Final Assault. Don Pendleton

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      “Not even close. But if I have my way, the Demeter will be one of a kind,” Pierpoint said, chuckling. “Damn boat cost me an arm and a leg to build, not to mention outfit. The component parts are more valuable than the whole, in this instance. The Demeter was just about showing what those components could accomplish when brought together. There are hundreds of applications for the technologies aboard this vessel. Everything from sustainable off-shore hydroponics facilities, to green engines, to manmade reefs and shoals that can replace those lost to pollution.”

      “So this thing is—what? A marketing stunt?” Garrand said.

      “I prefer to think of it as an exercise in synergistic brand building,” Pierpoint said. “This ship is, frankly, useless. It’s too expensive for any individual to maintain, and who needs a yacht with a hydroponics garden? It’s a very expensive floating island, and as I already own several islands, I look forward to rendering this boat down to its component parts once this cruise is finished.”

      “It seems a shame. This vessel has a lot of potential.” Garrand looked around.

      “Oh?”

      “Oh indeed. A few days in the right port of call, and we could turn this thing into the largest drug lab this side of the poppy fields of Afghanistan. Or more...it’s a veritable citadel. Self-sustaining, fast and with enough room for a small army. Imagine what mischief the wrong sort of person could get up to with a ship like this—smuggling, drug-running, piracy...” Garrand trailed off. Pierpoint was staring at him. “What?”

      “Nothing. Sometimes I forget that you and I have very different social circles, is all.”

      Garrand snorted. “Not so different as all that.” He took a swig of champagne. “You know, I could take it off your hands, if you like.”

      “What?”

      “The Demeter,” Garrand said. “Since you’re only going to strip it for spare parts, you might as well give it to me, no?”

      “What—just sell it to you?”

      Garrand laughed. “Who said anything about selling?” Pierpoint made to rise to his feet, but Garrand was quicker. He drew his pistol from the holster beneath his arm and pointed it at his former employer, even as he took another sip of champagne. He smacked his lips. “This really is quite good.”

      “You’re double-crossing me,” Pierpoint said, bewildered. He settled back into his seat, face pale, hands trembling.

      “Technically, I’m simply amending the deal,” Garrand said. He holstered his pistol and poured himself another glass of champagne. “I’ve done all that we agreed to, Nick—may I call you Nick?” Garrand smiled and emptied the glass. “I organized this—what do you call it?—‘viral marketing stunt’ for your ‘brand,’” he said, crooking his fingers in air quotes, “and now I am taking my pay.”

      “The money was your pay,” Pierpoint said through clenched teeth.

      “The money was a guarantor of the safety of your guests and crew. The Demeter is my pay, and as she is now mine, I intend to sell her for several times what you’re worth. In fact, a number of interested parties are already on their way here.” Garrand made to fill his glass again, then thought better of it and simply took a swig from the bottle.

      Pierpoint stared at him. “You can’t...”

      “I already have,” Garrand said. “It’s not so bad, Nick. Think of the marketing possibilities... ‘The ship so popular, even criminals want one.’ It’ll play well, I think.” Garrand shrugged. “Or not. I admit, that sort of thing is outside of my area of expertise.” He nodded at Yacoub. “Would you be so kind as to take Mr. Pierpoint to his quarters? I think he’s going to need a few hours to recover.”

      Garrand watched Pierpoint go and then took another swig from the bottle. He’d played it cool, but he was all too aware that he’d entered a less structured area of the plan. There were more balls in the air, more things that could go wrong at this stage. But the rewards were greater, as well.

      He pulled the duffel to him, unzipped it and examined the plastic-wrapped bundles of cash. Then he grunted and zipped it back up. It was a good amount of money, but the boat would bring more. A lot more, if he played his cards right. “People like narrative,” he murmured.

      The hostages were no longer bargaining chips. Instead, now they were insurance—as long as the usual suspects thought there was a chance of keeping them alive, they would hold off from any action. Not for long, of course. But long enough. He’d already adapted the cover story—they were no longer pirates, but terrorists seeking to make a statement—and he’d organized the appropriate means of disguising the arrival of his guests. But it was still a matter of timing and precision.

      Garrand finished the champagne and set it aside. “Let the show begin,” he murmured.

4

       Somewhere South of Yemen

      The Executioner had found a number of papers among the late Domingo Claricuzio’s effects—including those naming the men in charge of Claricuzio’s Mediterranean operations. Enforced prostitution, human trafficking, the works... Bolan itched to bring the whole operation down.

      But that would have to wait. Instead, he was on an unlisted flight. The plane was private, bankrolled on a black ops budget and stuffed to the gills with enough hardware to make it look like the set of a science fiction film. Bolan sat alongside Hal Brognola and three others in the plane’s state-of-the-art passenger compartment. They were heading toward the gulf, as near as Bolan could tell.

      Brognola looked tired. Then, he always looked tired. As director of the ultrasecret antiterrorist Sensitive Operations Group, Brognola got his orders from the President himself.

      Bolan looked around. Computer screens lined the cabin, resting above banks of hardware, including what he recognized as control consoles for drones and remote satellite surveillance systems. There were no windows, and the cabin had the blocky design he’d come to associate with stealth vehicles. He could hear the purr of the engines and the soft conversation of the crew. The internal lighting was cold, blue and sterile and it cast chilly shadows across the faces of the men around him.

      Bolan knew for a fact one of the men was well out of his jurisdiction. He was African-American with hard features, and his scalp stubble was gray. Bolan met his bland gaze and said, “Still with the Bureau, Ferguson? Or have you traded down and joined the Agency?” He’d first made Ferguson’s acquaintance when a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented, with a little help from the FBI.

      “He speaks,” Ferguson said. “And it’s only been, what, three hours since we left Dulles?” He looked at the others and shrugged. “Can you believe this guy?”

      “How do you know he has not joined Interpol, hey, Cooper?” one of the others said, leaning forward. Slim and dark, he wore an Italian suit.

      Brognola laughed. “Agent Cooper knows better than that, Chantecoq.”

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