Deadly Salvage Read online

  “There’s a reason for that,” Bolan replied. “Most of them had a c-note in their passports. They’re probably here illegally.”

  Grimaldi smirked. “Hey, so are we, in a manner of speaking.”

  * * *

  THE ROAD WOUND through the mountains, widening occasionally on fenced-off plateaus where numerous taxis had pulled over and parked so tourists could take pictures of the scenic view. After Bolan and Grimaldi rented a car at the airport, a Citroën, they’d loaded their luggage into the trunk and taken off toward their hotel, which was on the French side of the island. Bolan let the pilot drive, and as the cool wind whipped through the open window, checked in for a sitrep with Brognola on his satellite phone.

  “How’s it going so far?” the big Fed asked.

  “Not bad,” Bolan said. “We’re on our way to the Omni now.”

  “Good to hear,” Brognola said. “We’re working on hooking you guys up with the FBI agent down there.”

  The curving roadway straightened out and they started a descent. Ahead, Bolan could see the bay area, with numerous high-rise hotels blocking out the view of the ocean beyond. The tallest one, he knew from his research, was Everett’s resort. Between the ridge they were on and the wall of hotels was a sea of ramshackle buildings and houses where he assumed the locals lived.

  Catching a glimpse of something in the side mirror, Bolan straightened. A white jeep was behind them, with POLICE stenciled in black block letters below the windshield. Its flashers lit up and a siren began to wail.

  “Hal, I’ll call you back,” Bolan said. “We’ve got a slight problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Island police,” Bolan said. “Jack must have been speeding.”

  Grimaldi swore as he pulled the rental car over to the side of the road and stopped. “I’m liking this place less and less,” he said as he and Bolan exited the vehicle.

  Two officers approached. One was a tall, muscular black man with a neatly trimmed beard and a starched blue-and-white uniform with chevrons on the shoulders. The other man was white, about five foot eight, and sported a pencil-thin mustache. His uniform had a row of shiny gold buttons, a three-stripe captain’s insignia on both epaulets and a golden braid looped through the left one. His name tag read LE PIERRE.

  Bolan studied the sidearms that both men wore. The sergeant’s was a Manurhin MR 73 .357 Magnum revolver. The captain’s weapon looked to be a 9 mm SIG Sauer SP2022. Both dependable guns with smooth action. Bolan smiled. “Good afternoon, Officers. What can we do for you?”

  “Ah.” The captain lifted an eyebrow. “You are Americans, n’est-ce pas?”

  “That’s right,” Grimaldi said. “How can we help you?”

  “You will both give your passports to the sergeant,” the captain said.

  Bolan and Grimaldi handed over their documents. The big man glared at them and handed the passports to Le Pierre, who took his time paging through them. “No luggage?”

  “It’s in the trunk,” Bolan said.

  “Open it immediately, Gipardieu.” He uttered the rest of his instructions to the sergeant in French, and Bolan gathered that Gipardieu had been directed to search their luggage.

  “We already went through customs,” Grimaldi said. “What’s the problem here?”

  “Here, as you say, is the problem.” The captain took another step forward so that his face was only a few inches from Grimaldi’s. “You are now in French territory.”

  Bolan saw Grimaldi’s face start to redden. “Jack,” he barked. “Just open the trunk.”

  His mouth set in a firm line, Grimaldi turned and opened the rear compartment of the Citroën.

  The big man stepped forward. “Move aside,” he said. His voice sounded high and whiny for such a huge man.

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks and stepped back.

  Sergeant Gipardieu took out the three bags, moved around to the side of the car and set them on the roof. He unzipped the two suitcases and fingered through the clothes and toiletries. Then he opened the third case, which had a hard outer shell and silver clasps.

  “Be careful with that,” Grimaldi said. “It’s fragile.”

  Gipardieu hesitated.

  “What is it?” Captain Le Pierre asked.

  “It’s our camera and video equipment,” Bolan said. “We’re magazine reporters. We’re here to do a story on the new movie being filmed, and the Mr. Galaxy contest.”

  Le Pierre muttered something else in French and made a quick motion with his hand, adding “Vite, vite.”

  Bolan watched as Gipardieu took the cameras, camcorder and various attachments out of their foam encasements.

  “And what is this?” The captain pointed to a pair of angular handles with grooved, flat metal tops.

  “Those are handles for our camcorder,” Bolan said.

  Le Pierre studied the items, then blinked a few times.

  “Captain,” Bolan said, “can we do anything else for you? If not, it was a very long flight, and my partner and I would like to check into our hotel and relax a bit.”

  Le Pierre raised his eyes from the case and studied Bolan’s face for several seconds. He glanced down at the passports and then up again. “Monsieur Cooper...”

  Bolan waited. Had their cover been blown? Did this guy know them from somewhere?

  Le Pierre gestured to Gipardieu, who slammed the camera case closed. The sergeant turned and walked back to Le Pierre, leaving the three bags on the roof. Le Pierre handed the passports back to Grimaldi and Bolan.

  “It is my hope that you enjoy your stay here, messieurs,” he said. The two officers began to walk back to their jeep. “Au revoir.”

  “What an asshole,” Grimaldi said as they reloaded their bags and climbed back into the Citroën.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Bolan said. “You and he have might have more in common than you think.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, I know you have a thing for pretty French girls.” Bolan settled himself into the seat. “And it looks like you both share a preference for SIG Sauers.”

  Grimaldi slammed the Citroën into gear and peeled out.

  Chapter 3

  Bolan dialed Brognola back on the sat phone as they pulled into the Omni hotel’s parking lot. “What’s the latest on that hookup with the Feds?” Bolan asked after he’d filled Brognola in on their encounter with the local police.

  “Should be all set,” Brognola said. “I’ll email you the agent’s info and sat phone number. We’re trying to finalize a meeting time now. I’ll send the location as soon as I get it. I’ve also arranged all of your hardware—it will be delivered directly to the hotel. And I’ll see if Aaron can run a check on Le Pierre and that Dutch customs agent. What was his name again?”

  “J. Van der Hyden.” Bolan spelled it.

  “Got it. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Roger that,” Bolan said.

  He ended the call. Inside the main lobby, the clerk behind the polished teakwood counter was all smiles and efficiency. He offered them complimentary drink passes to the beach bar, and snapped his fingers at a bellman, telling him to carry the luggage up to their room.

  They stepped into an elevator with a glass wall that gave them a postcard perfect view of the beach and ocean. As they rose to the fourth floor, Bolan could see numerous piers with boats of various sizes tethered to the moorings.

  “They have boats over there to go fishing and diving?” he asked.

  The bellman nodded and flashed a wide smile. “Yes, sir. Fishing, diving, waterskiing, paragliding, anything you want. The concierge can arrange it for you. If you wish, I can have him call up to your room.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged looks. Special attention was not what they wanted ri
ght now.

  “Maybe later,” Grimaldi said. The elevator stopped and they moved down the hallway toward their room. It faced the ocean, and was much closer to the stairway than the elevator. Good for slipping in and out without drawing too much attention.

  “These bags are a bit heavier than they look, sir,” the bellman said.

  “Give the kid a nice tip, Matt,” Grimaldi said as he stuck the key card into the slot. “He’s earned it.”

  Bolan tipped the bellman, who continued to offer assistance in procuring anything, anything at all, that they might desire, including an introduction to some beautiful island girls who liked Americans.

  Bolan declined and closed the door.

  “Not so fast,” Grimaldi said. “That last part about the island girls sounded kind of interesting.”

  “We’re here to work,” Bolan said drily.

  The room was fairly expansive, with two beds, a wet bar built into one wall, and a lounge area. The drapes on the window were open, offering a perfect view of the ocean side.

  Bolan secured the dead bolt lock as he and Grimaldi continued their innocuous conversation about the nice flight and the pleasant drive from the airport. As they talked, Bolan pulled out his bug detection scanner and searched the room for any type of listening or recording devices. The scanner detected bugs in the bedroom, bathroom and lounge area.

  Grimaldi picked up the phone, dialing the main desk. “I’m sorry, this room won’t do,” he said as soon as the clerk answered.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “There’s a strange smell in here, and my partner is very sensitive.”

  The clerk hemmed and hawed a bit, but when Grimaldi threatened to vacate the room and send an email to the bureau of travel and tourism, the man agreed to send up the bellman to show them to another suite.

  “Tell him to hurry up,” he said. “My partner’s getting nauseous and has a tendency to throw up when he gets a whiff of something rotten.”

  After five minutes of waiting, Grimaldi repeated his call to the front desk, this time inserting a bit more anger and outrage into his tone. The bellman’s knock came approximately a minute later. It was the same one as before, and he was carrying a large, locked suitcase.

  “Delivery for you, sir,” he said to Bolan.

  Bolan thanked him and grabbed the heavy case, giving it a quick once-over for signs of tampering. This had to be the weapons and gear Brognola had arranged a CIA contact to secure and drop off for them. The bellman picked up the remaining three bags and showed the men to another room on the same floor, at the opposite side of the building. It was close to a second stairwell. Grimaldi went in, checked it out and came back into the hall with a smile.

  “This one looks more suitable,” he said, grabbing the camera case. “Tip the kid, will you, Matt?”

  Bolan gave him some more money. “Here’s hoping we don’t see you again today.”

  The bellman looked down at the bills and flashed a big grin. “Oh, I don’t mind, sir. Not at all.” He placed the bags inside the room and left.

  Bolan locked the door and repeated his scan of the room. This time the device detected nothing, but he and Grimaldi did a thorough hands-on search just in case.

  “Looks clean,” Bolan said.

  “It does,” Grimaldi agreed. “Seems like somebody was expecting us,” he said as he unzipped his suitcase. “Le Pierre, you think?”

  Bolan shook his head. “Hard to say at this point, but I’m not sure our little buddy Le Pierre would have the means to set up that kind of sophisticated bugging equipment.”

  They unpacked quickly, knowing that Brognola had arranged a meeting somewhere on the island with the FBI agent.

  Inside Bolan’s case case were the slide, barrel, pin and recoil spring of Bolan’s field-striped Beretta 93R, along with four fully loaded magazines. Next, he removed a supply of additional ammunition and a folded Espada knife, which he clipped to his belt so it was concealed inside his pants. Finally, he pulled out the upper and barrel portions of a SIG Sauer forty caliber P226 and handed it to Grimaldi.

  Jack grinned wryly as he assembled the weapon. “Maybe I should’ve shown Capitaine Le Pierre that mine’s bigger than his.”

  “Why crush the guy’s already fragile ego?” Bolan said, putting together the Beretta. In a matter of seconds both men had their pistols fully assembled. Bolan checked the safety, inserted a magazine and racked back the slide to chamber a round. He then released the magazine and pressed another round in place, assuring a full load. As usual, two of the clips held standard ammunition, with jacketed ball and hollowpoints alternated, and the other two held special ammunition. One was marked with green to indicate frangible ammunition that was designed to avoid overpenetration, and the other contained armor-piercing rounds. Grimaldi sorted out a similar array of ammo and loaded his SIG, using the decocking lever to place it on safe.

  Bolan then dug out two sets of sport-utility shoes that looked as if they had been made for mountain hiking. He passed a pair to Grimaldi, then twisted the metal cleats on one shoe and pulled the thick sole away. He took out a folded shoulder holster, looked at it and tossed it to the pilot.

  “That one’s yours,” he said, and repeated the process with the second shoe. This one contained the shoulder rig for his Beretta. Grimaldi was taking apart the other pair, which contained small but powerful radios and ear mics.

  “Hal did not disappoint,” Grimaldi said, emitting a low whistle.

  With weapons and gear assembled and ready for use, both men changed shirts and slipped their guns into their holsters, checking to make sure their new outfits fully concealed the pistols.

  Bolan’s handheld chimed with an incoming email. He picked it up and read it, then turned to Grimaldi. “It’s from Hal. The meet with the FBI man is set. Fifteen minutes. Remember that mountain plateau we passed on the way from the airport?”

  Grimaldi nodded.

  Bolan gave himself one final check in the mirror to make sure the hang of his shirt properly covered up the Beretta. “You ready?”

  “As they say—” Grimaldi smoothed out his sleeveless BDU shirt and grabbed his SIG Sauer “—I was born ready.”

  * * *

  WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III stood on the catwalk adjacent to the control room on the platform rig and watched as the helicopter made its landing on the helipad below. Edwin Grimes stood next to him, waiting like a bird dog eager for any sign of approval. Everett shot a quick glance at Grimes and began a mental assessment as to when it would be convenient to dump the man. He had proved useful, but lately his missteps, especially that fiasco with the yacht, had started to get under Everett’s skin.

  On the helipad, a squad of fifteen men made their way out of the bird as the rotors slowed to a stop. All of them were dressed in dark, camouflaged uniforms and wore matching helmets with night vision goggles attached.

  “You’re sure these guys are clear on the mission?” Everett asked. “I told you, we can’t afford any slipups.”

  “Zelenkov assured me they’re top-notch,” Grimes responded. “Like I said, a couple are ex-Spetsnaz, just like him.”

  Everett pressed his lips together and watched the squad assembling below. Grimes seemed overly impressed by this Spetsnaz bullshit. If these Ruskies were so special, why had they been drummed out of the Russian army? He concentrated his gaze on the group of them, each one holding his AK-47 at port arms. Zelenkov, whose rifle was slung over his right shoulder, walked back and forth in front of the group, barking something in Russian loud enough for the words to drift up to the catwalk. Vince Tanner, Everett’s assistant security chief, stood off to the side. He was clad in similar combat BDUs and was also armed with an AK-47. Zelenkov barked a command and the group snapped to attention.

  “Anyone can look impressive doing D
and C,” Everett said. “Have they seen any combat?”

  “All vets of the conflict in Chechnya,” Grimes said.

  “But do they know anything about ship assaults?”

  “Zelenkov says they trained for it. Should be a cakewalk.” Grimes gestured down at the group. “Besides, Tanner’s going with them to keep us updated. What could go wrong?”

  “There’s always something that could go wrong.” Everett watched the formation a few seconds more. “Tell Zelenkov I want to see him now. Before he leaves.”

  Grimes nodded.

  “What about those new Americans that came in?” Everett asked. “You get them checked out?”

  “Le Pierre rousted them on the way from the airport. Didn’t find any weapons, which made them appear legit. Then they pulled a fast one at the hotel. Demanded to switch rooms. Smelled something funny, apparently, and the one guy threatened to puke.”

  Everett frowned. “Sounds like bullshit. They must have noticed the bugs. They’re probably CIA or something. NSA at the very least.”

  “They’re on the way to meet the FBI agent on the mountain plateau as we speak.” The yelling had ceased from below and both men glanced downward. Zelenkov was looking up at them, and Grimes motioned for the Russian to come up to the control room area.

  “What’s that FBI agent’s name again?” Everett asked Grimes.

  “Tyler. Tim Tyler.”

  Everett smirked and thought for a moment. “If the U.S. government is sending more agents down, it’s a given that they’re sure Monk is here. Sooner or later they’ve got to figure I have him.”

  Grimes nodded.

  Everett stroked the stubble around his upper lip, then traced the lines down to his chin. He liked the feel of it under his fingertips—a reassurance that he still had plenty of testosterone. “Le Pierre’s man still with the corn husker?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” Everett said. “Tell him to stall the meeting a bit. Arrange a little reception party for them. Make it look like it’s the work of Boudrous and his boys. Have them take out a couple of bystanders, too, for good measure. Zelenkov can send one of his goons to supervise it just in case.”