the fallen Sharif.
“I’ll get an ID sample,” Bolan said, and took out his KA-BAR.
Washington shouldered the recovered AK-47, then grabbed Sharif’s rifle. “No sense leaving these behind.”
“Put them with the artillery shells,” Bolan said. “They can all go up together.”
Washington looked askance. “I was thinking war souvenirs.”
He shrugged. “As long as you carry them.”
Washington grinned and slung the second rifle.
Bolan straightened the index finger of Sharif’s right hand, flattened it against the stone floor, then adjusted the blade of the KA-BAR.
Bringing Sharif’s body back with them was out of the question. Some blood and a bit of flesh would have to do. He pressed the blade downward.
Standing, he placed the samples in a special packet and placed it in his pants pocket. Another glance at his watch indicated that the numbers were counting down rapidly. He jogged back down the corridor, flipping up the night-vision goggles as he got closer to the light. Miller was finishing up. He looked at Bolan.
“We found a bunch of C-4 and some detonator caps,” he said. “Got everything just about set.”
Bolan nodded and went to check on Johnson. Doerr was standing alongside Washington as Vargas applied pressure to Johnson’s leg.
“He needs a medivac,” Vargas said.
Bolan keyed his mic and called Grimaldi again.
“Back at ya, Striker.”
“You still have that pickup in sight?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Bolan paused to smile at his partner’s levity, despite the situation. But that was Grimaldi. Always ready with a wisecrack.
“Light it up, then come back for us. We’ve got a casualty so we’ll designate with red smoke. Stay clear of this structure. We’re igniting some sarin.”
“Roger that.”
A distant burst of fire flickered in the distance. A rumble of sound drifted by them several seconds later.
Bolan indicated that Doerr and Vargas were to carry Johnson. He checked the wind direction and pointed. “Let’s make sure we stay upwind of the detonation.”
Miller grunted and said he’d stay until they were far enough away before setting off the blast.
“We won’t leave without you,” Bolan said, and followed the others down the slope toward the flat expanse of the road, the LZ.
The stuttering sound of the helicopter moving toward them became audible.
Bolan keyed his mic. “Blow it.”
Fifty yards away a yellowish tongue of flames thrust out from the front of the old stone structure, then disappeared into a punctuating rumble of collapsing rocks and mortar. Bolan uncapped the flare and slammed the igniter against his thigh, sending a trail of red smoke upward.
“Got you, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio.
The chopping sound of the helicopter grew closer, and Bolan saw Miller running toward them.
After checking on Johnson, who made a weak thumbs-up gesture, Bolan watched as Grimaldi expertly guided the Black Hawk onto the gravel expanse about forty feet away.
“Let’s go home,” he said, motioning his team toward the chopper.
Arlington, Virginia
Warren Novak used his index finger to tip over the black king on the far side of the chessboard. He preferred the tactile pleasure of handling the carved, wooden pieces when playing, even if it was only a solitary game taken from one of his many chess problem books. He sighed at the ease with which he’d won, and poured himself another dash of the fine Kentucky bourbon. Novak made a silent vow that if the phone didn’t ring before he finished it, he would give up for the night and go to bed after the conclusion of the evening news. The idiots on television with their pathetic lead-ins had barely touched on the ongoing congressional committee hearings. But then again, those things had become as commonplace as traffic accidents of late.
Train wrecks would be more appropriate, he thought. No one realized that the fate of the whole damn country was affected by the self-serving antics of the political posers. It was all about getting their faces in front of the cameras. To hell with what was actually good for the country.
He smiled as he sipped his drink, and felt the burn going all the way down.
Few things were better than vintage bourbon. If only all his troubles could be washed away with a good drink, but it was never that easy when the politicians, with their hypocritical displays of moral outrage, were clamoring for somebody else to be held accountable.
The several million dollars in purported research grants, the inflated costs of research and development, the violations of the specifics in the defense contract, the special perks that were being funneled back to the Baron & Allan Corporation—and good old Congressman Eddie Meeks would be held accountable if the congressman from Illinois, the self-proclaimed “conscience of Congress,” got his way.
Life was like a game of chess. One had to maintain both perspective and control to win. Still, there were other factors to be considered. Meeks, being African American and of the same party as William “Call me Bill” Oglethorpe, would inject a certain amount of reticence in the committee’s investigation. But that wouldn’t last forever, and they’d be standing in line to throw Meeks under the bus when the time came.
Novak brought the glass to his lips and took a longer sip, swishing it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing and once again delighting in the slow burn as it traveled downward. As CEO of the corporation, Novak knew his own fate was tied to all of this. If Baron & Allan went down, so would he. So would Franklin Rhome, so would Meeks. They were all living in a house of cards.
But again, control was the key, being able to see two or three moves ahead and plan for your opponent’s next move.
He rubbed his other hand over his shaved head, felt the stubble and a layer of dampness, and then wiped his palm on his pajama top.
If B&A went, they were held under the microscope, he’d be hard pressed to explain the payoffs he’d made, the exclusive town house usage, the limousines, the endless parade of escorts to the lobbyists and the members of the appropriations committee... But that was the unspoken price of doing business in this town. All were necessary ingredients to grease the wheels. The way things worked in government. That it hadn’t worked with Congressman Oglethorpe had been a shocker, although Novak now knew he should’ve seen it coming. The man was different. There was something about him. Something telling. A handsome guy like that turning down the dates with the array of beauties Novak had managed to parade in front of him. And the son of a bitch looked like the embodiment of a male model.
