Missile Intercept Page 6

  Yi’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He retrieved it, glanced at the screen and answered.

  “It has been done,” the Black Dragon said.

  “Any complications?”

  “I was not able to question him.”

  Yi considered that. It would have been useful to know exactly what the Cuban had told the Americans, but at this point it was unimportant. Eventual discovery was not only inevitable, but it was also desirable, at the appropriate juncture. He would have to proceed on the assumption that their presence was now known, which meant that speed in the movement of the missiles was of the essence.

  “Any other problems?” Yi asked.

  “None.”

  “Very well,” Yi said. “Proceed to the next location and await my arrival.”

  After hearing an acknowledgment, Yi terminated the call. He keyed his radio mic and advised all the Black Tigers to assemble at their transport vehicles. They were ahead of schedule, which was good, but there was no time to dally. All that remained was to escort the missiles to the coast, supervise the loading procedure and catch his plane for the Mexican resort.

  Two of his men marched the Panamanian and Mexican gangsters past him, toward the trucks. He needed the Mexican to assure a few more details, but the other one’s usefulness had expired. Yi barked an order to place the prisoners in separate vehicles. He could dispose of the Panamanian on the way and leave the body in some wooded area. Or he could order both men to be taken on the ship and dumped at sea. Either way, the two gangsters were little more than excess trash at this point, loose ends that would be tied.

  La Palacio de Oro Hotel

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  BOLAN WATCHED MARTINEZ make the sign of the cross as his two marines were removed from the hotel suite. Captain Ruiz and his bespectacled translator, Senor Vargas, stood by with sour looks on their faces. Grimaldi stood off to the side with Stevenson and Chong.

  “The captain demands to know how this occurred,” Vargas said.

  Bolan noticed tears glistening in Martinez’s eyes.

  It had been a setup from the inside, that was for sure, but the Executioner knew Martinez wasn’t involved. There was no way to fake his emotional response.

  “Your two marines were by the door,” Bolan said. “Right where they were supposed to be.” He stepped to the center of the floor, next to the bloodstain on the carpet. “This broken glass is obviously from that.” He pointed to the fractured champagne bottle. “The most likely scenario is the assassin came disguised as the waiter.”

  Vargas relayed this to Ruiz, who muttered something inaudible.

  “Sergeant, you didn’t check him?” Vargas yelled at Martinez.

  “Hey, we checked him,” Grimaldi replied. “I looked under the plate covers, and your marines patted the guy down and wanded him with the metal detector.”

  “Obviously,” Vargas said with a sneer, “your efforts were substandard. Three men are dead.”

  Agents Stevenson and Chong seemed lost in the dynamics of the situation.

  Grimaldi stood taller and seemed ready to respond until Bolan shot him a look.

  “Yeah, whatever,” the pilot said, and shrugged.

  “Actually,” Bolan continued, “the waiter was a trained assassin who didn’t need a weapon.” He paused and waited for their eyes to fall on him once again. “He’s highly skilled in the martial arts.”

  “And you know this how?” Vargas asked.

  Bolan pointed to the other room and then the broken bottle. “Once he’d been frisked and the serving tray had been checked, the waiter rolled it into the bedroom, followed by the Cuban. If you remember, the magnum of champagne was in an ice bucket.”

  The others nodded in agreement.

  “Once in the bedroom, and out of sight of the marines,” Bolan said, “he most likely incapacitated Espinoza with a martial arts blow. He then removed the champagne bottle and returned to the two marines.” The Executioner pointed to the bloody carpeting again. “He approached them, most likely with some pretext to get them off guard, and hit one cross the face with the bottle, causing it to shatter. The assassin then used the broken bottle to slash the other man’s throat. He must have heard us trying to gain access, and went back into the bedroom.” Bolan walked through the door and into the next room, where he stopped. The others followed.

  “After closing and locking this door,” he continued, “the assassin finished off Espinoza, figuring we were only seconds away from gaining entry.” The Executioner looked at Vargas, who was translating his speech for Ruiz. “He then dropped his waiter’s jacket there—” Bolan pointed to the garment on the floor “—and went to the window, signaling a confederate down below. As we now know, this was at least a two-man operation.”

  Ruiz muttered something to Vargas.

  “But how did he descend from this height?” Vargas asked. “We are six stories up.”

  “There’s a window washer’s scaffold parked up top on this side of the building,” Bolan said. “He went up there earlier and tied off his rappelling rope next to it. That line was long enough to reach the ground, and his partner in the alley simply walked it over to the appropriate window. The assassin hooked up here.” Bolan patted the windowsill. “Then he rappelled down, swinging over to use the scaffold as cover from above. That’s when your perimeter men tried to intercede, and the firefight started.”

  “Three more dead marinas,” Vargas said to Martinez, his face a mask of contempt. “Plus the two up here. This has been a fiasco, brought about by your incompetence.”

  Martinez frowned, looking physically drained. “You will have my resignation in the morning,” he said to Ruiz in Spanish.

  Bolan took out his sat phone and pressed some numbers. He stopped and looked at the group. “Maybe we should review what we know and what we don’t know. First, we’re sure that the assassin was highly skilled in the martial arts, capable of killing three men while he himself was unharmed.” He pressed another sequence of numbers, scanned the screen and nodded slightly. “Second, we know that the assassin knew exactly where we were holding Espinoza, and had time to put his escape plan in place.”

  Bolan looked at Martinez. “Remember that stone we found in the stairwell to the roof? Somebody was up there before we were. The stone probably came from the assassin’s shoe.”

  Martinez nodded, his mouth compressing into a resolute line.

  “And how did the assassin not only know that we had Espinoza in this hotel, but also the exact room number?” Bolan pressed the call button and then held the phone to his ear. “Obviously, somebody tipped him off.” He waited a few beats, then added, “It’s ringing.”

  The room was silent, except for a slight trickle of sound—the vibration of a cell phone.

  Ruiz reached into his pants pocket. The vibrating noise ceased.

  “¿Qué pasa?” he asked.

  “My associates obtained the number of the burner phone that was used to tip off the cartel guards,” Bolan said. “I just called it.”

  The captain’s eyes widened, darting from Bolan to Martinez, and then back to Bolan.

  “No, no,” Ruiz said. “No es possible. No es mio.”

  Martinez grabbed Ruiz by the throat and began to strangle him. “¡Hijo de puta!”

  As he was being bent over backward, Ruiz tried to break Martinez’s grip. His hands reached under his loose-fitting shirt and came up with a pistol that he pressed into Martinez’s stomach.

  Bolan grabbed the weapon and tore it away from Martinez’s abdomen just as the flash of the blast seared past the big man’s shirt. With a deft move, Bolan twisted the pistol from Ruiz’s hand, and then grabbed Martinez’s left wrist.

  “Let him go, amigo,” the soldier said. “He’s not worth it.”

  “He killed my men,” Martinez gr
itted through clenched teeth.

  “I know,” Bolan said, “but don’t lower yourself to his level. You’re a man of honor. Eres un marina.”

  Martinez slowly loosened his grip on Ruiz, who sank to the floor.

  Bolan still had his hand on Martinez’s arm.

  Vargas glanced at Martinez, turned and started to run for the door.

  “Jack,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi pivoted and delivered a solid left hook into Vargas’s gut. The bespectacled translator sank to his knees.

  Private Air Field, NIISA Headquarters

  Adobe Flats, New Mexico

  BRIGHT LIGHTS ILLUMINATED the area outside the hangar. James Hudson watched as the luggage for all the investor guests and employees was loaded on board the aircraft. He knew that McGreagor would still be partying with everyone inside the hangar. The billionaire would be showing off his latest acquisitions, former NASA engineer Terry Turner and Russian nuclear physicist Vassili Nabokovski. McGreagor liked to tell the story about how he’d wooed both men from their former government positions to join NIISA, to pursue their shared dream of bringing commercial space travel to the world. The billionaire had convinced an array of fat cats to invest in his pipe dream. He hadn’t told them that three of the private test flights had crashed and burned shortly after takeoff. That was something his new acquisitions were supposed to be looking into. Of course, those classified files from NASA that Turner had brought along with him were going to help. And Nabokovski had practically run the Soviet rocket program in the sixties and seventies.

  Space experts, civilian commercial space travel, a city built on the moon, Hudson thought. What complete and total bullshit.

  But the obnoxious Dr. McGreagor would soon see all his dreams crash and burn along with his failed rockets.

  And I’ll be a rich man, Hudson thought.

  He smiled and thought of Kim Soo-Han’s luscious body waiting for him in Mexico. It wouldn’t be long now. Finding her had been a bit of good fortune. Not only would he be walking away from this deal a rich man, but he’d have the beautiful woman of his dreams to accompany him.

  He smiled as his cell phone rang.

  Glancing at the screen, he saw the call was from the big man himself.

  Maintaining the charade, Hudson answered with a crisp, “How may I help you, sir?”

  “Is the luggage loaded?” McGreagor asked.

  The words were slightly slurred. Obviously, the festivities from the earlier party had continued into the pretakeoff celebration.

  “Yes, sir,” Hudson replied. “And the crew’s doing the preflight checklist now.”

  “I know that, you idiot. How much longer before takeoff? My guests are anxious to get to Punta de las Sueños. I want to have everyone assembled on the beach to watch the sunrise.”

  “We should be in good shape, sir,” Hudson said. “We’ll get there in plenty of time.”

  “We had better,” McGreagor threatened.

  For all his bloviating about flight and space travel, the son of a bitch was totally oblivious to the safety requirements and procedures of a preflight inspection. Hudson resisted the temptation to use McGreagor’s own platitude, “NIISA never skimps on safety,” and instead replied, “I’ll see how it’s going and get back to you, sir.”

  “You do that,” McGreagor said. “And you’re sure you’ve gotten the appropriate security measures in place? I don’t want any slipups on this trip. Understand?”

  “Everything’s in place, sir,” Hudson said. More so than you know, he added mentally. He smiled again.

  “And you have a sufficient supply of the local police? I want armed security on the beach perimeter.”

  “That’s been taken care of, sir.” And it had been. This was the only part of the plan that bothered Hudson a bit. He wouldn’t be able to bring any of his guns into Mexico, and therefore allegedly had to rely on the local police for security concerns. While the police were more than happy to provide those services for the customary fee, this time Hudson knew that the officers had been recruited by Soo-Han’s boss’s cartel connection.

  Though he trusted the woman, in the back of his mind he felt he needed some kind of an insurance policy. Trusting Soo-Han was one thing. Trusting her North Korean bosses was another. What was to stop them from stiffing him once the two scientists and the computer files for the new prototype reentry software were safely in their hot little Commie hands? Plus, North Korea wasn’t exactly rolling in dough, with no exports to speak of except the bellicose ramblings of their leader and the threat to launch one of his nukes. What was to stop them from icing Hudson once their deal had been completed?

  He needed an insurance policy, all right. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get one.

  “Hudson, are you there?” McGreagor’s tone had doubled in harshness.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then, pay attention, dammit.” McGreagor’s words were getting more slurred. Hudson pictured him with a drink in his hand, scotch probably, and his toupee sagging as much as his facial muscles.

  “I’m taking Irina with me,” McGreagor said. “Make sure the crew has my private cabin ready.”

  Hudson knew that besides being McGreagor’s traveling piece of ass, Irina was also his private nurse. The big man probably wanted her to get a bunch of Botox and other meds ready for the flight so he’d look ten years younger when they landed. But McGreagor was obviously so drunk now he’d forgotten that he’d given those instructions earlier.

  “Already done, sir,” Hudson said.

  “What? Oh, okay.” The boss paused, lowered his voice. “Listen, before we leave, make sure that everything’s secure in research and development. Make sure everything’s encrypted and in the vault, understand?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Hudson said.

  Encrypted, Hudson thought. I may have just found that insurance policy I was thinking about. “I’ll see to it right away.”

  4

  La Palacio de Oro Hotel

  Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

  Bolan, Grimaldi and Martinez sat at a table in the hotel’s café, a bowl of hard-boiled eggs at each place. The two Americans sipped their coffee while Martinez talked to his commanding officer on his cell phone. It had been a long night. Waiting for a contingent of high-ranking military and police officials from Mexico City to arrive had taken several hours, as had the interrogation of both Ruiz and Vargas. Neither man had given up much, saying only that if they talked, the cartel would kill them and their families. It had been enough for Bolan to expose the man who had betrayed them. It was now up to the Mexicans to clean their own house, but Bolan was curious about what the Cuban had told Stevenson and Chong. Both FBI agents had declined Martinez’s offer of breakfast, saying that they had to go to the embassy to check in with their supervisor.

  Martinez terminated his call and frowned. He set the cell phone on the table and shook his head. “Ruiz and his lackey still refuse to say much. What kind of world do we live in, my friends? Five of my men are dead and two traitors live.”

  “At least you discovered them,” Grimaldi said. “I know it’s not much consolation, but the leak’s plugged.”

  “For the moment,” Martinez said. He sighed and picked up his cup. “But I am certain they will break Ruiz once he goes to the capital.”

  “To the big house,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll bet he’ll catch more than his lunch in there.”

  “Plus,” Bolan said, “the agents of the cartels inside the prison will no doubt be expecting him. There’s probably a contract out on him already.”

  Martinez nodded. “They will slit his throat in a matter of hours, once he is placed inside. The corruption is like a snake in the field, feasting on the mice.” He drank the rest of his coffee and then stood, holding out his hand. “And now I must arrange transportation for t
he traitors to the capital.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi stood, as well. The men shook hands.

  “You are a true warrior, my friend,” Martinez said to Bolan. “It has been my honor to serve and fight beside you.”

  “The honor was mine,” he replied, handing the sergeant a card. “You can always reach me through this number.”

  “I will keep you advised,” Martinez said, pocketing it. He turned and left, and they watched him go.

  Grimaldi emitted a low whistle. “Man, that big guy’s pissed. I sure wouldn’t want to be in old Ruiz’s shoes.”

  “He lost a lot of good men due to Ruiz’s treachery,” Bolan said, as his cell phone rang.

  He glanced at the screen and said to Grimaldi, “Looks like it’s your FBI friends.” Bolan pressed the button to accept the call.

  “Cooper, this is Special Agent Chong. Where are you guys?”

  “Still at breakfast in the hotel.”

  Chong said he and Stevenson were on their way and hung up.

  “Looks like they want to talk,” Bolan said. “They’re coming here.” He took out his sat phone. “I’m going to check in with Hal.”

  After a gruff hello, Brognola added, “You’re up early.”

  “We haven’t been to bed yet,” Bolan said.

  Brognola grunted as Bolan gave him a rundown of the previous night’s events.

  “So that’s where we stand,” the Executioner said. “I think we’ve plugged one leak down here as far as assisting the marines, but Chong and Stevenson still haven’t told us what intel they got from the Cuban before he was killed.”

  “You say he was taken out with a karate blow?” Brognola asked.

  “It was some kind of martial arts move,” Bolan answered. “Jack says the waiter who delivered the room service was Asian, but he didn’t get a real good look at him.”

  Grimaldi lifted his thumb in agreement and started to crack open another hard-boiled egg.

  “Well, here’s a little tidbit that might give you a clue or two,” Brognola said. “There was an incident in the Panama Canal Zone last night.”