Kitabı oku: «System Corruption», sayfa 2

It had, Bolan thought, been typical of Francis Nelson to step up and involve himself in the OTG affair. Once the young man had been made aware that OTG’s deceptions were placing American soldiers in harm’s way he would have been eager to help Cal Ryan expose the deceit.

Now Francis Nelson was dead. Shot down in his own country after surviving the hell of Iraq. That was injustice in Mack Bolan’s eyes.

And if there was one thing the Executioner hated with a passion it was injustice.

2

Bolan kept a safe distance behind the car tailing Dane Nelson. Instinct warned him the occupants of the vehicle were not about to offer their belated condolences to the colonel. That time was already in the past.

Whoever they were, the colonel’s shadows knew enough to simply keep him in their sights until they had cleared the city and were on the interstate. Nelson had a house that stood in lush forested Virginia hills, overlooking a placid lake, with the closest neighbor at least a quarter mile away. The approach to the house was along a quiet road well off the main highway. Bolan suspected that would most likely be the place for any move they might make. It was also entirely possible the men in the car were from one of the agencies, maybe even military, simply keeping an eye on Nelson. He considered that and tucked it away until the occupants of the tail car decided to show their true colors.

That came fast enough.

Nelson’s car accelerated without warning, the driver arcing it around a bend and taking a side road that pushed into open country, with little more than open fields and acres of green trees on either side. Dust billowed up from the tires, misting the air as the car picked up the pace. The SUV put on a burst of speed, starting to swing out to run alongside Nelson’s vehicle.

Bolan slipped his right hand under his jacket, easing his Beretta 93-R from the shoulder rig. He worked the selector lever by touch, setting the pistol on single shot. Then he swapped hands. Right on the wheel, his left gripping the auto pistol. Bolan powered down the driver’s window, pushing his own foot down on the gas pedal, and felt the powerful engine respond smoothly. The car closed in on the SUV.

A figure leaned out of one of the SUV’s left side windows, a squat submachine gun in his hands. The muzzle was aimed toward Nelson’s car.

Too close, Bolan thought, and triggered his weapon, driving a shot through the SUV’s rear window. His intention was to distract those in the vehicle. As the glass shattered, the exposed shooter threw a swift glance in Bolan’s direction. Judging Bolan to be the bigger threat, he opened up with his weapon. Bolan felt the slugs whine off the rental car’s roof. He didn’t allow the shooter the chance to realign his weapon. Swinging his car to the right he gained a view of the shooter. Bolan flipped the selector to tri-burst mode and braced his elbow on the window frame and tracked in with the Beretta. He stroked the trigger and fired off half the magazine. With the rocking motion of the car and the erratic travel of the SUV, accurate fire was difficult. Bolan managed to place a couple of shots close enough to force the shooter to retreat back inside.

Nelson’s driver used Bolan’s intervention to step on the gas, taking the car away from the SUV. Ignoring any kind of safety precautions he throttled hard, the heavy car bouncing and swaying along the narrow track. The maneuver worked only for as long as it took for the SUV’s driver to regain his own line of travel. As the SUV drew parallel with the colonel’s car the shooter opened up, raking the vehicle at window level. The car veered, clipping the SUV’s front bumper before angling away in an erratic swerve. It left the road and bounced its way across the uneven ground, the SUV following and moving to close in again.

Bolan slammed down hard on the gas pedal. He closed the gap and cut across the front of the larger vehicle. Dust billowed as the SUV driver stood on his brakes, bringing the heavy vehicle to a skidding stop.

Bolan shoved open his door and stepped from the car, his Beretta already lining up as the SUV’s back door opened, disgorging the shooter and his submachine gun. As the guy made to step around the open door Bolan hit him with a tri-burst to the chest. The shooter fell partway back inside the SUV. The moment he fired Bolan changed position, crouching and circling the SUV, catching the second shooter to emerge. They exchanged shots, the SUV man firing from behind his open door. Bolan had a clear field and he punched holes in the shooter’s lower legs. The shooter sank to his knees, clinging to his auto pistol. Bolan triggered a final burst from the Beretta and the man went backward with a chest full of 9 mm slugs weighing him down.

Bolan ejected the magazine from the Beretta, snapping in a fresh one from his pocket. He turned swiftly back toward the SUV. He caught a glimpse of the driver fumbling with a weapon through the window, raised the Beretta and fired, shattering glass and hitting the man. He fell away from his driving position.

The moment he had delivered his shots Bolan climbed back into his own car and fell in behind Nelson’s vehicle. The military car was slowing, lurching, as the driver obviously struggled to keep it under control. Bolan saw the car come to a sudden stop. He braked and climbed out, crossing to check it out. He yanked open the rear door and saw Nelson curled up on the seat. There was evident blood spatter. Up front the driver, the back of his uniform holed and bloody, was clawing at his door handle.

“Take it easy, soldier,” Bolan said. “We’ll get help.”

“How’s the colonel? How is he?” the driver asked.

“Alive,” Nelson said, pushing himself up off the seat. He turned and saw Bolan’s face bending over him. “You get them?”

“It needs finishing,” Bolan said. “You able to deal with this first?”

Nelson, a hand clutching at his bloody shoulder, nodded.

Bolan helped him out of the car and led the colonel around to the driver’s door. They got it open and eased the wounded driver onto the ground. The man was still losing blood and had lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Do it,” Nelson said and saw Bolan turn and walk away.

As Bolan approached the SUV he saw the rear passenger door swing open, and a bloodied figure half tumbled from the vehicle. The shooter still had his hands clutched around the submachine gun. When he saw the Executioner he started to lift the weapon. Bolan hit him with a pair of 9 mm slugs in the chest. The force slammed the man against the side of the SUV, pinning him there until gravity took over and he toppled facedown in the dirt. Closing on the SUV, Bolan saw movement from the driver’s seat. The man raised his head and looked at Bolan through the shattered window. He grabbed for the pistol holstered under his jacket, blood-sticky fingers slipping on the grips. He shouldered the door open, twisting around to face his enemy. A 9 mm slug took away his final thoughts, along with a portion of his skull, and spattered the steering wheel with bloody debris.

Bolan checked the SUV’s interior. As expected, the vehicle was clean. He went through the pockets of the dead men. There was nothing to identify the men or the SUV. Their fingerprints might give some clue to their identities, but that was out of Bolan’s hands.

He made his way back to Nelson’s car. The colonel had located the first-aid box and was doing what he could to staunch the blood flow from his driver’s wounds.

“How is he?” Bolan asked, crouching beside them.

“Couple in the back. Listen, Cooper. I called it in. Police and ambulance are on their way. You should get out of here. No point you getting involved.”

“Colonel, I am involved. How’s your shoulder?”

Nelson smiled. “I’m fine. Now haul ass, mister. I’ll handle the flak on this one. You’re better out there on your own. Last thing you need are the cops on your tail. Hal told me you were the right man for this.”

“You have Hal’s number. If you get anything from the cops that might help, pass it along.”

Bolan refused to leave until he had fashioned a temporary pressure pad that he bound to Nelson’s shoulder. He made the colonel sit with his back to the car.

“No moving around, Colonel.”

“I won’t. Now go. And stay loose, soldier.”

Bolan stood. “You sure you can hold on until they get here?”

Nelson was pale, obviously in pain. “I have to. I buried my son today, Cooper. I owe him justice for what happened.”

“We both do, sir, and he’ll get it.”

“Stay on this road about a mile. Take a right and it’ll take you back to the main highway.”

Bolan returned to his car and drove off. He saw Nelson’s car shrink as he gained distance.

However he looked at the situation he was definitely involved. Fate had decreed Mack Bolan’s participation and he would not shy away from his responsibilities.

3

Frank Carella recalled something a friend had said to him some weeks back. It was a passing remark during a social evening out with friends. One of those friends, Cal Ryan, was a feature writer for one of the Washington news groups. He’d mentioned to Carella that he was working on an article that was going to expose shady deals within the armaments industry. Ryan had joked about OTG being one of his targets. He hadn’t said anything more, moving on to another of the group, leaving Carella with the casual remark.

By the time the evening was over and Carella was on his way home with his girlfriend, Ryan’s words were lost in the slight alcoholic haze that had settled over Carella’s thinking process. He had forgotten completely by the following morning, and back at work the next morning it was business as usual.

Until now.

In his apartment he fed the flash drives into his home computer and sat reviewing the data. A couple of hours passed. Realization hit home. Carella slumped back in his seat. He took his eyes from the monitor, the on-screen information a blur. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a mug of coffee. He stood in the doorway looking across the room at the monitor, trying to decide what to do.

And it was then he remembered what Ryan had said about looking into the armaments business. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Ryan since that evening. It was not unheard of for the journalist to vanish into the woodwork when he was working an assignment. The man threw himself into his work, moving around as he dug for facts.

Carella picked up the phone and speed-dialed Ryan’s home number. The phone rang no more than a couple of times before it was picked up.

“Cal? Frank Carella.”

“Frank.”

Carella immediately picked up on Ryan’s monotone response. “Cal, you okay?”

“To be honest, no. I went to a funeral yesterday. Guess I’m still not over it.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. Family?”

“You remember my friend Francis Nelson?

“Sure. In the military. Was in Iraq a while ago. He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened, Cal? Was he overseas again?”

Ryan’s short laugh had a bitter edge to it.

“He was home. Isn’t that a bummer. The kid was helping me out on an assignment. Looking into irregularities at an army base in Texas. Camp Macklin. Sorry to tell you, Frank, but it was to do with your company.”

“OTG?” Carella shook his head at the coincidence.

“Francis was found dead here in Washington shortly after his visit to Texas. A bullet in his back severed his spine. He was alone in his car. Police said the bullet clipped his main artery and he just bled out because the bullet had paralyzed him.”

“Jesus, Cal, I’m sorry. He was a good kid. I remember him from the times we met. Lesley will be upset. She liked him.”

There was a brief silence before Ryan spoke again.

“Why did you call me, Frank?”

“Would you believe it has to do with OTG? Something that will fit what you’re looking into.”

“Serious stuff?”

“High as it can go. Files on altered production specs for combat vehicles OTG builds under contract. I copied it all onto flash drives and walked out of OTG with it.”

“I’ve been uncovering similar deals. Poor quality body armor for combat troops. Flak jackets. Below specification items. And I have a few names, too. Some government, some military.”

“You think Francis was killed because he got too close?”

“Yes.”

“His father must have taken it badly.”

“He did. But he promised me further help if I needed it.”

“This information I have, Cal. I came across it in a dump cache. Looked as if someone was supposed to have deleted it but they didn’t complete the operation. These files should add to your evidence. What do you want to do?”

“Grab them with both hands, Frank. Listen, if OTG gets a sniff you’ve got this stuff they’ll come after you. I know they killed Francis. That should tell you all you need to know. Jacob Ordstrom is a mean son of a bitch. I’ve learned enough about him to be wary. He has connections that go a long way up the ladder in Washington and the military. I need to get hold of that stuff and lose myself before OTG picks up on it.”

“Will your paper print it? I mean, if Ordstrom has such clout, will it reach as far as your bosses?”

“Good question, buddy. Let me do a little thinking. I’ll get back to you. Frank, I’m not trying to scare you but don’t trust anyone from the cops on up. If Ordstrom realizes what you have he’ll use any means to get it back. And that means he’ll pull in everyone on his payroll. Just let me work on this. In the meantime, lay low. Don’t let those files out of your hands. Stay by a phone.”

“You’ve got my home and cell numbers?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t take too long coming up with your master plan.”

“I won’t.”

Carella completed the call. He stood with the phone in his hand, wondering whether to call his girlfriend. In the end he decided against it. Ryan’s news about the way Francis Nelson had died rang warning bells. If Francis had been murdered to silence him, OTG would employ the same strategy if they discovered what he had walked off with. The very thought terrified him. He admitted that outright. Frank Carella was no hero. Just a man who had unwittingly been presented with information he could not, in all conscience, ignore. The accidental discovery of the hidden files on the OTG computer system had most likely made him a marked man.

4

Jacob Ordstrom’s office covered enough floor space to house an average family. Ordstrom was ultrawealthy and liked to surround himself with the full set of trappings. A tall and classically handsome man in his mid-forties, his thick dark hair starting to streak with gray, Ordstrom considered himself to be above ordinary people, indispensible and existing on a higher plane. That he was disliked by most of the people around him was common knowledge to Ordstrom, but his wealth and position afforded him the ability to stand above the criticism. He walked in hallowed circles, being on first-name terms with leaders in the government and military. Ordstrom played on his popularity, used his imperial clout to gain favors and was never behind the door when it came to exploiting his influence.

OTG ranked high when it came to assessing companies who supplied the U.S. military. The products offered by OTG were sought after by the procurement arms of the military. And often there were inducements that went from hand to hand. Inducements went in both directions. Ordstrom had his own mouths to feed. He was, by nature, a highly competitive animal. He would, and did, deal with anyone, foreign or national, who came up with the finances. The word scruples did not exist in Ordstrom’s world. He went after business opportunities with single-minded dedication. He had no equals when it came to the chase. Ordstrom had an innate capacity for seeing problems and dealing with them before they were fully formed.

Dealing with them. Crushing them. Whatever was necessary.

When Arnold Hoekken walked into his office, crossing to confront his employer, Ordstrom smelled potential trouble. He recognized the look in Hoekken’s eyes. The South African security specialist was not known for his sense of humor, or his laid-back attitude. He was a consummate professional and he took his responsibilities seriously.

“Arnie,” Ordstrom said—he was the only person Hoekken allowed to use the abbreviated name—as the six-foot-six blond-haired figure neared him. “Arnie, you’re giving me that ‘I’m pissed about something’ look.”

Hoekken towered over the desk, and glanced briefly beyond Ordstrom, taking in the wide view of the facility from the large picture window dominating that wall of the office.

“I need your permission to act immediately on a security breach. If we don’t come down on this fast we are all going to be in serious trouble.”

“Well, it must be serious if you’re asking my permission. Haven’t we established that as security head you work on your own initiative?”

“This goes beyond my purview.”

The hard edge to Hoekken’s voice alerted Ordstrom to the gravity of the matter. He pushed forward from the comfort of his soft leather executive chair.

“Christ, Arnie, now you are worrying me.”

“Frank Carella was working at the hub. There was a minor spike in the power and the computer initiated a safe mode to grab his input. When Carella went back into his file it had imported the entire ASP22 document.”

Ordstrom didn’t react. He simply stared across the desk at his security head. Hoekken waited until his chief spoke.

“That’s impossible. The file was deleted after Clarence adjusted the format.”

“It should have been deleted, but it wasn’t. Now Carella has seen it. The security cameras showed him working at the computer. The access log shows what he was looking at and also that he made copies. He was clear of the building before his intrusion was spotted. We need to find him before he gets religion and uses that information to bury us.”

Ordstrom slammed his fist down on the desk. “The last thing we need is negative publicity with the oversight conference coming up in the next couple of weeks.”

“Agreed,” Hoekken said. “We need to clean this up now.”

“Reading my mind again, Arnie?” Ordstrom grimaced as streams of thought crowded his mind. “That fucking computer. You know what we did wrong? We let the suppliers make that damned thing too smart. It should have completely erased all traces of ASP22. Instead it puts the file in a dark corner and sits on it. I’ll sue that company for every penny it’s got.”

“We can do that later,” Hoekken said, dismissing the notion and moving on. “Right now Carella has that file. He’s out there running free. We have to corner that little shit and stamp him into the ground.”

“You came in here asking for permission to go after Carella. Okay, you have it, Arnie. Find him. Do whatever it takes but make sure he doesn’t get the chance to get righteous on us.”

“Whatever it takes?”

Ordstrom nodded. “Wipe out his family if you have to. As long as it doesn’t point the finger back at us. Use whoever you need. Hire whoever you need. Any problem there?”

“No. I have my contacts.”

“Open checkbook on this, Arnie. Use the special fund. Christ, if this goes public it won’t just be us going down.”

Hoekken understood.

The suppression of ASP22 was crucial. Ordstrom knew the project encompassed both government and military individuals. Money, favors and promises of continuous cooperation with OTG had brought in more members of the illicit maneuvering. Any disturbance would quickly expand to bring down the entire house of cards. He did have protection from high levels, but any hint of scandal that might taint them would be frowned on.

Jacob Ordstrom, who had started his monolithic empire in a tin shed, meant to remain in his current position. There was too much to lose. He had used violence and double-dealing during his rise to power. It would lose him no sleep to have to use them again.

“Do you think Carella will turn the file in?” he asked his security man.

“No doubt there, sir. Carella is a decent man. That won’t allow him to ignore what he’s found. It’s why he made those copies.”

“Maybe he’s going to blackmail us. Ask for money.”

Hoekken shook his head. “Not Carella. Not his style.”

“Fuck his style, Arnie. Make his new one dead . Get it done.”

Before Hoekken had reached the door Ordstrom was reaching for his private phone. He had to make some calls. The sooner he alerted certain people, steps could be taken to keep the situation under wraps.

He heard the phone ringing, heard the soft sound as it was picked up. Ordstrom swiveled his chair around so he could stare out through the window.

“Morning, Clarence,” he said. “We need to meet. Right away. Fine, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

I N HIS OWN OFFICE , down the hall from Ordstrom’s, Arnold Hoekken was making calls of his own. He had contacts who were on retainer. Now was the time they could start to earn that money. Hoekken’s calls were to disposable, unregistered cell phones presented to the contacts against the day their services would be required.

Like now .

He finished his calls and received one of his own. Ordstrom summoned him back to his office.

“C OME ON IN , A RNIE ,” Ordstrom said.

Hoekken stepped inside and closed the door. He acknowledged the pudgy-faced man sitting in front of Ordstrom’s desk.

“Clarence is the reason for the problem we have. He was supposed to delete ASP22. It was one of your assignments, Clarence, but you made a mess of it and now we are in trouble.”

“Why?” Clarence Mitchelberg asked.

“Why?” Ordstrom smiled at the other’s naiveté. “Because if the data falls into the wrong hands and we find ourselves being investigated they might uncover our other activities. Like the backdoor arms sales to unfriendly regimes. The financial deals we’ve handed out to foreign undesirables. Oh, let’s not forget the money laundering operations we run through OTG’s books for our foreign customers. All extremely lucrative and all of them fucking illegal. As well you know. Plus the manufacture of below-specification protective plating.”

“It won’t happen, Jacob,” Mitchelberg said. “This can be smoothed over to protect you.”

Ordstrom leaned forward, anger blazing in his eyes.

“ You protect me? ” he snapped, jabbing a finger at Mitchelberg. “It’s because of your ineptitude we are in this mess. You were responsible for deleting those files. You made a fuck job of it. Instead of following through you let the computer finish off so you could go home early. You, Clarence, are an asshole. A fucking joke. Right, Arnie?”

Hoekken nodded. “He’s right, Clarence.”

It became very quiet in the room.

Mitchelberg sank back in his armchair, looking as if he wanted it to swallow him.

“I believe we’ve said all we need to. Arnie, would you arrange for Clarence’s car to be brought to the front. I think he’s ready to leave for the day. He seems to have something on his mind. Clarence, go home. Keep out of my sight until I send for you.”

After Mitchelberg had left the office Ordstrom leaned back in his seat. “Early retirement?” he suggested.

Hoekken nodded. “Very early,” he agreed.

The following day Clarence Mitchelberg’s body was found at the side of the road, close to his home. As far as the police investigation could make out, Mitchelberg was the victim of a hit-and-run. There were no witnesses.