Don Pendleton - Death Gamble

The decision clear, the Executioner did the only thing he could.

Paris, France

ONE DAY EARLIER Mack Bolan had sat in the den of a Justice Department safehouse in Paris. Hal Brognola had paced the floor and ground an unlit cigar between his teeth with the vigor of a German shepherd gnawing on a rawhide bone.

Worry creased the older man’s features and weighed on his shoulders, causing them to slope, as he stayed silent, apparently gathering his thoughts. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and ran his fingers through his hair.

Bolan sipped tepid coffee that was sweet and fragrant. He grimaced. “Chocolate raspberry coffee? You going soft on me?”

Brognola jerked his head toward Bolan and gave him a confused look that slowly morphed into a smile.

“Hey, I don’t do the shopping,” Brognola said. “I just pay the bills.”

Bolan smiled. “Are you going sit and tell me why you called me here? Or just let me die a slow death from drinking this swill?”

Brognola crossed the room and seated himself at the table with Bolan. The Executioner was just winding up a two-day mission, cutting the heart from an extremist group that had planned to dispatch suicide bombers in major cities throughout the European Union for a synchronized terror campaign. The mission had been short and bloody, but Bolan had walked away unhurt.

Brognola, who’d been traveling in Europe on unrelated business, had asked his old friend to hang tight at the safehouse for an impromptu meeting to discuss an urgent problem. That had left Bolan with enough time for a shower, a meal and a few hours’ sleep. Brognola had declined to discuss the urgent matter via secure satellite telephone, insisting instead on a face-to-face meeting. The big Fed wasn’t given to panic, but his tension had touched Bolan like a tangible force. The Executioner had agreed to the meet, no questions asked.

Brognola pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Striker, what do you know about airborne laser fighters?”

Bolan shrugged. “We’ve got a handful of 747s fitted with lasers capable of shooting down enemy missiles. They fire at the fuel tank, weaken the metal until the pressure causes an outward explosion and downs the missile. It’s hardly a Death Star, but it seems like a step in the right direction.”

Brognola nodded. “The ABL program is a good one. Hell, I thought it was state-of-the-art. Turns out I was wrong.”

A dark look crossed Bolan’s hawkish features. “Explain,” he said.

“The ABL is already old technology,” Brognola replied. “We’re telling the world it’s the best we’ve got. But we’ve moved well beyond that and we have Trevor Dade to thank for it.”

“Trevor who?” Bolan asked.

“Trevor Dade. He’s a scientist. He’s missing.”

“Disappeared? You know I don’t do missing persons cases, Hal. Hire a detective.”

“Not disappeared, kidnapped and possibly murdered. And his loss could do irreparable damage to our national security.”

Bolan took another sip of the coffee. Brognola had his full attention. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

“You ever heard of the Nightwind program?”

Bolan shook his head.

“I hadn’t either until about twelve hours ago, shortly after Dade went missing.”

Bolan was growing impatient. “You’re being too mysterious, Hal. Get to the point.”

“Sorry, Striker. I’m still trying to digest this myself. The Nightwind is about the size and shape of a B-2 bomber, but it’s fitted with a solid-state laser system and some of the most advanced optics ever developed. No big vats of chemicals, no refraction from clouds and atmospheric disturbances. The lasers are more portable and more concentrated than anyone in the world—including our own allies—thinks that we have.”

“And Trevor Dade developed the technology,” Bolan concluded.

Brognola nodded. “The laser system, anyway. The whole project began during the cold war. We were so worried about the Soviets raining nuclear hell on us that the Pentagon and the White House decided it was best to create the ultimate missile killer, the Nightwind.”

“And they succeeded?”

“Pretty damn close,” Brognola said. “To the best of our knowledge, it’s the strongest, fastest thing we’ve got. They developed it in Nevada at a small base called the Haven. It’s kind of like Area 51 in its mystique.”

Bolan grinned. “But without the Martians.”

“It’s all very earthy stuff, I assure you,” Brognola said, smiling. “The whole place is geared toward the creation and testing of the Nightwind. It’s a top-tier R&D facility, but you won’t find any little green men getting autopsies.”

“So what do we know about Dade’s disappearance?” Bolan asked.

Brognola took a deep breath and exhaled. “He works for Sentinel Industries, one of the nation’s biggest defense contractors. Guy’s a genius when it comes to turning lasers into weapons, but he was a security disaster waiting to happen. The Man briefed me earlier today, and what he said wasn’t encouraging. Dade snorts coke by the ton and buys hookers by the baker’s dozen. In his free time, he gambles like hell.”

Bolan’s brow furrowed. “He got any big debts from it?”

Brognola shook his head. “Dade comes from one of the richest oil families in Texas. He doesn’t care about money. It’s all in the thrill. We’re still running the traps on him, but we’re starting to hear some murmurs of possible ties to organized crime.”

Bolan felt anger burn hot under his skin. Instinct and experience told him this situation should never have escalated to this level. “His handlers knew all this, but he kept his security clearance. That’s bull, Hal.”

Bolan knew by Brognola’s scowl that the big Fed agreed. “Like I said, Striker, the guy comes from a lot of money. He gets into trouble, he gets bailed out. The people at Sentinel have tried to fire him twice. He has two uncles who are senators, one chairs the intelligence committee, the other the defense appropriations committee. Any time the company leans on Dade, he calls his uncles and they drop the hammer on the company. At least that was the pattern. Recently Dade screwed up so bad that not even his high-powered uncles had enough chits to save him.”

“What happened?”

“He makes weekly pilgrimages to Las Vegas. While he’s there, he stays in a top-notch hotel and parties. A preliminary audit of the company’s books shows he did at least some of it with Sentinel’s money. Money out of the Nightwind program funds.”

“Which means he did it with taxpayer cash,” Bolan said.

Brognola shrugged and shot Bolan a cynical smile. “We’ve used the money in worse ways. Anyway, about two months ago, he’s there for another wild weekend and bam!” Brognola slammed the table with his open palm for emphasis. “One of the hookers overdoses on cocaine and dies. Dade panics, refuses to let the guards call the police. When he finally relents, he gets busted for obstruction, possession and involuntary manslaughter. Within weeks, a grand jury indicts him and the press is off to the races with the story.”

“And,” Bolan said, “because it’s the local prosecutor and not one from Dade’s home state, the authorities plan to make it stick.”

Picking up his foam cup of coffee, Brognola nodded and leaned back in his chair. Staring into the cup, he swirled its contents and resumed speaking. “You bet they plan to make it stick. A couple of days later, one of his uncles calls the prosecutor, hat in hand, and asks him to reduce the charges. Maybe even consider dropping them. The senator told him the damage to national security and the state’s economy would far outweigh the benefits. The prosecutor told him to take his good old boy politics and shove ’em.”