Don Pendleton - Choke Point

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.