Oblivion Pact - Don Pendleton

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      “Maybe they plan on selling the helicopters. The Apaches alone would fetch a small fortune in certain parts of the world.”

      “I wish it was true.” Brognola frowned. “However, they also took a Black Hawk medical unit.”

      “Any blood missing from the base hospital?”

      “According to the records, about a hundred units of blood plasma, and ten more of AB positive.”

      “But nothing else?”

      “Just the usual medical supplies, sutures, bandages, forceps and such.”

      “AB positive is a pretty rare blood type,” Bolan said slowly.

      “Yes, it is,” Brognola said. “So I ran that through the Interpol database, along with the general descriptions of the three people armed with unusual weapons.”

      Bolan understood. Most of the thieves were carrying an F-8S. Anyone carrying a different weapon would be either a specialist, who might have a crime record, or else he or she was the person in charge.

      “Now, the fat guy has an XM-25 grenade rifle,” Brognola said flipping through the shots to find the ones he wanted, then freezing them. “The woman has a Neostead shotgun, while the giant is carrying an F88 assault rifle...but has a Falcon automatic pistol in his shoulder holster. Everybody else is carrying a police-issue Glock.”

      “What did you find?” Bolan asked, suddenly interested.

      “Again nothing,” Brognola admitted honestly, taking a sandwich. “The President thinks I’m overreacting. But he’s a politician, and I’m a street cop.”

      “Correction. The top cop for the nation.”

      “Just a cop all the same. Half of this job is going with a gut instinct, and I’ve got a bad one on this thing, Striker,” Brognola said with a grimace. “There was just something hinky about these three, so I ran their descriptions through the entire government database. That brought up something.”

      He took a bite of the sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “The giant appears to be Dalton Greene, the Australian billionaire, which makes the other two his bodyguards, Victor Layne and Samantha LoMonaco.”

      “How hard is that intel?”

      “Weak, only around fifty percent accurate.”

      “Weak is a nice way to put it.”

      “Accepted. Then I read that Greene and his bodyguards all died in a fiery car crash last week, the bodies burned beyond recognition.”

      As the pictures on the screen stopped, Bolan sat back in his chair. “Chalk up another win for the gut instinct,” he said slowly. “This reeks to high heaven.”

      Dalton Greene had been on Bolan’s radar for quite a while. There was nothing specific, just a lot of little indicators that the Aussie billionaire was dirty.

      “How did they take the base?” Bolan asked.

      Brognola shrugged. “Forensics isn’t sure yet, but I think they staged a riot in Cancun yesterday, then ambushed the police and stole their cars.”

      “You think?”

      “None of the police officers who responded to the call have been found yet. The attack zone was swept clean. Literally swept clean, like it was a zen rock garden.”

      “Which means the cops are most likely shark food at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.”

      “Probably.”

      This was an interesting puzzle, Bolan realized. Greene was rich enough to buy the number of stolen helicopters, plus the weapons, on the black market. So why would he go to all the trouble to steal them? Merely to hide his identity, or was there something darker at play, some twist that he couldn’t quite see yet?

      Reaching out, he tapped a button to start the flow of chaotic images once more. By now, Bolan was starting to get a bad feeling in his own gut. Ruthless, patient, cool and bloodthirsty. These were hard boys with a game plan. That always spelled big trouble.

      “It looks like I’m going to Mexico....”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Mexico City, Mexico

      The air was cool and crisp inside the Alhambra Night Club, scrubbed and sterilized by a host of machines designed to remove any trace of pollution from the bustling metropolis just outside the front door.

      A sparkling disco ball on the ceiling filled the room with artificial starlight, and a live band on the stage softly played classical love songs. Young couples danced on the floor and old married couples looked on from their tables, holding hands and smiling in fond memory. Everybody was well-dressed, suits and ties for the gentlemen, flowing dresses with wrist corsages for the ladies.

      Standing outside the club was a pair of former bank guards whose only job was to keep out anybody deemed unsuitable, no matter how much money they were offered as a bribe, or what amazing sexual favors were promised in exchange for a quick peek inside. Unfortunately, no security system was perfect.

      With a lopsided smile, the drunk woman leaned closer. “I lo-love big men,” she slurred, a plump breast nearly falling out of her black satin dress.

      Saying nothing in reply, Special Agent Willard Cinco moved one chair away at the hotel bar.

      She followed along.

      “I sa-said that I love big, muscular, men,” she whispered, attempting a sexy smile and failing utterly. “Don’t you like me?”

      “I like you fine, sweetheart, but I’m married and my wife is the jealous type.” He flashed her an apologetic smile, stood and walked away without another word.

      Going to a table, Cinco waved down a passing waitress and ordered another scotch and soda. Maria smiled in reply showing dimples, then walked away with a definite swaying of the hips, but slowly, to let him admire the view.

      Six feet tall, and as almost as wide, the hulking Mexican intelligence agent liked to joke that he was built like a bull, and easily twice as smart. But that was just one of his many lies. An expert in cryptography, countersurveillance and high explosives, Willard “The Bull” Cinco was one of the top agents at Centro de Investigatión y Seguridad Nacional de Mexico—CISEN, Mexico’s intelligence agency.

      The television behind the bar was showing a football game, what the crazy Americans called soccer for some unknown reason, and Cinco heard the overly excited announcers talking about how one team’s defense was murdering the opposition, what a slaughter it was going to be this night, somebody wearing guts for garters, and how the blood would flow! Sipping his drink, the CISEN agent didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry.

      Reaching into a pocket, Cinco pulled out a universal remote and shifted to the weather channel. Nobody in the club seemed to notice, or care. He liked the Weather Channel, it was oddly soothing, almost hypnotic.

      Folding a stick of chewing gum into his mouth to help fight off the urge for a cigarette, Cinco chewed in peaceful silence for a while, and wasn’t terribly surprised when Maria delivered his drink accompanied by a free bowl of cheesy crackers, and a slip of paper bearing the name Rosetta and a local phone number. Exercising restraint, Cinco snacked on the first and burned the other in the ashtray, his impatience growing by the minute. His personal network of informants was rarely wrong about such things, but this time Cinco was starting to think that—

      She walked into the nightclub as if she owned the place. Tall, slim and deliciously dark with raven-black hair and a wide generous smile, the woman was dressed in a designer gown that couldn’t have been any more formfitting if it had been sprayed onto her flawless skin. Diamonds sparkled from her fingers, circled both wrists and her neck. Her shoes showed toes, the nails painted the same color as her fingernail polish, and her long hair was swept forward across her face to help hide the jagged rope scar on her neck where she had been hung

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