Combat Machines

Normally he served as support staff, assisting Mack Bolan or Able Team or Phoenix Force with their missions in the field. There, he was rock-solid, the calm voice in the team members’ earpieces giving them up-to-the-minute security intel, or defeating a security system from the other side of the world.

He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually been involved in presenting a briefing to the head of Stony Man Farm.

Currently, Hal Brognola was staring at him like a bulldog eyeing a particularly juicy steak. Tokaido didn’t take it personally—he knew the big Fed regarded anyone who had what he wanted in exactly the same way. The Justice Department honcho was director of the clandestine Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, and was Stony Man’s conduit to the White House.

Tokaido shifted his gaze to Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, the person who handled oversight of the Farm’s missions. She nodded at him and smiled, indicating he’d done a good job on his summary presentation.

That was confirmed by Brognola. “Nice work, Akira. Good to see Bear’s program is bearing some fruit.

“Okay, people, what does this seeming blitzkrieg of terror attacks mean? Are they really related, or are these just random acts that are occurring close enough together to draw our attention?”

“Given the increasing severity of the incidents, and the fact that Interpol, MI-5, and the Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz have all gone to high alert internally, I don’t see how we can’t view this as anything but some kind of coordinated, if erratic, assault on the European Union as a whole,” Kurtzman replied.

“And the US, don’t forget.” Brognola snatched the soggy cigar from his mouth and jabbed the unlit end at Kurtzman. “I never liked that pompous ass Richard DiStephano, but no one deserves to be shot.”

“Says here that the assailant sped by on a motorcycle as DiStephano was heading to a meeting with his counterpart in the French government,” Price said. “The attacker fired at least two dozen rounds from a small submachine gun as he sped by, hitting DiStephano and killing his aide.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Kurtzman said. “What’s DiStephano’s prognosis?”

“Stable, although it was touch and go for a while,” Price answered. “They say one of the gendarmes providing security wounded the shooter, making him crash his motorcycle, but he still got away.”

Kurtzman grunted as he reviewed the data on the French attack. “DiStephano’s one of those hawks beating the drum for military intervention in Sudan, isn’t he?”

Brognola nodded sourly. “Yeah, mostly to counter what he feels is the increased Russian presence in the country. He’s amassed a small group of right-wing chuckleheads—mostly first-termers—and they’ve been trying to fire up a larger coalition to put a bill forward to send troops over there. Of course, they’re ignoring the very real threat of ISIS in the region, as well.” He shook his head. “The damn fools spend as much time putting their collective feet in their mouths in the media as they do actual governance.”

“Given the other attacks we’ve confirmed, this seems to link them all into a strong covert Russian operation,” Kurtzman said.

“But to what end?” Price asked. “Several of these obvious links—that one or more of the supposed perpetrators behind these incidents may be of Russian origin—are still so weak that they might be a sophisticated ploy to fool us into thinking Moscow is behind all of this. What if we’re looking at an elaborate false-flag operation meant to make us chase it back all the way to the Kremlin? With US-Russian relations so strained at the moment, we need to make absolutely sure that we’re correct about our intelligence pointing to whoever’s behind all of this.”

“Barbara’s absolutely right,” the fifth member of the conference said from the large monitor on the wall. “And the best way to do that is by putting some boots on the ground—mine.”

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was connected to the War Room via an encrypted satellite feed. He and Jack Grimaldi had been returning from a successful operation in northern Africa when this situation had arisen.

“Fortunately, we’re not too far from Paris,” Bolan said, “and I can begin my investigation there, since that has direct American involvement. Looks like we’re about four hours away from Charles de Gaulle, so I’ll have Jack drop me off, and I’ll see if I can pick up the assassin’s trail.”

The Executioner picked up a tablet computer and flicked through the data he’d been sent. “DiStephano had been on his way to a meeting when he was assaulted. Are there any other events in the next twenty-four hours I need to be aware of, especially ones with high-value targets? Even wounded, this assassin may try to strike again if the payoff is of high enough value.”

“Plus, given the timing of these incidents, we should assume we are dealing with at least three to five individuals,” Price said. “It is possible that the wounded attacker won’t even be there tonight but one or two of the others may be.”

“How about a visit from the Austrian president?” Brognola asked. “He’s in Paris, and what’s more, he put out a statement saying he’s not leaving until he’s concluded his business with the French government—and guess what that is?”

“A conference to discuss a coordinated response to the recent aggressive actions of Russia?” Bolan replied.

“Jesus, what do you have over there, the meeting itinerary?” Brognola asked. “That was almost word-for-word.”

The black-haired man smiled. “What can I say, Hal. I’ve been listening to you gripe about the Foggy Bottom boys and their BS for too long.”

“He just arrived this morning, and a welcoming dinner is planned at the Hôtel de Marigny, the traditional housing for visiting heads of state in France. It’s right next to the Élysée Palace, so security will be heavy regardless. The event is scheduled to begin at 1900 local time this evening,” Price told him.

“Well, considering we still don’t have a solid lead on any of these operatives, even with their previous assault, right now they still possess the element of surprise,” Bolan said. “And if they’re still in the area, the chance to take down a sitting president is something they probably won’t pass up.”

“We’ll make sure you’re added to the guest list and we’ll alert both Interpol and French intelligence, who will be overjoyed to see you, I’m sure,” Price said.

“As long as we can take down these bastards, I don’t care who I have to work with to get the job done.”

Chapter Four (#ulink_34e760be-3dcd-56f5-8b38-21cd21136219)

Avenue des Champs-Élysées

Paris, France

Alexei Panshin drove the Renault sedan through the narrow streets with ease, staying within a few miles of the posted speed limit, following every traffic law, alert to the occasional uniformed police officer directing traffic through a particularly busy intersection. If he and his companions had been stopped, the officer doing so would have had a career-making arrest, given the various weapons and other illegal equipment inside.

Assuming he survived the encounter, of course.

As he drove, eyes flicking from one side of the street to the other, Panshin said, “You both have the plan and timetable down?”

“Yes, Alexei, we will be there with plenty of time to set up what we need,” the slender woman in the passenger seat replied. Of a similar build and general appearance to the man beside her, the woman, Amani Nejem, also swept her gaze across their surroundings, missing nothing.

Panshin looked into the small rearview mirror, and met the gaze of Nejem’s backup, Kisu Darsi, staring back at him. “Don’t worry about me, Alexei. I’m not even feeling any pain.”

The team leader’s eyes flashed. “You’re just fortunate we were able to get the bullet out. You are certain you can complete this operation?”

Still holding his gaze, Darsi raised his left arm until it was outstretched and level with his shoulder—something he shouldn’t have been able to do, given that three hours earlier there had been two bullets in his upper chest. But he evinced no sign of discomfort as he did so.

“All right, then. You both know where you are supposed to be,” he said as he pulled the car over in a neighborhood of converted apartment buildings. “I will see you both there.”

Panshin got out, and moments later Nejem was behind the wheel and the sedan was pulling away, heading toward the hotel that would host the state dinner. Casually looking around as he headed to a structure at the end of the block, Panshin made sure no one was taking any interest in him as he walked up the steps to a four-story apartment building and tried the electronically locked door. It didn’t budge.

Panshin thought about trying to contact his target through the intercom, but decided against it, as he didn’t want to risk spooking him. Instead, he pulled a trick he had been assured would work in neighborhoods like these, filled with students and young, working-class professionals. He simply ran his hand down the entire line of intercom buttons.

Within seconds, one of them buzzed the door, and he opened it and slipped inside. His target’s apartment was on the top floor, and Panshin took the stairs, not wanting to be seen by others in the building. He reached the floor quickly and started down the hallway until he found the door he was looking for. After glancing to the right and left to make sure no one was around, he knocked softly.

The muffled sounds of movement came from inside. “Who is it?” an annoyed voice asked in French.

“It’s Reynard,” Panshin answered, giving the name of one of the apartment dweller’s coworkers.

“Reynard?” A chain rattled on the other side, and the door cracked open. A young man peered at him. “What do you—Wait, who are you?”

By then it was too late. As the young man struggled to make sense of the man who was nearly a mirror image of himself, Panshin grabbed the edge of the door and pushed hard.

It wasn’t a big movement, but it was enough to tear the chain from the wall and shove the boxers-clad man back from the door, sending him stumbling into the high-ceilinged one-bedroom apartment. His butt hit the stained Formica counter that framed part of the kitchen, and he winced even as he threw up an arm to try to fend off this unknown assailant.

“Hey—” was all he got out before Panshin had closed the door and was on him, moving so fast his quarry appeared to be crying out in slow motion. One lightning-fast hand batted aside his upraised arm, and Panshin’s other hand, fingers curled into a tight ram’s head position, shot forward into the man’s throat, crushing his larynx.

The effect was immediate. Gasping, the young man grabbed his injured neck as his windpipe swelled and closed, cutting off the flow of air to his lungs. Mouth opening and closing helplessly, he sank to his knees, face reddening as his brain became starved for oxygen. He grabbed at Panshin, who sidestepped him and let the dying man fall to the floor, where he thrashed helplessly and clutched at his throat before falling unconscious.

A startled yelp alerted him to the presence of someone else in the apartment. Panshin looked up to see a young woman in a spaghetti-strap tank top and panties staring back at him, a look of openmouthed horror on her face. He cursed inwardly. All of their surveillance data indicated the target should have been alone today.