The Last Operation (The Remnants of War Series, Book 1) (17 page)

"Shit. Hold tight Richard. Let me get Deeno out. Should happen in the next twenty four hours."

Chapter 23

It was late when Daniels drove by the Fisherman's Restaurant across the road from the Ranger station where tourists gathered on the pier to watch the sunset. He followed the causeway to the tiny island, turning off into a dirt road. The road looped through lush vegetation and passed in front of a six room wood frame house at the edge of a wide natural channel. The title of the house was held in the name of a Cayman Island Corporation, wholly owned by Daniels. It was one of his safe houses.

He stopped the Camry at the edge of the bend about a hundred yards from the house. He backed the car off the road, concealing it by the dense foliage. Crouching through the underbrush, he moved until he had the house in view again. No need for the night vision goggles, the house blazed with light in the gathering darkness. Two front porch lights lit up the Ford sedan parked in front. Through the binoculars Daniels could make out a couple of guys walking around inside. One of them he recognized as the thin man from the Blue Heron. They made no attempt to conceal themselves. Every light was on as if they wanted anyone approaching to know they were here. Daniels thought that if they were expecting him for a chat, he certainly wouldn't disappoint them.

He waited until the last vestiges of twilight were gone, replaced by the viscous black of a moonless tropical night. He returned to the Camry, silently opening the trunk and taking out a large sport bag. He stripped to his shorts and put on a thin black Lycra and steel mesh reinforced body suit. Adding a nylon-webbed belt, he hooked a commando knife on one side and a Glock 9mm in a waterproof pouch on the other. In total silence, with stealth acquired during hours of jungle warfare training and honed through combat, he slipped into the black waters of the canal. He put on the diving fins he'd carried and began swimming toward the house. He felt something slithering across one leg and ignored it.

There were no alligators or crocodiles large enough to be a threat in this canal. They preferred the more secluded back areas, away from the boat traffic. He swam in the darkness, close to the edge, under the overhanging Mangroves and vines until he was about ten yards from the house.

Daniels silently threaded water on the edge of the bright semi-circle of light from the rear porch of his house, seeing no one outside on the deck. He dove and swam until he came up under the patio overhanging the canal. The floor of the patio was about eight feet above his head and slivers of light penetrated the cracks between the floorboards.

A large bird suddenly took off in an explosion of wings and splashing water. Someone came out of the house and stood on the patio for a few minutes. They walked over to the rail, paused and went back inside.

Daniels waited then found the outermost main support beam where he had nailed a series of steps. He took off the fins and climbed the beam until he reached the edge of the patio. He removed the 9mm out of the case and climbed on the patio deck, smooth and silent as a pool of quicksilver.

He crossed the patio and peered around the edge of the screen door into the kitchen. The thin man had the refrigerator door open, studying the contents with obvious disappointment. Daniels opened the door, startling the man as he looked at the barrel of Daniels' gun aimed at a spot just below the bridge of his nose. The man opened his mouth but Daniels waived a hand over it before any sound could come out and held the gun so the barrel pointed just under the man's right eye.

"Quiet or I'll blow a hole in your head and dump you in the canal," whispered Daniels, "How many are here?"

"J... Just me and Conboy, Assistant Director Conboy, look I told you we just wanted to talk to you."

"Maybe so, but you need to learn manners. You and your buddies are lacking in the social graces and you piss me off to no end," replied Daniels.

He waived the man outside. Using plastic strips from the belt webbing, he tied him to a patio chair and ran a gag over his mouth. He went back into the house, holding the Glock in a two handed combat stance. Stalking through the kitchen, he burst into the adjoining living room in a crouch.

A man sat in the padded easy chair in the center of the room. Daniels saw he was very tall, and his limbs were long and bony and seemed to possess a power ready to uncoil. His face was all sharp angles, without any softening qualities, like a human Praying Mantis. The man held his arms outstretched, the hands open, facing Daniels.

"Bravo! Such a grand entrance for the elusive Mr. Richard Daniels, I am Assistant Director Conboy and I am pleased to finally meet you," the man said, his voice high -pitched, androgynous, a contrast to his appearance.

Daniels approached slowly, eyes darting to every corner of the room, the Glock aimed at the center of Conboy's face.

"We'll see how pleased you'll be in a little while. Stand up, keep your hands as they are," said Daniels.

He patted Conboy down, finding no weapons. He marched him throughout the house, the barrel three feet from the base of Conboy's neck. After he was satisfied they were alone, he brought Conboy back to the living room and waved him to the chair. Conboy sat with his hands still stretched out. Daniels thought he was like a creature coiled to strike, patient, waiting.

"May I put my hands down Mr. Daniels. This is quite uncomfortable and unnecessary," Conboy asked.

"Slowly, put them flat on the armrests," said Daniels, the Glock level at Conboy's head."If you move a little too fast you'll find yourself with a vent hole in your face that nature never intended."

Conboy placed his hands as instructed. His eyes never left Daniels as he spoke.

"Mr. Richard Daniels, former Special Forces Captain and CIA black project operative. Enlisted in the US Army at the tender age of eighteen. Airborne, Ranger and Special Forces. Combat duty in the Afghanistan, commanding a covert special operations team, quite successfully according to records, successfully enough to return as one of the most highly decorated soldier of the campaign. From there you went into, shall we call it... private practice. Mercenary stints here and there until five or six years ago when you settled into a series of operations that you run out of the Everglades."

Daniels continued staring at Conboy, the gun sleek in his hands with brown plastic grips and knobby little sights and the barrel steady as a glacial boulder.

"Go on," said Daniels.

"These operations included, and please correct me if I am wrong, smuggling of well heeled refugees from around the globe, funneling them through the Caribbean to special contacts throughout South Florida. The considerable fees that you receive are funneled into various global enterprises, most of which have a decidedly charitable bend. Am I correct so far?"

"So far," replied Daniels, "and just what do you know about my projects?"

"Not much. Just that they exist and are funded by you. You see Mr. Daniels, your projects are of no interest to us. What we really need is for you to perform a service, a service for which you will be highly paid. The funds will help to keep your little projects running. Beyond your services, we have no other interest in you."

"Why don't we just cut through the bullshit and get to who you really are and what you want," said Daniels, "You are obviously responsible for the problems I've encountered the last forty eight hours. And just what are you Assistant Director of?"

"I am Assistant Director of a Federal agency called Subsidiary Data Acquisition. SDA is an obscure sub-division of the National Security Agency. We operate independently with no oversight. I report only to the Secretary of Defense."

"And are you responsible for the arrest of my handicapped dependent, Deeno? How about the recent disappearance of Carlos Garcia and the impounding of my plane?"

"I do apologize for all that Mr. Daniels. There didn't seem to be any other way to get your attention. As we speak, Deeno is being released in the custody of your attorney and Mr. Garcia is also being released. Please rest assured they are quite unharmed. Your plane will be released immediately. You know, your reticence against working for the government is quite legendary."

"There's a reason for that," said Daniels. "Now what if I refuse?"

"First you should listen to the terms Mr. Daniels. Upon your acceptance, the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars will be wired into your Bermuda account, an account that is completely controlled by you through several interlocking overseas corporations. A most clever arrangement I must say. You have good attorneys."

Conboy stood slowly and stretched in silence as the house creaked on its stilts and a breeze rustled the vegetation on the canal. He smiled at Daniels, sat down and continued.

"Each day you are working for us, fifty thousand dollars will be wired to your account. We are prepared to spend whatever it takes."

"And if I still refuse?"

Conboy paused, took his eyes off Daniels and looked out the screened window as something splashed in the darkened canal and muffled sounds came from the patio.

"Life will become very difficult for you and your friends. You will be the focus of scrutiny for several powerful law enforcement agencies. Your activities and most certainly your projects will be stopped in their tracks. Ultimately you will face one of three choices: Help us, die, or linger for life in a Federal prison."

Daniels lowered the Glock and placed it in its waistband holder. He realized that he was pretty much cornered. On the other hand, the money was good and his funding was beginning to run low. His contacts were not coming up with any new lucrative jobs. There were always drugs but Daniels had sworn to himself it was a route he would never travel. He didn't want to think about having to make a choice between drug smuggling and losing his projects
for lack of funding.

Daniels went out to the patio and released the thin man, whose name was Coronado, and led him into the house. Then he went back into the kitchen, opened a bottle of Arizona tea, brought it in the living room and sat in front of the two men.

"Now tell me what you bastards want," said Daniels.

Conboy sat silent for a long moment, his eyes locked on Daniels. Finally he spoke. "We want you to track down and capture something in the Everglades. Something intelligent, cunning and dangerous."

"Why do you need me? You have access to Seals, Special Forces, Marine Recon, why don't you send in a team?"

"We have. We lost all contact four days ago. You have years of local experience, the martial skills and that special relation with those Indians out there."

"Why not just send in a larger force?"

"Can't afford the visibility. This is at the highest level of National Security. You are only the fifth man in America to become aware of the details."

Daniels thought about Spirit Wolf's words.

There is something out there that doesn't belong.

"And just what am I tracking down?"

"Not what, but whom, a soldier, Mr. Daniels. A bio-engineered soldier such as the world has never seen. The deadliest soldier that ever lived."

Chapter 24

Two days later

Deep in the Everglades

Conboy and Coronado looked like insect-headed humans wearing the night goggles as they rowed. Between efforts at stanching the bleeding from Carlos' wound, Daniels would give terse commands as he guided the boat using the small SATNAV. All around them the night seemed alive with the splashing, grunting, chirping and squealing of thousands of nocturnal swamp creatures. The rank metallic odor of blood rose from the boat in fetid waves as they moved through the clouds of insects among dark, steaming salt flats.