Deadly Salvage

The camera also contained several clear shots of Grimes, Tanner, the divers and the submersible. Grimes started to press the delete button, but hesitated. Perhaps these would be worth showing to Everett when he got here in case he was miffed at the shooting. He was going to want a full briefing, and this way it would contain visual aids. Grimes smiled at his wit as he slung the camera strap over his neck. “Leave some men here to secure this boat. Find their passports. After you take me back, return here and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Dump everything of value overboard. Then set this thing adrift far away from here. Make it look like the work of pirates, or drug smugglers or something.”

“Understood, sir,” Tanner said.

Grimes climbed the steps and strode past the two bodies, which were still leaking bright crimson onto the pristine whiteness of the lower deck. He hesitated, but couldn’t resist taking a few photos of his handiwork. He turned and snapped a few of good old Harv, his pretty lady, and the dead Latino kid, as well.

A bit of an untidy mess, but necessary for the mission, Grimes thought as he stepped over them. Collateral damage.

Chapter 1 (#ulink_785d0692-dc54-5ad3-958e-85fc0b81d16c)

Mack Bolan, also known as the Executioner, passed the three-mile marker and noted that he had finally broken a sweat. He carried a five-pound dumbbell in each hand. The trees and bushes on either side of the macadamized track that led through the heavily wooden area surrounding Stony Man Farm had just started to sprout their seasonal leaves. Bright sunshine filtered through the swirls of green buds, dappling the trail ahead with splashes of brilliance. Running this five-mile course was a great way to unwind after returning from a mission. Up ahead, two deer walked across the path, stopped, saw Bolan and scampered into the forest.

Suddenly, a distant but distinct buzzing began to intrude on the peaceful scene. The birds became silent as the buzzing grew louder. Bolan had already identified it: a motorcycle—a trail bike most likely—and it was heading his way. Although the soldier normally felt totally comfortable and safe within the confines of Stony Man Farm, his survival instinct never allowed him to completely drop his guard. The trail curved to the left and he quickened his pace, sprinting around the turn, at once out of view from the approaching motorcyclist. He slowed and waded into the heavy foliage. Stopping next to an oak tree, he dropped the dumbbells and pulled his SIG Sauer P938 Nightmare from the pocket of his sweatpants. Then he waited.

When Bolan heard the motorcycle slowing to make the turn, he brought the SIG up and braced his arm against the heavy trunk. The motorcycle rider accelerated and zoomed past Bolan’s position, only to slow down and screech to a halt about eight seconds later.

The rider removed his helmet, but Bolan had already identified him.

It was Jack Grimaldi. Bolan lowered the pistol, grabbing the weights with his left hand and stepping out of the trees.

Grimaldi swiveled in the seat. “Are you slipping or something?” he asked. “You made more noise than a troop of Boy Scouts.”

“I’ll give back my merit badge.”

Grimaldi’s eyebrows rose as he looked at the pistol. “Where’s your Beretta? It’s not like you to be without your baby.”

“Sometimes less is more when it comes to concealment,” Bolan said. He pocketed the SIG, took a dumbbell in each hand and began running again.

Grimaldi twisted the accelerator and pulled up beside Bolan. “Hal sent me to get you.”

“Well, you got me.”

The pilot smiled. “Come on, he wants to see you right away.”

Bolan kept running.

“Did you hear me?” Grimaldi asked. “He said ‘right away.’”

“I heard. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

“Hop on and I’ll give you a ride.”

“Nope,” Bolan said. “I’ve been promising myself this run ever since I got back. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes? You slowed down that much?”

“I can make it quicker if I skip my shower,” Bolan said drily.

Grimaldi grinned. “We wouldn’t want that. See you later.” He stopped, replaced the helmet on his head, and asked, “Want to race?”

Bolan didn’t answer, and seconds later Grimaldi zoomed past him with a spray of gravel.

* * *

BOLAN WALKED INTO the War Room freshly showered and changed. Hal Brognola glanced up from his big desk. “Have a nice run?”

“Pretty good until you and Jack ruined it. What’s up?”

“We may have something brewing in the Caribbean.”

“Like what?”

“Missing yacht, for one thing,” Brognola said. “A bunch of rich folks out of Miami. Big campaign contributors to a lot of politicians on the Hill. They took off for the islands and haven’t been heard from in two days.”

“Sounds like a job for the Coast Guard.”

“Normally, it would be,” Brognola said. “But there may be more to it. The FBI’s also nosing around down there on one of the islands. Something about a missing DOD employee.”

Bolan felt his interest spike slightly at that news. In the old days, a missing Department of Defense employee often meant a defection. Now, it could mean terrorism. “What type of employee?”

Brognola picked up a manila file and passed it across his desk. “The guy’s worked there as a crypto code breaker for just about forever. Never had any problems. His name’s Herman Monk.”

Bolan paged through the file. A color photo of Monk was paper-clipped to the inside of the folder. It showed a middle-aged man with thinning hair and thick, horn rim glasses. Other than that, his face was unremarkable. Under the personal information section he was listed as fifty-eight years old and widowed with one child, a nineteen-year-old daughter named Grace. A picture of her was on a subsequent page.

“As I said,” Brognola continued, “Monk’s worked at the DOD for a long time, since the Cold War. He’s an expert crypto analyst. Speaks five languages. He’s supposed to be a wizard at breaking codes, but he hasn’t had a lot to do since the Soviet Union dissolved. He used to track the Soviets around the globe, and more recently the activities of Al Qaeda and friends.”

“The Feds got any theories?”

“He disappeared from work four days ago. Left for a lunch date and never returned. He called in sick for the rest of that day and the next. It was later discovered that he was in the possession of his government laptop.” Brognola got up, went to the coffeemaker on the file cabinet and poured himself a cup. “When Monk didn’t show up for work the following day, they tried calling him, but kept getting his answering machine saying he was still sick. Then they traced the laptop through the built-in GPS transmitter and went to his residence. The laptop was there, but its hard drive wasn’t. And neither was Monk.”

“What type of information was on it?” Bolan asked.

“Unknown,” Brognola said. “Most of Monk’s work these days was translating intercepted texts from Arabic. Like I said, he speaks five languages in addition to English. Arabic, Farsi, Russian, Korean and several Chinese dialects.”

“He should apply for a job at the United Nations.”

Brognola took a sip of his coffee and returned to his desk. “They traced him to a flight three days ago to Puerto Rico.”

“Maybe he wants to be there for the vice president’s visit.”

“That’s not for a few more days,” Brognola said. “Anyway, from there it’s believed he hopped another flight to one of the Caribbean islands.”

“Which one?”

“This one, we think. St. Francis.” Brognola handed Bolan a brightly colored brochure depicting beautiful hotels rising out of white sand, and photos of equally beautiful people drinking and playing volleyball in bikinis and Speedos. “At least that’s what the Feds think. The FBI is down there now trying to find him and his daughter.”

“His daughter?” Bolan flipped the file open again and looked at the girl’s picture.

“Yeah, she was down there a week ago. Apparently, she won some kind of free, all-inclusive vacation. Checked into her hotel and hasn’t been seen since.”