocked bar, he grinned tightly. At least now when they jailed him, they did it in style.

He set to work at the computer once again, his thoughts and fingers greased by the whiskey, and began to analyze the code for Cold Earth. In theory, anyway, it should have been easy for him to backtrack and write security patches capable of stopping the malignant program from harming anything. In theory. The reality was that without Maria, who’d helped him write the program, he was having to learn its every nuance before he could create a good defense.

An image of her—strawberry-blond hair, golden eyes, cheeks colored by a perpetual blush—flitted across his mind. Grief squeezed his heart followed by a dull ache in his throat. He doused both with another swallow of whiskey, replacing the sensations first with rage, followed by the gray numbness he’d blanketed himself with for the past few days, ever since his world had been turned upside down back in Langley, Virginia.

Forget about it, he told himself. So, after a third drink, he did. Enjoying the light-headedness, he immersed himself into his work, his fingers gliding over the keyboard as he worked on the code. The technicians back at Langley had yanked the modem card from the computer, which also lacked wireless capability. They wanted to keep him incommunicado, in part to protect his location but also to make sure he didn’t ship Cold Earth—either accidentally or on purpose—out into the world over the Internet.

Rage seared his insides as he considered the notion. His creation had already cost him the only thing in life that he’d ever valued. Selling it for a few bucks or to save his own miserable skin was unfathomable to him. Given a choice, he’d just as soon walk away from all of it. Forget about the Company, about Cold Earth, about Maria. Say to hell with it and drink himself into an early grave.

In spite of the whiskey, a chill passed through him, causing him to shudder. He stood and moved to the fireplace. With the flip of a switch, gas burners ignited to life and the warmth began to cut through the chill. He returned to his desk and resumed his work, another twenty minutes racing by before something from below caught his attention.

Quiet. Or, more precisely, less noise. Just a few moments ago the chatter of sportscasters, the occasional cheer of excited fans, wafted through the floor, accompanied by talking or laughter from the off-duty guards. Two more guards had stood at the bottom of the stairwell, discussing how they’d rather be hunting or trout fishing than be stuck inside, as one of them put it, “playing Babysit the Geek.” He’d smiled at that one. The feeling’s mutual, buddy.

All that had changed. The television continued to pump out what amounted to little more than white noise. But all human noises had ceased. The realization caused a chill to race down his spine even as he rocketed out of his chair and headed for the door.

Grasping the knob, he twisted it, pulled open the door. Glancing through the space between the door and the jamb, he saw one of the guards, a blond woman in a black, pin-striped pantsuit, climbing the stairs. She clutched a submachine gun, a sound suppressor threaded into the muzzle in her right hand. He opened his mouth to speak.

Placing a finger to her lips, she motioned for him to be quiet. When he noticed the shiny smears on her blouse and jacket, her pretty features flecked with crimson, the words died in his throat. His heart began to slam in his chest as he recognized the small splotches for what they were—blood. Putting a hand to his chest, she shoved him back through the doorway. The alcohol coursing through his system had left him unsteady and her strong shove sent him hurtling backward. Shooting him a disgusted look, she closed the door behind her and locked it.

Even as he tried to right himself, she glided past him and took up a position next to the window.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

“Someone bypassed the alarms, cut through the exterior fence,” she said without looking at him. “We’re getting hit from all sides.”

When he spoke, it came out louder than he’d expected. “Hit? By whom? Tell me what’s going on.”

She glared at him over her shoulder. “Shut up.”

“The hell I will.”

She whipped around and centered the SMG’s muzzle on his torso.

“Look, I’m taking you and that computer out of here. Now shut the hell up. Or else.”

He ground his teeth as he stared at the woman’s back and tried to determine his next move. A fireball of anger engulfed his insides as he realized he had been set up again. He was once again a pawn, a prize to be grabbed and handed over to the highest bidder. It was that sort of mind-set, that single-minded greed that had cost his wife her life. And now it was happening all over again.

With speed that belied his bulk, Fox grabbed the laptop and crossed the distance between himself and the woman. When he got to within a few feet of her, she sensed his approach, turned to him. He grabbed her shooting hand, squeezed so hard he swore he could feel bones grinding together. Breath exploded from between the woman’s clenched teeth. Her other hand darted out in a knife-hand strike that caught Fox in his soft middle. He gasped, and she pulled her hand back for another blow.

Raising the laptop, he swung it around in a punishing arc. A corner of the machine caught her in the chin, knocking her head violently to one side. Her fingers went limp and her weapon fell to the floor. She turned to him, wild-eyed, blood streaming from her mouth. She tried to kick him, but was too off balance to put any steam behind it. Fox reached down and struck her in the head with his own forehead. The woman groaned and fell unconscious.

Moving quickly, he packed his laptop into its carrying case, grabbed the woman’s weapon and moved to the window. Forcing his big frame through the opening, he shoved himself away from the window. He hit the ground, bent at the knees and rolled onto his back.

He rose and trotted around the side of the house, heading for the driveway. He saw a pair of black SUVs parked there, a man standing between them, watching the road. Overloaded with terror and adrenaline, Fox found himself struggling for breath. He held the gun in close to his leg, keeping it out of sight. The guy, hearing him approach, spun to meet him.

“I’m going with you guys,” Fox said.

“Damn straight you are. Hands up.”

Fox extended his arm carrying the laptop. “Here. Quit fucking around and take this. It’s what you guys are here for. Right?”

“What the hell?” the guy asked. “What’s going on here?”

Autofire continued to rage within the house at their back.

“Damn it, I’m getting cut in. Take this thing.”

Still eyeing Fox suspiciously, the guy reached out for the bag’s shoulder strap. The instant he took it, Fox raised the pistol and fired several rounds point-blank into the guy’s gut, wincing with each shot. The gunner staggered back a few steps, dropped the case and his gun. Bloody wounds glistened in the light cast by outdoor halogen lamps. The gunner’s legs gave out from underneath him and he fell to the earth.

Fox grabbed his laptop and darted for the nearest SUV. He opened the door, tossed the case inside. From the house, he heard yelling and saw several men disgorging through the front door. Aiming the handgun at the tire of the second vehicle, he fired off several rounds, flattening its front tire.

Climbing inside the Jeep Cherokee, he found the keys inside. The engine turned over smoothly and he gunned it, heading for the road. A couple of the raiders ran up behind him, trying to grab hold of the vehicle before he got away.

Moments later he was heading down the curvy mountain roads. The images of the thug, his midsection rent by bullets, and the CIA agent, her face bloodied and battered by him, continued to play in his mind. After another mile, he pulled the car off to the side of the road, got out and threw up. When he was back on the road, his mind raced through the details of his situation. He needed help. He needed it fast.

He needed to contact Aaron Kurtzman.




CHAPTER ONE


Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Sitting in front of his computer, Aaron Kurtzman’s fingers flew over the keyboard as he monitored a half dozen or so secure communication channels, searching for news of his friend. Gabriel Fox’s disappearance had set off alarm bells throughout the nation’s intelligence networks—the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security and at least half a dozen other federal agencies were looking for the young hacker. When his search yielded no new information, Kurtzman’s brow puckered. Worried but undaunted, he used a series of lightning-fast keystrokes to prompt two other programs. One scanned the various news Web sites for stories referring to Fox by name; a second gathered four-paragraph synopses with any story detailing the discovery of John Does. Neither program yielded results.

Leaning back in his wheelchair, he raked his fingers through his hair, scowled at the screen. Fox had disappeared seventy-two hours earlier. Kurtzman had been seated at his computer for nearly fifty-four of those hours, leaving only long enough for an occasional shower or to grab a cup of coffee. His eyes ached and he noticed his thoughts had slowed, his mind occasionally becoming a blank slate exactly when he needed to be sharp.

“C’mon, Aaron,” he muttered. “Keep going.”

“You need sleep,” said Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s mission controller. A moment later a hand settled gently on his shoulder and he smelled traces of the woman’s perfume. Glancing over a shoulder, he flashed her a tight smile before returning his attention to his work.

“I’ll sleep in a couple of hours,” he said.

“I don’t think you have a couple of hours left in you,” she replied. “I understand that you’re concerned. But right now we’re in a lull. It’s a good time for you to grab a couple hours’ sleep. I want you fresh if they find him.”

“When they find him,” Kurtzman corrected.

“When,” she said, patting gently on the shoulder.

Kurtzman placed his hands on his chair’s wheels. Price moved back, giving him room to maneuver. He backed the chair away from his computer and turned it in a tight 180-degree turn until they faced each other.

“You look bad,” she said without a trace of derision. “Tired and worried. You want to talk about it?”

“You know everything,” he said, shrugging.

“I know that you have some sort of relationship with Gabriel Fox, and that somehow you’ve convinced yourself that going without sleep, food or exercise is the best way to make him reappear. Otherwise, I’m a little sparse on the details. You’ve hardly said three words during the past two days, other than to bark out an order to one of your crew. I’m worried about you.”

Price, her honey-blond hair held back in a ponytail, her arms crossed over her chest, leaned against a nearby cabinet and stared at him. “So talk.”

For what seemed like the millionth time, Kurtzman noticed that even without makeup and clad in blue jeans and an oversize flannel shirt, his old friend was a beautiful woman. The concern in her eyes only made her doubly so. The two had a close but purely platonic relationship, one in which they shared the emotional burdens that came with working for the country’s ultrasecret counterterrorism operation.

“It’s the kid,” he said. “When I was in the think-tank business, before coming to work at this little Taj Mahal, Gabe was just a screwed-up kid from the Bronx. Not a drug-addicted, street-gang kind of kid, mind you. But he was definitely headed down the wrong path.”

“How so?”

“He was hacking into everything—Justice Department, Pentagon, Fortune 500 companies and banks. You name it and he was busting into it, making the security gurus in the business look like a bunch of damned monkeys. Occasionally he stole money when he could get it. But mostly he just seemed to enjoy the challenge. He’d break in, leave his signature and disappear.”

“Signature?”

“Called himself, X. Razor,” Kurtzman said, gesturing quote marks around the name. “The moniker was stupid as hell, in retrospect, just what you’d expect from a kid. But damned if he didn’t have everyone in the IT community scrambling.”

“And you met him how?”

“The Pentagon asked me to join a task force tracking him and I agreed. Frankly, I was intrigued. At least at first. After a while, I just got obsessed. You know, missing meals, sleep, all so I could work on finding this bastard.”

“Imagine that.”

“Funny, lady. Very funny. Anyway, the more I looked into it, the more I followed his patterns, studied his language, the more I realized he was just a kid. A talented hacker, hell, yeah. But just a kid nonetheless.”

“And you found him?”

Kurtzman nodded, smiled. “Yeah, our great hacker was a kid in a reform school in Cleveland. And he was breaking into all these systems using the principal’s computer. After hours, of course.”

Price grinned. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “I kid you not. Little bastard had brass clangers. Anyway, once I’d located him, I decided to wait before turning him over to the Feds. The last thing I wanted was a couple of G-men busting into the place, flashing guns and badges. I hopped a plane for Cleveland, went to the school and caught him in the act. This big gangly kid with a green Mohawk haircut, earrings and tattoos turning all of us adults on our ears. And you know what the hell of it was?”

Price shook her head.

“He said, �I wondered when you dumb bastards would find me.’ Most kids would have been soiling their drawers and professing innocence. Or being quiet and defiant. But he seemed more disgusted than anything else. That it had taken us so long to track him down, I mean.”

Kurtzman sipped his coffee and smiled at the memory. “That was when I got it,” he said. “Gabe just wanted attention. He was a genius, smarter than most of the adults he encountered, angry and bored with us all. The money he stole? He put most of it into accounts he’d set up at the banks. And it wasn’t because he had a moral problem with stealing. He just knew better than to go on a wild spending spree when you steal money.” Kurtzman tapped a thick forefinger against his temple. “Like I said, smart as hell. He was fourteen years old. How many fourteen-year-olds are that smart?”

“A handful, maybe.”

“Exactly.”

“So what did you do with him?”

He shrugged again. “What could I do? I couldn’t pretend like it didn’t happen or let him escape the consequences. But I also wasn’t going to let this kid rot in a detention center somewhere. I got him moved as close as I could to Virginia, a juvenile lockup in Alexandria. On my days off, I’d visit with him. I took him books and we’d talk computers for as long as they’d let us.”

“You were like a surrogate parent.”

“Maybe. The real articles weren’t exactly a national treasure. But I stayed in contact with him over the years, helped pay for his college, that sort of thing. He got married a year ago. In August.”

“I remember you took the time off.”

Kurtzman nodded. “Bastards took his wife,” he said. “Maria was a good woman, but whoever wanted to get the Cold Earth worm decided to kill her in the process. She was home when they broke in. Gabe wasn’t. So they killed her.”

Kurtzman’s throat ached and he swallowed hard to dispel the feeling. This was one of the rare times when he wished he were an operative rather than some wheelchair-bound geek locked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Fox needed muscle, firepower. These were the only things Kurtzman couldn’t provide and it pained him to admit it, even to himself.

“You’re doing all you can,” Price said, as though she could read his mind. “Trust me, Aaron, if I was in trouble, you’re one of the people I’d want in my corner.”

Kurtzman gave her a grateful smile and a wink.

“Frankly, if everything was going to hell, I’d rather have Mack the Bastard on my side,” Kurtzman said. He was referring to Mack Bolan, aka. the Executioner, the soldier who kept an arm’s-length relationship with Stony Man Farm, but often conducted missions on the ultrasecret organization’s behalf. Bolan, like most all of Stony Man’s paramilitary fighters, had been forged in the hellfire of combat.

The corner of Price’s mouth wrinkled in a perturbed expression that told Kurtzman she was having none of it. “Go get some rest, Aaron. Or go work on your project. What’s it called?”

“You mean, Predator?”

“Right. The offensive firewall stuff you developed. We could sure use that around here.”

He waved her off. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes. Besides, I finished that project a couple of days ago. I just have to test it.”

“Whatever. Go. Sleep. Now. Don’t make me order you off the floor.”

He threw a mock salute and a smile. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” He gestured over his shoulder at his computer with his thumb. “Let me just make sure I’m at a stopping point, and I’ll disappear for a couple of hours.”

“Bear…” Price said, using his nickname.

“Promise.”

Price nodded and moved away. Wheeling back around, Kurtzman checked his encrypted e-mail account and saw a new message. His heart skipped a beat when he read the address: foxhound362. Gabe! He popped open the message and scanned through it.

AK,

Leadville.

You won’t see me, but I’ll see you.

GF

Pumping a fist into the air, Kurtzman yelled, “Yes! Sleep can wait. We have contact.”

AN HOUR LATER, Kurtzman was seated inside a Stony Man Farm’s Lear jet specifically designed to accommodate his wheelchair. Accompanying him were four of the finest warriors he knew. Pilot Jack Grimaldi was seated in front, finishing last-minute preparations for takeoff, and seated around the cabin was the trio known as Able Team—Carl “Ironman” Lyons, Rosario “Politician” Blancanales and Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz.

Whatever fatigue Kurtzman had felt previously had vanished with the arrival of Fox’s message. Though his eyes still ached from lack of sleep and his trademark bad coffee was causing his stomach to roil, his mind was more alert than it had been for at least twenty-four hours, and for that he was grateful.

It was heading into late evening and Blancanales let loose with a big yawn.

Kurtzman held up a stainless-steel thermos. “Coffee?” he offered.

Blancanales waved him off. “Save it, amigo,” he said. “Just in case the plane runs out of fuel.”

“I didn’t make it,” Kurtzman lied.

“Well, in that case.”

Kurtzman poured the coffee into three foam cups and handed them out. “You girls are going to be needing this,” he said.

“Sounds ominous,” Blancanales said. Swigging down some of his coffee, he made a face. He looked at Kurtzman, flashing a knowing smile.

“It’s always ominous,” Lyons said, an edge in his voice. “Why you dragging me—us—out in the middle of the night like this?”

“Simple snatch-and-grab mission,” Kurtzman replied. Reaching into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair, he extracted three mission packets, handed them to Schwarz who was seated across from him, who, in turn, distributed them to the others. The plane had been configured for briefings, with four of the cabin seats facing one another.

“Before we leave the plane,” Kurtzman said, “I need to take back these dossiers and put them in a burn bag. None of this stuff is supposed to leave the airplane, so commit the photo to memory.”

Schwarz held out the photo so that it was visible to the others. “Kind of hard to forget a mug like this,” he said. “He’s a hard-looking kid. He the target?”

Kurtzman nodded. “In a manner of speaking, though he’s on our side, all appearances aside. Name’s Gabe Fox and he’s a computer genius.” Kurtzman brought the others up to date on the recent kidnapping attempts on Fox, the murder of his wife, how he’d gone underground and contacted Kurtzman less than two hours ago.

Blancanales was leafing through the file on his lap. “He’s what, twenty-three years old? What makes him so special that everyone and their brother’s trying to hunt him down?”

“It’s not Gabe, per se, they’re after,” Kurtzman said. “It’s what he’s created. A little bit of background. He works for the CIA’s counterterrorism unit. He’s not a field operative. He’s strictly a lab guy. Like I said, he’s a maestro at the computer, and we’re lucky to have him on our side. He’s created some downright scary computer viruses and worms. Stuff capable of shutting down electrical grids or air-traffic-control systems. Remember all the Y2K doomsday scenarios with airplanes falling from the sky and all that crap? Forget it. This kid can program that stuff in his sleep.”

“So someone wants him for his brain power?” Schwarz offered.

“Sort of,” Kurtzman replied. “He’s created a computer worm called Cold Earth. The thing’s capable of shutting down the cooling systems in nuclear reactors, then frying the computers so that they’ll do nothing but crash repeatedly. If you’re working at a nuclear power plant and the computers go blooey, what would you do?”

“Soil myself,” Schwarz said.

“After that,” Kurtzman said, smiling.

“Try to restart the system,” he replied. “See if I could get the cooling system to kick back on.”

“Right. Thing is, though, every time you do that, the worm changes the computer’s password. So you just sit there restarting the damn thing while the reactor core overheats.”

“Wow,” Schwarz said.

“Yeah, wow. Pretty soon, you have a meltdown like nothing the world’s ever seen. You multiply that by every nuclear reactor around the country, hell, around the world, and you’ve got Armageddon a hundred or so times over.”

“Okay, fine,” Lyons said, “so this little lab rat comes up with this thing. Surely he came up with a way to counteract it.”

“He’s working on it,” Kurtzman said.

Lyons’s face reddened, and Kurtzman knew the former Los Angeles cop was having a meltdown of his own. “Working on it? What the hell? If he’s �working on it,’ then he ought to be sitting on his rusty can in a basement at Langley. Not skulking around the damn Rocky Mountains.”

“That’s why we’re going after him, Carl,” Kurtzman said.

“That’s not what I meant. What I meant was, why wasn’t this guy under heavier lock and key? Shit, if it was me, I’d stick him in the Situation Room in the White House’s basement, cordon the place off with Delta Force troopers and not let him out until he came up with a way to counteract this thing.”

Kurtzman nodded. “Agreed. Unfortunately someone at Langley was more focused on playing �cover your ass,’ rather than doing his or her job. According to the background information Barb and I were able to piece together, someone in Virginia didn’t want the White House to know there was trouble.”

“So they handled it �in-house,’ so to speak,” Blancanales said.

“Yeah, they handled it, all right,” Lyons said. “Let the toilet overflow, and guess who has to handle the mop-up.”

“Eloquent,” Schwarz said.

“He’s right, though,” Kurtzman interjected. “Apparently someone, or several people within the Agency, for that matter, knew about Gabe’s problem. They also knew that someone was acting as a mole, handing out information about his latest creation. But they kept trying to handle it themselves, rather than go to the President or someone else for help.”

“The big questions are, who sold him out and who’s trying to kidnap him?” Blancanales said. “We have anyone covering that angle?”

Kurtzman nodded. “Hal’s working on it. As soon as word went out about the whole situation, he hopped a plane to Wonderland. I guess the National Security Council’s still getting up to speed and debating whether to yank this from the Agency.”

Blancanales scowled. “Doesn’t seem like there ought to be a hell of a lot to debate here.”

“More politics,” Kurtzman said, sighing. “In the meantime, we’re heading to Leadville, Colorado, to hunt for Gabe. Or more precisely, we’re going there so he can find us. There’s a municipal airport in Dillon. From there, it’s about an hour or so’s drive to find him. He knows me and will be looking for me. That’s the reason I’m going along on this mission. Plus, Barb and Hal figured my computer expertise might help. I may draft Gadgets, too, before it’s all over.”

Schwarz nodded. “What then?” he asked.

“Carl, you and Pol need to form a human cordon around him. Gadgets and I will work with him on trying to counteract this thing.”

“If we’re that worried about losing him,” Blancanales countered, “why not haul him back to Stony Man Farm? No one would find him here.”

Kurtzman shook his head. “Unfortunately, the word from upper management was pretty clear. Someone already has traced Gabe to one safehouse. It’s pretty safe bet that someone inside the government’s selling him out. Hal and the Man agree that they don’t want to risk Stony Man’s security by making it a target. That’s also why he’s not cooling his heels at Langley, or any other facility at the moment.”

“Fasten your seat belts, ladies,” Grimaldi called over his shoulder. “We’re about to go airborne.”

The assembled warriors strapped themselves in, and the engine’s whine intensified, audible through the craft’s hull. Kurtzman felt his bulky torso press against his harness as the force pushed him forward. He shuffled through some papers, looking for a copy of the two-page memo Price had supplied for the briefing. While the Lear taxied down the runway, he handed copies of the memo to the members of Able Team, each man scanning his copy when he received it.

“So they don’t want to put Stony Man Farm on the bull’s-eye,” Blancanales said without looking up from his briefing packet. “What do we know about the kidnapping attempt?”

“We found one of the agents in Gabe’s room. She’d been shot dead. According to the forensics report, she’d taken one in the stomach at close range. The bullet punched through her spine and—” Kurtzman snapped his fingers “—the lights went out instantly for her. We think Gabe’s the one who shot her. And we think he did it with her weapon.”

“Why?” Blancanales asked.

“She had scratch marks on her face and hands, bruising on her midsection, all consistent with a struggle, like she’d been tackled. Now her gun’s missing. We recovered the bullet, but it was so mangled from tearing through bone and colliding with the floor that a good ballistics match is damn near impossible.”

“Okay,” Blancanales persisted, “but why kill her?”

A cold sensation settled into Kurtzman’s gut as he spoke. “We have a couple of theories at this point. One, Gabe actually went rogue himself and used the chaos created by the raid to kill her and escape. The more likely scenario, though, is that she was actually working in concert with the kidnappers.”

“Explain,” Blancanales said.

“These guys were pros. They did what they could to haul their dead away. But they missed a couple. One of the raiders got knocked into a crevice and the bad guys had to leave him. We ran his prints and came up with some interesting results. Name was Ricardo Montoya. Apparently he worked for the Mexican government, along with about two dozen other men and women, forming an elite counter-terrorism team called Project Justice.

“Project Justice?” Blancanales said.

“Yeah. Unfortunately, Montoya and his group disappeared about six months ago, along with enough guns, ammo and explosives to supply a small army.”

“Which is precisely what they are,” Schwarz said.

“According to Mexican intelligence sources, there have been rumors that the group decided to sell its collective skills on the open market,” Kurtzman said.

“Mercs?” Lyons asked.

Kurtzman shook his head. “A couple of the group’s foot soldiers have been spotted in the Tri-Border in South America, meeting with a multitude of bad actors, everyone from Chinese triads to al Qaeda. Some of our best people—Delta Force, Navy SEALs—trained these folks in counterterrorism tactics.”

“And now they’re sharing what they know with terrorists and criminals,” Lyons said. “Beautiful. And this fits with your buddy Gabe how exactly?”

“Two weeks ago, the lady Gabe killed apparently traveled to Mexico. Puerto Vallarta to be exact. She used her own passport, so she wasn’t necessarily trying to hide her travels. A day or so later, a Mexican intelligence agent shoots a picture of a man named Pedro Vasquez meeting with an American woman in a small beachfront café. Vasquez is sort of their bagman, or business manager, depending on how you want to look at it. Mexican intelligence has been shadowing him for a couple of months, hoping to catch up with the group, but to no avail. He rarely makes direct contact, but instead relies on cloned cell phones that they constantly churn through and hand-delivered messages left at drop-off points.”

“Old school tradecraft,” Schwarz said. “Smart group.”

“No e-mails, no single home base. Frankly, they’ve stolen a page from guys like Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, using primitive communications whenever possible and constantly staying on the run.”

“What happened to Vasquez?” Schwarz asked.

Kurtzman shrugged. “Not sure. He’s an attorney in Puerto Vallarta, but he recently came up missing.”

“Dead?”

“Possibly. More likely, though, he found a hole to crawl into until things settle down a little bit. The Mexicans had a stroke of luck and found the guy supplying the disposable phones, and he had a list of phone numbers for the phones. They passed this stuff along to the National Security Agency, which is hoping to catch a stray phone call, one they can trace back to the group. Once they do, the Mexican authorities have promised to drop the hammer on these bastards.”

“What are we?” Lyons said, his face flushing. “Chopped liver? I’d like to be there for that, not babysitting some damn egghead and cleaning up the Agency’s messes.”

Kurtzman nodded. “Understood, Carl. But we need to look at the bigger picture here. Someone wants to get hold of Gabe for a reason. And, if they do, they’d have something horrible in their grasp. They don’t call this worm Cold Earth for nothing. Imagine multiple meltdowns occurring at once.”

Lyons held up his hands defensively. “I get it. I get it. I just don’t like sitting on my rump when something needs done, is all.” He displayed one of his snakeskin cowboy boots. “These boots were made for kicking tail, baby.”

“Nancy Sinatra you’re not, amigo,” Blancanales said, grinning. “Aaron, do we have any of our own people following up on the Mexican lead, just in case things start happening?”

“We’ve got Phoenix Force on standby. Until we get a little more hard intel, Hal’s decided to leave them in Virginia. We have no idea where these guys might surface, or whether a second crisis might pop up. So he’s trying to conserve resources, as they say in the business world.”

“That’s a euphemism for cooling your heels,” Lyons said with a smirk. “Good. No sense in us having all the fun. Let’s just hope your boy’s got an eye out for us.”




CHAPTER TWO


Where the hell were they?

Fox peered through the coffee-shop window again for the fourth time in twenty minutes, eyes scouring the streets for some sign of Kurtzman. This was his third day on the run, and he found himself jumping at shadows. He’d arrived in Leadville two days earlier, after hitching a ride from a trucker. He’d been able to get some clothes from a church, and public rest rooms had given him a place to wash, making him look like just another hiker stopping in town for a shave and warm meal. A dull ache in his back and neck reminded him that he’d spent the last couple of nights sleeping on the ground in a meadow behind the local elementary school.

Setting down his coffee, he reached for the nylon satchel he normally used for carrying his laptop. Unzipping it, he stared at the weapon inside, an Uzi submachine gun. Computer nerds weren’t supposed to know how to use such weapons. But he did, thanks largely to a couple of gang bangers he’d known in his hometown who were given to driving to the country, dropping hits of acid and shredding rabbits and squirrels with well-placed bursts from the Israeli-made subgun. He’d never had the stomach to shoot an animal, but he’d wasted more than one discarded beer can during those trips. So he could shoot straight, if necessary.

Besides, you didn’t need to be Annie Oakley to shoot yourself in the head. Just the proper motivation. He figured losing a wife, being betrayed by his own government and having every creep in the world chasing him gave a guy all the motivation he needed. A crashing realization of what he was about to do struck him, causing his hands and knees to tremor. He shoved the bag aside, leaving it closed, but not zipped, and lit up a cigarette.

“Might as well smoke ’em,” he muttered. “You’ll likely be dead in an hour.”

“Sir?”

The voice caused him to start. Yanking the cigarette from his mouth, he whipped his head around and found the waitress standing next to his table. Brushing aside her kinky brown hair, she gave him a confused smile.

“Sir, did you say something?”

He waved dismissively. “Just yapping to myself,” he said.

She nodded. “Can I get you something else?”

He looked at her face, oval-shaped with pale blue eyes, and felt that heavy sensation settle into his chest again. His wife also had had blue eyes. “Just the check.” The uncertainty still in her eyes, she nodded and headed back toward the counter to tally the bill.

With his left hand, he rubbed his cheeks, now bare because he’d shaved his goatee in an attempt to alter his appearance. Good luck. A man mountain covered in tattoos trying to hide himself by removing a little facial hair, it seemed a vain effort. Like trying to dress up hell with a flower garden.

Kurtzman’s reply to his e-mail had been brief, but comforting. We’re coming, he’d written. Stay cool. So he’d been doing just that for the last several hours, but he’d yet to see any sign of his old friend.

Fox had been operating as a computer nomad of sorts over the past few days, using the machines at the local libraries to check his e-mail account and to scan media Web sites for any word of his appearance or of the shootings at the safehouse. As expected, he’d found nothing. He’d checked his e-mail account about an hour ago, looking for any further communications from Kurtzman, but had found nothing.

The sound of car doors slamming outside pulled him from his thoughts. Maybe it was Aaron, he thought. Glancing through the window, he spotted three men climbing from a black Cadillac Escalade. A fourth already stood by the driver’s-side door, scanning his surroundings. A matching SUV had parked a few spots back and three more men were disgorging. Blood thundered in Fox’s ears and sweat immediately broke out on his forehead. How the hell? When the realization struck, his stomach plummeted. The credit card. He’d used a credit card to pay for the Internet access, and apparently someone had been waiting for him to do just that.

He rocketed to his feet, grabbing his satchel. Turning on a heel to bolt, he nearly collided with the waitress. Her eyes wide, she crossed her arms over her chest protectively and inhaled sharply as she came to a halt. Reaching into his pocket, Gabe grabbed a crumpled ten-dollar bill and held it out to her.

She took it. “It’s going to be a minute on the change.”

“Keep it,” he said, his voice sharp and loud. “A back door. You got one?”

The volume of his voice, his size and his erratic behavior seemed to take her aback. Eyes wide, her lips parted but no sound came out.

“A door!” Without taking her eyes from him, she turned and gestured toward a pair of swing doors at the other end of the counter.

“There. Through there.”

“Thanks,” he said, his voice dropping in volume. He darted for the back of the restaurant. Pushing through the swing doors, he wound his way between a series of tables covered with chopped food and kitchen appliances. A twenty-something man, his hair dyed green and three earrings on his left ear, his skinny torso covered in a stained apron, stepped into Fox’s path, a butcher’s knife clutched in his right hand, but not upraised to strike.

“What’s the—” he said.

Fox’s stiff-armed the cook, planting the open palm of his left hand into the man’s sternum, sending him spinning backward into a wall. The cook yelled, but it only vaguely registered with Fox. He pushed through a wood-framed screen door, which emptied into an alley that ran the length of a row of commercial buildings, most of them stout and more than a century old. Cutting right, he began to move along the alley, his lungs already feeling the exertion from years of smoking combined with the thin mountain air.

Even as he moved, he heard the screen door slam behind him, prompting him to glance over his shoulder. He spotted the cook from the restaurant, knife still in his hand, yelling and cursing at him.

A corridor, little more than the space between two buildings, opened up to his right and Fox darted into it. Footsteps pounded the pavement and he heard a faint thumping in the distance. Flattening himself against the wall, he reached inside the satchel and fisted the Uzi, but kept the bag over it for the moment. Chances were the irate cook or the waitress was already calling 911, summoning the local police. If they showed up, he’d lose the weapon, give himself up and hope to stay alive in custody until Kurtzman arrived. Fox wasn’t in love with the police, and the memory of his betrayal by the CIA was fresh in his mind, but he wasn’t about to draw down on some local cop trying to do his or her job. He’d die before doing that.

The whupping of chopper blades rent the air and the craft passed overhead, the whine of the engine reverberating from the alley walls. Biting off a curse, Fox headed for the mouth of the alley, which led back onto the main street. Chancing a look around the corner, he spotted two of the guys from the SUV moving up the street toward him. Jerking back, he spun on a heel, retraced his steps toward the other end of the alley. The helicopter’s engine grew louder as it returned for another pass. Had they spotted him during their previous pass? He had no reason to think otherwise.

A stout man clad in a black leather bomber jacket and jeans stepped into view, bringing a gun to bear on Fox. With less than ten yards separating them, Fox started to raise his own weapon when he suddenly heard tires screech in the alley, snagging the guy’s attention and causing him to snap his head toward the source of the noise.

Already committed, Fox continued running until he came right up on the man and threw himself into the guy, tackling him, both men crashing to the ground in a pile. Breath whooshed from between the man’s lips as he struck the ground. Fox pressed his advantage, lifting the Uzi, ready to crack the other man in the jaw with the submachine gun.

“Freeze!”

Fox complied, holding both hands aloft. He glanced briefly to his right and saw a police cruiser, a female officer crouched behind it. She gripped her weapon in both hands and laid her arms over the car’s hood, using it to steady her hands.

“Drop the guns!” she yelled. “Now! Both of you.”

Fox set the Uzi on the asphalt and, with a hard shove, sent it sliding toward the cruiser. The other man tossed aside his pistol. She ordered both men to their feet and Fox did as he was told. He hated taking orders, especially from a cop, but he didn’t mind grabbing some distance from the stocky bastard who a few moments earlier had been gunning for him. The woman rose, the weapon still held in front of her, and gestured toward a wall.

“Up against it,” she said.

“Look, Officer—” Fox began.

Her face reddened and her voice gained volume. “The wall. Now!”

He started for the wall, still keeping his distance from the other man. As he moved, he noticed the guy fumbling in his pocket for something while he used Fox’s body to shield his movements from the cop. Before Fox could say anything, the man’s hand came free and Fox caught the glint of something metallic, followed by a gunshot.

EMILIO CORTEZ WATCHED as his men fanned out over the small mountain town’s main drag, looking for Gabriel Fox. Two men disappeared inside the coffee shop across the street, while another slipped into a nearby bookstore. Three more began moving down his side of the street, peering through store windows. With a gesture, he sent the two SUVs inching down the street, the drivers ready to return should he summon them with a call through the throat microphone.

Despite the chill, he opened his knee-length black leather coat, putting his Ithaca 37 stakeout model shotgun within reach. The shotgun hung from his rangy frame in a custom-made rig, and he carried extra shells in his right coat pocket. A Browning Hi-Power handgun, a custom sound suppressor affixed to its barrel, rode in snap-out leather on his hip, opposite the shotgun. Laminated FBI credentials hung from his neck, and he carried a snap-out wallet containing a forged Bureau ID and badge in his coat pocket, in case he encountered the police.

Cortez scanned the street, listening to the radio traffic buzzing in his ear.

The helicopter zoomed by, the rotor wash tousling his black hair. His black eyes squinted even as he followed the craft as it passed him by.

A moment later one of the van drivers spoke. “Picking up a 911 dispatch. A guy matching our rabbit just bolted from inside the coffee shop using the back door. Apparently he got a visual on us.”

“We’ve got two in the coffee shop,” Cortez said.

A moment later the helicopter copilot spoke. “Clear. I’ve got a visual on our guy. He’s running down the alley behind the coffee shop. Ben, you and Alex got that?”

“Right,” said Ben Waters, one of the men searching the coffee shop, “we’re coming out the back now.”

“Clear,” the pilot responded.

Cortez adopted a grim smile as he listened to the chase unfold. He was ready to put this guy under wraps, forever and for good. They’d spent the past couple of days scouring Frisco, Breckenridge, Dillon, Leadville, and any other Rocky Mountain town within a fifty-mile radius, looking for some sign of him. They’d come up empty. Cortez had to admit that, for a computer geek, Fox had done a pretty fair job of covering his tracks. Fortunately for them, he’d gotten sloppy, overconfident and had made a rank amateur mistake, using his own credit card to access a public Internet terminal. The cyberteams in Mexico and Denver had caught the transaction and alerted Cortez. The contents of the e-mail had been encrypted so Cortez couldn’t be certain who the programmer had contacted. The uncertainty just added a measure of urgency to their chase, which the young Mexican didn’t mind at all.

A voice buzzed in his earpiece. “Cortez?”

“Go.”

“Got him in the alley,” Juan Vasconez said. “Tell the chopper to scoot. We don’t need the damn thing hovering overhead and drawing attention.”

“Clear. Warbird, you heard the man. Go!”

“Right.” An instant later the thrumming of helicopter rotors intensified and the craft headed west, likely circling outside the city limits, but staying within earshot of the fighting.

“He just cut between buildings,” Vasconez said. “The boot shop and the antique mall. Can we get a vehicle there to cut him off?”

“You heard the man,” Cortez said.

From a couple of blocks away, one of the SUVs screeched into a U-turn and made its way to the position. Cortez was in motion, closing in on Fox with long, quick strides, his hand inside his coat and yanking the Browning from its holster. Pressing the gun against his side, he let the folds of his coat swallow it.

“Shit, he’s turning back on me,” Vasconez said.

“Let him,” Cortez replied. “Don’t shoot. I repeat, do not shoot.”

“Right.” A pause. “He’s got a gun!”

The sounds of a scuffle filled his earpiece and he cursed under his breath as he crossed the street and came within twenty yards of the SUV, which had rolled to a stop. The driver’s-side door popped open and the guy stepped out. A siren blared from somewhere beyond view. Someone shouted something, and, though he couldn’t make out its content, Cortez knew it was a command of some sort.

“Shit,” Vasconez breathed. “Cop.”

Cortez’s heart pounded as he closed in on the scene. “Do not engage,” he said. “I repeat—”

The crack of a gunshot stopped him in midsentence. Damn, damn, damn.

Even as he continued toward his quarry, the beating of helicopter blades sounded from behind, growing louder, reverberating from the walls of the nearby storefronts, the noise drowning out all else. Rotor wash caught the tails of his coat, whipping them around his legs.

Whipping around, expecting to see his team’s helicopter, he caught sight of another craft, a black helicopter, touching down in the middle of the street. He stopped dead, and a moment later a side door slid open and a big, blond-haired guy stepped onto the pavement. A gray-haired man with the thick chest and shoulders of a bull and a smallish guy with brown hair and a mustache followed. The maelstrom whipped up by the helicopter parted their jackets and Cortez was sure he spotted at least one holstered weapon among the three of them. Apparently they’d missed the gunshot and had no idea they’d just touched down in a hot zone. Good, he thought. He knew how to play this one to his benefit.

He surveyed the craft and felt an unsettled feeling move into his gut. Other than a tail number, the craft carried no identifying markings, and the men wore no uniforms. His weapon still hidden, he spun on a heel and started for the group. Cortez fastened a single button on his coat to keep from revealing the Ithaca, and fumbled for the FBI credentials looped around his neck. Another of his men, the driver of the second SUV, a Chicago killer named Johnny Hung, fell into step behind him.

Cortez knew all his players, of course, meaning he had three interlopers stepping onto his territory. His mind working overtime, he decided on a plan. Take out these bastards, take their helicopter and go home with the big prize.

CARL LYONS HAD a bad feeling about the black-clad guy from the get-go. Forget the credentials hanging around his neck or the smile creasing his thin lips. It was the hand that remained at his side, lost in the folds of a black leather duster that spoke volumes to Lyons, telling him everything he needed to know. Instinct honed first as an L.A. detective and later as a covert commando screamed that the guy was looking for blood, even before Lyons’s eyes confirmed this.

The guy’s eyes narrowed, a harbinger of something bad, and Lyons felt himself tense. A glance left told him that Blancanales, though smiling, was also eyeing the guy warily. With the helicopter’s rotors thumping over-head, the two men couldn’t easily converse, and Lyons had made the mistake of not yet putting on his earpiece and throat microphone.

Three other men had fallen in with the approaching man, their presence only heightening Lyons’s cautiousness.

Schwarz was just behind the other two men, working to set down the wheelchair ramp for Kurtzman. Turning, Lyons motioned for Schwarz to stop and pay attention. Before he could turn back, he saw Kurtzman’s eyes widen and he raised his hand to point. Lyons whipped around, his hand already stabbing under his jacket for the Colt Python.

Things began to happen quickly.

The lead guy’s hand was coming up in a blur. He snapped off two shots in Lyons’s direction, immediately putting him on the move. The rounds burned through the air, missing the big commando by inches before smacking into the Chinook’s hull.

Lyons cleared leather. He brought the Python to bear on the guy, ready to line up a shot. He halted. A young man stood on the curb, frozen by the gunfire. The black-coated shooter squeezed off two more rounds at Lyons. The commando thrust himself to the asphalt. His elbow absorbed the impact, white-hot bolts of pain emanating from the joint. He ground his teeth and rode out the pain. He tried to line up another shot at the guy, but he’d stepped onto the curb. Turning to Lyons, he smiled, then grabbed a handful of the bystander’s jacket and shoved him into the street just as Lyons was trying to get in a shot.

The man disappeared through the front door of a nearby building.

Holstering the Colt, Lyons fisted the .357 Desert Eagle he carried on his right hip in a cross-draw position. He paused long enough to put his earpiece in place before crossing the street with long strides.

A voice buzzed in his ear. “Ace to Ironman.” It was Grimaldi.

“Go.”

“According to the scanner traffic, we’ve got shooters behind the line of buildings ahead of you.”

“Is our package back there?”

“Unknown. But these guys put down a cop.”

Lyons cursed under his breath, but kept moving. An instant later Blancanales fell into step with the Able Team leader and the two men moved onto the sidewalk. At the same time Lyons caught the sound of sirens closing in from the distance, the wail eliciting another oath. Adding more guns, even those wielded by good guys, introduced new variables into this volatile equation. And he knew, again from experience, that these officers would hit the scene with blood in their eyes, wanting to put down the shooters.

And since Able Team had the guns…

Lyons keyed his throat microphone and spoke. “Get the bird in the air. And call the Farm for a cleanup crew on this. Tell Hal, or Barb, or whomever, to start greasing the wheels. Otherwise we’ll be stuck here.”

“Roger that, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

From behind, Blancanales had stepped in close to a nearby building, raising his weapon to cover Lyons while he edged along the line of stores, occasionally ducking below the length of a window. Covering another building length, Lyons found an alley opening to his left. Halting, he craned his neck to peer around the corner. Even as he did, another shot rang out, followed by a strangled cry.




CHAPTER THREE


Kneeling behind the front bumper of a maroon Ford Taurus, Schwarz ground his teeth and rode out a blistering fusillade of gunfire as two hardmen emptied automatic weapons into his cover. Bullets pounded through the vehicle, flattening tires, rending upholstery, shattering glass. An occasional round pierced the car’s sloped hood, exiting within inches of Schwarz’s crouched form. Lead pounded the engine block, pinging like metallic rain as the block stopped the rounds from ripping Schwarz apart.

Only moments earlier, the Able Team commando had started around the edge of the sedan, his micro-Uzi carving a path for him while he looked for the black-clad killer. When a flash of motion had registered in his peripheral vision, he had dived behind the Ford, his combat-honed reflexes taking him off the firing line a heartbeat before death found him.

A momentary break in the gunfire provided Schwarz a chance to raise his head slightly over the hood to scan the scene, but he saw no one. His opponents apparently had gone undercover while reloading their weapons.

Moving in a crouch, Schwarz rounded the car’s front end, now with his M-4 assault rifle leading the way. Climbing onto the sidewalk, he moved along the edge of the line of vehicles, his senses alert for any sign of trouble.

The sudden slap of feet against concrete drew his attention. He wheeled toward the sound, scanning for a target, his finger tightening ever so slightly on the trigger. A heavyset woman, apparently considering the silence a chance for escape, darted out from inside a drugstore, her worn leather purse clutched tightly to her chest. Seeing the commando, his weapon pointed at her, the woman froze and screamed.

Shit!

Schwarz pointed the rifle barrel skyward and waved her on with his free hand. Eyes bulging, the woman stood there rooted to the spot, her lips working wordlessly as her overloaded mind tried to process the events unfolding around her. Realizing the numbers were falling too fast for such a distraction, Schwarz felt his own anxiety creep up a notch.

“Move!” he yelled, hoping that the sound, if not the word, might jar her into action.

His command startled her, but she stood still.

Damn it! Left with no other choice, Schwarz surged forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. The instant his hand gripped her bicep, the fingers sinking into the cushy flesh, the woman screamed and threw a haymaker at Schwarz’s jaw.

The punch connected, jarring his teeth. He’d experienced a lot worse, of course, but the sudden sensation of pain emanating from his jaw diverted his attention for an instant. Almost long enough for him to miss the furtive figure rising from behind a nearby parked car.

Almost.

With a shove he bulled the woman out of the way and brought up his assault rifle. The weapon spit a line of 5.56 mm rounds that pounded into his opponent’s head, reducing it to a fine red mist. His attacker’s smoking weapon slipped from dead fingers as the partially decapitated corpse folded into a boneless heap, disappearing between two parked cars. Seeing the violence, the bystander screamed again and darted back toward the drugstore. Schwarz felt a rush of relief when the electric door slid closed behind her.

Moving with slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the space between himself and the felled shooter, figuring he ought do a visual check to make sure he’d cleared the nest. He found the man’s crumpled form where it had fallen. He made a mental note to search the guy later, even as he acknowledged that such an effort likely wouldn’t yield much. These guys obviously were pros and if they carried any identification at all, it likely would be fake. But they’d run the traps nonetheless.

The crackle of gunfire died down for a few moments. Schwarz heard a terse exchange between Lyons and Grimaldi. Moments later the helicopter’s engine grew louder and the craft rose from the street, cresting the rooftops as the pilot executed a starboard turn.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Schwarz noticed his combat senses kicking into overdrive, the small hairs at his nape brushing against his shirt collar, a cold sensation rushing down his spine.

Turn! his mind screamed.

He spun. Even before his mind registered the threat, Schwarz knew he was going to take a bullet. The guy with the black coat was poised on a second-floor balcony, his weapon aimed dead-center on Schwarz’s chest.

Move!

The Able Team warrior shot up.

Flames lanced from the other man’s weapon. Almost the same instant Schwarz felt something smack hard into him, the force robbing him of his footing, sending him tumbling to the ground. The shot, sounding oddly far away, registered with him even as his mind struggled to grasp the sudden trauma seizing his body.

Fire tore through his shoulder. Through blurred vision, he saw the other man adjust his aim, saw more flames leap from the gun’s barrel. White-hot pain lanced through his abdomen and he cried out in spite of himself.

He tried to raise his own gun hand but found it unresponsive.

I’m going to die.

He’d imagined it a thousand times, and here it was. If he was going to go, he’d make some damn noise.

Cocking his knee, his working hand stabbed down to his ankle, groping for the Colt Detective’s Special holstered there. Fire ripped through his bent calf, causing him to grunt in surprise and pain, making him forget about the weapon. His leg went limp. When he dropped to the ground, he glimpsed the shooter, poised and grinning, surveying his shattered form with satisfaction.

Schwarz struggled to remain conscious but found himself slipping away. The popping of gunfire, the wail of sirens, grew faint, distant.…

A TAUT VOICE EXPLODED in Blancanales’s earpiece.

“Man down!” Kurtzman said. “Gadgets is injured and taking fire.”

The commando keyed his headset. “Location?”

Kurtzman told him. Blancanales turned and began retracing his steps, moving at a dead run to reach his fallen comrade.

“Ironman?” he said into his throat microphone.

“Go.”

“You’re on your own.”

“Right. Take the bastards down.”

“Clear.”

Blancanales surged into the street, his eyes scouring the area for the shooter. He spotted the black-coated man, his lips twisted in an ugly grin, drawing down on an unseen target. Blancanales assumed his friend was on the ground somewhere beyond the string of parked cars lining the street.

From behind him, he heard the police cars closing in, a cacophony of blaring sirens and squealing tires. He did his best to ignore their approach, knowing he had less than a second to save his friend.

Twin Berettas chugged 3-round bursts, the bullets cleaving through the air to reach the shooter. His aim thrown off by the jarring impact of his footsteps smacking against concrete, the first volley cleaved through the air and collided with a brick wall several feet to the shooter’s right. Shards of brick exploded from the wall, nicking the man’s face, causing him to screw up the right side of his face and bunch up his shoulder in a protective gesture.

Whipping around, the guy spotted Blancanales and his pistol flared to life. The Able Team commando surged left, his weapons spitting another blistering fusillade. As before, most of the shots drilled into nearby brickwork or tore through the man’s long coat, driving him back, but not biting into flesh.

Blancanales darted right, purposely moving away from what he believed to be Schwarz’s position. Stuck in the middle of a four-lane street with no protection, Blancanales knew he made too tempting a target to pass up and he wanted to draw fire away from his comrade.

As he ran, bullets kicked into the asphalt, snapping at his heels. Turning at the waist as he moved, he squeezed off matching tribursts from the Berettas. This time a 9 mm Parabellum round cleaved into the side of the man’s neck, apparently just nicking the skin. He slapped a hand over the wound as though striking a bug. The realization that he’d been wounded seemed to unnerve the guy a bit, prompting him to unleash a final barrage from his weapon, the flurry of lead forcing Blancanales to sprint for cover behind a parked car. Even as he did, his opponent backed away, disappearing through the balcony door.

Springing to his feet, Blancanales crossed the street, his eyes taking in the carnage as he did. He counted at least three fallen hardmen, though there could be more sandwiched between cars or slumped in recessed doorways. Dozens of pockmarks scarred the historic buildings, pierced car bodies and caused spiderweb cracks to form on the car windows.

Even as he closed in on his friend, the commando kept an eye trained on the front door of the building that only scant heartbeats ago had provided a perch for a killer, knowing the guy might burst through the front door, gunning for a rematch. However, Blancanales considered the chances remote. The shooter more likely would find a rear exit, get the hell out of there while he still could.

He knelt next to Gadgets and checked to see whether his old friend was breathing.

CARL LYONS SPED through the diner, winding his way between patrons sprawled facedown on the hardwood floors scuffed and scarred from more than a century of use.

Thrusting his full body weight against the swing doors, he surged into the kitchen, intent on reaching the rear exit. He found himself facing a young man, hair dyed green, standing there, his face etched in terror. The kid clutched a butcher knife in a white-knuckled grip. Lyons halted, eyeing him warily, unsure whether he planned to attack. The young man held the knife to his heaving chest, as though it were a shield.

The young man’s face was pale, making his green locks seem all the more garish.

“We got a problem here, kid?” Lyons asked.

The young man shook his head, squeezing the knife against his chest.

“How about you put down the knife?”

“Can’t.”

“Kid, I’m losing time here. Drop the damn knife.”

“My fingers. They won’t move.”

Impatience flared within him, but Lyons squashed it with a deep exhale. He needed to get through that door, but he didn’t want to charge a panicked kid with a knife. Under normal circumstances, the kid likely wouldn’t pose a threat. But he had the look of a cornered animal and Lyons didn’t want to push him.

He adopted what he called his “jumper” voice, a soothing, patient tone he’d learned to use as a cop.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m a federal agent. I need to get through that door. What say you drop the knife?”

“They shot her. I saw it.”

“Who?”

“The lady cop.”

“Kid, we’re burning daylight. I gotta go through that door. You’re in my way.”

Hesitating another heartbeat, the young man finally shuddered and dropped the knife.

“Good,” Lyons said. He gestured the kid away from the door, and this time he complied. “Hide somewhere until the cops come to get you,” Lyons said as he brushed past the young man.

Lyons stepped into the alley and immediately found the pungent smell of rotting food assailing his nostrils. A garbage Dumpster stood to his right. Police cars barreled into the alley from both ends, their sirens screaming.

The Python extended, Lyons skirted the garbage bin, his eyes searching either for Gabe Fox or for another killer. Footsteps slapped against concrete and a moment later Lyons caught sight of a stocky man with coffee-colored skin bearing down on him. He remembered the guy as one of the gunners who’d been with the black-coated shooter a few minutes earlier.

The guy spotted Lyons and began to raise his gun.

The gesture came a microsecond too slow. The Colt Python bucked twice in Lyons’s hand. The slugs hammered into the hardman’s stomach and he collapsed to the ground. Even though he was sure the guy was dead, Lyons kicked away the man’s gun as he moved past him.

“Ironman to Ace.”

“Go, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

“You have any contact with our runaway?”

“Negative.”

“Politician?”

“With me. We’re watching the paramedics treat Gadgets.”

“Give me a sitrep.”

“Give us five and I’ll let you know.”

“Make it three.”

“Roger that.”

Before he could make another move, a police car skidded to a halt twenty yards to his left. Doors popped open on either side and a pair of county deputies surged from the vehicle, guns drawn. Anticipating this, Lyons had already holstered the Colt, exchanging it for his fake Justice Department credentials. He raised his hands, flipping open his badge case as he did, and played it cool. Experience told him that a downed officer put everyone on edge, igniting a volatile combination of fury and fear. He felt it burning in his own gut and wanted to chase down the bastards who’d shot Gadgets and the other fallen officer. He also didn’t want to waste precious seconds tangling with the locals. One of the officers, his gun drawn, approached him. From the corner of his eye, Lyons could see another deputy, a sergeant, closing in from the opposite direction.

The officer snagged Lyons’s ID from his hand, stepped back and inspected it. Holstering his weapon, the guy returned Lyons’s credentials and other officers emerged from cover.

“The other guys told us to look for you, Agent Irons,” the cop said. “We lost your shooter.”

Lyons nodded. “I’m going. I hope everything turns out okay for the lady.” Without waiting for the man’s reply, he turned and walked away.




CHAPTER FOUR


Fox thrust himself inside a doorway as a pair of police cars whizzed by, sirens blaring. The move was more of a reflex than a rational action. He’d spent too many years in the juvenile justice system to regard the police as friends, even under the current circumstances. The CIA—or at least someone within the Agency—already had sold him out. Who was to say the police around here weren’t also bought and paid for?

Moving quickly, he covered two blocks on foot, his gaze cast downward, though he continued taking in his surroundings with surreptitious glances.

Pain seared through his ribs, causing him to wince with each step. The knife thrust had been a glancing one, striking bone, skittering off it, without biting into the vital organs beneath his rib cage. But Fox knew he was losing lots of blood. He could feel his warm life fluids grow cool as the breeze whipped inside his long coat. Each step caused bolts of pain to emanate from the wound, and he clenched his jaw to keep the pain in check. Gunshots continued to ring in his ears, reminding him of the rare occasions when as a teen he’d attended concerts and his ears would buzz for twenty-four hours as they recovered from the audio assault.

Taking his hand away from the wound, he found it covered with blood. In fact, blood had soaked his wrist and then his sleeve, turning the fabric black almost up to his elbow. Unbidden, the face of the thug he’d just killed flickered across his mind and he felt his stomach roll. He saw the man’s gaze transform from one of controlled rage, a predatory confidence, to shock and finally helplessness as he realized he was dying. Fox had shoved the man away and exploded from the alley, passing the fallen police officer, leaving her also to die as he’d tried to save his own skin.

Tears stung his eyes as he chastised himself for his cowardice. How many more people were going to have to die because of him? Because of what he’d wrought with his own hands? His vision began to blur and his footsteps grew heavier. Shit! He’d lost so much blood that his body was ready to give out, to shut down, if not forever, at least for a time to heal.

Move!

He passed a couple of slab houses covered in peeling paint and fronted by small rock gardens and spotty grass. In the backyard of one, laundry hung from a line, blowing in the breeze. In the other, a black Labrador retriever stood on his hindquarters, his front paws hooked over the fence, barking at him and wagging its tail in welcome. He kept moving and hoped its noise didn’t prompt the home’s occupants to peer through their window where they’d see a blood-soaked man lumbering down the street.

He was beginning to feel shaky, and knew he couldn’t keep walking forever. Ahead, he saw a refuge, a wooden shed painted an odd green color that he guessed matched his skin tone at this particular moment. It sat inside a fenced yard, its door seized by the strong winds whipping through town, fanning open and closed.

The structure lay forty or so yards away. It might as well have been a mile for the way he felt. Eyes locked on the building, he stumbled to the corner and felt his legs grow rubbery. His hand lashed out and he caught hold of a street sign’s metal post. Leaning his body against it, his eyes slammed shut and a seductive blackness began to envelop his mind, summoning him to surrender to it.

The cell phone in his pocket trilled, pulling him back out. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he retrieved the phone and answered the call. “Hello.”

“Gabe?” Even in his shaky condition, Fox recognized Kurtzman’s voice immediately.

“Yeah.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah. C’mon. Where the hell are you?”

“Not sure. Some street.”

“You sound like hell. You injured.”

“Guy stabbed me, Aaron. Cut my side open. Hurts. Like. Hell.”

“Understood, brother. Where are you at? We’ll come get you.”

Fox peered up at the street sign, trying to bring the words into focus. “Peak Street,” Fox said. “I’m on Peak Street.”

“Okay, we’re on our way.”

“Man, I killed two people.”

“Right. You did what you had to. No worries, huh?”

“I didn’t want to. I feel like shit.”

“Like I said, no worries. We’ll work stuff out. Just hang on for a minute. I’ve got guys coming for you. Plainclothes. A mouthy blond guy and a gray-haired Hispanic fellow. They’ll take good care of you.”

His eyes slammed shut again until Fox heard a car engine growl to his left, prompting him to turn and look. He watched as a van rolled up to the curb. In his delirium, he’d lost his feel for time.

“That was fast,” he said.

“What was fast?” Kurtzman replied.

“Your guys are here.”

He heard Kurtzman mutter an oath. “Those aren’t my people, guy. Can you move?”

“Don’t. Think. So.” His tongue felt fat and clumsy, his mouth dry.

“Roger that. We’re on our way.”

Fox sank to his knees, his head whirling. He heard the dull thunk of an automatic transmission slipping into park, followed by a door opening. The idling engine buzzed in his ear like an insistent insect, but he kept his eyes shut as he felt himself slip closer to unconsciousness.

Boots thudded, and he cracked an eye. A pair of snakeskin cowboy boots came into view, the leather creaking as the wearer bent to kneel next to him. An instant later he saw a face, Latino, he thought, and he felt relief wash over himself. A mouthy blond guy and a gray-haired Hispanic fellow, Kurtzman had said. Did the guy have gray hair? Fox thought so, hoped so.

He fell unconscious as Cortez grabbed him under the arms and dragged him roughly toward a stolen Hyundai.

BLANCANALES SPRINTED toward the spot where Fox had claimed to have fallen. He was in good shape by almost anyone’s standards. Still, he felt his lungs burn for air as he exerted himself at the mountain town’s altitude.

From two blocks away, he heard a car door slam. Looking up, he saw two men dragging Fox toward a small red sedan. He poured on the speed, snatching one of the Beretta’s from beneath his coat as he did.

He also recognized the man who’d shot Schwarz. Blancanales’s heart drummed harder as rage flared inside him, causing him to run that much harder. The men hadn’t seen him yet and he stepped into the grass median between the sidewalk and the street, hoping the softer terrain would eliminate the sound of his pounding feet.

Lyons was across the street, surging forward at a similar pace, his form hidden behind parked cars. Unsure of what they’d find, the two men had decided to leave some distance between them, rather than bunching into a knot, forming an easy target.

“That’s our shooter,” Blancanales said.

“Right,” Lyons replied.

“You got the shot?”

“Negative. Too far away. Too clustered.”

“Let me fix that.”

Lyons darted out from between a pair of parked cars and uttered a war whoop. The sudden flurry of sound and motion caused the three men to look up from their captive. The guy in the black coat, the one who’d shot Schwarz, went on the defensive immediately. Crouching, he spotted Lyons heading his way and capped off two shots that whizzed well past the approaching figure. Lyons held his own fire, in part because of the proximity of houses and because the men remained too tightly wound around Fox. There was a good chance that Fox would take a hit.

Lyons ran in a zigzag pattern as the air around grew heavy with gunfire. Bullets perforated car windows, tail- and headlights, or glanced off steel. He watched as the third man dragged Fox’s body toward the car, opening up more precious space between him and the shooters with each passing second.

One of the hardmen got brave. He separated from the others and unleashed a volley of gunfire at Lyons. The former cop dived forward, rolled, before coming up in a prone position. The Python thundered twice more, spitting jagged columns of flame from the barrel. A moment later the shooter flew backward, as though hit dead-center by a wrecking ball. The guy in the black duster reacted, wheeling toward Lyons and unloading another deadly barrage of fire. The bullets chewed into the ground, showering Lyons with dirt and grass. Without aiming, he emptied the Python at his attacker, hoping the slugs at least would throw the guy off his stride.

The guy’s weapon went dry at the same time, forcing him to break off the attack. Lyons watched as the shooter let the submachine gun fall on its strap, spin and head for the vehicle’s driver’s side. The other man already had succeeded in stuffing Fox into the back seat of the car, and was scrambling to grab a weapon from under his jacket.

Popping the Python’s cylinder, Lyons was emptying spent brass even as he came to his feet. Stuffing a hand inside his jacket pocket, his fingers encircled a speed-loader and he charged the weapon on the run, completing the task in the same microsecond that the other guy freed a pistol from its holster and began to raise it.

Before Lyons could fire, the man suddenly stiffened, his expression morphing from one of shock to terror. Wounds sprang open across his torso. His knees suddenly gave out beneath him, and he crashed forward to the ground.

In the same instant, Lyons caught a glimpse of Blancanales heading for the car. However, the driver gunned the engine and sent the vehicle hurtling straight toward the commando, forcing him to leap out of its path.

Even as the car gathered speed, Lyons already was rocketing forward, trying to catch up with it. Legs pumping like pistons, the Able Team leader surged after the car, trying to get to it before it hit at full cruising speed. It was a wasted effort. In the seconds it took him to reach its starting point, the vehicle already had put another two blocks between itself and him.

He watched as it blew through a stop sign, nearly colliding with an oncoming car before disappearing over a hill. Stopping next to Blancanales, he radioed the information to Kurtzman.

“Shit,” the computer expert said. “Gabe’s as good as dead.”

“Scratch that, mister,” Lyons replied. “We’re not done here. Not by a long shot. Pass along the description to the police while Pol and I try to round up a vehicle. We’re going to keep looking for him.”

“Roger that,” Kurtzman said, his voice telegraphing the same doubt that Lyons’s felt roiling in his own gut.

“And tell Jack we need to get that bird up in the air. I want a visual on this SOB, like five minutes ago. Got it?”

“But Jack needs to airlift Gadgets—”

“Jack needs to pick up the pursuit.”

“Carl—”

“Don’t even go there, Bear. It’s one life against the potential loss of thousands. You read?”

“Understood.”




CHAPTER FIVE


Cortez navigated the car out of the city limits, heading north, higher into the Rocky Mountains. Checking his watch, he smiled. He still had three minutes to reach the rendezvous point. The mission had come about as close to going to hell as one could imagine, with this crazy group of federal agents busting up his play. But he still had time to salvage the whole thing, if he kept his head about him.

A groan sounded from behind him, and he glanced over the backrest to scan his prisoner. The guy’s skin was pale, and he was shuddering, most likely slipping into shock. Cortez sent a mental prayer heavenward that the guy would make it. If the guy died, if Cortez failed to produce the goods, he knew the consequences of that failure. Miguel Mendoza wasn’t a man you wanted to disappoint under any circumstances, but particularly not when a big payday was involved. Cortez didn’t know all the details, but he definitely knew that the guy in the back seat was worth lots of money to someone. But not if he died.

Driving with one hand, Cortez torched a cigarette and puffed away, squinting through the blue-gray smoke at the road ahead. As it was, the guy was going to be pissed off at him. After all, the simple snatch-and-grab had turned into a bloodbath with at least two downed cops, a handful of his own guys dead or missing and perhaps even some wounded civilians. So Cortez had no delusions about the warmth of the welcome he’d receive when he returned to Mexico.

Glancing into the back seat, he eyed the guy again and shook his head.

“Easy, gringo,” he called over his shoulder. His English was nearly flawless from years of studying criminal justice at UCLA before returning to his homeland. “We’ll fix you up real good. You’re our little cash cow.”

Two minutes later he pulled onto the side of the road, parked it and exited. Taking out his cellular telephone, he hit the redial button. When the verbal prompt came, he hit three more buttons and terminated the call, tossing the phone back inside the car.

Grabbing the big man under the shoulders, he dragged him from the back of the vehicle, pulled him about thirty yards from it and laid him out flat on the dirt and sparse grass. Moments later a pair of helicopters crested a nearby mountain peak and knifed toward him. The crew worked quickly, strapping the prisoner onto a stretcher and loading him onto the helicopter. Two more guys, both heavily armed, sprinted for the car.

Mendoza’s son, Bernardo, appeared in the door of one of the choppers and gave Cortez a questioning look. He replied with a nod and the younger man hopped from the craft, an olive drab duffel bag in his hand, and strode up to Cortez.

Taking the bag, Cortez ran after the two gunners. Sliding down a small incline next to the car, he ran to the two men, both of whom gave him a questioning look.

Pulling open the rear passenger’s-side door, he stuffed the bag into the space on the floor between the front and back seats.

“More ammunition,” he said. “In case you need it. Now go, get out of here.”

The driver nodded. Cortez slammed the door and dismissed the two men by banging a fist on the roof of the car, watching as the vehicle backed up, then drove back onto the road and roared away. Grinning, he sprinted for the helicopters and boarded the nearer one.

Moments later, both craft were aloft.

Cortez pulled out a black box that featured several switches.

The Mexican stared at the box for a moment. He realized it was only a matter of time before the police caught up with the Hyundai. Most likely, the pigs would force the vehicle from the road and take the men into custody. He’d like to think his people were dead-enders, that they’d sooner take a bullet than sell him out. Sure, he’d like to think that. But he was a realist. If the police applied the right amount of pressure, his men would give him up in a heartbeat. He knew this because he’d do the same to them, in even less time.

Casually, he flicked a switch and snuffed out both men’s lives. Just the first of many to die this day, he thought.

MIGUEL MENDOZA FINISHED his morning swim in his Olympic-size pool. He climbed the ladder out of the deep end, water sluicing off his body. A young maid was on hand, a towel in her hand. He snapped his fingers and she unfurled it and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He strode up from the pool to his terrace. His wife, Rosa, looked up from her newspaper and smiled at him, exposing perfect white teeth. Her wavy hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a long T-shirt over her bikini-clad body as per his instructions, and he was pleased.

“How was your swim?” she asked, still smiling.

“It was fine, my love. Thank you.”

He walked past and admired her, like another man might admire a fast car. She was thirty years his junior, and he considered her his most prized possession, something to be trotted out, shown off and appreciated by others. He guessed that that was how others felt about great art, something he’d never developed a taste for. But like other treasures, he knew others wanted her. And he made sure he tucked her safely away, particularly when he wasn’t around to watch her.

She chewed on a small piece of grapefruit while he seated himself. He scanned the smooth concrete walls that surrounded the estate and congratulated himself once again on the stronghold he’d created for himself and his family. The maid handed him a short-sleeved cotton shirt and helped him shrug into it. He snatched the newspaper from a second maid’s hands and whisked them both away with a wave of his hand.

“Darling,” Rosa said, “I want to take the children to town today. We are going shopping. After that I promised them that we’d eat shrimp at the old man’s restaurant on the beach.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. You’ll take Carlos and his people with you.”

Carlos was his personal security chief and one of the few men Mendoza trusted to guard his wife. The man was exceedingly loyal to Mendoza, almost as though he were one of his own children. As he spoke, he saw something flicker in the woman’s eyes.

She looked down at her plate. “Of course,” she said. She speared a grape with her fork, popped it into her mouth and chewed. He felt her unhappiness from across the table. His hands clenched into fists and he slammed one of them down on the table. Dishes jumped from the table and silverware clattered against the china. “What?” he yelled. “What’s your problem, woman?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock, terror. “I have no problem, darling. I swear.”

“Is it Carlos?”

She looked down at her plate and shook her head. “No, no.”

“What did he do?”

“He did nothing.

“Really, it’s not him.”

“Then what is it?”

“Please, please. Let’s forget I said anything.”

His voice dropped into little more than a whisper. When he spoke, he did so through clenched teeth. “Tell. Me. Now.”

“I just wanted some time alone. With the children,” she said. “Everywhere we go, we have guards. It just makes me self-conscious.”

“It keeps you alive, you ungrateful bitch.”

She nodded. He saw tears beginning to brim over. He considered letting it go at that. But obviously he needed to teach this little bitch a lesson. She’d either taken leave of her senses or she just didn’t appreciate all he did for her. Regardless, the woman needed to be taught a lesson.

He noticed her hand had slipped off the table and she clutched her stomach. “So you never complained before, but now you are. Now, it’s a big deal, yes? Suddenly you must complain.”

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. “Forgive me. I have no right to complain.”

“But here you are, feeding me this bullshit. You think this is a bad life? You think I’m giving my children, my babies, a shitty deal, right? I’m a bad Papa to my babies. Is that it?”

He turned and found one of his guards standing in the door leading from their bedroom onto the terrace. “Go get your boss. We’ll settle this bullshit once and for all.”

Rosa gave him a panicked look. “Miguel?”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. They waited in tense silence for a couple of minutes. The security chief, dressed in khakis and a starched white shirt, sauntered through the Mendoza’s bedroom and onto the terrace. He winked at one of the guards, pointed a finger and smiled at the other one. When Carlos approached the table, he nodded politely at Rosa, but didn’t look at her too long. Rather, he turned to face Mendoza.

“You wanted something, sir?” he asked.

Mendoza leaned back in his chair. He laced his fingers together and rested the back of his head in the palms. “Carlos,” he said. “I have news.”

“News?”

“Yeah, news. I gotta let you go.”

Carlos smiled and began to shift on his feet. “Let me go? You’re firing me?”

Rosa interjected, “Miguel, no.”

His face whipped toward her. “You shut up!” he said. He underscored each word with a jab from his finger. “This is between him and me. Understand?”

“Is there a problem, boss?”

“You’ve offended my wife. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Carlos’s face tightened with anger. “Ma’am, is this true? I offended you somehow?”

Mendoza came out of his chair and punched Carlos in the stomach. The younger man staggered back, but almost immediately got his footing. He started to bring up his fists in a fighting stance, thought better of it and let them drop to his sides.

Mendoza glanced over his shoulder. He wanted to make sure the others were watching, particularly his wife, who now sat sobbing at the table. He knew they weren’t just questioning him, they were questioning his authority, his competency. They wanted to take him down. His wife, this pack of overpaid killers. They were all a bunch of damn savages. They all wanted what he had, and he needed to take them down before they took him.

He turned to the guards at his back. He nodded at Carlos. “Take him out.” The guards, both of them armed with Uzis, stared at him for a moment. “What, are you deaf? I said—”

One of the guards suddenly reached out, shoved him out of the way. He hit the ground, his outstretched hands breaking his fall. He heard autofire erupt overhead from the guards’ SMGs. Shell casings struck the ground and rolled underneath him. Somewhere in all the noise he heard his wife’s screams of terror. A moment later, the shooting had ended. He rolled over onto his rear. Carlos lay facedown on the ground, his back ravaged by bullet exit wounds. His handgun lay on the ground next to him, inches from his outstretched fingers.

Roberto Cardenas, the guard who’d shoved Mendoza to the ground, held out a hand to help him up. Mendoza slapped it away and came to his feet.

“You’re the new chief of security,” Mendoza said. “Think you can handle it?”

“Sure I do.”

“Good, clean up this mess. Then come with me. We’ve got a special delivery coming from America

“THE OLD MAN’S GONE crazy,” Cardenas whispered.

“Crazy?” Emilio Cortez replied, his confusion evident.

“Crazy, man. He just had Carlos killed for no fucking reason.”

“What the hell are you saying? Killed him why? When?”

Cardenas lightly gripped Cortez’s upper arm to steer him away from the others. He cast a last glance over his shoulder and watched as his team from Colorado unloaded Fox from the small jet they’d used to flee from the States. The big programmer’s body was limp thanks to drugs injected into him before they’d loaded him on the plane and returned to Mexico. The guys carrying Fox hauled him over to a black Mercedes, shoved him inside and shut the doors. Each took up a position next to the vehicle, apparently awaiting further orders.

Satisfied, Cortez turned his attention back to Cardenas.

“So, what happened? Why’d the old man have him taken out?”

Cardenas recounted the whole story. When he finished, Cortez slowly shook his head, feeling his stomach knot. He ran a hand over his mouth and swore. “He has lost it. And over some whore.”

“It’s not her fault,” Cardenas said.

Cortez shot him a look and the guy shrank a little bit. “So now you’re sticking up for her.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s not her fault. Mendoza did it, not her. She just asked to go into town without the guards. She wasn’t trying to start trouble. She sure as hell didn’t want Mendoza to flip out or Carlos to die.”

Cortez started to argue the point, thought better of it and clamped his jaw shut. The other man was right. Mendoza’s wife wasn’t the problem; he was the problem. He’d been losing his grip on reality for months now, becoming increasingly paranoid and irrational with each passing day.

“When’s the guy coming?” Cortez asked.

Cardenas checked his watch. “Twenty-five minutes.”

Cortez nodded. “Good.”

“Yeah, good unless Mendoza loses his cool and blows the deal. Then Jack Mace will turn tail and leave. And he’ll take his money with him.”

“The hell he will! Mace wanted this Fox guy in the worst way. You think that once he stands within grabbing distance of Fox he’s suddenly going to change his mind, turn tail and head back to Africa? All just because Mendoza’s a flake? C’mon, man, keep your damn head on straight. This is bigger than a couple of personalities.”

“I don’t know…”

“You’re right. You don’t know. So quit worrying about it and leave stuff to me. Now, get the hell out of here and get to work.”

When Cortez was alone, he stared skyward. He squinted against the sun’s glare but enjoyed the warm rays bathing his skin. He sighed deeply and thought about what had to be done next. Though he still considered himself loyal to Mendoza, his first loyalty lay with himself. In the past several months the old man had become more and more out of touch with reality. Maybe it was the drugs he used. Maybe he was intoxicated with the beauty of the caramel-skinned woman who shared his bed. Cortez didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that he’d sacrificed his career, his honor, to serve Mendoza.

Cortez would have to see for himself how far gone Mendoza had become. If he didn’t like what he saw, he would take out the bastard. As far as he was concerned, Mendoza had already served his purpose. He’d paid for their trip to the United States, their weapons and equipment and the bribes necessary to snatch Gabriel Fox. And, whatever Cortez’s boss failed to supply, Jack Mace had happily filled the gap.

Frankly, Cortez neither liked nor trusted either man. But he dismissed his misgivings with a shrug. He was in it for the massive payday it promised. Other than that, everyone could go to hell.

Cortez slipped inside the house. The air-conditioned atmosphere cooled the sweat that had beaded on his forehead, his neck and the small of his back. He slid off his sunglasses, slipped them into his breast pocket and wound his way through the corridors of the massive house. Occasionally he passed one of Mendoza’s gunners and acknowledged the guy with a nod. All the security people knew him and let him pass without incident.

The Mexican knew that Mendoza took his lunch on the terrace, and he likely still would be there. Or he would be about ready to take a siesta. Either way, Cortez wanted to see him, look into his eyes, look into his soul, to see if he was still up to the challenge that lay ahead.

If not, Cortez would have no problem using the Glock 19 that rode at his waist. A couple of well-placed shots and he’d send the guy straight to hell.

Cortez had grown up in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, one of eight children raised in poverty. His father worked at the docks. Though he broke his back fourteen hours a day unloading ships, he barely made enough to feed his family or to keep the bank from snatching away the hovel they’d called home. His mother was given to long bouts of depression that caused her to stay in bed for days and sometimes weeks, shutters drawn despite the sweltering heat, and weep for hours on end. It was this sort of misery Cortez associated with poverty, and he wanted no part of it.

When he had become old enough, he’d lied about his age and joined the Mexican army. After that, he had become a police officer, and eventually joined an antidrug squad. The endless hours of paramilitary drills and urban combat training had helped hone his killing skills to a keening edge. The work had meant a steady paycheck. But he still supplemented it with bribes offered up by drug lords willing to exchange their money for their lives. In short, he knew how to survive. He’d proved that much when he’d chopped down that damn American in Colorado. And he would do it again as many times as was necessary to get where and what he wanted, which was money and security. Get that, he reasoned, and anything else he could want would follow.

He took the elevator to the second floor, made his way down the corridor until he reached Mendoza’s room. He rapped sharply on the door but waited for an invitation to enter. He heard footsteps and moment later, the door opened and he saw one of his men, Garcia, peering at him through the space between the door and the jamb.

“Hey,” Garcia said.

Cortez nodded. The door swung open.

Stepping inside, Cortez glanced around the room and found Mendoza seated in a corner. The old man nursed a cigar and a bluish haze hung heavily in the room. Mendoza gave Cortez a wide grin and gestured for the younger man to sit in a chair opposite him. Cortez strode to the chair, dropped into it.

“Welcome back, my friend,” Mendoza said. “I trust your mission to Colorado went well? You did a good job for me?”

Cortez seated himself across from the drug lord. He smiled and nodded at the older man. “It went well. The proof’s downstairs. You hear anything from Mace?”

“He’s coming. It won’t be long now.”

“Has he transferred the rest of the money yet?”

Mendoza shook his head. “We got a third up front. We get the rest when we hand over the American. You already knew that. What’s the problem? You don’t trust me now?”

Cortez feigned a surprised look. “Hey, you know better than that. I trust you with my life. It’s Mace I’ve got the issues with. I want to make sure we get what’s coming to us.”

Mendoza gave him a hard look. “You heard something?”

“No,” Cortez replied, shaking his head. “Just my gut talking. Something tells me this SOB will stick us. I’ll feel better when we’re rid of him, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t want him to put one over on you.”

“You let me deal with Mace.”

“Sure. I was just giving you something to think about.”

Mendoza cut him off with a gesture. “I don’t need it. This is all under control. My control.”

“Sure. I’m just saying this scientist is the most important thing. If I were you, I’d focus on getting the money.”

The drug lord smacked an open palm against the table and it caused a thunderous noise. “I got it, damn it! I got it! You understand me?”

Feigning surprise, Cortez held up his hands, palms facing outward in a calming gesture. “Sure. I got it.”

“Any problem with the snatch?”

“We took out at least one police officer and left two others for dead. We killed some bystanders, too. What can I say? They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It will put them on our trail.”

“You think they weren’t going to follow us otherwise? What, we were going to kidnap a guy in broad daylight and the police wouldn’t investigate?”

Mendoza’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his chair. “You should’ve paid some people off. That’s what I’m saying.”

“With all due respect, that was risky, too. The more folks we bribe, the more there are to sell us out. This was supposed to be a quick strike. In and out. It went bad.”

Mendoza’s nostrils flared and his fists clenched until the knuckles whitened. Cortez felt adrenaline spike through his system. The muscles in his neck, shoulders and legs tensed as he prepared to launch himself at Mendoza.

Before either man could act, the door opened and a small man dressed in a well-tailored blue suit stepped inside. “Mace is here,” he said.

Mendoza stood and two men helped him shrug into his jacket. He stared down at Cortez who waited for him to speak his piece.

“I want you to stay here,” he said.

“What?”

“You don’t trust this guy? Fine. But I don’t want you out there asking questions and pissing him off. You stay here.”

“Damn it—”

“Stay!”

Cortez threw up his hands and looked away from Mendoza. The drug lord smiled and, flanked by his security entourage, left the room.

Reaching into his pocket, Cortez touched a business-card-size CD that lay inside and smiled. The CD contained a copy of the Cold Earth worm that he had found hidden within the seams of the American’s coat. Cortez had known for months that his partnership with Mendoza was fragile, primarily because of the fragility of Mendoza’s mind. When he’d found the small CD during the return trip to Mexico, Cortez had known instantly that he had found a way to profitably end the partnership.




CHAPTER SIX


Denver, Colorado

The wait seemed to last forever.

Lyons and Blancanales sat in the hospital waiting room. Lyons, his face scarlet with anger, tapped his foot to some unheard manic beat and stared at the double doors leading into the critical care unit. Blancanales drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as both men waited for information regarding their wounded comrade.

“That black-coated son of a bitch is mine,” Lyons said.

“Stand in line,” Blancanales replied. Lyons gave him a look that told him he was willing to do anything but that.

“Did the Farm get anything on him yet?”

“Negative,” Blancanales said. “They’re running all the usual traps. They found the abandoned car, or what was left of it, anyway, on the outskirts of town. Got a forensics team checking it out. And we do have some satellite photos that the cyberteam is running through its databases. Aaron said they look to have some positive ID within the hour.”

“Good. He doing okay? About Gabe, I mean?”

Blancanales shrugged. “As well as can be expected. He’s kicking the shit out of himself because he couldn’t do anything to help.”

“That isn’t right. I ought to kick his ass for even thinking that way. No one expected him to do any ground fighting. He was just there to make the contact.”

“Sure, but that isn’t how he sees it. He feels responsible for this kid and seems to think he should’ve done more. And I guess if I was in his situation, I’d feel the same damn way.”

Lyons grunted. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it right.”

Blancanales smiled at his friend, who continued staring at the doors. “Anyway, maybe Jack can give Aaron a pep talk. You know, snap him out of it,” Blancanales said.

Lyons grunted once more and the two men fell silent.

Blancanales had just downed a Coke and some peanuts when a doctor stepped through the doors. She was petite, with blond hair and the golden tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. A white lab coat covered her surgical scrubs and she clutched a clipboard to her chest. Letting the door swing shut behind her, she swept her eyes over the room and searched for the Stony Man commandos.

Blancanales uncoiled from his chair and met her halfway across the room, Lyons right behind him. The three exchanged brief introductions and handshakes. Using a right forefinger, the woman pushed her wire-rimmed glasses off the bridge of her nose and studied the chart in her left hand.

“Your friend’s been through a lot,” she said. “One slug penetrated his abdomen, but fortunately missed his vital organs. Another bullet cracked two ribs. One of the ribs struck a lung and bruised it. If you hadn’t gotten him in here when you did, he could have died within hours.”

Blancanales’s hands bunched into fists. He squeezed them tight as rage coursed through his body, a malignant force that seemed to overtake him. He hoped that Kurtzman and the cyberteam had been able to track down information on the shooter. He’d known Schwarz nearly his entire adult life. The two guys, along with Lyons, were fellow warriors, brothers in blood. And Blancanales vowed at that moment to extract some payback from the guy responsible for nearly killing his oldest friend. A glance at the man standing next to him told Blancanales that his friend was likewise ready to unleash a torrent of hell on the man responsible for this.

“Can we see him?” Blancanales asked.

“I can take you back there for a couple of minutes. But no longer. Like I said, he’s been through a lot, and he needs his rest.”

“Understood,” Lyons said. Blancanales nodded in agreement.

When they reached the unit, Lyons bulled his way through a pair of curtains that led into Schwarz’s room. Blancanales saw his friend stiffen, his jaw clench. An instant later he saw why. Schwarz lay on the bed, pale, unconscious. A ventilator tube wound from his mouth, held in place by medical tape. IV tubes snaked down from liquid-filled plastic bags before biting into the flesh of his arms. A heart monitor was clamped over his index finger and an occasional beep sounded as the monitor did its work. Blancanales swallowed hard.

“He unconscious?” the warrior asked.

The doctor nodded. “We had to sedate him heavily to keep him from rejecting the ventilator tube.”

“He looks like hell,” Lyons said.

“He’ll be okay,” the doctor replied. “Now that we’ve found the problem, he just needs time to recuperate.”

The doctor excused herself. Lyons and Blancanales stood at their friend’s bedside. Both men remained quiet, their eyes focused on Schwarz, for a full two minutes.

Lyons, his face a mask of rage, turned to Blancanales. “The guy who did this.” A cold rage, barely restrained, was audible in his voice. He paused as he searched for the right words. “When we find him, it isn’t going to be pretty.”

Blancanales nodded. “No, it won’t.”

“This is going to cost the bastard. We’re talking serious payback.”

“In spades, amigo.”

“We watch out for each other, right?”

“Damn straight.”




CHAPTER SEVEN


“Just think. Within days, we could have it. And it would give us the power necessary to get revenge on the United States for daring to desecrate our lands with its troops. It’s a like a gift from almighty God Himself.”

“Perhaps,” Ahmed Quissad said, unimpressed.

The former Iraqi soldier stood and crossed the room with long strides until he reached a pane of one-way glass. Stretching the length of one wall, the glass looked down upon a crowded nightclub located in one of Prague’s busier tourist districts. Quissad watched as men and women danced, drank and caroused. He found himself alternately fascinated and disgusted by their behavior, grinding against one another, sweating like animals, succumbing to decadent abandon. Though muffled by layers of soundproofing, Quissad still heard the thumping of industrial dance music as it reverberated through the nightclub below.

Animals and nothing more, he thought. Reflected in the glass, he saw his lieutenant—Tariq Khan—standing behind him, staring at his back. Apparently the little man wanted a reply. Quissad waited, knowing that the heavy silence, and the man’s sickening need for praise, would cause him to become restless.

“It is good news, yes?”

Quissad took a drag from his cigarette, shrugged. “Perhaps. What does our friend want for this piece of technology?”

“It’s a disk, one containing a virulent program—”

“Yes, yes. We’ve been over that before,” Quissad said. “Answer my question. What does our newfound friend want for his discovery?”

“One hundred million—U.S. dollars.”

Quissad turned and pinned the other man under his gaze. “One hundred million? For a diskette the size of a business card? Surely you must be joking.”

Khan shook his head. “Not at all. And, with all due respect, I think it’s a bargain.”

“And I think you’re very generous with my money.”

“It will sell for five times that much. Perhaps more.”

Quissad shrugged again, turned back to the one-way window. He watched the club patrons as they continued their rapturous gyrations on the dance floor. “You have a buyer?”

“Yes. And I can get us more, if you’d like.”

“I’d like.”

Khan straightened his posture, smiled. “Consider it done.” He backed away to the door.

Quissad watched his reflection in the glass, but didn’t turn and directly acknowledge his departure. He’d learned a long time ago that ignoring others only made them want to please you more. Khan, a former intelligence officer with Saddam Hussein’s government, was no exception. Though he boasted an impressive array of underworld contacts and provided invaluable information almost daily, his need to please drained Quissad. Quissad made sure those working for him got very little in the way of acknowledgment. If he’d learned anything from the deposed dictator, it was to control others through fear and uncertainty. A man who found himself on uncertain ground had little time to plot against you, not when he was worried about his own fate.

The small man exited, shutting the door softly behind him. Quissad watched the dance floor a few minutes longer. He fixed his gaze on a leggy brunette, her eyes closed, pelvis gyrating in tandem with the pounding rhythms. For a moment his mind toyed with the notion of those same hips grinding hard against his own, accompanied by sweetly satisfied groans filling his ears. He’d seen her in the club twice during the past two weeks and found himself struck by her beauty. She’d made eye contact with him both times, rousing his suspicions. He was, after all, a man on the run. He didn’t want to betray himself by involving himself with a strange woman who might also be an undercover agent. No, he’d come much too far to take such chances. Still, she intrigued him in a way he found almost intoxicating. He loved the hunt a great deal, but it was the kill that he lived for.

He made his way to a brown leather sofa and fell heavily into it. His jacket popped open, revealing the SIG-Sauer P-226 holstered in a shoulder rig. He liked the gun, and it made him feel safe. A glance at a bank of monitors on a nearby wall told him that his guards were posted outside his door, ready to stop any interlopers dead in their tracks.

He was secure and alone, and it gave him time to think about how he’d gotten to this point. He’d been a commander with Fedayeen Saddam, the former dictator’s elite army, before America had invaded his homeland. During the initial days of the invasion, he’d welcomed the challenge, been all too happy to ply his bloody skills against American soldiers. He’d even taken it a step further, occasionally killing Iraqi citizens and making it appear that they’d died at the hands of Americans. Yes, he’d fought like a man possessed. It wasn’t so much a loyalty to Iraq’s ruler, or to his homeland. Quissad had just needed the release. He’d spent a good deal of his time feeling like a fighter jet that flew unarmed and in slow, small circles. Lots of deadly capacity, but no chance to unleash it. For him it had been a mind-blowing pleasure as he’d never experienced.

When Baghdad fell, he, like other Iraqi soldiers, had shed his uniform and melted into the background. For months he performed double duty. He supplied his tactical expertise and muscle to the insurgency, while also commanding a small group of kidnappers that stole children from Iraq’s upper crust: doctors, lawyers, even his former comrades from the regime.

It had been with great reluctance that Quissad had left the country. Again, his reluctance had had nothing to do with patriotism; he’d simply wanted to spill blood. He’d been born with an unquenchable bloodlust. He knew he could kill. He’d burned, stabbed, shot and otherwise savaged Iraqis and Kurds dozens of times. Each time he’d expected the repetition to rob the experience of its joy. It never did. Rather, his bloodlust continued to return, each time with greater regularity, an unquenchable thirst that cried out with greater volume to be satisfied.

Before the war, he’d always reasoned that all-out combat would provide him with ample bloodshed to slake his thirst. Instead it had only intensified his need until it drove his every action. Now, with the Cold Earth worm and its potential to kill hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions, he could finally satiate and silence the voices that drove him, prompted his every action and decision.

The very notion of such wholesale destruction caused his mouth to feel dry and hot, his nerves to tingle, and he knew better. Whether the worm was used once or a dozen times to snuff out life, it’d never be enough for him. And the best part was that he’d sell it to someone else and let them take the fall while he took their money.

He swallowed two amphetamine capsules, washed them down with a glass of water, and thought longingly of the joint in the glove compartment of his BMW parked in a garage under the club. Later, he decided. He slipped another cigarette into his mouth. Torching it with an ornate gold lighter, he settled back into the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Things definitely were falling into place for him. Within a few days, he’d be a hell of a lot richer and the world much bloodier. It was almost too good to be true.




CHAPTER EIGHT


The Black Hawk helicopter carrying Able Team skimmed over the trees. The rotor wash beat down on branches below, flattening them or causing them to whip about wildly as the craft closed in on a predetermined landing spot.

Blancanales checked over his weapons and other equipment. A glance around told him that Lyons and Grimaldi were doing likewise. A Drug Enforcement Administration pilot was navigating the craft to their destination. Another DEA agent, James Larkin, rode with the commandos.




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