been hard to miss.”
“Behind the politics, what hasn’t been on CNN or Fox is the ID on those responsible.”
“Already?” Bolan was impressed. “That’s quick work.”
“They left tracks—and two dead at the scene. The consulate’s Marines got in a few licks.”
“Semper fi,” Bolan replied. “Who were they?”
“Members of a relatively new group,” Brognola replied, chewing around the words. “It’s called Allah Qadum in Arabic, or ‘God’s Hammer’ to the likes of us. It split off from the AQAP roughly eighteen months ago.”
Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, that was, a splinter group itself, founded in January 2009 by defectors from the group that had masterminded 9/11 and assorted other horrors. One thing that predictably retarded global terrorism was the tendency of psychopaths to quarrel among themselves and storm out in a huff to form their own demented fragments of a parent group.
“So, it was organized?” Bolan asked. “All I’ve heard has been the stuff about that yokel burning the Koran.”
“They saw an opening,” Brognola answered, “thanks to Reverend Redneck. They’d have turned up somewhere, someday, but his sideshow gave them the jump start they needed. Nothing on par with the World Trade Centers, of course, but it put them on the map. They’ll be looking to build on it, make a name for themselves and claim a seat at the table.”
“What table?”
“Wherever the nuts meet and greet,” Brognola replied.
“You said a couple of them didn’t make it out.”
“Correct. Jordan’s General Security Directorate identified them from their rap sheets and drew up a list of known associates. CIA and Saudi intelligence put their two cents in, and some files turned up at Interpol. We now have sixteen names confirmed as God’s Hammer members still at large.”
“All present at the consulate?” Bolan asked.
“Hard to say, but probable. The whole bunch was in Jordan before the raid, and now they’ve scattered. Globally, we think.”
“You think.”
The big Fed took another bite of Philly chicken, chewed it, swallowed part of it and said, “You know how that goes. Whispers in the wind from NSA and anybody else who’s listening. As of two days ago, we know three members of the gang are in Paraguay.”
“That’s some commute,” Bolan observed.
“It’s relatively safe,” Brognola said. “We’ve had an extradition treaty with the government there since March 2001, but you know how that goes in South America. They talk tough on terrorism, and they crack down hard on anyone who threatens their control, but when it comes to foreign groups, they’ve got no statutes on the books. Their courts are as crooked as they come. We need chapter and verse to push an extradition through on narco-trafficking, much less something they view as foreign politics.”
Bolan trimmed it to the bottom line. “They need retrieving, or elimination.”
“Either one suits me, but here’s the problem. When I say we have a fix on three, that means the other thirteen goons are in the wind. They could be anywhere from Marrakesh to Malibu by now, and burrowed deep. We figure their three pals in Paraguay will have some means of reaching out, but if they all go down without a chance to talk...”
Brognola left it hanging there.
Bolan saw the problem now, and it was not a pretty one.
“I’ll take it,” he told the big Fed. “But I need more intel.”
Brognola slid a thumb drive in a paper sleeve across their little table. “That’s got everything we know, so far, but we can run it down right now.”
Bolan reached out and made the thumb drive disappear. “Okay,” he said. “Before you start, though, if we’re going global, I may need some backup.”
“Anyone in mind?” Brognola asked.
“Just Jack.”
Miami, Florida
THE CELL PHONE’S buzzing caught Jack Grimaldi with a pint of Guinness at his lips, a plate of fish and chips in front of him, inside an Irish pub on South Miami Avenue. He recognized the number, took a sip and let it ring once more, then picked up.
“Hey, what’s happening?” he asked.
“You busy?” Mack Bolan inquired.
“Just having lunch.”
“I mean the next few days.”
Grimaldi smiled. “I’ve got a window, if there’s something going on.”
“There is.”
“Details?”
“We’d have to scramble it.”
“Wait one,” Grimaldi said. He had a special app to handle that, engaged with one keystroke while Bolan set up on his end.
“Okay,” Grimaldi said. “Ready.”
Bolan ran down the basic details, adding new twists to the foreign news that had been dominating every channel on the TV in Grimaldi’s hotel room for the past week. The Stony Man pilot felt his pulse rate quicken. He took another sip of beer, then set down his glass.
“So, Paraguay,” he said, when the Executioner was done.
“It’s all we’ve got right now,” Bolan replied.
“Someplace I’ve never been. Still Nazis down there, are they?”
“That was Stroessner. He was overthrown a while ago, but his party still runs things. They impeached a president in 2012 for not cracking down hard enough on the Left. Replaced him with a guy who spent ten years running a soccer club. The DEA claims he’s connected to the drug trade.”
“Sounds like they could use a visit,” Grimaldi said.
“Only for the fugitives, this time around,” Bolan reminded him.
“Too bad. Three guys, you said?”
“Hopefully giving us directions to the rest.”
“You know me. I can be persuasive.”
“So, you’re in?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. What’s our estimated time of departure?”
“As soon as you can get up here to Arlington.”
Grimaldi did the calculations in his head. There was drive time from the pub to Opa-locka Executive Airport, eleven miles north of downtown Miami, then the prep and clearance for takeoff.
