Assault Force. Don Pendleton

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      7

      Trust wasn’t a word found anywhere in his playbook. But part of the deal now, it demanded unconditional trust, total submission.

      As in his surrender to fate.

      From Jarrod Harmon’s standpoint, this was the real dicey stretch where it could all go south. Just in case, he had a trump card or two in the event some treacherous traitor reared his hooded head.

      Let in on cue by the call from his cell phone with its secure line of the highest state-of-the-art caliber, Harmon allowed himself to be manhandled a few steps down the foyer. The faceless, black-clad two-man escort presumably made a show for any watching eyes—if anyone could even see from their positions around the ornately carved post and flanking statues blocking out part of the room—as they shoved him against the wall. First, they liberated his duffel bag, then relieved him of the Browning, one of them growling for him to spread his arms and legs.

      “Take it easy,” he hissed. “You do know who I am, right?”

      “We do.”

      At least the assault rifles weren’t aimed his way as they patted him down. A good omen for success all the way down the line, he thought. Then he heard one of the terrorists shouting for someone to shut up, or a woman would be raped then shot before his eyes. A gruff, heavily accented voice began cursing in broken English, issuing threats there was no hope in hell of bringing to fruition. Had to be the Serb boss trying to save face. Then the familiar crack of flesh-on-flesh from a resounding slap to somebody’s face brought on hard silence, except for muffled whimpering by a female captive or two.

      “I’ll keep the one in my jacket pocket,” Harmon told the two men, keeping his voice low as he referred to the Walther PPK, watching the dark orbs inside the slits, burning back at him with hatred. “And leave the hands uncuffed, just like I know the man told you to do.”

      “You are very confident of your position,” one of the masked men said.

      Harmon didn’t like the sound of that, but he showed them a smile. “It pays to know the right people.”

      “For your sake you had better hope so.”

      “Let’s do this, so you can get busy spreading your sunshine,” he replied.

      SLIMDER VERSUS SLIMDER HE called it, but only to himself and in a rare lucid moment when there was blessed silence in his head. No mistake, it was a schizophrenic dance through those talking minefields—phantom or otherwise—and on the best days. On the worst days he knew it was sheer terror and relentless stalking madness.

      By far, he was having one of his worst days.

      He heard the ghosts of the not-so-distant past howl, trapped inside his skull. Outraged and vengeful, as usual, but they were really dug in now, the specters shrieking so loud, it seemed, he was shaken to where he felt he’d burst out of his skin. Why wouldn’t they just go away? He wanted to scream out loud, but was somehow aware he wasn’t alone in the suite. All he wanted…

      Leave me alone! he thought.

      Can’t do it, good buddy, one of the voices said. We know what you wanted. Hey, no need for the big-shot vice prez of Tampa Bay Bank and Trust to explain. It’s a done deal, remember? Those real-estate investments hatched when the whiskey was going down, nice and smooth. All that free money funneled and cleaned through the Cayman Islands, both eyes toward the grand future, knowing the good life you envied in others would soon become more than fantasy. So, what’s with the whimpering? What were you going to do? Sit behind a desk the rest of your life and count other people’s money?

      He wanted the thoughts to stop.

      No, the voice went on, shut up and listen to reason for once in your sorry life. Pretty slick, by the way—I’ll give you credit for that golden tongue—all those promises to the elderly, the Sunshine State still the Eastern Seaboard’s promised land of milk and honey, the biggest real-estate boom to date on the horizon. How, if they jumped on board a sure thing, they could kick back and just smile at the setting sun of their lives, in lavish comfort they only dreamed about during their working years. Hurricanes? Saints forbid. All covered by this new platinum insurance purchased through the investment, not even a category five could wipe you out if you sign the dotted line with us.

      Oh, God, what had he done?

      Stop whining! So you cleaned them out. So a lot of the old buzzards were scraping by on Social Security. They’ll be rotting in the ground soon enough anyway, but you have your whole life ahead of you. Relax, you’ve been lifted out of the ashes. And forget that cold shrew of a wife while you’re at it, they’ll never find her. Nice job, another salute, catching her asleep like that. No noise, a little struggle, though, when she woke up and realized what was happening. Using your hands like that, a gun would have been less personal, but think of the mess to clean up. Women, huh. They just don’t understand, even when you kill them. All you wanted was a taste, figured you were owed, and you were right. So you squandered money on hookers and drugs, but at least you got some, still do, but more now than ever with all that cash, and for a guy who looks like…

      Stop the madness! he thought, fighting to clear his head.

      Madness? the voice queried. Stop the sniveling! Be a man. You made the choice, deal with it. This is what you want, this is what you get…

      “Did you say something over there?” a female voice suddenly intruded.

      The girls. They were looking at him oddly.

      Get a grip, he told himself. They were too beautiful for him to screw this up, to send them screaming out the door as if they thought СКАЧАТЬ