Читать книгу: «Assault Force»

1

He stepped onto the wide, white-marbled path, leaving the revelry of the withering beach crowd behind as shadows lengthened across the Mediterranean. The sound of the gentle lap of waves faded the deeper he forged into the army of guests and locals marching for the bars, restaurants and discos. He considered—despite some anticipated alteration in professional standards—that he was still in a class all by himself. Come what may, he was nothing less than a superman in black ops, the Entity, to be more precise, as he so often thought of himself. He was above the laws of man and whatever gods they worshiped. Fear God? Respect Man? Perish the absurd thought.

Beyond professional pride and infinite confidence in his own lethal skills, he knew his continued existence depended on his ability to remain a nameless, faceless specter. Positive identification, after all, could mean sudden death.

Which was why he never left whatever his lair of the moment without some bogus credentials. Depending on the situation, he was FBI Special Agent Henry Jarrod, Pierre DeJaureaux of Interpol or at present, Jarrod Harmon, head of security for the American Embassy in Spain, which in special ops and intelligence circles translated CIA. A chameleon walking a tightrope, for damn sure, he never moved among prey or predators without the 9 mm Browning Hi-Power stowed in shoulder rigging.

He took his time strolling up the low incline, apparently sightseeing, but grimly aware the clock was winding down for the big event. The roving traffic, he noted with keen fondness, was mostly stunning females, two, maybe three beauties per man. European, African or Asian, it was a rainbow of nubile flesh, begging to be devoured, barely concealed in sheer wraparounds for cocktail hour, a thong bikini, here and there, to really get his pulse pounding. Feeling invincible in his own tanned war hide, hefting the heavy nylon duffel bag, he dismissed the men as standard nonthreatening Eurotrash with more money than spine. He let his eyes fill behind the mirrored shades with fleeting fantasies of women in the prayer position. And who knew? he thought, when the time came…

Hell, when it began they would hit their knees, all of them, make no mistake.

Business first, he told himself, and felt his lust spiral down toward a dark pit of churning anger and resentment as he heard women giggle over the spray and hiss of fountains, hidden as they were in private cubbyholes off to the sides in this tunnel of transplanted jungle Eden. Still, the heavenly fragrance of all this sun-bronzed perfumed cream and hairspray was a heady mix in his nose. It seemed to swell the air, drawing him, in fact, toward destiny as he closed on a pool near football field dimensions—a watery playground with all the posh trimmings of fountains, palm trees, custom hot tubs, with scores of buxom bunnies in skintight one-pieces clacking along on high heels to keep the drinks flowing.

Let the good times roll.

Heaven was soon to be set on fire.

A check of his Rolex watch indicated he was minutes late after shoring up eleventh-hour details. But the man would keep, if he was as brazen and committed as his track record declared, and wished to see his own dream come true.

Harmon had no doubt on those two fronts, but seeing was still believing in his playbook.

A trio of leggy blondes swept past, the aroma of sweet candy flesh nearly knocking him out of his Italian loafers. Enough. Get laser-focused on mission parameters, he warned himself. He was about to nail down all the fine details with a sorcerer’s touch. He wasn’t any playboy here to grab ass, at least not in the foreseeable future.

Topping the rise, Jarrod Harmon marched onto the concrete decking and smiled despite his best intentions. Giant palmettos fanned away on both sides, more man-made jungle. There were cabanas, poolside bars with thatched roofs, pockets of marble tables around the deck. Chaise lounges and leather chairs became thrones for the elite, erect and proud all of them, modern-day kings and queens, not a care in the world.

He suddenly felt his mood darken, lost the smile as the enormity of the mission slammed like a meteor on his shoulders. He froze in midstride, the clamor of joy and freedom, the smell of arrogant money and rich, sated flesh was like a living barrier falling over him.

Everywhere they were laughing, hyenas in human skin, a babble of tongues raised in grand spirits from the dozen or so dialects of Spain and other countries. They clinked glasses, kissed, embraced, downing one drink after another like there was no tomorrow—and, oh, if they only knew, he thought. They frolicked in the water, splashing around like innocent children. A pair of ripe melons flashed for his eyes to behold as some joker held up a bikini top like a trophy.

Soft music piped in from invisible amplifiers, a melodious love song, it sounded, as if the flames of lust really needed stoking. So much jewelry glinting in the sunshine, it was like watching countless stars wink wherever he turned, a sea of wealth flaunted to signal the peasants to stand back, gape and wish.

All the beautiful people.

He realized just how different he was from them, but also how much he hated them. None of them could even begin to fathom the dark, angry, bloody world from which he came, had probably never known a tough day in their lives. Their existence was a gilded, privileged fortress, a towering wall, a great chasm that kept him…

Oh, but how sweet it would be.

Another panning scour and he detailed the security guards, staggered at intervals on both sides of the pool. Six in all, easy enough to spot, they were little more than clones in black jackets, dark shades and earplugs, muscle attempting to look casual but failing. Sacrificial idiots.

Harmon stared at the palatial monument where it would all happen.

Twelve stories, he considered, 683 rooms. More than three miles of corridors, and capacity enough for close to five thousand bodies. The ritzy nirvana for the rich and famous was purgatory for service staff, a small city unto itself. A multi-billion dollar facelift was on the drawing board to stretch even farther up the coast, he knew. Those dream teams of architects and engineers—backed by private Saudi cash—were still hard at it to pick clean every last sore of the old barrios, upgrade marinas to berth seven-figure yachts and flashy cigarette boats.

The New Barcelona Hotel.

Staring at the top floor of Presidential Suites, he tried to envision the interior layout from memory, but already knew he’d fall short. Between ballrooms and dining rooms, restaurants, bars and clubs, the shopping complex, the spas and gymnasium…throw in cinemas, the vast expanse of kitchen with staff that rolled out entrées, buffets and room service meals around-the-clock, the security-management-utility vault belowground…

How in the world were they going to pull it off? he wondered.

Nothing but a challenge, he told himself, the biggest to date, without question, but he was, after all, the Entity.

He rolled on, shouldered past some guy in nut huggers, sending his umbrella drink airborne. The squawk of French outrage was music to his ears as he set his sights on the hoopla at the pavilion on the north edge. The gold lion on its haunches, all of two stories and maybe thirty feet across with shamelessly displayed testicles the size of small cars, was his signpost. As he drew closer to the gaggle of reporters and autograph hounds—mostly teenaged kids, a smattering of female oglers—Harmon couldn’t help but indulge a wide smile, nurse some contempt.

America’s new celluloid action hero and the hottest matinee idol in Europe was in town to scout locations for his latest flick. Harmon had seen the guy’s mug and muscled self—always grim and wielding guns the size of howitzers—plastered all over the place during the dry run. Half of six in-house screens were running the drivel daily. Little did big shot know, Harmon thought, he and his entourage had made the cut, all destined for stardom in a script already written and approved.

Marching toward the gilded lion, Harmon suddenly felt worlds collide. It happened sometimes when driven toward a fate so bold. Armored with little more than experience, guts and sense of utter invincibility, sight and sound meshed, a living vacuum, it felt, sucking him toward destiny even as physical reality ground into slow motion. Human beings? Scapegoats? Sacrificial lambs? Look at them, he thought. They were oblivious, the walking dead, shielded in privilege and money, above it all.

He felt their energy, drawing it into the fire igniting inside. He became so acutely aware of his own lethal uniqueness it was as if he was floating past the group by the statue. The King of Tinseltown, he observed in the shining haze of his adrenalized free-floating state, fit the bill, as far as standard film handsome went. Tall, broad, dark-haired, the six-figure pearly whites flashed at the adoring throngs. A leggy, large-breasted bimbo adorned each muscled arm. With black shades hiding action hero’s eyes, Harmon couldn’t get a read into the man’s soul as he passed before the gold lion, angling for the bar set beneath the marble rooftop.

But he could read the type. Two gorillas were on standby, scowling unchained beasts, set to slap anyone who got out of line with the movie star or didn’t pay sufficient homage. The man was early thirty-something, but Harmon believed he could absorb the star’s life force easily enough. He marked him as a pampered, overindulged phony who would most likely curl up into a fetal position at the first sign of real danger—just another Hollywood asshole.

The entourage staking out tables beside the film hero was an interesting mix, however. The usual squeeze things, of course, there to keep the star happy. A trio of jokers stuffed into four-figure suits looked properly self-important, directors or whatever else, women hanging on their every breath. A few scruffy, bleary-eyed guys down the line, minus the chicks, looked as harried as hell, hard-core boozers the way they hit the drinks. Harmon read them as being forever worried about job security as they rifled through papers, all animated heated talk. He figured scriptwriters, the unsung fuel that powered any Hollywood juggernaut. One guy, who might have been a ringer for the star—or close enough at first look—sat with two men. The physical double of the star, only light-years tougher, Harmon chalked him up as ex-military. All of them were clearly unimpressed with the showboating. They were confident and comfortable in their skin as only men who’d been down some dark alleys and walked out standing could be. Had to be stuntmen, the real deal, taking all the risks while getting slapped around and abused, humiliated and killed for the greater glory of the hero. Bunch of damn nonsense. For his money, judging them as nothing less than solid balls-to-the-wall stand-up acts, the roles should have been reversed.

Only in Hollywood.

Choking down a raw smart-ass one-liner, satisfied to reserve it, nonetheless, Harmon hastened his strides. He was past the empty bandstand, unattended instruments waiting to woo the happy-hour crowd, when he spotted his man. Harmon fell into his meandering guest act next, smiling at the milling crowd, inhaling the rich aroma of the best food money could buy as waiters in black tuxedos set up the buffet. The bar was packed tight with suits and skirts, but the high leather chair was empty next to his man, as he had known it would be. There was enough barfly tumult for their purposes. He glanced at the swarthy handsome face bent over a bottle of beer. Smiling, he said, “Is this seat taken, sir?”

Without looking up, the slightly built dark man answered back in Castilian Spanish, “It’s reserved for you.”

Harmon settled in, dumped the bag on the deck, managed to catch the bartender on the fly and ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser. Then he looked around, smiling, awed by it all. He sensed before seeing him, the man’s backup at the far end of the bar. He had no names, had never met them, but he knew the look of a killer when he saw it. He spotted a couple of his own guys in a booth to his deep four o’clock. Lighting a cigarette, Harmon rode out the silence while the bartender fetched his order. Cool was important, deceptive appearances critical in case unwanted eyes were watching.

He was staring out at the pool, eager to get on with it, when he spotted her. Man alive, he thought, unable to tear his gaze from the woman, his normally cold heart leaping like a hot coal into his throat. Scores of beauties were slinking all over, but she was a world-class looker. Hell, no, he corrected, she was in a universe all by herself. Blond, not all that busty, but with long legs, the kind that were muscular in a gymnast way, tanned and displayed in the slit of her white semiformal evening dress as she strutted toward the gold lion.

Mr. Hollywood, he glimpsed, looking on, was less than halfhearted in his glory as he scribbled out an autograph for some kid who looked set to wet himself. The woman’s face was classic sculpted angel, East European, maybe Ukranian, Harmon guessed from personal experience in that part of the world. The way she moved was all class, all woman, eyes front, boys, except for Mr. Right.

Sure enough, damn it, she wasn’t alone. They weren’t pawing each other, goo-goo eyes and such, not even holding hands, but Harmon sensed they were confident and sure in themselves, separate but together. Lovers, no question, and he hated the guy for just breathing the same air. The tall, athletic SOB on her wing was dark, maybe Italian, or just too much time in the sun. It was hard to tell with this bunch. Whoever he was, he didn’t fit the playboy bill. The clothes for one thing, black slacks, matching dress shoes, aloha shirt worn out, dark shades, standard casual maybe, only…

Harmon’s mental radar blipped louder the longer he studied the big guy. Something in the way he carried himself, an aura Harmon didn’t trust. He sensed he was in the presence of another warrior.

Moving like the fearless lion king, Harmon noted the slow athletic carriage, only instinct warned him the dark man could move as fast as a cobra lunge, if the need arose. That wasn’t any jet-setter. He tried to dismiss the troubled stirring in his gut as standard prelaunch jitters. But there was something about the man…

The drinks came, the big guy vanished and Harmon told the bartender to start him a tab.

“Did you bring it?” his companion asked.

They switched to French. Nobody paid attention to the French. Harmon downed his shot, sipped his beer. “I’ll put it on the bar when I leave,” he told the man, bobbing his head, grinning, just a couple of Frenchmen shooting small talk at the bar. “Quite the chosen. Truly an elite group.”

“I have my reasons.”

“I’m sure you do,” Harmon replied.

“And the other matter?”

Harmon blew out a funnel of smoke. “In the package. We’ll work out the finer details.”

“See how things progress?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“You understand that failure is not an option?”

“That’s the only way I know how to work.”

Harmon couldn’t help himself, feeling stronger and more confident with each second. The man’s cologne spiking his nose, the black op glanced at his comrade’s face reflected in the mirror across the bar. Clean-shaved as smooth as a newborn’s bottom, black hair closely cropped, the glasses a nice touch. Harmon turned his head, smiled at his swarthy companion and lifted his bottle. “Cheers. Here’s to the party.”

Jarrod Harmon touched glass with the man he knew had a twenty-million dollar bounty, dead or alive, on his scalp.