Decision Point
Don Pendleton
The Pacific Rim's most vicious human predators, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, are on the move again. But old-school terror tactics have given way to a more clandestine approach to hijacking global power.The Tigers have grassroots fundraising inside the United States and the death of a uniquely positioned software engineer tips to something big in the works. A young woman from a powerful family is ransomed at the same time a powerful new technology is stolen. Following the trail of both, Mack Bolan finds that it leads to Singapore and the murky waters of the Bay of Bengal. The Tigers have acquired a top secret satellite and soon the terror will go online.Staying one step ahead of their stone-cold pursuer and finding refuge in their fortified compound, the Tigers and their calculating leader give Bolan a fight for his life. He's willing to pay that price, but he'll take the terrorist leader and his pirates to hell with him for their crimes.
Law of the jungle
The Pacific Rim’s most vicious human predators, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, are on the move again. But old-school terror tactics have given way to a more clandestine approach to hijacking global power. The Tigers have grassroots fundraising inside the United States and the death of a uniquely positioned software engineer tips to something big in the works. A young woman from a powerful family is ransomed at the same time a powerful new technology is stolen. Following the trail of both, Mack Bolan finds that it leads to Singapore and the murky waters of the Bay of Bengal. The Tigers have acquired a top secret satellite and soon the terror will go online.
Staying one step ahead of their stone-cold pursuer and finding refuge in their fortified compound, the Tigers and their calculating leader give Bolan a fight for his life. He’s willing to pay that price, but he’ll take the terrorist leader and his pirates to hell with him for their crimes.
The guards charged into the house
Shots rang out as they fired blindly at Bolan’s shadow, and he ducked back into the room. Dilvan and Faizal were still battling, and he was running out of options.
Dilvan stumbled backward, knocking a computer monitor to the floor, and Bolan took aim with his 9 mm pistol. Just as he fired, Faizal jumped forward, pushing the younger man out of the way.
“Why the hell did you do that?” the Executioner asked as his friend fell to the floor.
“He beat me at the keyboard. We need him.”
Bolan looked up in time to see Dilvan through the door and rolled to his feet. But he was too slow. The bullet from the close range pistol tore through the air. He felt the impact, knew he was hit, and then the cold darkness took him.
Decision Point
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
All forms of tampering with human beings, getting at them, shaping them against their will to your own pattern, all thought control and conditioning is, therefore, a denial of that in men which makes them men and their values ultimate.
—Isaiah Berlin
1909–1997
A person must accept responsibility for his or her own actions, no matter the cost. But when someone takes away your free will and your ability to act, others have to get involved.
—Mack Bolan
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Dylan Garrett for his contribution to this work.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#ua42c2c9d-6721-5dbf-b85e-cf635c196de3)
CHAPTER TWO (#u4a753e3f-9fda-507f-8ec2-46a2385a4f24)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5a237cc0-cbd1-5441-af42-ac07067588e7)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u383ba702-61a7-575c-bf09-b1d8acf40f5f)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ucefcf699-7515-5d14-b749-4bcb6f18ac1f)
CHAPTER SIX (#u94763959-132c-5957-a8ec-5047eeaf64ec)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
The waters of the Malacca Strait were gray and choppy, mirroring the low-slung clouds overhead. Heather Daniels stood at the rail of the supply ship Favor’s Pride and watched Singapore slowly fade into the distance. For all her travels, she’d never been in a place quite like it. Singapore was a city of contradictions—beautiful, modern architecture, neon lights and all the technological conveniences of the United States crashed against old, run-down buildings, poor sanitation and desperate poverty. Like many of the other cities she passed through, Singapore wasn’t a place she would miss, but then again, her purpose there had only been to secure supplies for the next stop on her voyage.
Once they’d cleared the Malacca Strait, the ship would bear northwest toward the Andaman Islands and Port Blair, right in the middle of the Bay of Bengal. The small city was serving as a staging area for tsunami relief efforts in Sri Lanka and other parts of Indonesia. It was also a holding area for the hundreds of displaced and lost children, whose parents had either disappeared or died in a disaster that had claimed thousands of lives.
Four years as a nurse practitioner had given Heather the skills she would need to help with the many medical needs of the children, but her true calling was her work as a missionary, trying to bring a little faith and light to those who desperately needed it. As far as Heather was concerned, spiritual needs were just as important as medical ones. Maybe more.
As the ship began tacking north, she turned away from the rail. The ship wasn’t fancy, but she would be comfortable enough in her small cabin, though the heat would probably be stifling. The first mate, a man named Simmons, was making his way across the deck and paused, tipping his seaman’s hat politely. He was tall and lanky, with several days’ growth of beard on his face and scraggly black hair that looked to be in need of a good washing. He’d also been friendly and polite.
“You doing all right?” he asked, settling the hat back on top of his head. “Not the kind to get seasick, are you? If so, you’d best stay by the rail and watch the horizon. That’ll help.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “And I don’t get seasick. How long until we make Port Blair?”
“If the weather holds in the Strait, we should be there within a few days. This old tub isn’t fast, but she’s steady.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw contemplatively.
“And if it doesn’t?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Then we’ll get there when God says we should.”
She laughed lightly. “That will be true in any case, my friend.”
He laughed and headed toward the bow, while she moved on toward her room. Once in her cabin, Daniels settled onto her bunk, opened her briefcase and pulled out the small laptop. The computer was a necessity for keeping track of the numerous organizational details, but it was also her one indulgence allowing her to journal and communicate with family and friends. A small guilty pleasure filled her as the computer whirred to life and pictures from home popped up on her screen. She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it against the picture of her family clumped together on the porch.
Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to send it until they reached Port Blair, Daniels began the draft of a letter to her father. They had a strange relationship that was complicated by the fact that just over eight years ago he’d been the President of the United States. Now he traveled all over the world giving lectures and playing the role of diplomat as much as a man who was known behind his back as President Iron Ass could do so. Jefferson Daniels didn’t particularly approve of her chosen vocation. Mentally, she corrected herself. He approved of the vocation—missionary work was a wonderfully valuable thing in the world. He didn’t approve of her being a missionary. The risks, he’d often told her, were far too great. She was his only child and he was overprotective, but she loved him dearly.
Daniels snuggled back into her bunk as the boat rocked its lullaby with the waves. Favor’s Pride wasn’t a particularly fancy ship, nor was she speedy. Most supply ships she’d been on weren’t. With a cruising speed of about twelve knots, no journey was going to be fast, but the steady thrum of the engines was reassuring, and the crew seemed capable. She scrolled through her supply lists and noted what she would need from the next group of missionaries that would be out the following month.
This time on the ship, she knew, was only a brief lull before the hard work really began, and it was important to get her rest. She shut her laptop down for the night and decided to doze until it was time for the evening meal.
FORTY HOURS INTO THE journey, more than halfway there, the sound of booted feet running on the metal deck caught Daniels’s attention. In her experience, sailors didn’t run unless something fairly dire was happening, and unless the weather had suddenly changed, the skies had been clear that morning. She closed her laptop and set it aside before moving to the small porthole that served as a window in her tiny cabin. Three more people ran past, and she turned and moved to the door. Her instinct was to throw it open and rush out to see what was going on, but she had spent enough time in dangerous places to know that caution would serve her better in this situation.
She peered through the porthole in the door and felt her entire body tense as two men with guns ran through the short hallway toward the bow of the boat. Both of them were wearing all-weather coats with a large patch on the back, depicting a great white shark with an eye patch curled tightly around a half skull sitting atop a pile of gold. A shudder of panic ran through her body as she realized that these could only be pirates of some kind. The Bay of Bengal had been a haven for pirate activity for years, and the countries affected appeared unable to do anything serious to curtail it.
Shots rang out and Daniels involuntarily flattened herself against the bulkhead. She needed to hide, and fast, before she was found. Running to her bunk, she grabbed her medical bag and the precious laptop, stuffing it in on top. She quickly slung it over her head, then grabbed a rubber band off the tiny table next to her bunk and pulled her long, brown hair into a ponytail, so it would be out of the way. Her mind raced as she considered ways that she might get off the boat and came up with only one idea. The pounding of footsteps on the metal plating of the deck outside, the shouting of orders and demands, made her heart race.
Daniels ducked low as she moved to the door. She heard more shouting as the pirates began rounding up the few passengers aboard, along with the still-struggling crew. Forcing herself to breathe, she waited for the sounds to move toward the bow, and when they did, she risked one peek through the porthole, then swung open the door. Her only chance was the stern, where an emergency launch boat was stored. She ran for it, trying to keep her steps as light as possible, but her feet contacting the metal rang out like a gong to her ears.
A shot tore through the air in reply to a sudden yell of anger, and Daniels felt her heart stutter in her chest. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw two men lifting a body over the railing. The first mate. She didn’t stop moving, because there was no place to hide, anyway, but the emergency launch was in sight.
She could hear their boots connecting with the deck and ignored the yelling once they spotted her. Daniels could see the boat, but knew she could never get it launched. She ran to the railing and looked down at the water being churned up from the propellers, just as the high-pitched whine of a bullet passed over her shoulders.
“That would not be a wise choice.”
She froze, slowly raising her hands. The low, accented baritone sent a chill up her spine. She turned to see a tall man with a scar across his cheek staring at her. He took a long drag on the cigarette he held. If he wasn’t trying to kill her, she might have thought he was handsome, but the gun pointed at her squashed that flickering thought.
Daniels took a deep breath and tried to remember her father’s advice about panic. “Being scared to death is fine,” he’d once said. “Just don’t let your enemies see it.”
She pushed her shoulders back and stared into the man’s dark brown eyes. “I don’t know, chopped up by a propeller seems a little more merciful than raped and tortured by thugs.”
For almost a full minute he simply looked at her, then a smile touched his lips. “It appears that our catch today is more lucky than we could’ve known. Some days the sea favors the fisherman more than the fish.” He offered an odd little half bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Daniels.”
“You know who I am,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Then you know that harming me would be a disastrous choice on your part. The U.S. doesn’t take kindly to its citizens being kidnapped, especially ones that belonged to the first family.”
“We’re not here to hurt anyone,” he said. “It’s not profitable.”
“Tell that to the guy that was filled with holes and dumped over the rail.”
“An unfortunate necessity. This is not the White House and you will not find anyone waiting for you in the West Wing. Here things are not so easy to discern,” he said, shrugging. He pointed at her shoulder bag. “What are you carrying in your bag?”
“Medical supplies,” she said. “I’m a nurse.”
“Give it to me,” he demanded. When she hesitated, he gestured impatiently with his gun. “Now.”
She handed it over to him and he opened it and removed the laptop. “This is not a medical supply,” he said. Without another word he flung it over the rail and Heather watched it disappear into the water. Part of her heart sank along with it. Two years of missionary work was detailed on that hard drive—her journal chronicling the highs and lows of the life she’d chosen, her joys and her failures, not to mention GPS tracking—all gone in a brief, floating moment.
He finished digging through the bag and then returned it to her. “Come with me,” he said, gesturing with the gun once more. “My name is Daylan Rajan. I’m in charge of this group. I know you Americans like to cause trouble, but if you can manage to behave yourself you will be allowed to wait with the other passengers until we reach a safe harbor.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you will be bound and gagged and tied to the railing where I can keep an eye on you.”
“I guess I’ll go with option one. Where are we going, anyway?” she asked, heading toward the bow where the other missionaries and crew were being held.
“An island that does not welcome outsiders,” he said. “Once we are there, the commander will decide what to do with you.”
She stopped and looked back at him. “You speak fluent English,” she said. “And you don’t dress like a band of raggedy pirates. You’re too organized. Who are you people?”
“We are people that you don’t want to make angry,” he said. “Now move to the front of the boat.”
“You could stop this, you know,” she suggested. “Take the boat and the supplies and just let us go.”
“Supplies are helpful to our cause and we always need more vessels, but hostages are worth far more. And you are worth more than all the other hostages here combined. So you see, I cannot let you go.”
“You can,” she said shortly. “What you mean is that you won’t.”
“As you will,” he said. “Enough talking. Do not make me regret my leniency, now get up front with the others.”
Daniels nodded and kept moving, taking her place by the other hostages who huddled together for the illusion of safety. She watched carefully, trying to remember faces and names, and decided after a time that these were not pirates in any traditional sense. These were soldiers and while many of them were young—some were teenagers—they acted more like military men than the grasping pirates that haunted the waters near Somalia.
The soldiers crewed the boat, while the craft they’d arrived on gave them an armed escort. The hostages were kept up front, under constant armed guard, and only allowed to move around in the small area of the bow. It took the better part of twelve hours for them to reach their destination, a small island with a well-sheltered cove.
Numerous boats were lined up at the docks. Not far inland, she could see several buildings, including what looked like a main house. Most of the buildings were typical for the region, old wood siding with thatched roofs on stilts, but the main house was more modern. Quite large, with sloping rooftops and a large deck on one side. It was on stilts, as well, and Daniels expected that floods were quite common on many of these islands.
Unfortunately she had no real idea where she was in relationship to anything else. She only knew that they’d been traveling southeast instead of northwest. But there were dozens, maybe even hundreds, of small islands along the coast of Malaysia and this could be any one of them. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the man who was obviously the leader of this group until he cleared his throat.
“When we reach the dock in a few minutes, you will come with me,” he said. “I will present you to the commander.”
“What about them?” Daniels asked, pointing to the other hostages.
“Some will be ransomed, if there are those who can pay for them, or they will be ransomed as part of a larger arrangement. The others will find a different fate.”
“You will kill them, then,” she said, trying to contain her anger and despair. “How pointless.”
“You have come to a very dangerous part of the world, Miss Daniels,” he said. “Do not presume to know anything about us.”
He stood next to her as the boat reached the dock, then he motioned for her to precede him down the gangplank. She stopped and looked out over the island once more. The pier where the boat was moored was not suited for the large vessel, which dwarfed the other boats that were in port. Trucks were lined up, waiting for the stolen cargo to be unloaded, as soldiers moved some of the passengers along the dock including the other missionaries.
“Let’s go.” He pulled her farther down the dock.
Worried for the fate of the other missionaries, she said, “Shouldn’t I be near the other hostages?”
“You are different. They will be part of a larger negotiating package. You will be ransomed separately.”
“I don’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else,” she snapped.
He stopped and spun. His eyes bored into her, dark and fierce.
“Sometimes, it is necessary to kill a hostage or even several to make a point. If you are with them and this happens, you would be just as likely to be chosen for death as the others, as no one but myself knows your true identity. If you want to live, you come with me. If you want to take your chances…” He shrugged and released her hand. “Then go with them.” He pointed to where the other hostages huddled in a small group.
One man was yanked to his feet in front of a video camera. He attempted to flee, but the pirate was quick and efficient, slitting his throat with a large blade, as the other hostages screamed in horror. The crimson spray splattered all of them, adding to the terror of the scene. The man’s body dropped to the deck. Daniels looked at Rajan.
“This is not a game, Heather.” He pointed at a dark sedan rolling to a stop on the edge of the pier. “The man who is about to get out of that car is Kabilan Vengai, the leader of the Ocean Tigers. He is not a patient or kind man, so keep your answers short and direct.”
The combination of Rajan’s warning and the arrogant stride of Vengai as he moved down the pier had Daniels cringing inside. His arrival brought the activity on the pier to a near standstill. Everyone watched as he approached. He was about her height, just under six feet, and reminded her of a tiger stalking its prey. The military-style clothing didn’t hide the scars on his arms that looked as if someone had tried to fillet them and, failing that, had burned the skin.
Rajan didn’t wait for him, but closed the distance and started his report. Daniels caught only every few words, but what she did understand was the look of disdain that Vengai was sending her way. They finished speaking and Vengai strolled in front of her, looking her up and down as though she were a particularly interesting painting rather than a person.
“I did not believe it when Rajan first told me, but he is right. You are the daughter of President Jefferson Daniels of the United States.”
“He’s not the President anymore,” she said. “Just a man.”
Vengai chuckled under his breath. “If you believe that, you must think quite poorly of him. No man is ever an ex-President of your country, for he is still addressed as Mr. President, is this not so?”
She bit her lip and nodded her agreement.
“You are truly a treasure fished from the sea and were you my daughter, I would never allow you to travel in such a dangerous place as the Bay of Bengal. What will he pay, I wonder, for your safe return?”
Remembering her father’s time in office, Daniels shrugged. “I doubt he’ll pay you anything,” she said, trying to hold on to her courage. “President Jefferson Daniels does not negotiate with terrorists.”
Vengai chuckled once more. “He will for you,” he said. “You see, presidents and politicians like to say things like that, but they only mean that for other people. They never mean it when it will actually affect them. He will negotiate for you, of this I am very certain.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. From another pocket, he removed a small business-card-size piece of paper. He dialed a series of numbers, then handed the phone to her. “Call him. Now.”
She took the phone and saw that all the prefix numbers were entered. She added the area code and phone number for her father’s cell phone, then pressed Send. After several long seconds and a handful of clicks and beeps, the call connected.
Her father answered on the second ring. “Who’s this?” he said.
“Dad, thank God you answered, it’s me,” Daniels said. “Don’t hang up.”
“Heather, where are you calling from? I didn’t recognize the number.”
Before she could respond, Vengai snatched the phone from her hand, activating the speaker-phone function. “President Daniels, now you know that your daughter is alive, we can proceed with business. We are holding your daughter and if you want to see her alive again, you will follow my instructions exactly.”
“Who the hell are you?” her father snarled. “Where is she?”
“This will be the only call, Mr. President, so I suggest you write down what I’m about to tell you. Within ten days, you will transfer…twenty-five million dollars in U.S. funds into the following account.” He rattled off a string of numbers. “When the money is received, your daughter will be released. That is all.”
“Dad!” Daniels said. “I’m on an island somewhere near—” The slap that interrupted her came out of nowhere and she couldn’t stifle the yelp of pain as she went down. Rajan was standing over her.
“Ten days, Mr. President, or your daughter dies.”
He clicked the end button on the sound of her father’s nearly incoherent yelling.
“This is all so unnecessary,” she said. “We have nothing to do with your war or your money. We’re here trying to help the people of your country.”
“Miss Daniels, what you arrogant Americans seem to misunderstand is that we want no help from you. We don’t want your people in our country, but you refuse to go home and continue with these…useless efforts.”
Daniels held her tongue. She knew better than to argue with an extremist. But with her father there were two things she knew for certain. She’d never heard him sound so angry.
And he would never pay money to a terrorist, not even for her.
CHAPTER TWO
As a soldier, Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, fundamentally believed that there would never come a time in his life when training was unnecessary. On the other hand, even an experienced soldier could find that he’d bitten off a bit more than he wanted to chew. While that wasn’t the case this time, Bolan felt that the Le Parkour training he’d been spending his time on was pushing him toward his limit.
The course he was facing today was the last challenge in this training run, and for all of his previous training—Special Forces, rappelling, high-altitude jumps and just about every kind of military work in the world—none of it could have prepared him for the intensity of Parkour. Bolan had become interested in the discipline that was sometimes called freerunning after watching some action film extras on a DVD. Realizing that not all of the stunts were special effects or done with wires, he’d listened to one of the film consultants talk about Parkour and the discipline of body manipulation, jumping, climbing and negotiating obstacles with the most speed and efficiency. As the stuntmen and -women were launching themselves up the sides of buildings, leaping over concrete barricades and moving with amazing swiftness, Bolan determined to explore Parkour for himself, adding it to his already formidable battlefield skills. For a man in his line of work, those kinds of skills might make the difference between life and death.
Standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower, Bolan waited with his instructor for the signal to begin. It had been a grueling five days of training, and he felt as though he’d mastered the basics, but there were maneuvers he still longed to perfect. They had received a special dispensation to use any means necessary to reach the top of the Eiffel Tower, rescue the mock hostages and disarm the terrorists. Nothing else compared to the challenge.
The monitor dropped the flag and Bolan raced up the stairs. The steep staircases surrounded by mesh fencing for protection worked as more of a launch pad than an obstacle. Bolan turned one corner and saw a shrapnel grenade. Using the momentum from running, Bolan launched to the top of the fence, anchoring with his hands but pulling his body up and over in one graceful movement. The small explosion behind him didn’t diminish his movement, pushing off with his feet and jumping through the air to an adjacent set of stairs.
Bolan pushed off of the top of the fence with one foot, jumping in a zigzag motion down the mesh walls that enclosed the stairs and moving back after his prey. There were three opponents waiting for him at the next turn. He leaned back as the larger one in the middle swung a bat, then reached out as it went past him, grabbing the end. He swung his weight with the bat and knocked the other two down as the extra pressure brought with his speed made a complete circle.
Angry, the opponent dropped the bat and tried to grapple Bolan. The Executioner picked up the discarded bat, jabbed the last guard in the solar plexus and then rushed past him. The final turn was filled with small gadgets on the steps that were to mimic explosives that would detonate on impact. Bolan ran back three steps to pick up speed, launched over the first two and bounced off the side of the fencing like a trampoline without touching the step. Back and forth across until he was clear of the devices. His last jump he rolled on the landing where the hostages were being held. He pulled his pistol with paint rounds and fired off two quick shots, killing the villains.
Everyone in the tower clapped. Bolan smiled, out of breath but elated that he was able to clear the obstacles. He stood on the platform and talked to his hostages, members of the team that had been training with him. They congratulated him, impressed at how quickly he had learned the skills, and talked about springing from one set of stairs to another and the risks of jumps from a given height or a moving object. He enjoyed training with other like-minded military men, and while France wasn’t known for its military prowess, the men he’d been training with were all part of a special antiterrorist unit and were as good as anyone he’d ever worked with.
Just as he’d caught his breath, Bolan’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out and glanced down at the number, which he recognized at once as belonging to Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm. The most elite anti-terrorism agency in the world that answered only to the President of the United States, Stony Man Farm, Virginia, had been his brainchild. Now he worked with them on select missions, keeping a good arm’s length away from any kind of permanent arrangement. Still, when Brognola called, there was always a good reason.
He tapped the key that accepted the call. “Yeah.”
“Striker.” Brognola’s voice came over the line. “I’m glad I could reach you. Are you still in Paris?”
“Still here,” he said. “It’s been good, but long. Today’s the last day. What’s going on?”
“There’s a situation that I’d like to bring you in on. How soon can you be back in D.C.?”
Bolan could almost hear the sound of Hal chewing on one of his expensive cigars and realized that whatever was going on must be pretty serious. He almost never asked him to come in for a mission briefing. Remembering an invitation from a new friend about the chance to accompany him on a test flight of a new plane, he said, “If all goes well, I can be on the ground by eight tonight.”
“From Paris?” Brognola asked, his voice a bit incredulous. “The Concorde isn’t flying anymore, you know.”
“It’s a new plane of sorts. Where do you want me?”
“The White House,” he replied. “I’ll make sure you’ve got gate clearance as Colonel Stone. Stop off at the Farm and get a uniform from Stores, Striker.”
“It must be my day to be surprised,” Bolan said. “You’ve asked me to come in for a mission briefing and you want me at the White House in a military uniform.”
“The situation is…delicate. Just get back here ASAP and I’ll have more details for you when you arrive.”
“On my way,” he said, ending the call. He quickly thanked his hosts and explained that a personal emergency had come up and he had to leave right away, rather than stay for the celebration planned for that evening. Everyone shook hands, and Bolan made his way back down the Eiffel Tower before he placed another call to arrange his transportation back to the U.S.
THE TEST FLIGHT TO D.C. went off without a hitch, and the plane had performed flawlessly.
A quick call to Stony Man Farm had resulted in an Army colonel’s uniform and credentials being dropped off at a hotel Bolan occasionally used when he was in Washington.
The pilot of the experimental plane had decided to play tourist in D.C. for a few days, so the plane would remain in a private hangar that had been arranged before he’d left France.
The soldier showered, shaved and changed into his uniform, then arranged for a car service to take him to the White House. The process at the gate couldn’t have been more simple. His uniform commanded automatic respect and when he gave his name—Colonel Brandon Stone—and provided his credentials, he was immediately given access and an escort inside the building.
Once inside, he was met by a man in a nondescript, dark blue suit that all but screamed Secret Service. “Colonel Stone, if you’d follow me, please?” he said.
“Of course,” Bolan replied, not bothering to look around too much. It wasn’t his first time inside the White House and given his line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last time. Still, it was an impressive landmark and the source of many of the missions he’d undertaken over the years. He wasn’t inside the building often, but he’d had more than the tourist tour. That said, he was a bit surprised when he was led down a short hallway to an elevator. He knew where they were headed, but asked anyway.
“Where are we going?” he asked the agent.
“To the bunker, sir,” he said, punching a code into the panel next to the elevator. The doors opened and he stepped inside. Bolan followed him, and as the doors shut, he noted that there was no panel or buttons indicating different floors. Instead, there was a keypad and a small, rectangular scanner.
The agent punched in another code, then stepped forward. A brief flare of light passed over his eyes, conducting a retinal scan. Finally a tone sounded, then an unseen voice said, “Voice authentication protocol.”
“Agent Reilly Summers,” he said.
“Voice authentication accepted,” the system responded. “Destination?”
“Bunker,” he replied.
The elevator began moving quietly down. Impressed at the security, Bolan kept quiet. It took less than a minute for them to descend to their destination and then the elevator doors chimed once and opened. The agent stepped out and Bolan followed.
“This way, Colonel Stone,” he said, turning left and going down the hallway. He stopped outside a closed door. “Please go right in, sir. They’re expecting you.”
“Thank you, Agent Summers,” he said. He opened the door and stepped inside, then paused in genuine surprise. Seated at the conference table was Hal Brognola and past President of the United States Jefferson Daniels. Seated next to Daniels was a woman Bolan didn’t recognize, but who he assumed was his personal secretary or, perhaps more likely, his Secret Service agent.
“Mr. President,” he said, entering the room and offering a salute, which Daniels returned. “Hal, it’s good to see you again.”
“Thanks for coming,” Brognola replied. “Mr. President, you know who this is. Colonel Brandon Stone.”
“Colonel Stone,” President Daniels said. “I appreciate you coming. I understand you were overseas when Hal got in touch.”
“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. “But that’s hardly important. When Hal calls, I answer.”
“Take a seat, Colonel,” Daniels said. “And Hal can bring you up to speed on the situation.”
Bolan sat and looked questioningly at Brognola. The very fact that they were meeting inside the White House—in the secure bunker, no less—meant that whatever was going on had already been sanctioned by the current President. Most likely, this was deemed the most secure location for President Daniels to have a meeting with someone like Brognola. Too many questions would have been asked if they’d tried to do it at the Pentagon.
Daniels didn’t speak and didn’t look at Bolan, his eyes focused on a problem that wasn’t in that room. As President, he had been known to be principled and unwavering. There were many who liked him, but once his mind was made up there was little that could be done to change his position. His complete support of the military was widely known, but his tunnel vision had caused problems, as well. Whatever this problem was, weighed on him. He looked tired. The salt-and-pepper hair that he’d sported as President was now almost completely gray, and the lines in his face were that of a worn battle commander.
“Okay, Hal, let’s have it,” Bolan said.
“On the surface, the situation is fairly simple. President Daniels’s daughter, Heather, has been kidnapped in the Bay of Bengal. They’re demanding a twenty-five-million-dollar ransom within ten days, or they say they’ll kill her,” he said. “The problem is that it isn’t that simple.”
“Clarify, please,” Bolan replied. “While I admit that’s a large sum of money, they obviously know who she is.”
“They do,” the big Fed said. “When President Daniels got the call, he contacted me. Fortunately, he recorded the call. We’ve got some audio people working on breaking it down completely right now. But what tipped me off that something was different was how they wanted the money.”
“My understanding is that most pirating operations work on a cash-and-carry basis,” Bolan said. “Euros usually.”
“They provided an account number and wanted the money to be wired,” Daniels said.
“That is unusual,” Bolan said. “I assume you looked into it?”
“We did,” Brognola said. “That’s when things began to get interesting. It’s not just a dummy account. It’s buried under five different holding corporations that we’ve found so far, not a one of them real.”
Bolan considered this information for a moment. “These aren’t pirates,” he said. “They don’t have the kind of money or structure to set up something like that.”
“Exactly,” Brognola said. “It’s got to be a terrorist organization of some kind, but we don’t know who yet.”
It could be any one of a number of large organizations that operated in that part of the world, and—he couldn’t rule it out completely—it was possible, however unlikely, that it was simply a very evolved pirate operation. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mr. President,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “but is it possible that they’ll release her if you do pay?”
“That’s a fair question,” Daniels replied. “The short answer is that I can’t care about that.”
“Sir?”
“I think Hal’s right. This move smacks of a highly organized terrorist organization. I’m heartsick that they have Heather, and there’s not much I wouldn’t do to ensure her safe return. But this isn’t just a question of negotiating with terrorists, Colonel. This would be funding them. And twenty-five million dollars in that part of the world might make them all but unstoppable. They could take over an entire region or buy arms and equipment that we don’t want those kinds of people to have.” His voice was hoarse and tired, and he shook his head. “I can’t pay them, Colonel. That’s where you come in.”
“You want me to go and get her,” Bolan said.
“That’s part of the mission,” Brognola said, “but, with all due respect to President Daniels, it’s just as important that we figure out who these people are and put a stop to them. If we don’t, the precedent could make every high-ranking politician’s family in the world a potential target for this kind of activity. Right now, the illusion of security and the threat of extreme violence is a powerful shield. If we fail, that illusion goes away in a hurry.”
“Understood,” Bolan said. “I’ll need all the intelligence you’ve gathered so far, and then I’ll get started on finding a solid lead.”
“When will you leave for the region?” Daniels asked.
“When I know where I’m going, sir,” Bolan replied. “It doesn’t do us any good to thrash about blindly over there. It’s a highly corrupt area and we’d be spotted before we could do your daughter or the country any real good.”
“I don’t like it,” he admitted, “but I don’t have to.” He turned his attention to the woman sitting next to him. “Colonel Stone, I’d like you to meet Michelle Peterson. She’s part of my Secret Service detail these days, but she worked with both CIA and NSA before that. I’d like her to join in your investigation and your mission as my personal representative.”
Bolan caught Brognola’s warning look, though it had been unnecessary. His old friend knew that he far preferred to work alone. “Mr. President,” he said, once more choosing his words with caution, “you know that I’ve been working in special operations for a long time, and I generally work alone. Many of the missions that you know we undertake are too dangerous for someone without the proper training and I’m not usually in a position, for lack of a better phrase, to play babysitter.”
“I respect what you’re saying, Colonel Stone, and your service,” Daniels said. “I can even set aside my feelings enough to know that the mission priority has to be taking out these terrorists. But don’t think for a minute that this isn’t personal. I want my daughter back, alive, and I want the bastards who did this as dead as old dad’s hatband. Agent Peterson will be going along with you, and she won’t need any babysitting. I can assure you of that.”
Until now, Bolan hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the woman seated on the other side of the table. Secret Service agents specialized in blending into the background, and until the President had brought her up, he’d assumed that her only purpose in being there was for him. Now he turned his blue-eyed gaze on her. While she was dressed in what he’d come to think of as the unofficial uniform of those who served in protection details—a black, button-down dress with a white blouse beneath that showed a hint of cleavage. She had dark brown hair that brushed the tops of her shoulders in waves and a very attractive face, with full, almost pouty lips.
“Did you want me to stand up, Colonel? Maybe take a turn about the room so you can get a complete examination?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow slightly. “Maybe you’d just like to see my résumé?”
“Agent Peterson,” Brognola said, trying to ease the tension, “I’m sure you can understand why the colonel might wish to know more about your qualifications for a mission like this.”
She got up out of her chair and walked around the conference table. At a guess, Bolan put her at not much over five feet tall when she wasn’t wearing heels. She stopped when she was close enough to his chair that she could reach out and touch him. “Colonel Stone,” she said, “I’ve done field operations in Africa, the Middle East and South America for both the CIA and the NSA. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, and if the President had been willing to allow it, I would’ve taken this operation on my own. I’ve known Heather for most of her life, and I’d willingly take a bullet for her. Can you say the same?”
Bolan got to his feet and stared down at the woman in front of him. Without changing the direction of his gaze, he said, “That’s the problem here, Mr. President. This is personal for her and on these kinds of missions, it can’t ever be personal.”
“She goes, Colonel,” Daniels said. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
“It’s all right, Colonel,” Brognola said. “Maybe an extra set of hands and eyes will be a good thing.”
Bolan grudgingly nodded his acceptance, then held out a hand toward the woman, which she took, and they shook on it. Then he leaned down, casting his voice so that only she could hear him. “Agent Peterson, if you get killed, I won’t shed a tear. I won’t stop to bury your body and I won’t ship you home with a nice flag-draped coffin. And if you get in my way or make it impossible for me to do my job, I’ll take you out myself. Do we understand each other?”
Keeping her own voice at a whisper, she said, “We understand each other fine, Colonel. Just remember that it goes both ways.”
Her tone was completely serious and in that moment, Bolan decided that he might like this woman. She had guts and was willing to stand up to him—so far, at least. He wondered if she’d live through what they were about to do, then shrugged off such considerations. For now, the mission was all that mattered.
“I think we’re all set here, Hal,” he said. “Unless there’s anything else, Mr. President?”
“Not at the present, Colonel,” he said. He, too, got to his feet, and they shook hands. “Bring her back for me, Colonel, and kill those bastards who did this.”
“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. He saluted once more, then turned to Brognola. “You’ll send me everything you’ve got?”
“You’ll have it first thing,” the big Fed said. “Thanks for coming in, Colonel.”
Bolan shrugged. “It’s what I do.” He turned to the woman. “I’m staying at the Premier Hotel. Meet me there at 0800 tomorrow morning and we’ll get the ball rolling.”
“I’ll be there,” she said, then turned her back on him.
Bolan let himself out of the room, knowing that the man in the hallway would escort him to the upper floors and ensure that he got out of the building. He’d head back to the hotel and grab a quick bite before hitting the rack and trying to catch a little sleep.
The next day promised to be a long one.
CHAPTER THREE
In spite of his first-class accommodations, the red-eye flight from Singapore to Washington, D.C., hadn’t been very restful. But Kabilan Vengai was used to going without sleep. He’d been running nonstop for almost a year and rarely slept more than a few hours a day. Many men would be exhausted under such a strain, and it would show in everything about them: their appearance, mental state and the decisions they made would be compromised by the constant drain. Kabilan, however, thrived on his role, and if someone were to compare him to a vampire that feeds on power, he wouldn’t have been deeply offended.
Standing in a small ballroom in the Ritz-Carlton, he looked up at the ornate ceilings and took a deep breath. Part of him wished that his army was nearby so that he could order the hotel ransacked, hostages taken for ransom, and then allow his men hot showers and a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. The other part of him knew that such luxuries weakened men like those who served him—they were field men, one and all, and while they might enjoy the sleep, it would only distract them from their true purpose. He slugged down the last swallow of the watery cocktail he was holding and shook his head. This wasn’t where he wanted to be at the moment.
But the ostentatious reception for the Tamil People’s Action Committee meant to raise funds for his people was necessary. It was another tool—a sometimes laughable, often degrading one—but a tool nonetheless. Kabilan knew that perception mattered a great deal in the world, and if he was going to restore the rightful sovereignty of the Tamil people, he had to play on this stage equally as well as he did when he was leading his men to successful raids on the ocean. He put his empty glass on the bar and ordered another, then turned his attention to the room.
Most of the people here were displaced Tamils who had come to the United States and made enough money to support the cause of their people back in Sri Lanka, India and other parts of Indonesia. A handful were businessmen with interests in that part of the world—a couple of whom were more than willing to overlook the defeat of the Tamil Tigers and continue to use them to work around the Sri Lankan government whenever possible. He would walk through the room, shake hands, nod in understanding at their sincere concern at the plight of his people. He would watch as they opened their checkbooks and tried to solve problems with money. In turn, he would present those checks to the executive director of TPAC, then take the money for himself, buy the weapons and equipment he needed, and so, in a sense, solve problems with money. He hated the deception, and it was a far greater crime than any piracy he sanctioned. It was also necessary.
Still, the money raised here was simply a cover for his true purpose, and Kabilan scanned the room once more. While holding the hat here and conducting good raids on the seas had proven lucrative, neither was cost-effective or fast enough for his long-term goals. Though his recent capture of President Daniels’s daughter had been unanticipated, and he held few doubts that the man would pay her ransom as soon as he realized that her death would be the only thing he could accomplish by not paying. If they didn’t pay, her death would serve their cause just as well. Killing such a high-profile hostage would be a show of power unlike any other and show the world that they weren’t to be trifled with. But money wasn’t everything and while it could buy many things—weapons, especially—what he truly needed was something that would level the playing field.
This night he was going to take delivery of that weapon. The Ocean Tigers, who had once been known as the KP Branch of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, were one of the few remaining hopes for the Tamil revolution. When Kumaran Pathmanathan had disappeared at the hands of the Sri Lankan Secret Police, it had been left to him to find a way to continue.
Vengai had immediately moved his forces into a new area and modified the immediate mission to piracy on the high seas. Much of the work his men had done was blamed on other groups, and the ransoms paid were an excellent way to raise funds. They simply weren’t enough, the Daniels girl notwithstanding. Using contacts he developed in the technology field, he’d groomed a new contact over the past year and the moment of delivery had finally arrived.
Unfortunately his contact had yet to put in an appearance.
He moved away from the bar and began making his way across the room. He paused from time to time to talk with someone or to answer a question. About halfway, he felt a light touch on his arm and looked down to see the executive director of TPAC, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties, hired for her lobbying skills, staring at him. She was Tamil, but only in the most remote sense. Her grandparents had been from there, but she had no real idea what being from Tamil meant.
“Mr. Vengai?” she asked. “A moment of your time, please.”
Seeing that she had someone in tow, he softened his gaze and allowed a faint smile to pass across his features. “Of course, Ms. Nilani. What can I help you with?”
“I’d like you to meet someone,” she said. “This is Mr. Borelli. He’s quite interested in our cause, and wanted to be introduced.”
“Ah, Mr. Borelli,” Vengai said, offering his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Borelli was a stout figure, almost portly, with thinning hair and an off-the-rack suit that fit improperly. His hands were soft. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Vengai. I’ve been looking forward to this since USTPAC announced you’d be in attendance. How goes the battle?”
“Not as well as we would like,” he said, “but it’s not over—what is the saying?—until the fat lady sings.”
“Well put,” Borelli said. “Well put, indeed.”
The man affected a near-British accent, but he obviously was American. “So, Ms. Nilani says you have an interest in our cause?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ve read about the situation quite extensively as part of my job, and I must say, it seems that the Tamil people have been very shabbily treated.”
“I see,” Vengai said. “And what do you do, Mr. Borelli?”
Borelli smiled then, and for a split second, a very different person was standing in front of him. “I work as an analyst, Mr. Vengai. In Langley.”
So, he was CIA. Interesting that he’d be so direct in his approach. “How goes the battle for you, then?” he asked.
The man laughed. “Don’t misunderstand, sir. I’m not here in any official capacity! I’m just an analyst. I don’t make all that much, but I’d like to contribute—provided that my contribution is completely anonymous.”
“That can be easily arranged,” he said. “Simply make your contribution with cash.”
“And should that go to you or to Ms. Nilani?” he asked quickly.
Damn the man. He knew that TPAC was a front. If he told him to give the money directly to TPAC, she’d have to deposit the funds in the main account; if he said to give it to him, she’d have a lot of questions. “Ms. Nilani can handle that for you,” he said with barely concealed ire. He wondered if Borelli were playing some kind of game, for his own amusement, or for more serious purposes.
“Very good, then,” Borelli said. “I’ll bring it by the office on Monday.” He offered his hand once more. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Vengai. Thank you.”
Vengai nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Borelli. Drive safely tonight.”
Recognizing the vague threat, Borelli grinned once more. “And when you return home, you do the same. Travel safely, that is.” Then he turned and walked into the crowd.
Ms. Nilani, who’d been silent the entire time, shook her head. “That was strange,” she said. “I’m not sure I understand what he was doing here.”
“Neither do I, Ms. Nilani, but I expect that you could find out. Why don’t you make a phone call and see what you can learn about Mr. Borelli?”
“Right now?” she asked. “In the middle of the fundraiser?”
At that moment Vengai saw his contact come into the room and linger near the kitchen doors. “No, but make no mistake, people like him come to events like this for two reasons—one, he wants to upgrade his contacts and has something he wants to sell, or two, he’s here to tell us that he’s watching. I have a feeling that it was the latter,” he said, waving her off. “But I want that information by Monday at the latest.”
“Of course,” she said, then turned and resumed her role in working the room. Briefly, he watched her go. She was good at her job, but not a very observant person. On the other hand, a person who did what he or she was told without asking too many questions was perfect for his uses.
Before he could be engaged again in a lengthy conversation, he moved quickly across the room to where his contact, a computer programmer named Tim Wright, was waiting for him. Wright’s appearance matched his profession: dark hair, cut short in a functional style, a short-sleeved, polyester dress shirt, khaki pants and loafers. He stood almost six feet in height, but wasn’t in great physical condition. The spare tire around his midsection suggested a life spent sitting, and not on the ab-cruncher machine at his local gym.
Vengai offered his hand in greeting when he got close enough. “Mr. Wright? It’s good to meet you in person.”
Nervous, Wright nodded. “Yes, I’m…it’s good to meet you, too.” He held up his attaché case. “Should we go somewhere to talk?”
“Yes, let’s get out of sight before you disappear into a puddle of sweat.”
The nervous man pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow as they ducked out of sight. Like most conference hotels there were any number of places that seemed to be in view of everything and yet completely secluded at the same time. Vengai led him to an unoccupied conference room that was set up for the next day. The dark room was illuminated only with light spilling in from a small break in the air wall that separated the one larger room into two.
“You are not used to this kind of…work, are you, Mr. Wright?”
“No, I’m usually as loyal and patriotic as they come, but I need the money.”
“Your words do not reassure me. How do I know that we won’t complete our business, and then I’ll step outside to find myself surrounded by federal agents?”
“Mr. Vengai, they may set up elaborate schemes in movies, but if I were caught trying to steal this software from the office, I wouldn’t be here. They don’t set up stings, just deal with what’s in front of them. I just want to get this done, get my money and get out of here.”
Vengai watched as Wright shifted his weight back and forth, carefully holding the case in front of him as if it were an explosive. He grabbed the handkerchief and mopped his brow once more but then immediately readjusted the case so it was away from his body.
“Show me,” Vengai said.
“There’s nothing to show, really. Your guys know how to upload satellite data, I presume?”
“Yes, of course.”
Wright popped open the case and pulled out a small box. He opened the box and displayed a portable hard drive.
“This contains the software to get me into military satellites?”
“Yes. This is a new program that I wrote. The software on here will give you access to virtually every military satellite in the world.”
“How is this possible?”
“The hardware components for military satellites are the same in almost every industrialized nation. Private industry tries to keep things proprietary, but the militaries are so concerned about what one has and one doesn’t that things are pretty similar. There are minor variations in the coding, but they are easily decoded by the algorithm included in the software. You must, however, be careful when you tap into an actively running program. The satellites can be fed and controlled with this software, but if there’s an active command running, and you try to piggyback on top of it, the analysts will see the deviation.”
Vengai grunted in disgust. “This seems worthless. How can I make use of satellites that aren’t running?”
“No, Mr. Vengai. You don’t understand. Unless there is current monitoring, you won’t be detected, and even if you are you can override and take over completely, but then they will trace it out eventually. Most constant monitoring happens on satellites that are tasked for research from universities. Most military-use satellites are simply tasked with a single event. When the program provides it, they move on with their mission, ignoring the satellite until they need it again.”
“Ah,” he said. “I see, but looking at what others do is not all I wanted. You promised more.”
“This software is not just passive observation of data,” Wright continued, warming to his subject. “You can send commands to the satellite, giving it a specific task, such as scanning satellite phone signals, surveillance operations and even bouncing remote detonation signals for embedded weapons. So long as the satellite isn’t being tasked with something else, your commands won’t be detected at all! With this software in place, you could peek inside a bedroom of the White House and no one would even know. The military would see it as simply their satellite passing by. If your guys are smart and things are well planned, you could use a Russian satellite to remote command a U.S. bomb and the Russians would be blamed, not you.”
“Yes,” Vengai said. “And if we simply want to watch what commands are being given to a satellite…?”
Wright nodded enthusiastically. “You can do that and be totally unobserved. It’s everything you asked for.”
“Good,” he said.
“And now…what about what I asked for?” Wright said. “I’m not providing this to you for free. I told you the debts I have to pay. The guys who want their money are serious, but I have a feeling that my luck is about to change.”
Vengai looked at the nervous programmer who talked so fast he had a hard time keeping up, but he’d heard the most important things he needed to know. He could spy on anyone and his satellite expert would have no problems using the device. “I have your payment,” he said, pulling an envelope from inside his suit and placing it on the table.
Wright barely hesitated before shoving the hard drive at him and grabbing the envelope. Vengai smiled as Wright flipped it open and, leaning over the table, laid out the bills. His hands trembled as he began to count the money, but the profuse sweating subsided as his thrill replaced his fear.
“It’s all there, per our arrangement,” he said. “Ten thousand in cash and the account number for a fund in the Cayman’s containing another ninety thousand. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind and decided that you want to be a part of our team.”
“No. I’m an American. I wouldn’t be helping you guys if I had any other way out my current predicament. I wouldn’t do well in the back jungles of some third-world country.”
Wright continued to count, Vengai rolled his eyes. Without hesitation he reached out, grabbing the back of Wright’s head, and slammed it into the table. Vengai took advantage of Wright’s dazed state—keeping one hand on the back of his head, he used the other to provide the counterpressure he needed and twisted until he heard the satisfying crunch of the vertebrae popping out of place, cracking, then severing the spinal cord.
Wright crumpled on top of the table. Vengai replaced the money in his coat and grabbed the limp form under his arms, then dragged him into the nearby audiovisual room. He pushed the rolling carts with projectors and microphones out of the way, and shoved the body inside and out of sight. Then he calmly closed the door, grabbed the briefcase and returned to the fundraiser.
He should have taken my offer, Vengai mused.
VENGAI SMILED WHEN HE opened the door to the luxury hotel room. He held the smile through the initial software boot up and even when they hit their first wall, but his smile turned into a smoldering glare when his technician told him that the code was incomplete.
He roared with fury and threw the glass in his hand into the wall. He paced around the room, ranting about Wright and the expense of setting him up. He should have known the sweaty technician was up to something when he handed over the hard drive so easily. The situation had nagged at him, but he knew Wright would never have kept the secret for long and so killing him had been the only solution, but it was too soon.
“Sir, I think I have something,” one of the technicians said.
Vengai stopped his ranting and stood in front of the computer. The young computer technician trembled as his fingers moved over the keyboard. He was new to the Ocean Tigers and very willing, but Vengai hated his timidity. The youth was a prodigy, and he recognized that while he could train the village idiot to fight there were few in their ranks that possessed the same kind of technical skills. Once he had gotten past his initial fear he reprogrammed all of their computers and helped to reroute the bank funds so nothing could be traced back to the Ocean Tigers. With his help they had stayed hidden and would remain so until he wanted the world to know the power they had.
“What is it, Dilvan?” he asked, trying not to snap. “What have you found?”
“He left the information for the pieces of the code. They’re attached to the bank account he set up. Once the money is verified in his account, then the code will be released.”
“Well, since he won’t be getting the money, how do we get the code?”
“I might be able to hack his bank account, but this guy was careful. The code for this will only recognize his computer. I need access to that if you want me to get the code.”
“Can’t you fill in the missing code?”
“No, sir. Computer codes are like a math problem. Sometimes if you have enough variables you can piece together what is missing by creating a formula, but he was clever and left an unsolvable puzzle without his personal code.”
“Damn! Fine, we’ll get you his computer. Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be even more that we can gain from his system.”
“I would say that is certain, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“If I’m reading the code right, this program isn’t just a satellite program.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that this software is built to hack almost any form of military programming out there. If we can get the rest of the code, it’s possible that we could hack into almost any military or intelligence database in the world, completely undetected.”
Kabilan felt the smile return to his face. Wright’s deception was a minor setback, but it appeared that he was going to get even more than he’d paid for, if he was just a little patient. “We’ll get the code,” he promised. “One way or another.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Bolan sat on the bed, looking through the intelligence that Brognola had sent to his handheld computer. What they had so far was pretty minimal. Heather Daniels had been en route to Port Blair on a supply ship with a bunch of other missionaries, and they’d left out of Singapore. But there was a lot of water between those two points and hundreds of places to hide. He replayed the audio from the call.
Daniels’s voice didn’t waver as she spoke, but the tension in her tone spoke volumes as the fear behind the words resonated from the recording. The man who made the ransom demand, on the other hand, didn’t sound rattled or tense at all. He was direct and matter-of-fact and the forceful slap had likely come from someone else, not the man speaking. He also wondered what the audio techs might be able to pick up from the background once they’d had time to dissect the whole recording. Bolan checked the time and decided that Brognola was likely still at his office.
He picked up his phone and dialed the number from memory.
“It’s me,” he said when the big Fed answered.
“Let me turn on the scrambler. Done. Have you had a chance to review everything we’ve got so far?”
“I have,” Bolan said. “It’s not much to go on. Once we have everything that we need, Heather Daniels is likely to be dead if she isn’t already.”
“Agreed, but we’re working on it. We have come up with a theory that might fit.”
“Let’s hear it,” Bolan said.
“We’ve got an intelligence report on the region that mentions rumors that the KP Branch of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil have reformed in that part of the world.”
“The LTTE?” he mused. KP Branch was the group’s nickname, taken from the initials of its top operative, Kumaran Pathmanathan. “I thought the Sri Lankan government had finally put an end to those guys.”
“That’s the common belief,” he said. “But this group, calling themselves the Ocean Tigers, is operating a lot more like a military than a bunch of pirates. They’re organized, efficient and deadly. Their tactics are way too familiar.”
Bolan considered the information briefly. “It fits,” he agreed. “Do you have anything else on them?”
“Nothing concrete, but if this is the LTTE back in action, then you’re heading into a hell of a hot zone. They’ve always been the real deal, and if this is a reformation of the KP Branch, there’s even more going on beneath the surface than just piracy.”
“Interesting,” Bolan said. “What do we know about this KP Branch?”
“They were pretty secretive and mostly dealt with weapons smuggling, explosives and dual-use technology. They wreaked havoc in that part of the world for a long time, and destabilizing the government was their specialty. Supposedly they went out of business when their leader was arrested. It’s the dual-use tech that worries me.”
“What do you think they might be after? Civilian stuff with military applications?”
“That’s the most likely scenario,” Brognola said. “So maybe someone stepped into the role of leader and is taking them in this new direction. We just don’t know precisely what that direction is or who the man running the organization might be, but I do know that they can be formidable and if they are setting their sights on political captives their appetite has gotten a little bigger.”
“At least it’s a place to start,” Bolan said. “Do you have anything else for me?”
“One thing,” he said. “But I’m reluctant to mention it, since I know you’re already reluctant. It’s about the woman, Agent Michelle Peterson.”
“What about her?”
“She wasn’t lying when she said she did field ops for the CIA and the NSA, but she ended up getting pulled from the field toward the end of President Daniels’s last term. It was only his intervention that got her a spot on his personal detail.”
“Why was she pulled?” Bolan asked.
“She had a mission go bad. Really bad. She was working a case in Libya and was taken. They held her and tortured her for two months. When she finally got out of there, it was six months before she could walk again. They wanted to retire her, but the President intervened and she ended up assigned to him. According to her file, she was diagnosed with severe PTSD.”
“That’s not all that surprising, considering what happened to her,” Bolan said. “Not many people can live through a situation like that without problems.”
“That’s true,” Brognola said. “But I wanted you to know. Despite the fact that he’s no longer in office, President Daniels has an enormous amount of influence with the current administration, and he and this woman are obviously close. And she might be unstable. If something goes wrong, it could come back and bite us right on the ass. I tried to talk him into letting you go this alone, but he wants someone who is interested in his daughter’s safety and will make it a priority. He knows that any other operative will put the mission first and he wants to make certain that his daughter isn’t collateral damage. He can talk a big game about her not being the objective, but I guarantee that she is Agent Peterson’s objective.”
Bolan sighed. “We’ll just have to hope she’s tough enough to handle it,” he said. “I prefer to work alone, but the President insisted, so I’ll just have to make the best of it. I can always find a convenient place to stick her if she becomes too big of a problem and then deal with Daniels later.”
“It’s your mission, Striker, but taking her into the field might be a good way to get yourself—or her—killed. I’ve never been willing to lose an operative to satisfy the politicians, even the President.”
“I appreciate the heads-up and I’ll let you know if things are becoming problematic. You’ll get back to me with any additional intelligence? We need to get moving on this quickly if Heather has any chance of coming out of this at all.”
“I should have more for you in a few hours,” he said.
“Thanks, Hal. We’ll talk soon.”
Bolan clicked End on his cell phone and flipped back through the file one more time. There were things he would need in country and even more than usual if he couldn’t convince Peterson to stay in the States and provide support. He knew she wouldn’t, just as she likely knew he’d try anyway.
Bolan wasn’t a sexist. He’d met any number of women capable of doing good work in the field. It was never a question in his mind of capability, except on an individual level, and it had nothing to do with gender. But in his experience, a woman in the field could be distracting, and in a situation that was personal—as it was in this case—a person was less likely to make objective decisions and that almost always ended badly. Bolan knew that he personally operated most effectively when he worked solo, pulling support from individuals in the area who could serve as resources to the needs of the mission at that particular moment, rather than dealing with the complexities of a partner or a full team.
He pulled out his laptop and booted the system. After going through the installed security protocols, including thumbprint and retinal scans, he opened his contacts folder and began to search through them. One name came to the top of the list, but Bolan almost groaned aloud at the thought of dealing with this man. Still, Bashir Faizal, for all his flaws, was as good as money could buy and in this case, it might not cost him anything.
Bolan picked up his phone and began to dial. Bashir’s resource phone, as he called it, required a password. When Bolan heard the tones he dialed the password and waited as the call rerouted. He got an answer after two rings.
“This is Bashir.”
“Hello, Bashir. Matt Cooper.”
“Ah…my old friend! Long time. Who can I help you blow up today?”
“Well, I hadn’t planned on blowing up that drug boat, but who would have thought they booby-trapped their own stash?”
Faizal laughed. “I told you they would,” he said. “Remember?”
“I remember,” he said dryly. “Are you ever going to let it go?”
“Same old Cooper, no sense of humor for these things,” he said. “All right, I’ll let it go for now. How can I help you? I still owe you for saving my life.”
“You owe me twice, as I recall,” Bolan said.
“You only risked yourself one time for me, my friend. The other time you were saving your own skin and I got to tag along.”
“Fair enough. I’m putting together an op in that part of the world, somewhere in the Bay of Bengal, if my intelligence holds up. Hostage rescue.”
“The Bay is bad news, Cooper. The word is that the Ocean Tigers are prowling those waters these days and they aren’t like normal pirates.”
“Who are the Ocean Tigers?”
“I don’t really know who they are—no one does—but I do know that they are a patch of bad that you don’t want to get pricked by.”
“Are they the kidnapping kind?”
“They have ransomed some. But if it’s them, then you may just as well save yourself the trouble of coming. Decent pirates treat their prisoners like they would treasure, because this is how they make their money. The Tigers, they only ransom a handful of their prisoners, and then they still play games, making people pay and pay. The rest they toy with, making demands no one can meet, then executing them as some kind of political statement. Military and law enforcement ignore them because they’re too dangerous to tangle with and have too much money. Not like the Somali pirates at all.”
“Hence the need for an operation, Bashir. I’m going in before they have an opportunity to execute this particular hostage.”
“Does this one hold state secrets or something? Diplomat’s daughter?”
“Bashir, I’m about to change the operation target to you.”
“Fine, fine, what do you need?” he asked. “If it’s not too outrageous, you’ll get it.”
“I’ll get everything I need because your life—twice—has to be worth at least that,” he growled.
Faizal laughed again, and agreed to get him whatever he needed.
Bolan ran through his list and hung up the phone with Faizal before he could ask him more questions. He picked up Daniels’s picture and ran his finger along the side of it again. He couldn’t put his finger on why this mission was nagging at him until he thought about how much Peterson cared about the young woman. He sighed as he put the picture down.
Emotions got a person killed; he’d seen it time and again. He pulled his Desert Eagle out of its holster, popped out the clip and worked the slide, ejecting the bullet from the chamber. As the bullet popped into the air, he reached out and snatched it, smiling.
Maybe he was just fast enough to save them all.
THE POUNDING ON THE DOOR came earlier than Bolan had expected. He glanced at the glowing lights of the clock brightly telling him that it was a mere 4:30 a.m. He rolled off the bed and didn’t bother putting on a shirt to go with blue Navy SEAL sweatpants. He glanced through the peephole, but knew before he looked that it would be Peterson. She was motivated, he’d give her that, and he wondered if she’d slept at all.
He pulled open the door, the bright light from the hallway spilling into his dark hotel room.
“It’s about time, Colonel Stone,” she said as she marched past him and into his room. “Though I expected a military man like yourself to be dressed and ready to roll by this hour.”
He smiled at the Secret Service light outfit. Black slacks, black dress boots with a two-inch heel and a dark blue long-sleeved shirt. He had yet to meet a Secret Service agent who didn’t look proper all of the time, and he couldn’t help but notice that she filled out her clothes in all the right places.
Bolan ran a hand through his hair and walked over to the coffeemaker in his room. He could hear her pacing behind him and smiled to himself as he filled the reservoir and pressed the start button.
“We don’t really have time to mess around,” Peterson said.
“Are there armed gunmen coming down the hall?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“Bomb in the building and it’s about to go off?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
“Then we have time for coffee,” he said.
He watched as she sat primly on the edge of the small love seat. He sat in the high-backed chair next to her and propped a foot up on the coffee table, rocked his head back and closed his eyes. He smiled again when she let out a long sigh.
“Listen, I hate to wake you, but I’ve got the information that we really need, and I can get us on a flight out of the country in an hour. I already have my cover documents and alternate identification. I just need to know if I’m getting cover documents for you, as well. And I have the latest intelligence from the State Department. But we have to hurry to make the flight.”
“No, you don’t,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes just yet.
“Yes, we do. I talked to the pilot on my way over. He wasn’t happy about being woken at this hour, but he owes me a favor.”
“I wasn’t talking about the flight. I have no doubt that you could have Marine One on top of this hotel in thirty minutes if you put your mind to it. I meant that you don’t hate waking me or you would have waited for the sun to rise before trying to save the world.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Her face flushed and she pulled together her purse and the stack of documents that she’d sat on the table.
“I told the President that I should go this mission alone. I should have just left without you last night…” she muttered.
Bolan reached out his hand, catching her by surprise, and pulled her back down to the love seat. Her eyes narrowed as she pulled her hand away.
“Hold on, Michelle, and take a deep breath. I haven’t seen your intel and whether you like it or not, I’m not going to go charging off into Malaysia until I’m certain of my target. That’s not the part of the world where going in unprepared will serve you. Why don’t we start with what you’ve got so far?”
She relaxed slightly and opened one of the file folders. “The local government there is still trying to get their legs after putting down the LTTE. With such a diverse population and the influences from India and the other Asian nations, they fight to hold on to what they have, so we don’t believe that there is any official government agency involved. They’d like that influx of cash, but aren’t prepared to have the Western world descend on their doorstep with this kind of action. The best lead we’ve got is a new pirating operation going by the name of the Ocean Tigers,” she began, but he cut her off.
“That’s our best lead, too, at the moment, but it’s not enough.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I spoke with some of my contacts. This Ocean Tigers group is hard-core and what I’m hearing is that if they are the ones that have Heather, it’s possible they’ll collect the ransom and kill her anyway. Worse, no one knows where their base of operations is located. The best resources in the area are hard-pressed to keep track of anything with the ever-changing political climate. For all we know it’s a dissenting faction of the government trying to wrest control and install a new leader. If we charge in there without knowing everything we can then we’re likely to get a lot of people killed, including us.”
She nodded, but didn’t show any other reaction to that news. Bolan was pleased that she didn’t respond and appeared to be taking the information in and processing it. Too much emotion in a situation like this would be deadly to them both and probably Daniels, too. If she couldn’t keep it together he would have to find a way to ditch her and go in alone. It was really his preferred method, anyway. It was tough enough to watch his own six without needing to watch someone else’s.
“You seem pretty gung ho to leave here, so where is it you intend to go?”
“Same as you do with any missing persons case—where she was last seen. Singapore. You’re shaking your head, you disagree? I don’t want the trail to get cold.”
“The trail is already cold. If that’s all we can come up with, then we could start out that broadly, but that’s like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. And Singapore is a cesspit. We’re doing some additional digging, and I want to see what that intelligence tells us. If it really is a branch of the LTTE, we’ll have a better chance of finding them if we can follow the money than we will just wandering around the Bay of Bengal and hoping we find the right island.”
“But you don’t know that the LTTE has anything to do with the Ocean Tigers,” she objected.
“I don’t know enough to think it is or isn’t anyone. I don’t have enough information to make a conclusion, but I’ve been doing this a lot of years and know to trust my gut. If their financials are barely there, then we know they don’t have the money for this kind of operation that the Ocean Tigers are running, and we’re dealing with another group. On the other hand, if their previous supporters are starting to shell out serious dough, we can look deeper.”
“According to the State Department, there are dozens of piracy operations running in that part of the world,” she admitted. “You’re right. We don’t want to end up in the wrong snake pit. Heather doesn’t have that kind of time and neither do we if these guys are planning more serious action.”
“Exactly,” he said. “We’ve got to be methodical about this or the whole mission will come crashing down around us. I know that time is critical for Heather, but the reality is we need to be more concerned about squashing any terror plots that they might be hatching.”
“Still, given how many groups there are, why are you focusing on this group?”
“This feels too well organized and finessed,” he said. “We already know that the Cayman account they want the money sent to is totally blind. A cover company for a cover for another cover, at least. Most of the groups working over there just aren’t set up that well and it doesn’t fit the typical pattern.”
“Agreed,” she finally said. “I just hate feeling this helpless. Heather is a…she’s a fine young woman. The thought of what might be happening to her turns my stomach. I know that the mission is more, but I want to get her back.”
“We’ll have to hope she’s got some of her father’s fight in her,” he said. “So, if you don’t mind, I’ll get dressed and we’ll go have some breakfast. We can review everything you’ve got and maybe by then I’ll have heard some more from Hal. Between us, maybe we can narrow things down a little.”
Bolan watched as skepticism, reluctance and finally acceptance crossed over her face.
“Okay, but I’m driving.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Heather Daniels opened the car door to a wave of despair from the camp. A group of children were sitting in front of a small metal building with a soldier pacing in front of them. The dirty faces were streaked with tears, and one little girl was sporting a bruise that took up almost half of her face. The children weren’t looking at the soldier that was set as their guard. Daniels followed their gaze across the compound to two more of the Ocean Tigers dragging the bodies of two men from the side of the building. Fresh blood still oozed from their wounds, and they tossed them onto the bed of a truck without a word.
Daniels stumbled and dropped to her knees, feeling a wave of nausea roll through her stomach. She had seen death before, but this was different. She had spent the entire car ride with Rajan telling her that she would be safe and his kindness had disarmed her. She’d not expected to open the door to such horrible visions. The air itself reeked of violence. She looked back at the children with tattered clothes and broken spirits. The girl with the bruise dropped her head into her arms and tried to muffle her sobs. Her heart ached for the horror that they’d been put through and knew that it was a long way from being over.
Taking several deep breaths, Daniels waited for the nausea to pass and when it did, she wasn’t so much afraid as she was angry. Trying to contain her rage behind gritted teeth, she rose to her feet and turned to face Rajan, her arm swinging before she even realized it. He caught her hand in midair and pulled her tightly into his body. She thrashed around and tried to pound on him, but his grip was too tight—tears filled her eyes. He grabbed the back of her hair and whispered in her ear.
“I know,” he snapped, his voice urgent in her ear. “But don’t do this here. I can’t protect you if you make a scene.”
She leaned back, stunned, and then pulled away. Something told her that Rajan wasn’t like the other pirates, but now wasn’t the time to deal with it. She turned and walked over to the group of children. The sentry that had been diligently pacing in front of them blocked her path. Daniels turned to glare at Rajan. He nodded and she turned and pushed past the sentry.
The children didn’t hesitate, instinct telling them that they had a champion. They clamored around her, their voices rising in several different languages. She reached down and lifted a little boy that couldn’t have been more than two, settling him on her hip. With her other hand, she pulled the bruised and battered little girl to her feet and brought her in close. The child clung to her leg ferociously. Daniels ran her thumb along her cheek and gave her an encouraging smile.
“Where do we stay?” she asked Rajan. The challenge was there in her tone and she wondered if Rajan would let it stand. She had no real idea how long her captivity would last and if there was any chance that she was making it out of there alive, but she would do everything in her power to make the situation better for the children while she could. She watched Rajan move closer with one raised eyebrow. She hugged the children in closer and the girl shivering into her side strengthened her resolve.
“Come with me,” he said, his face betraying no emotion. Daniels nodded and motioned to the children to follow her, doing her best to reassure their uncertain expressions as they walked through the main camp. The camp consisted of a larger main house that looked like an old island villa. Set up on a small set of stilts instead of a traditional foundation, it had a wraparound porch that might have looked inviting if it weren’t for the armed soldiers at the entrance. There were at least six other buildings, three that were metal and three that were wooden huts of more recent construction. A group of women stood to the side washing laundry, and several teenagers were being drilled in a courtyard to one side of the buildings. She watched the women attempt to focus on their chores, but glance up with worried looks. Daniels wondered how many of the children on the island belonged to them and how many had already had their children killed in the conflict.
She paused briefly to focus on the teenagers, really little more than children themselves, being trained to be soldiers and her heart ached for them. She had spent most of her time trying to help those who had escaped the fate of being a child soldier and teaching them how to find their heart and soul again. So much of the training that they endured was about ripping away their innocence and destroying their ability to have compassion for themselves or anyone else. Perhaps even worse than the loss of innocence and compassion was the loss of faith, belief and wonder in the world itself. Their worlds had been stripped of hopes and dreams and replaced with death.
She stopped as they were walking and waited for Rajan to turn. He paused but didn’t turn initially. She stayed rooted in place and waited. Finally she said, “I want them, too.”
“Those you cannot have,” he said, turning to face her.
“Why not?”
“We need them to fight,” he replied, shrugging. “They are not children. We need soldiers.”
“You mean, you need killers,” she snapped. “They aren’t men yet, either.”
“They are trained to fight, for their homes and their families. Sometimes that means killing, yes.”
“I’ve seen this kind of recruiting before,” she said. “I’m betting that you already destroyed their families.”
“Those men who did not come voluntarily were killed,” he said. “That is the way of things.”
“You’re a monster.”
“It was not I who killed them,” he said.
“What does it matter if you killed them or had someone else do it? They’re still dead, and when your little faction here is destroyed these children will have no one to take care of them. I’ve been taking care of children just like them for years now and trying to help them rebuild. Trying to give them hope.”
“You do this by giving them another God to pray to. That does not help. We become their family. If they have a need we fill it. We do not offer empty promises.”
“And neither do I. Yes, we teach them prayer, but we also teach them to read and write. We teach them to think for themselves and how to find their hearts again after people like you have ripped them out!”
He reached out and slapped her.
Daniels stepped back, stunned. He hadn’t been violent with her, but as she looked around she realized she was causing a scene. Two other soldiers ran up with guns pointed and the children began to cry.
“Get them inside,” Rajan said.
Daniels stared at Rajan as he walked away and turned to face the soldier that was pointing a rifle at her. He wore three red hash marks on the sleeve of his jacket. She had a sneaky suspicion they symbolized kills. She reached out for the little girl’s hand and they walked ahead of the soldier into the house. She was surprised to see that the house was fairly modern. Sofas in the front room, wood floors and wood paneling. The heat and humidity were broken with fans placed strategically throughout the residence. The soldier behind her didn’t give her time to reflect on the surroundings, but shoved her forward. He was taller than the soldier with the red and looked a little more raw around the edges. His emblem was different than Red’s, the emblem of the shark around the skull set onto a black X. There was a sense of completion about the design, as if he had surpassed the red hash marks and had completed his head count.
The two soldiers moved them into the center of the room. One waved the children down to the floor, but stopped her from following. She looked at the two soldiers as they ushered her away from her little band. A slow smile crept across Red’s face and he motioned with his gun for her to move. When she didn’t move quickly enough, the larger soldier grabbed her arm and pulled her into the adjacent room.
Daniels heard the children begin to cry. She tried to quell her own rampant fear. She moved away and tried to position herself near the window. She dashed around the small desk and chair, but Red cut her off. Her heart was racing and she tried to think of a good prayer, but the only thing she could think of was, “God, please get me through this.”
She gasped when the second soldier grabbed her hair from behind and used it as a means to propel her around the room. He shoved her forward onto the desk, slamming her head into the wood. She struggled against him, but as she started to escape Red was on the other side of the desk, pushing his weight down onto her shoulders.
She could barely breathe with all of the weight and tried to cry out as the soldier fumbled around trying to rip away her clothes. Red laughed as her arms flailed. Her fingers made contact with a pencil and she wrapped her hand around it and managed to swing her arm forward and jab it into Red’s side.
His shriek was short-lived and had him slamming his elbow down on her back. She felt the fabric of her clothes begin to tear as the onslaught continued. Her ears were ringing from the pain and lack of air as her chest was compressed by their weight.
Red released her, and she glanced upward in time to see the bullet blast through his skull. The brute behind her was ripped away, and she turned to see Rajan land a punch to his midsection and then an uppercut connected with his jaw. Fury marred his normally serene expression. With Red dead, the brute began to explain his position so rapidly that Daniels didn’t understand. Her breath came in gulps as she tried to readjust her clothing.
Rajan reached out and grabbed the soldier by his hair and dragged him outside. Daniels staggered out of the room in his wake. She collapsed in the doorway and watched Rajan in the middle of the courtyard with the soldier on his knees. He was yelling, but she could only make out a few words as the others gathered to watch the spectacle. He pulled a pistol from his holster and didn’t hesitate dropping the soldier in front of the group. He began to yell again as he marched over to the house. He stood on the porch and pointed at Daniels clutching the doorframe.
Still shaky on the language and reeling from the events she made out one word. “Mine.”
Rajan reholstered his pistol and helped Daniels to her feet. He walked her past the children and into a small bedroom. Fear pulled at her, but she tried to relax. He sat her on the bed and went into the adjoining bathroom, returning with a cool, damp rag. She pulled her knees into her chest and pressed up against the headboard.
He started to run the cloth along her forehead, but she took it from him and used it to wipe down her tear-streaked face. It felt wonderful on her skin and she took several deep breaths, to bring herself back under control. Daniels knew that without Rajan those men would have raped her without a second thought.
Taking a seat in a chair next to the bed, Rajan said, “I’m sorry I had to strike you. I can’t have anyone challenging my authority here. Any weakness might provoke a challenge. I’m also sorry I left you alone before I established that you were not to be touched.”
She didn’t speak, but sat with the cool rag against her skin. She had never had her world so completely turned upside down. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “May I have some water, please?” she asked.
He nodded and left the room quickly, returning a few moments later with a bottle of water from the kitchen. “Drink this,” he said. “You will feel better.”
“I’m not sure I’m ever going to feel better,” she said. “I feel filthy and I don’t even know why.”
“Because even though those men did not rape you, you know what they planned. They treated you like…like you had no value. That is why you feel dirty.”
Catching her breath, Daniels said, “You’re a psychologist, too?”
He laughed softly. “No, but I am not unfamiliar with such traumas.”
“That’s not very reassuring,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “You will stay here until the ransom is paid. If you behave, the smaller children may stay here with you and you can school them, but you may not approach those in training.”
She looked around the room and reflected on what she understood from the courtyard. Pirates always extracted a price and she began to ponder the reality that he may be showing her kindness because he expected her to share his bed.
“And where will you sleep?”
“I will sleep with the soldiers in the bunkhouse. This room will be yours alone. I will send two other women for you to have as servants, but you must not task them with anything that is forbidden. They are not worth what you are, and you would be risking their lives for the trespass.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Ransom and piracy are part of the way of life here,” he said.
“No, that I get, but I don’t get you. What is it you want from me?”
“You’ll understand everything in due course. This will be the only time I ask, you must trust me and you must do what I tell you. This is not all what you think.”
MICHELLE PETERSON STARED at the man across the table from her flipping through the State Department reports that she acquired. He had everything that a special ops military man was supposed to: muscular physique, mysterious good looks and enough training and skill to render a small country’s entire military inoperative in under an hour. This morning, however, he was dressed in civilian clothing, and something about him nagged at her perceptions. He didn’t act like a military man, strictly speaking, and he sure didn’t seem like a traditionalist when it came to operations. She trusted President Daniels completely, so when he’d said that a man named Hal Brognola was the person to turn to when Heather was taken, she believed him.
What she didn’t believe was that the man sitting across from her was in the Army. The fit didn’t feel quite right to her. She needed to know more about him before they went into the field. This wasn’t the kind of mission she wanted to tackle with someone she couldn’t trust.
“May I ask you a question, Colonel?” she asked.
He took another sip of coffee and nodded. “Go ahead.”
“You aren’t really active military, are you?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What makes you say that?”
“Men with the rank of colonel wear their uniform—understandably—with a great deal of pride. You aren’t wearing yours today.”
“Uniforms attract notice,” he said. “We don’t need that right now.”
“Also,” she added, “military men don’t work alone. Even special ops guys have field teams. You don’t. Not to mention your file is sealed. The only military personnel files that are completely sealed are files of people that don’t really exist. So who are you really?”
He sighed, obviously thinking about her words and what his response would be. “All right, Agent Peterson. Here’s what I can tell you. My name is Matt Cooper, and yes, I am also known as Colonel Brandon Stone.”
“So who is Hal Brognola, really?”
“He’s real,” he said. “We work together sometimes, doing missions that have a vital interest to national security. That’s all you really need to know for our purposes and all you’re going to know, period. Anything else is above your clearance.”
She thought he was probably lying. This man might have dozens of identities. But the President trusted Brognola, and this was the man Brognola said could get the job done. “Fair enough—for now,” she said. “But if you aren’t as capable as Hal Brognola convinced the President you are, I’ll figure that out. I won’t have anyone risking Heather.”
He shook his head slightly. “Agent Peterson, you’ve just summed up the problem with your involvement rather nicely. This mission isn’t about Heather. She’s secondary, and even President Daniels knows that. If you can’t get your head around that idea, hit the road right now.”
“Heather may be secondary to you, Matt Cooper or Colonel Stone or whoever the hell you really are, but she’s primary to me!” Peterson’s voice started rising slightly toward the end of her rant, but she noticed it and toned herself down. “I don’t care about the LTTE or pirates. I care about her. This family means a lot to me, and I will not fail them.”
“Take a deep breath, Agent Peterson,” he said mildly. “One step at a time, okay? I plan to save Heather, but we can’t do anything until we understand what we’re walking into. I don’t mind going into the den, but I’d like to know how big the lions are before we jump into the black.”
She pushed the eggs around on her plate as she contemplated the mess she was in. There were few situations in life she couldn’t handle, but Heather being held captive seemed to be putting her over the edge. She’d known the Daniels family for years—before he became President—and had been around the family so long that they were her family. She’d been there when Heather graduated. And she knew what captivity meant.
She also knew that Cooper was right, she needed to slow down and take one step at a time or she would spend the entire mission running in circles.
The slow, gnawing anxiety of prefield work that once made her adrenaline pump was now almost paralyzing. She was determined not to allow it to control her or the outcome of this mission, but she wasn’t so prideful to only rely on herself. She needed Cooper, or whatever his real name was, and needing anyone was really against her nature. If he really was as good as Brognola had told President Daniels—“He’s the best special operations man I’ve got and if he can’t get it done, no one can.”—then he’d be invaluable.
Cooper’s phone rang and Peterson rolled the fork along the edge of her plate anticipating that this would be the call that would get them moving in the right direction. She was determined to control herself, but inside she could feel the clock ticking and her imagination had no trouble whatsoever filling in the details of what might be happening to a young woman she cared about deeply.
CHAPTER SIX
Finishing his conversation with Brognola, Bolan glanced at his handheld computer and saw that the data had arrived, then said, “Yeah, I got it,” and hung up.
“What is it?” Peterson asked.
“It’s better if I show you.”
Bolan pulled out a small device about the length of a ruler, but circular. He tugged the small cord from the end and plugged it into his handheld computer. He pulled a transparent sheet that had been spiraled inside and spread it out on the table until it formed a legal-size sheet. Bolan punched keys on the handheld computer and the transparent paper came to life. He reached forward and touched the glowing icons, dragging them with his finger and tucking them away.
“What is that?” Michelle asked.
“It’s a fairly new piece of tech I’ve got access to for the purposes of field testing. My phone has enough processing power to work as a PC and this allows me computer access anywhere I go. It automatically links up with a satellite and gets me resources that I might not have otherwise. Some things I can even work on as a 3D hologram, like building schematics, but its interactive capabilities in hologram form are limited and not very responsive to touch.”
Peterson reached out and touched the images on the table. The sheet itself reminded her of an overhead projector transparency. The icons moved when she slid her fingers across the page. The icons were so sensitive that she was able to spin one, blow it up and shrink it with just a flick of her finger.
Amused at her response, Bolan asked, “Would you like to play some more or would you like me to show you what we found?” Without waiting for her response, he moved two picture icons up on the screen.
“You’re going to love this,” he continued. “All of our data is starting to come together. This is Kabilan Vengai. We think he’s the current leader of the Ocean Tigers. As we suspected, the Ocean Tigers are a newly formed branch of the LTTE, likely taking the place of the old KP Branch. After the former leader was deposed, there was some dissension in what was left of the ranks. Vengai solved this problem by having his chief opponent strung up by his entrails.”
“It’s not all that uncommon to display the body of an enemy,” Peterson said.
“He wasn’t a body when they put him on display,” Bolan said shortly. “Rumor has it that Vengai made sure they were extra careful when they pulled him apart and kept him squirming for a good long while.”
Peterson swallowed and nodded for Bolan to continue.
“This guy,” he said, enlarging the second image, “we’re not so sure about.”
“Who is he?” she asked. “Do you have an identity?”
“Maybe,” he said. “We ran his image through some facial recognition software against a few of our databases. He’s one of Vengai’s favorites right now, but we don’t know where he came from or really anything else. The only name we’ve got for him is Rajan. He’s in charge of most of the hostage negotiation, but…”
“But what?”
“He seems to show up at critical times and defuse tense situations. He’s not what I would expect from this kind of organization. The LTTE is hard-core and wouldn’t play well with someone who tried to keep the peace. We’ve got some people looking for more information on him, and when we find out more, I’ll let you know. What little we have on him was buried in a highly classified email within the Sri Lankan government server. That suggests that this guy isn’t what he appears to be on the surface.”
“Maybe a plant or a spy of some kind? That might give us an advantage, right?” she asked, trying to ignore the feeling of hope blooming in her stomach. If he was there, maybe he’d try to keep Heather safe.
“Maybe,” Bolan admitted. “He might be someone we can negotiate with or he might simply be another very dangerous obstacle. We can’t take anything for granted right now.”
Obviously trying to shrug off her feelings, she said, “I guess he goes into the bad guy column for now. We have so little that I’m willing to hold out a little hope.”
“We just don’t know,” Bolan said. “He’s an anomaly and anomalies bother me. Organizations like the LTTE don’t survive for very long with dissension in the ranks. You know as well as I do that it’s about making believers out of their troops.” He shrugged. “I imagine we’ll know soon enough.”
Bolan slid several scenes across the device until he came to a financial report. Peterson traced her finger along the columns as he spoke.
“Hal pulled up this data, but with your intelligence background he figured you’d probably spot something faster than one of his analysts.”
Peterson scanned the document once more, then highlighted several transactions. “Can you run a search and correlate on these?” she asked.
He nodded and entered the command for the search function to cross-reference against known terrorist organizations and matching institutions.
“There it is,” she said.
The small screen displayed the information for a political action committee located in the Washington, D.C., area called TPAC. Bolan traced his finger and spun the image back his way and sent out an immediate search for known contributors to TPAC and any connections to known members of the LTTE. While the search was running, a secondary search recorded a media alert. Bolan tapped the icon and an article appeared on the screen, with a man’s name and picture. Tim Wright.
“Oh, that’s right,” Peterson said. “I saw that come across the wire this morning. This guy was supposed to be an amazing programmer and he was murdered last night. Everyone was talking about it because they say he was the best.”
“People always say that when someone dies,” Bolan replied. “It’s human nature to be complimentary to people once they’re dead.”
“In this case, I guess the praise is deserved. There are some people at pretty high levels of defense trying to figure out how his work is going to be completed, let alone continued. He’s one of those Rain Man types that can look at a piece of code and tell you how to get the recipe for grandma’s cookies or in this case crack just about any computer in the world.”
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