Firestorm. Don Pendleton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ coordinated snatch-and-grab operation. It’s not something Chiun would’ve pulled,” Price stated.

      “Why is this our gig?” Bolan asked. “I mean why won’t the CIA go in and pull her out?”

      “Two reasons,” Brognola said. “First, all these operatives are nonofficial cover. That means that our government can’t officially acknowledge any relationship between them and the agents. We aren’t worried so much about the kidnappers themselves, since they’re probably nonstate actors. But, what we can do is send in a Justice Department agent to look for an American kidnapped in another country. And there’s another reason, which more specifically has to do with you.”

      “And that would be?”

      “The President doesn’t like how this went down, and neither do I. Bly has a lot of contacts in the intelligence world. Not just in the United States, but intelligence agencies in Britain, France, Saudi Arabia, Jordan. Name it. He knows people. We want to handle it because we operate outside normal channels. You’ll have a handful of vetted contacts when you hit the ground, but all the interfacing with other government agencies will happen through us.”

      “Did you just say ‘interface’?” Bolan asked.

      “Will you take the job?” Brognola asked, ignoring the gibe.

      “Of course,” the Executioner said.

      “Grab your gear then,” Brognola said. “Jack’s already warming up the plane.”

       2

      What the hell was happening? Were they going to kill her? What did they know? The thoughts raced through Maria Serrano’s mind as she regained consciousness and found herself seated in a wooden chair, hands bound behind her back.

      Think, she told herself. Don’t panic. Use your brains. Use your training, not your emotions. She took a deep breath and looked around the room. She was positioned in the center of the cramped cell. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and beamed down meager white light that the dark brick walls seemed to absorb. She still wore the blouse and pants she’d had on when she had been captured. Her shoes, belt and watch were gone. She had no way of knowing how long she’d been unconscious.

      Her mind still was fuzzy from whatever drug they’d used on her. But she could vaguely recall being brought here by a pair of hulking men, one of whom spoke in heavily accented English.

      On the other side of the door a bolt slammed back, then the door swung inward without a sound. A tall man filled the doorway and stared down at her.

      Even with his face partially obscured by shadow, she recognized Albert Bly in an instant. He walked slowly to her, reaching into his pocket. Her muscles tensed involuntarily until his hand came back into view holding a white card laminated in plastic. He studied it for several seconds.

      “Gina Lopez,” he said.

      “Yes. That’s right,” Serrano said.

      “What brings you to Bogotá, Gina?”

      “Business,” she said.

      “Business? Of what sort?”

      “I’m not at liberty—”

      “Of what sort, Gina?” The volume of his voice didn’t change, but she detected a hint of menace, cold, quiet, unspoken. A seething rage that was, at once invisible but seemed to fill the whole room.

      “What business?” he repeated.

      “I’m an auditor.”

      He waited for more.

      “I work for the government. The U.S. government.”

      “Of course you do.”

      Her mouth went dry, her throat tightened. Something in his tone left her feeling suddenly exposed, as though he knew everything about her, about her classified status. She swallowed hard.

      “I work for the Government Accountability Office,” she said. “We investigate things for Congress. I’m not a criminal investigator. This was a fact-finding mission.”

      “And what facts did you find?” Bly asked.

      “Who are you?” she asked, feigning confusion.

      “I think you know,” he said.

      “Why are you holding me here?”

      He didn’t respond.

      She knew that playing the indignant bureaucrat wouldn’t move Bly, but it fit in with her cover.

      “I mean it,” she said. “I’m an employee of the U.S. government. If this is some half-assed kidnapping plot, you might as well let me go. You won’t get a dime from me. We—”

      Bly’s hand snaked out in a blur. His flattened palm struck her right cheek. The force jerked her head hard to the left. Flecks of spittle flew from between her parted lips. A moment later hot needles of pain jabbed her skin where she’d been struck.

      Her muscles tensed and she strained at her bonds. Maria Serrano, a Central Intelligence Agency agent, didn’t put up with that shit. The rare man stupid enough to strike out at her found himself on his knees, sucking for air. Or begging for his life.

      Gina Lopez, on the other hand—

      She forced a tear from her right eye, trying to put together the right combination of fear and confusion, minus the righteous rage that smoldered inside her. “Why’d you do that?” she asked, her voice small.

      “I’m a reasonable man. I’m not stupid,” Bly said.

      She ground her teeth and nodded vigorously. A gesture of appeasement, not understanding. The coppery taste of blood seeped between her teeth and onto her tongue. As the physical shock of the blow wore off, she realized she’d bitten the edge of her tongue. He’d drawn blood. Bad mistake!

      Bly’s face remained inscrutable. Pale blue eyes remained riveted on her. If smacking a woman made him feel bad or got him off, she realized, he gave no outward sign.

      “Please continue,” he said.

      “We’re here to investigate Garrison Industries,” she continued. “It’s part of a larger study.”

      Bly leaned forward. His hand reached toward her face, this time slowly, deliberately as though to brush a stray lock of hair from her vision. Reflexively, she began to jerk back. Before she completed the move, his palm hammered against the damaged cheek. She yelped in pain and surprise.

      She spit a gob of blood and saliva to the floor. She turned to face him, staring at him through the veil formed by her mussed hair. She found his face emotionless, unreadable, like the rattlesnakes she’d seen as a child growing up in New Mexico.

      “Will you—will you please stop hitting me?” she asked.

      “Ms. Serrano,” he said, “we both know you’re with the CIA. Let’s please cut the shit. In case you haven’t figured this out yet, СКАЧАТЬ