Final Assault - Don Pendleton

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He smacked his lips. “This really is quite good.”

      “You’re double-crossing me,” Pierpoint said, bewildered. He settled back into his seat, face pale, hands trembling.

      “Technically, I’m simply amending the deal,” Garrand said. He holstered his pistol and poured himself another glass of champagne. “I’ve done all that we agreed to, Nick—may I call you Nick?” Garrand smiled and emptied the glass. “I organized this—what do you call it?—‘viral marketing stunt’ for your ‘brand,’” he said, crooking his fingers in air quotes, “and now I am taking my pay.”

      “The money was your pay,” Pierpoint said through clenched teeth.

      “The money was a guarantor of the safety of your guests and crew. The Demeter is my pay, and as she is now mine, I intend to sell her for several times what you’re worth. In fact, a number of interested parties are already on their way here.” Garrand made to fill his glass again, then thought better of it and simply took a swig from the bottle.

      Pierpoint stared at him. “You can’t...”

      “I already have,” Garrand said. “It’s not so bad, Nick. Think of the marketing possibilities... ‘The ship so popular, even criminals want one.’ It’ll play well, I think.” Garrand shrugged. “Or not. I admit, that sort of thing is outside of my area of expertise.” He nodded at Yacoub. “Would you be so kind as to take Mr. Pierpoint to his quarters? I think he’s going to need a few hours to recover.”

      Garrand watched Pierpoint go and then took another swig from the bottle. He’d played it cool, but he was all too aware that he’d entered a less structured area of the plan. There were more balls in the air, more things that could go wrong at this stage. But the rewards were greater, as well.

      He pulled the duffel to him, unzipped it and examined the plastic-wrapped bundles of cash. Then he grunted and zipped it back up. It was a good amount of money, but the boat would bring more. A lot more, if he played his cards right. “People like narrative,” he murmured.

      The hostages were no longer bargaining chips. Instead, now they were insurance—as long as the usual suspects thought there was a chance of keeping them alive, they would hold off from any action. Not for long, of course. But long enough. He’d already adapted the cover story—they were no longer pirates, but terrorists seeking to make a statement—and he’d organized the appropriate means of disguising the arrival of his guests. But it was still a matter of timing and precision.

      Garrand finished the champagne and set it aside. “Let the show begin,” he murmured.

       Somewhere South of Yemen

      The Executioner had found a number of papers among the late Domingo Claricuzio’s effects—including those naming the men in charge of Claricuzio’s Mediterranean operations. Enforced prostitution, human trafficking, the works... Bolan itched to bring the whole operation down.

      But that would have to wait. Instead, he was on an unlisted flight. The plane was private, bankrolled on a black ops budget and stuffed to the gills with enough hardware to make it look like the set of a science fiction film. Bolan sat alongside Hal Brognola and three others in the plane’s state-of-the-art passenger compartment. They were heading toward the gulf, as near as Bolan could tell.

      Brognola looked tired. Then, he always looked tired. As director of the ultrasecret antiterrorist Sensitive Operations Group, Brognola got his orders from the President himself.

      Bolan looked around. Computer screens lined the cabin, resting above banks of hardware, including what he recognized as control consoles for drones and remote satellite surveillance systems. There were no windows, and the cabin had the blocky design he’d come to associate with stealth vehicles. He could hear the purr of the engines and the soft conversation of the crew. The internal lighting was cold, blue and sterile and it cast chilly shadows across the faces of the men around him.

      Bolan knew for a fact one of the men was well out of his jurisdiction. He was African-American with hard features, and his scalp stubble was gray. Bolan met his bland gaze and said, “Still with the Bureau, Ferguson? Or have you traded down and joined the Agency?” He’d first made Ferguson’s acquaintance when a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented, with a little help from the FBI.

      “He speaks,” Ferguson said. “And it’s only been, what, three hours since we left Dulles?” He looked at the others and shrugged. “Can you believe this guy?”

      “How do you know he has not joined Interpol, hey, Cooper?” one of the others said, leaning forward. Slim and dark, he wore an Italian suit.

      Brognola laughed. “Agent Cooper knows better than that, Chantecoq.”

      Bolan had first met the French Interpol agent and his subordinate, Tanzir, during a terrorist attempt to enter the United States through Mexico. “How is Agent Tanzir?” Bolan asked, looking at Chantecoq.

      “Very well, Cooper,” Chantecoq said. Bolan inclined his head and looked at the third man. Tall and blunt featured with an expensive haircut and even more expensive sunglasses.

      “CIA,” the Executioner said without hesitation.

      “Among others,” the third man replied. He smiled and extended his hand. “My name’s Tony Spence. Pleasure to meet you, Agent Cooper. Big fan of your work.” All of the men present, save Brognola, knew Bolan by his cover identity, Agent Matt Cooper. Bolan had used many names throughout his long, lonely war, and he suspected that he would use many more before the end. Each name was like a weapon in his arsenal, opening doors and armoring him against the slings and arrows of his enemies.

      Bolan didn’t take his hand. “I knew Tony Spence. He had about twenty pounds on you, and you’ve got about six inches on him. And he’s dead.” Spence had been Bolan’s CIA contact for a recent mission to Hong Kong—a mission that had gone dangerously wrong at the eleventh hour. Spence retracted his hand.

      “He is. I’m not,” he said, still smiling. Bolan frowned. He had a long, complex relationship with various agents of the CIA. Some of his interactions had fallen somewhere on the spectrum between frustration and anger, but he’d grown to like Spence—the original Spence—in the brief time he’d known him.

      “You can let me off at the next airport,” Bolan said. “I’ve got more important things to do than waste my time playing games.”

      Brognola cleared his throat. “Ease back, Cooper. You know how these Puzzle Palace types like to complicate things. Every one of them has three names and none of them the one their momma gave them. Tony Spence is just an alias for use by whoever needs it at the moment.”

      Spence inclined his head. “And right now, that’s me.”

      Bolan sat back. He looked around. “CIA, FBI and Interpol...something smells funny.”

      “Might be my aftershave. Wife’s making me try something new,” Ferguson said.

      Brognola shook his head. “If you think those are the only letters in this particular alphabet soup, I’ve got some bad news...” He held up a hand as if to forestall the protest Bolan hadn’t been planning to make. “But that’s beside the point. What do you know from yachts, Cooper?”

      “Been on a few,” Bolan said without elaborating.

      “What about cargo ships?” Spence asked, leaning forward.

      “Been on a few of those, too.”

      “What do you know about—”

      Bolan cut Spence off with an impatient gesture. “Pretend I don’t, since you

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