American Op Page 7

  “Freeze,” he yelled, popping up from behind the Hyundai. “Drop your guns!”

  They opened fire. Chuck ducked down fired under the Hyundai, scoring several leg hits. He cut them down with bone-shattering bullets in their ankles and shins.

  A lot of cursing and yelling broke out on the streets of Lima as Black Cobras collapsed to the sidewalk.

  Staying low, Chuck ran down the street, using the parked cars for cover. He holstered his Glock because there were still cars on the street, even at this late hour.

  He guessed it would be a few hours until the car rental operation at the airport opened up. It was going to be a long walk. That was fine with him. He was happy to be alive. Suddenly walking felt like a great privilege. Plus, the streets of a dangerous city at night were safer than where he’d come from.

  Then he started thinking of where he was going if Lawrence could get him a location of the carrier. He was going to the carrier. Problem was that according to the personnel records he’d just seen, Lazar had over a hundred Black Cobra killers there. It looked like Chuck was planning a doomed mission for his country.

  ***

  Forty-two hours, nineteen minutes till WMD attack

  A techie at the Pentagon, a man with highly flexible loyalty, stopped his recording device and called up a CIA agent who was also on General Lazar’s payroll.

  “Sir, I have been monitoring all Lawrence Robertson’s calls just like you wanted. He talked to the target. Brandt is going to Alamo rental car at the Jorge Chávez International Airport in Lima. They open in five hours.”

  “Good work.”

  “One other thing, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve got a bead on Brandt’s cell phone now. We’re tracking his movements.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Just moving through town. I don’t know if he’s on a bus or what, but he’s been in motion nonstop for the past hour.”

  “Excellent. Keep me posted.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Forty-one hours, seventeen minutes till WMD attack

  Chuck needed cold weather clothes and some other basic supplies so that he would be ready to go on a moment’s notice. To gather supplies he would need a car. After walking for hours, he arrived at the airport in the early morning, caught a little shut-eye in the terminal, and then caught a shuttle to the Alamo rental lot. He sighed when he found five people ahead of him in line. Evidently, the rental agent was in training. Five minutes later, the line had not moved, but Chuck lost interest when he noticed a grim-faced man in a black shirt and carrying a pistol in his hand.

  Normally, that sort of thing wouldn’t have caused undue concern, but Chuck had an instinct for situations like this. A bad feeling told him that this undertaker wasn’t just looking for an upgrade.

  Chuck abandoned the line and walked off through the parking lot. He hurried though lines of economy cars and a number of rental trucks. With the idea of provoking the stalker, if indeed that’s what the man was, he walked toward a distant open gate. About half way there, he stopped and pretended to inspect a car because it gave him a chance to turn around without making a scene. He was glad that he did. The stalker was not only following him, but jogging after him. Not only that, Chuck saw a second man also closing in.

  The runners were only fifty yards away when Chuck kneeled down out of sight behind a car.

  He wasted no time. His first goal was to change locations so that they wouldn’t know where he was. Staying down low, he scooted along behind rows of rental cars. The lot was almost all economy cars, but there was a row of trucks. With any luck, he might be able to hotwire one and drive through the gate.

  In Spanish, he heard a deep voice shout, “Por ahí!”

  Chuck heard footsteps approaching so he rolled underneath a Toyota Hilux pickup truck. This wasn’t going the way he wanted. He saw feet approaching. They passed his truck and kept going. Chuck was just about to move, when the runner came back. Chuck saw that he was kneeling and looking under cars. When he kneeled down by Chuck’s truck, Chuck lunged out and grabbed his gun hand, viciously twisting his wrist until he heard the tearing and popping of cartilage. The man screamed in agony. To shut him up, Chuck pulled the wrist hard. The man’s head rammed a wheel rim hard. He was still conscious, so Chuck twisted the wrist harder and stripped the gun away and used it to pistol whip the screamer.

  Things quieted down, and Chucked rolled out from under the vehicle. He rose into a crouching position and peaked over the roof of a Toyota Yaris. Running toward him, the grim-faced undertaker assumed a shooter’s stance and fired several shots at Chuck, who ducked down. He heard a scream from over at the rental shack and saw that the line of customers was thinning out quickly now.

  Chuck moved fast. Three cars over, he rose and fired a single shot, but the big man took cover faster than expected behind a Hyundai Eon. Chuck stayed low behind a row of cars as he executed a crouching run. He popped up four rows over and caught the big man making a move.

  Chuck squeezed off a single shot. The shooter fell back over the hood of a little car and rolled out of sight.

  With his elbow, Chuck knocked out the window of the pickup truck. Within sixty seconds, he hotwired the ignition and put the transmission into gear. Unleaded gas rushed through the fuel filter as the truck exploded out of its parking spot. Chuck raced between two rows of cars. As he approached the fence at the end, he hit the gas harder. The truck smashed through the chain link fence, ripping the fence away from its posts until it scraped over the top, leaving a cracked windshield and scratched hood.

  To avoid careening into a deep drainage ditch, he slammed on the breaks. The truck skidded to a stop sideways on a side road. A loud horn erupted just as he saw that an eighteen-wheeler was barreling toward him. He was about to be broadsided by a cargo truck.

  Chuck hit the gas and spun the wheel. Tires burned rubber. The truck jumped. The semi clipped the rear quarter panel. The truck spun. It all happened so fast. Then the truck was past, slowing to a stop. Chuck found that the back wheels were over the edge, which sloped down into a ditch. He put the truck into four-wheel drive and crawled out.

  By now, the big semi truck had come to a stop down the road, and the driver was jogging toward him. Chuck didn’t want to talk, so he hit it. All four wheels burned so much rubber that he could see and smell the smoke. The truck raced down the road in the opposite direction.

  Then his phone rang. It was Lawrence.

  He said, “Chuck, I’ve found nothing. Other than a major electrical storm, not much is going on in the Southern Ocean. However, the search continues.”

  “Alright, thank you, and keep me posted.”

  After hanging up, he tossed his phone out window.

  He’d barely gone a quarter mile when he turned and found himself cruising down a city street flanked by five-story apartment buildings. A street sign read Calle la Capilla. Chuck slowed to the speed limit, but kept going to put some distance between himself and the airport. He took several turns. Every street was lined with more apartment buildings.

  Finally, he spotted a cab on Nueva Av. Dominicos Callao. He parked the truck and walked half a block. The driver was parked by the road, fixated on his smartphone. A minute later, Chuck was in the back seat, riding through the city. He realized that he’d failed to get a rental car, and the truck was too hot to use any longer. He hated to do it, but he would have to pay his driver to wait while shopped. Then he heard sirens.

  CHAPTER 15

  Twenty-nine hours, seven minutes till WMD attack

  San Isidro

  A black car and van pulled up behind Lazar’s building in the darkness. Hugo Torres and a hooded man got out of the car and approached the reinforced back door. His arm still in both a cast and a sling, Hugo looked angry as he worked the lock with the key in his left hand. He then stood aside as the hooded man entered. Grimacing from pain, Hugo looked back at the van as half a dozen other hooded men piled out—all carrying sub
-machineguns.

  He stood there for a minute in the moonlight, angry that a team of Black Cobras had taken over the search for the American. They were working the phones and the streets. Hugo enjoyed manhunts with a passion, but he’d been reduced to security detail thanks to his hit job going bad and Chuck Brandt putting lead in his arm.

  Hugo was not happy that he’d gotten himself shot. He’d blown an opportunity to bag himself a trophy kill. He mumbled a string of profanities.

  Today, he had slept for only an hour after surgery. Despite the pain, he would stay awake all night. He was always on alert because the Russians were always a threat to General Lazar. That is why the general never slept in the same building two nights in a row. Tonight, however, there was an additional concern—Chuck Brandt, the former CIA assassin. Although Brandt was dangerous, there was also the possibility that he was working with others. There was always a need for caution. Hugo Torres had no doubt that the elite Black Cobras could deal with Brandt, but he was also troubled with his own failure at the airport rental car lot.

  After watching the darkness for a few minutes, Hugo closed the metal door and turned the lock. His job was to keep General Ivan Lazar safe during the night. Although he was wounded, he had a dozen men under him. Nobody would get near the general, and he would not be in Lima much longer. He would have left already, but Brandt had stirred things up.

  Hugo made a call. “How’s the search going?”

  “These things take time. They found the truck he fled the airport in. We’re calling cab companies to see if any picked up a ride in the area around where the truck was abandoned.”

  “You’re approach is too passive. I want more action. I want a team on the streets. Break heads. Get answers, and I mean fast!”

  ***

  General Lazar, after entering through the back door, went up to the second floor. He used a small flashlight but did not turn any lights on. He went to the front of the building, pulled back the curtains, and looked out.

  He tapped his forehead on the glass and cursed twice. He moaned as if in agony, but then he chuckled. Brandt was on a dead man’s errand. With his last drop of blood he would pay for coming to Lima and messing with Lazar.

  The general turned and stepped away from the window. In his whole life, he’d never let his emotions overcome him, nor would he now. But Brandt had enraged him like no man alive.

  It was bad enough that Brandt had helped his wife a daughter get away from him. Nobody would mess with his family and live. Then Brandt had interfered mightily in his operations as if he could control the inevitable flare-up. When you messed with power, you risked a backsurge. He should have been eliminated already. Now, he’d enraged Lazar again. He’d not only broken into his office, but he’d smashed Lazar’s plaster bust on the sidewalk and stolen the precious Capac Yupanqui skull—and the camo goggles.

  At no point in his career had hot rage overcome his cool reason. No amount of fury could throw him off balance. He would not allow anyone to spring a surge into his mental fuse-box. He would not be distracted much longer. Time was running out.

  The gears of Lazar’s plan were moving now like equipment on a Russian Kirov-class warship. Shock and awe were coming. In twenty-nine hours, destiny would flash across the world like lightening. General Lazar’s destiny—which had been delayed for so long—was now about to be realized. The clock was ticking. His greatest hour was approaching. Nothing could stop him now—nothing.

  Not even Chuck Brandt.

  The general turned on the lights in War Hall and paced with his hands behind his back.

  He gazed upon the life-size bust of Napoleon resting on the marble-topped dwarf cupboard. Battles flashed through Lazar’s mind. The thunder of artillery, the rumble of tanks, the screams of wounded men—it all played out in his memory.

  With every passing minute, it was as if power was flowing into him. The power he had now was immense, but it was nothing compared to what was coming. Sometimes it was almost more than he could bear.

  Still, he was shaking with rage.

  Chuck Brandt would not go away. Did he really think he could take down Lazar himself? Brandt was a fool riding saddleback on luck’s white stallion, but his horse was soon to stumble. He was like General Sedó of Peru, who led a coup against Alberto Fujimori. Sedó failed—just as Brandt would fail in his misguided adventures against the general of generals. The fact that Brandt took out Hugo Torres was irrelevant. Lazar had an even deadlier enforcer to call on.

  The general paced. His boots thudded on the brown Marron Emperador limestone tiles of War Hall, an area displaying fourteen historic globes along the walls—mural walls covered with battle scenes floor to ceiling, the entire length, the mural spanning seventy feet, running down both sides. The globes were interspaced between life-size statues of conquerors. The murals included intricate paintings of many battles—some of the decisive conflicts in history: the battles of Actium, Adrianople, Agincourt, Breitenfeld, Austerlitz, Spicheren, Saratoga, Bull Run, Britain, Normandy, D-Day, Bulge, and many more. The opposite wall featured great sea battles—Chesapeake, the Nile, Trafalgar, Hampton Roads, Jutland, Midway, Leyte Gulf, among others. The elaborate details of each of these battles were imprinted in Lazar’s brain. Every glance at any point of the mural would unleash battles that would play out in his mind. All of the axioms of war were as natural to him as breathing. No intellect in history had ever possessed more exhaustive knowledge of the history of victory.

  Lazar wrung his hands. He turned suddenly. “Who’s there?”

  He reached for his gun. He stood and listened for a moment, but then put the gun down on the fruitwood side table. Majorelle was a master craftsman, Lazar thought. What I have crafted will make the world tremble and cower like abused animals.

  His eyes lit up with excitement. Then panic seized them. He covered his ears with his hands, pressing hard. “No,” he shouted.

  He dropped to his knees and shook his head back and forth. “Shut up!”

  “General!” Hugo Torres hurried through twin doors and down the wide hallway.

  Lazar spun around on his knees, his eyes wide open with terror. “Get back,” he said. “Stay away from me!”

  He grabbed his throat and gasped. Flashbacks to the insane asylum in Siberia raged through his brain. He relived the nightmare as corrupt doctors shackled him to a bed and injected syringes into his neck.

  Hugo Torres stopped and slowly backed away. He said, “General, is everything alright?”

  “What?” Lazar shook his head. “What did you say?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m …” A pause. Silence fell on War Hall like a guillotine. A long pause… Seeing Hugo’s arm in a sling reminded Lazar of an orderly in the asylum—a man who’d broken his arm, a man Lazar had killed during his escape from that hole years ago.

  “Get out of my sight!” Lazar yelled.

  Hugo cringed.

  A shallow laughter expelled from Lazar’s lips. “No. Be at ease. There is nothing wrong.” Lazar listened as Hugo Torres’s footsteps receded.

  Lazar stood up. He hurried to the window and looked out, his eyes excited and nervous at the same time. He looked across the street. It was a city street in Lima, but he imagined Cuzco’s Church of San Blas. A sense of awe overcame him although it had nothing to do with the church itself. Lazar had no time for religion, which was the opiate of the masses. Clearly, his wife was caught up in the opiate. Strangely, it had sustained her when they were together. It gave her peace and strength, but that only proved to Lazar the power of the effect. She lived and breathed her religion, and nothing Lazar ever said could free her of the opiate. He had kept her at a distance. Now that she was gone, he wanted her back with a vengeance. What was most important to him was her lineage. Her lineage back to Trotsky’s breakaway from Russia gave Lazar a direct connection with history. Such connections gave him added legitimacy and prestige that would help him as he moved forward with his plans. His plan would spill
upon the world in twenty-nine hours. The flash of extremity was the rise of his destiny. After zero hour, he’d seize the leverage to get his wife and daughter back by force—and anything else in the world that he wanted. Anything! His clutch on greatness would shatter the deadlock and spring general panic.

  He stood at the window overlooking a Lima street, but saw only the Church of San Blas in his imagination. The church was offensive because it was built on the site of the Incas’ Temple of Thunder. History said that the mummified body of the great Pachacuti Inca was found in this temple. Lazar now knew that history was a lie. He had just recovered Pachacuti’s skull from the northern desert. Nevertheless, the site was still sacred to the Incas.

  The Temple of Thunder.

  In a rash of mental anguish, Lazar thought of Chuck Brandt, the man who evidently could not be killed easily, who had helped Maria escape—interfered with Lazar’s family. He should have been dead, but he had come back from the edge of death in Costa Brava and then wrecked havoc with Lazar’s operations in the Amazon. More than that, he’d done the impossible twice.

  Now Brandt was back, but he would soon be a weathered corpse.

  General Lazar paced on the limestone tiles of War Hall.

  He eased past the gothic bookcases with their arched glass-pane windows. He stopped and leaned on the gothic chart table which was lit up in the colors of the stained-glass chandelier. He gazed down at the seventeenth century antique globe mounted in wooden framing. The relic was placed between two suits of Spanish armor. He smiled at the globe. It was his own property, but it spoke of his unlimited power. His ego swelled within him.

  Then he cursed.

  Maria had been missing ever since Brandt caused havoc in the Amazon. She was with him. Lazar knew she was. He had visions of cutting Brandt’s throat, just as the Incas had cut the throats of sacrificial victims.

  He paced. He stopped and pondered a sundial for a moment. He moved past a nineteenth century celestial globe with images imprinted over star constellations. This reminded him that even space could not contain his power. Yet Brandt was a thorn in his side.