Deadly Contact. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Prologue

      Bosnia, 1995

      The sharp light of morning was accompanied by a chill appropriate to the mood of the day. A fine mist rained over the wooded terrain, the cold drizzle building until it slipped from the green leaves of the trees. It dripped onto the bared heads of the tight group shuffling forward from the truck that had brought them to this place. Five men and a single woman. They walked with the heavy tread of individuals aware of their fate, unable to do anything to alter it, yet clinging to some vague hope there might be some last minute reprieve.

      They were surrounded by a three-man armed escort—men clad in better clothing than their captives. While the six wore ordinary dress, the escorts were comfortable in weatherproof coats and hats. No one spoke. There was no point. Anything that had been worth saying was in the past. It was time for closure.

      Within the group, only one of them allowed emotions to show. One of the men sobbed quietly, his head down so that his chin rested on his chest. His tears ran down his face and merged with the rain-soaked material of his shirt. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the crumpled, stained jacket he wore. Once that jacket had been an expensive item from his wardrobe. Now it showed the effects of his prolonged incarceration. It had a number of tears in the fine material, and some of the dark stains were from his own blood. He knew he was about to die. He wanted it to be different, but the line that prevented that had been crossed many days ago. He had chosen his side, as had the others in the group, and it had been the wrong side. He was about to pay the price for his decision, which in his heart he still defended. He knew the people controlling his destiny were evil. They were men who saw personal aggrandizement as their right, contrary to the responsibility they carried for the countries they served. A defiant resistance to those illegal activities had been the catalyst for the action taking place in this isolated landscape.

      Someone rapped out a harsh command, and the group was herded to a stop in a clearing in the wooded terrain. A deep pit had been dug. The dark mounds of extracted earth edged three sides of the pit, glistening in the rain. Already a thin layer of water had pooled in the bottom of the pit. The armed escorts lined up behind the six, the one who had given the command glancing to his right at a shadowy gathering of men standing just within the tree line. One of these men stepped forward, into the light. A big man, with a hard-boned face wet with rain. He was bareheaded, his thick black hair lay tight against his skull. He exhibited no remorse as he faced the six.

      “This was not inevitable,” he said. “You chose your own fate by refusing to join us.”

      The woman turned to look him in the eye. One side of her attractive face still bore the discoloration that was the result of a severe beating.

      “Murderers always try to justify their crimes,” she said. “You are no different. In the end you are all no more than backstreet scum, criminals and thieves, and one day your actions will reach out and drag you down into the grave with us.” She spit in his direction. “Do your worst, you bastards.”

      A swift nod and the escorts raised the automatic weapons they were carrying. There was no preamble, no final words or comfort for the victims. The clearing echoed to the vicious crackle of autofire that riddled the six with 9 mm bullets. The writhing bodies tumbled forward into the pit, screaming out their final moments as they hit the rain-sodden earth. Torn flesh, shredded clothing, the final spurts of blood. A pink haze floated for seconds over the open pit, dissipating in the continuous rain.

      “Fill it in,” the big man said. “Then get out of here. Report to me in the morning.”

      He turned then, flicking a finger at the others standing with him and they merged with the dark trees, retracing the steps that had brought them to this place of slaughter. Minutes later they emerged from the trees and climbed into waiting SUVs. Powerful engines purred to life and the small convoy moved off, following the curve of the thin track, disappearing into the gray mist until there was no sign they had been there.

      At the pit site, the escort squad had exchanged their weapons for long-handled shovels. They worked quickly, scooping the wet earth back into the pit, covering the bodies, then dragging clumps of shorn foliage and leaf mold over the plot. The rain would soon reduce their boot prints to nothing, washing away evidence of their activities, and it would not take long for the forest to reclaim its disturbed ground. The grass would grow, and the foliage would weave and tangle its way back.

      AN HOUR LATER THE SITE WAS deserted. The distant rumble of the departing truck had long since faded, leaving only the sound of the rain to break the solitude.

      From the far side of the clearing a dark figure emerged from concealment. He was a lean, tight-featured man clad from head to foot in camouflage clothing that had allowed him to remain unseen until he stepped into the open. Even his face was striped with camo paint, so his eyes stared out from the mask, bright and feral. He carried an expensive, professional camcorder in his hands. The equipment was state-of-the-art and was fitted with a powerful variable-focus lens arrangement that allowed for tight, detailed closeups even from a distance. The man had been in place well before the events at the pit had taken place. He had recorded the whole episode, making certain that his tape logged every face, of victims as well as the killer escort. He had also focused in tightly on the group by the trees, recording their presence at the massacre. He stood and took a final pan of the area, ending by holding his camera on the camouflaged area of the burial site.

      He had just completed his filming when he felt the soft vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He unzipped the flap and took out the phone, pressing the button to open the connection.

      “Are you finished?” the voice of his employer asked.

      “I was about to leave.”

      “You have it?”

      “Oh, yes. Everything. They are all identified. It is all on the tape.”

      “Excellent. You know what to do?”

      “As we discussed. Give me until the end of the week and it will all be documented.”

      “I will talk to you then. Now I have to go. They are ready to start the proceedings. We have the past to toast and our assured futures to celebrate.”

      The cell phone went silent and the man put it away. First he placed the camera in the soft, waterproof case he had tucked inside his zipped jacket. He slung the case over his shoulder by its webbing strap, then turned and began his long tramp back through the forest to where he had left his car. He