Blown (26 page)

"
Y
ou have a 7
:00 a.m. flight out of Dulles." Alan said through the speakerphone. "Connecting through San Juan to the island."

Kaplan replied, "Wow, you have been busy."

Earlier, Kaplan had called his handler, Alan, to enlist his help in locating Tony. He and Moss briefed Alan with every bit of information they thought could be relevant in their search. The call took a couple of hours but Alan was able to piece together a logical location for the missing Sicilian.

"It's getting late, gentlemen," Alan said. "Or early. You guys need to leave for the airport in thirty. I'll sit and monitor the bait and let you know if we have a hit." Alan hung up before he or Moss could respond.

"You never told me," Kaplan said to Moss. "How'd it go with Hepler?"

"Tragic." His voice sounded strained. "Suicide by cop."

"You shot him?"

"No. An FBI agent moved in when Jon became threatening. JP drew on the agent and the agent pumped three rounds into his chest. I was wearing a wire so it's all on tape. His confession, the shooting, everything."

"That's a shame." Kaplan lowered his head and said softly, "I'm truly sorry, Pete."

"Don't be. JP was a fool corrupted by money. He sealed his own fate when he cut a deal with Scalini."

"Root of all evil."

"Yep. He was a dirty cop. No telling how many other times he'd taken a bribe. Sooner or later, he was going to get caught. It was just a matter of time."

Kaplan yawned and stretched his arms. "No rest for the weary, huh?"

"I thought you were the
Energizer
bunny, this should be a walk in the park."

"I am starting to think this job is strictly for the young," Kaplan grumbled. "I'm gonna take a shower and change then we can leave." He walked halfway across the room and then said, "Maybe you should have asked Tony what I'm like without sleep."

"Buck it up," Moss said with a smile. "You can sleep on the plane."

N
either Moss
nor Kaplan was able to sleep on the plane.

It was the peak of hurricane season and the entire East Coast was impacted by an extra large tropical system in the Atlantic churning its way westward with an expected landfall of Savannah, Georgia. The cyclonic spread of the system had created high altitude turbulence from Virginia all the way to the southern end of the Bahamas. By the time the turbulence subsided, their flight was already starting its descent into San Juan.

After an hour and half of being jostled in his seat, Moss finally gave up trying to sleep when they were somewhere over North Florida. Every time he tried to rest his head against the window, turbulence would rock the regional jet and he would bump his head on the glass.

He watched Kaplan try to sleep, but the frequent updrafts and downdrafts kept the operative's eyes open most of the trip. That was compounded by the fact almost half of the occupants of the flight had gotten airsick. Every few minutes he would catch a waft of a
sic sac
being filled by yet another nauseated passenger.

Moss wasn't particularly fond of flying but fortunately he didn't get airsick. He favored wheels on the ground modes of transportation. The regional jet from DC to San Juan was small. The aircraft waiting for them in San Juan was even smaller, a Saab 340 turboprop. Moss was a very large man crammed into a very small seat. Even walking down the aisle to his seat was physically uncomfortable since he had to remain hunched over while he moved.

The flight was long, loud, and tiring. The pilot never seemed to bother syncing the pitch of the propellers and the drone reverberated from ear to ear in a constant
wa-wa wa-wa
sound. After two hours in the turboprop, Moss had had enough.

When he and Kaplan deplaned, the Fort-de-France CIA Station Chief met them at baggage claim—even though neither one of them checked bags. In reality, the Chief was a one-man show on the island of Martinique. There was no real
station
, just equipment and weapons stored at the man's home. It was that equipment and those weapons Moss and Kaplan needed.

He simply called himself Nat. He was a native of Martinique and said his real name was too difficult for
Yankees
to pronounce. The CIA recruited him over ten years ago. Although Nat spoke English, his native Creole tongue made it difficult for Moss to understand many of his words. He dropped most of his
r
's and inserted
w
's. He sounded like the islander that he was.

When Nat stopped the car and turned off the ignition, Moss was sure they were at the wrong house. Nat's bright aqua colored shanty had only one inviting feature, a front porch overlooking the Caribbean. There was laundry hanging on a droopy line strung from a power pole to the corner of the rusty metal roof. A barbed wire fence protected a garden in the front yard. He was surprised the run-down shanty had withstood the tropical storms and hurricanes for all these years. Nat took Moss and Kaplan to a back room. The windows were barred and the door was fortified. He opened a vault, pulled out a duffle bag, and tossed it on a table in the middle of the room. Inside was an assortment of handguns and rifles and ammunition.

"Pick your pwoison, gentlemen," Nat said.

While Moss and Kaplan were sorting through the weapons, Nat brought out a wireless communication system and placed it on the table next to the duffle bag. "State of art." Nat smiled and looked at Kaplan. "The Company be listening…Mashuls Suvice too." He glanced back at Moss.

After the two men
gunned up
, Moss pulled out the briefing packet and showed Nat where they needed to go.

"Îlet Antonio, yes," Nat said. "Heavily guarded. Helicopter fly in two days past."

Moss and Kaplan looked at each other and smiled.

"Antonio?" Kaplan questioned.

"Yes. Îlet Antonio. Three miles east of Baie du Simon."

"What is that?" Moss asked.

"Bay of Simon." Nat pointed to the spot on the map. Then he ran his finger to the right until he reached the unmarked island. "Three miles to Îlet Antonio. I take you to boat. You make it there by dark."

"You're going with us, right?" Moss asked Nat.

"No way, mon. No one who go there eva come back. Island elders say evil man live there. You go alone. I stay and monitor radio."

"An evil man does live there," Kaplan explained. "But not evil in a voodoo kind of way, more like a criminal kind of way. We would appreciate any manpower assistance you could provide."

"Is okay." Nat tapped a large radio sitting on top of a desk. "Everything be okay in a few hours."

Moss asked Kaplan, "Shouldn't we wait till morning so we can scout during the daylight?"

"No," Kaplan replied. "Too risky. We need to go at night."

"What if we rest and go tomorrow night?" Moss said. "Then we can scout it during the day and return after dark. You were the one whining about rest. This way you'll get some."

"Yeah? And you said I was the
Energizer
bunny." Kaplan tapped his fingers on the briefing packet. "We already have the topo maps and satellite photos, we know the lay of the land. There will be no scouting. We have our orders. We storm the castle tonight."

J
ust like he
had memorized Çoban's Cyprus compound, Kaplan committed every minutia of this mission briefing to memory, including the detailed satellite photos of the rocky island. Topographic images provided by his handler depicted an amoeba shaped island roughly a mile in diameter at the center. The south and the east end of the island jutted out in a finger-like peninsula and offered the lowest elevation and the only potential spot to come ashore undetected. With a pebble beach and a grassy flat, the elevation rose to the west and north along a forested promontory to a rugged ridge approximately five hundred fifty feet above the Atlantic Ocean. It was nothing more than a huge volcanic rock sticking out of the water.

A palatial home was built on the western apex of the island. Dense tropical trees wrapped tight around three sides of the mansion leaving only a grand vista of the big island of Martinique to the west. Briefing photos indicated three outbuildings, several satellite dishes, a helicopter pad, and a one-acre solar panel farm.

A self-contained retreat.

Or fortress.

The boat Nat had provided for their mission was a fifteen-foot wooden skiff with a flat bottom, dirty yellow hull, and teal gunwales. It was propelled by an underpowered, manual steering outboard motor that looked like the engine on the old fishing boat his father had when he was a kid. That engine was now in the junkyard and this one should be too. To start the engine, Kaplan wrapped a rope around a spindle on the top of the old engine and pulled. If it didn't start on the first pull, he had to repeat the laborious process until it did.

Nat was wrong about making it to Îlet Antonio before dark. The water was rough. Too rough and too wet to proceed at anything above a fast idle. Traversing the rocky waters in the dark added an extra element of danger. There was no light in the sky or on the horizon in front of him making it nearly impossible to detect the rocky obstacles until the boat was almost on top of them. Moss sat on the bow scouting for rocks in the water.

"I can't see squat," Moss said in a hushed voice.

Moss had told him earlier that he didn't like water and didn't like boats. "Not much further, I think," Kaplan reassured Moss. "That is if this old engine will make it."

Finally, about two hours after complete darkness swallowed them, the island came into view and when it did, they were almost close enough to touch the western cliff. Kaplan negotiated the boat around the northern side of the island to the eastern end where he could pull the boat onshore. There was a dock on the south shore but, not knowing if it would be guarded, he avoided going anywhere near it.

He reached the predetermined landing spot and slowly aimed the boat's hull toward shore. When the bow struck the gravelly bottom, Moss jumped out, pulled the boat on shore, and tied it to a boulder. Kaplan killed the engine and followed.

Moss pulled out his silenced weapon and ensured a round was in the chamber. "You ready for this?"

"Don't worry about me. But just so we're clear, if you get shot again, I'm not carrying your big ass out of here."

"Check your memory, old man. I believe I was the one who saved your ass from Valkyrie."

"Turn on your comms and let's go."

Moss reached down and powered up his voice-activated communication system. "Test 1-2."

"Five by," Kaplan responded as they performed a comm system check.

The grassy area along the east and south shoreline was narrow and flat. Kaplan motioned to Moss's left. "Bogey on the dock smoking. Good thing we didn't chance it."

The terrain rose quickly from that point. Using his NVGs, Kaplan noticed a path around the south side of the island rising toward the complex. It was a more gradual climb than the northern shore, but the trail was also monitored every couple hundred yards by more guards.

"No telling how many men Tony has guarding this place."

"Definitely has quite the payroll," Moss agreed.

The climb up the spine of the ridgeline was brutal. It was steep and rough and full of loose rocks that moved under foot. Each step was a high step with hands extended on the rocks ahead for stability and within minutes he felt the burn in his thigh muscles. It was more like rock climbing or bouldering than uphill hiking. "How ya doing, Moss?"

"I'm pretty much a flatlander, this is killing me."

"Don't be such a wuss, we're not even a third the way to the top."

"You never mentioned anything about climbing Mount Everest."

"Look up. Only another fifty feet or so to the solar farm. It should level out some up there."

"I hope so or I'll never make it." His breathing seemed labored.

The terrain did plateau at the solar farm, which gave Kaplan a welcome breather too, although he would never admit that to Moss.

Solar panels spanned an area roughly the size of a football field. At one end, the opposite end from where they were standing was one of the outbuildings. It housed two diesel generators, one of which was running. Kaplan could see the heat signature in his NVGs. What he couldn't see were the fuel tanks that fed the generators. A fuel supply line ran into a wooded area. He and Moss followed it and found a large camouflaged tank not visible in the satellite photos.

There was another guard patrolling the area next to the tank. He had a rifle strapped to his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips. There was no way past him without being detected.

"I'll take this one," said Kaplan. He dug around in his pocket and fished out a mini-syringe. The chemical was designed to disable its victim for twelve hours leaving them with nothing more than a bad headache when they finally woke up. It had an automatic delivery system built in so all he needed to do was get close enough to stick the victim.

"What Rambo, no knife?"

Kaplan held up the syringe. "You want to do it?"

"No, he's all yours. I'll be here for backup."

Kaplan maneuvered around and behind the guard with silent precision, clamped his hand over the man's mouth, and inserted the needle into the man's neck. Within seconds, the guard collapsed into unconsciousness. Kaplan cradled his fall and started to drag the man out of the opening when Moss gave him an urgent warning over his comm system.

"Duck."

Kaplan dropped the guard and dove to the ground. He heard Moss's silenced weapon pop as he fired a round past him. He looked over and saw a man fall to the ground. He got up and brushed the dirt from his clothes and gave Moss a thumbs up signal. Before he could turn around he heard the sounds.

Dogs.

All at once, barking seemed to resonate from every part of the island.

So much for stealth.

The first dog had been with the man Moss shot and lunged at Kaplan's throat. He fended off the snarling dog's teeth with a forearm block, knocking the large animal to the ground. He reached for another syringe, but the dog attacked again knocking it from his hand. Kaplan was toppled flat on his back as the dog pounced again clamping his sharp teeth into his forearm, still sore from Valkyrie's poniard. While wrestling the guard dog he saw a shadow reach down and the dog released his grip and fell limp.

Moss tossed the spent syringe on the ground. "I hate mean dogs," Moss said as he pulled Kaplan to his feet.

Not just any dogs, Rottweilers. Kaplan didn't care for them either.

"You okay?" Moss asked.

"Kind of slow for backup, don't you think? Why didn't you just shoot the dog?"

"I could have missed while you two were rolling all over the ground. And don't bother to thank me for saving your ass…yet again."

"Let's get out of here," Kaplan said, "before more mutts show up."

"Right behind you."

"Let's head for the ledge and regroup." Kaplan's handler had located an escarpment on the north side ridge with a winding ledge about thirty feet below the crest of the bluff. It was the same escarpment where the satellite dishes were fenced. It actually took them away from the residence but offered a protected refuge in the event of potential detection.

Ahead Kaplan saw another guard and two dogs running toward them. The man pointed and both dogs charged. Kaplan's first shot sent the lead dog tumbling down a steep hill. Moss dropped the second dog and then the man with the rifle fired.

Moss grunted and fell to the ground.

Kaplan fired a return volley and the man toppled like a bowling pin, following the dog down the hill.

"Son of a bitch," he said, "shot me in the same leg."

Kaplan ran back over to Moss. Up the hill he could hear more men pounding toward them. He could hear boots sliding across loose rock. From below, he saw two more men running up the steep grade with flashlights. The gap was closing fast.

He pulled Moss to his feet. "I already told you, I'm not carrying your ass out of here. Can you run?"

"Run? Seriously? You really do have a sense of humor," said Moss. "This one isn't a flesh wound. It hit square in my thigh."

Three more shots rang out, but missed the mark. Kaplan found the ledge. It started just below their position overlooking the north side of the island. To get to the ledge, he and Moss would have to slide down a twenty-foot embankment of rock and gravel and then make a ten-foot vertical drop to the ledge below.

Barking got closer.

Their options dwindled.

Kaplan looked back and saw the Rottweiler within a few feet. It snarled at him, bared its teeth, and lunged.

Kaplan sidestepped the dog's leap and shoved the dog over the side of the cliff barely missing Moss.

Moss slid down the hill while Kaplan picked off the two men running up the hill. He dropped to his belly and lay in wait for the other men.

Moss called out. "Kaplan. Get your ass down here."

When more men appeared above him, Kaplan squeezed off three well-placed rounds. Each shot found its intended target. Two armed men. One mean-ass growling dog.

"Kaplan."

Kaplan turned and skidded down the hill on his backside. Rocks and pebbles rolled under him. When he stopped next to Moss, he was inches from the drop-off to the ledge.

"Can you make this?" Kaplan asked.

"What's my second choice?"

"I'll go first," Kaplan insisted. "When you hit, try not to roll toward the edge of the cliff."

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Moss said.

"I plan on saving both our asses if we survive this jump." Kaplan knew they were rapidly running out of time. He dropped to his belly and slid his feet off the rocky edge. "Try not to land on top of me, okay?"

Without waiting for a reply, Kaplan dropped to the ledge and almost lost his balance when he did. Now he really was worried that the injured Moss wouldn't be able to control his landing and would tumble over the edge and drop five hundred feet to the rocky shoreline below.

Or worse yet, take Kaplan over the edge with him.