Zero option, p.11
Zero Option, page 11
FIVE MINUTES LATER the street was cordoned off by police cruisers, and an ambulance had arrived. With their identities confirmed, Valens and Byrde had their guns back and their hands full as they checked out the three-man hit team.
The trio was Caucasian. None carried any ID of any kind, their pockets were empty and they wore cheap, off-the-rack clothing, with all the labels removed.
“Do me a favor, Officer Qualen,” Valens asked.
“As long as you forget that thing with the shotgun,” Qualen told her.
“Oh, you boys and your guns,” Valens said coyly. “Check these guys for prints and dental records. They have to have something we can ID them by.”
“You got it,” Qualen said. He pushed to his feet and beckoned to the medics. “Okay, guys, you can take them away.”
He turned to his partner. “Danny, get on to the precinct. Have them send a tech down to the morgue. Tell them we need prints and dental on these three.”
“Hey, what about the car?” Danny asked. “Those aren’t local plates. Looks like an out of state to me.”
“Call the number in,” Qualen said. “Get it checked on the vehicle database.”
Qualen followed Valens and Byrde back to their own vehicle. He ran an expert eye across the visible damage.
“I’ll get a tow truck to haul this away,” he said. “No way you can drive. Impact shoved your rear end out of line, and those slugs through the hood most probably made a mess of your engine.”
“Looks like we need a cab,” Byrde said.
“I can run you where you need to go,” Qualen said. He studied the rain-soaked pair, grinning. “Looks like you need a change of clothing and a shower.”
“Back to our motel would be fine,” Valens said.
“Yeah, that shower sounds better all the time,” Byrde added. “Hey, Claire, who soaps who this time? My turn or yours?”
“Damned if I can remember.”
Qualen eyed them suspiciously, shaking his head.
“You pair,” he said.
“We’re a very close team,” Valens said.
“Actually we’re kidding about the soap,” Byrde stated.
“Yeah, sorry. It’s really baby oil. Warmed up and put on by hand.”
THE FIRST THING they did after Qualen had dropped them off at the motel was to arrange for a replacement vehicle. While Byrde arranged that, Valens contacted their office again, using her cell phone.
“That’s correct, sir. The local police are going to get prints and see if we can get anything from those and dental records. These people have done everything they can to stay anonymous. The other possibility is the car. Can I say something, sir, off the record? I have a distinct feeling we were set up by someone with access to our data files. It was too neat. They knew where we were down to the last minute. It’s not as if we advertised our itinerary in the local press, sir, if you get my meaning. Yes, sir. We will.”
“You telling the boss how to run his office again?” Byrde asked as Valens came off the phone.
“What I’m trying to do is keep you and me alive. By the way, are you going to fetch some coffee, or what?”
“Hey, I’m all wet.”
“So it won’t matter if you get wet again.”
“I need that shower and dry clothes.”
“Forgot where your room is? Next door. Remember?”
“Claire, you’re all heart.”
As he reached the door, Valens called out, “Jackson, that was a good call out there. Glad you were backing me.”
“Works for me, too.” He turned to look at her closely. “Hey, you okay?”
Valens grimaced. “I will be. I think it’s starting to kick in.” She raised a hand. It was shaking slightly. “I haven’t really had time to think about it until now. I never shot anyone before.”
“I knew if we stuck together long enough I’d have something in common with you, Claire.”
“Just get out of here, Jackson, and go get that damned coffee.”
Byrde grinned at her as he closed the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Washington, D.C.
Bolan stepped out of the shadows and met Brognola midway across the clearing. The big Fed was hunched over, shoulders raised against the continuing rain. He didn’t look happy. A cigar was clamped between his lips, and he constantly worried it as he faced Bolan.
“What’s wrong with Florida?” Brognola grumbled. “At least they got sunshine.”
“Good to see you again, too.”
Brognola reached for Bolan’s outstretched hand. “So what gives?”
“Albany was hot. Those people who work for Stahl have busy trigger fingers. No talking to them.”
Brognola sighed. “Any feedback?”
Bolan handed him the laptop he had picked up at the Accord office.
“Aaron can poke around in this. See what he can find.”
“The trace he was running down? He kept at it until he found a way around the block. It took him to the computer it originated from. When he unlocked the operator’s password sequence, he came up with a name. Lewis Beringer. He works at the Pentagon, Air Force, on the Zero project. I followed it through with a contact. The word is that Beringer’s section is under investigation for possible information leaks.”
“You got an address? Beringer could be a man who needs talking to. He might give us some leads.”
Brognola handed over a folded paper.
“It’s coming down like you said. Leaks. Could be this Beringer has been passing stuff to Stahl. The Man is going to be pissed off.”
“Then he needs to clean house. Until he can confirm that’s been done, Hal, we can’t afford to update him.”
“Christ, Mack, you want me to stonewall the President of the United States?”
“I don’t give a damn how you do it, Hal. He gave me full control of this mission. Right now I’m making a command decision. No more information reaches the White House.”
“Great. Bang goes my pension.”
“I’ll make it easy for you. Just tell him I’m not in contact. We talked about this, Hal. The Man gave me a clean card for this mission. No interference. I make the rules and the field decisions. Hal, this thing is running wild. Since Buchanan came back on the scene everyone involved has started to push up the pace. I don’t have the time or the inclination to hold back. If Stahl gets Zero online, he has the best hand in the game and no one can call his bluff.”
“This is getting out of hand. Trouble is, I think you’re right. This came from the Man himself. When Zero was up and running they had a security detail on tap. A couple of agents were assigned to the project. When Kaplan decided to detach himself, these agents were put on standby to bring him in if he showed. They were out on assignment when the strike went down on the project. Since then they’ve been doing some fieldwork, trying to locate Kaplan. When Doug Buchanan’s electronic signature showed up, they were ordered to add him to their list. According to feedback, these agents, Byrde and Valens, were running a stakeout at Kaplan’s house. They were pulled away from the house by a fake Kaplan and into an ambush. Report said they shot their way clear. Took out the hit team.”
“Ryan’s people?”
Brognola shook his head.
“No. We don’t think so. The hitters were clean. No ID. Nothing. The local cops ran down the details of the car they were using. Turned out to be stolen with fake plates.”
“Anything on the hit team?”
“It gets better. Fingerprints and dental records came up with some history. Seems these guys were professionals. They were known to the Chicago PD. They did some talking to their street informants, and it looks like someone had been gathering a hit team. They had mob connections. Drug trade. International smuggling. Contract hits. If it paid good, these people were into it. Byrde and Valens are going to keep looking to see if they can find a link.”
“Hal, I’m going to need some identification on this pair in case I run into them.”
“I figured you’d ask.” Brognola pulled a padded envelope from his coat pocket and handed it over.
Bolan opened it and slid out a couple of standard ID photographs.. Full face. On the back of each plastic-encased photo were details on the two agents. Bolan scanned them both, finding himself lingering a little longer over the one of Claire Valens.
A strikingly beautiful young woman, her short, thick, chestnut-colored hair emphasized the natural allure of sculpted cheekbones. Haunting green-flecked eyes stared back at him and her generous, full mouth held a slight hint of a mocking smile. Bolan found himself wondering if the rest of her matched up to the head-and-shoulders shot.
“They can both handle themselves according to the reports I’ve read.”
“I’m sure,” Bolan said.
Brognola handed Bolan a third photo. “Lewis Beringer. His address is on the back. He lives in Arlington.”
Bolan added the new photograph to the others. He slid them all into a pocket. “Anything else you need?”
“Couple of things. An update on Jack.”
“He’s fine. The President had him moved to a government clinic in Washington. I’m calling in to see him when I get back.”
“Give him my best. Tell him—”
“I know what to say. What was the other favor?”
Bolan smiled at the comment.
“There was another guy at Accord, a PI called Joshua Riba. He’s an Apache, and he helped me out. Buchanan spent some time at the guy’s place in New Mexico after he got hit by a truck. Buchanan lost his way for a while, then took off to look for Kaplan. We figure he’s on his way to Kaplan’s place in Wyoming.”
“And so might the opposition?”
“Exactly. Hal, I need air transport to get me, Riba and his SUV to Wyoming. I need to do this Randolph thing and maybe track down Beringer. I’ll tell Joshua to get on down to Andrews. Get clearance for him so he can be ready to go when I roll in.”
“Jesus, Striker, when are you going to ask for something really hard.”
Bolan stared out across the shadowed park, his gaze probing the shadows. There was a troubled expression in his eyes.
“Striker?”
“They never give up, Hal. They cheat and betray, work against their own people, and for what? Power. Wealth. Some selfish need to be top dog and to hell with the rest. While they tie everything in knots in their own backyard, the real enemies are taking advantage.”
“Don’t make the mistake thinking Stahl and Stengard aren’t enemies.”
“No mistake there. They stepped over the line way back. No way they walk away and hide in the shadows, Hal. The game isn’t played that way.”
“Next up?”
“Senator Vernon Randolph.”
“Randolph? You think he’s involved?”
“Involved but not part of it, Hal. The way guys back in Albany were talking about him, he didn’t sound like he was on their friendly list. Sounds like someone is going to make a visit, and I don’t think it’s to sell him life insurance.”
“I’ll get onto this airlift flight for you and Riba. Give him my name and tell him there’ll be clearance for him.”
VERNON RANDOLPH PUSHED away from his desk and left his study, making for the kitchen. As he crossed the hall he paused to check, not for the first time, that the front door was locked. He admitted to being a little paranoid, and for good reason. His confrontation with Eric Stahl had unnerved him to a degree. Randolph was no coward; he had never run from a fight in his life. Even so, he knew Stahl and the man’s reputation for being a ruthless, manipulative egomaniac. When he had first gotten to know Stahl, he had been impressed by the driving force behind the younger man. As time passed and Stahl started to show his hand, Randolph realized the man was disturbingly single-minded in his purpose and the way he seemed intent on pushing it through. Randolph began to pick up murmurs, discreet talk that suggested Stahl had a hidden agenda behind all his outward bluster. Having been around the political circuit for a long time, Randolph had an inexhaustible supply of informants within the Washington enclave, including both political and military contacts. He had the ear of police and lawyers, streetwise informants, and had a certain clout within the security agencies. Randolph also had a reputation for a reserved honesty that added to his status. He was a man to be trusted, again somewhat unusual in the political arena. It meant people would talk to Randolph when they would walk away from others. He had never betrayed a confidence. Never admitted the source of any information. It placed him in a unique position.
Sometimes it placed him in difficult situations. Occasionally dangerous. Randolph was a survivor, and never complacent. He wasn’t a man who considered himself untouchable, because he had seen too many who thought they were invincible, go down and in some instances stay down. He had attended the burials of a number of his contemporaries who imagined they were free and clear.
At this point in his life Randolph could have seen the specter of Death beckoning with a bony finger. If he had been a pessimist, that could have been the case. But Vernon Randolph veered toward the opposite. Life was precious, but at the same time it had to be lived to the full. Sitting in a safe corner, protected and shielded from danger, wasn’t something he could subscribe to. So despite his personal misgivings about Senator Eric Stahl and his threats, Randolph had no other choice. He would carry out his promise to Stahl and present his findings to as many people as he could—the President himself if the need arose—and the hell with Stahl.
What the wayward senator had failed to realize was his biggest misjudgment about a man’s character. He had committed the fatal error as far as Vernon Randolph was concerned.
Stahl had threatened the elder senator. In Randolph’s book, that was the highest insult. He had never, from his youth, allowed anyone to try to make him back down. It was the most foolish thing anyone could do. Stahl could bring on his bully boys to do their worst. Randolph would see the thing through to the end. If he died in the attempt, then so be it, but he would take Stahl down with him if possible.
Randolph had that thought on his mind as he reached the kitchen. It was in shadow, with only a low-powered tube light shining from beneath one of the wall cupboards. He crossed to the bubbling percolator, chose a mug from one of the hooks under the wall unit and poured himself coffee. He stood sipping the hot brew, turning to look out the kitchen window at the shadowed expanse of the garden and orchard at the back of the house. It always gave him pleasure to look upon the garden. Amelia, his late wife, had been passionate about gardening, and the smooth lawns and flowering shrubs were her legacy. Randolph had no interest in the tending of the garden. Since his wife had died four years earlier, he had employed someone to maintain the look. It had been the least he could do. It was a living memory of his beloved wife. All he had from a long and happy relationship. They had no children so Randolph was alone in the house. As long as he had the garden to enjoy, he was happy.
He stood in the shadowy kitchen, sipping his coffee, wanting to stay where he was, but also aware that he needed to complete his work in the study. It was important he got everything he had collected about Stahl, Orin Stengard and his suspicions concerning their scheme in order.
He turned, placing his mug on the countertop, and reached out to flick the switch that would turn on the bank of floodlights and illuminate the gardens.
“Leave it, Senator,” a deep voice said from the darker corner of the kitchen.
Randolph felt his breath catch in his throat at the command. Oddly there was something in the voice that told him he wasn’t in any kind of danger from this man—whoever he was.
“What do you want?”
“I suggest you pick up your coffee and go sit at the breakfast bar.”
“Are you serious? I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Even as he asked the questions, Randolph found he was doing as he’d been told. He perched himself on one of the high stools. He peered into the corner of the kitchen where the voice had come from. It took a few moments before he made out the hazy outline of a man standing there.
“Something tells me you haven’t come from Eric Stahl or Colonel Stengard.”
“I haven’t, but there are men outside who have, and they didn’t come all this way to cut the grass.”
“Are you serious? We should call the police. Or are you an officer?”
“No, and I’m not CIA, FBI or from any other agency you might have heard about.”
“Then who the he—?”
“Senator, just enjoy your coffee. Those men out there are probably watching you through night-vision goggles. If you keep talking, they might spot your lips moving and wonder who the hell you have in here. We don’t want that to happen.”
Randolph managed a soft grunt of annoyance.
“Oh, no, we wouldn’t want that happening, would we? Why not?”
“If they suspect you have company, they’re not going to make their hit. They want you on your own.”
“Sounds suspiciously like I’m a sitting target here.”
“Exactly. Just do what you would normally. Now, shut up, Senator.”
Randolph held back any further comments. He raised his mug and drank more coffee. He had almost emptied the mug when he heard a soft whisper of sound, which came from behind him. Someone was inside the house, coming from the front.
But hadn’t he locked the door? He reconsidered his attitude. If these were professionals, locked doors and windows wouldn’t keep them out for long.
He cleared his throat and slid off the stool, crossing to the percolator for more coffee, doing his best to maintain a calm exterior. He poured more coffee, realizing he really needed it, but was surprised to see that his hand wasn’t even shaking.
Out the corner of his eye he saw a shadow slide across the tiled floor. The faintest whisper of sound. Very close this time.
Despite himself Randolph turned to face whoever was behind him.
MACK BOLAN SAW the intruder close in on the senator. The guy was in dark clothing, as was Bolan, and he held a dull-colored autopistol in his right hand. A bulky suppressor was threaded to the barrel. The Executioner had already moved to intercept, crossing the kitchen on silent feet, his own right hand reaching out to clamp around the intruder’s wrist and force the gun hand toward the floor. The gunman reacted sharply, trying to break Bolan’s grip, but he hadn’t allowed for the Cold Steel Tanto knife in Bolan’s left hand. The razor-sharp blade swept up, across the intruder’s body, then Bolan arced it up, laying the edge of the blade across the man’s exposed throat. The soldier cut hard and deep, drawing from right to left. The severing blade made a soft rasping sound. The intruder shuddered as blood began to pulse from his throat, making a gentle lapping sound as it burst forth.
