Louis got behind the wheel. He wore the standard issue police uniform, dark blue with red stripes down the trousers, black, high-topped shoes, flashes on the collar, a peaked military style hat with badge. A white, buckled strap crossed his chest. He wore a black patent leather holster with a standard issue 9mm Beretta 93R. Enzio wore an identical uniform. Eddie and Monroe wore dark colored, casual clothes.
Enzio and Louis sat in front, Monroe and Eddie in the back. It would have looked odd for a black man to wear the police uniform. Monroe didn't mind. He was comfortable. At his feet was an MP-5 submachine gun, everyone's favorite. Under his jacket he carried a .40 Glock. In the rear of the vehicle was an RPG launcher, but Monroe didn't plan on using it. He wanted Azhrakov alive.
Monroe had another toy to stop the Mercedes, a Barrett 82A1 CQ that Eddie carried in his lap. Fifty caliber, semi-auto, with a barrel just over twenty inches in length. It was a bear to shoot, but the grip on top of the barrel helped hold down the recoil and stay on target. A fifty would take care of that armored glass. Even Mercedes didn't plan on stopping something bigger than a .45 or a three fifty-seven, or a burst from a nine mil Uzi. When a fifty hit something, it landed with 5000 foot pounds of extremely destructive force. A glancing blow from a fifty would hurl a man into the air. A direct hit would leave pieces everywhere.
Eddie was six-two, two hundred fifty pounds and built like a tank. He was left handed. He could handle the Barrett without a rest or bipod.
What was that old saying? Man plans, God laughs? Monroe hoped God wouldn't be laughing today.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
"Why are we slowing, Grigor?" Azhrakov looked up from his papers at the back of the driver's head.
"Accident ahead."
Yuri was annoyed. He'd wanted to take the speedy route to town, but there had been a roadblock. He'd chosen the next best route. Normally he didn't mind the slower, scenic routes but he was anxious to get to the airport. He had a meeting with an important client at his Dacha on the Black Sea. It wouldn't do if he wasn't there to greet him.
Ahead, Yuri saw a blue Fiat with a crumpled hood and fender halfway across the road. Another car, a red Alfa, sat hanging over a broken guardrail, the grill and windshield smashed, steam rising under the hood. A motorcycle cop stood by his BMW talking to a man holding a bloody bandage to his head. An ambulance sat behind the vehicles, lights flashing.
There was a curve and a turnout here. On the left, the road fell away into the trees and dropped for hundreds of feet. On the right, the mountains rose in a sheer wall. The road was completely blocked, except for a small section to the right.
"Go around it." Yuri gestured. As the Mercedes moved forward the cop turned and held up his hand. Grigor slowed.
A green police Land Rover, lights flashing, came up behind. Then the world exploded.
Eddie fired as the Land Rover came alongside. The armored glass shattered. One second, Yuri was looking at Grigor. The next, Grigor's head disappeared in a red mist. Blood, bits of bone and gray, soggy clumps covered Yuri's two thousand Euro suit and carefully pampered face.
The fifty caliber round passed through Grigor as if he wasn't there. It mangled the second bodyguard in the front seat. It continued on through the passenger window and impacted against the mountain. The Mercedes slewed off the road and came to a jolting stop.
The last guard was named Alexei. He opened the door and rolled onto the road, firing his Skorpion as he hit the ground. The motorcycle cop had his Beretta out. The Skorpion cut him down. Alexei turned and had just enough time to see a black man pointing a sub machine gun at him. It was the last thing he would ever see.
Enzio dragged Yuri from the car and threw him down onto the hard pavement. Azhrakov felt a sharp pain as someone jabbed a needle in his neck. Then, blackness.
Monroe looked at his agent, the one Alexei had shot. Blood pooled around him. His vest had stopped two rounds but another had struck his neck. He was dead.
"Get him into the ambulance with Azhrakov. Throw the bike over the edge. Get the bodies into the Mercedes and push it over. The Alfa, too. Get the Fiat out of here."
The vehicles went over the edge, crashing down into the trees. Monroe got back in the Land Rover. They headed for Milan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Carter's important phone rang. The signal for the secured line to Langley flashed. He picked up.
"Yes."
"Director Carter?"
"Yes."
"Please hold for the DNCS Hood."
Carter knew who Hood was. Director of National Clandestine Services, one of the top four directorates at Langley. In charge of all clandestine ops worldwide, HUMINT and who knew what else. Carter pressed a button to alert Stephanie.
"Director Carter, this is Clarence Hood." The voice was warm, with a hint of southern accent.
"Yes, Director. What can I do for you?"
"Let's drop the titles, shall we? How about I call you Nick and you call me Clarence? Less formal."
Interesting, Carter thought. "All right, Clarence."
"I'm calling about Sudan, and your, ah, adventures in Mali and Mauritania."
"You're well informed."
Hood chuckled. "That's my job. I'd like to get together with you. Share a little information. It's time we cooperated more closely."
When CIA offered cooperation it meant something big was in the air. It meant they were worried. Nick thought of the old warning to beware the Greeks bearing gifts.
"I'm sure the President would like to see more cooperation. What did you have in mind?" No harm in reminding Hood of where the Project's authority came from.
"How about lunch up here on the Seventh Floor? They do a great prime rib. At one, if you can make it."
Nick rustled papers on his desk. "One is tight. How about one-thirty? I can make that work." Through his office window, Nick saw Stephanie nod her approval.
"One-thirty, then. I'll have a car pick you up. I'll look forward to it." Hood ended the call.
Stephanie came in and sat down.
"My, Nick. Welcome to the big time. Prime rib, no less."
"Yeah. I'm looking forward to more cooperation. What do you think they're playing at?"
"They're worried about something. If they're laying out the red carpet it means they want something from us they can't do themselves."
"Something that might get them in trouble if it came out?"
"Maybe. They might need someone to do their dirty work for them."
"They're pretty good at that. Why us?"
"I guess you're going to find out. Nice move with the papers and the time change."
"Let's see…says here I have a beer with Ronnie around one. Tight schedule."
Stephanie laughed. "Seriously, watch your step. That's the lion's den over there. No one's better at half truths and misleading information."
"Hood wants to talk about Sudan. Remember you said you thought they knew more about that truck than they were letting on? Then they laid on the plane and weapons. Cooperating."
"See if you can find out why. What they know that we don't."
"Hey, I'm just an amateur. New kid on the block, hired gun. I'll bet they think I'm in over my head. It gives me an advantage."
"Well." Stephanie toyed with a bracelet. "It wouldn't be the first time someone underestimated you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
An earnest man in a dark suit met Carter at Langley. He introduced himself as George Burch. Burch gave Carter a visitor's pass, had him leave his pistol with security and escorted him through the lobby. Their footsteps echoed on the granite floor. They walked across the CIA seal, a sixteen pointed compass star with shield and eagle. On the north wall, rows of stars memorialized agents killed in the line of duty.