Relentless Page 4

  The door swung open, and Kuga came right in, saying, “Knock-knock.”

  Santoro, who now had his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a thick folder open in front of him, finished reading a sentence before looking up. More theater, but that was how the game was played.

  Then he leaned back in his chair and watched the two men walk toward him. Kuga strolled with his usual insolent panther grace, but Mr. Sunday moved like a dancer. Very light on his feet, with a springiness that was at odds with his nature. Santoro closed the folder, took off his glasses, tossed them onto the desk, and extended his hand. He’d shaken this man’s hand once before and had been deeply repelled then.

  As he was now.

  Sunday’s grip was cool, moist, and utterly slack; and it left Santoro with a desire to wipe his own palm on the seat of his pants. Or maybe go and wash with lye soap.

  “Rafael,” said Sunday in a faux Southern drawl, “so good to see you after all this time.”

  “A genuine pleasure,” lied Santoro.

  They smiled at each other with all the warmth and sincerity of a snake meeting a mongoose.

  “Please, have a seat.” Santoro placed his fingers lightly on the phone. “Would you like coffee or something?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Sunday as he settled down into his chair. He wore a tropical-weight white suit with a coral shirt and tie that blended various shades of pale reds and blues. He had gold rings on most of his fingers and an absurdly expensive wristwatch. Sunday’s fingers were unusual in that the index and ring fingers were nearly as long as the forefinger, and the pinkies on each hand were oddly thick. There was also a dusting of red hair on the backs of each phalange, and it was very thick on the back of each hand, and some of it even seemed to inch around toward the palm. Sunday had a full, sensual mouth and eyes that seemed to be a slightly different shade of green or perhaps brown, depending on how the light hit them.

  But Santoro had seen those eyes change before. Literally change. And the memory haunted him.

  “I have to say,” began Sunday as he crossed his legs and smoothed his hand along the top of his thigh, “it was a real pleasure to get a call from you fellows.”

  “Yes,” murmured Santoro. “Kuga was very pleased that you agreed to provide your services to us.”

  “Services,” said Sunday, tasting the word. “Yes.”

  “We’re in a nice position for growth,” said Kuga. “The Rage thing helped us make our mark. It got us a lot of attention.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Mostly good attention,” continued Kuga. “People got to see what we were capable of and how far a reach we had.”

  “And what do you think they learned about you?” asked Sunday.

  “That we have the science and are willing to use it. That we have a massive network—because there was no part of that operation that didn’t require a lot of people working efficiently at different levels. That we have big brass, clanking balls, because—let’s face it—we tried to take out the leaders of all nine nuclear powers. Who the fuck’s ever even thought about that before?”

  “All very true,” agreed Sunday, “and I admire the ambition. But I suspect it came with some challenges as well…?”

  “Well…,” said Kuga, glancing briefly at Santoro, “sure.”

  “You are the most wanted man on five continents, I believe? That has to be stressful.”

  “Sure, maybe. Kind of cool, though, too.”

  Sunday smiled at that. “Ah yes. Cool. Though it did put you on the radar of our mutual friend.”

  “Church,” said Santoro softly.

  Sunday’s head swiveled around toward him. It was like looking at a praying mantis. “That’s his current name, yes. He’s had so many others over so many years. Almost as many as I’ve had. I wonder if either of you, even with your sophisticated intelligence networks, have any clue as to who he really is. Or, more to the point, what he is.”

  “He’s human, and he bleeds,” said Kuga. “Rafael here shot him in Oslo.”

  “To what effect? Did he die? It’s my understanding that he was shot multiple times and was out of the hospital in under a week. A week,” said Sunday mildly. “That should tell you something.”

  “It tells me Church was wearing body armor. Maybe one of those new spider-silk and graphene rigs, similar to what we’re designing for Fixers. Hard to see under a suitcoat, but they’ll stop most rounds and reduce damage from the rest. My opinion is that Rafael should have gone for a head shot.”

  “Or maybe try silver bullets next time,” said Sunday, though with him it was always hard to tell if he was being serious or making a deliberately arcane joke. Santoro knew that Hugo Vox liked using him but was also afraid of this man. Very deeply afraid.

  Santoro said, “There are rumors that you are equally difficult to kill.”

  “Clearly,” said Sunday, spreading his hands.

  “There was a specific rumor going around for a couple of years that Mr. Church killed you in California.”

  “And yet…,” Sunday said, leaving the rest to hang.

  “Okay, okay, enough with the Twilight Zone bullshit,” said Kuga. “Church is a spooky bastard, and so are you. I don’t know the details and, frankly, couldn’t give a naked mole rat’s hairless nutsack about that. What Rafael and I need is someone who has the talent, the charisma, and the cojones to be the face of our organization.”

  “A spokesman?” mused Sunday.

  “Yup. Spokesman and salesman,” said Kuga. “We’re setting up a kind of virtual sales floor. Think Zoom but built for the dark web. No possibility of being hacked, even by Bug and the MindReader system.”

  “Bug,” said Sunday and looked at his palm, miming the action of turning the pages of a notepad. “Yes … he’s on my list for special attention one of these days.”

  “I’d be okay with that,” said Kuga. “He’s a nosy little prick, and we’d all sleep better at night if he were found dead in a ditch.”

  Sunday studied him. “Is that something you would like me to handle?”

  “No,” said Santoro. “That is mine to do.”

  Kuga cleared his throat and looked a bit uncomfortable. “Rafael here’s got a hard-on for everyone who works with Church.”

  “An animus shared by many,” said Sunday. “Though there are names higher on the list than Bug.”

  “Like Ledger?”

  “Yes. I think we’d all like to see him slip over the edge into the shadows.” Sunday uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “I was highly entertained by what happened at the Ledger family farm on Christmas Eve. Highly entertained. However, you killed the supporting cast and missed the marquee star.”

  “If my intention had been to kill Ledger,” said Santoro coldly, “he would already be dead.”

  “So you say, and I love that confidence. It’s very sexy.”

  “It is a fact,” countered Santoro.

  “And if you weren’t defensive about it, I’d thoroughly believe you.” Sunday paused and glanced from Santoro to Kuga. “Killing Ledger’s family was fun, don’t get me wrong. Big applause from all of us in the cheap seats. But it was a half measure. You should have left him a trail to follow and then set up some traps. I have some people who would have been happy to do that for you on a contractor basis. Michael Augustus Stafford comes to mind. And that, my friend, would have kept you out of it. You’re on the administrative level now, as I understand it. You shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty delivering novelty Christmas gifts.”

  “I wanted to see his face,” said Santoro belligerently. “Or do you lack enough human emotion to understand that?”

  “And that is my point, Rafael, old friend. Since when were you ever driven by an emotional need?”

  The room went quiet.

  “You were always the ice man. The most efficient torturer and extortionist, king of your kind. Subtle and forward thinking. Careful, leaving nothing to chance. And yet you went out there to feed off pain because
Ledger handed you your ass.”

  “We fought to a draw,” said Santoro.

  “And now you’re being defensive as well.”

  Santoro felt his face burning. If he dared, he would have leaped across the table and buried a knife in this man’s throat. From the amusement he saw in Sunday’s eyes, he knew the man was aware of that desire.

  “May I be frank?” Sunday asked of them both.

  “Sure, why not?” said Kuga.

  “Why not, indeed?” Sunday’s smile was unctuous. “You did not, I suspect, bring me in to flatter either of you, and—let’s face it—handholding isn’t quite my thing.”

  Santoro said nothing and placed his palms flat on the desk in a deliberate attempt to trick his muscles into relaxing.

  “Both of you made your bones with big-ticket gambits. Sure, sure, I know you want to move product, and I know that you’ve built one heck of an R&D network. Making all sorts of mad scientist goodies. I’m a fan, believe me. But … I suspect all of that is wrapped around something that will be very big and ugly, and the good guys won’t ever see it coming. Not asking what it is now, but I look forward to when you decide to tell me. It won’t be another bioweapon drop on some who-cares Korean island. And I think you’re going to want to put a clear win on the books. Oslo showed what you could do. You got within shooting distance of nine world leaders. I bet you’re thinking you need a state funeral at some point. Something your competitors would never have the balls to attempt. And something that will tell any nervous buyers that Oslo didn’t end in that kind of a bloodbath because that was never the point. It was an infomercial about potential. I mean, that’s how I’d sell it.”

  Santoro and Kuga were both listening now. Both leaning forward.

  Sunday said, “Look, fellows, you’re both rightly proud of the level of your audacity. The Rage matter made headlines in every country on earth. The twenty-four-hour news cycles mention it to this day. You nearly caused a shooting war between China and the United States, and even if you didn’t put any world leaders in body bags, you did kill the D9 denuclearization conference. That’s very nice. It’s big. It’s doubtful it will be restaged anytime in the next decade. Which means that there will continue to be scrambles for selling any kind of products or services even remotely related to big-ticket arms sales. So, in those two areas, you have been completely successful.”

  “Hell yes,” said Kuga, but before he could say more, Sunday held up a finger.

  “Let me finish my thought,” said Sunday smoothly. “Had you been better positioned when Kuga began trending on social media, you would have profited significantly more than you have. I’m not saying you didn’t get a nice bump in sales via the dark web. Of course you did. There are plenty of people prone to impulse purchases. And lots of small, angry groups with stolen funds burning holes in their pockets. However, have you really seen a sales jump commensurate with the grandeur of what you accomplished? No, gentlemen, I am willing to bet the whole farm that you haven’t.”

  Santoro saw Kuga go pale and then slowly flush with anger and embarrassment.

  “And I’m guessing that’s why you fellows called me in,” said a beaming Sunday. “Am I right, or am I right?”

  CHAPTER 6

  PHOENIX HOUSE

  HEADQUARTERS OF ROGUE TEAM INTERNATIONAL

  OMFORI ISLAND, GREECE

  The TOC—the Tactical Operations Center—was fully staffed by the best and the brightest. Mr. Church did not hire second-string players.

  Fifty-six people sat at computer workstations of varying complexity and function, each of them set in concentric half circles, arranged to face a wall of high-def screens. There was a massive central screen that ran from floor to ceiling and displayed images with astounding clarity and detail. Dozens of smaller screens ringed it, and pop-up windows appeared here and there. Data crawls ran across the bottom and top of the big screen. The sheer amount of information presented at any given moment was extraordinary, but each technician, specialist, and scientist in the TOC was able to process their part without confusion or overload.

  Mr. Church stood apart from all the others. He was bigger than everyone else in the room; broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, giving him a blocky presence. His suit was a superbly cut Kiton two-piece with a light gray check over dark blue wool, and an Ermenegildo Zegna Quindici silk tie. Church’s hair was dark but streaked with gray, and he wore tinted glasses. He also wore very thin black silk gloves over hands that had been badly damaged on a case some years before.

  As the team worked, compiling and sharing data, talking into mics or tapping away at keyboards, Church seemed to be a calm eye in the storm of activity. He stood with his hands clasped lightly behind his back, eyes hidden behind the glasses, features composed and unreadable.

  On the screen, thermal imaging, video feeds from bird drones, and data from RFID chips composed a picture of Havoc Team in play. Belle in a tower, covering the front and side of the house with her rifle hidden in shadows. Andrea walking the perimeter, moving from one patch of darkness to another with deceptive ease. While inside four red dots indicated that Top and Bunny were in a hallway on the same floor as Joe Ledger and Ghost.

  The team channel was not synced into the TOC, but Church was listening nonetheless. He had access to every channel and listened quietly to what had just happened. First there was the false sighting of a man in the woods; and now the pause outside the master bedroom.

  Something was wrong, and Church had the feeling it was going to get worse. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but his instincts—grown sharp over many years—were telling him to pull Ledger out now.

  He almost did.

  Almost.

  But he did not.

  He wondered if he was being efficient or cruel.

  Or, perhaps, both.

  CHAPTER 7

  TRSTENIK ISLAND

  CROATIA

  I turned the knob and stepped very quietly into what was clearly the master bedroom.

  Mislav Mitrović, naked and hairy, lay on an acre of bed. A huge four-poster draped with expensive hand-painted silks and brocades with gold lace. A woman lay curled into a fetal position on the side of the bed, as far from him as was possible, her bent knees and elbows hanging inches over the side. There were candles guttering on a table, and the room stank of wine, roast meat, sweat, and sex. Clothing was scattered everywhere, and most of the feminine garments looked torn.

  I positioned Ghost at the door as I crept over to the bed, coming up at an angle so that one of the thick, ornately carved wooden posts provided cover.

  The closer I got, the more I could read the scene. The woman was not a woman. She was a girl. Young teen, maybe thirteen or fourteen, with a premature heft of breast and curves from lingering baby fat. There were bruises and suck marks on her shoulders and thighs. But the face was a child’s, though painted like a B-movie stripper. Tears had streaked the mascara, and the mouth was puffy from hard use. She was deep inside a dream that made her body tremble and twitch. It did not look like a happy dream.

  I shot the young woman. No choice. If she woke up and screamed, then things would go straight into the crapper. Worst-case scenario was that we took her with us when we left. She was clearly underage and had been abused. Scott Wilson, the COO of RTI, had contacts everywhere, and he’d be able to make sure she was properly treated and cared for. Scott had a wife and three daughters, the oldest of whom was about this kid’s age.

  The Sandman dart hit her on the hip, and her twitching immediately stopped as she dropped deeper into the well of dreams.

  That left Mitrović. He didn’t stir when I darted the girl. Good.

  I holstered the pistol and drew my Wilson Rapid Response knife, snapped the blade into place, clamped my hand over Mitrović’s mouth, and laid the edge of the blade against his throat. That woke him right up.

  “Make a sound and I’ll kill you,” I said in Croatian. Not one of my best languages, but I’d brushed up during mission pr
ep.

  His eyes popped open, and every muscle in his body went rigid. I clicked my tongue, and Ghost jumped up onto the bed and bared his teeth. Six of them are made of titanium—souvenirs from having lost the original teeth in combat. Ghost loves showing those fangs. He straddled Mitrović’s thighs and lowered his head so those teeth were inches from a quickly shriveling penis.

  Not surprisingly, Mitrović did not make a sound.

  “I’m going to remove my hand,” I said and then switched to English because I knew he was a polyglot. I spoke clearly and slowly, watching his eyes to make sure he understood. There was no confusion, only fear. “If you yell or call for help, my dog is going to bite your dick off. Blink once if you believe me. Good. Now blink once if you promise not to do something very, very stupid. Okay, good. Now we’re communicating.”

  I took my hand away but left the knife in place.

  “Tell me what you’re doing downstairs,” I said. “Lie to me and chomp-chomp.”

  He stared at me in horror. Up close, his face looked different from that of his pictures. His eyes were slightly out of alignment, one tilted and more deeply set than the other. There were some old acne scars, and the caps on his front teeth did not precisely match the adjoining natural ones. Those details made him look more human and more vulnerable. However, it didn’t stir any sympathy from me.

  Mitrović stared at me, and I could see, even beneath the terror, a calculator brain assessing the situation, reviewing the odds, and evaluating his options. I was not wearing the uniform of any government military or law enforcement agency. I wore no insignias or patches of any kind. My gear was high end, but of a kind he would not have seen before. Church doesn’t buy off the rack. The Scout glasses were also unknown to him. I wondered if he was mentally labeling me as a PMC—private military contractor—and wondering what it would cost to buy the pink slip on my soul.