Oblivion Pact. Don Pendleton
but all in perfect working condition, and armed to the teeth.”
“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....”
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