Assault Force. Don Pendleton

Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Epilogue

      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