Zero option, p.9
Zero Option, page 9
The ongoing peace talks, which were taking place nonstop in various locations throughout the world, didn’t hold much credence with Bolan. The complications of political, personal, religious and financial constrictions, all these were thrown into the pot. They created stumbling blocks that would determine the outcome. His contact with regimes determined to ferment unrest, who were ready and willing to create mayhem and inflict harm, shadowed Bolan’s views.
Despite all the good intentions of the peacemakers, there was no way universal peace and harmony were going to spread across the world within the foreseeable future. Bolan wasn’t being a defeatist. It wasn’t in his nature. But he did possess a clear and unbiased view of the way things were. Nothing was going to change overnight. One day it might happen. It was a slow, agonizing process. A permanent chipping away at hate and prejudice. A small victory here. An agreement on small matters there. Concessions. Careful wording of proposals so that both parties could walk away without having felt they had been compromised. Fragments of success that even when agreed on still needed nurturing, with a full knowledge that the smallest thing could set everything back in an instant. And it only took one act of violence, perpetrated by some single individual with a personal grudge, a political stance, to destroy in moments the long months of negotiation.
Mack Bolan saw all these things as he trod his relentless path through the murky reality of his war. He saw the horror and the pain, did what was needed to combat the needless destruction, and despite the continuing emergence of evil he remained resolute. If there was any form of stepping back and wavering, the dark side would win. Bolan refused to accept the thought. The battle always had to be engaged. His philosophy was simple—never, ever retreat. Take the war to them. Keep them on the run, looking over their shoulders.
The attitude of Senator Eric Stahl, with his advocacy of outright belligerence, added an even riskier note to the proceedings. Bolan had no argument with anyone who wanted to keep America strong. Stahl took that a dangerous step further. He would have turned America into an armed camp, bristling with offensive attitudes. Not the powerful giant holding out the hand of diplomacy. Stahl’s vision for America would have her posturing and threatening, laying down her requirements to the world. And if regimes refused to toe the line, Stahl wouldn’t hesitate to use his military strength to contain that refusal. He would push and threaten, and have no qualms about using weapons at his disposal. Which, if he seemingly had his way, would include Zero.
The capability of the Zero Platform, as Bolan had digested from what the President had told him and had read in the detailed file, made him aware of the awesome power contained within it. As a defensive weapon it would have no equal. Continually circling the planet, scanning and recording events, Zero would be able to monitor events on a twenty-four-hour cycle. Its information gathering would provide the American defense and security communities with vast quantities of data, allowing them to anticipate and counter any threat against the U.S., and even friendly states liable to be placed under threat. Added to that was the platform’s weaponry. A collection of the most sophisticated missiles and lasers created. Many of the weapons systems were so new there were no details available beyond the fact they were installed in Zero. It came down to Zero being the single ultimate weapon any nation could possess. The President wanted it secure under government control, unlike Eric Stahl and his self-aggrandizing scheme to use it to lever himself into the White House.
Bolan glanced at his watch and decided it was safe to move. It was close to six-thirty. According to the information Kurtzman had extracted from the database, the company closed for business at six each day. He fired up the engine and drove across to the building’s basement car park, keeping his speed down. He took the entrance ramp and eased the car inside. He had made a walk-by earlier, checking out the entrance-exit to the parking area. There were no barriers or shutters in place. He did see TV cameras located at the entrance and exit. They didn’t worry Bolan. He was going to be inside his vehicle, and the fact his license plate might be monitored didn’t concern him. Any trace of the number would come up against a Stony Man site that would show a legal background for the car. Bolan cruised the parking lot and found an empty slot, close to and facing the exit.
Under his jacket the soldier wore his shoulder rig holding the Beretta 93-R. His other weapons were in the duffel stored in the trunk. He unleathered the pistol and checked it, making certain there was a 9 mm round in the breech. He flicked the selector to single shot before returning the weapon to the holster. His only other weapon was a combat knife, carried in a snug sheath clipped to his belt at the base of his spine.
Stepping out of the car, Bolan used the remote to lock the doors, then made his way across the basement lot. Reaching the door that led through to the elevators, he located an empty car, stepped inside and pushed the button for the fifth floor. When it slowed and stopped he got out, waited until the corridor was clear, then moved to the fire door and went through. He took the concrete steps that led to floor six, easing open the door on the landing to check if the corridor was clear. Stepping through, he turned left and walked along the corridor until he spotted the entrance to Accord. Bolan walked on by, reached the end of the corridor, then turned about and approached the door again.
It had a frosted-glass upper section that bore the company name and telephone number. Bolan tried the handle, which opened under gentle pressure. He pushed the door enough to let him through. His initial glance revealed that the reception area was clear. He closed the door, taking a moment to turn the button lock.
The reception area was small, but expensively furnished with a light oak desk trimmed with polished aluminum. Beyond the reception desk were double doors, leading, Bolan guessed, into the main office area. As he closed in on the doors, he picked up the murmur of voices from the other side. He identified at least three speakers. One appeared to be angry at something one of the others said. Bolan took time to listen and heard almost immediately something that drew his interest.
“…the hell is Ryan going to say? Jesus, haven’t there been enough fuckups already? Bad enough having Stengard on our backs. Now we got Ryan eating the friggin’ furniture.”
“It’s easy for the colonel. All he does is sit back and give the orders to Ryan. Shit doesn’t come down on him if things go hairy. We get to do the crap jobs. Like this thing with Senator Randolph. Why him?”
“We get paid to do the dirty work. It’s as simple as that.”
“And Ryan doesn’t get smoked when his team does.”
“Sound queer to you? How Ryan walked out without a scratch and his team got themselves killed?”
“You want to ask him how he did it?”
“Why don’t you ask the other guy who was there?”
Four men were in the office, and they all turned at the unfamiliar voice.
They saw Mack Bolan, standing just inside the double doors, his back to the wall and the Beretta in his hand pointing directly at them.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Bolan directed his cold stare at the speaker.
“Belasko.”
“How in hell did you find—?”
“Never mind about that right now. You should be working on how you’re going to stay alive.”
One of the three stepped forward, his face tight with rage.
“Those guys you killed were friends of mine. Good friends. Who the hell you think you are walking in here, waving that friggin’ gun about? Figure it makes you a tough guy? Maybe I’ll just come and take it off you.”
Bolan could see the wild excitement in the man’s eyes. He was hyping himself up into a state of uncontrolled rage. His sense would desert him, and he would make a try for Bolan despite being under the threat of the Executioner’s gun.
“Back off, pal,” Bolan warned. “This isn’t a game.”
“I’ll give you fuckin’ games.”
Bolan saw the man tense, his shoulders lifting as he prepared to launch himself in the soldier’s direction.
The muzzle of the Beretta moved slightly. The weapon fired once, punching a 9 mm slug into the fleshy part of the guy’s left thigh. The impact spun him and dumped him on the floor. He hunched over. Clamping his hands over the bloody of his wound, moaning in agony.
“We getting the idea this is serious now?” Bolan asked.
No one spoke.
Bolan moved farther into the room, keeping the three men covered. He bent over the man he had shot and quickly frisked him, finding a Glock .45 in a hip holster.
“I seem to be building quite a collection of these. You people getting a bulk discount? Maybe through Stahl Armaments?”
One of the men threw a glance at his partners. It told Bolan he was hitting the target.
“The name mean something?”
“Go to hell.”
“Why don’t we try Buchanan? Or Saul Kaplan?”
There was a door at the far end of the office. As Bolan spoke the last name the door crashed open, smashing against the inside wall with enough force to dislodge pictures hung there.
Bolan was distracted for a fraction of a second. He caught a glimpse of a moving figure charging through the door, a heavy revolver in his right hand.
His three captives clawed for the pistols holstered under their jackets, hauling them into view and jacking the slides back to arm them.
Bolan heard the metallic sounds and reacted instinctively, taking a headlong dive toward the bulk of a nearby desk. He hit the top on his left shoulder and rolled across it, dropping behind the barrier the desk offered, then put his strength into a push that turned the desk on its side. The thick, solid wood shielded him as autoweapons cut loose, the desk shaking as the bullets ripped into the thick top. He flicked the Beretta back to 3-round bursts.
The soldier moved to the far end of the desk, then leaned around the corner, his Beretta tracking one of the trio as the man moved to intercept. The moment he laid eyes on his intended target, Bolan was ready. There was no hesitation. He leaned out, the Beretta held two-handed, and fired a triburst, then followed with a second. His target grunted, stunned by the impact of the 9 mm slugs as they cored into his upper body. The second burst hit over his heart, the slugs cleaving through flesh and muscle, bone and organs. The ravaged body reacted and the guy went down hard, the pistol jarred from his grip.
“Goddamned bastard!”
Bolan heard the heavy crack of a gun firing. He moved in time to see one of the ex-captives twist around, a bloody hole erupting between his shoulders from the force of a heavy bullet. He hit the carpeted floor on his face, bone snapping under the impact.
There was a burst of sound as the remaining man rushed forward, gun up and firing. His shots were wild, his aim upset by panic at the sudden two-pronged attack. Bolan put a triburst into him, knocking him back over a chair. The guy went down screaming, his upper chest riddled by the Executioner’s slugs.
Bolan pushed to his feet and moved cautiously across the office to stand over the man he had shot in the leg, scanning the shadows for his unknown ally.
“You want to tell me where Buchanan and Kaplan are?” Bolan asked.
The wounded man only stared up at the impassive figure towering over him. He knew if he had expected some kind of compassion from this man, he was going to be disappointed. The blood pumping from his leg wound took over as the main attraction, and the guy drifted away from Bolan’s question.
“He won’t tell you but maybe I can.”
Bolan turned, discerned a faint shadow, the Beretta already tracking in on the tall and dark figure stepping out of the corner of the room.
“Easy there. I’m on your side.”
The 93-R stayed on track, the muzzle steady as Bolan studied the newcomer.
He saw a man almost his own height, broad shoulders on a taut, lean frame. Brown face and thick jet-black hair. The guy was dressed in black, too, save for a white cotton shirt. Leather jacket, black pants, Western boots. The jacket was open, showing a belt that supported a waist holster, worn on the left for a cross draw. The weapon the holster carried was in the newcomer’s right hand—a wood-butted, .45-caliber Colt Peacemaker, single-action revolver. The weapon was held casually, nonthreatening, but there was no mistaking the implicit threat it might present if matters changed.
“Easy to say,” Bolan said, “harder to prove.”
“If I was with them, you’d be on the floor, too, about now.”
“Still doesn’t tell me who the hell you are.”
“Name’s Joshua Riba.” The man held out a leather badge wallet. He flipped it open to show a badge that had him down as a private investigator, licensed by the state of New Mexico. “My Apache name is Charriba. Handed down through the family. My great uncle Charriba was a hell of a fighter, they tell me. Had the Army chasing him all over New Mexico.”
“Still doesn’t tell me I should trust you.”
Riba smiled. “I thought this had all been settled back in 1800s. We trust the white man and he trusts the Apache. Unless you want to start the Indian Wars all over?”
“I got enough wars of my own,” Bolan said. “The way you deal with the opposition, I’m not surprised. Look, why don’t we get the hell out of here before more of these jokers show up?”
Bolan put his Beretta away. “Give me a minute.”
Bolan made a search of the office. The only thing that drew his interest was a laptop sitting on one of the desks. It was switched on, some text on screen. Bolan hit the save button, waited for the function to complete, then switched it off and picked up the machine.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
They made their way down to the basement parking area. Bolan’s car was still where he had parked it. Riba jerked a thumb behind him.
“Mine’s outside, parked in back of the building. Red Cherokee Laredo. Follow me. I passed a diner on the edge of town we can use to talk.”
He saw Bolan checking the area, his keen eyes probing the dark shadows.
“You trust anyone?”
A ghost of a smile crossed Bolan’s lips. “That’s a question I need to think about,” he said and turned toward his parked car.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Bolan sat nursing a steaming mug of coffee, sitting across from Joshua Riba in the diner.
“Why Saul Kaplan?” Bolan asked.
“I’m doing a favor for someone. A guy I know wants to find Kaplan.”
“Douglas Buchanan?”
Joshua stared him out. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition in the man’s dark eyes. If he did know Buchanan, he wasn’t giving anything away.
“Okay, let’s do it the hard way,” Bolan suggested. “The way you reacted back at the Accord building has you on the same side as I am. If I’m wrong, you put on a damned good show. But I don’t think I am wrong. Somewhere along the line you and I are chasing the same shadows. You want Kaplan. I want Buchanan. The pair seem to go together. There are other parties who also want Kaplan and Buchanan, but their intentions are less than honorable. So either we go our own ways and keep walking into each other, or we make a truce and pool what we have.” Bolan paused. “That make sense?”
Riba considered Bolan’s speech. He leaned against the back of the booth, tapping the fingers of his left hand against the edge of the table. Just as suddenly he sat upright, giving a slight flick of his head.
“Seems reasonable. But don’t play games with me, because I don’t play games.”
“Okay. I know Kaplan and Buchanan worked closely together on a government project. Somewhere along the way Kaplan decided he’d had enough and walked off the project. He did a vanishing act. Turned up in a smalltown university teaching science until a few weeks ago. This time he just fell off the edge of the world. The project Buchanan was part of was hit by an unknown assault force. The site was destroyed, and it was assumed that all the personnel had died. That was until a chip in Buchanan’s skull started to send out a signal. It showed that he was still alive. Since then Buchanan has become a wanted man. He’s wanted because he’s the only man who can bring the project back to life.” Bolan took a swallow of coffee. “Feel free to jump in anytime.”
Riba allowed a hint of a smile to play over his lips. “You’re doing fine.”
“So how did you get involved with Doug Buchanan?”
“The night the project was hit Buchanan walked away without being spotted. He was hurt from being blown out of a building. Concussed. Some burns and cracked ribs. He just wandered away from the project and had no idea where he was going, or how far he’d walked. In the end he walked onto one of the dirt roads my tribe uses and stepped in the path of a truck being driven by my uncle. The guy took a nasty whack. Uncle John put him in the truck and brought him to our place. Apache settlement. My people tended his wounds and watched over him. He was unconscious for three days and nights. When he woke, his memory was part gone from the knocks he’d taken. So our local shaman came down out of the mountains and worked his medicine. Spent a couple of weeks with Buchanan. By the end Buchanan had recovered pretty well. He told us all about himself. What he’d been doing in the desert. All about the project. They call it the Zero Option? It was like he wanted to talk it out of his system. Then he started to tell about his cancer, but the shaman had already seen that and told Buchanan first.
“Buchanan started to get jumpy. He said something about people looking for him. Said he needed to move on because if they came looking and found us they would hurt us. He couldn’t understand why it made us all laugh. Hell, he hadn’t even realized we were Apache. But he still wanted to warn people and said he had to contact his niece, a young woman who lived on Nassau. He used the trading post phone to call her. He had to leave a message because she wasn’t around at the time. You think she got it?”
