Deadly Salvage. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
suitable,” he said, grabbing the camera case. “Tip the kid, will you, Matt?”
Bolan gave him some more money. “Here’s hoping we don’t see you again today.”
The bellman looked down at the bills and flashed a big grin. “Oh, I don’t mind, sir. Not at all.” He placed the bags inside the room and left.
Bolan locked the door and repeated his scan of the room. This time the device detected nothing, but he and Grimaldi did a thorough hands-on search just in case.
“Looks clean,” Bolan said.
“It does,” Grimaldi agreed. “Seems like somebody was expecting us,” he said as he unzipped his suitcase. “Le Pierre, you think?”
Bolan shook his head. “Hard to say at this point, but I’m not sure our little buddy Le Pierre would have the means to set up that kind of sophisticated bugging equipment.”
They unpacked quickly, knowing that Brognola had arranged a meeting somewhere on the island with the FBI agent.
Inside Bolan’s case case were the slide, barrel, pin and recoil spring of Bolan’s field-striped Beretta 93R, along with four fully loaded magazines. Next, he removed a supply of additional ammunition and a folded Espada knife, which he clipped to his belt so it was concealed inside his pants. Finally, he pulled out the upper and barrel portions of a SIG Sauer forty caliber P226 and handed it to Grimaldi.
Jack grinned wryly as he assembled the weapon. “Maybe I should’ve shown Capitaine Le Pierre that mine’s bigger than his.”
“Why crush the guy’s already fragile ego?” Bolan said, putting together the Beretta. In a matter of seconds both men had their pistols fully assembled. Bolan checked the safety, inserted a magazine and racked back the slide to chamber a round. He then released the magazine and pressed another round in place, assuring a full load. As usual, two of the clips held standard ammunition, with jacketed ball and hollowpoints alternated, and the other two held special ammunition. One was marked with green to indicate frangible ammunition that was designed to avoid overpenetration, and the other contained armor-piercing rounds. Grimaldi sorted out a similar array of ammo and loaded his SIG, using the decocking lever to place it on safe.
Bolan then dug out two sets of sport-utility shoes that looked as if they had been made for mountain hiking. He passed a pair to Grimaldi, then twisted the metal cleats on one shoe and pulled the thick sole away. He took out a folded shoulder holster, looked at it and tossed it to the pilot.
“That one’s yours,” he said, and repeated the process with the second shoe. This one contained the shoulder rig for his Beretta. Grimaldi was taking apart the other pair, which contained small but powerful radios and ear mics.
“Hal did not disappoint,” Grimaldi said, emitting a low whistle.
With weapons and gear assembled and ready for use, both men changed shirts and slipped their guns into their holsters, checking to make sure their new outfits fully concealed the pistols.
Bolan’s handheld chimed with an incoming email. He picked it up and read it, then turned to Grimaldi. “It’s from Hal. The meet with the FBI man is set. Fifteen minutes. Remember that mountain plateau we passed on the way from the airport?”
Grimaldi nodded.
Bolan gave himself one final check in the mirror to make sure the hang of his shirt properly covered up the Beretta. “You ready?”
“As they say—” Grimaldi smoothed out his sleeveless BDU shirt and grabbed his SIG Sauer “—I was born ready.”
* * *
WILLARD FORSYTHE EVERETT III stood on the catwalk adjacent to the control room on the platform rig and watched as the helicopter made its landing on the helipad below. Edwin Grimes stood next to him, waiting like a bird dog eager for any sign of approval. Everett shot a quick glance at Grimes and began a mental assessment as to when it would be convenient to dump the man. He had proved useful, but lately his missteps, especially that fiasco with the yacht, had started to get under Everett’s skin.
On the helipad, a squad of fifteen men made their way out of the bird as the rotors slowed to a stop. All of them were dressed in dark, camouflaged uniforms and wore matching helmets with night vision goggles attached.
“You’re sure these guys are clear on the mission?” Everett asked. “I told you, we can’t afford any slipups.”
“Zelenkov assured me they’re top-notch,” Grimes responded. “Like I said, a couple are ex-Spetsnaz, just like him.”
Everett pressed his lips together and watched the squad assembling below. Grimes seemed overly impressed by this Spetsnaz bullshit. If these Ruskies were so special, why had they been drummed out of the Russian army? He concentrated his gaze on the group of them, each one holding his AK-47 at port arms. Zelenkov, whose rifle was slung over his right shoulder, walked back and forth in front of the group, barking something in Russian loud enough for the words to drift up to the catwalk. Vince Tanner, Everett’s assistant security chief, stood off to the side. He was clad in similar combat BDUs and was also armed with an AK-47. Zelenkov barked a command and the group snapped to attention.
“Anyone can look impressive doing D and C,” Everett said. “Have they seen any combat?”
“All vets of the conflict in Chechnya,” Grimes said.
“But do they know anything about ship assaults?”
“Zelenkov says they trained for it. Should be a cakewalk.” Grimes gestured down at the group. “Besides, Tanner’s going with them to keep us updated. What could go wrong?”
“There’s always something that could go wrong.” Everett watched the formation a few seconds more. “Tell Zelenkov I want to see him now. Before he leaves.”
Grimes nodded.
“What about those new Americans that came in?” Everett asked. “You get them checked out?”
“Le Pierre rousted them on the way from the airport. Didn’t find any weapons, which made them appear legit. Then they pulled a fast one at the hotel. Demanded to switch rooms. Smelled something funny, apparently, and the one guy threatened to puke.”
Everett frowned. “Sounds like bullshit. They must have noticed the bugs. They’re probably CIA or something. NSA at the very least.”
“They’re on the way to meet the FBI agent on the mountain plateau as we speak.” The yelling had ceased from below and both men glanced downward. Zelenkov was looking up at them, and Grimes motioned for the Russian to come up to the control room area.
“What’s that FBI agent’s name again?” Everett asked Grimes.
“Tyler. Tim Tyler.”
Everett smirked and thought for a moment. “If the U.S. government is sending more agents down, it’s a given that they’re sure Monk is here. Sooner or later they’ve got to figure I have him.”
Grimes nodded.
Everett stroked the stubble around his upper lip, then traced the lines down to his chin. He liked the feel of it under his fingertips—a reassurance that he still had plenty of testosterone. “Le Pierre’s man still with the corn husker?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” Everett said. “Tell him to stall the meeting a bit. Arrange a little reception party for them. Make it look like it’s the work of Boudrous and his boys. Have them take out a couple of bystanders, too, for good measure. Zelenkov can send one of his goons to supervise it just in case.”
Grimes’s brow furrowed, as if he didn’t think hitting the Feds at this juncture was such a good idea. Everett reconsidered the decision. Tipping their hand this early could bring more heat from Washington, and if things went wrong, more agents would be flying down here, perhaps upsetting his timeline. But Everett decided it would work, and this weasel’s critical expression bothered him. “You