The Assassin's Case (12 page)

While the two fell in a tangle of arms and legs Grant lunged toward the third kidnapper. The commotion drew the man’s eyes to his falling comrades before they snapped toward Grant. Allowing no time for the man to set his feet, Grant attacked. The kidnapper blocked a front-kick aimed at his lower abdomen, but not the breath stealing palm-strike that Grant slammed into his sternum. Grant continued forward and whipped a head rocking left hook to the face, followed by a punishing right cross. The man went down.

Footsteps pounded behind Grant and he pivoted. He swept aside a punch aimed at his face, grabbed the arm, and threw the attacker over a hip onto his comrade. As the man tried to rise, Grant whipped a kick into his head, using the momentum to spin toward their remaining cohort. The man was flying toward Grant, head low, arms spread, ready to torpedo him with a tackle. Grant spread his legs and dropped all his weight onto the man’s back, and reached under his neck. Grant’s forearm locked onto the front of his attacker’s throat, and he straightened his legs, applying pressure. A coughing-gagging noise escaped the man’s throat as Grant shut off the oxygen supply. When the man’s knees began to slack, Grant stood him up, released the hold, and spun to the man’s back. With his left arm, Grant gripped his opponent’s forehead, and pulled it into his shoulder. With the other he whipped out the Equatorian and placed the blade to the man’s throat.

The other two got to their feet, reaching beneath their coats.

“Wait,” Grant said. Keeping the knife pressed to his prisoner’s throat, Grant reached beneath the man’s jacket to grab a holstered pistol, before shoving the man toward his companions.

Grant covered them with the pistol while he retrieved the case and stepped behind one of the landscape lights, forcing them to look through its glare. “I’m out.”

The men stared, the light forcing them to squint.

Grant did his best to mimic Tedesco’s voice, relying on their obscured vision to do the rest. “Dr. Morgan lost his nerve. Said something about the risk to national security being too great. He’s gone. Left. Hasta la vista. Sayonara.” Grant paused, staring his adversaries in the eye and said, “Annyeonghi kyeseyo.” He used the Korean form of goodbye on a hunch. Grant studied them, gun steady, eyes darting from hands to eyes. One of the men’s eyebrows wrinkled in surprise at his use of Korean. The man understood it. Interesting.

“I didn’t sign up for this. You can have the case. I’m gone. You’ll never see me again. Your partner’s inside. He’s fine. Here’s the key” He tossed the room key to the grass near their feet.

Grant set the case on the ground in front of him and three sets of eyes locked on it. “It’s all yours.” He raised his hands. “Just give me five minutes to walk away.” Grant backed away a few steps, spun and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He rounded the corner, flung the door to the hotel corridor open, and sprinted to Evans’ room. Grant rapped on the door. “It’s me. Hurry.”

When the door opened, he shoved inside, and closed it behind him. Three guns were lowered and holstered. “We need to see which car they leave in. Get the tag if possible. Then we’ve got to move.”

Evans stepped to the computer. The rest of the group stared at him, questions hung in the air. Dr. Morgan looked deflated. He lowered his eyes, placed his forehead in his hands, and sank to the bed as sobs began to shake his frail body.

Grant knelt before him. “I’ll explain the rest on the way. Doctor, trust me. This is actually an opportunity. After this, there’s no way they’ll expect a rescue. We can do this. I promise.” Grant patted the man’s knee and stood. “Let’s pack up.”

Jaime and Tedesco began gathering their equipment.

Grant turned to Evans. “Is the boat ready?”

The man nodded without taking his eyes from the monitor. “There.” He pointed at the screen. “I’ve got them.” Four men made their way across the hotel grounds, one of them being carried between two others. Evans raised his gaze from the image. “I just got a message from my contact at the airport. Some people have been snooping around the plane.”

“Okay,” Grant said. “We’ll figure a way out once we get the Doctor’s family.”

Evans pointed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a long black carrying case resting against the wall. “You may want to check that out. It just might come in handy.”

Grant had seen the bag in the room but hadn’t inquired as to what it contained. He knelt down and unzipped it before pulling the sides apart to reveal its contents.

Wow.

An avid gun enthusiast Grant subscribed to an array of magazines published with his ilk in mind, so he recognized the ultra-modern rifle resting in the bag. A disassembled Cheytac .408. A high-tech sniper rifle, the same one Mark Wahlberg used in the movie
Shooter
. With the stock extended it was fifty-five inches long, bolt action, a magazine with seven shot capability, and a tripod. Grant rifled through the bag, locating a scope, ammo, and a handheld computer. He assumed the small computer would be loaded with Cheytac’s ABC software. The program enabled the user to input data to calculate factors which affected shooting at long distances. In extreme long range shooting all types of variables came into play. Distance and elevation were obvious. Other factors included things like the Coriolis Effect—what happens to your bullet based on the direction you’re shooting in relation to the curve and rotation of the earth—and spin drift. Humidity could even affect the path of a bullet. This little computer would allow nearly instant calculation of all these factors. There was even a sound suppressor. Although there was no way to silence the crack of a supersonic bullet, the device would greatly diminish the noise. Grant blew an appreciative whistle over his lips as he zipped the bag. “Evans, I think I love you.”

“Yeah. I get that a lot.” Evans made a few clicks with his mouse, following the kidnapper’s progress through the grounds.

SIXTEEN

Removing his left hand from his pocket, Colonel Ethan Cane flipped up the collar of his black trench coat to ward against the icy wind. His right hand gripped the crook of the walking stick, its tip rapped on the sidewalk in time with his steps. The souvenir had good heft, it felt substantial in his hands, but he couldn’t wait to return it to its owner. Cane walked in lockstep with Baxter Albriton, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, beneath a cloud-choked sky. The wind whisked away the white vapor of their breath as it drifted from their mouths. Streetlamps lit their path but did little to penetrate the gloom beyond the small islands of light they cast onto the sidewalk. Their steps carried them along a path next to the lake in the Constitution Gardens area of the National Mall. The island in the middle of the manmade lake contained commemorative stones bearing the names of the fifty-two signers of the Declaration of Independence. Fifty-two men with courage and vision. Cane drew in a lungful of the crisp air, taking a moment to relish the reminder of why he served. Here in this place, surrounded by some of the most recognizable landmarks in his beloved country, his body thrummed with the force of history. His nerves jangled with the sense of freedom and patriotism, causes for which he had given his life, and possibly his soul, to serve.

              “What the hell is going on down there, Colonel?” The DEP SECDEF’s
winning smile, and charismatic attitude the public knew was notably absent. This man was the second highest ranking official in the United States Department of Defense. Even so, he was still a political appointee, a slave to public perception. Technically the man was outside of Cane’s chain-of-command, he answered to a four-star general, but this operation was the deputy secretary’s baby. Although it chafed, Cane had been ordered by his commanding officer, Major General Dwight Stone, to follow this man’s instructions.

              “I’m handling it.” Cane attempted to keep his tone civil.

              The DEP SECDEF stopped, placing a hand on Cane’s shoulder, turning him so they were face-to-face. He had been briefed about the mole in their operation and the missing samples of the virus, but he hadn’t been informed of the full extent of the problem. “I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen if our operation goes public. The hounds will be at our door.” He took his hand off Cane’s shoulders. “But we can’t afford to stop.” He held up a finger. “One more terror attack. Here.” He pointed the finger toward the ground. “That’s all it will take. And we have to be ready. You and I both know it’s only a matter of when, not if. Then I can push the project through channels.”

              The idea behind the project was genius. A weapon that the terrorists would take back to their hide-outs, without even realizing they were infected. At least not until it was too late. It would revolutionize the war on terror. Of course, if it were up to Cane, he would simply make countries known to harbor terrorists lifeless seas of glass. But the namby-pamby politically correct, twenty-four hour news cycle, ten second sound byte politicians would never make hard choices like that. So, it was up to men like Cane to find a more clandestine alternative.

              “What are you going to do?” The Deputy Secretary said.

              “We’ve tracked the mole's contacts to Puerto Vallarta. We also know their location.”

“Who are these people?”

“We believe they’re arms dealers working for the North Koreans.”

The Deputy Secretary scrubbed a hand over his face. “If they get their hands on the virus it goes right on the open market.” He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “At least Morgan had the foresight to make a cure. Still, we can’ let them have it.” The man turned to stare toward the Washington Monument.

“Don’t worry. I’ve sent some men down there.” Cane leaned both hands on the walking stick.  “We’ve been able to put most of the pieces together. It seems Morgan's family was abducted as a way to get the formula. My guess is that’s where Morgan and his companions will eventually end up. But if they slip away again I’ve got a backup plan.”

              “What?”

              Cane stared the man in the eye. “Do you
really
want to know?” He knew the answer before he asked the question. The man needed to keep plausible deniability.

* * * * *

Beneath a white moon and a star dappled sky the power-boat skimmed over the smooth waters of Banderas Bay. The long and sleek craft knifed through the water with the proficient Evans at the wheel. A chart near the steering wheel, a depth finder, and sonar helped him navigate. Though deep, the bay contained a multitude of rock formations. Most of them were visible from the surface. The key word was most, so they needed to be cautious.

              Tedesco and the Doctor sat in a pair of captain’s chair behind the driver’s seat, sheltered from the gale by the windshield. Grant sat near Jaime on a bench seat in the front of the boat. Wind whipped their hair and clothes and salt mist soaked their skin.

              Admiring the clean lines of the boat, Grant nodded toward Evans. “He’s sure is a useful guy to have around.”

              Jaime bobbed her head in agreement. “Yes, he is.”

The prow of the boat crested a wave and settled back with a bump. Jaime was jolted closer to Grant. Without thinking he snaked his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her to him. Realizing what he had done, Grant dropped his hand to his lap, but Jaime remained by his side.

              “It’s beautiful here. Don’t you think?” Jaime leaned into him.

              “Yes.” Grant gazed toward the glittering sky, amazed at the clarity and volume of stars.

              “I want to come back,” Jaime continued. “When I can enjoy it.”

              “That would be nice.”

              She turned and gazed into his eyes. Her face was only inches away. Grant realized he wanted to, no ached to, kiss her. All he had to do was lean forward, just a little. Her lips were right there. But he hesitated.
Why?
Besides the audience behind him something held him back. Fear of rejection. Guilt. He didn’t know. The boat throttled down and the boat began to slow. The moment gone, Jaime smiled and stood.

             
Coward.

If Grant could figure a way to kick his own ass he would. He hadn’t been interested in anybody or anything since his family’s death.
What is the deal?
When he had time he would have to give it some thought.

              “I think this is as close as I should take us,” Evans said.

              Grant moved quickly. Already dressed in black fatigues, he smothered his face in black paint before donning a dry scuba suit over his clothes. They needed to hurry. If a patrol boat spotted them they would have more problems than operating at night without running lights. If the authorities spotted the weapons and equipment on board, there would be lots of
’splaining
to do.

              Leaning against the edge of the boat, Grant slipped a pair of dive fins on his feet, and strapped a diver’s sheath holding the Mercworx blade to his right thigh. Evans dropped a small, black, inflatable boat over the side, a length of rope attached to the front. In its bottom rested Grant’s equipment. The little raft was no more than a kid’s pool toy, but would suffice to help him swim his equipment to shore. Grant scanned the distance to the beach. “It should take me no more than ten minutes to reach the shore.” He swung his legs over the side. “Everybody’s clear on what to do?” He stared toward Jaime. She had argued on her assignment, staying on board to guard the boat and Dr. Morgan. It had been a tough sell and judging by the look on her face she still wasn’t pleased.

              Tedesco stepped beside him, and moved his hand to place it on Grant’s shoulder, then seemed to think better of it and dropped his arm. “Be careful.”

              Grant nodded and slid into the water. He looped the raft’s cord over his wrist and began swimming toward the beach. Once he cleared the boat, the engine revved and it pulled away.

              Keeping his eyes fixed on the shore, he used powerful measured strokes to move through the water. He tried to keep his mind off of what might lurk beneath. Dolphins or no dolphins he couldn’t help the fear of a shark mistaking him for an evening snack. The night belonged to predators.

              He had always feared what he couldn’t see. The danger which lurked in the dark, around the corner, in the deep shadows, the unknown. If he could see it, he could deal with it. Not to say that he never became nervous, never got scared, sure he did. At least if the danger was visible and identifiable it could be coped with. But right now he was literally up to his neck in a world of darkness.

              He occupied his mind by focusing on what he had to do. The task at hand. Once on the beach he would scramble into the jungle, climb to the rim of the valley around the hacienda, and set up a sniping position. He worked to swallow the fear, the self-doubt, any of the poisons his mind could conjure to work against him. It had been a long time since he sniped a human target. It required a cold-blooded resolve to take a person’s life when they didn’t have a chance to defend themselves. The key to being able to sleep at night was belief in the mission, knowing what you did was righteous. And if anything he had ever done was righteous, this was it. He would kill as many of them as necessary to save those kids.

              About a hundred yards from shore he heard a sound near him. Like someone blowing water out of their mouth. He sensed movement. His heart hammered as he scanned the water. It was dark. Though the moon and stars made visibility pretty good above the surface, their light didn’t penetrate far into the water. He longed to flip on a light, but couldn’t risk alerting anyone to his presence.

              He picked up his pace, desperate to reach shore. A dorsal fin breached the surface a few feet to his right. Grant barely stifled a yell. He kicked his legs, thrusting the flippers on his feet with all his might, doing his best to walk on the water, all the while cursing the necessity of dragging the bag behind him. He scrabbled with the clasps on the sheathe at his leg, ripping the knife free. He wasn’t going down without a fight. If he survived he would deal with the consequences of blood in the water later.

As the animal slid past water whooshed out of a blowhole. A dark round eye glinted in the moonlight and the tooth-lined beak seemed to smile a greeting.

              A dolphin. 

              Grant puffed a breath of his own through his cheeks.

You big girl.

As he swam a few more of the inquisitive creatures came to the surface near him. It seemed he had an escort to the beach. He just hoped they didn’t mistake him for a shark.

              He made the rest of the swim without incident, his companions deserting him as he reached the shallows. Holding his breath he sank down until only his eyes were above the waterline. He swam until his hands touched the sandy bottom and the gentle surf began to break. With the small whitecaps for cover, he raised his head enough to breathe and used his hands to scoot toward shore. He stopped about twenty five feet from the beach. He lay in two feet of water, waves gently lapping over his back, scanning the beach. Unless he had misjudged, the border of the kidnapper’s lair should be no more than two-hundred yards up the beach to his left. Geography forced him to come to shore this close. Banderas Bay’s coastline was bordered by a multitude of rock formations and cliffs, with pristine beaches interspersed. This unique topography which provided much of the beauty of the bay worked against him. The white beach was no more than five-hundred yards wide, with steep rock faces bordering it on either side. He had landed at its southern tip. Grant knew from his earlier reconnoitering that the beach was patrolled on a regular basis.

              His objective was to find a suitable sniping position to allow him to cover the boat dock and the house. He hoped to take out the guards on the beach, allowing the boat to land, then he would focus on the sentries patrolling the fence. The trick would be to do it without immediately raising an alarm.

              Tedesco and Evans were to set explosives then find a sheltered position and start the assault on the compound. When the explosions began, a ghillie-clad Grant would sneak in and escort Dr. Morgan’s family to safety. No problem. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.
Right.

              Of course if he could locate that damnable case he would have a little surprise in store.

              Shoes scuffed in the sand and Grant eased down further in the water. A guard strolled past about twenty feet from him. The man had emerged from the shadows to the right, toward the south end of the beach.

              Grant readied the knife and prepared to spring. If the guard shouted or fired his weapon, the plan was already shot to hell. Grant tensed and gathered his legs beneath him, but the man kept moving without raising the alarm.

              As Grant watched the guard’s back, he considered overpowering him now and just as quickly dismissed the idea. Too much risk of his absence being noted.

              Once the sentry neared the end of his circuit, Grant grabbed his bag from the float, bundled it under his arm, and lunged from the water. He ran in a crouch across the thin strip of sand and slipped into the tangle of shadowy jungle bordering the beach.