Triangle of Terror Read online

  He eased into the no-man’s land between the massive bins, then began rolling hard. Weapon extended, thinking he should raise his crew, gathering more speed as he reached the corner, he was crouching, going left, when the sky crashed down with a light show that exploded in his eyes. Something that felt like a sledgehammer, but what he knew was a fist, had dropped him on his back. The world threatened to black out next, as he felt himself being dragged along the ground by the shoulder.

  The voice of doom helped sweep away the mist in his sight. Looking up, he stared into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, two chips of ice more like it, he thought, framed in combat cosmetics.

  A NO-SHIT DEAL.

  The armament, for one thing, told him the hitter was no G-man. Then there were those damn eyes, pinning him with judgment day, like he was a bug about to be dissected by righteous anger alone. Vaguely he was aware he had been dragged into the cubbyhole near the readout shack. Out of ear- and eyeshot of the others, no doubt. The sound suppressor threaded on the end of the big Beretta and aimed square between his eyes warned him his life hung in the balance. He glanced to the assault rifle with the attached grenade launcher in the hitter’s other hand. No, the man wasn’t any Fed.

  “I don’t like repeating myself,” he heard the man’s voice state. “How many, including yourself?”

  “Eleven,” he answered. “Thirteen, if you count the pilot and copilot.”

  “What’s the cargo—and don’t tell me it’s pesticide.”

  Why not answer the man? Whomever he really was, Harper had seen enough black ops to know the invader had come to close down shop, more than likely with a body count as icing. In some strange way, he felt relieved, absolved of his sins, free to talk. His gut told him he wouldn’t be led away in cuffs. He was no defeatist, but for some time now he’d been wondering when someone, somewhere from some No Name Agency would smell them out. In reality, there was no such thing as a secret if more than one individual knew. He was glad it was over—unless the big guy had come alone. If that was the case, he was either crazy or suicidal to tackle that many professionals, all of whom had nothing to lose and everything to gain if they stayed in the game.

  Harper chuckled. “You’re not going to believe me, pal, but it is, in fact, pesticide.”

  “You’re right, I don’t believe you.”

  “You want to go uncap one of those drums they’re moving and take a deep whiff, be my guest. It’s a superhybrid DDT, in gel solution. One sniff upclose and you’re choking on your own vomit. If you’re what I’m thinking you are, then maybe you have some idea of what that means.”

  “You’re telling me you’re cutting out a couple of steps for a nerve-gas recipe.”

  “Give the man a first-class round-trip ticket to Hawaii.”

  “Where’s it headed?”

  “Brazil.”

  Harper felt his heart lurch as something angry danced through those eyes.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Uncle Sam,” Harper said, and immediately regretted the answer as the muzzle dropped an inch or so closer to his face. “We’re a black ops arm of the NSA.”

  He was poised for the next question, but the man in black was a blur, hurling himself to the side, wheeling toward the pipeline. Harper glimpsed the red beam knife through the shadows in the space the invader had vacated, heard the brief stutter of the gun. The bullets were tearing into his chest, piercing him before his mind registered what was happening. He caught his cry of pain, clinging to anger at whoever had gone for broke, missed and nailed him instead. As the life leaked out of him and the sickening wheeze of a ruptured lung swarmed his ears, he heard a howl of agony and grabbed a final look at the shadow toppling beyond the pipeline. Fading into warm blackness, aware the big hitter had chopped his friendly killer off at the ankles, he then began sinking deeper into the dark abyss, to the evanescent roar of the invader’s M-16.

  6

  The picture always brought on the ghosts. He was not a sentimental man by any stretch, but one horror from the past had, he believed, reshaped his destiny.

  And often from out of tragedy the ultimate warrior-king, he thought, was born.

  He sat at the table, staring at the pretty smiling brunette with her arm around the gangly teenaged boy, wondering if the Eiffel Tower in the background was the last sight they took in together before it happened. Sipping from the glass of Dewar’s, he found it strange how the bitter pain he had once felt over the untimely deaths of his wife and son from so many yesteryears had morphed him from a mere NSA operative working at the American Embassy in Paris that day to a warrior-king of the twenty-first century who was now on the verge of leading an entire nation into a new age.

  With a little luck and a lot of daring, perhaps the world would be his.

  As it usually happened, alone in his room, dead of night at the Embassy Suites, his private sanctuary away from the grind of White House duty, a part of him began longing for the simpler times of youth. Working for the NSA, he reflected, left virtually no room for a stable family life, especially since he’d been in charge of some of the most classified intelligence-gathering operations. They often pitted his wits and guile, not to mention his life, against everything from Colombian drug cartels to Arab terrorists to the Russian Mafia. Always on the move, watched by both the good and bad guys, sometimes it was impossible to distinguish the two sides. He was always looking over his shoulder for the silent lurking killer. Always afraid for the welfare of his family. Still, there had been many close moments shared with his wife—a loyal and devoted companion who had never complained—over the secret years. Regular vacations to some of the most beautiful beaches in the world with Tina and Rob had been stolen treasures he would never again know. Oh, the plans he had for his son’s future, an academic genius, bound for the best college, the children—grandchildren—he was robbed of…

  He killed the drink, topped out another from his rapidly depleting bottle. They said anger came from three sources—not getting what one wanted or thought was deserved; disappointment in or over love; and a raw burning over clear and present wrongs in the world.

  Figure he was good for two out of three.

  The red light on his sat link, he saw, was blinking, but he was expecting news, on several fronts. Putting the picture away in his briefcase slot, he silently cursed the traitorous snake who had leaked the agenda of his family that day. As it turned out, the Russian Mafia had put out the contract on his family, and his own head. The snake in question, he remembered, had been a colleague who had fallen prey to greed, ambition and chasing his own prurient interests, giving the Russian gangsters they had been monitoring as they made in-roads into Western Europe to expand their empire, all the blackmail leverage they needed.

  One bullet to the backs of each of their heads. To this day he still hoped it was quick and painless, certain it was, but it was small damn comfort. Taking care of the snake personally had not only kept the NSA leak from the public eye, but it had put him on a new course, a changed man with nothing to lose, but who instantly came to believe in one immutable fact of life.

  Human nature, at its core, was dark and selfish.

  Over the years since the murders, learning what he had about the critical mass building across the planet, he believed humankind was doomed to self-destruct. Truth be told, he knew Armageddon was already in progress. The dark light of personal tragedy, he concluded, was that it had blessed him with new vision for the future of the human race—or what was left to obey and serve.

  Anger, he decided, wasn’t such a bad emotion, after all.

  Suddenly, he felt very much alone, couldn’t help but wonder if his chosen profession had, in short, caused the murders of his wife and son. Or was he destined for something greater than any human being could fathom? Was tragedy merely a small price to pay for the crown of conquest? Was he even being guided along by divine intervention? He pictured himself, standing alone in a raging sea, going down—the flaming sword of righteous anger and
revenge extinguished as the churning waves enveloped him.

  It was the booze, he told himself, talking back to him, depressing his warrior spirit with guilt and regret over that about which he could do nothing. Deep breath, then. Summon back the courage and resolve. It was time to move forward. His thoughts cleared.

  He scrolled through the digital readout on one of four minimonitors on the sat link, waiting until all the back-channel numbers ran through before they were automatically erased from the microchip’s memory, then he punched on the scrambler, settled the link around his ears, adjusted the throat mike.

  “We may have problems,” the voice said.

  Lee Durham grunted, recognizing the voice on the other end even though it was electronically altered. He was not in the mood to hear about problems, since each member of the operation was expected to carry his own weight, and then some. In their world there could only be solutions.

  “I heard,” he replied.

  “What’s the story on your end?”

  “No story, but I’m picking up certain bad vibes from the Man. He’s gone out of the loop where your situation is concerned, but that much is obvious. Whoever is on the way down there I have no positive confirmation as to identity. Assume black ops. There have been rumors for years now that each administration accesses such individuals to do the kind of jobs best left out of the public eye and the Capitol Building. Deniable expendables.”

  “I know the breed. Are we compromised?”

  Durham took his time answering, working on his drink. Firing up a smoke, inhaling deeply, he said, “If we were, we wouldn’t be talking.”

  “Unless we’re being used as the chum.”

  “That’s crossed my mind. You are to proceed as planned, but I would suggest you learn whatever you can from the contaminants, however you can, in the next hour or so. Do whatever it takes. Are you sanitized for your visitor?”

  “As well as could possibly be expected given the circumstances. There’s some walking wounded that may put my butt to the official fire.”

  “I’m sure you’ll come up with a plausible explanation—an attempted breakout, one of your men attacked, something along those lines. Concentrate hard right now and continue your work. Turn up the heat by any and all means. You—we—need a contact over there, even if it feels unreliable. Whatever the feeding chain, get something, even a guppy, until you can work your way up to the big fish.”

  “I know what we need.”

  The colonel, Durham thought, was getting testy. Certainly he could imagine the pressure he was under. Some operative not even SCTF could find a background on was flying down to Camp Triangle on a classified military flight. Snooping around, he’d be looking for evidence, no doubt, that the Geneva Convention didn’t even rank a paper tiger. Now was no time, though, for excuses, waffling, wringing of hands.

  “What if—”

  “Stop right there,” Durham said, washing the sat link with a wave of smoke. “We are too far along to cave to phantom trouble at this juncture. This was always a mobile operation. Do whatever is necessary regarding the man from Washington. Worst-case, dispose of the matter, pack up—but do not, I repeat, do not do that unless you have hard intelligence regarding the vanishing act.”

  “And when you’ve wrapped up the operation on your end, we’re all expected to pull a Houdini?”

  “That’s one way to look at it, but you knew this going in,” Durham said.

  “And the money?”

  Ah, and there it was.

  Before anyone for Task Force Talon was recruited, Durham had anticipated some or all of them displaying a mercenary nature. Most of them had personal, professional and financial problems, all of which now drove them to flee a hell created by their own hand while skipping off for the golden sunset of a new world, armed with money, chasing whatever their pleasure to the grave. Where he was moving ahead with the event out of nobility and patriotism, skewed as some might perceive it, the bottom feeders were getting antsy for personal results. For the most part they were brutal men, useful, yes, when it came to doling out violence, creating mayhem, even getting answers under torture where other more civilized methods failed. But there was a limit to his patience, and he would not allow any man’s single selfish desire to erect a barrier in front of his task.

  Durham fought to keep the edge out of his voice. “Colonel, my ambitions, as grandiose and hideously incomprehensible as some in the know might find them, will play out once the package is delivered on my end. So, if anyone is actually on the firing line and potentially circling the drain, it is me and my two immediate colleagues. The package will be at my disposal any time now, so standby and await further orders once you have positive intelligence in regards to the lead in question. As for personal reward, when the time comes I will have certain accounts of our Middle East comrades, currently frozen by this administration, unfrozen and released into the numbered accounts we have agreed upon. Until then, I can only stress how important it is we let no one and nothing derail us at this critical time. Do the job, the money will be there.”

  He paused, annoyed at the grim chuckle on the other end. “Something amusing to you?”

  “You realize the odds against you pulling it off are—”

  “Yes,” Durham said. He felt the flush of anger on his cheeks, wondering if the colonel was getting cold feet at this late stage. “Astronomical. However, should everyone do their part, should everyone remain resolute and committed, we will not fail. Greatness is not achieved by the faint of heart, Colonel, and revolutions generally fail when there are a few nonhackers or traitors who either go for themselves in the long run or attempt to save their own skin. Need I remind you, that if one goes down all go down. But we are not faced with some Alamo scenario.”

  “Yet, you mean. If this Colonel decides to phone the White House and burn the Man’s ear about this base, which, by the way, he wasn’t all that keen on setting up to begin with, and starts popping off about beatings and missing prisoners…”

  “I am trusting you to keep that from happening. On the plus side, it is our people of Task Force Talon who are in charge down there. ‘Your’ people, with a smattering of Marines.”

  “Who could prove a pain in the ass when we pull up stake.”

  “Dispose of all nonessential parties, those were your orders. Remember, Washington is only sending down one man, not a platoon of Senators to comb through every piece of brush and ask a slew of questions over a few roughed up terrorists. And we have allies among the Brazilians who could assist you in the disposal area.”

  “Which leaves me to wonder about leaks.”

  Durham blew more smoke, tired of searching for the right words to calm the man with iron-clad reassurances. “The Brazilians are a greedy, thuggish lot. They only want their money. I have been in contact with Colonel Poscalar, and he’s assured me, for the time being, the powers that are with us in Brasilia are quiet and cooperative.”

  “But that could change.”

  “Everything, Colonel, is about to change. See to it that whatever changes happen shortly are to our advantage. Just deal with the hand you’ve been dealt. Should you need an ace in the hole, the chances are good I can provide you with one. The next time we speak, rest assured the event will have started. Do your duty. That will be all.”

  Before Braden launched into another litany of worry-riddled questions, Durham severed the connection, shed the com link and topped out another glass. Yes, he had to agree up to a point with Braden. What was about to transpire in Washington went beyond reason and rationale, perhaps bordered on the suicidal. Still, he thought, rising, opening the door and easing out onto the hallway landing, there was no such animal as a bloodless revolution.

  Changes, he decided, were coming, long overdue after forty years, thanks in no small part, to the passing of laws where wrong was right and vice versa. The country, he believed, was already clinging to the edge of the abyss, the list of ills so long it hurt his brain just to consider them.

>   The implosion of America was building to critical mass. There was a subtle form of evil, he thought, casting an invisible but dark pall, from Manhattan to Los Angeles. Those devils in human skin who had the money and the power to mold the masses in their image, much like any number of tyrants through the ages, were using human cannon fodder to do their dirty work. Only in America cash had replaced blood, the rich and the powerful—roughly three to four percent of the nation’s population—were shearing the sheep of hard-earned dollars. The shadow of wickedness had spread over every institution, until a quicksand pit of graft and corruption, it seemed, was swallowing government, military and business leaders interested in only fattening their pockets and holding onto power.

  No more.

  Nothing short of a big bang change, right around the corner, he knew, would set it right, back on track, where men of reason and principle called the shots for the worker ants. Someone had to step up, save the country before it was too late. Nothing short of anarchy in the streets—followed by martial law then military rule—would stop the barbarians at the gates of a crumbling civilization. In some strange way he was almost glad he was without family. No blood lineage of his needed to fear where the future was headed, if, in fact, there was any future left to save.

  Durham stepped up to the rail. Looking three floors down he watched them scurrying through the atrium, the restaurant courtyard, the lobby still bustling with late-night arrivals, kids in bathing suits running amok after a dip in the pool, couples strolling arm in arm, all of them oblivious, content. They were his sheep, he thought, about to be led to the slaughter, where Darwinian anarchy would rule before he arose from the ashes of the coming conflagration, the new phoenix, riding on wings of fire and righteous anger. He knew every revolution required sacrifice if it was to succeed so that greatness could shine.

  It wouldn’t be much longer now, but he knew he would barely sleep, forcing himself to perform important but mundane duties for the President and his minions until the hour of truth shook the country, perhaps seized the whole world by storm.