Clean Kill (9 page)

ENGLAND

WITH THE FIREFIGHT DONE,
the British police again took control of the clinic. No medical personnel rushed to assist the downed gunmen. The assassins were no longer objects to be feared, just garbage to be carried away. Kyle handed his H&K MP5 to the first cop he saw, a burly youngster who came through the destroyed stairwell door and stopped abruptly at the sight of the dead man in the hallway.

Swanson walked fast toward the makeshift barrier that blocked the doorway to Sir Jeff’s suite and helped tear it down. He brushed past Prince Abdullah with hardly a glance to get to Lady Pat, who threw her good arm around his neck and hugged him tightly. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

“That took you long enough,” she said with a mocking smile.

Delara Tabrizi also gave him another hug, and stood to the side, knowing that her own true welcome would be better delivered in private. She wanted more than a polite hospital room embrace.

Kyle turned to the bed and fought to keep his face neutral. Jeff’s normally round and florid face was almost narrow and the hearty body seemed deflated. Tubes and the bandages and leg casts left no doubt of his grave injuries. The only thing unchanged were the bright gray eyes under the heavy brows, gray eyes that were focused on Kyle. He put his hand lightly on Jeff’s arm. “Hey, buddy. How about you get dressed so we can go have a few pints, chase women, and smoke cigars?” Almost nothing there. He took Jeff’s hand and held it.

Jeff nodded recognition, fighting the sedation. “Not today, lad. Pat won’t allow it,” he whispered. The voice was hoarse from having a breathing tube down his throat for two days. “Glad you’re here.”

The man’s eyes shifted momentarily. “Sybelle?”

“Yes. I’m here, too.” She kissed him on the forehead.

“I thought I heard gunfire. Just a dream?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Sybelle said in a soothing tone. “Kyle and I sorted it out.”

Kyle changed from the serious. “So what the hell happened to you?” Kyle slid a hip onto the bed, his tone remaining gentle.

“You were right. The castle was vulnerable.”

“No shit? Hard way to prove the point. How do you feel, old man?”

“I’ve been worse. Cannot feel my legs and the rest of my body is not much better. Got some kind of hole in my head. Been beaten up harder than this in a rugby scrum.” The frail smile returned.

“Sure you have. I understand they are gonna open your skull tomorrow morning and poke around inside. God knows what they might find. Bats, maybe.”

There was a slow nod. “No choice. The neurosurgeon says I may sail right through the operation without a problem. He also says I may die on the table or become a vegetable. After that, they will play with my spine.”

“You can’t believe doctors. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sew a glove up inside you.”

Jeff chuckled and laid his head back further onto the soft pillow. Winced. “Yes. Quite. I’ll make it fine, to be sure.”

Lady Pat put her finger to her lips, signaling Kyle to back down. She recognized that the joy of the reunion was sapping up Jeff’s strength. “We need to discuss something with you, Kyle,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow as Jeff and Pat exchanged looks, and she proceeded. “We have been talking about the future.”

Jeff put pressure on his hand. “You must take care of Pat if I don’t make it.”

“Of course I will take care of her. Always.” Their relationship had begun years ago when Kyle had been loaned by the Marines to Cornwell as a technical advisor. The initial casual relationship had grown into a strong friendship and then beyond that, until it had almost reached a family situation.

Lady Pat said. “We believe the time has come to bring you directly into Excalibur Enterprises.”

“What? You know I can’t do that!” Swanson protested, feeling as if a bucket of water had just been poured over him. “Damn, you saved this bombshell for a hospital bed? I’m cornered like a rat here. You know I don’t want to leave the Marines, and I can’t have a conflict of interests by working for you at the same time.”

“Clever, aren’t we,” Jeff grunted.

Pat looked at Kyle with cool eyes. “Oh, do not panic. Jeff is going to be fine, but this incident has demanded that we firm up some planning. When you finally leave the Marines, which you must do some day whether you like it or not, we want to add you to the board of directors. It is not hard work: You would attend meetings in London twice a year.”

“Look, guys. We have gone through your job offers before and my answer has never changed. I love you both, but I’m a gunnery sergeant in the Corps, not a businessman. I don’t have a college degree and, anyway, I’m American, not British.”

Pat batted away the protests with a flip of her fingers. “Kyle, the university degree is meaningless compared to your life experience and your loyalty. Our lawyers tell us the nationality makes no difference, because we are an international company.”

Swanson wanted to shout that he was a killer, not an accountant, but they both already knew that. He had spent a long military career weighing battlefield options in emergency situations, believing there was always hope, always a way out, always something that he could do to tilt a situation in his favor. This time, there was nothing at all he could do except rely upon the skills of the surgeons to bring Jeff through safely. Rejecting the offer outright might demoralize this man who meant so much to him.

Jeff managed another hand squeeze. “For now, you stay in the Marines and remain our best friend. When the time comes, that position will be waiting for you. Generals and admirals go to work for defense contractors all the time, Kyle, and most of them work out their deals unofficially before they retire from the military. So why can’t a gunnery sergeant do the same?”

Pat fussed over her husband for a minute until she was certain that he was not exerting himself too much. All of the monitors read normal numbers and lines. She continued the discussion. “Excalibur posted a 34.1 percent growth last year with more than $300 million in sales, and we have a work force of about 500 people. To keep growing, we need to bring in capital for expansion. We will offer ten million shares at ten dollars a share. The underwriters think it will rise to at least forty a share after the initial price offering and will double that in five years.”

Lady Pat winked. “You didn’t think this old girl knew about all of this business stuff, did you? Your compensation on being appointed would be a hundred thousand shares of Excalibur stock, enough to make certain that the two of us maintain the controlling interest on the board. You’re going to be a rich man, Kyle.”

Swanson was stunned.
Damn, those were a lot of zeroes.
He wanted to run from the room and get away from this hobbling sense of obligation. He chose to temporize. If he agreed, it would take a big worry off Jeff’s mind as he prepared for the delicate head surgery. If the worst happened, Kyle did not have to join Excalibur until he retired from the Marines, and by then he might figure out something or Pat might let him out of the deal.

Something could be worked out and Pat would come out of it all fabulously wealthy. It could all be fixed. He just could not go negative now and let an argument tear at Jeff’s strength.

He gave a reassuring smile. “Okay. If that’s what you want, I will give it my best. I mean, how bad can it be to be filthy rich?” He hated himself for lying.

“A THOUSAND PARDONS,” SAID
a deep voice behind them. “Lady Patricia, Sir Geoffrey, I am so pleased that you did not suffer further harm on my account. These attacks! They never seem to stop!” Prince Abdullah was standing nearby, in total control of himself. He extended his hand to Kyle.

“My thanks to you, sir. I have seldom witnessed such courage as shown by you and Major Summers. You saved us all.”

Lady Pat made the introduction. “Mister Ambassador, let me present Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson of the U.S. Marines. Kyle, this is Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, the kingdom’s ambassador in Washington.”

Kyle stood and shook the offered hand, surprised to find a muscular grip that was not the sign of a gym rat. “I’m glad we were able to be in the right place at the right time,” he said.

“I understand that you two also dealt with a suicide bomber in a truck downstairs.”

Kyle shrugged. Something was there behind those dark eyes.

“My country is in your debt, Gunny Swanson, and you have my gratitude. If ever I can be of assistance, please call on me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Swanson remained polite. The prince had used the term “Gunny” without hesitation. A civilian would not automatically make that slang connection. So was this dandy also a soldier?

Abdullah turned to the others. “Now, I have interrupted your reunion long enough. I am preparing to fly back to Washington immediately. The kingdom has been thrown into great turmoil and I need to be at my post. Sir Geoffrey, we are all wishing you well tomorrow, and I am confident that you will be recovering quickly. It will take more than a bash on the head to slow down such a warrior as you. Your efforts to broker peace eventually will be successful. We are determined to make it happen. Lady Pat, you put on the most unusual parties.” He took her hand and kissed it, then shook hands with Delara. When he walked away, trailed by his son, his stride was one of confidence. The ruling family of Saudi Arabia would not give way easily to terrorists and plotters.

“Interesting guy,” Kyle said. “He does that diplomatic tap-dance pretty well.”

“He is sort of a mystery to most of us,” Pat said. “He has a hard core in there somewhere. Like when he took the little pistol to be our final guard. He did it without hesitation and I have no doubt he would have faced death without flinching.”

Kyle felt Jeff touch his hand again. The eyes were closing because a nurse had increased the sedation flowing through the tubes. He was about to go back to sleep, but wanted to say something first. Kyle leaned close. “What is it?”

“Don’t trust him…” Jeff managed to say, the words fading. The hand squeezed weakly, urgently. The next words could barely be heard. “They…have…nukes!”

DELARA TABRIZI CAME AWAKE
in the big, soft bed with the covers pulled to her chin as if someone had tucked her in.
Kyle. Where is he?

It was after midnight and they had been together since leaving the clinic some six hours earlier. Delara stretched, letting her fingers touch the wooden headboard as she relished their urgent, hungry rush to sex, their clothes flying off almost by the time the door was closed. They had not seen each other for weeks and the extreme emotional situation that had brought them back together only heightened their needs. The first time wasn’t making love, it was just a confirmation that they were both still alive and in each other’s arms. The second time took a lot longer. She had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, her dark hair spread on his chest.

She pushed away the covers and wrapped herself in the dark blue terry-cloth bathrobe furnished by the hotel. A nightlight in the small kitchen of the hotel suite glowed a dull orange and she moved toward it soundlessly, her bare feet on deep, plush carpet and then onto chilly tile. Nobody there. She went into the darkened living room and found him standing before the big windows, staring out into the thick fog. His face was a grim mask, his eyes fixed out on the water, the chest rising and falling with heavy breaths and his fists clenched at his side. The muscles of his naked body were as taut as cables.

Delara stopped and pulled the robe tight around her body, realizing that her lover was dreaming, almost fighting, and still sound asleep.

KYLE SWANSON STOOD BESIDE
a broad, swift-flowing river wearing full combat gear, from boots to helmet, and cradling his custom-made Excalibur sniper rifle in his arms. The Colt .45 rested in a holster at his waist and a large Ka-Bar combat knife with a razor’s edge and some grenades hung from his vest. His feet were apart but only as wide as his shoulders, giving him perfect balance. He watched with an intense alertness as the small boat approached, emerging from a rough cloud of dark ash that swirled over the water’s surface.

“You can’t have him,” Swanson announced. It was a declaration. No negotiation.

The Boatman giggled, and the shrill tone warbled on the night air. A filthy black robe hung loosely about him, with a tail of rotten cloth drooping over the side of the boat and into the water. With a last hard shove on the long stern oar, the bony figure nudged the boat forward. “Of course I can have him. I can take anyone I want.”

“Not Jeff. Not now.”

The Boatman cackled again. “Now, look at you standing there with all of those weapons. Surely you do not believe that you can stop me with them?”

“I just wanted to show how serious I am. These weapons have provided you with a lot of passengers over the years. You owe me.”

The boat swung broadside, facing into the current and a small wave of foam divided around the bow. The Boatman steadied it. “Yes. I am here to clean up from your work yesterday. Four more souls.” He raised a thin arm and pointed. “Here they come. Right on time.”

Swanson detected movement and turned. Four shadowy figures with dead eyes, gory wounds in their phantom bodies, stumbled along in a single line, stepped onto the surface of the water without causing a ripple and then into the craft, taking seats, facing forward. Kyle recognized them as the terrorists he and Sybelle had killed at the clinic, but felt no pity. They had chosen their fates.

“To hell with these guys,” he said. “What about Jeff?”

“To hell with them, indeed.” The Boatman lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “And with the many others who will be coming over soon. Watch how my garden grows.” A scrawny arm in a flapping sleeve swung around and pointed to a far horizon. The ash falling on the water changed to black rain. An incandescent white and orange light flashed, seeming to push a moment of absolute stillness ahead of it and a cyclone of wind swept over the water and a volcanic explosion vibrated the world. Five mushroom clouds blossomed in sequence, clawing and rolling in the sky, pushing the acrid smell of burning sulfur across the vastness.

“Nuclear winter is coming,” said the apparition.

“Not if I can help it.”

The specter gave a dismissive, coughing laugh. “Ah. You cannot.”

“What about Jeff?”

“He is not yet dead, not for several more hours,” said the Boatman. “I will take these passengers and collect him on my next trip. I always have plenty of time. An eternity.”

Swanson carefully laid down the sniper rifle and removed the Colt .45 from the holster, raising the muzzle until it touched his right temple. “Let me take his place. I’ll pull this trigger right now and get in your fuckin’ boat.”

The Boatman leaned on his long oar again, preparing to shove off. “I already have you. We both know that. Right now, you remain my faithful assistant, a mass murderer who provides a remarkable stream of corpses for me. I decline your dramatic offer because you are a tool of destiny.”

“If I blow my fucking head off, you get no more passengers from me.”

The Boatman held out his skeletal palm inches from Kyle’s face. “Wait, then. You are irrational, but that is an interesting point. So, hmmm, I will agree to a bargain. I do not want to remove you from this plain of misery yet because I still need you here. Put down the pistol. I won’t take your friend, for he really makes no difference to me, but you must continue killing.”

There was silence. Kyle put away the pistol and picked up the Excalibur rifle. “Deal,” he said, his gaze going beyond the little boat to stare at the big explosions rocking the imaginary horizon. The end of the world.

The boat was in motion when he looked at it again, and the Boatman was rowing away with a slow rhythm. Swanson brought Excalibur to his shoulder, locked into a standing position to shoot. He centered the scope on the head of the Boatman and pulled the trigger, sending out a heavy .50 caliber bullet that delivered a powerful kick to his shoulder. The cloth covering the Boatman’s head flicked as the bullet passed through.

A bark of laughter came back loud and clear and strong. “Yes! We have a fair bargain. You get half and I get half. You may keep your friend, but you may not like what you get!” The boat and its dreadful captain vanished. Black rain dripped from Kyle’s helmet and raw ash flew in his face. He sneezed.

******

KYLE TOPPLED TO THE
carpeted floor of the hotel room when his legs collapsed. Delara rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him. His muscles shivered in iron-tight spasms and his eyes opened and rolled back momentarily, then the lids closed again. Over the years, he had developed a habit of finding a quiet time after significant battles to let his mind process the carnage he had wrought, and the Boatman often paddled in for a talk during those moments.

The shaking eased away and his breathing steadied. The Boatman accused him of being a mass murderer and Swanson had yelled back in the silence of their private world, shouting that it was bullshit. He was no psychotic maniac, no serial killer with a placid exterior, for he took no pleasure in killing. Somebody had to do what was necessary in these times of desperation and Kyle Swanson happened to be talented in that unique line of work.

“I am no murderer,” he said, just loud enough for Delara to hear him, and then he slept.

He finally awoke two hours later when the first rays of the new day came through the window. The fog was gone and there was no Boatman, no mushroom clouds, but it had been more than a dream.

He was warm beneath the down blanket with Delara asleep beside him on the carpet, her arm thrown protectively across his chest, her soft breasts against his side and her legs resting against his. Her breath was warm on his neck. Kyle Swanson kissed her lightly on the top of her head, closed his eyes again, and decided not to move.

Another ten minutes and then they had to get back to the clinic before Jeff was prepped for surgery. Just ten minutes. Was that too much to ask? Yes. It was too much, for now there was something else. He was still putting things together, the real world and the fantasy, the nuclear weapons of the Saudis and the Boatman’s mushroom clouds. Even in his sleep he had been thinking about the new and dangerous situation that was brewing in the ever volatile Middle East.

Sir Jeff had floated in and out of consciousness and the effects of the medication and fought to stay coherent in order to fill out the story for him. The accountants and analysts of Excalibur Enterprises, which had expanded to include an intelligence-gathering branch for major corporations, had found strange discrepancies among engineering contracts in Saudi Arabia. Jeff decided to follow the trail and had bribed and threatened enough sources to put it all together. The Saudis had spent years and millions of dollars to secretly purchase the components necessary to build a small nuclear arsenal, avoiding any sign of launching a production program that would have drawn international scrutiny. The huge expenditures and assignments had been easily masked within the massive construction and infrastructure projects that were constantly underway throughout the kingdom.

Against impossible odds, they had five special missiles that were now operational. Jeff told him that he was sure of the location of only one of the weapons, at a small Saudi army base in the oil patch city of al-Khobz on the Arabian Gulf. Khobz and its giant port was a natural invasion point for any enemy military force, as had been proven when Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein sent his troops over from Kuwait during Gulf War One. A defensive nuke missile system could plug that hole nicely, but Kyle realized that it could just as easily become an offensive weapon that could maim an entire American naval battle group.

The information had staggered Kyle: A country facing possible revolution had a secret arsenal of nuclear weapons. As Jeff faded back into a sedated sleep, Swanson found Sybelle Summers and brought her up to speed on the revelation.

Using her FBI creds, Sybelle got a ride aboard a police helicopter all the way to the landing pad at the U.S. Embassy in London. Once in a secure room, she drafted a FLASH message to the Lizard back at Trident headquarters in Washington. General Middleton, she thought while writing the explosive memo, was going to have a cow when he read this. He would take it immediately to General Turner and President Tracy.

NINE MORE MINUTES OF
rest, with Delara in his arms. Swanson thought of the immense potential for catastrophe that would soon be exposed, forcing untold actions and reactions. Ten minutes might be all that he had left. It might be all any of them had left.