has been operating for some time,” Price said. “They’ve built a reputation as a secret society, dubbed by many of their victims as the Red Brood.”
“That’s a lovely name,” Schwarz said with a snort.
“Do we know any more than that?” Lyons asked.
It was Brognola who replied. “We do. And that’s why we’ve called you back here. We believe there’s a better than off chance the group that hit Maser is just part of a larger organization, a slaver outfit that’s been kidnapping kids all over the country. Boys, girls, blacks, whites, Hispanics...the list is nearly endless.”
“And they’ve chosen to expose themselves now?”
“It looks like these operators actually ended up stepping outside of the parameters of their original orders,” Price said. “We think they got greedy and stole the money. What they didn’t count on was that Senator Maser kept a journal of everything he did—the phone calls and the money and the drive they took him on. Local authorities found the journal he left behind in his SUV. They believe, although can’t prove, that the location of the vehicle is likely where he was killed.”
“So where do we start?” Blancanales asked.
“Charlie Maser had a close friend, Congressman Thomas Acres of Florida,” Price replied. “Nine hours ago, Acres got a call at his private residence outside of Georgetown and was told his son had been taken from the private school he attends. They gave Acres instructions to put together a half-million-dollar ransom and told him they would contact him with delivery instructions.”
“How did they make the connection?” Schwarz asked.
“The FBI has had a wiretap on Acres for some days,” Price said. “Completely coincidental but as soon as they heard this they contacted their highers, who immediately flagged it and in turn routed it to the investigative team assigned to Maser’s case.”
“Your mission is to follow Acres to the delivery point and attempt to apprehend the kidnappers,” Brognola said.
“And if they won’t come quietly?”
“Terminate with extreme prejudice.”
Lyons nodded. “Now that I can understand.”
* * *
IT TOOK THE THREE MEN of Able Team less than a minute to figure out that Thomas Acres, Republican congressman from the great state of Florida, was being tailed.
According to Stony Man’s intelligence, the route the kidnappers gave Acres was identical to the one Maser had driven—a fact that had come straight from the deceased senator’s journal—although the destination turned out to be quite different. Instead of turning south once in Maryland and following the Chesapeake Bay route, Acres had been instructed to head straight into the heart of downtown Baltimore.
They were in a late-model Dodge Charger, just one of the many vehicles in the Stony Man fleet, with untraceable Washington plates. Any cops who ran those plates would be politely informed that, while domestic, they belonged to the U.S. Diplomatic Corps and as such the occupants of the vehicle were immune from detainment or search. It wasn’t an uncommon thing in this part of the country, especially so close to the nation’s capital, and was typically enough to send the police off to look for juicier prey.
The tail on Acres turned out to be a Chevy van with New York plates. Blancanales had suggested contacting Stony Man to run the vehicle registration but Lyons dismissed the idea.
“Better to stay back and see where this goes,” Lyons said as he withdrew the Colt Anaconda from shoulder leather and double-checked the load.
While his partners chose semiautomatics, Lyons preferred a wheel gun. He had plenty of experience with semiautos and no problem using them in a pinch, but in the end he felt more at home with the knockdown power of the .44 Magnum loads. John “Cowboy” Kissinger, resident gunsmith for the entire Stony Man arsenal, had once asked Lyons to try a .44 Desert Eagle, the Executioner’s preferred heavy-duty pistol, but Lyons ultimately dismissed the idea for his trusted Anaconda. In earlier days Lyons had often carried the .357 Colt Python, but he realized eventually the necessity of an upgrade. It suited him, frankly, and Carl Lyons would never apologize for carrying whatever firearms seemed most comfortable to him. The sleek weapon’s stainless finish glinted in the overhead lights of the highway as Lyons holstered his weapon.
Blancanales had opted for a P-239 chambered for .357 Magnum. The SIG-Sauer sported a 7-round detachable box magazine and a muzzle velocity of more than 400 meters per second. In the hands of Rosario Blancanales, the weapon meant death for whatever target he aimed at.
The arsenal was rounded out with a Beretta 92F. Designated the M-9 by the U.S. military when adopted as its official sidearm, the 92F chambered 9 mm Parabellum rounds custom-loaded for the pistol in 158-grain SJHP, the hottest load Kissinger would permit for the weapon. While the pistol had been known to endure up to 185-grain loads without jams or misfeeds, Kissinger had insisted the lower grain was more effective for the semijacketed hollow points. Schwarz would not dispute it, having seen the pistol perform fantastically in the field time and again.
“You realize,” Blancanales said as he signaled and changed lanes to maintain flank on the driver’s side of the van tailing Acres, “that we have no idea if these are just observers or the actual kidnappers.”
“Doesn’t really matter,” Lyons countered. “The fact is we have orders to either take them alive or take them out.”
“I understand that.” Blancanales maintained a suave, easy tone, leaving no doubt as to how he’d earned his “Politician” moniker. “All I’m saying is that this could go hard very fast if we jump the gun.”
“Understood,” Lyons said. “Let’s just see where it goes before we start getting jumpy.”
“Tell you what I’m getting,” Schwarz interjected. “Hungry.”
Blancanales’s eyes flicked to the backseat. “How you can think of food at a time like this?”
“How you can you not?” Schwarz cracked.
“Heads up,” Lyons interjected. “Acres is exiting the highway.”
“Here?” Schwarz shook his head and referred to his phone with a full, secure satellite uplink direct to the Farm’s computer network. “This isn’t anywhere near the stopping point.”
“It’s a rest area,” Blancanales said as he had to negotiate two lanes of traffic in order to make the exit in time.
“Idiot,” Lyons muttered. “The transcript from the wiretap indicated his instructions were not to stop anywhere.”
“Maybe he has to take a leak,” Schwarz observed.
“And risk his son’s life?” Lyons shook his head. “I don’t think so. Something’s not right.”
Acres cleared the exit, followed by the van with the Able Team vehicle bringing up the rear. Blancanales tried to drive as nonchalantly as possible, although he realized that was a bit of a misnomer. How the hell could anybody drive nonchalantly? There wasn’t anything casual or nonchalant in what was going on here and it was pure stupidity to think for a moment that his driving could somehow make it appear differently.
