Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (56 page)

 
          
“He’s
moving ... damn it!” the pilot swore. He was distracted enough to lose sight of
him as the rider got up and ran underneath the PAVE HAMMER. “Aft gunners, keep
an eye out for—”

 
          
There
was a loud
bang!
and the CV-22 heeled
sharply over to the left. The pilot corrected for the shove, gained a little
altitude, and experimentally swung the tilt-rotor aircraft’s tail around so
they were facing the forest. No caution lights illuminated, and the aircraft
responded normally. “What happened?” he called on interphone. “Someone sing
out.”

 
          
“Land
mine,” one of the aft gunners called out. “The suspect had just reached the
edge of the trees when he tripped it. He exploded like a rotten tomato.”

 
          
“Well,
we know the land mines have been activated again,” Landers said. “Pretty
sophisticated—a fucking remote-controlled perimeter defense system. Any doubt
we got the right house?”

 
          
The
guard named Tommy watched the whole thing— watched the motorcycle rider zoom
away from the house toward the forest, watched the huge helicopter open up on
him, watched the rider do a triple-flip through the air, then watched as he was
blown into a hundred pieces by one of the land mines. The big boxy-looking
twin-rotor helicopter with airplane wings was now hovering at the edge of the
clearing, pointing not quite at the front door but a little off to the right,
as if deciding what to do. Tommy had traded his semiautomatic AR-15 for a
full-automatic M-16 with a fifty-round magazine and an M206 40-millimeter
grenade launcher, and had taken his position at one of the bulletproof
polycarbonate front windows inside the mansion.

 
          
Suddenly
the big chopper’s blinding searchlights swung around and hit the house full
force. Tommy lowered his night-vision goggles—they were useless with so much
light. A voice came over the chopper’s PA. “Come out of the house with your
hands in the air! This is your last warning!”

 
          
“Two
more of those things, surrounding the house,” someone radioed.

 
          
“Did
the boss make it?”

 
          
“I
don’t think so.”

 
          
“What
do we do?” Tommy shouted back over his shoulder. “They got a damned big gun on
that thing!”

 
          
“Sit
tight,” the security supervisor said. “Everyone hold your fire. They won’t use
the heavy stuff unless we—”

 
          
“What are you doing?”
a female voice
behind Tommy shouted. Tommy whirled around, pointing the M-16. It was “the
witch,” as everyone called her—Cazaux’s squeeze, the crazy woman who lived
upstairs. She was wearing a silky red robe. Her long dark hair like a lion’s
mane was around her shoulders. The robe was not tied, and her breasts and
crotch were exposed. “Why aren’t you attacking?”

 
          
“Shut
up and get out of here,” Tommy said, pausing to get a good look at the witch’s
body. Pretty nice rack, he thought, but she had to be as crazy as they come to
be walking around half-naked like that in the middle of a fire- fight. “Go
downstairs in the wine cellar until this is over.”

 
          
Jo
Ann Vega saw the gunsel’s eyes roving over her body before turning back toward
the window. Another typical male, she thought angrily. “Listen, you little son
of a bitch,
get out there
and kill
them. Avenge Henri.”

 
          
“Those
are
U.S.
Marshals out there, and they got heavy stuff. We’ll wait them out until
we know the boss is safe.” “Henri is already dead,” the witch said. “I saw him
get hit out there.” Tommy swallowed, finding it hard to believe that Henri
Cazaux was dead, but he stayed at his position. “You've got to avenge him,” the
witch shrieked. “Get out there and kill those federals,
now!
”

 
          
“I
said, shut up, take your big tits downstairs and take cover, lady.”

 
          
That
did it—the male pig deserved it now. Jo Ann Vega raised her Lorcin .380 automatic
and fired three shots into the back of the man’s head from two feet away. There
were a few other shots as other gunners nervously fired a few rounds. Vega
reached down, pulled the M-16 out of the dead man’s arms, walked quickly to the
front door, and swung it open.

 
          
“I’ll
take care of them for you, Henri, my love,” Vega said aloud. “God how I loathe
weak men.” She stepped outside, her robe flying open in the wind. As she
emerged out from under the breezeway in front of the house, she leveled the M-16
at the searchlights on the big aircraft on the other side of the expansive lawn
and pulled the trigger. Her first shot came the closest, missing the
searchlights by only a few feet, but the other shots went high and to the
right.

 
          
She
had fired almost the entire magazine, most of it almost straight up in the air,
and was trying to figure out how to launch one of the inch-and-a-half-diameter
grenades from the launcher slung under the rifle when the marshals’ aircraft’s
cannon opened fire. Three 12.7-millimeter shells hit, one in the head and two
in the torso, and Jo Ann Vega was split apart as easily as a hammer hitting a
banana. The cannon then sprayed the rest of the front of the house, hitting
each and every window with a gunner in it. Then, a long cylindrical pod on the
left side of the PAVE HAMMER aircraft popped out of the left sponson, and three
rockets ripple-fired into the front of the house, blowing out the front door
and creating two more man-sized flaming holes.

 
          
Skidding
to the left to shield the right side of the aircraft from the gunners in the
front of the house, the CV-22 flew toward it. A few shots of automatic gunfire
from the upper floors were immediately answered by Chain Gun fire. The Chain
Gun then fired a path into the front lawn toward the house, creating a terrific
explosion as one of the shells found a land mine close to the house. Two more
rockets blasted into the house near the front door, the CV-22 stopped about
twenty yards from the front of the house with its nose high in the air, hovered
for a few seconds, then veered sharply to the left and climbed over the house.

 
          
Leading
six
U.S.
Marshals, Deborah Harley and William Landers jumped off the back cargo
ramp of the PAVE HAMMER. Following the chewed-up path created by the Chain Gun,
they were safe from land mines. Firing into the windows, most of which were
ablaze, Harley and the seven Marshals burst into the house.

 
          
The
ground floor was decimated. The walls were blackened by smoke and fire,
furniture was upended and smashed, and smoking, crumpled bodies lay everywhere.
Harley, wearing a gas mask, shot one armed guard running toward the stairs from
the kitchen, then ran upstairs. She tossed two tear gas grenades upstairs,
then, with more agents behind her, started clearing rooms. She shot two more
gunsels stupid enough to have guns in their hand and turned over six more
blinded and choking guards to the Marshals.

 
          
Clearing
the entire mansion took only five minutes of careful searching by twelve
U.S.
Marshals, and the assault was over. A New
Jersey National Guard ordnance-disposal team from nearby Picatinny Arsenal had
to come out to create a safe ingress path toward the mansion, but within
minutes the cleanup was under way.

 
          
Hardcastle
arrived about an hour after the raid was over. He admired the large, lumbering
PAVE HAMMER hovering nearby. “Good to see you boys back on the job,” he said
half-aloud to the ungainly hybrid aircraft—they belonged to the U.S. Navy now,
but he’d always think of them as his. Hardcastle then turned to Deborah Harley,
checked her
treasury agent
body
armor, and said with a smile, “It’s good to see you too, Agent Harley. I should
have known you were Secret Service. It would explain why you seemed to have the
run of the White House, and how you seemed to have access to a lot more
intelligence information than the average executive assistant.”

 
          
“Vice
President Martindale hates Secret Service around him, so I’m less of a
bodyguard and more assistant,” Harley said. They were given the all-clear by
the Army ordnance- disposal units to reenter the mansion, and Harley began
shrugging out of her body armor.

 
          
“Have
you ID’d the bodies yet?” Hardcastle asked. “Was Cazaux here? Did you get him?”

 
          
“Yes,
yes, and I think so,” Harley said. She led Hardcastle to a line of corpses
outside the mansion, where
U.S.
Marshals were taking fingerprints and
photos of the bodies for identification. “Hired gunners, ex- and retired GIs, a
few known felons and mercenaries—Cazaux recruited only the best.” She kicked
aside a sheet high enough for Hardcastle to see a mass of blood-caked hair and
bloodied but recognizable womanly features. “One woman, might be a local—we’re
putting a rush on her ID.”

 
          
Harley
unzipped a black body bag with three strips of tape on it. The badly bullet-mutilated
body of a tall, well- built man was inside—he had been hit several times by
cannon fire from one of the CV-22s. “This looks like him, Admiral. One of the
Navy flyboys got a little antsy and hit him with his Chain Gun. Based on my
best description, I think that’s Henri Cazaux.”

 
          
“Fingerprints?
Dental records?”

 
          
“We’ve
already called the FBI,” Harley said. She noticed Hardcastle’s disappointed
expression at having the FBI called in, and Harley added, “The Marshals have
printed and photoed the bodies, but the FBI Pictures and Prints lab has the
best gear to do a positive ID, Ian, and they can do it fast. The only other
place to get Cazaux’s ID records is from the Belgian Army or from Interpol,
since Cazaux’s never been a guest in an American prison. I know you and Judge
Wilkes are having this thing with each other, but you want an iron-clad
positive ID, and so you’re talking FBI. The Marshals are working on it, top
priority. But I might be able to give you something for the Executive Committee
or the White House.”

 
          
Harley
checked a notebook retrieved from a camouflage field briefcase, then knelt next
to the corpse: “Cazaux was supposed to have had paratrooper tattoos on both his
left and right hand between the thumb and forefinger.” She picked up the grisly
bullet-shattered hands and removed the thin Reactor gloves. One of the nearby
Marshals had to turn away at the sight of the mutilated body, but Harley
handled it as casually as if she were giving a baby a bath. “Here’s one tattoo
on his left hand ... and here’s a scar on his right hand from laser surgery. It
looked like he was having the tattoos removed. They were apparently executing a
well- rehearsed escape plan—we’ve found vehicles, disguises, even a little
two-man helicopter stashed nearby.”

 
          
“Damn,”
Colonel Marc Sheehan said in admiration. “You got him. You actually got Henri
Cazaux!”

 
          
“I’m
not celebrating until those fingerprints and dental records match,” Hardcastle
said. “In the meantime I’ve got some information on the guy who called with
information on Cazaux.”

 
          
“Compare
notes with this gent,” Harley suggested. She stepped over to one of the
Marshals taking notes over the bodies. “Admiral Hardcastle, meet Timothy
Lassen, chief deputy U.S. Marshal from
Sacramento
. He’s been tracking the money from an
aircraft transaction a few days ago. I radioed him about the raid. Tim, the
Admiral’s got a name for you.”

 
          
The
Marshal checked a notebook, and before Hardcastle had a chance to speak, said,
“Ted Fell. Works for a Wall Street greaser named
Harold
Lake
.”

 
          
“Jesus,”
Hardcastle exclaimed. As fast as things were happening, Hardcastle thought, the
Marshals and people like Deborah Harley were moving even faster. “How in the
hell did you know, Deputy Lassen?”

 
          
“Good
ol’-fashioned pure dumb luck,” Lassen admitted.