Covert Warriors (Presidential Agent 7)

“A little something for the wife and kids,” he said.

The second sergeant examined the money, smiled, and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

The man, convinced that the nonsense was now over, turned and started to get back in the Mercedes.

When he did, the second sergeant raised the muzzle of his Heckler & Koch MSG90A1 and fired two rounds into the back of the man’s head. Then he leaned forward, and as the driver took an Uzi from the floorboard, put two rounds in the driver’s head just above the ear. He then turned his attention to the rear seat, and shot, in their faces, the two men sitting there.

Much the same thing happened, more or less simultaneously, in the other vehicles in the convoy, except that in addition to killing just about everybody inside the nearly new Suburban, its rear door was opened and a visibly terrified man—the sole survivor—was pulled out over the rear seat and onto the road.

The second sergeant, now walking quickly, just shy of a trot, went to the man who had just been pulled out of the SUV. He gestured with the muzzle of his Heckler & Koch that the man was to walk toward the Suburban and the Ford pickup at the crest of the rise.

The sole survivor had almost reached the vehicles when he heard the familiar sound of Black Hawk rotor blades. He looked and saw that the noise was indeed coming from a UH-60, specifically from one painted in the color scheme of the Policía Federal.

The helo settled in for a landing. The pilot’s door opened, and a Policía Federal officer ran toward them.

“Close your mouth, Jim,” the man said. “You look like you’re catching flies.”

After a moment, the survivor said, “Castillo? Charley Castillo?”

“In the flesh. Come on, buddy. Let’s go home.”

He started to propel him toward the open door of the Black Hawk.

Another man appeared. He was a fat man in civilian clothing.

“I’m going with you,” he announced in English.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to do this, goddamn you,” Castillo said, gesturing at the convoy.

Colonel James D. Ferris looked where Castillo had pointed. Policía Federal officers were administering what in a polite society was known as the coup de grâce.

“Was this necessary?” Castillo pursued furiously.

“Dead men tell no tales, Charley. You never heard that?”

They were now at the open side door of the Black Hawk.

Hands reached to help Ferris inside.

“Good to see you, Colonel,” the face behind the hands said.

“You remember Uncle Remus, I’m sure,” Castillo said. “You want to lie down, Jim?”

“I’m all right,” Ferris said.

“Go, Dick!” Castillo shouted.

The sound of the engines changed as Dick Miller advanced the throttles and prepared to make a running takeoff.

[SIX]

Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina

1530 27 April 2007

In the Presidential Compartment of Air Force One, Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen was having what those close to him thought of as another shit fit.

“Where the hell is McCarthy? That sonofabitch has a remarkable ability to disappear just when I need him the most!”