Enemies Within Page 8

  If not, so what?

  It only meant that he had played a rough game and had lost, as someone always must.

  And with whatever consciousness remained to him, he’d wish his four surviving comrades well.

  * * *

  Jack Grimaldi saw the RAV4 crash into the strip mall, vanish into its interior, and heard alarms start clamoring to beat the ever-loving band. Instead of pulling in close to the shattered entryway, he parked well back and left the Mazda CX-5 crossover, closing in on foot in an attempt to pass for a slightly bewildered good Samaritan.

  Grimaldi was upon the glass-strewed threshold when he glimpsed the Ranger’s SUV inside, downrange, heard automatic fire, and saw the RAV4 suddenly erupt in flames. That had to be a ruse, unless one of the shoppers had brought his own machine gun to the mall, as nitwits in the news these days were sometimes wont to do, strolling around their local supermarket primed for an attack by Zulus or a horde of alien invaders.

  No. It had to be the colonel, Andrew Knowlton, and the grand diversion meant he would be headed for an exit, looking for another ride to jack, hot-wire or otherwise convert to his own use.

  Grimaldi faced a range of choices. He could move past the blazing hulk and try to spot his man, pursuing him on foot and drawing ever farther from his rented Mazda CX-5 out front. Another choice: he could retreat, circle around the mall outside, and hope he met Knowlton emerging, try to capture him or take him down before the cops arrived. That was a dicey proposition with a Ranger, even wounded as the colonel might be, for a public shootout or a brutal round of hand-to-hand.

  Third option: the Stony Man pilot could run back to his ride, call Bolan while he drove around the mall’s perimeter, and file a sitrep while he looked for Knowlton somewhere, anywhere, in flight.

  Among those choices, there was none he liked even a little bit, and whichever he picked, police and firefighters were drawing closer to the scene with every passing second.

  “Goddamn it!”

  Moving well around the RAV4’s flaming hulk, arm raised to shield his face from acrid smoke, Grimaldi forged ahead. He kept his Glock holstered and out of sight, giving the mall’s terrified customers no more gunmen to focus on.

  The bulk of them were up and running now, seeking clean air, men herding women, parents dragging children, stray kids sprinting on their own and crying as they ran. Grimaldi thought he caught a glimpse of Knowlton in the smoky distance, there and gone amid the haze, and zeroed in on the evasive figure with another burst of speed. There were too many exit signs for him to single one out arbitrarily, but instinct told him that his mark would run as far as possible before he tried his luck outside, in broad daylight.

  By the time he tracked his chosen runner, probably ID confirmed by scattered blood drops on the mall’s linoleum, Knowlton had cleared the building.

  Grimaldi burst out into sunshine, quick enough to see his target fling a woman to the ground and hop inside her Kia Sedona minivan and roar across the parking lot, too late to stop the getaway.

  “Goddamn it!” he snapped, and began the jog back to his waiting rented car, cell phone already in his hand.

  Flame Tree Estates

  Six members of the Marshals’ team rolled up in a carbon-copy pair of black Ford Expedition SUVs. They all wore black, from caps to combat boots, with vests reading Police across the chest and US Marshals Service on the back. Half of them carried Colt AR-15 rifles, the others 12-gauge Remington 870s. Each wore an M-1911 A-1 Springfield pro-rail pistol tied low on the right or left, depending on the agent’s stronger hand.

  Two from the second Ford immediately scooped up Staff Sergeant Rashid’s M-4 and tossed it in the rear compartment of their vehicle, tucking his body in to join it next, then fanning out on the street to cover it, together with their driver. Those from the first Ford ran up the rattling stairs to Juanita Alvarado’s apartment, hammered on its door and stood alert as Bolan showed himself.

  Their leader said, “ID, sir, if you please,” not asking quite so much as ordering.

  Bolan complied and satisfied their curiosity, then stood aside and let them scout the small apartment, calling, “Clear!” in turn from each of its four empty rooms. All back together in the living room, they stood around Alvarado while their leader asked, “Is this our safehouse transport, sir?”

  “Affirmative, Deputy,” Bolan said.

  “And are you going with us?”

  “That’s negative. I’ve got a ride en route and other things to do.”

  “We’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck.”

  Alvarado didn’t want to go at first. She tried to shake off the agents, faced Bolan and protested, “What? You aren’t coming, now?”

  He kept his answer short. “Places to go, people to see.”

  “People like ’Nesto, eh?”

  “If he gives us a chance to bring him in unharmed, we’ll gladly take it,” Bolan replied.

  He turned to the leader of her escort and said, “You were warned about potential intercepts?”

  “We do this for a living, sir,” the deputy in charge replied, and they were out of there.

  Bolan had briefed Brognola on Alvarado’s story of Ernesto’s “daydreams” about vanished billions “just like in Iraq,” and the big Fed was working on a few ideas he hadn’t cared to share over the phone. Whatever he came up with, it could put a whole new twist on things, from the announcement of the Rangers going AWOL, signing on with Allah but without a formal name, their manifesto—all of it, in short.

  How many other “zealots” had he seen over the years treading a path in search of profit while they claimed to serve a “higher cause”? Too many to create a list of names from memory, offhand.

  Tear down the flags, strip off their masks, and likely discover that the extremists operated from the oldest motive in the world: pure greed.

  His second conversation, with Grimaldi, was a disappointment, and had sparked another terse exchange with Brognola. Perhaps, with the new information from Juanita Alvarado now in hand, they could reverse that trend and put the case to bed.

  Or failing that, they might well have the world to cover, seeking out a handful of well-trained US Army Rangers, flush with cash and nothing left to lose.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlottesville, Virginia

  Colonel Andrew Knowlton switched cars twice more on his way to Charlottesville, a rendezvous Major Darby had arranged east of Sixth Street Southeast. He’d left blood traces in the jacked Kia Sedona minivan, fewer inside an older Honda Fit compact, and none to speak of in the Dodge Neon sedan that finally delivered him to meet his brothers at the pickup point.

  Or, seen another way, perhaps took him to face his execution for ineptitude.

  Whichever it turned out to be, he waited for Lieutenant Tyrone Moseley to arrive, alone, in yet another of their cold cars, a four-door Acura ILX. Moseley drove past once, circled the block and then came back the other way before he parked behind Knowlton, eyeballing the street one final time for traps and then walking up to see him, hands deep in the pockets of his Army OD field jacket. One of them doubtless held a pistol, likely silenced, and since Moseley was a righty, Knowlton guessed the other hand was clutching something like a combat knife or can of CS gas.

  It always paid to be prepared, especially when meeting with a friend.

  Knowlton powered down his window and kept both hands high on the Neon’s steering wheel. As Moseley neared, he asked, “Lieutenant, how do you want to play this thing?”

  “Straight down the middle, Colonel. Bit of talk, and if we get through that all right, away we go.”

  “I told the major all a cell could handle,” Knowlton said.

  “And he’s confirmed it on the TV news, what there is of it. Nothing on the girl or Sergeant Rashid, so far, but, hell, the mall’s all over half a dozen channels, plus a thirty-second national
pickup on CNN.”

  “I lost the tail there, I believe.”

  “Sounds like it, if they haven’t traced you here, yet. Question is, how did they know about the girl to start with?”

  “Something in Ernesto’s file?” Knowlton suggested.

  “He thinks that’s unlikely. Claims he never spoke of her to anyone outside the team, but, hey, who knows when someone from the DIA or NSA starts eavesdropping?”

  “You know they’ve turned a microscope on all of us since we broke cover.”

  “Must have, yeah.” Moseley leaned closer, peering into the Neon’s driver’s seat. “That bleeding stanched for now, sir?”

  “I believe so, but when I step out...”

  “I’ve got a couple blankets spread out in the Acura’s backseat. That ought to get you where we’re going.”

  “Which is?”

  “Destination Truth,” Moseley replied, stealing the title of a TV show they’d watched around the Ranger barracks at Fort Benning now and then, some buff guy and a team of hotties chasing ghosts and monsters all around the world and rarely finding anything.

  “More questions, then.”

  “You have to figure there would be,” Moseley replied.

  “You’ll want my weapons then.”

  “Whatever’s left, Colonel.”

  “I’ve got it all,” Knowlton declared. “Here comes the M-9.” He passed it to Moseley through the open window, little finger of his left hand hooked inside the pistol’s trigger guard. “And now the knife. I locked it shut.”

  “Appreciate that. And the M-4?”

  “Floorboard, down beside me.”

  “I’ll just slip around and get that for you.”

  “Sure.”

  When Knowlton was disarmed and Moseley had his weapons stashed in the Acura’s trunk, he climbed out of the Neon, grunting at a sudden stab of pain, and walked back to the so-called luxury sedan, where Moseley held one of the back doors open for him, blankets spread as promised on the linen leatherette upholstery. Knowlton climbed in, more grunting there but unavoidable, and lay down so that he was out of sight from any passersby.

  “About how long, Lieutenant?” he inquired as Moseley sank into the driver’s seat.

  “Looking at forty minutes, if we make good time. You want to sleep if off, Colonel, feel free.”

  “I just might do that.” Knowing that he wouldn’t sleep a wink on what might well turn out to be his final ride.

  Roanoke–Blacksburg Regional Airport

  Grimaldi’s Bell 205, offspring of the UH-1 Iroquois, known as “Huey” from its first debut in 1956 and evermore, sat fueled and ready on the tarmac, while Mack Bolan and his pilot talked to Hal Brognola via speaker phone. The big Fed’s ideas had been narrowed down to one, and he was providing the details for their ears alone.

  “We’re thinking it must be the Federal Reserve,” Brognola said without explaining who we were. “They operate twelve districts nationwide, with twenty-four branch banks. Some print currency and others reel it in, when it’s deemed unfit for continued public circulation. Scribbling on the bills, your basic rips and wrinkles, mainly, whatever retards its passage through an ATM or some other vending machine.”

  “And when a bill’s withdrawn?” Grimaldi asked.

  “It doesn’t happen every day,” Brognola said, “but long story short, when new bills from the ‘Fed,’ as it’s known, come into the economy, some of the old bills have to go, to keep things balanced. They’re collected over time, a couple months let’s say, from local banks and retailers, what have you. On appointed days, the armored trucks bring in their haul for the incinerators at the district banking centers. Workers shred the so-called mutilated bills, then torch what’s left and send it up the chimneys.”

  “Holy smoke.” Grimaldi grinned.

  “Now, as to which center they’ll hit,” Brognola said, “their pattern of activity so far suggests the Richmond District with headquarters on East Byrd Street, near a couple of the city’s major cemeteries. And as luck would have it, there’s a major burn scheduled for tomorrow, high noon.”

  “Same time they want the manifesto publicized,” Grimaldi said.

  “If nothing’s thrown them off,” Bolan observed.

  “There is that,” the big Fed agreed.

  “And they won’t hit the bank,” Bolan persisted.

  “That would be foolish on their part. If I were planning it, I’d go after the trucks—they’ll likely run at least two of them on the day, with two, three billion dollars each on board. Grab one, they’re set for life and then some. Pick off both, the sky’s the limit.”

  “Figure four or five men now—” Bolan began to calculate “—against how many guards?”

  “Security will be provided by the Secret Service Uniformed Division. Four or five men on a truck, at least one carload in reserve.”

  “They’ll have to count on wet work, then.”

  “Affirmative. If they’re allowed to get that far.”

  “They won’t be,” Bolan vowed.

  “Meanwhile, you hear about the thing in Central Park?” Brognola asked.

  “Before we rolled to the apartment there was something on the radio. Some kind of IED,” Bolan replied. “That’s all, so far. Our guys?”

  “Looks like it. Something called the Cop Cot. Never heard of it myself, and now I’ve missed it. C’est la guerre.”

  “They leave a note this time?” Grimaldi asked.

  “A burner text to follow up, untraceable. ‘Believe us now?’ it read. Can’t think of any reason why they’d fake it.”

  “And the choice of targets?” Bolan asked. “Does that change your thinking on which they’ll pick to hit?”

  “If anything, I’d call it a distraction,” the Justice man said.

  “Right.”

  “So we can either keep on hunting them, or set up on the route for burning day. Meanwhile,” Brognola continued, “they hope the bomb in Central Park will push us into publishing their creed, excite the public, add another level of distraction to the mix.”

  “I’m hoping that their try for snatching Juanita Alvarado may upset their apple cart. At least cause it to limp a little bit,” Bolan stated.

  “Get Sergeant Menendez asking some questions,” the big Fed filled in.

  “And if the news on Jesse Moseley got redlined at the same time...”

  “I hear you. Two turds in their punchbowl then, instead of only one.”

  “Ruins the flavor,” Bolan said.

  “I’ll have a word with my network sommelier and see what I can do in that direction,” Brognola replied. “Get back to you in ten or so.”

  “Sounds good,” Bolan replied. “Meanwhile, we need to have a look around Richmond.”

  Lynchburg, Virginia

  Sergeant Ernesto Menendez crouched in front of a small TV set in the team’s new low-rent hideout, two blocks south of Richmond Highway, tagged officially as US Route 460. What he saw in front of him, late-breaking news from Roanoke, had him pissed off and muttering under his breath in street Spanish.

  A blonde on the screen was running down the sparse details. Someone had tried to grab a young Latina waitress, one Juanita Alvarado, and there had been shots exchanged. Police had found her place a mess, pockmarked by bullet holes outside, and she was “missing” now, whatever that meant. Menendez was having trouble keeping his lunch down, successive waves of nausea grappling in his gut with primal rage.

  He knew there had to have been at least two groups trying to grab Juanita, if they wound up shooting at each other at her place in Roanoke. One side could only be the CID or whomever they’d teamed up with after the MPs missed their shot at taking down the whole team earlier. They’d gotten on Juanita’s scent somehow and snatched her, or tried to pull it off.

  But who had they been trading
bullets with in Roanoke?

  Menendez knew damned well—

  “Ty’s bringing in the colonel now,” Major Darby told the room. “They’re clean, as far as we can tell, but stay on red alert regardless.”

  Menendez switched off the tube, picked up his Daewoo USAS-12 automatic combat shotgun with its 20-round drum magazine, a solid fifteen pounds, even with its hollow polymer stock, but nothing the sergeant hadn’t trained himself to handle easily.

  He stayed well back, covering the entrance from the kitchen doorway, while Moseley escorted Colonel Knowlton in and got him settled on a couch already draped with towels. Drifting away, the lieutenant stood with Menendez and whispered in his ear, “We lost Rashid.”

  “In Roanoke?”

  Moseley nodded. “Long story.”

  Menendez was on the verge of saying, “Longer than you think,” when Moseley interrupted him, voice still pitched low. “You know about my brother, Sergeant?”

  “Know you have one,” Menendez said. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Had one,” Moseley corrected him. “Came on the radio while we were driving back, just now. Somebody capped him overnight, in Newark. Rooftop of the projects where he lived.”

  “Cops nail somebody for it?” Menendez asked.

  “Shit. They couldn’t find their ass with both hands in Brick City.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

  “Solid,” Moseley replied. “And now we’ve got this thing with...what’s her name, again?”

  “Juanita,” Menendez told him. “Ella es mi novia.”

  “That’s like your one and only, eh?”

  “My fiancée. Or she was. I don’t know if she’s even still alive now.”

  “Sucks,” Moseley replied. “You know, I think we need to figure out what’s going on.”

  “Sí. Convenido.”

  “That’s a yes?”

  “Affirmative, Lieutenant.”

  “Good. I know a couple people we can ask. But listen, if you’re playing me on this...”

  “Ni hablar! Not a bit of it.”

  Moseley was nodding now. “Right, then. We’ll let them finish picking Knowlton’s brain, then get down to the bottom of this shit.”