The Mercenary (20 page)

“Stop it,” a voice hissed.

She whimpered with fear. Why did Joe just sit there? He was a sound sleeper but how could he not hear this?

“Stop it and you'll live.”

She was completely helpless and breathing heavily. Managing a nod, she was lowered to the ground and the arm around her throat relaxed a bit. Sobering quickly, she swallowed hard and said, “Wh . . . what d'ya want?”

“Nothing.” The man's voice was deep and pleasing. She could feel a big, hard chest against her back. Maybe he wanted her. Her breathing quickened. Could that be it? Maybe if Joe was asleep . . .

“Then lemme go . . . we can work it out. I won't scream.”

She heard a dry chuckle and relief washed over her. Then this was just about sex.

“Same Heidi I remember.” The man's lips brushed her ear and she shivered. Someone from her past. How marvelous. But who?

“Think back to a night six years ago. Same O'Club, same Heidi. You made a play for a pilot . . . remember?'

Six years? Who remembers that? She shook her head . . . there'd been so many men.

“A lieutenant colonel in a desert flight suit. He was watching a pretty woman dance on the stage with a friend and you said, ‘She ain't half the woman I am.' ”

That night . . . She swallowed again.
That
night. “What . . . what'sat matter . . . to you?”

The chuckle again. “Because I looked right at you and said, ‘Only by weight.'' ”

Him!

She remembered him. Sunburned and broad shouldered, she'd seem him immediately. He'd shown no interest in her whatsoever and, after four drinks, her irritation bubbled up as she watched him watch the other woman.

“That's right.” The voice was low and dangerous. “You do remember.”

She'd made a scene. She'd used her position as the Mission Support Group commander's wife to summon the Security Police. Never mind that there'd been nights when people had sex in the bushes and panties flew over that very dance floor. She'd insisted that the woman and her dance partner be thrown out at once. The woman had actually turned out to be the pilot's wife, just dancing with a friend.. As the man stepped between the angry women, Heidi, in a fit of jealousy, purposely bumped into him, then screamed, “He hit me! He hit me!”

The security cops were plainly uncomfortable with the entire thing and knew the officer had done no such thing. They'd even made a special report to that effect, as did a score of witnesses. But a pissed-off colonel's wife is hard to ignore—especially when her husband was close personal friends with the general in charge of personnel at the Pentagon. Joe had come through for once, happy to stick it to a fighter pilot, and even filed a sexual harassment charge.

She knew the man's command had been taken away and that he'd ended up back on a staff somewhere. She'd also been pleased to hear later that his good-looking wife had died in a car accident.

The forearm tightened around her throat again as he lifted her up. As she started to kick, a fist crashed into her left temple and Heidi went limp. She wasn't unconscious, but she couldn't seem to make her body respond. Joe . . . she thought, I have to wake him up somehow . . . I . . .

“He's not going to help you . . . not that he could do anything anyway,” the man whispered, reading her thoughts. Very slowly he carried her around to the front of the easy chair and a big hand forced her chin around to stare at her husband's face.

The shock of it brought Heidi from her stupor. Joe's head was tilted back, his eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling. But it was his mouth . . . his mouth was gaping and twin rivers of blood ran down both sides of his chin before dribbling off in a puddle on his chest. She tried to scream but the arm was too tight. Clawing at it with both hands, she began to thrash when the other hand appeared in front of her face, holding something.

She froze.

It was a tongue.

Convulsing mightily, her big, fleshy hips jackknifed and she heaved with all her weight. Heidi didn't see the tongue drop and the hand move but she did feel it suddenly grab the right side of her chin and, with incredible force, pull her head around and up. The popping snaps behind her ears but didn't register, and she was still bewildered when her neck broke. Looking at the drapes behind her, her last thought was how dusty they were. The panic faded along with all feeling, all thoughts and memories . . . then there was nothing.

Wrenching her neck again for good measure, the Sandman was pleased to hear no other bones snap. It was hard to tell sometimes with fleshy people.

Dropping her body on the sofa facing her husband, he picked up the kitchen knife from the floor beside her. Opening her mouth, he stuck the blade in the back of her mouth, pulled out her tongue and cut it off at the root. Dropping the quivering, bloody flesh on the floor, he flicked the knife into the carpet and stared at the two wide-eyed corpses. A middle-aged slut and a worthless husband who'd sacrificed a man's career to please his cow of a wife. Two liars who won't be spreading any more lies. Switching off the television and lights, the mercenary fastened the back bolt. He walked back to the front entryway and slipped out into the darkness, locking the front door behind him.

Strolling through the trees, the Sandman calmly walked back toward the Officer's Club, where he'd left the car. Pulling off the bloody surgical gloves, he dropped them in a storm drain by the pool parking lot and slid into the vehicle.

Driving carefully around the Club, he noticed a security policeman parked in the main parking lot waiting for drunks. Turning right at the first spoke, he took Main Circle to Northeast Drive. Three minutes later he was around the Taj Mahal on Harmon Drive heading for the Main Gate. Two minutes after midnight, the mercenary passed beneath the lights, off of Randolph Air Force Base, and disappeared.

Chapter
14

D
oug Truax
yawned and sipped his airport coffee. A few years back, such stuff had been
god-awful—gritty brews served in Styrofoam cups. Now at least the big coffee
chains had taken over and a man could get a decent caffeine fix, even in a small
place like Virginia's Patrick Henry Airport.

“Not too bad, is it?”

A woman too. Karen Shipman sat down across from him
and raised a steamy cup to her lips. Axe blinked and nodded. “Not bad.” They
were on their way to Dallas via Atlanta and it was too early on a Saturday
morning to be traveling.

“Rough night?”

“About usual.”

“Kids?”

“No. She took them with her when she left.”

Karen sighed. “Sorry. Didn't know.” Changing the
subject, she said, “So how likely is it that this ex-Marine is our man?”

“Not very.”

“Then why go?”

Axe exhaled. No quiet cup of coffee this morning.
“Two reasons. First, that sort of brotherhood, if you want to call it that, is
pretty small. He may know something about someone we haven't thought of.”

“You want to chase rumors?”

Truax shrugged. “That's all any of this is at the
moment. For all we know, the Chinese attacked the damn missile site themselves.
Or maybe the Taiwanese air force did it, precisely to get Washington
re-energized about their island's defenses.”

She looked skeptical. “You don't really believe
that, do you?”

“No.” He stared out the window at the taxiing
airliners. Maybe he should hang it up and drive one of those buses for a living.
“No—I think there really is some kind of mercenary roaming around out there,
maybe more than one, who'd do this type of thing for an enormous paycheck.”
Maybe I should do that instead, he thought. Better than watching the Air Force
morph into the unrecognizable collection of politically correct, rear-echelon
twits it was fast becoming.

“I think you're right.” She surprised him.

“Why is that?”

Shifting in her seat, she crossed her legs and Axe
noticed her toenails were carefully painted a deep lavender shade that matched
her blouse. She was also wearing very chic black slacks accented by a single
strand of pearls. She looked very good. Most female military officers lose the
knack for dressing well, but evidently Karen Shipman never had.

“When I worked for the NSA we'd picked up—let's say
‘leads'—regarding several individuals that did this type of work.”

“How did you get wrapped up in that?”

“Token Air Force officer. They thought I would know
everything about aircraft just because I wear a blue uniform.”

“I can't imagine that.”

She nodded. “It's a silly notion.”

“No—I meant I couldn't imagine you in those nasty
polyester uniforms.”

If looks could kill, her eyes said he wasn't worth
it. He grinned, and despite her annoyance, she managed a smile in return.

“And you were going to share this . . .
when?” Axe finished the coffee and glanced suspiciously at the bottom of the
cup.

She smiled. “I'm sharing it now. It went like this
. . .”

R
olling out along the slick runway, the Sandman gently touched the
brakes and felt the plane begin to skid. Using the rudders then, he kept on the
wide center stripe and let the aircraft slow down naturally. On a 6,000-foot
runway it didn't matter, and a few seconds later, he felt the brakes take hold.
Turning off on the runway abeam the terminal, he unbuckled his harness and
switched off all his exterior lights save the taxi light. Not that there was
anyone to see him at 6:18 in the morning in Buck Ridge, Missouri.

Where the shiny concrete turned to light gray, he
exited the taxiway and cut across the Razorback Aviation ramp. Opening the
clamshell doors, the mercenary taxied slowly behind the long, covered parking
area to his left. Next to the taxiway and shielded from the road, were two
enclosed hangars. A big black letter B was painted on the closest one and the
mercenary grunted, goosed the port engine, and swung the tail around so the
plane was facing away from the hangar entrance. Killing the taxi light, he ran
his eyes over the other switches, then shut the engines down.

Immediately sliding out of the cockpit, the Sandman
stretched his aching back muscles, then crossed to the hangar doors. The big
hangar was actually divided into two smaller ones, marked 1 and 2 respectively.
Pulling the travel wallet from under his shirt, the mercenary removed the key
that he'd retrieved from the Virginia post office box and held it up in the
faint light, staring at the label.

B-2.

Opening the side door, he stepped inside. It
smelled like dust and old oil but the hangar was clean and empty. Unlocking the
big sliding doors, he pushed hard, and very reluctantly one began to move.
Muscling the other door back, he stepped back to the SkyMaster, released the
parking brake, then carefully rolled the plane back by manhandling the tail
booms. When the nose cleared the doors he stopped, reset the brake, and removed
his bags from the plane. Locking the cockpit, he shut the hangar main doors and
locked them as well before exiting.

Standing a moment, he breathed in the clammy
morning air and glanced up and down the flight line. He'd gotten back to Huber a
little after one
A.M.
and found his plane
undisturbed except for a credit-card receipt for fuel taped to the window.
Leaving the rental car in the little parking lot, he'd gotten airborne by 1:20
and flown north at 1,200 feet without squawking or talking to anyone. Staying
well east of Dallas/Ft. Worth, he'd also avoided Oklahoma and Kansas City air
traffic control centers to arrive in Missouri from the south. The weather had
forced him to climb up and shoot the ILS instrument approach into Buck Ridge,
but no one had tried to contact him.

No one knew he was here.

The hangar was leased through Green Mountain
Transport and paid in advance for six months. Like the plane, purchased by
Trendco Logistics, any paper trail would end with a single bank account and a
properly registered company in Delaware. There was nothing to connect one to the
other and absolutely nothing to tie them to a hangar on an obscure airfield in
southern Missouri. Giving the door a final tug, he turned and strolled across
the wet concrete.

As he cut through the back behind Razorback Air,
the smell of yesterday's garbage mingled with aviation fuel. Airfields were all
the same. Pausing, he looked and listened. It was only 6:45 and nothing was due
to open here officially until 8:00, but one never knew. Early charter, motivated
student pilots . . . someone having a fight with his wife.

But there was nothing but the hollow chirping of
birds and the distant sound of some heavy equipment coming from the nearby town.
Hopping the chain-link fence, he walked around to the front of the next little
building. Painted a faint yellow, it had a large Hertz sign wired to the
fence.

Removing the folded piece of paper again, he
stepped up on the porch and looked around for the lockbox used for after-hours
vehicle pickup. There. As informed, it was set back in the corner to the left of
the door. Squinting to read the faded numbers on the keypad, he punched in the
code and the little door popped open.

Nothing.

He felt around carefully, but the box was
completely empty. Turning around, the Sandman stood with his back against the
corner and facing out. There were two rental cars parked in the lot and nothing
across the road but a half mile of empty, rolling land before the town.

Relaxing slowly, the mercenary decided he was
overly suspicious. This was a backwater flyspeck in rural America. It wasn't
even seven
A.M.
, and he'd figured that noon, San
Antonio time, was the earliest anyone could discover the bodies. Any earlier was
a remote possibility, but even so, there were no clues and no way to trace
him.

Looking at the cars, the Sandman considered his
options. He could simply wait here until the office opened, play the irritated
customer and get the car. But that would take at least another hour and leave
someone here with a memory of him. He could also start walking and certainly get
a pickup at some point. But that was uncertain and would again leave a memory of
his presence.

Or he could steal one of the rental cars. It was
likely that no one saw him land this morning and even if they did, how would
blame for a missing car attach itself to him? The plane was safely locked up and
out of sight, so to all intents and purposes, he wasn't even here.

But a rental car would be missed immediately, so
he'd have to think of something else. There were half a dozen cars parked in the
Razorback Aviation lot. Since nothing was open, they'd plainly been left by
pilots who had planes here and were off fishing or traveling. Two caught his
eye. A dark-colored SUV and a silver four-door Audi. Both had sunscreens pulled
across the dash, so they were probably here for an extended stay. That was it
then: a private car could be missing for any number of reasons and would almost
certainly not be missed for the few hours he needed.

Striding over to the lot, he decided against the
Audi—it was sure to have an alarm and although he could disable it, it would be
faster to avoid the problem altogether. Besides, someone could drive up at any
time.

The SUV was older but the tires looked good and it
was clean. Peering in the window, he saw no blinking LED lights from an alarm.
The back side window had a smaller separate pane and, after a quick look around,
he shattered it inward with his elbow. It didn't actually break, but fractured
enough for him to push the safety glass inside and get his arm through the
hole.

Three minutes later, the engine was running and his
bags were on the seat beside him. The gas tank was about a third full, which was
enough, and he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road heading north. As
he did so, a tan pickup truck came over the rise with its blinker on. As they
passed, the other driver gave a cheery wave that the Sandman returned. From the
rearview mirror he watched the truck turn in at the airport and stop. Then he
was over the hill.

He'd already been on the road when the truck
appeared. But if he knew the SUV and knew it had been parked at the airport
. . . the driver's wave could've just been a friendly one but maybe he
also knew the owner of this car.

Continuing north, the Sandman decided there was
enough indecision or supposition this early in the morning to permit him the
sixteen miles he needed to cover. He'd take the chance and after that it
wouldn't matter. So with the fuzzy sun peeking over the tree line to his right,
the mercenary held the speed at 5 mph over the limit and headed north.

“I
f
NSA had gotten wind of this, then why wasn't anything done?” Doug Truax sipped
the lukewarm orange juice and grimaced at the plastic taste. Airline service was
crap. At least in Coach.

“Because none of it could be correlated to an
individual. We had no name, no pictures, and no hard proof.”

“More has been done with less.”

Karen nodded appreciatively. “Very true. But the
stakes were higher.”

“And this isn't high stakes?”

She shrugged. “So there's one more mercenary in the
world. This particular one never acted against the United States and even,
occasionally, removed a few, ah, thorns from our side.”

“But not always?”

“No. But the additional contracts, the ones we know
about anyway, had no bearing on our national interests, so it was left alone.
Again,” she added, “we had no idea of who this man really was. Or is.”

“What about the ‘Others'?”

She glanced at him and chuckled. “You really are a
babe in the woods with the intel world, aren't you?”

Axe didn't much like that, but despite himself, he
was interested. And actually learning something from this woman. Besides, she
wasn't exactly difficult to look at. Fleeting whiffs of some vanilla-scented
lotion or light perfume occasionally floated his way and he tried not to lean
too close. If she noticed at all, Karen Shipman gave no indication and
continued. “If CIA, DIA, or any of the Others knew anything, they certainly
wouldn't spread it around.”

“So much for information sharing and the Patriot
Act.”

“So much for it.”

He stayed silent a few moments and stared out the
window. The blue-green waters of the Atlantic had faded into the distance and he
guessed they were somewhere over North Carolina. In theory the Patriot Act was
supposed to foster inter-agency cooperation and promote the sharing of
information. In practice, intelligence agencies remained notoriously
territorial.

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because I happened to believe it. And this attack
in Taiwan didn't just have to be done right—which is a given for this type of
man—it had to look right, and there aren't many who could do that. I think this
might be the same man. And,” she added, “I think he may be one of ours.”

“Which may be the real reason the powers that be
left him alone.”

Karen Shipman shot him a quick, appraising glance
that he didn't see. Among other things, she was learning, Doug Truax had a sharp
mind, and that was hardly surprising. She'd never known a fighter pilot who
wasn't a sharp thinker. Usually brash, very often arrogant, but never slow.
However, this one, despite the façade, had an analytical turn that she found
encouraging. And, she admitted, appealing.

“That's right. I came to the same conclusion.”