STONY MAN

The Stony Man team of special operators stands ready to go into ultra-covert action whenever the President needs a specific brand of below-the-radar expertise. If the crisis is real and immediate, cybernetics experts with state-of-the-art technology kick into gear from the war room of a secret facility known only to the Oval Office, while the commando soldiers of Able Team and Phoenix Force lead the ground assault. Consummate warriors dedicated to protecting the innocent, Stony Man draws a hard line against enemies of the free world.

PERMANENT SHUTDOWN

A U.S. senator’s murder and the kidnapping of several children of high-profile government officials leave the President no choice but to call in Stony Man to investigate. But the kidnappings are only the tip of the iceberg. The ransom money and income from a human trafficking ring are being used to fund terrorist activities overseas. It’s a race against time as Able Team has to track down the kidnappers in Florida before anything happens to the children, while Phoenix Force hunts the ringleader in Morocco. Their goal: neutralize the operation. No matter what.

James tapped his friend’s shoulder. “Um, Rafe?”

Encizo turned and saw the armed men through the front window of the car. “Uh-oh.”

Mazouzi was too busy yelling at his informant to realize they were in trouble. The keys were in the ignition so Encizo put the clutch to the floor, started the engine and got them in Reverse. He let out the clutch and took off with a squeal of tires, causing Mazouzi to curse.

“We have company,” James snapped as he pulled out his Beretta.

The armed men, four in all, fired semiautomatic handguns, but Encizo had put enough distance between the Peugeot and them. One shot hit the corner of the windshield, though, and spider-webbed across the passenger side, blocking James’ view.

As the Peugeot gained speed, James leaned out the window, leveling the pistol in his right hand on the nearest man, and squeezed off a double-tap, taking the intended target in the chest. But the jerky movement of the Peugeot pulled him back inside.

Encizo’s face was screwed up in concentration as he maneuvered along the narrow street. At one point, he sideswiped a parked vehicle, leaving behind a large gouge with the echo of scraping fiberglass and metal.

“What are you doing?” Mazouzi demanded.

“Saving your ass,” James replied. “I think.”

Choke Point

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Matt Kozar for his contribution to this work.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

Maryland

Senator Charlie Maser slowed as he approached the secondary road leading off the scenic byway that ran through Chesapeake country.

The dash clock on his luxury SUV read 2:52 a.m. and with only a sliver of a moon, Maser had almost missed the turn. He couldn’t be late...not at this time and this place. He thought of the metal suitcase on the seat behind him—a suitcase that met the specifications he’d been given, down to the last detail—its contents worth a king’s ransom.

Or at least the prize for a princess.

Charlie Maser’s princess was a thirteen-year-old girl, a girl who may have been through things so horrible Maser couldn’t even bring himself to imagine them. They were things the caller had told him might happen if Maser didn’t cooperate, but he’d also been assured that so far they hadn’t happened. Maser wasn’t sure if he could believe his ears when he learned that his only daughter had fallen into the hands of a vile, disgusting lot of kidnappers who had been on a rampage for the past two months.

Only wild and vague rumors had reached his ears about this group—a conversation he’d overheard here, a secure email brief there—but Maser hadn’t actually believed most of it. Well, he did now and he still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that what had happened to Natalie—as what had happened to the young children, boys and girls, of a number of other politicians—probably could have been avoided if he’d been more diligent in finding the truth. There were lots of people he could’ve reached out to and gotten the full story: other senators, members of the house and even connections inside the FBI and CIA, as apparently there were transnational matters attached to these men.

None of it mattered now, though. All that mattered was getting his beautiful girl back into his arms safe and sound. He’d never let her go again.

Maser had received the ransom call just after a particularly grueling session on the senate floor, one item after another coming across the wire for him to vote yea or nay, more fat pieces of legislation that spent a lot of money and did next to nothing. Maser had considered not running for a second term just eighteen short months ago, but had changed his mind at the urging of his constituents, and the election coffers filled up in no time at all. Mostly they were donations from friends who owned multibillion-dollar companies, or the untapped wealth of special-interest groups from which he had to draw.

But per the kidnappers, the money riding in that metal case had to be his own and untraceable.

In retrospect, Maser didn’t give a damn. If he had to cough up twenty million dollars instead of five hundred thousand he would’ve raided every fund he had and then knocked off a bank for the balance. Not this time, though, and Maser was smart enough to know the kidnappers hadn’t asked for a large ransom because they didn’t want him to draw any attention.

Maser’s wife had thrown a screaming fit when he refused to let her go, trying to explain to her that following the instructions of the men who had their little girl was paramount to getting her back in one piece. That’s the advice a friend at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center—FLETC—had given him after Maser told him he was seeing some possible new legislation and needed the perspective of someone with practical law-enforcement experience. Maser didn’t think he’d raised any suspicions with his questions, and politely thanked the guy before hanging up and going straight to the bank.

Their personal financial officer had thought maybe Maser had gone stark-raving mad, wanting to withdraw that sum of money, but Maser had cited a campaign emergency for which he would spend his own money and then expense it back to the campaign later. Luckily, that had seemed to dispel any other questions and quashed further curiosity. The fact he was running in an election at the present had actually proved a saving grace.

Now he had his money and he’d followed the instructions to the letter, making the drive from Washington, D.C., along the northerly route that took him around the bay and back down to Maryland via Interstate 95 to State Road 213 in Maryland, eventually winding up in Chesapeake country. Maser wondered why the scenic route instead of cutting across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge but he hadn’t asked. Again, the advice he’d received was to follow instructions to the letter and don’t argue with or agitate the kidnappers.

The golden rule: the caller was in charge.

Maser slowed and as he turned on the side road he noticed a fog had started to materialize. He slowed some more, looking at the clock again and sighing to ease the tension. At this rate he’d be right on time by proceeding two and a quarter miles to a green camping sign that marked an access road. Off the road from there and another mile until he reached an old, gray pickup truck. The clock turned to 2:59 a.m. when the pickup truck came into view just ahead through the increasing layer of fog.

Shit, it was like being on an English moor or something.

Maser wondered how much he’d been directed here for the purpose of isolation and how much for dramatic effect. Whatever the reasons, the kidnappers were sending a message that they knew what they were doing. The caller had been explicit as to the consequences if Maser deviated from the prescribed schedule or disobeyed in any manner. Maser had listened carefully, writing down every detail and the times he’d done things, keeping practically an hour-by-hour journal of his every move. He wanted to make sure that if this didn’t pan out and he lost his own life, the cops would at least be able to follow his trail.

Maser rolled up on the truck, stopped and flashed his high beams once before killing the engine.

He’d rolled his window down a space to make sure he could hear any verbal instructions he might receive—not that he’d been specifically told to do so but it made good sense. A minute ticked by, two minutes—then five minutes turned into ten minutes. Finally, Maser began to wonder if he’d made some sort of mistake and he could feel the pang of a panic attack in his chest. His breathing started to shorten and he willed his shaking hands to steady.

Had he fucked it up? Had he made a mistake, missed some direction and forfeited the life of his sweet and beloved Natalie?

The shadow falling across the passenger-side window caused him to jump, and he turned to see the outline of a human figure there. Then his driver’s-side door opened and he was yanked out of the car and thrown to the ground. The air burst from him on impact, his lungs burning with the sudden exertion. He realized now why he’d been instructed not to wear a seat belt for the entire journey. Maser could remember how he thought that had been kind of dumb because he might’ve been pulled over, but then he knew that by starting off at night it would’ve been next to impossible for a police officer to see he wasn’t restrained.

Besides, what cop in his right mind would ticket a U.S. senator?

Maser felt the hard, unyielding form of something metal pressed to his head, something that could only have been the muzzle of a gun, and a foot planted on the small of his back.

“Arms out to your side,” a muted voice ordered. It sounded like a mask covered the speaker’s mouth. “Where’s the money?”

“Backseat, like instructed,” Maser replied. He probably hadn’t really had to add that last part, but he didn’t figure pointing out that he’d followed instructions could hurt him any at this point.

He heard the rear door of the SUV open, then some rustling and finally the unmistakable clicks of the latches being disengaged. For a long time he didn’t hear anything, but his captor eventually spoke again.

“You think you’re smart?” the guy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Answer the fucking question, asshole!” another voice said, this one also muffled by something.

“I—I guess so,” Maser said.

“You guess so?” the first speaker replied in a mocking tone.

Or was it mocking? Hard to tell, with the man’s voice being obscured by whatever the man wore over his mouth.

“We got us an indecisive politician,” the second voice remarked, and this time Maser could detect just a hint of an accent—something maybe Scottish or British. “That’s sad. That’s very, very sad. A scathing indictment of our leadership today in Washington.”

Scathing indictment of leadership in Washington? What the hell kind of kidnappers were these? The first one sounded like a miscreant but the other had a touch of class, as if he’d been educated abroad. That would probably fit with the accent. Maser continued to mark each one of these facts in his memory, bound to write down the details if he walked away from this alive. Being he was lying here in the middle of nowhere on his belly, helpless and unarmed, with no one in law enforcement having any knowledge of where he was or what he was doing, Maser entertained a notion for the first time that he might not walk away from this situation alive.

The thought prompted him to boldness. “Why don’t we cut the bullshit? You guys have your money so give me my daughter. We’ll walk away and nothing more will be said.”

“Shut up!” the first kidnapper sneered. “Just shut up. We give the orders around here, not you.”

Maser thought about pressing the point but decided it wouldn’t do a bit of good. These two weren’t to be reasoned with, and in all likelihood they were just lackeys anyway. Pickup men weren’t uncommon in well-organized kidnapping rings, another fact Maser’s friend at FLETC had turned him on to, which probably meant there were limits and boundaries. So far, things weren’t going well but they weren’t exactly going bad.

Best to just play along with the game.

The European-sounding one knelt by him and Maser thought he detected the odor of cigarettes. “My partner asked if you were smart because you’ve done some really stupid things.”

“Like what?” Maser asked.

“Like coming out here by yourself,” the man replied easily. “Like being a good little boy and doing exactly what you were told. You see, the main problem you have is that now we got the money, we have no real incentive to keep you alive.”

Now it was going to go badly and Charlie Maser knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

“What’s more,” the man continued, “you didn’t get proof of life. We know you called some people, that you got advice. Too bad you listened to your friend in the FLETC because the truth is you got bad advice. You should’ve gotten proof of life before you agreed to pay a ransom.”

“Let my little girl go, you bastards!” Maser pleaded, his voice cracking as he whimpered, “I don’t give a damn what you do to me, but please let my girl go.”

“Shh, don’t cry,” the man said and then he burst into a fit of laughter. He rose and said, “We’re not going to kill pretty little Natalie. She’s much, much too valuable alive and well. But we can’t really have you running around blabbing this business to anybody.”

“Wh-what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’ve outlived your usefulness, Senator. It’s time for you to step down.”

“Yeah,” the slimy one interjected. “Time to go visit that big capitol building in the sky.”

“You can kill me if you want,” Maser said, “but it won’t do you any good because someone will be looking for me. And when they find me, they’re going to figure out who did it, and then your days of kidnapping will be over.”

“I highly doubt it,” the one with the accent replied.

And those were the last words Senator Charlie Maser ever heard.

CHAPTER TWO

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“The murder of a federal official, even a U.S. senator, is typically assigned to a task force within the Justice Department,” the President of the United States told Harold Brognola. “Not this time.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

“I’ve instructed the deputy director of the FBI to transit information directly to your office by secure channels. Use that information to find out who’s behind the murder of Senator Maser and why.”

“And once we know?”

“Do whatever has to be done,” the President replied in a tone as cold as Brognola had ever heard him use.

“I understand, sir.”

“Good luck, Hal.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” The line went dead before Brognola could even wish the President a good evening, which he obviously wasn’t going to have no matter what Brognola said.

The Stony Man chief hung up and sighed, barely able to quell the burning in his throat. The twinge from the esophageal spasms, a chronic condition he’d suffered for more years than he could remember, reminded him of the roll of antacids in his desk drawer. He popped three and then made a note in the digital recorder he’d received from his wife for Christmas to buy more.

That task complete, Brognola proceeded from his office to the electric tram in the basement. A hundred yards later, he stepped from the small transporter into the Operations Center of the Annex, a subterranean facility that housed the most modern electronic and human resources ever assembled for one purpose: combating America’s enemies. There were hundreds...nay, thousands of those who wished to do harm to the United States. Every single day of his life since agreeing to serve as top dog for the special-operations group code-named Stony Man, Brognola had worked tirelessly to protect the liberty and peace of his nation.

Stony Man did one thing and it did it very well, better than probably any other agency of its kind. But Brognola wasn’t so deluded to believe it was his consummate leadership skills that had held it together. Not even close. Stony Man worked for three reasons: brilliant and dedicated support staff, the finest and bravest collection of fighting men ever assembled and the ideals born from the devotion and loyalty of the man named Mack Bolan.

It was Bolan’s War Everlasting against the scourge of organized crime, and subsequently the forces of terrorism, that spurred the founding of Stony Man. It was Brognola’s relationship with Bolan—one that had started as a federal cop in pursuit of the fugitive nut-job calling himself the Executioner—that had led to his appointment as head of Stony Man. Today, Brognola was privileged to call Mack Bolan a lifelong friend. If Brognola had his way, he would have tracked Bolan down at that moment and sought his advice.

Brognola didn’t know exactly what the President’s intelligence people were sending, but he did have some inkling of where it was going. Maybe it was something that had to be handled by one of the teams, although he couldn’t imagine how the murder of one senator could spark a concern for international security. Still, Stony Man served at the pleasure of the Oval Office and whoever happened to occupy it, and Brognola could count on one hand the number of times the subject had been broached about whether it was necessary for their operations to continue. Every time, nixing the program had ultimately been shot down as a way to turn a very good idea into a potentially bad one. To Brognola’s knowledge, every President who’d entertained the idea had never come to regret the decision to keep Stony Man going: it was the final option.

“Is that coffee fresh?” Brognola asked Barbara Price as he entered the conference room.

“It is,” she said. “Would you like a cup?”

“Depends on who made it,” he replied. “I’m not sure I could handle any of Kurtzman’s rotgut right at the moment.”

Price raised one of her beautiful eyebrows. “You’re in luck, then. I made it.”

Brognola nodded in gratitude and then helped himself to a large cup. “You alerted Able Team?”

“I did,” Price said as she returned her attention to the built-in monitor in front of her, one of the many recessed into the massive conference-room table capable of seating a small army. In this case it was actually not an exaggeration. “I told them we’d be in touch as soon as we had some intelligence. And before you ask, Phoenix Force has been upgraded to standby.”

Brognola mumbled a thanks as he sat with his cup. He rubbed at his eyes and said, “The President’s intelligence reports from Justice should be coming through at any time. I don’t know the details yet, but obviously there’s much more to this than a dead politician.”

“Well, I thought I’d get a head start and had Bear pull Senator Maser’s dossier.”

“Items of interest, anything perhaps out of the ordinary?”

Price stared intently as she paged down the electronic file assembled by Stony Man’s resident computer expert and cyber-team leader, Aaron Kurtzman. “Unremarkable, to be honest. Maser was born and raised in New Hampshire. Entered his first term in office after working his way from a junior position in sales and marketing, and ending as CEO of the Biddler and Holmes Corporation.”

“What does that firm do?”

“What they did,” Price replied. “Past tense. They went under about three years after Maser left.”

“Maybe that’s our angle,” Brognola said. “It’s possible he left them high and dry, and when the company went belly-up somebody went looking for payback.”

Price shook her head. “That’s what I thought at first but it doesn’t fly. Maser left the company in the black, and actually it was extremely profitable. They went out of business due to poor investments and inadequate leadership, according to the financial statements and reports from independent audits conducted after Biddler and Holmes filed for bankruptcy.”

She handed one of the data sheets on that particular event to Brognola so he could see for himself. “Okay, so he’d been gone and running for public office long after that so it’s not likely anybody would have connected him to the company’s demise.”

Price nodded and then sat back in her chair and stretched. She continued, “His wife apparently comes from a wealthy family, and they’re the ones who originally backed his bid for a senate seat.”

“So you figure whatever happened here has something to do with the time frame after he entered public office.”

“I think it’s our best working theory, Hal.”

“What about that? Has there been anything extraordinary about his political career?”

“I’d say about average,” she said. “He hasn’t been particularly supportive of any key legislative issues, at least none that would be hot topics of debate, so it’s likely he didn’t draw the attention of any crazies. I—”

A loud ping echoed through the conference room and Price turned her attention to her display terminal. She mumbled something Brognola didn’t make out and then began tapping at the keys with the dexterity of an experienced typist, her unfashionably short fingernails producing clacking noises. When she’d finished typing, the display at the end of the conference room lit up to show a report stamped with “confidential” and bearing the seal of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security.

“It’s the reports from Justice that the President promised.”

Brognola squinted at the initial breakdown of the information contained within the file and then referred to a closer copy available on the terminal screen he raised out of the table. He perused the table of contents before finally pointing to one particular item: Associative Criminal Activities, Nonredacted.

“There,” Brognola said. “Pull up item fourteen, please.”

Price did and Brognola began to read in earnest. With every report of this kind, particularly if it contained sensitive or classified material, two official versions were typically circulated. To those outside the intelligence communities, there were redacted, abridged or even omitted pieces of data categorized by the Justice Department and National Security Agency with the remainder being labeled sensitive but classified, or just controlled unclassified information, which was typically reserved for official use only.

The material remaining was then considered either classified, secret or top secret and it was into one of these three categories that the kind of material Brognola now read typically fell. As the Stony Man chief absorbed the information he began to understand why such damning information wouldn’t be for dissemination to the public, or even to most individuals who didn’t possess a security clearance for it.

“Holy mother of—” Brognola began.

“My sentiments exactly,” Price interjected.

“Get Lyons on the phone. Immediately.”

* * *

WHEN CARL “Ironman” Lyons got the page from Stony Man to be on the alert, he was in the middle of climbing the Grand Tetons.

A particularly long and grueling mission that had taken him and his two compatriots into the heart of Iran, ending in a scrap from which Phoenix Force had come running to bail them out, had left the Able Team leader tired and ready for some vacation. The past three weeks had been a good rest—they’d gone to Florida for the first week, the second week Lyons had gone to northern Minnesota by himself on a fishing trip, and this week he’d reunited with his teammates, Hermann Schwarz and Rosario Blancanales, for a sprightly few days of fun and camping in the Rocky Mountains.

While Grand Teton National Park provided an excellent environment for these activities, Lyons had always been much more of an outdoorsman than his two companions, so they had opted not to join him for this climb. Instead, they stayed at the campsite to drink beers and talk of whatever exploits regarding the female species came to mind, half of them probably fiction.

Lyons had just pulled himself up and over a huge rock, swinging his muscled legs into an anchoring position and getting his angle before negotiating it with the rest of his body. Lyons stopped to mop sweat from his brow with a bandanna he’d secured around his neck and tucked into the neoprene shirt he wore. He surveyed the shimmering horizon, realizing it was just about time to think about going back. He’d promised his friends he’d return before dark and if he didn’t make good on it, chances were they would get concerned and come looking for him.

The vibration of his secured satellite data phone, the invention of Kurtzman’s electronics team, signaled for his attention. He snatched it from his belt and barked, “Go for Lyons.”

“Carl, it’s Barb. Are you with the others?”

“Not at present. What’s up?”

“We just received an intelligence report compiled from several multijurisdictional investigations conducted into the death of New Hampshire Senator Charlie Maser.”

“And?”

“We’re sending a chopper to get all three of you now,” Price replied. “I’m afraid R and R is canceled.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not,” Brognola’s voice boomed in Lyons’s ears. “We’ll be able to better brief you on the details once you get here.”

“We’re coming to the Farm?”

“Yes, although it’s entirely too lengthy and difficult to explain now,” Price said. “Just get here as soon as you can.”

“We’re on our way,” Lyons said and signed off with the standard catchphrase, “out here.”

Lyons returned the phone to his belt, took a deep breath and sighed. He’d hoped for another couple of days to recuperate but he could tell just from the tension in the voices of Price and Brognola that something had gone very wrong. Lyons couldn’t even recall having heard the name Charlie Maser before, not that he kept a running tally on every elected official in Wonderland. For sure, there were some who were much more visible than others and needed to get some attention from Stony Man Farm, in Lyons’s humble opinion. But it wasn’t really in his job description to make those kinds of determinations—he preferred to be pointed at the threat and let loose to deal with it.

The hit-and-git mentality defined the collective psyche of Able Team. They were America’s urban commandos, three berserkers trained to bring justice by fire to American streets and keep its citizens safe. This mode of operation was not only the one that Lyons preferred, but also the one in which he felt most comfortable. Lyons wondered if he’d ever live long enough to retire. What the hell would he do with his life when he didn’t have something desperate to pursue, some terrorist or crime lord to take down?

He’d only completed about a third of the distance to the camp before he heard the whip-whap of chopper blades, spotting the light from the setting sun reflecting in red-orange tints off the body of the helicopter before the whole shape came into view. The chopper dipped low and Lyons saw the familiar form of Blancanales as he reached out and gestured to some point nearby, probably a clearing beyond a copse of trees. Lyons waved his understanding and then broke into a jog so they wouldn’t have long to wait for him.

Within a few minutes he emerged from the line of evergreen trees to find the chopper waiting for him. It was the dead of summer but even the nighttime air was significantly cool. The rotor wash whipped at Lyons’s blond hair, which had started to become increasingly tinged with hints of gray over the years—probably a bit prematurely given the nature of his job—although not anywhere near the blanched white of Rosario Blancanales.

Blancanales, a husky man with muscular forearms and dark eyes, smiled at his friend and offered Lyons a hand. The Able Team leader nodded his thanks as he gripped his friend’s hand and hopped aboard a chopper belonging to the U.S. Forest Service. In a moment, the blades increased in pitch and the chopper lifted smoothly from the green-brown terrain of Jackson Hole Valley.

Seated on a bench with his back to the rear wall of the fuselage was the other Able Team member. Hermann Schwarz was not only the team’s resident electronics and computer expert, a talent that had earned him the “Gadgets” nickname, but he also possessed a wicked sense of humor. Schwarz was actually one of the most fearless men Lyons had ever met, not reticent to start cutting up even in the middle of a firefight. He was wiry but strong, not scrawny in the least, with wavy brown hair and a thick mustache.

“How was your stroll?” he asked Lyons over the thunderous noise of the chopper.

“I wasn’t strolling,” Lyons replied. “I was climbing.”

“You’re one of those mountaineering snobs, aren’t you?” Schwarz deadpanned.

“You should try it sometime. It’s good exercise.”

“I don’t mind fresh air. I just prefer the finer things in life.”

“Such as?” Blancanales asked, unable to resist bantering with his two friends.

“Swimming pools surrounded by beautiful women sunning themselves in bathing suits.”

Lyons shook his head and jerked a thumb at Schwarz. “You believe this guy? Surrounded by all of this natural beauty and he’s pining away for a Marriott.”

“It’s sad,” Blancanales said with a mock despondence. “He never wants to rough it.”

“Any hotel that doesn’t carry your bags in for you is roughing it,” Schwarz replied.

“Pathetic,” Carl Lyons said. “Simply pathetic.”

* * *

“WE’VE UNCOVERED a horrific situation,” Barbara Price announced.

“Barb’s correct,” Brognola said. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen anything quite this bad before. Not on our own turf.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Lyons asked.

“Senator Maser was being extorted for a ransom payment to free his daughter,” Price began. “Near as we can gather, his daughter had been kidnapped by parties unknown, who then contacted Maser and demanded a half-million dollars.”

Schwarz let go with a whistle. “Holy cripes. So he delivered the money and you think the kidnappers killed him.”

“It’s not clear what happened since there was really no evidence in the area where Maser’s body was found,” Brognola replied.

“Local police are convinced Maser was killed somewhere else and dumped in a shallow marsh site near one of the many coves in Chesapeake country,” Price continued. “Apparently, a duck hunter spotted his body and called police, who in turn called the FBI when they discovered the deceased was a U.S. senator.

“There isn’t much physical evidence but the police eventually found Senator Maser’s abandoned vehicle off a secondary road. There were tracks but nothing distinctive enough to allow them to make a positive identification. It’s believed the vehicle was a pickup truck and that’s where Maser had gone to make the exchange. Rain was apparently the chief culprit in dispersing any other hard physical evidence the police might have collected.”

“So what’s all the excitement?” Blancanales asked easily.

“We’ve discovered that Senator Maser isn’t the first one to have been the victim of this kind of thing,” Brognola said. “Although this is the first death that’s resulted from it.”

“You mean there have been other politicians whose kids got snapped?”

Price nodded with a frown. “Unfortunately, yes. But apparently authorities were never alerted because the kidnappers always returned the kids unharmed. The kid would get snatched, the kidnappers would call with a ransom, the official would cough up the money and the kid would make it home in one piece.”

“Exactly how many kids are we talking here?” Blancanales asked, shifting in his chair uneasily.

Price looked at Brognola, who nodded, and they could see her swallow hard before she exchanged glances in turn with each of them. Finally she replied, “Hundreds.”

CHAPTER THREE

“What?” Lyons stiffened in his chair. “How the hell could that be?”

“Easy, Ironman,” Blancanales said, putting a friendly but firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s hear this out before we start jumping to conclusions.”

Lyons looked hard at Blancanales at first, but then his expression cooled some and he relaxed in his seat.

“Go on, Barb,” Blancanales urged.

“There’s no question this organization 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.

Acres parked his car in one of the many open spots directly in front of the entrance to the restrooms. He remained in his car as the van rolled past him and swung into one of the spaces three down from Acres’s spot.

“Damn, I was hoping they’d park closer,” Blancanales said.

“It’s going to look weird us pulling in well beyond either of those vehicles.”

“I don’t think we’re going to get the chance,” Lyons said.

To the surprise of all three Able Team warriors, Thomas Acres climbed out of his car, closed the door and turned toward the van as he pulled a pistol from a belt holster concealed beneath his suit coat. Muzzle-flashes cast his silhouette to Able Team as Acres fired round after round into the passenger-side window of the van. The glass shattered under the impact of the first two rounds, and the third rewarded Acres with a bloody spray. He’d hit someone.

“Shit!” Lyons whipped the Colt Anaconda into play. “Get between them!”

Blancanales stepped on the gas and whipped the nose of the sedan into a point between the two vehicles, although much too late to reach Acres in time. The van’s side door slid aside to reveal a pair of tough-looking gunners clutching semiautomatic machine guns. The pair opened up simultaneously and red splotches exploded from Acres’s body in grisly, random patterns. The man jerked and twisted under the impact and eventually succumbed to the onslaught as his body collapsed to the dirty pavement.

Blancanales had his window down and extended his arm, the SIG clutched steadily in his left fist. He squeezed two rounds and then tromped the accelerator, causing the sedan to ride onto the shallow curb. The shots weren’t meant to actually hit anything as much as to keep heads down and buy Blancanales the time he needed to get their vehicle out of the direct line of fire. The maneuver worked well enough, taking the gunners by genuine surprise.

As soon as Blancanales reached the pinnacle of the turn, he put the accelerator to the floor at the same time as he hammered the brake pedal. The maneuver spun the rear of the vehicle, churning grass and mud from the finely manicured area designed to walk pets. As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, Lyons and Schwarz went EVA with pistols at the ready.

The first of the two gunners appeared at the front of the van and sprayed his enemy with autofire from his SMG. Lyons and Schwarz ate dirt and Blancanales ducked to avoid the rounds that went through the windshield and caused a massive spiderweb to form across the safety glass. Lyons, propped at the elbows, leveled the muzzle of the Anaconda and squeezed the trigger. The weapon boomed twice, undoubtedly causing as much fear as physical damage in its reports. The first 300-grain SJHP connected with the gunner’s chest, punched through his right lung and exited his back. The hit spun the man, causing Lyons’s second round to graze his neck, but he twisted enough to reveal the gaping hole left in the wake of the first.

Schwarz spotted the second gunman rush toward Acres’s sedan. The man whipped open the back door and retrieved a large silver suitcase that Schwarz knew would be filled with cash. Oh, no, that just won’t do, Schwarz thought as he lined up his sights on the man and took a deep breath. He let half out, adjusted for lead time and then triggered three successive rounds. The first caught the man at a point just above his left knee and as he pitched forward a second round ripped through the side of his neck. The last passed a bit too high over his head but at enough of an angle it would easily clear any vehicles on the highway and likely come down harmlessly in the field beyond that point.

As Schwarz and Lyons climbed to their feet, the van engine roared to life and the vehicle began to back out of its space. Blancanales thought desperately for a moment before hammering the gearshift downward and tromping the accelerator. More mud and grass flew from under the wheels as the sedan sluiced forward and finally gained purchase on the broad sidewalk. The van was just at the point of stopping when Blancanales tapped the brakes and connected with the right fender. The maneuver spun the nose of the van into a 180-degree arc and smoke rose from the wheels as rubber burned on the asphalt.

Unfortunately for the driver, who could not keep his vehicle under control, the van’s rear tires connected with the opposing curb. The impact jarred the van just enough that it listed sideways. Gravity and Archimedes’s law of the lever did the rest, flipping the van onto its side and causing it to come to rest on the slight incline of the hill that separated the rest area from the interstate.

Blancanales jumped from the sedan and rushed the incapacitated enemy vehicle, SIG-Sauer held at the ready. The driver had wriggled his way through the open window just as Blancanales reached him. He saw the Able Team warrior’s approach and clawed for shoulder leather but not before Blancanales managed to jump up and snatch hold of the back of the man’s neck. Blancanales yanked as he came down and then twisted his body with enough strength to flip the man head over heels. The thug landed ass down on the pavement and air audibly whooshed from his lungs.

The gunman started to moan with pain, rolling onto his side and clutching his wounded tailbone with one hand. He froze and a horrified look crossed his face as Lyons and Schwarz arrived and both leveled their pistols at him.

Blancanales smiled at his friends as he holstered his weapon and then dusted his hands. With a flair for the dramatic, he put his hands on his hips. “Well, looks like I managed to keep one of them alive.”

“Kiss ass,” Schwarz replied.

* * *

AFTER VERIFYING Congressman Thomas Acres was in fact dead, Able Team got the hell away from the scene before police arrived.

They needed a chance to question their prisoner before turning him over to local authorities and it wouldn’t do their timetable a lot of good to hang around and wait for the cops to arrive. And as Lyons had pointed out, he didn’t want to have to explain the situation to the boys in blue any more than he wanted to involve Stony Man to clear them if they could avoid it. Instead, it made more sense to take their prize and run.

They took the money with them, as well, intent on making sure it was returned to the Acres family—it probably wouldn’t save the life of Acres’s son at this point anyway.

Able Team returned to the outskirts of Washington, D.C., and proceeded straight to a safe house the Farm kept in the area for just such occasions. En route to the place, Lyons placed a hurried call to Stony Man and requested Calvin James meet them there.

James had been the successor to Keio Ohara, one of Phoenix Force’s original members, and had become a critical part of the field units. A former Navy SEAL and medical corpsman, James had grown up on the mean streets of Chicago and studied police science. He’d been working as a SWAT officer when chosen to join Phoenix Force. He was an expert in underwater operations, and as someone with advanced medical training, he’d become proficient with the chemical interrogation of prisoners.

Many liberals would have considered such techniques inhumane, but Calvin James felt the opposite for a number of reasons. He’d never administered the drug to anyone without a fundamental knowledge of their anatomy—it was critical to ensure the viability of a subject’s cardiac and respiratory systems before proceeding with the tactics. Moreover, James considered chemical interrogation significantly more humane than some of those methods employed by CIA and others on the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay, for example. That boiled down to torture even in the most abject sense, but what James did—while most would fault him for it—could be implemented in a controlled environment.

“What are you going to use?” Blancanales asked with interest as he watched James draw five cc’s into a syringe followed by ten from a different vial filled with something milky.

“It’s a mixture of amobarbital and temazepam,” James replied as he pushed the excess air from the syringe. “Either drug by itself isn’t really effective in making a patient talk but the two together can be quite persuasive.”

“I’ve heard most people can resist it,” Schwarz said.

James smiled. “Introduction of barbiturates into the bloodstream is only part of the interrogation technique. The other two parts are psychological. In essence, you make the subject believe that they will not be able to lie under influence of the drug. Most people, even thugs like this, don’t have the first clue about truth serum...other than what they see in the movies.”

“You said there was a third part?” Lyons asked.

“Why, yes,” James said, setting the syringe down and reaching into his bag of tricks to withdraw an electronic box with a digital display and a nylon cuff attached to it. “We make them think they’re also hooked up to this.”

“A polygraph?”

James shook his head. “No, actually this is just an automatic blood-pressure machine but we make the subject think it’s a polygraph.”

“Ah,” Schwarz said with a nod. “Very crafty.”

“I am, aren’t I?” James quipped.

He retrieved the syringe, wheeled and went through the door into the adjoining room, where Able Team had secured their prisoner to a chair with plastic riot cuffs. They had also blindfolded him and put gun muffs over his ears to provide a disorienting effect. No point in the guy hearing or seeing anything going on around him. Night had now settled on the city, its lights twinkling in the distance through the one-way windows installed in the safe house that had the added feature of being bullet resistant.

James applied the cuff to the man’s arm before ripping away the ear protection and blindfold. He sat on the edge of the table just in front of the chair and assumed the sternest expression he could muster. Actually, these kinds of head games were somewhat amusing and James didn’t mind playing whatever role he had to in order to get the intelligence they needed.

“Good evening,” he began. “That device attached to your arm is a highly specialized lie detector. In a moment, I’m going to turn it on and begin asking you questions. In addition to the polygraph, I’m also going to administer a drug designed to force you to answer my questions honestly. You would call this truth serum, but I would call it good insurance. You will not be able to resist and you will be forced to comply.”

The prisoner had first worn a mask of hatred and defiance, but as James talked the man’s expression changed to something much less confrontational. James could tell that he wouldn’t have any trouble extracting the truth from the guy even if he didn’t end up having to administer the drug. Of course, he’d loaded a very small dosage and he wouldn’t administer more unless he perceived the subject wasn’t telling the truth.

“Do you have any questions before we begin?”

“I... You mean you ain’t going to torture me?”

“We could go that way, if you’d like,” Lyons interjected.

James looked like he wanted to counter Lyons but then thought better of it. This was Able Team’s show and he’d only been brought in to assist and observe. Lyons was still in charge and James wouldn’t contradict his friend and colleague on any point unless it crossed the boundaries of his expertise.

“There’s no need to torture you,” James replied. “As I’ve already explained, this device and the pharmacological agents I’m about to administer are the only things required. That is, unless you’d like to skip that altogether and answer my questions without that intervention.”

“I’m no squeal, blackie.”

“Blackie?” Schwarz said. He looked at Blancanales. “What is this, the 1850s?”

Blancanales shrugged in way of reply.

“Okay,” James said as he administered the injection in the man’s vein. “Have it your way, asshole.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Casablanca, Morocco

As soon as Abbas el Khalidi finished reading the secure message on his computer, he picked a massive paperweight off his desk and heaved it across the room with a disgusted sigh.

The tumult brought two guards and a secretary into the room, all three of whom he ordered to get out. They backed out of the room with conciliatory bows, diligent to close the doors after them. They had worked for Khalidi long enough to know that he wasn’t to be meddled with in such a mood as this and would rue the day they ever departed from protocol. Khalidi had never been known as a lenient master—he was even less so when he discovered the Americans were screwing up his plans.

Again! he thought. Those sons of dogs are always trying to interfere!

Khalidi didn’t need the money, but that was hardly the point. He’d grown up a poor man on the streets of this very city, earning his way from a part-time paper route to the head of a news agency that had become one of the most powerful and influential of its kind throughout the world. Syndicated in nearly seventy countries with more than one billion subscribers, Khalidi had made his mark on the international media.

His notoriety as a newsman who knew no equal—a status that had earned him his “Prince Story” title—had also been the thing that allowed him to operate in relative privacy and seclusion. These were things Khalidi prized above all else, the power to determine his own destiny and control what information he would release to people while withholding the juiciest tidbits for himself.

Juicy and profitable, he reminded himself.

Still, it had not been about the money as much as the power. This was why his slaving operation in America had grown to such massive proportions, an operation so large that it defied conventional belief. Khalidi had his hand in a very big pie. The teen children of the American dogs were ripe for the harvest and brought a most handsome price on the international trafficking market. None of the so-called white slaves moved in or out of the country without Khalidi knowing about it. Sure, there were a few operations here and there, but they were mostly run by hoodlums and two-bit thugs. These individuals didn’t believe in quality of their work while Khalidi staked his personal reputation on it. And what had it yielded him in return? Greedy underlings who were so incompetent it bordered on pulp fiction cliché. That kind of mishandling could also expose his newspaper corporation, Abd-el-Aziz, to inquiry by the local government as well as international law-enforcement scrutiny.

The half-million-dollar ransom he’d lost, thanks to the pair of bunglers he’d now ordered his American contacts to find and terminate, wasn’t any issue. They still had the young girl and boy in question and his network could get them out of the country in the next twenty-four hours. Barring any other foul-ups, Khalidi figured this would blow over in a short time.

And what was the death of a congressman and a senator? The Americans didn’t generally like their elected officials anyway, conspiring to assassinate or expose them to public ridicule at every turn.

No, Khalidi figured he shouldn’t let this bother him in the least.

He decided to cheer up by having a long lunch at his favorite local establishment, a restaurant that served a fabulous array of traditional Arabic dishes, before taking the remainder of the afternoon off in favor of a long drive along the Moroccan coastline. Khalidi navigated the A5 out of Casablanca, top down on his Mercedes Benz SL-Class convertible, and drove south. He’d decided to change his usual northern route—one that often ended with a trip by ferry into the coastal Spanish city of Tarifa—in favor of a trip to the Doukkala-Abda region capital city of Safi. While most had a problem entering Spain from Morocco due to the intense narcotics trafficking out of his country, the real enterprise behind Khalidi’s empire, the newspaper mogul moved with autonomy.

Any customs officials on either side who didn’t want to play ball, and they were few indeed, were usually dealt with in swift and direct fashion.

Among the pottery markets in Safi, Khalidi would seek out one of his regular women and lavish her with an evening of new clothes and fine dining. This did wonders in warming up the young lady lucky enough to be chosen and then Khalidi would satisfy all of his natural urges. Unlike some of his less staid brothers, Khalidi maintained his dedication to the pure faith and neither drank alcohol, nor participated in the perversion of homosexuality. He stuck to females and all of them seemed to understand the relationship was one of convenience.

Abbas el Khalidi never let a woman get too close to him. He had only ever heard from one woman again. She had tried to set him up by claiming she was pregnant with his child. Khalidi had only needed to make a phone call and the girl disappeared, never to be seen again. Khalidi smiled when he thought about that fact. Of course, he had verified with certainty that she was lying before he had disposed of her, since he never would have permitted harm to come to any of his children. However, this girl had been the only one to make such claims and whether by reputation or merely plain good fortune, Khalidi had never been extorted by another. It wasn’t really all that surprising since rumors of such things at least got around in close-knit communities like those in Safi.

Lights came visible, twinkling as he rounded the road of the coastline heading into the city. Safi had a population of less than 300,000 people, while the surrounding communities brought the aggregate total to about a million, all told. Khalidi enjoyed this city above so many others in his country because most of it was sparsely populated, thereby setting the stage for a generally poor community that made most of its money from tourism and sales of handcrafted pottery. In fact, Moroccan pottery and rugs from this region were world-famous, although most of the citizens hardly made a dime from their sales.

Mostly, it was the exporters who took the majority of the profits, and they paid a significant kickback to Khalidi. Not only did pottery cross the transnational boundaries, but drugs did, as well. Yes, Khalidi had built his entire fortune on this type of trade. He had a mind for it, he happened to be very good at it, in fact, and he tended to hire others with a mind for it, as well.

It was dark by the time Khalidi reached the downtown area but still early enough that most shops in the marketplace were open, and people coming home from work crammed the streets shopping for food or other items. Tomorrow was Saturday—while most everyone would go to work it tended to be later in the day because of morning prayers and meetings at mosques throughout the entire Doukkala-Abda region. Khalidi roamed the streets for a while until he found a nicer shop filled with a variety of jewelry.

Khalidi stepped into the building and knew immediately the shopkeeper was doing well. The store had full electrical service and also ran an air-conditioning system. Khalidi nodded at the man and perused the shop for about an hour until he found the perfect trinket. He paid cash, adding a little extra when the proprietor moaned about his large family.

He could empathize with the old man, who did not look to be too healthy. After all, Khalidi had been there once—he was a businessman, not a monster.

Khalidi proceeded directly from the shop to the central marketplace, where he eventually found what he’d been searching for: Jasmina. Yes, a most excellent choice for the mood he was in. Not only was she a beautiful young woman, elegant and graceful for a commoner, but she’d also proved very accommodating to just about anything Khalidi suggested. Willing to please, with skin like bronzed gold and dark, sensuous eyes. He’d not seen her in some time but it only took a moment before the flicker of recognition crossed her features.

She greeted him with a warm smile, her dark eyes sparkling. The light reflected back from the rattan shades drawn over the marketplace that were strung between the buildings to provide shade to shoppers in the brutal heat of the day. They were doubly useful by reflecting the firelight in the evening and reducing the demands for electric lighting. In some parts of the city the local government would still cut power to conserve electricity.

“Good evening, Jasmina,” Khalidi said.

She inclined her head in a bow of respect and replied, “Good evening, Master el Khalidi.”

“Come, come, there is no reason to be so formal.”

“If I seem too formal it is only out of respect and not to offend you.”

“Are you not glad to see me?”

Jasmina nodded with enthusiasm. “I am most glad to see you, Abbas, but your arrival here and at this time took me unaware.”

“Come and have dinner with me,” Khalidi said, moving close and tracing the smooth skin of her arm with the back of his hand. “I am most interested to hear of how you have been.”

“And perhaps interested in something else?” she asked with a knowing expression.

“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “Perhaps, no...definitely more.”

“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Abbas.”

Khalidi couldn’t ignore the sudden swell in his groin. “And mine.”

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“NO QUESTION ABOUT IT, lady and gents,” Lyons told his colleagues at the Farm. “This is one nasty outfit we’re dealing with. The intelligence you got from that Justice contact wasn’t exaggerated by any stretch.”

“How much information were you actually able to get from the subject Able Team took alive, Cal?” Price asked the Phoenix Force warrior.

“Quite a bit,” James said. “It’s all in the notes I took.”

“Not to mention, most of it shouldn’t be too difficult to verify,” Blancanales added.

Brognola nodded. “Bear’s working on it as we speak. I’d imagine he’ll cook up a mess of data in no time at all.”

The statement didn’t surprise anyone in the War Room. Aaron “Bear” Kurtzman hadn’t been defeated by the bullet in his spine that had confined him to a wheelchair. Lesser men would have suffered an irreversible psychological trauma, adopting an attitude of self-pity that would have crushed them for the duration of their lives. Not Kurtzman. The man’s spirit was nearly as indomitable as his wrestlerlike upper body, a physique he kept in prime condition through exercise and, as his best friend and confidante Barbara Price had pointed out on more than one occasion, “sheer orneriness.”

As soon as they had notified Stony Man of their intelligence gleaned from James’s interrogation of the prisoner—intelligence that the outfit they were fighting actually operated on an international scale—Brognola had ordered a full-alert status for the remaining members of Phoenix Force. They now sat around the table, most in various modes of dress indicative of their actions.

Rafael Encizo had been volunteering for diver duties with the D.C. police in search of a missing mother who’d gone out for a jog as she did every night and never returned home. David McCarter and T. J. Hawkins had been at a local gun-club event, participating in a regional shooting match. Gary Manning had actually been the farthest one out, embarked on a hunting trip with some friends in the deep, rugged forests of the southern Smoky Mountains.

“What’s the general lay of it, guv?” McCarter asked.

Brognola looked at Price. “Barb?”

Price, the Stony Man mission controller, nodded and began, “This group calls itself the Red Brood. At first we thought it was a kidnapping ring with a radical agenda aimed at internal politics. Now, with the information courtesy of the man Able Team managed to take alive, we’re convinced there’s a lot more to it than that.”

“Isn’t there always,” Hawkins interjected in his Texan drawl.

“Look on the bright side,” Schwarz said. “Job security.”

“All right, pipe down and you might learn something,” Brognola said.

As if on cue, Kurtzman entered the War Room and proceeded to his reserved spot. He brought up the computer projector—one much older than the modern facilities in the Operations Center of the Annex—beginning with the picture of a very young and handsome Arab in his twenties.

“I’ve run the gambit on the intelligence you brought back,” Kurtzman told the group. “It’s mind-boggling.”

“That’s serious coming from Bear,” James said.

“All, I would like you to meet Abbas el Khalidi, head of the world news outfit known as Abd-el-Aziz and suspected by Interpol as one of the biggest drug kingpins ever.”

“Drugs?” Lyons shook his head. “I thought we were dealing with a white-slaving group.”

“We are,” Brognola said. “But white slavery’s just the tip of the iceberg. And it’s plainly obvious the Red Brood is only a front for Abbas el Khalidi’s international drug transshipping pipeline. Now that Aaron’s identified Khalidi as a player in this, there’s no doubt left in my mind that we’ve stumbled onto the real threat.”

“Seems a little crazy that someone as high-profile as Khalidi would dabble in drug and human trafficking,” Encizo said. “I don’t get the connection.”

“There’s a big connection,” Price said. “And don’t assume that Khalidi’s a mere dabbler in this thing. Abbas el Khalidi’s been on our radar for quite some time, but up until this point we had no reason to think he posed any serious threat to the United States. Mostly he was suspected of trafficking narcotics out of his home country of Morocco and into areas all over Europe.

“Now it’s plain to see he’s up to much more than that, including using the Red Brood as a way to funnel additional funds to support his main effort.”

“And he’s decided to target American kids to do it,” McCarter said.

His voice edged with quiet anger, Lyons said, “I think I speak for all of us when I say I want a shot at bringing this guy down. Hard.”

“Well, you’re going to get it,” Price said. “Although I’m afraid you may not get a personal meeting. Khalidi is a known recluse and rarely travels outside of Morocco save for the occasional appearance at one of his satellite companies. He’s been known to travel to Spain rather often, but in all cases he manages to operate outside the jurisdiction of either U.S. officials or Interpol.”

“So he sticks to places where Americans are effectively persona non grata,” Hawkins ventured.

“Correct.”

“There are a number of allied intelligence organizations who’ve attempted to assassinate Khalidi,” Brognola said, “but they’ve always somehow managed to miss the target. Mostly because he doesn’t stay in one place long enough to establish a pattern, and his travels are typically kept secret until he’s actually headed to his destination.”

“And as previously indicated,” Price said, “he’s not posed any direct threat to this country. Now the situation has changed and we’re pulling out all of the stops. We have the full cooperation and direction from the Oval Office to handle this in whatever manner we see fit. The assassination of American citizens and kidnapping of their children for the purpose of drug trafficking is unacceptable on any level.”

“What’s the game plan?” Manning asked, obviously itching to join the fight with the rest of them.

“We’re sending Phoenix Force to Morocco. We’ve secured the cooperation of a local policeman there named Zafar Mazouzi. Officially, Mazouzi’s an employee of the police force in Casablanca, headquarters for Abd-el-Aziz, but we have reliable intelligence he’s been cooperating with Interpol officials to pass whatever information he can on Khalidi’s activities. If he’s managed to stay alive this long, we’re confident he must know quite a bit of Khalidi’s movements and should be an excellent liaison. Your mission, David, is to penetrate the country, disrupt Khalidi’s pipeline operations between here and Morocco and, if the opportunity presents itself, terminate with extreme prejudice.”

McCarter nodded, as did the other members of his team.

Price turned her attention to the trio of Able Team warriors anxious for their own assignment. “As for the three amigos, you’ll board a commercial flight for Florida. Your first stop is Daytona Beach, the district in which Congressman Acres maintained his home and headquarters. Acres is our only lead, not to mention the prisoner you took is from that area. The fact they managed to snatch his son means they had him under observation for some time, knew where he lived and where he worked. That’s the most logical starting point.”

“What are we supposed to do once we find them?” Blancanales asked.

“Yeah, do we get to terminate with extreme prejudice, too?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Brognola said. “Your mission is to run this group to ground, closing the pipeline from this end while Phoenix Force handles the Moroccan angle. A two-headed spear is what we’re shooting for.”

“And we’re not concerned so much about the drug trafficking into Europe,” Price said. “That’s of a secondary concern. The first is to cut the pipeline off at the knees, which will have the effect of not only securing the safety of the American public, but also of removing a major source of funding for Khalidi’s organization. Any questions?”

The men shook their heads nearly in unison.

“Then let’s get it done,” Brognola said.

As the group broke up, the members of the team saying their respective goodbyes or taking a minute to engage each other in lighter conversation, Lyons took the opportunity to grab McCarter, who had stepped outside for a smoke.

“I know exactly what you’re going to say,” McCarter said to his friend. “You wish you were going with us.”

“That’s not exactly what I was going to say, although the sentiment’s implied,” the Able Team leader replied. “I just wanted to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“If you get close enough to Khalidi, I mean really close, take him apart with your bare hands. Not for me—for these kids.”

The fox-faced Briton favored Lyons with a genuine smile of glee. “You can bloody well count on it, mate.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Daytona Beach, Florida

Although the light breeze blew across the sweat that furrowed Carl Lyons’s brow, it didn’t do much to cool him off.

July was one of the hottest and most humid months of the year in Florida, and even being from Los Angeles hadn’t given Lyons any more reason to like the humidity. Blancanales, on the other hand, loved this kind of weather.

“Miserable and muggy,” Lyons muttered as they stepped out of the air-conditioned airport and waited at the curb for their vehicle.

“I love it,” Blancanales replied.

“Did either of you guys consider the fact we were here just a few weeks ago?” Schwarz asked.

“That’s right,” Blancanales said. “I’d completely forgotten.”

“I’m still trying to forget,” Lyons said.

None of the three men had completely shaken off their experiences in Tehran. Lyons had gone on record to say he’d thought their mission in the heart of Iran’s capital had been one of the toughest Able Team had ever undertaken. The Islamic Republican Guard Corps, in concert with Muslim clerics of the Pasdaran, had attempted to overthrow members within their own government while secretly planning to launch attacks against American soil using a Hezbollah unit they were training in the jungles of South America. While Phoenix Force had been occupied trying to find the Hezbollah-IRGC contingent training camp where hostages of the U.S. Peace Corps were being held, Stony Man had elected, been forced really, to send Able Team to Tehran to extract an Iranian intelligence asset claiming to have information about the plot. It had turned into nothing short of a nightmare, resulting in the deaths of two CIA agents and a twenty-four-hour nightmare for Able Team as IRGC and police units hounded their every step.

Lyons shook it away just thinking about how close they’d really come on that one and said, “Let’s leave that behind and talk about the current operation.”

His two friends agreed with solemn nods just as their vehicle, a late-model SUV rental, rolled up.

As Schwarz tossed their shoulder bags into the rear compartment, Blancanales climbed behind the wheel with Lyons on shotgun. This tended to be their modus operandi on most missions, born more from habit than much else.

“I miss Black Betty,” Blancanales said as he put the SUV in gear and eased from the curb.

“Me, too,” Schwarz said.

“Well, unfortunately there wasn’t enough time so we’re just going to have to make do,” Lyons said.

Their remembrance of Able Team’s customized van, a vehicle out of which they normally operated, left each man nostalgic for that home away from home. Painted midnight-black with tinted bullet-resistant windows, Black Betty was an armored tactical and communications center that boasted a comprehensive armory and the latest in surveillance-countersurveillance equipment. Unfortunately, it wasn’t practical to ship to every location within the U.S. Able Team might operate, and Stony Man therefore reserved it only for unique occasions or at the team’s specific request.

“Where to first?” Blancanales asked.

“I’m guessing we need to start with Mrs. Acres,” Lyons said. “She’s going to be our first, best source of information.”

The other two men agreed, reliant on the expertise of Lyons’s former law-enforcement experience as an LAPD tactical sergeant. It was his position as a cop that had first brought Carl Lyons together with Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, although at that time they had technically been on opposite sides of the law. Bolan’s war against la Cosa Nostra had just begun and Lyons had been just one of the many cops with mixed feelings about the game. On one hand, he’d secretly enjoyed watching Bolan mix it up with the criminal empire of Julian DiGeorge and the Giordano family; on the other, he’d sworn an oath to uphold the law against anyone choosing to break it.

Only because of Bolan’s first taking action to save the life of Lyons’s family, and later opting to give Lyons his life back when he could well have snuffed it out in a moment of pitched battle, did Carl Lyons gain a high respect for the man called Mack Bolan. When he’d been offered a permanent position with Able Team as an urban commando against crime and terrorism on the streets of America, Lyons jumped at the opportunity to do something effective, where he could operate outside the official restrictions on law enforcement. Able Team worked because they could operate outside those restrictions while ensuring they didn’t risk the safety of good, law-abiding American citizens.

In fact, they were there to protect the American way of life, and they had become legendary in that regard.

Mrs. Annette Acres lived in a two-story brownstone just off the coastline. While it had a very traditional, almost Georgetown look to it, the decorative side of the heavy metal plates designed to protect the home from hurricanes and the inclement weather of Florida coastal living wasn’t wholly indiscreet. Reinforced plating lined the waist-high walls topped with wrought iron and decorative lighting that ran the length of the property line.

Lyons could feel the additional plating beneath the wood steps ascending the massive front porch with vast columns that supported a second-floor balcony, which probably branched off the master bedroom. The death of Thomas Acres had been kept quiet through the vast connections of Stony Man, so the arrival of the trio at their home—carrying forged credentials identifying them as agents with the FBI—signaled not only their initial interrogation, but also the gruesome duty of making a death notification.

Lyons had done it before; hell, they all had at one time or another. That didn’t make it any easier and he’d never really become used to it. Frankly, he’d never understood how those in the military could do such a job, their whole existence predicated on traveling around specific regions in the country to deliver the news to some family that their beloved soldier had been killed in action. Now that job would suck.

Lyons pressed the doorbell and the singsong chimes echoed from within.

Nearly a minute passed before a short Hispanic woman in a pastel dress with an apron answered. “May I help you?”

Lyons nodded as all three men produced their credentials, immediately getting into their respective roles. They had donned suits before leaving the airport and now stood there with stony expressions behind sunglasses.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lyons said. “Agent Irons, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to speak with Annette Acres.”

The young lady looked immediately distressed. “Um, well, of course...is she expecting you?”

“No.”

“So you don’t have an appointment,” she said.

“I just said that,” Lyons replied.

Blancanales stepped in at that point, reliably assured his friend’s patience wouldn’t hold out if the conversation took a worse turn. “Ma’am, we do need to speak with Mrs. Acres on an urgent matter and it’s not one we’d like to discuss out in the open. Please let us in.”

Blancanales offered a smile that most found utterly irresistible, and the maid returned the smile as she stepped aside to admit them. She closed the door and then led them to a broad, comfortable sitting room decorated in light woods and expensive works of metal. She waved them toward some chairs in the middle of the room and then went to retrieve the mistress of the house, but none of them helped themselves to a seat. They wouldn’t be here long.

Annette Acres entered the room with all of the elegance and grace one might have expected of a congressman’s wife. She had long blond hair and a petite figure. Her eyes were crystal-blue and while most might have called her expression “pinched,” she possessed an obvious cultured beauty within the high cheekbones and thin lips that bore just a hint of lipstick. A pair of tight slacks and an elegant white blouse completed the ensemble.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said as she entered, and all three Able Team men inclined their heads in recognition. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Lyons said as he gestured toward a love seat. “But please, after you.”

Mrs. Acres nodded and took a seat, and then Lyons dropped into a wingback chair catercorner to her. Blancanales and Schwarz stood close by, hovering above Lyons like a pair of gargoyles over the entrance to a medieval church.

“Mrs. Acres, my name is Special Agent Irons,” Lyons began. “These are agents Rose and Black. We’re with the FBI.”

For the first time since coming into the room, Annette Acres lost her composure a bit and worry immediately etched the otherwise flawless lines of that pretty face. “Oh, dear...this is about Tom, isn’t it?”

Blancanales quietly asked, “What makes you think that?”

“What’s happened to him?” she asked Lyons, ignoring Blancanales’s question.

“Mrs. Acres, there’s...well, there’s no easy way to say it so I’ll just say it. I’m very sorry to inform you that your husband is dead.”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners at first and then abruptly she burst into tears and began to wail. The maid came running into the room and immediately put her arms around the grieving widow, attempting to shush her while gripping her shoulders in as comforting an embrace as her tiny arms could manage.

Lyons’s heart lurched within him at first, but he stayed rock-steady, pressing his lips together. He wished he could say something more but what the hell would it be?

The men of Able Team fought their impatience and frustration as they waited for Annette Acres to get the majority of the initial shock out of her system. Once she’d calmed, the maid went and retrieved a handkerchief from the drawer of a nearby table and brought it to her mistress. She then nodded as Mrs. Acres told her to bring some tea for them and the number to John Jay’s school.

“And John Jay is...” Lyons began.

“Our son.”

Lyons nodded although he’d already known that. It had been somewhat of a test, a desire to see how much she actually knew about what had been happening. They had decided not to go into this with any assumptions, especially in believing that Annette Acres might not have had something to do with what was happening. By virtue of the fact she’d wanted to get in touch with her son at his Catholic school it was now apparent she had nothing to do with what had happened.

There was a remote chance she might have been playing it very clever, but Lyons’s gut told him no. She hadn’t been complicit in his kidnapping.

“Mrs. Acres, you should prepare yourself that your son will not likely be at school,” Blancanales said. “In fact, he’s been reported missing and his disappearance is related to Congressman Acres’s death.”

Lyons then went on to tell her the full story, excluding their direct involvement on the scene or anything related to the Red Brood and Abbas el Khalidi’s involvement in human trafficking. There wasn’t any reason in their minds to reveal more than absolutely necessary on the off chance someone close to the family was involved with the events of the past twenty-four hours. This was basically their only lead and they had agreed the wisest course of action would be to play things as close to the vest as possible until they had a more solid lead.

Frankly, this kind of thing didn’t bode well with Lyons or his teammates. They were troubleshooters, after all, not investigators. They preferred to let Stony Man gather the intelligence and then take action on whatever the Farm had found. This time, however, they had to play the game with the hand they’d been dealt. Hell, it wasn’t the first time they’d been called upon to improvise and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“What are you saying?” the widow asked after Lyons had finished. “That my son, my only child, has been kidnapped?”

“Mrs. Acres, please understand we’re doing everything we can to find your boy,” Schwarz said. “We think the kidnappers killed your husband only with the intent of stealing the money.”

“Is there anything you can tell us that could help us find him? Had your husband received any threats like this before? Anybody within his staff here locally, or any situations that come to mind that might clue us in to who’s involved in this?”

For the next ten minutes they questioned Annette Acres as gently as possible, getting clarification wherever they needed it. Eventually, the trio silently agreed by an exchange of glances between each other that the most likely suspect was Acres’s personal assistant, Genseric Biinadaz.

“I’m ashamed to admit it,” Acres confessed. “Tom had hired Genseric about two years ago to show he wasn’t prejudiced against Muslims or the Islamic faith. I was hesitant at first, but...I decided early on in our marriage that I would fully support Tom’s political career and not attempt to unduly influence his decisions. He was always an excellent congressman. He really cared about his...about our country.”

The talk brought back memories too difficult to ignore and the woman broke into a fresh wave of grief. When a few minutes passed, she sniffed and asked, “But you don’t think Genseric has anything to do with this. Right?”

“We can’t rule out anyone,” Lyons said.

“We’ll look into it,” Blancanales added.

“Can you provide me with any information?” Mrs. Acres inquired.

“At present, that’s all we really know,” Lyons said. He stood as a signal to his teammates it was time to leave. “Someone will be in touch shortly to arrange the transport of your husband’s body back to Florida.”

Acres didn’t rise but her eyes followed Lyons’s movements. “Am I in danger, too, Mr. Irons? Please be honest.”

“I don’t believe so,” Lyons said. “You have personal security?”

Acres shrugged. “Usually only when I go out. After Gabrielle Giffords was shot, Tom insisted on it.”

“Perhaps it would be best to have them around the house for the next few days,” Blancanales suggested. He tried to express as much comfort as he could. “Just to be safe.”

“And, Mrs. Acres, I’m going to have to ask that you not discuss any of the details of this case with anyone for now,” Lyons said.

“What? Not even our family?”

“Not anyone.”

“Please understand, ma’am,” Schwarz added. “It could compromise our investigation and potentially pose a danger to your son. If he’s still alive, and we believe he is, the kidnappers may kill him if they feel threatened. As tough as it might be not to want to get involved, it’s best to let us handle this for right now.”

“And if you’re contacted by the kidnappers,” Lyons said, passing a card to her, “you should call that number immediately. Don’t agree to anything, don’t ask any questions and for God’s sake don’t tell them we’ve contacted you.”

Annette Acres looked at first like she might argue but then finally tendered a slow, deliberate nod as she took the card, tossed it on the end table and then folded one hand over the other in her lap.

She clutched the handkerchief tighter. “I understand. Gentlemen, you will have my full cooperation. But please...please bring my John Jay back safely to me. I don’t think I could stand to lose him, as well.”

“We won’t make promises we don’t know we can keep, Mrs. Acres,” Blancanales replied easily. “But I assure you we’ll do everything in our power to find and return him safely.”

Acres managed a smile. “Thank you, Agent Rose.”

“We’ll show ourselves out,” Lyons said.

After expressing their condolences one last time, Able Team beat a hasty retreat from the house and returned to their SUV.

Lyons placed an immediate call to Stony Man as they made their way for Acres’s downtown office.

“What do you need?” Price asked.

“Everything you can tell us about one Genseric Biinadaz,” Lyons replied.

“You’ll have it within twenty minutes,” she said after a short pause, the clack of computer keys evident in the background. She was obviously messaging Kurtzman to get on it as they spoke. “What about Mrs. Acres? Anything there?”

“Nothing that spoke to us,” Lyons said. “We agree she probably doesn’t have anything to do with this. She cooperated fully with us and wasn’t evasive at all during questioning. We also decided not to reveal more than we absolutely had to in case she lets something slip to the wrong people.”

“What about others in the family who might be involved?”

“The maid is the only other one with regular access to them,” Lyons said. “You might want to check on her legal status, just in case, but she seems to be very protective of the family. I have serious doubts she’s got anything to do with it.”

“Tell them about the personal security,” Schwarz reminded him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Lyons said with a nod. “Apparently after Congresswoman Giffords was shot in Arizona, Acres decided the family needed to have a personal security team assigned to them whenever they were in public.”

“I’m not sure what you’re driving at,” Price said.

“Well, we’re kind of curious to know where that personal security was when John Jay Acres got snatched,” Lyons said. “And how come there wasn’t someone with Acres at all times in Washington. Seems to me that they’d have a better handle on what was going on if they were a professional team.”

“Unless there’s something to your theory about Biinadaz being on the Red Brood’s payroll,” Price replied. “It’s not unlikely Acres might have turned selection of the security team over to his personal assistant.”

“And so instead of selecting a legit outfit, Biinadaz saw an opportunity to get some of Khalidi’s human traffickers inside for this job,” Lyons said. “That’s a very sharp observation, Barb.”

“That’s why they pay her the big bucks,” Schwarz said close to Lyons’s ear.

The Able Team leader feinted swatting his friend. “Would you knock it off?”

“What?” Price said.

“Nothing,” Lyons replied. “Just Gadgets up to his usual antics.”

“Ah, of course. We’ll get the information to you shortly. You boys be careful.”

“Yes, mother. Out here.” Lyons broke the connection and said, “Okay. Let’s go have a cozy little chat with Biinadaz.”

CHAPTER SIX

Rabat, Morocco

Abbas el Khalidi studied the rocky cliff face off the shores of the capital city of Rabat. While the country of Morocco technically owned all coastal lands, Khalidi had wielded his influence to convince officials to lease this small area for “commercial purposes,” which resulted in some additional revenue for the government. In return, nobody looked too carefully at what he was doing. In fact, the contract allowed for government inspectors to enter the property boundaries at any time and for any purpose, although there wasn’t much to see. From this vantage point of the cliff face, which looked predominantly like sheer rock covered with lichen and coral pits, the remnant of volcanic seas long dead, the area appeared practically untouched.

At the base of those cliff faces, however, a much closer inspection would have revealed the three separate hidden entrances spaced approximately fifty yards apart. This area formed a sort of cove, although uninhabitable given the sharp, rocky outcroppings that met immediately with the waves of the Atlantic crashing against them. They formed a natural, inhospitable barrier, and it was for this very reason Khalidi had selected the site as the entrance to the underwater complex.

Natural underwater inlets had been dug into the cliffs, thousands of years of erosion slowly chipping away at their base, leaving behind the basalt and granophyres that formed natural and massive caves. From this infrastructure, Khalidi had hired some of the finest minds in archaeology and marine construction from points all over the world to design and build the infrastructure that supported the complex. Highly pressured iron and steel formed cross frames meshed by thick plates of Plexiglas eight inches thick and heat-sealed against the massive water pressure. Vents to the surface provided natural air movement, and a pair of twin, water-driven underwater turbines generated all of the electrical power needed by the vast complex.

Only one surface entrance existed, its location a secret to no more than the two dozen controllers and a complement of mercenary teams that resided on-site. From this base of operations, Khalidi moved the drugs, transporting them in specially designed flat-bottom launches capable of high speeds that moved the product from the shores to ships already in transit. A quick load of the hulls and in no time the ships were bound for ports throughout Europe and even a few distribution points in Southeast Asia.

On the other side, similar teams would off-load the drugs while still in international waters and the ships would arrive on schedule, if not ahead of time, carrying only the cargo on their manifests. It was this vast system of smuggling that had built wealth upon Khalidi’s wealth. Every employee underwent a rigorous screening and once in they all knew there was only one way out besides accepting a generous retirement package: attrition in Abbas el Khalidi’s outfit only occurred feetfirst. A few had managed to escape but none had ever been stupid enough to betray Khalidi—such an action would’ve spelled certain death.

Khalidi wasn’t stupid enough to think he hadn’t been extremely fortunate up until now. No operation of this nature lasted forever, so Khalidi proceeded under the guise of covert operations supposedly on behalf of the Moroccan government. Since there were officials within the highest halls of power who regularly consorted with Khalidi, some even on his payroll because public service in such a country didn’t exactly pay well, most never questioned what they were doing or why. It was an arrangement Khalidi knew he couldn’t maintain indefinitely, but to this point he’d operated with considerable autonomy.

When it all fell apart, he would simply pack up operations and move somewhere else.

Whatever happened, Khalidi had arranged things so that nothing could ever come back to him personally. He could continue to be “Prince Story” for his public, a champion and voice of the worldwide Muslim community, while reaping the profits that would keep his empire afloat probably long after he was dead. Khalidi considered that he would soon need to think of siring legitimate offspring, take a wife so that his children could carry on his legacy. The one thing Khalidi wanted more than all else was to secure the freedom of Islam: freedom from the enslavement of those who would use Islam for purely personal gain; freedom from the Westerners and their allies who wanted to destroy them; freedom from the oppression and poverty and hunger they had suffered in such places as Israel and Libya.

This...yes, this was the answer to his goals.

Khalidi took a deep breath and then turned and proceeded back to his Mercedes. He gunned the engine, put it in gear and then proceeded to the shore-top entrance accessible by a private road off the coastal highway just north of the city limits. He drove to the entrance, carved out of the living rock, presented his credentials to the guards with the pass-code of the day and then drove into the cavern that descended sharply to the underground parking area. From this point, it was a fifty-yard walk to a single-access lift that dropped nearly one hundred yards to the main area of the complex. The hiss of bubbles audible in the cavernous chamber dribbled toward the surface outside the main observation viewport, visible in the afternoon sun cutting through blue-green waters.

Occasionally, a shark would swim past, its outline faintly visible from the interior. Dolphins, sea porpoises and dozens of other species of marine life would shimmer along the perimeter of the viewport, occasionally stopping to look through the transparent barrier. They were clearly as curious with regard to the inhabitants within as their human counterparts were fascinated in return. The scene was so peaceful and surreal that Khalidi could not help but let it mesmerize him; this one thing had never really become workaday or routine to him.

The drug trafficker stopped to watch a school of remoras before turning and entering an antechamber that led to control center. Standing at one of the several computer terminals was Ebi Sahaf, Khalidi’s chief adviser and director of operations within the complex. Sahaf had first come into Khalidi’s employ as a technical adviser for Abd-el-Aziz, but Khalidi quickly realized the man’s potential after seeing him in action. Not only had Sahaf demonstrated his technical competence and ability to command men, but he was also a devout Muslim and faithful ally. Sahaf took to his new assignment like a dog to a bone. He’d proved his worth and loyalty more times than Khalidi could recall, and in this regard had become one of his leader’s closest friends and advisers.

“Good day, Abbas,” Sahaf said without even turning from the screen.

Although Sahaf spoke flawless Arabic, the British accent was evident in his voice—a clear sign of his upbringing in New Delhi. It was at university in India where he’d learned his technical skills and demonstrated his uncanny skills as both an information systems and structural engineer. It was a rare and unusual combination of skills and Khalidi had always admired Sahaf for his talent.

“How did you know I was here?”

“The guards called ahead, as they are instructed to do whenever you show for a surprise visit.”

“I would hardly call my visit a surprise,” Khalidi said, raising one eyebrow.

Sahaf turned and smiled. “I merely jest with you, Abbas. Don’t be so serious.”

“I’m a serious man with serious issues on my mind.”

“You speak of the recent incidents in America?”

Khalidi nodded and Sahaf looked around. The staff seemed otherwise preoccupied with their respective duties, but Sahaf, a man with a singularly suspicious nature, gestured for Khalidi to follow him to a location where they could talk privately. They entered a small conference room adjoining the complex and closed the heavy door behind them. They didn’t have to worry about being overheard or eavesdropping. A personal team—handpicked from the mercenary force that oversaw security—swept twice a day for surveillance devices, every door in the complex provided a waterproof and practically soundproof seal.

Khalidi took a seat at the conference table while Sahaf proceeded to a nearby coffeepot and prepared two single-size servings of strong Turkish coffee. Once he’d returned to a seat next to Khalidi and served him the cup filled with the dark liquid, he scratched his eyebrow beneath the lens of his bifocals and groaned inwardly.

“I must admit that the news troubled me, as well, when I heard it,” Sahaf said.

Khalidi took a sip from the cup before asking, “How did you find out?”

“During my regularly scheduled call with Ibn Sayed.”

Khalidi had always found it difficult to understand why Sahaf refused to call Genseric Biinadaz by his given name instead of the more formal Genseric Biinadaz Ibn Sayed. Of course, Sahaf had very traditional views in this regard, but he also saw Biinadaz as somewhat of an outsider given his affiliation with the Taliban party in Afghanistan.

“Were these men he had selected responsible for this debacle?” Khalidi inquired. “The information I’ve been given was not detailed.”

“It took some prodding but he was eventually forthcoming in saying these two men had gone rogue,” Sahaf replied with a shrug. “As far as I know, they were men that he cleared. Whether he knew about their plans to operate outside of protocols could never be proved by mere inquiry alone. Older, more tried methods would be needed to ascertain the truth.”

“It sounds as if you’re inferring some impropriety on Genseric’s part.”

“Not inferring so much as suggesting we not dismiss the possibility,” Sahaf said over his cup.

“Do you have any evidence?”

“I don’t. This is why I’ve not made any direct accusation. You know me better than this, I think.”

“Indeed I do.”

Sahaf took another sip and sighed. He stared at the half-empty cup for a time before saying, “I’ve never made it any secret there is a level of distrust I have for Ibn Sayed.”

“Yes,” Khalidi replied, “and this is not the first time we’ve had a discussion like this. What troubles me is that every time we talk about it you never seem to give me reasons why.”

“It’s because I do not wish to insult you.”

“It would take more than mere candor for me to think you were insulting me, old friend.”

“Honesty, then.”

“I want nothing less,” Khalidi said. “I deserve nothing less. No?”

“No.” Sahaf took a deep breath in an obvious gesture of collecting his thoughts. “To be plain, Abbas, I do not trust him because he has not made his goals known. I don’t trust men who won’t verbalize their personal or political ambitions. It speaks of a double-minded man who wavers when questioned about his past affiliations. Double-minded men can be very dangerous.”

Khalidi didn’t want to laugh but he couldn’t help himself in the moment.

Sahaf glowered. “Why do you laugh at me?”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Khalidi said. “I’m laughing because I seem to recall times when you first worked for me where you held your own ambitions rather close to the heart. I had to practically beat it out of you when looking for someone to oversee the construction of this facility. And now look!”

Khalidi rose and began to pace the small conference room, waving toward the invisible reinforcement beams high above them. “Look at what you’ve accomplished.”

“With your guidance, Abbas.” Sahaf sat back in the chair and folded his arms. “It was your vision that inspired me. I would have never achieved this on my own.”

“Of course not!” Khalidi said. “But that is exactly my point. Don’t you understand, Ebi? Don’t you see what the completion of this facility means? We are on the precipice of a success for Islam unlike anything ever foretold. Others merely eke out a paltry living while they stand along the side of Allah’s path and observe the trail of history. But we—” he slapped the table for emphasis “—we are making history!”

Khalidi took his seat once more. “When we started this project more than three years ago, I know you couldn’t ever see it coming to completion. And yet here you have attained an historical success. And yet you did not start off being plainly ambitious. Is it now so difficult to believe that success cannot be won by Genseric Biinadaz just because he is not forthright with alternative plans?”

“You are right, of course,” Sahaf said immediately. “I ask your forgiveness for not seeing it.”

“Ha! My friend, there is nothing to forgive,” Khalidi protested. “And you must know that I have not completely discounted your concerns. I’ve found you to be insightful and prodigious, single-minded in your goals and utterly ingenious. You are a superb reader of others and I would be an ignorant fool not to heed your advice. Particularly on a matter as important as our operations in America.”

“I appreciate your understanding, Abbas.”

“So exactly what is it you propose should concern us about Genseric?”

“I have received some disturbing information about our trafficking operations,” Sahaf said. “Information that indicates the Americans have agents now investigating the deaths of their officials, and the disappearance of the boy sired by this Congressman Acres.”

“Are you saying that Genseric claims not to know the boy’s whereabouts?”

“Yes.”

“He’s told you as much?”

“No, but one of my spies...” Sahaf’s voice dropped off and he expressed horror at the slip.

Khalidi studied his friend with a cold, hard expression for a long moment and then slowly he smiled broadly. “Ah, my dear Sahaf. Do not look so morose. Do you think I didn’t know you would have spies among the ranks? I wouldn’t doubt you have one or two even among my closest staff at Abd-el-Aziz. It’s quite okay as long as they are not spying on me.”

“Never, Abbas,” Sahaf said, coming out of his chair. “Never would I allow anyone to spy on you. I would tear them apart. I would—”

“Relax, Sahaf,” Khalidi said in a quiet but firm voice. “Please sit down.”

The scientist took his seat, removed his glasses and mopped his upper lip with a pocket towel.

“Go on,” Khalidi prompted.

“There are some indicators that Ibn Sayed has been slowly amassing a private army.”

“Private army of what?”

“Islamic jihad fighters,” Sahaf said, donning the glasses once more. “Most of them are said to be brothers who fought alongside him during Ibn Sayed’s days in Afghanistan, although a few may have already been in America before he arrived.”

“And what purpose is this army to serve?”

“That is not something I can know with any certainty yet. My spy has not yet been able to penetrate the inner circle. However, there are rumors that he is training this army at a secret camp somewhere in America. My concern is that he may try to overthrow our operations there, loosen our foothold and take over for himself.”

“And why would he do this?” Khalidi replied. “We have been more than generous with him.”

“I would completely agree but who knows what motivates the mind of some men. Ibn Sayed is a young man, trained to fight for the Islamic jihad from practically the day he was born. As a young warrior he will think like one. He’s brash and impetuous, and these are not traits that have proved themselves to make for particularly stable representatives in the past. He may see it as duty to Allah, or perhaps even as the only way to prove his commitment to the fatwas.”

“Bah! The days of Osama bin Laden’s reign are now long dead, buried with the old man and his arcane ideas. Surely an intelligent man like Genseric Biinadaz can see there is a new Muslim order worth fighting for. There are too few left who believe in the old ways, and most of them that do are all but impotent.”

“Maybe the old ways are dead but not necessarily in the minds of men like this one. Ibn Sayed is unpredictable, my friend—of this much I am certain. Whatever he plans to do with this army, if he has an army—”

“And you believe he does.”

“Yes...I believe he does.”

“You’ve given me a lot to consider, Sahaf.” Khalidi paused to think about this new turn of developments.

Khalidi had no doubts that someone like Biinadaz, a man with such experience and talents, could build a private army and use it to steal Khalidi’s operations. What didn’t make sense was the motive. An Islamic jihadist swore an oath as a warrior to promote only Islam and the laws of Allah—there had never been room in that oath for personal gain. If Biinadaz had no intention of taking over the human-trafficking ring Khalidi had established in America, that could only mean he had other plans that would ultimately divert his attention from those operations.

In either case, the amassing of such an army would doubtless prove a distraction and put Khalidi to considerable inconvenience, not to mention the effect on their timetable. They were ready to begin peak transshipment operations to all of their locations in Europe. There had never been a higher demand for the product Khalidi produced, neither in quantity nor in frequency of deliveries. With that increase would come more profit and that could only further the cause of the new Islamic regime Khalidi envisioned for the world.

“I must admit, Sahaf, that you have now solicited my complete attention,” Khalidi said. “I would appreciate you looking further into this matter and keeping me informed. If Biinadaz is building his own fighting force then he has done so without my permission. Such an activity could threaten our plans on a number of levels, in spite of whatever his intentions may be.”

“So I am to assume you’re giving me a free hand in this matter?”

Khalidi raised a hand of caution. “Only insofar as acquiring more proof of these allegations. When you’ve provided it, and only then, shall I decide what course of action may be necessary. Nothing can interfere with our plans. Nothing. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, Abbas.”

“Excellent.” Khalidi rose from his seat and Sahaf followed suit. “And now, if it is convenient, I’d like to accompany you on a tour of the remainder of the complex, to see the areas that were not fully complete on my last visit. And then, perhaps, a few days’ leave on the surface. Allah knows you have earned that much.”

“With pleasure, Abbas,” Ebi Sahaf replied.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Daytona Beach, Florida

Everything is proceeding on schedule, Genseric Biinadaz thought. We grow stronger each day and soon we’ll be ready for phase two.

The thought brought a smile to his lips—the first time he could remember smiling in some time. Managing Abbas el Khalidi’s entire human-trafficking location from this part of the country had been a greater task than Biinadaz anticipated when he’d first agreed to undertake it, but what he now heard was proof that his hard work had paid off.

Not that this was the moment to become overconfident.

Rumblings among the ring’s network indicated that Khalidi could quite well be aware of Biinadaz’s extracurricular activities with regards to the Red Brood. What a farce that was! It sounded more like a Communist organization than a front for one of the largest human-trafficking networks in the world. And right under the Americans’ noses, which was why Biinadaz had opted to exploit it for his own purposes. Maybe Khalidi would have agreed with his idea and maybe not, but that didn’t really matter now. Biinadaz had sunk too much time and was too deep into it to give it all up now.

He would not give up his efforts without a fight and whether the great Abbas el Khalidi thought so or not, Biinadaz had now procured an army large enough and well equipped enough to hold that position indefinitely. There were many additional supporters who were not Islamic jihad fighters or trained combatants, but they had thrown other resources into the mix that only strengthened Biinadaz’s hold in America. This pooling of resources had proved beyond any doubt that Biinadaz’s war against the Great Satan could and would be won—it was only a matter of time.

Of course, he would need to keep Abbas el Khalidi’s hounds at bay until his plans came to fruition. Already there were rumors that Khalidi had more than one spy within the ranks, someone actually reporting to that incompetent waste of a Muslim, Ebi Sahaf. The guy was a lecher, a spineless automaton in Khalidi’s employ who could do little more than criticize Biinadaz and speak out of turn on subjects that didn’t concern him. At one point in their most recent conversation, Biinadaz had suggested that perhaps if Sahaf thought he could do better he should come to America and oversee these operations himself. That had brought about a bit of mad sputtering coupled with some lewd remarks, but nothing of substance to Biinadaz’s satisfaction.

That was fine—he would deal with the likes of Sahaf soon enough once he had full control of the situation here.

Biinadaz checked his watch as he exited the highway and entered the city limits. He’d been impressed following his inspection of the small training camp set up in some privatized wetlands bordering a private wildlife park. The undeveloped area, protected by law, had been the result of legislation Biinadaz had encouraged Acres to get passed through his state connections. In so doing, Acres had facilitated the creation of a training site in an area marked as restricted for development or industrialization, putting it under protection of state and federal conservationists backed by government funds. This had become the training ground for a small pocket of personal enforcers under Biinadaz’s command, while the remaining contingent was spread in small units throughout the greater Seattle area.

The concept proved doubly useful to Biinadaz’s plans since these men also worked as protection of Khalidi’s trafficking ring, code-named the Red Brood by certain officials within U.S. law enforcement. Biinadaz sneered at the very name. It sounded like a Communist group politicking liberal and progressive aims in Washington, D.C., and not like a trafficking ring. All it had done was draw attention to Khalidi’s operation, demonstrating once more that the newspaper mogul didn’t have the first clue how to build or train a proper fighting force.

Biinadaz arrived at his office nearly forty-five minutes late from lunch, although he had little to worry about. Acres was dead, which wasn’t something Biinadaz had really hoped to happen this soon, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. The man’s demise meant Biinadaz would have to push his plans forward by about a week. It wasn’t an ideal situation but Biinadaz didn’t see any reason to worry about it. A commander had to be ready to alter a battle plan at a moment’s notice, something he’d learned well fighting the American military in his home of Afghanistan.

However, he had difficulty covering his surprise when he stopped at the desk of his receptionist and turned to see a muscular blond man in a suit waiting for him.

* * *

CARL LYONS SPOTTED Biinadaz as soon as the Afghan immigrant stepped off the elevator. He was tall—Lyons put him at about six feet—with dark eyes and close-shaven brown hair. Biinadaz had olive skin and eyes so dark they looked black. Even through the suit, Lyons could see the man moved with the ease of a practiced combatant, which came as no surprise given the history Kurtzman had sent Able Team on the man. Biinadaz was a refugee of the Afghan-U.S. war and, although he denied his involvement, Lyons knew much better. He knew a soldier with one look and while Biinadaz might have been comfortable in this role, he wasn’t going to fool an experienced vet like Carl Lyons.

“Mr. Irons, is it?” Biinadaz said.

Lyons dropped the magazine on a low circular table, got to his feet and met the guy halfway between the couch and reception desk. He reached in his coat and withdrew the forged FBI credentials. “Actually, it’s Special Agent Irons. FBI. I’d like to speak with you.”

“Do you have a warrant, sir?”

“No.” Lyons returned his credentials that Biinadaz had barely seemed to notice. “I wasn’t aware I needed one to talk to you. We are, after all, on federal property and I’m a federal law officer.”

“Quite. But you would at least need a letter of permission from Congressman Acres, which, of course, we both know will now be relatively impossible to attain.”

Lyons didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, sadly. My condolences.”

“Of course,” Biinadaz said. “I would suppose that’s why you’re here. Please...” He gestured toward the door to his office.

Biinadaz offered Lyons a drink after closing the door behind them but Lyons declined. Once they were comfortably seated, Biinadaz said, “I must ask you to forgive my forwardness, Agent Irons, but the congressman was very sensitive on such matters of legality and proper etiquette. I’m afraid maybe a little too much of that has rubbed off on me. I have, shall we say, attempted to be as fine a personal aide to Thomas Acres as possible.”

“I understand,” Lyons said. “But surely you’re not surprised by the fact I’m here, Mr. Biinadaz. We’re investigating the congressman’s death, yes, but we’re also very concerned about his son.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” Biinadaz said. “Do you believe he may yet be alive?”

“There’s always hope.”

“Of course. It’s just that, well...after the kidnappers killed him in cold blood like that I’m very concerned they will have no further use for his John Jay and, ah, dispose of him in some horrible way.”

“It’s too early to jump to conclusions,” Lyons said. “And as we pointed out to Mrs. Acres, with whom you’ve probably spoken by now, there’s a chance that John Jay is much more valuable to them alive as long as there’s a ransom that can be paid.”

“What makes you think that I’ve spoken to Mrs. Acres yet?”

“Just an assumption.”

“Aren’t you trained never to assume anything?”

Lyons remained impassive.

“So I take it from what you’ve told me that the kidnappers didn’t receive the money originally demanded.”

Lyons shook his head. “Agents managed to recover it before that could happen. And we’re now investigating a strong lead. We may even be on the doorstep of the perpetrators, which means there’s still a chance to bring the boy back alive.”

“Of course,” Biinadaz said. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “How can I assist you?”

“Can you think of anyone who might have had the resources to carry this out? Someone who had recently threatened your boss? Maybe even someone on the inside, which is one possibility we’ve considered.”

“And why have you considered that?”

“There was a security force hired to protect the congressman when he was in public, as well as his wife and son. I understand you were the one charged with securing these services.”

“You would need to ask them those questions.”

“Well, then, maybe you can tell me where this outfit was when it all went down? Why weren’t they protecting Acres when he went to deliver the ransom? Why weren’t they watching John Jay at school?”

“Again, I’m certain you would have to ask them.”

“I think I will,” Lyons said. “You got the name of this security firm?”

“You can obtain that information from my secretary,” Biinadaz said. “I do not immediately recall the exact name of the firm.”

“So is this a situation where you can’t tell me what happened...or you won’t?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Agent Irons.”

“You don’t follow? Okay, follow this. It seems to me like a professional protection firm would be a bit more diligent in executing their duties. They’re supposedly on the job and yet they’ve let their primary get killed and nearly robbed of a half-million dollars, not to mention the man’s son is now in the hands of a dangerous trafficking ring.”

“Trafficking ring? You mean like...human trafficking?”

“Yeah, a child-slavery outfit nicknamed the Red Brood. You heard of them?”

Biinadaz shook his head. “No, and I am certainly glad I have not. These sound like very dangerous and evil people.”

Lyons narrowed his eyes a bit. When the hell was this miscreant going to come off the wide-eyed-horror routine? Biinadaz had been raised until his teen years in one of the most violent and unstable regions of the Middle East. Could he really be so egotistical to think that Lyons would believe that he was a cultured and refined moderate? This act only demonstrated Biinadaz was far more than he appeared. In addition to his radical views as an Islamic jihadist, Biinadaz had proved beyond any doubt his direct involvement in what had happened to Maser and Acres.

Lyons decided to play a hunch.

“Are you by any chance a Muslim, Mr. Biinadaz?”

“I am,” Biinadaz said. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“If it weren’t for our present circumstances, sir, I might find that question rather offensive. Are you profiling me, Agent Irons? Do you have some reason to suspect me? If so, then perhaps we should terminate this interview and I will contact my attorney. As well as your deputy director. I do believe we have his number in our records.”

Lyons put up one hand and rose. “That’s okay, no offense. I think we’re done here. I was hoping you could provide me with some useful information but it’s apparent you’re as much in the dark as the rest of us.”

“I hope you find and punish these animals,” Biinadaz said as Lyons opened the door to leave.

The Able Team warrior turned back and looked Biinadaz in the eyes. With a frosty smile he replied, “You can rest assured I will, pal.”

* * *

“SO BIINADAZ already knew Acres was dead?” Schwarz asked.

Lyons nodded but didn’t reply until the waitress in the luncheonette across from the federal office building finished pouring the coffee. A tall stack of half-eaten pancakes swimming in syrup sat on the plate in front of Lyons. Schwarz had already finished his food, but Blancanales was still busy mopping up ketchup with what remained of his bacon double cheeseburger. The lunch crowd had long been gone, leaving the three Able Team warriors to talk in peace.

“Yeah,” Lyons continued when the waitress left. “And he knew about John Jay’s kidnapping, the ransom. All of it.”

“So he’s in on it,” Schwarz replied.

“Definitely.”

“No chance Annette Acres told him?” Blancanales said around a mouthful of burger.

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