Suicide Mission (17 page)

John Bailey and Megan Sinclair were known quantities to Bill, at least to a certain extent, and Wade Stillman was the sort of man Bill knew and understood.

The rest of the team was a different story.

Nick Hatcher arrived first. He was even taller than Bill and definitely affable looking, not the sort who would be tabbed by most people as a professional bank robber. He was friendly, too, smiling and offering to shake hands, although Bill didn't take him up on that.

“I have no idea why I'm here,” Nick said as he sat down across the table from Bill. “I figured I was just being transferred to another facility, but that's not the case, is it?”

“This isn't a prison,” Bill admitted. “But it is a secure location.”

“I'll say. I think I would have stood a better chance of breaking out where I was . . . not that I intended to try and break out. I'm not looking for trouble.”

“And yet you robbed . . . how many banks was it?”

“Eighteen, I think. Or maybe nineteen. I don't remember for sure. I just drove, though. I never actually set foot in any of the banks.”

“You drove for people who murdered cops,” Bill said, not bothering to keep the harsh anger out of his voice. “That makes you a murderer, too.”

Nick met his gaze squarely and said, “In the eyes of the law, sure.”

“You don't feel any remorse?”

“I feel plenty of remorse.” Bill saw how Nick's hands clenched into fists for a second as the prisoner went on, “I saw that female cop get hit and go down. I didn't want that to happen. I'm sorry it happened. But I didn't pull the trigger, and I didn't tell Harris to shoot her, either. Nobody got hurt in any of our other jobs.” He paused. “It was like everybody's luck was up that day.”

“But you're still alive.”

“My partners aren't.”

“Still, you're luckier than them, or either of those police officers.”

“I've already said I was sorry. I'm doing the time. I don't know what else I can do.”

“Something to make up a little for what happened, maybe.”

That made Nick's eyes narrow with suspicion. He said, “Ah, now we get down to it. There's something shady going on here. This place is off the books. There's no official record of me being here, is there?”

“As far as the prison's concerned, you're sittin' in your cell right now, Hatcher.”

Nick laughed.

“So you can do whatever you want to me and nobody will care. Is that it?”

Bill didn't answer that question. Instead he asked one of his own.

“How'd you wind up drivin' getaway cars?”

“I fell in with bad company at an early age,” Nick replied with a smirk that made Bill want to go across the table and slap it off his face.

The comment also made Bill think of Catalina Ramos, who he hadn't seen since a few days after the nearly catastrophic incident in front of the Alamo. Clark had promised to help her get set up with a new identity and a new life. Catalina had nothing waiting for her in Mexico, so the best thing would be for her to start over in Texas, or somewhere else if that was what she preferred.

Bill had thought a time or two about asking Clark how Catalina was doing, but he hadn't done it. She had played her part—as far as Bill was concerned, she had saved hundreds of thousands of lives, maybe more, because they couldn't have stopped Tariq Maleef from carrying out his deadly plan without her help—and now she deserved to be left alone.

“What did you do when you were a kid, start stealin' cars?” Bill asked Hatcher.

“As a matter of fact . . . no. I had a friend who got into building hot rods and racing. I talked him into letting me drive some of his cars. I didn't have any interest in working on the blasted things, but the first time I got behind the wheel, I knew I'd found what I was born to do.”

“Why didn't you stay with it? Some of those NASCAR drivers make more money than God. More than you'd get bein' a bank robber, and you don't get shot at, either.”

“Well, as it turns out, I was born to do something else. I, ah, enjoyed betting on the races, too.”

“Ohhhh,” Bill said in understanding. “Gamblin' problem, eh?”

“Not at all. I could gamble just fine. It was more of a paying-off-the-bets-I-lost problem.”

Nick grinned as he said it, and Bill realized to his surprise that he found himself almost liking the young man. Nick had an easygoing charm that made people forget he was a professional criminal.

Bill wasn't going to forget two dead cops, though, so he concentrated on that and said, “Can you use a gun?”

“I told you, I didn't shoot anybody—”

“That's not what I asked. Can you handle a gun?”

Nick shrugged and said, “I've done some shooting. Just practice, you understand. I never carried a gun on a job. Didn't want to be tempted to use it.”

“We've got a good range here. We can try you out, see how you do.”

“Wait a minute,” Nick frowned. “You're talking about giving a felon, a convicted murderer, a gun?”

“Just to practice with,” Bill said. “For now.”

Another grin spread slowly across Nick's face as he said, “You need a wheelman.”

“I didn't say—”

“You've got some sort of job coming up, and you need a driver. But it's dangerous, so you want to know if I can use a gun, too. I know you're not a crook, so that means you work for the government.”

“All too often that's the same thing.”

“No, this is some top-secret military deal,” Nick guessed, demonstrating that he could be intuitive. “Or maybe some sort of spy outfit. And you want to recruit me to help.”

“What if we do?” Bill asked.

“Then it's going to cost you.”

“How much?”

“My freedom, to start with. After that . . . well, we'll have to negotiate.”

“How about this for negotiation?” Bill snapped. “You help us, or you go back to a six-by-eight cell for the rest of your natural-born life?”

“I think we can work something out,” Nick said. “I think you'll find that I'm a pretty good shot, too.”

“You'll need to be,” Bill said, “or else that cell's liable to start looking mighty pretty to you.”

 

 

Bill felt an entirely different impulse when he met Braden Cole. Just like when he spotted a venomous snake, he had an urge to grab a hoe and chop the damn thing's head off.

Cole sat on the other side of the table with a tiny smile on his face. He was a physically unimpressive specimen, but there was an air of menace about him anyway, no matter how mild-mannered his appearance.

He pushed his glasses up where they had slid down his nose and didn't say anything. After Cole had sat there placidly and silently for several minutes, Bill asked, “Don't you want to know why you're here?”

“I assume you'll tell me when you're good and ready,” Cole said. “Until then I don't see any point in worrying about it.”

“You're a pretty cool customer, aren't you?”

“I'm not given to emotionalism.”

“Yeah, havin' emotions might be a drawback when your line of work is killin' people.”

“I was only an instrument. A tool, if you will. A way for other people to get what they wanted.”

“So you do have to rationalize murder to yourself,” Bill said. “Must be a heart in there somewhere after all.”

“Think whatever you want,” Cole said, still smiling.

Bill thought about it for a moment, then said, “I want to hire you.”

He saw a flicker of surprise in Cole's eyes. So it was possible to get through the man's ice-cold façade after all.

“Hire me to do what?”

“What you do best, of course. Blow stuff up and kill people.”

Cole tipped his head slightly to the side, reached up with his cuffed hands, and used a fingertip to scratch inside his ear. Then he asked, “Who is it you want me to kill?”

“I'm not sure yet. There may be quite a few folks the world would be better off without. We'll sort of have to wait and see when the time comes.”

Cole shook his head.

“I don't work that way. I need a specific target and sufficient time to plan. And I decide how much time is enough. That's the only way I'll take a job.”

“How about this?” Bill suggested. “We'll pay you a bonus.”

“What sort of bonus?”

Bill reached in his pocket, drew out a small revolver, and set it on the table in front of him.

“I won't do the world a favor and blow your sorry brains out.”

Again there was a flicker of something in Cole's eyes. Fear was too strong a word to describe it. Uncertainty, maybe. For a second Cole wasn't sure that Bill wouldn't do exactly what he had threatened.

But then Cole's natural arrogance—the arrogance of a true sociopath—asserted itself, and he said, “You won't do that.”

Bailey and Stillman were in the room, as they had been for the other meetings. They had remained standing and hadn't said anything. Now Bailey drew a Colt .45 1911A1 that was holstered on his hip and pointed it at Cole.

“I will,” he said.

This time Cole did look afraid.

“Stop and think about it, Cole,” Bill drawled.

“Besides the four of us in this room, only a handful of people know that you're here, and they occupy a high enough level that they don't give a damn about what happens to somebody like you. You had a hood over your head when you were flown in here, but if you'd been able to look out of that chopper, you'd have seen miles and miles of nothin'. We could bury a thousand varmints like you out here, and nobody would ever know the difference. And even if they did, they wouldn't care.”

“You're not murderers,” Cole insisted. “You work for the government.”

“We had a president once who said it was fine and dandy to kill American citizens just on his say-so. I'm not claimin' he was right or wrong, but hey, with an example like that . . .”

Cole pushed his glasses up again. They seemed to be slipping more now, an indication that while he wasn't openly sweating, his skin was damper than it had been.

“I asked you before, what is it you want?”

“You're good with demolitions. I need a man like that.”

“You want something blown up, but you don't know what it is yet?”

“You're gettin' the idea,” Bill said. “We won't know for sure until we get where we're goin'.”

“You're talking about a covert mission into another country. You're recruiting people like me who won't be missed so the government will have maximum deniability if anything goes wrong.”

The man might be an inhuman monster, thought Bill, but that didn't mean he was dumb.

“Let's say you're right. Let's say there's a threat to your country that needs to be neutralized.”

“I wouldn't advise you to play to my patriotism,” Cole said. “I don't have any.”

“You go along with us, we're prepared to make it possible for you to start over with a new identity and a new life. All you have to do is agree to go along and follow orders.”

“I'm not a fool, Mister . . . what is your name, anyway?”

“You can call me Bill.”

“I'm not a fool, Bill,” Cole said. “You're not going to just let me walk free if I help you with this mission, whatever it is.”

“That's the deal.”

Cole shook his head.

“No. The only reason you'd make such an offer is that you don't expect me to ever be able to take you up on it. You don't expect me to come back alive.”

“Does that make a difference?”

Cole didn't answer right away, and when he spoke again he still didn't give Bill a direct answer. Instead he said, “Do you know what the worst part is about being locked up?”

“Why don't you tell me?”

“It's feeling useless. I have a very specific set of skills, and I very well may be the best in the world at what I do.” Cole spread his hands. “But sitting in a cell, I can't accomplish anything. You may not believe this, but I have a very strong work ethic, Bill.”

“So . . . do we put you to work?”

“I'll take the job . . . but if I do survive to collect that new life, I want a bonus. I want one million dollars.”

“Done,” Bill said.

Knowing Jackie Thornton's history, how cold-bloodedly Thornton had shot another man in the head just because the unlucky fella had married Thornton's ex-wife, Bill expected to react to him with as much dislike as he had to Braden Cole.

Instead, Bill looked at the slightly built man who shuffled into the room and sat down at the table without meeting anyone's eyes, and had to stop himself from feeling sorry for Thornton. In the meeting with Clark and the other government officials, he had described Thornton as a sad sack. Not many people these days would understand that World War II–era reference, but it was a perfect description of Jackie Thornton anyway.

Bill reminded himself that Thornton had also tried to kill his ex-wife, and it was only sheer happenstance that he hadn't succeeded. He had fired a lot of rounds in that living room, and one of them easily could have found Maggie Louise Redmond.

Thornton kept his head down, staring at the table. After another moment went by, Bill said, “Hello, Jackie. You don't know me. My name's Bill.”

Thornton nodded, just an almost imperceptible movement of his head, and didn't say anything.

“You know why you're here?” Bill went on.

“No, sir,” Thornton replied in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “The warden said I was being sent down to Texas. That's all I know.” He paused. “Is this some sort of maximum-security prison? If it is, that's not necessary. I've never tried to get away, and I never will.”

“Why is that?”

For the first time, Thornton glanced up. He had a surprised look in his eyes.

“Why . . . I did wrong. I killed an innocent man. Greg Redmond didn't deserve what I done to him. I've got to pay for my crime.”

“He married your wife,” Bill said, wondering what it would take to get a rise out of Thornton. “Wrecked your happy home.”

“No, sir, I done that. Maggie Louise leaving me was all my fault, because I was a weak, sinful man and run with bad companions. Made bad choices. That's all on me.”

“Well, it's good that you take responsibility for your actions. How'd you like a chance to make up a little for what you've done?”

“When I saw this place, I got to thinking maybe it was something like that. You want to try some new drug on me, don't you? Or maybe perform some sort of experiment? I don't care, sir. You just do whatever you want to me, and if I don't make it, well, I'm fine with that.”

Bill heard a little noise behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see that Wade Stillman was having a hard time not breaking out in laughter. Even the normally taciturn John Bailey had a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“That's not exactly what we had in mind, Jackie,” Bill said. “We need volunteers, but it's not for some sort of . . . experiment.”

“Oh.” Bill thought Thornton sounded vaguely disappointed, as if he had convinced himself they were going to turn him into a zombie or a cyborg or some such fanciful notion. “Well, then, what would I be volunteering for?”

“A dangerous mission. There's a better than even chance you wouldn't be comin' back. But it's for the good of the country.”

Unlike Braden Cole, Thornton must have had some patriotism in his personality. He perked up at that and said, “You know, for a while I thought about joining the Army. I wanted to do something to help. Probably would've been a lot better off all around if I had.”

“Likely you're right about that. So you're interested in signin' on with us?”

“What would I have to do? I mean, I'm not that good at fighting. Never have been.” Thornton nodded toward Bailey and Wade. “I wouldn't be any match for fellas like these.”

“Then it's a good thing you'll all be on the same side,” Bill said. “Don't worry, if you want to be part of this, we'll teach you everything you need to know.”

“Well, then, I guess . . . I guess I could give it a try.”

Bill frowned and asked, “Don't you want to know what you'll get in return?”

“You said it was a chance to do some good. I'm not expecting anything else in return.”

Either Thornton was a consummate actor and was pulling the wool over all their eyes, Bill thought, or else he was exactly what he seemed to be, a none-too-bright small town boy who had screwed up his life and gotten into deep trouble.

Either way he might be useful. Bill nodded and said, “All right, consider yourself part of the team, Jackie.”

“Really?” There was a note of pride in his voice as he added, “I don't reckon I've been on a team since I played ball in high school. I always liked that—” He stopped short, then said, “But I don't reckon we'll be playing football, will we?”

“Nope,” Bill said. “It's a lot more dangerous game than that.”

 

 

Bill, John Bailey, and Wade Stillman met that evening in Bill's quarters. They were all staying in what had been base housing for the Air Force officers, back when the base was active. Bill got beers from the refrigerator and carried them into the spartanly furnished living room. He handed sweat-dripping bottles to the other two men.

In the several days they had been here, Bailey and Stillman had settled into old, comfortable roles. Both men had been noncoms in the Army, and that was essentially their function in this operation, too, backing up Bill as their commander.

That didn't come as easy to Bill. He hadn't always been a lone wolf, but he had spent more time operating on his own than he had as part of a group, let alone in charge. That wasn't to say that he couldn't take command when he needed to. He could and would. When it came time to strike at Barranca de la Serpiente, he would be in charge, no doubt about that.

Bill sat down to talk about the members of the team that had been assembled so far, but before he could launch into the discussion, the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt chirped. He unhooked it, held it to his mouth, and said, “Elliott.”

The voice of one of the guards said, “We've got a chopper headed this way, sir. Looks like it intends to land.”

Bill frowned in surprise and asked, “Any identification on it?”

“It's one of ours, sir. They have the right call sign.”

“We expectin' anybody tonight?” Bill asked Bailey and Stillman.

Both men shook their heads. Bailey said, “The last two members of the team aren't supposed to get here until tomorrow.”

“You were gonna brief us on 'em tonight,” Wade added.

Bill's brain raced. Not many people knew the old base was being used again, and even fewer knew what they were doing out here. He didn't see how the unexpected arrival of the helicopter could be any sort of threat, but there was no point in taking a chance.

“We're on our way,” he said into the walkie-talkie. “Have a couple of guards meet us at the helipad.”

He and Bailey and Stillman were all armed as well. He figured they could handle any problems that came up.

The chopper wasn't trying to sneak onto the base. Its running lights were on as it descended. Bill could see it clearly as he and the other two men walked toward the landing area.

A couple of uniformed guards carrying carbines met them there. The men waited together as the helicopter settled down on its skids. It was a smaller corporate-style chopper rather than the big Hueys used to bring in equipment and supplies.

As the rotors slowed to a stop, the door opened and a familiar figure climbed out into the glow from the helipad lights. Bill walked toward the man and called, “You could've let us know you were comin', Clark.”

“I didn't know I was coming out here until a little while ago,” Clark said as he came up to Bill and shook hands with his old friend and colleague. “I'm afraid I've got some bad news.”

“I had a hunch that's what you'd be sayin' as soon as I saw you.”

Clark nodded toward the building where the team was quartered.

“Let's go inside. I'll tell you all about it. And if you've got a drink you can offer me . . .”

“I reckon we can manage that, if you're all right with beer.”

“Right now I'll take one . . . or six.”

Bill grinned and said, “Come on.”

Before they left the helipad, Clark turned to one of the guards and said, “Take care of the package I left on the chopper, will you?”

“Of course, sir,” the man said. “What do you want me to do with it?”

Clark frowned in thought for a moment, then replied, “Bring it to Mr. Elliott's quarters in fifteen minutes.”

The guard nodded in understanding.

“You're bein' mighty mysterious,” Bill said as they walked toward the building with Bailey and Stillman. “What's in this package of yours?”

“You'll see. We need to talk about something else first, though, so you'll understand why I brought it here.”

Bill wasn't the sort to get nervous, but he didn't like what he was hearing from Clark. Something was going on that might have an effect on the mission.

Once the four men were back in Bill's quarters, he got another beer from the refrigerator and tossed the bottle easily to Clark, who caught it and twisted off the cap. He took a long swallow and then sat down in an armchair. Bill resumed his usual seat in a recliner, and the two younger men sat on the sofa.

Clark didn't wait for Bill to ask him again what had prompted this visit to the old air base. Nor did he sugarcoat the news he had to deliver. He said bluntly, “Tariq Maleef has escaped.”

Bill drew in a sharp breath through his nose. “Escaped,” he repeated.

“Well . . . more like he was rescued. A force of what we think were cartel soldiers hit the convoy that was transporting him from the facility where he'd been housed to the airport so he could be taken to another facility outside the country.”

That statement came as no surprise to Bill. Ever since the procedure of housing terrorist enemies at Guantanamo had come about in the days following the 9/11 attack, other high-security facilities had been established for the same purpose in a number of other places, only their existence had been maintained as a strict secret. These days, Gitmo served as more of a decoy than anything else.

“You've been movin' him around quite a bit, haven't you?”

“That's right,” Clark said with a nod. “For the very reason that we didn't want the cartel to get wind of where he was and try to break him out.” Clark paused, then added, “We also figured it was a good idea if certain people in Washington couldn't get their hands on him.”

Bill sighed in understanding.

“It's a damn shame when you have to keep your own government from tryin' to sabotage everything you do to protect the country,” he said.

“Yeah, but that's the way it is ever since that crowd took over and rigged things so they're always in power. We just have to deal with it and do what we can.”

“Until it all comes down like the proverbial house of cards,” Bill said grimly.

“Yeah, but we're gonna postpone that day for as long as we can. And part of that is keeping the country safe from threats like Maleef and his south-of-the-border buddies.”

“Excuse me, sir,” John Bailey said. “When the cartel rescued Maleef . . . did we lose any men?”

“Twelve,” Clark said flatly. “Everybody who was with the convoy.”

“Damn,” Wade Stillman breathed.

“You got any details we need to know, other than the fact that Maleef's in the wind again?” Bill asked.

Clark shook his head.

“No, that's it. We've kept what happened shielded from the media, thank goodness. If they ever find out the truth about the New Sun and how close we came . . . well, it wouldn't be good, and they sure don't need to know that Maleef is on the loose again and able to get up to more mischief.”

Bill grunted.

“Mischief. That's a good word for almost nukin' downtown San Antonio.”

He didn't have to watch what he said. Bailey and Stillman had been thoroughly briefed about their current situation and the things that had led up to it, as had Megan Sinclair. The other members of the team were still in the dark about the details. They would be carrying out their parts in the mission on a strictly need-to-know basis.

“There is one good thing we think might come out of this,” Clark said. “We figure there's a good chance Maleef will head for Barranca de la Serpiente. If we can pick up his trail, maybe he'll lead us right to the place.”

The intelligence they had gathered so far had given them a rough location for the terrorist training camp in the mountains of northern Mexico, but the Sierra Madre was a big area and they couldn't just wander around looking for their destination. Clark was right: if they could pin down the location, it would be a big help.

A quiet knock sounded on the door. Bill stood up and said, “That'll be that package you told the guard to bring here.”

“That's right,” Clark said. He got to his feet as well. He started toward the door, but Bill waved him back.

“I'll get it.”

“It might not be what you expect,” Clark said.

“How big could it be?” Bill asked as he opened the door.

Then he stood there, stiff with surprise, as Catalina Ramos smiled at him and said, “Hello, Bill. Aren't you going to ask me in?”