Don Pendleton - Stealth Assassin

Miller grunted and said he’d stay until they were far enough away before setting off the blast.

“We won’t leave without you,” Bolan said, and followed the others down the slope toward the flat expanse of the road, the LZ.

The stuttering sound of the helicopter moving toward them became audible.

Bolan keyed his mic. “Blow it.”

Fifty yards away a yellowish tongue of flames thrust out from the front of the old stone structure, then disappeared into a punctuating rumble of collapsing rocks and mortar. Bolan uncapped the flare and slammed the igniter against his thigh, sending a trail of red smoke upward.

“Got you, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio.

The chopping sound of the helicopter grew closer, and Bolan saw Miller running toward them.

After checking on Johnson, who made a weak thumbs-up gesture, Bolan watched as Grimaldi expertly guided the Black Hawk onto the gravel expanse about forty feet away.

“Let’s go home,” he said, motioning his team toward the chopper.

Chapter Two

Arlington, Virginia

Warren Novak used his index finger to tip over the black king on the far side of the chessboard. He preferred the tactile pleasure of handling the carved, wooden pieces when playing, even if it was only a solitary game taken from one of his many chess problem books. He sighed at the ease with which he’d won, and poured himself another dash of the fine Kentucky bourbon. Novak made a silent vow that if the phone didn’t ring before he finished it, he would give up for the night and go to bed after the conclusion of the evening news. The idiots on television with their pathetic lead-ins had barely touched on the ongoing congressional committee hearings. But then again, those things had become as commonplace as traffic accidents of late.

Train wrecks would be more appropriate, he thought. No one realized that the fate of the whole damn country was affected by the self-serving antics of the political posers. It was all about getting their faces in front of the cameras. To hell with what was actually good for the country.

He smiled as he sipped his drink, and felt the burn going all the way down.

Few things were better than vintage bourbon. If only all his troubles could be washed away with a good drink, but it was never that easy when the politicians, with their hypocritical displays of moral outrage, were clamoring for somebody else to be held accountable.

The several million dollars in purported research grants, the inflated costs of research and development, the violations of the specifics in the defense contract, the special perks that were being funneled back to the Baron & Allan Corporation—and good old Congressman Eddie Meeks would be held accountable if the congressman from Illinois, the self-proclaimed “conscience of Congress,” got his way.

Life was like a game of chess. One had to maintain both perspective and control to win. Still, there were other factors to be considered. Meeks, being African American and of the same party as William “Call me Bill” Oglethorpe, would inject a certain amount of reticence in the committee’s investigation. But that wouldn’t last forever, and they’d be standing in line to throw Meeks under the bus when the time came.

Novak brought the glass to his lips and took a longer sip, swishing it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing and once again delighting in the slow burn as it traveled downward. As CEO of the corporation, Novak knew his own fate was tied to all of this. If Baron & Allan went down, so would he. So would Franklin Rhome, so would Meeks. They were all living in a house of cards.

But again, control was the key, being able to see two or three moves ahead and plan for your opponent’s next move.

He rubbed his other hand over his shaved head, felt the stubble and a layer of dampness, and then wiped his palm on his pajama top.

If B&A went, they were held under the microscope, he’d be hard pressed to explain the payoffs he’d made, the exclusive town house usage, the limousines, the endless parade of escorts to the lobbyists and the members of the appropriations committee... But that was the unspoken price of doing business in this town. All were necessary ingredients to grease the wheels. The way things worked in government. That it hadn’t worked with Congressman Oglethorpe had been a shocker, although Novak now knew he should’ve seen it coming. The man was different. There was something about him. Something telling. A handsome guy like that turning down the dates with the array of beauties Novak had managed to parade in front of him. And the son of a bitch looked like the embodiment of a male model.

The burner phone still reposed on the coffee table, basking in anxious silence.

If only that son of a bitch Oliver Burke would call, Novak thought. What the hell was taking him so long?

If Burke had good news, that the dirt they’d uncovered about the congressman’s dalliance with his aide—his young male aide—had worked, this whole thing might still be manageable.

But unlike chess, life had too many uncontrollable variables. There were no hard and fast rules to the game. Novak’s next moves were dependent on other people carrying them out.

So why didn’t Burke call?

As if in answer, the phone rang, almost making Novak spill the remainder of his drink. Burke’s voice on the other end was low and raspy.

“It’s a no go.”

“What?” Novak had to refrain from hurling the glass against the wall. “Did you show him the photos? The videos?”

“I did, and he laughed. Says he couldn’t care less. Even went so far as to say it’ll be to his advantage to be out of the closet this close to the midterms. It’ll give him more publicity and make him more reelectable. Sets him up to be our first openly gay presidential candidate down the road.”

“That son of a bitch.” Novak couldn’t help himself now and hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered with a sharp crash.

“What the hell was that?”

“Never mind. Shit. Did you get a feel about how much he knows?”

“Hard to say,” Burke said. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

The thought of the subpoena to appear before the committee flashed in Novak’s mind. What was Oglethorpe going to ask? The cost overruns for the B&A defense contracts had been substantial, and they had pitifully little to show for it. Two sets of prototypes. And if Oglethorpe had found out about Meeks’s personal investment ties to the company, it would be indictment time for the lot of them.

The thought of sitting before the committee on the hot seat not knowing exactly what Oglethorpe had up his sleeve, or when he was going to choose to reveal it, made Novak crave another drink. But he was going to need to get as much sleep as he could. The tension gripped his neck and spine as the anxiety and exhaustion washed over him.

Control... He’d deal with it tomorrow. Plus he did have other options.

“Any word from Ted?” Novak asked.

“Yeah, everything’s in place, and he’s waiting for a chance to throw that Hail Mary pass. How much good it’s going to do is open to question.”

“I don’t pay you to question,” Novak said. The Hail Mary pass, as Burke and Ted McMahon called it, was merely to advertise the special capabilities of the Aries drone. The payoff would come when and if they had to go off the grid and into private practice.

“Ted also said there’s a bit of a glitch.”

Novak felt a twinge in this stomach. “What kind of glitch?”

“Somewhere in the food chain they got wind of Sharif and Farouk being involved.”

Ali Sharif... Muhammad Farouk... Two flies in the ointment. Twin pawns steadily moving toward the back row, thinking they were going to be crowned as kings, and not realizing they were merely part of a gambit. But the die was cast. The play had to be made.