Kitabı oku: «Code Of Honor», sayfa 2

Nodding, Brognola said, “Well, Michael Burns should be a good fit for them. He’s got the skills, and he was kicked out of the Marines for killing someone. He’s been working as a mercenary for a few years, but he’s had trouble finding work because he uses excessive force regardless of the circumstances.”

“Just what a group that deals only in excessive force would be looking for.”

“And Bear’s made sure that any background check will come up solid. Only one of his old COs in the Corps is still alive, and he’s a friend of mine, so he’ll vouch for ‘Burns.’”

Peering at the screen, Bolan said, “He’s from Alabama?”

“Yes. Tomorrow’s the last day of the gun show, so you can get a good night’s sleep, and you can head up to King of Prussia in the morning.”

The Executioner stood up, shook Brognola’s hand, then headed out of the meeting room to get that shower the head of Stony Man had offered.

While Bolan was still skeptical of the existence of the Black Cross, he also knew that, if they did exist, they needed to be shut down. For them to have been successful for so long spoke to an organization that was responsible for murder on a truly massive scale.

Bolan intended to make sure they would be stopped once and for all.

2

After a four-hour drive up I–81 and across I–76 in a specially modified Ford Escort owned by Stony Man, the Executioner arrived in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, and the Valley Forge Convention Center for the last day of the Valley Forge Gun Show. The convention exhibit hall was filled with booths run by sports shops, gun stores, and dealers who sold weaponry and assorted accessories.

Before entering, Bolan was frisked and put through a metal detector. The gun show had very specific regulations: all firearms had to be checked and rendered inoperable and no loaded firearms were permitted inside the convention center during the open hours of the show. Rather than ever be forced to relinquish any of his weaponry, Bolan chose to do so voluntarily by simply leaving everything in the car. It was a strange feeling walking around without weapons on his person, but he took solace in the fact that he wasn’t alone in that.

After paying his nine-dollar admission fee, Bolan walked the floor, inspecting some of the firearms, knives and accessories. There was nothing here he wasn’t already intimately familiar with, especially since he often had access to weaponry that wasn’t yet ready for the open market. Still, he pretended to be interested as men in ballcaps enthusiastically waxed rhapsodic on the subject of their particular items and why they were better than those of the guy across the hall.

Bolan played along, asking the types of questions that a civilian might ask, and he noted at least three occasions where the booth jockey in question exaggerated the ability of the weapon he was trying to sell.

He found himself spending some time at one booth, where an old man with a thick white beard was selling an impressive collection of knives. “This,” the man said in a scratchy voice, “is what you really want, my friend.”

The old man slid the glass off a wooden case and tilted it upward. Reaching around, he grabbed a black-colored folding knife. The blade itself was also obsidian in color, and had a stylized logo etched into the flat of the blade.

“This here’s an Emerson Commander BTS,” the old man said as he held it handle out to Bolan. “Down in Atlanta, they voted this best overall knife of the year.”

Bolan knew of the honor bestowed by the International Blade Show, and also knew the answer to the question he posed as he took the knife from the dealer. “How’s it different from the CQCs?”

“Oh, the CQCs’re fine for your average use, but lookin’ at you, I’m thinkin’ you’re more the combat-knife type.”

“I thought the CQCs were combat knives.”

“They are—but if you want the best, you want the Commander. Lasts longer, flips open faster and is just tougher. Sure, the CQCs are good—the Commander’s better.”

The weight, Bolan noted, was good.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the knife back to the man.

“Not interested, huh?” A smile peeked out from the old man’s thick beard. He replaced the knife, set down the Emerson case and slid back the glass. Then he pointed at another one, containing Masters of Defense Beshara knives. “How ’bout these?”

Bolan let himself be lectured on the relative merits of the old man’s knives, all the while taking glances around in search of Galloway. At one point, he put on a shamefaced tone, and said, “Sorry, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here, and he’s late. Can I see the XSF-1?”

Eventually, he thanked the old man and excused himself, continuing to walk the floor, but still no sign of Galloway after several hours.

Just then, the Executioner saw a short man with curly hair and walleyes heading toward a gun-shop booth. He was wearing a pair of thick-lensed glasses, though different from the set in the picture Bolan had seen at Stony Man. He had also grown back the beard, though it wasn’t as full as it had been in the older picture, and had flecks of gray in it now. Galloway was wearing a denim jacket that had seen better decades over a stained white T-shirt, and frayed blue jeans with a hole in the left knee and another in the rear left pocket.

From there, it was a simple tail operation. The convention hall was crowded enough that Bolan didn’t have to worry much about Galloway noticing him. The booths were arranged in a grid pattern, so Bolan made as if he were simply working his way up and down the aisles. He took the opposite route Galloway took, so he would pass the target once in each aisle.

Galloway, Bolan noticed, didn’t spend very much time looking at the guns, but instead seemed to be focused on the people. One would expect no less from a recruiter. He also tended to spend a lot of time staring at the few women who were attending. Some of the shops even had so-called “booth babes,” scantily clad models hired to attract men to their merchandise. Galloway even tried chatting a couple of them up. But they all went to the default sales pitch and deflected any and all attempts at personal conversation with the ease of long practice.

Eventually, Galloway worked his way to the food court, at which point Bolan walked up to an ammunition dealer and pointed at a rifle bullet. Putting on a Southern accent, he asked, “That there a .50 caliber round? Looks a mite too small.”

The dealer, a tall, wiry man with large brown eyes and whose hands never seemed to stop moving, said, “This, sir, is a .416 Barrett rifle round. This is the newest in rifle armament, know what I’m sayin’? This is infinitely superior to those crappy old .50 cals. That’s old school, and with all due respect to old school, this is new school, know what I’m sayin’?”

“How’s it better, exactly?” Bolan asked, already knowing the answer.

“This puppy shoots flatter and faster than the .50s, and also hits way harder, know what I’m sayin’?” The man flailed his arms a bit and then picked up a .50-caliber shell and held it next to the .416. “Now I know what you’re thinking right now.”

Bolan was fairly sure he didn’t, but let him go on.

“You’re thinking to yourself, ‘How can a bullet that’s of a lesser caliber be better than a bullet of a greater caliber?’ That there’s the beauty of this here round, is that the shorter height allows for much greater speed and durability.”

Having satisfied himself that enough time had passed, the Executioner said, “Good to know. Thankee kindly, mister. I’ll definitely be considerin’ this next time I’m buyin’ me some huntin’ rounds.”

“Good man.” The dealer put down the shells and flailed a few more times. “You sure I can’t convince you to purchase a few now?”

“Nah, I’m just grazin’.” With that, the Executioner headed off to the food court in the hopes of finding precisely what he was looking for.

The food court was the typical sort for a convention center. An entire section of wall was taken up with a metal counter, behind which were limp-looking hot dogs, stale popcorn, limp, packaged salads, uninspiring packaged sandwiches, soggy pizza and fountain soda, all priced in excess of market value.

Because of that, the large round tables in front of the counter were sparsely occupied. Each table sat up to eight people comfortably, but none was fully occupied. One had a couple seated at it, enjoying each other’s company more than the food. Another had three men, all wearing flannel shirts and ballcaps, discoursing loudly on the subject of the best hunting grounds in central Pennsylvania. Another was occupied by two couples who were discussing whether the Philadelphia Phillies had another shot at winning the division that year.

Galloway sat alone at another table, hungrily biting into a slice of pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a large soda.

Not really trusting the food to do good things to his gastrointestinal tract, the Executioner limited himself to a diet cola from the fountain. Once he paid for it, Bolan walked casually to the table where Galloway sat chewing on his pizza, the grease from the pepperoni dripping into his beard and onto his T-shirt.

Still affecting the Southern accent, Bolan said, “Mind if I sit a spell, mister?”

Galloway shrugged. “It’s a free country.” He spoke in a raspy voice.

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me, anyhow. You here buyin’?”

Mouth full of pizza, Galloway said, “Window-shopping.”

“Right there with you, mister. See, I can’t afford most of the firearms hereabouts. Hell, I can’t even afford none of the food beyond this here pop. Good thing it’s only nine bucks to get in.”

“Things are tough all over,” Galloway said, swallowing his pizza and grabbing his own soda.

“Don’t I know it. Man with my skills I ought to be able to be drownin’ in work, but the damn Marines had other notions.”

“You served?”

“You betcha. Rifle company Baker two-niner. Was a gunnery sergeant, till they kicked me out, anyhow. Served in the Gulf the first time.”

“Discharged?”

“Yup. And not the honorable kind, neither. Thought the notion was to kill the enemy, not coddle ’em.” Bolan sipped his soda, then set it down and held out a hand. “Sorry, my momma raised me better than this. Name’s Michael Burns.”

Galloway accepted the handshake but did not return the introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Burns.”

Bolan noticed that Galloway’s handshake was clammy and greasy, the latter no doubt from the pizza. “Been almost fifteen years since anybody called me that, mister. Just call me Michael.”

Breaking the handshake, Galloway said, “You can call me Galloway. You looking for work, Michael?”

“Well, I’m gainfully employed, if that’s whatcha mean, but it ain’t nothin’ that makes use of my skills, if you follow me. Still in uniform, but it’s the type where they issue you a mop and bucket ’stead of a sidearm and holster. Been a few years since I got me that kinda work—man’s work—man’s work.” He shook his head. “Goddamn Marines.”

“Well, Michael, I might be able to help you out. You have a card?”

Bolan snorted. “You’re kiddin’, right? Kinda business I’m in—”

Galloway held up a hand. “Of course. How long are you in town?”

“Due back at my job tomorrow—’less, of course, I got me a reason to call in sick?”

“I’d say you do.” Galloway reached into his denim jacket pocket and pulled out a small spiral notepad and a pen. He wrote something down and ripped the page out of the notepad. Handing it across the table, Galloway said, “Come to this address tomorrow at noon. Consider it a job interview.”

Bolan hesitated, staying in character. “Job interview? Hang on a sec, mister, we’re just talkin’ here. I mean, I was just lookin’ for some conversation, if you follow me. I ain’t trollin’ for—”

“Maybe not, but if you’re what you say you are, the people I represent might be interested in you—especially since we had a couple of job openings recently.”

Drawing himself up, and still not taking the paper, Bolan said, “The hell you mean, what I say I am? You callin’ me a liar, Galloway?” He also noted the line about job openings. If he really did represent Black Cross—or whoever killed those retired operatives—then it was likely that the bloodstains at Mohonk Mountain represented dead bodies, not just wounded ones. If so, the Executioner was impressed that Bethke had been able to take down one or two of his killers—though it was small comfort.

Holding up his hands, the paper flapping with the motion, Galloway said, “No, Michael, I’m not calling you a liar, not at all. But some soldiers have been known to exaggerate their accomplishments a bit.”

Surprised that someone who worked with ex-military types would make such a blunder, confusing an Army soldier with a Marine, Bolan said, “Look, they may’ve discharged me, but I’m a Marine, not a soldier. We don’t lie—we leave that to the soldiers an’ sailors an’ airedales.”

“Fair enough,” Galloway said quickly. “Look, let’s just call this a fortuitous coincidence, all right?” He held out the paper again.

Bolan snatched it. It was stained with pepperoni grease, but it provided an address on North Gulph Road.

“That’s in the park across the street,” Galloway said.

Nodding, Bolan said, “I know it, yeah.” It was the Valley Forge National Historical Park, which commemorated the famous Revolutionary War battle fought in this area in the winter of 1777–1778.

“Good. Maybe we can do business.”

“Just came here for pleasure, Galloway—but hey, if business comes out of it, I ain’t gonna complain.”

Popping the last of his pizza into his mouth, Galloway said, “Sometimes things work out.”

“Reckon they do, yeah.” Bolan placed the slip of paper into his pocket. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then, Galloway, huh?”

Galloway got to his feet, holding his cup of soda and gathering up the empty plate and paper napkin. “I hope so, Michael.”

He went to the nearest garbage can and dumped the plate and napkin, then headed toward the restroom.

The Executioner finished his soda, dropped it into the same garbage can, then headed straight for the exit. He needed to find a place to stay for the night. The convention center had two hotels attached to it, and since this was the last day of the show, there were likely to be rooms available.

Next day, he would start his quest to see if the Black Cross was real. And if it was, it wouldn’t be for much longer.

3

The woman who killed Albert Bethke sat by the pool in a Cayman Islands resort, watching the men watch her. She was wearing as skimpy a bikini as she could get away with, along with large sunglasses and a straw hat to protect her from the tropical sun. Bobby pins kept the hat secure on the red-haired wig she wore, as the trade winds occasionally blew through with particular force, funneled by the two thirteen-story towers of the resort hotel. The hat had a purple band with a large flower on the side. She kept her hotel room key inside that band.

The remnants of a margarita sat next to her. The bartender had put salt on the rim of the glass, despite her specifically requesting it without.

She’d enjoyed her vacation—salted margarita notwithstanding. It was also business related, as her bank account was down here, and she preferred to check on her money in person rather than online. There was something satisfying about checking it in person, being able to touch your own money, so to speak.

She was born in Russia with the name Ida Kaprov, but nobody had called her that name for six years. At the age of ten, she and her family emigrated to the U.S., living in suburban New Jersey. She attended UCLA and was recruited by the Los Angeles Police Department, which was trying to bust a crime ring that was using Eastern European immigrant women for online sex shows, prostitution, strip clubs and escorts—and also as drug mules.

The bust was a success, in large part due to her efforts. She’d proved herself a natural at undercover work, and had continued to work undercover, first for the LAPD, then for the FBI. Her ability to speak Russian combined with her stunning good looks and hourglass figure made her a valuable asset. Men in particular were susceptible to her charms.

In addition, she was a crack shot, having scored the highest rating of any woman in LAPD history on the shooting range. She’d even considered applying for the SWAT team, but her superiors convinced her that she was better off as an undercover agent.

Ida quickly grew disillusioned with law enforcement, however. The institutionalized sexism was stifling, and the very qualities that made her good undercover also made her a target for her Neanderthal colleagues. Plus, she found the restrictions to be far too binding. Most of the people arrested in her cases didn’t deserve to wait for trial, they simply should have been shot between the eyes, ridding the Earth of their filth once and for all.

The straw that broke her back was seven years after she’d first been recruited. She found herself infiltrating another online sex-prostitution-stripper-escort ring that was run by the same people as the group she’d helped bring down as a new recruit—they’d never seen a day of jail time for the bust years earlier.

Sure enough, they got off again, and this time Ida followed up on some rumors she’d heard about a group of elite assassins called the Black Cross. The finest assassins in the world, they would kill anyone for a price and were never traced.

However, such quality did not come cheap. But by this time, her parents had died, leaving her with a sizable inheritance, which combined with her own life savings, allowed her to put a hit on the two men and one woman who ran the ring.

After they died, the Black Cross asked her if she wanted to join them.

On that day, Ida Kaprov died and “Ms. White” was born. The Black Cross’s operatives were all given names based on color. The Black Cross had stayed operational over the years due to its tight security, including their members not being identifiable even to one another.

The last op had been particularly gratifying. The fact that she was the only survivor of a three-person team actually gave her a particular thrill. It made her feel that she was better than anyone else—certainly better than Mr. Green and Mr. Mauve, who’d both been killed by the target—and that was a compelling rush.

She decided that she deserved a reward.

Gazing around the pool, she tried to figure out which of the men drooling over her curvy figure, barely contained by the tiny fabric of her bikini, she would take back to her room.

She rejected three as too old, two as too tanned, and one as too young.

That left her with two choices: the dark-haired man in the purple Speedo with the lean, muscular body, or the blond-haired man in blue bathing trunks with the wide shoulders.

When a woman came over to the dark-haired man and kissed him, Ms. White realized that she had only one choice. Not that she didn’t sometimes enjoy the challenge of seducing a man who was already attached, but she didn’t feel like going to that level of effort this day.

After finishing off the remnants of her margarita, Ms. White got to her feet and walked slowly to the blond-haired man. He had been openly staring at her for quite some time, until he realized she was heading for him, at which point he made a show of staring at the pool, the bar, the hotel, the palm trees—anything except her.

She pushed her sunglasses down her nose so she could peer at him from over the frame. “You’ve been staring at me for over an hour now.”

He looked around nervously, not making eye contact. “Um—”

“Are you denying it?” She spoke in a mildly harsh tone.

“I, uh—” Then he broke down, looked at her and smiled. “I guess I really can’t, huh?” His voice was deep and pleasant, like waves crashing over rocks.

She smiled back. “Do you like what you see?”

“Wouldn’t have been staring if I didn’t. Nothin’ in the world better than a curvy redhead, I always say.”

“Do you want to see more?”

The smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. “Not much left to see.”

“Oh, but it’s worth it. You have a room here?”

Within minutes, they were in the hallway outside his room, and he was fumbling in the fanny pack he’d brought with him to the pool containing money, ID, and his room key. Eventually, he liberated the plastic card and inserted it into the slot. The green light came on, and he pushed the door open.

The moment the door closed behind her, she grabbed the blond-haired man by the back of his head, turned him around and started kissing him.

He returned the kiss hungrily, his tongue sliding into her mouth.

Conveniently, they were both wearing very little, so it was the work of only a second or two for him to remove her bikini and her to remove his swimming trunks. Her straw hat, however, remained on her head, still secured by the bobby pins, as did the wig.

They remained kissing while standing upright, now both naked, and peering between his legs, she could see how pleased he was by this turn of events. Eventually, she maneuvered him to one of the room’s two double beds, throwing him playfully but forcefully onto his back.

She pleasured him for a minute or two, as she often did to make sure that the man she was with was fully aroused. That was often not much of a concern, but she knew that her partners enjoyed it. He also reached down and tried to fondle her breasts; she admired his enthusiasm.

Finally, she climbed onto the bed, her legs straddling his hips, and lowered herself onto him. They both moaned with the pleasure of the moment as she rocked her hips.

Within only a few seconds, though, she could feel his body tense as he started to climax.

Reaching up, she slid her hand under the brim of the straw hat and pulled out one of the Hibben throwing knives that she’d taken off the corpse of the late, unlamented Mr. Mauve.

Just as the blond man climaxed, moaning in pleasure, Ms. White plunged the point of the Hibben knife into his carotid artery.

Ms. White felt his death throes combined with his pleasure, and only then did she also climax, as blood gushed all over the hotel bed from the wound she’d created.

For several seconds, Ms. White sat there, feeling the pleasure crest over her.

Then she climbed off the corpse and yanked the knife from its neck. More blood poured out of the wound, though it no longer gushed, with the heart having stopped pumping.

Turning around and not giving the young man another thought, Ms. White went into the bathroom to wash off her right hand, which was the only place she’d gotten blood on herself. Over the years, she’d perfected this particular sequence of events to the point where she got no blood on her whatsoever—except on the hand that wielded the killing knife. She’d yet to figure out a way to entirely avoid that.

Leaving her hand wet rather than risk leaving any trace evidence on the hotel towel, Ms. White went back into the room, climbed into her bikini bottoms and tied the bikini top.

After she exited the hotel room, she headed to the crossover bridge to the other tower where her own room was, retrieving her key from the band in her hat. Once inside, she removed both hat and wig and tossed them into the bathtub. Pausing to remove the battery from the room’s smoke detector, Ms. White then grabbed a book of matches from the hotel restaurant that she’d tossed on the desk the night before. She struck one match, lighting it, and set the hat and the wig on fire.

As both items burned, Ms. White removed the bikini bottoms, then the female condom, wrapping it in a bit of toilet paper. She’d dispose of it later, somewhere off the hotel grounds. She put a T-shirt over the bikini top, then donned a pair of panties and khaki shorts. Reaching into the shorts pocket, she opened her cell phone and discovered a text message that simply read: Call.

She dialed the current number for the Black Cross headquarters, which was in a cabin in the Redwood forests of Humboldt County, California—this month. A voice on the other side said, “Ms. White, return to base ASAP.”

“I’ll be on the next plane,” she said. “I’m finished here anyhow.”

AFTER CHECKING OUT of the resort, using the credit card of one of her many false identities, Ms. White booked a flight to the Eureka/Arcata Airport in Northern California using a different ID. There was a delay in the connecting flight at Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, but eventually she arrived safely.

As expected, the Black Hawk piloted by Mr. Silver was waiting to take her from Eureka/Arcata to Black Cross HQ. When the Black Hawk landed, she was met by the tall, dark-skinned, bald-headed Mr. Indigo. He stared at her with his wide, intense brown eyes, and said, “Welcome home.”

Unlike most other heterosexual men, Mr. Indigo didn’t stare at her chest, even though the flower-print sundress she had changed into showed considerable cleavage. For his part, Mr. Indigo was, as always, wearing an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit. Were it not so immaculate, Ms. White would have been convinced that he slept in it, since he never wore anything else in her presence.

As he accompanied her to the cabin that was a quarter mile from the airfield, Mr. Indigo said, “Our man Galloway found a potential new recruit. Given the way we’ve been hemorrhaging operatives lately…”

Ms. White nodded. Besides Misters Mauve and Green, another operative had been killed in the Redmond assassination, and three more had retired. They were down to only six, and she knew that Mr. Indigo preferred their fighting strength to be an even dozen.

“Who is this new man?”

They entered the cabin, and Mr. Indigo led her to a laptop, which had a generic screen saver running on the monitor. Mr. Indigo touched the button under the track pad, causing the screen to change to that of a U.S. Marine Corps dossier on a gunnery sergeant. His name was blacked out—a standard Black Cross security protocol.

“He’s a former jarhead,” Mr. Indigo explained, “and he’s been a merc since then. Sharpshooter. He’s had trouble finding work lately because he’s too brutal.”

“I wasn’t aware that you could be too brutal for the Marines.”

Giving her the tiniest of smiles—which was as emotional as he ever got—Mr. Indigo said, “There’s a first time for everything. He has a tendency to kill people regardless of whether they’re supposed to be killed, which irked his superiors in the Corps. After that, he became a merc, and that same tendency irked a few of his employers, too.”

“I can imagine,” Ms. White said. “We have no such compunctions, though.”

“Indeed not. Galloway has him set up for his interview tomorrow. I want you to pick the talent for it and supervise the process.”

Ms. White blinked. That was something usually left to operatives with more experience than her. “Why me?”

“I’d say you’ve earned the promotion.” Mr. Indigo stared at her with those intense eyes. “You’ve been my best operative since you were hired six years ago. With Mr. Red, Mr. Brown and Ms. Violet retiring, and losing Mr. Green, Mr. Mauve and Ms. Yellow, you’re the one I trust the most right now.”

Unsure if she was being complimented, or if she was simply the best of a series of bad choices, Ms. White instead just asked, “Where is the interview to be held?”

“Valley Forge. Find a half dozen or so from the usual sources and get them set up at eleven tomorrow. The interview’s at noon.”

Ms. White winced. That was all the way across the country, which meant she’d need to leave immediately to have time to set things up.

However, Mr. Indigo wasn’t one to give compliments lightly. If he was going to trust her with such an operation, it meant good things for her. Specifically, it meant more pay—which was, after all, her primary motivation—given his use of the word promotion. The idealistic college student who’d thought she’d be doing some good in the world had long since died. The realities of life beat that idealism right out of her.

Mr. Indigo opened another window on the laptop. “There’s an e-ticket in the name of Alma White at Eureka/Arcata for a flight to Denver, and then a connecting flight to Philadelphia. You’ve got one hour.”

Just enough time to shower and change her clothes. She wanted to get the smell of the blond man off her anyhow.