Cutting Edge, page 14
part #139 of The Executioner Series
Hronopulos nodded. "Mull of Kintyre. Mobile Mine Assembly Group 2's there, too. What are you driving at?"
"I understand they store some interesting equipment there. I think one of their special 'backpacks' might be just the insurance policy I'm looking for."
The captain grinned. "I see where you're heading, Pollock, and it just might work. But you realize, if you'll pardon the pun, this could damn sure blow up in your face."
"Right. How long will it take you to get one here?"
Hronopulos frowned. "That depends. If we go through channels, I'd say we'll have it by the turn of the century." He blew air between his lips in disgust. "But if we can sidestep the bureaucratic bullshit, it won't take long. I'll get them started now." He picked up the phone. "Get me Lieutenant Oven, RAF Machrihanish, Becky," he said. "Ring me back as soon as he's on the line." He hung up.
"We'll leave Raul here for the time being," Bolan told him. "He's as safe here as anywhere." He turned back to the SEAL team. "Which one of you's the demo man?"
A short, compact man with coal-black hair looked up. "Gunner's Mate Second-Class Patrick Harkin, sir," he said. "Underwater and ground demolition."
"You picked up on what the captain and I were talking about?"
The young man grinned. "I did, sir."
Bolan stood up. "Let's go. We'll have to wait for delivery from Scotland before we make the final preps, but there's plenty we can do in the meantime."
Harkin rose and followed Bolan to the door.
The captain walked them down the hall and outside into the blistering Florida sun. "It's the Alpha aspect of this thing that worries me," he confided. "I know the Company boys are supposed to be keeping watch over their little Cuban pals, but this is like training an attack dog not to eat dry dog food until he gets the command, then dangling a sirloin steak in his face. The temptation's too great."
"I'm not crazy about the setup myself," Bolan admitted. "But there's not much we can do about it at this stage of the game. We'll just have to make the best of the situation."
George Hronopulos extended his hand once more. "You know what I think I hate most about all this, Pollock?" he asked.
Bolan gripped the big Greek's hand.
Hronopulos looked back at the building where Raul Castillo was under temporary guard. "Eating dinner with the son of a bitch tonight." He shook his head. "And in my own goddamn house."
* * *
Hronopulos ushered Raul Castillo, the six Navy SEALS and Bolan into the front hall of his house and left them in the hands of the Cuban maid.
"Show them to their rooms, will you, Serifina?" he said. He couldn't resist a grin when the woman stared at Castillo. She knew who he was, and she looked as if she'd love to tear out his eyes with her fingernails.
Hronopulos walked down the hall to the den and grabbed a bottle of ouzo from the shelf behind the bar. He poured two fingers into a highball glass, hesitated a moment, then replaced the bottle. No, it wouldn't pay to get sloshed tonight. Not with that fuzz-faced son of a bitch's minister of defense as a houseguest.
Hronopulos took a seat in an overstuffed leather armchair and thought again about the mysterious man who had brought in Castillo. He didn't buy the Pollock name. It didn't fit, somehow — not that it was that unusual for government agents to go under aliases.
But George Hronopulos wasn't even sure Pollock — or whatever the hell his name really was — was a government agent. At least not the traditional kind. Oh, he was working with the U.S., all right, but he certainly didn't fit the mold of the gray pin-striped spooks in the Riviera sunglasses. Rance Pollock acted more like a Special Forces soldier.
The big Greek glanced at his watch. Oven's plane should touch down soon. Hronopulos thought of what the man would be bringing from the base in Scotland, and he shuddered.
No, Pollock definitely wasn't CIA. He'd known countless Company men during the past twenty-five years, but he'd never met a spook yet who'd have balls big enough to try what Pollock had planned.
Hronopulos crossed his legs and felt the belly flesh strain against his belt. He frowned. Soft, dammit. Well, that's what happened when a man was put out to pasture. It didn't seem to matter how much time he spent in the base gym or out on the track. It wasn't the same as running twelve miles with a sixty-pound rucksack and weapons.
And, dammit, it wasn't as much… fun.
Hronopulos stood up as the maid escorted Pollock, the Cuban and two of the SEALS into the den. He held up his glass. "Drink?" he asked. The Americans shook their heads. The captain glanced at the untouched ouzo in his hand and set it on the bar.
"Cuba libre," Castillo said, "if you have it."
Hronopulos looked down at the shorter man. Free Cuba, my ass. "I've got it," he said.
He walked behind the bar and poured two shots of Myers's rum into a glass. Opening the small refrigerator, he found a half-empty bottle of Pepsi with no cap. Hronopulos smiled to himself when it didn't fizz as he stirred it into the rum.
Rather than hand the glass to the Cuban, he set it on the bar and turned to Bolan. "Where's the rest of the team?"
"I've got them set up around the perimeter," the big man said. "These two will join them as rovers in a few minutes."
The men sat down to await dinner. Hronopulos smiled to himself. With the exception of Castillo, they looked about as comfortable as nuns at a male strip show. The Cuban was making himself right at home, relaxing on the couch and sipping daintily at his flat drink like some Dade County faggot.
But the rest were men of action. All of them. They had no business baby-sitting this commie bastard, himself included.
The maid returned to announce dinner, and the two SEALS disappeared to join the others. Hronopulos followed Bolan down the hall, noting the slight bulge under his sport coat next to the shoulder blade.
The big man walked next to Castillo. He hadn't let the Cuban out of his sight since they'd left DESDIV headquarters. He'd even insisted on sharing a room in the house with him.
George Hronopulos followed the men to the room his wife called the conservatory. The entire back wall was a series of jalousie windows that opened onto the patio. In the evenings, the windows stayed open, the gentle breezes off the Straits of Florida blowing through to rustle the leaves of the potted palm trees and cool the room.
Gleaming silver utensils and china for four stretched the length of the long, glass dining table. Hronopulos saw that his wife was already seated, and he looked her over. She wore a long, black cocktail dress and pearls, and dammit, she still looked good after almost thirty years as a Navy wife.
But he couldn't help the small amount of resentment that always hit him whenever he saw her, now. Mary had talked him into accepting this assignment. She'd finally convinced him he was getting older; it was time to take it easy. But Mary had adapted much better than he had to the social functions and other bullshit no real sailor could ever stomach.
The three men joined the lady as a steward in whites served the salad. Hronopulos and Bolan ate in silence while Mary and Castillo began chatting like old friends.
"I have always wished to visit Cuba," Mary said.
"Well," Raul replied, smiling, "perhaps that can be arranged after I inform my premier of the excellent treatment I have received in your home." He paused and looked around in mock fear. "Unless, of course, the next course is… liver."
Mary giggled like a schoolgirl.
Hronopulos stuck a forkful of salad in his mouth and washed it down with a sip of the white wine the steward had just poured. He noticed Bolan hadn't touched his glass.
"It's a privilege to have you," Mary said.
Hronopulos bit down on his fork.
The steward returned with a silver tray and circled the room, setting bowls in front of the guests and their hosts. He was ladling soup into Castillo's bowl when suddenly the ladle dropped from his hand and splashed into the bowl.
"For God's sake, do be more careful, Dizon," Mary chided in embarrassment.
The steward stood motionless for a moment, his eyes widening, then he slumped to the floor, a trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Bolan dived toward the Cuban and pulled him to the floor, jerking a huge automatic pistol from under his coat as they fell. The sounds of machine-gun fire erupted at the front of the house.
Hronopulos grabbed his wife and fell over her as Bolan rose and started for the windows. "Get them upstairs," the warrior ordered.
Crawling along the tile of the floor, Hronopulos pushed his wife and Castillo in front of him. When they were through the door, they stood and hurried down the hail and up the stairs. The Cuban's mouth was hanging open in shock; the bronze skin of his face had turned a sickly gray.
In the master bedroom, Hronopulos shoved the two into the closet before jerking open the top drawer of the dresser and jamming a Government Model .45 down the front of his trousers. From under the bed, he pulled a Carl Gustav M-45B submachine gun, rammed a full magazine home and bolted a round into the chamber before setting up in front of the closed closet door.
He was as mad as hell at Mary for getting him into this «retirement» job in the first place, and he hated the pretentious little prick who now cowered in the closet with her. He'd be more than happy to put a round between the bastard's eyes himself under the right circumstances.
But he'd be damned if anybody else was going to do it, and no one, by God, was going to hurt his wife.
Not in George Hronopulos's own goddamned house.
Bolan crashed through the jalousie windows, his arms crossed to protect his face. The constant staccato of automatic fire came from the front of the house, but the bullets sailing through the jalousie windows had been silenced. Whoever was behind the long-range weapon somewhere to the rear had fitted it with a suppressor.
The Executioner sprinted across the patio and onto the lawn as dirt and grass flew by his feet from the silent rounds. He hit the ground running and rolled behind the trunk of a stout elm tree at the rear of the yard.
He'd noted the angle of trajectory of the tiny hole that appeared in the wall behind the steward. The Sheetrock had rippled downward slightly, below where the bullet had entered, which meant the sniper was firing from high ground.
Bolan surveyed the immediate area. At least one of the SEALS should have been at the back. He stuck his face around the elm and scanned upward. He jerked back as a thud hit the trunk.
The captain's home sat at the edge of the housing area. Directly behind the yard grew a small cluster of trees and broad-leaved plants that separated the area from a row of training facilities in the distance. Bolan stuck his head around the tree once more.
Nothing. They hadn't come for him. Whoever had fired through the open windows of Hronopulos's house had one goal in mind — kill Raul Castillo.
Bolan straightened and sprinted through the trees, watching his flanks with peripheral vision. As he neared the edge, he could see through the leaves to the training buildings.
On the far side of the sonar calibration facility, he saw a man in jeans and a T-shirt jump from the roof as a Ford van screeched to a halt. The side panel opened and arms reached through to grab the rifle before pulling the man inside. The van sped away.
So much for open bases, Bolan thought.
He slowed to a jog until he reached the one-story building. Close to where the man had jumped, he found a pile of packing crates and, holstering the big .44, climbed to the roof.
Bolan walked to the edge facing the back of the captain's house. In the sun-softened tar by the edge of the building he could make out knee prints, and empty brass .308 casings lay scattered around the area.
Bolan dropped to the ground and jogged back to the house where the chief petty officer was setting Pat Harkin onto the couch in the living room. Blood was dripping from the young man's leg.
Harkin grinned up at Bolan through gritted teeth. "Caught one in the calf, sir. Carelessness on my part. Sorry."
George Hronopulos came down the staircase followed closely by his wife and the Cuban. The big Greek had the sling of an M-45B around his neck and looked as if he were itching to put it to use. "You see who it was?" he asked Bolan.
The warrior shook his head. "Never got close enough." He turned to where the officer sat, applying a field bandage to Harkin's leg. "You?"
Both men shook their heads. "There were a dozen or so, though," Harkin said. He winced as the officer tightened the bandage. "Wearing street clothes. I was close enough to tell you this — they all had dark hair and skin — so I guess we can take a pretty good guess, huh? And I got the definite feeling they weren't really trying to kill anyone. More of a diversionary tactic."
Bolan nodded. "It was to draw attention away from the rear. Who was supposed to be out back? I didn't see anyone when I ran through."
Harkin's brow lowered. "Addington, I think."
One by one, three more SEALS returned to the house.
"Anyone seen Addington?" Bolan asked them.
All three shook their heads.
Bolan left two of the men at the house and took a third, carrying an MP-5, to the backyard with him. "Reed, you check to the right," he ordered the man.
The Executioner had gone only ten paces into the clump of trees when he spotted the camouflage field boot sticking out of the brush. He called to his companion.
The warrior tore away the leaves and vines to reveal the body of the short, wiry man. The silenced .22 had fallen from the cross-draw holster and lay next to the M-16 still clutched in his hands.
The bullet had entered just above the ear on the left side of Addington's head, piercing the camouflage sweatband and taking half of the young SEAL'S head with it as it exited on the other side.
"Harkin was right about the fire in front being a diversion," Bolan told Reed as the man stared down at the corpse of his fallen comrade. "It was the part about not trying to kill anybody he was wrong about."
Bolan and Reed carried Addington back to the house.
"All right, dammit," Hronopulos thundered when he saw the body. "I've had enough of this bureaucratic, ass-kissing bullshit to last a lifetime." He jammed a thumb at the Cuban, who sat passively in an armchair. "This son of a bitch is going to the ship, and I don't give a rat's ass what the sand crabs in Washington have to say about it." He stalked to the phone, the instrument jerking each time he jammed a heavy finger into a number. "This is Hronopulos. Get me Brow Watch."
The big Greek barked orders to both stations, and then turned to Bolan. "There'll be shore patrolmen when we reach the ship, and I've got half the Marine detachment on their way here, now." He paused. "That sound okay to you, Pollock?"
Bolan nodded and turned to Castillo. "Stand up." The Executioner turned toward Harkin. "Can you walk?" he asked.
Harkin rose unsteadily, took two cautious steps, then limped to Bolan. "Yes, sir." Bolan directed him to stand next to the Cuban. The Executioner eyed the two men. "Close enough," he said, then turned to Mary Hronopulos. "Have you got a wig?"
"Well, yes. I have a fall," she replied, looking puzzled.
"Would you get it?" Bolan asked.
"We'll need two transport vehicles," the warrior said to the captain. "I want one of them to look civilian."
"We can use Mary's Seville," Hronopulos offered. He lifted the receiver and dialed another number.
"How long before we can expect the Marines?" Bolan asked.
Hronopulos shrugged, the phone wedged between his shoulder and cheek. "Ten, fifteen minutes."
The blood was returning to Mary Hronopulos's face. She turned toward her husband. "Should we… finish dinner while we wait?"
Hronopulos's eyes shot daggers at her from across the room.
Bolan looked at Mary and said, "Get the fall, please, Mrs. Hronopulos." He glanced back to Harkin. "And some dark makeup. We'll find plenty to keep us occupied between now and the time they arrive."
Mary Hronopulos turned and disappeared up the stairs.
Bolan turned to Castillo. "Take off your clothes."
"What?"
"Do it."
The Executioner turned to Harkin, but the grinning SEAL was already unbuttoning his shirt.
11
Bolan helped the Marine slip the soft body armor over. Raul Castillo's head. He fastened the Velcro closures and dropped the steel plate in the pocket over the Cuban's heart.
Castillo began buttoning the shirt that Harkin had removed moments before. "This is heavy," he complained.
"Tough shit," Hronopulos growled from the background. "If it was up to me you wouldn't be wearing it."
The phone rang, and Hronopulos grabbed it. "Yeah?" He pressed the instrument to his ear and gritted his teeth as he listened. "I don't give a damn, Featherstone," he finally shouted. "I've lost one man already 'cause you spooks can't control your little friends. I stand to lose more, not to mention showing my ass all over the national press as the station commander who couldn't even get his man to the ship." He paused, listened, then yelled again. "You're damn right we'll discuss it tomorrow morning. That is, if any of us are left. And that includes you, Featherstone. 'Cause I promise you this. If I make it through the night, I intend to kick me some CIA ass before I do any talking."
He slammed down the receiver and turned to Bolan. "The spooks felt them out yesterday, and the Alpha 66 honchos didn't even know Raul was here. But they've got some renegade splinter group, or whatever you want to call it, and they're damn sure aware of it. Word has it that they got a phone call from somebody yesterday afternoon."
Bolan nodded. Buddy Taylor was dead, but he was throwing monkey wrenches from beyond the grave. Bolan remembered the phone booth at the Mazatlán harbor where he'd called Brognola. The timing was just about right. Taylor had had plenty of time to kill Valdez and sprint to the booth while the Executioner had been below with the Cuban.
Valdez had died simply to cover the unscrupulous mercenary's last double cross.
"How many troops in this splinter group?" Bolan asked.
Hronopulos shrugged. "There's no way to tell. But Alpha 66 numbers in the thousands."
