altering their bodies, their fight response heightening in a way that made them—short of death itself—invincible. A test bar of steel, half an inch thick, lay on the table. He picked it up and, bare-handed, bent it in two. The men murmured. He gestured toward the door. “Get the boats into the water.”
Thirteen minutes later he huddled with his men on stony ground fifty feet up from the shoreline, hidden under starlit darkness and four camouflage thermal blankets. The security system set up by the Alyeska pipeline oil partnership was ridiculously inadequate. A single fence, half a dozen cameras and only a token force of armed security guards. No motion detectors, no dead man’s entrance, no slalom barriers. Only a few feet away lay a dead-end cul-de-sac in the road near Loading Berth Five.
The drizzle thickened into cold, pelting sleet. Finally the red security truck appeared. He nudged Wyczek. The two of them shimmied free of the blanket, hugged the ground as they moved apart till they reached the pavement on opposite sides of the cul-de-sac. The truck entered the turnaround and circled. Wyczek rose. The dummkopf driver’s mouth dropped open in amazement. The man hit the brakes, fumbled at his holstered gun.
The enforcer bolted across the asphalt and, with his bare fist, shattered the window. He grabbed the door, ripped the thing off its hinges and tossed it aside, then pulled his combat knife. The driver turned. The enforcer slid across the seat and rammed his blade under the ribs, up into the man’s heart. “Terra eterna,” he whispered.
He holstered the knife and then grabbed the driver’s twitching body with both fists, yanked it from the truck and threw it like a rag doll to the side of the road. With his men, he piled into the truck bed.
Wyczek leaped into the truck cab and drove them back toward the terminal entrance. They turned right onto an access road to the upper levels, cruised past the Operations complex. The enforcer scanned for signs of danger.
“Still no alarm,” Slow Jack muttered.
Wyczek braked to a halt. With Slow Jack, Wyczek and two other soldiers, the enforcer hit the ground running. His Uzi chugging, Wyczek chewed up the Ops Center door. Another Earth Warrior lobbed in a satchel charge packed with C-4 explosive and shrapnel, and the enforcer tossed a matching satchel through a window.
A brief pause, then two quick blasts.
The windows blew outward, the door exploded. The pipeline personnel knew they were here now.
Yellow and red light washed upward into the night. Kariango and Soustelle had blown the microwave antennae linking the Ops Center to the twelve pumping stations. They had cut off the snake’s head. No way now could Valdez shut down the flow of oil or alert the outlying stations.
A brief vision of oil spilling across open tundra flashed into his head. Can’t be helped. He further reassured himself by softly uttering one of The Founder’s sayings, “If we must inflict some pain to the body to save it, so be it.”
It took only eight more minutes to lay the plastique and the white phosphorus grenades in the walls of the containment dikes. The Alyeska security force finally came to life and under a storm of gunfire, he and his men dashed for the truck. Kariango took a hit in the leg.
Wyczek raced the truck toward the beach. Under fire, all of them piled into the Zodiacs. Two more men took hits before they could get out of firing range. When they were, the enforcer yelled, “Throttle back!” Wyczek slowed to near halt and the enforcer hit the electronic detonator. A roar bounded across the water. Then another.
The sound was impressive, but the sight— Christ! Hundred-foot-high flames gouged like hungry tongues through the rain, licking the blackness. He clenched his fists. “Fantastish!” he whispered. His whole body vibrated. He sat transfixed.
Operation Viper had been executed flawlessly. Within the week he would report to The Founder in triumph. He shook himself and gave Wyczek the signal to get them out of here. As always, in a few hours he and the other men would hit “the pit” when the drug wore off, but the week-long depression was a small price to pay for this kind of thrill.
The Zodiacs streaked into the darkness.
Chapter 2
La Jolla, 7:00 a.m.
Sunday, May 15
“Nova, love. There is a Mr. Right for you. Your problem is, you don’t try.”
Reginald Pennypacker wheezed out his words of criticism between breaths as he and Nova rounded the final curve of the path along the bluff where they ran each morning. First her daily run, then the cougar photos.
They slowed to cool-down speed for the last block, uphill to the white, red-tile-roofed condominium where they each occupied one of the two top-floor units. Nova’s lips turned up in a slight smile. Reginald Penny-packer, “Penny” as nearly everyone called him, was the closest thing she had to a best friend and confidant.
She was sorry her refusal to come to his party had him upset, but he’d never know the dark things Nova Blair had done. There’s never going to be a Mr. Right, because I’ll always be Mrs. Wrong. Murder. Prison. Her work for the Company. No, Penny would never know why all his attempts at matchmaking would fail.
She treasured this spectacular La Jolla coastline. The best part of their run was that it let her gauge the Pacific’s waves, smell her breath, feel her mood. Today the great ocean had the blues: flat, gray-blue water sloshed indifferently against the beach. The on-shore breeze carried the stink of seaweed. A perfect day for nitty-gritty slave labor in the darkroom. The magazine photo contest deadline was breathing down her neck. And then, there were the cougars. “I try. I keep my eye out for possibilities.”
“If you were trying, you’d come Saturday.” He used the hem of his red T-shirt to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead. “How can you say you can’t make my party and still claim to be on the lookout for a man? I told a widowed admiral and a filthy rich, recently divorced trial lawyer you’d be there. They weren’t going to come but I promised I’d introduce them to a world-class adventuress photographer. A dazzler with emerald-green eyes and onyx-black hair.”
Nova reflected with a photographer’s eye on Penny’s slender elegance. Thirty-eight. Built like a marathoner. Part Irish and part Afro-American, and fiercely proud of both heritages. He was the owner of La Jolla’s most exclusive beauty salon and he’d invited a “select group” of patrons and friends to a bash for his long-time lover’s birthday. He smiled. Apparently his temper had cooled. He yanked twice on her ponytail. “You really must show. So I won’t look like a fool.”
“Why would you tell them I’d be there? You know how my life works. I might be out of town. In fact, how about you just tell them I am out of town.”
A two-brick-high trim bordered the green lawn next to them. Nova purposely stubbed her toe against the trim, did a somersault and landed on her back on the lawn. Alarmed, Penny rushed to kneel beside her. She reached up and, grinning, tugged twice on his earring. “Better yet. Tell them I had a jogging accident and broke my leg.”
He shook his head, returned her grin and extended his hand to help her up. “See what I mean? You don’t try. You avoid.”
I don’t avoid. I’m just a realist.
Side by side, they trotted up the three-floor stairwell. At the top they stepped onto the balcony running the length of its west side. From behind four palm trees standing
