COVERT WRITERS TAKEDOWN by Joe Bergeron (best ebook reader for chromebook TXT) 📖

both hands like she’d been taught, arms
extended, the weapon now at chest level.
“You don’t think I’m going to let you leave here,
do you, Kay?
Holding the decanter in mid air, his head
turned slightly, his eyes now engaging hers.
The blast from the Smith and Wesson would
have awakened the whole house were there anyone else
in it.
Her round, finding its mark in the middle of
the half-filled cocktail glass, sent shards of glass and
liquid in every direction, two small pieces embedding in
his right cheek.
Rather than frightening The United States
Secretary of Commerce, she’d enraged a maniac. Blood
rushed to his face and brain, his eyes now flared with
madness.
320
In a singular move of his own, he swept his
right hand across the bar flaying broken glass, the
decanter, and two cocktail glasses in her direction.
Most everything brushed her clothes, or went
by her, save one of the cocktail glasses which hit the
bridge of her nose, tearing cartilage and causing
internal bleeding into her throat and through the right
nostril. Her head, tilted back by the force, gave him
time to cover the short distance between them and
pounce on her.
She was beneath him on the floor, his legs
straddling her stomach, his hands pinning down her
arms, the pistol was now ten feet away from both of
them.
His eyes, glazed, seemed to breath fire. His
voice deep and menacing, penetrated all her senses.
“You’re a McKenzie - it was almost assured
we’d end up like this.”
Struggling beneath his weight, she realized the
terror he was capable of producing. Her first scream
was subsequently followed by his right fist crashing
into her left cheekbone, the force of the blow producing
in her a temporary state of complete unawareness.
Having torn off her blouse, he’d unbuckled the
belt on her jeans, and was now pulling on the zipper
with both hands.
She coughed out blood onto her chest,
screaming again.
The noise was summarily met by two more
blows, one to the jaw, and one to the stomach, the latter
causing her to expel all the air in her lungs, produced
even more blood.
Her arms felt like weights that couldn’t be
moved, and remained immobilized over her head. Her
body was being ravaged as if she were the prey of a
large animal.
His hands continued ripping the clothes off her
torso.
321
The next words she heard smashed her
emotions.
“Time to have another McKenzie.”
His head moved violently, up, and then down.
She felt a splash of warm liquid on her face.
He was lying prostate on top of her now, calm,
without movement. His left cheek, flat to her chest, she
saw what appeared to be a large volume of liquid near
his mouth. She was pinned beneath him, a mass she
couldn’t move. There was no more struggle, no more
tearing at her body. He just lay on her. Through tears,
she could see a pool of blood forming on the floor. Still,
no movement on top of her.
Summoning every muscle tissue within her,
she was able to move her hips to the right, the act
causing his limp form to fall into its own blood.
The back of his head was missing, brain tissue
exposed, small chunks of it on her chest and face. His
eyes remained open - caught in disbelief.
Rolling to her stomach, she began dragging
herself away from him.
Having moved no more than twelve inches, she
felt hands on her shoulders.
“Don’t’ move, Kathleen.”
The voice, firm and quiet was recognizable by
the way he pronounced the vowels in her name, and
also by the inflection on both syllables.
The warmth of an afghan, pulled from a couch
in an adjacent room, was now covering her while two
strong arms pulled her to her feet.
David Eisenberg turned her toward himself
engulfing her in the blanket. Two men behind him
were searching the lifeless form.
“Kathleen, come with me.”
The high-ranking CIA man, retrieving her
jeans from the
blood-soaked floor, led her into another room, sitting
her on an overstuffed chair.
322
His men would bag the rest of her clothes for
removal from the premises. Her pocketbook, revolver,
and all other traces of her presence would also be
removed.
He held her head in both hands, speaking
softly.
“Can you stay here for one minute while I get a
warm towel?”
Through vacant eyes she just stared at him.
He left.
Returning in two minutes, he held her summer
jacket and two towels. One was dry. The other, which
he’d soaked in hot water, was warm and moist.
Gently stroking her cheeks, he cleaned the
blood and brain parts from her face.
“Kathleen, take the towels - I’ll be back in five
minutes, and we’ll leave.”
She was coming around.
“David - thank you.”
He left again.
In the outer room, one of his men was
pocketing an empty rifle shell casing he’d retrieved
from the ground outside - ejected only minutes ago from
his weapon. A broken window through which the round
had traveled would be fixed later.
The other agent stood reviewing a piece of
paper no larger than a standard business card. He
extended it to his boss.
“This was in his wallet.”
The Deputy Director reviewed the paper
momentarily, then deposited it in his shirt’s breast
pocket. Orders were issued.
“Let’s go.”
The agent with the rifle acknowledged the dead
Secretary.
“What about him?”
“Leave him.”
Lights were shut off. The front door was
closed, but not locked. 323
Kay sat in the front seat of his Lincoln,
alternately shivering and trembling.
Dr. Steven Burns would get a call from the
Deputy’s cellular radio. He’d examine and release her
with enough sedatives for three days.
Eisenberg would drive her to Robert and Ellen
Wirtham’s home.
Wirtham would be told the truth. His wife
would hear a story about a traffic accident.
Sunday, May 28, 4:30 a.m.
David Eisenberg pulled into his driveway. He
needed time to think. He’d call Orefice in two hours.
Sunday, May 28, 4:42 a.m.
The Huey’s rotors held the chopper steady four
feet off the sandy Cuban soil. Two Zeros and one civilian
exited the aircraft through the open side door, weapons
locked and loaded
Coverty cleared the team.
“One, Two and Four on the deck and away.”
The pilot acknowledged.
“Four pulling out.”
The helicopter drifted slowly upward and
turned southeast. The entire ingress had taken less
than a minute.
One, Two and Four now moved through tall,
dewed grasses heading northeast.
Locating the road, One and Two
simultaneously sighted the cluster of shacks identified
from the aerial recon photos. Parked on the east side of
the smallest of the structures, a beat-up red Ford
pickup became an object of interest. The active Zero
had the point lead.
“Two, do you see the truck.”
“Copy that.” 324
“Four - keep walking up the road - stay to the
right side - we’ll pick you up.”
Approaching the vehicle, One pulled a tubular
steed instrument from his black nylon backpack.
“Two, check this thing for noise.”
Two, crawling beneath the rusting antique,
inspected the muffler system for holes. Although worn,
it didn’t look like a noise maker.
“One, noise looks acceptable.”
One used the tubular instrument to punch out
the ignition. Two crossed wires overrode the need for a
key to start the engine. The Ford came to life.
Sixty yards up the sandy road One and Two
retrieved Four, he, jumping in the truck’s bed.
“Four, y’all get our your weapon and release
the safety.”
Four, perspiring in the early morning Cuban
humidity, acknowledged.”
“How much further.”
“About two and a half miles.”
“One adjusted the firmness of his headset.”
“Three, status?”
“Three’s at two hundred feet. No life out here.”
Seven minutes later, the light illuminating
both the villa and its grounds, confirmed its isolation.
Located on a bluff, its front porch facing north, the
beauty of the residence of Cuba’s Vice President
provided sharp contrast to the shacks only a few miles
to the south.
One queried Four.
“That’s it, Four - any comments?”
“He’ll have multiple personnel - I’d prefer to
avoid them.”
“We’ll try.”
Leaving the truck in a ditch, they approached
the villa from the west. Two reviewed the grounds
through binoculars fitted with a nighttime vision
system
325
“Near as ah can tell, One, he’s got five to seven
men on the lawns.”
“What’s the nearest ingress to the house?”
Two scanned the dwelling.
“Side window - first floor. Probably has an
alarm system.”
From their protection in a stand of trees, the
distance to the front veranda over the lawn was
approximately ninety meters.
Two guards patrolled the side of the villa.
Right now, they were standing midway on the lawn,
talking and smoking.
Two un-holstered his Colt 42, attaching a
silencer to its muzzle.
At this time, two additional patrols approached
the pair who’d been in their sight. The Cubans had
their own communication system. Hand-held radios
squawked periodically at low volume.
One, Two and Four plotted Decision and Game
Theory.
Four took command.
The subsequent and consequent reaction to any
of their actions would be reaction. Action was
necessary, but what was most rational?
The consequence of taking out the men on the
lawn would be a lack of communication from them to a
more than likely command figure inside the villa. It
would trigger an adverse reaction.
It seemed the most rational action - the one
that would provide maximum utility would be to gather
as many of the guards as possible in one area - then
eliminate the threat of their reaction to the initial
action they’d decided to commission.
Four decided to change the plan.
Whispering the name of Cuba’s Vice President
to One and Two, Four made them aware of his intention
with his actions.
326
From his pants pocket, he retrieved a cellular
phone. Unfolding the device, he raised its tiny antenna.
The number he needed to dial had already been coded
into the phone’s computer.
Speed dialing, Four now became part of life
inside the villa.
Four rings - a sleepy voice answered.
“Belize.”
“This is Michael Courtney. I’m two hundred
feet from your front door. You have men outside, all in
dark blue uniforms carrying automatic weapons. I
want you and Mister McKenzie on the veranda in sixty
seconds, or we’ll eliminate your men and come in for
him.”
He disconnected.
Checking his watch, he alternately looked at
One and Two while contacting Three through the
mouthpiece on his headset.
“Three, we need your resources immediately.”
Three threw full power to his Huey.”
Four glanced at his watch while speaking to
One.
“How far back can he stay and be accurate with
his rockets.”
One raised two fingers.
“Two miles.”
Four played out Game Theory.
“Three, come to the front of the target - stay
two miles out - are you with me?”
“Affirmative - two miles out - square to target.”
Three engaged the Huey’s firing systems.
Four checked his watch - ninety seconds had
elapsed since his abbreviated conversation with the
Cuban Vice President. With a closed fist, he lightly
struck his knee.
“Damn - where the hell are you, Pat.”
The main door of the villa opened. Four men,
all uniformed and heavily armed, poured onto the
veranda. 327
One of them, shouting in Spanish, caused the
four standing on the side lawn, plus three others who’d
appeared from the back side of the villa, to join their
counterparts on the porch. They stood together
protecting the front entrance.
One checked his airborne firepower.
“Three - status?”
Three responded.
“Twenty seconds ETA - two miles out - square
to front.”
“Are you engaged?”
“Affirmative - fire system are positive.”
Four turned to, and turned over the plan to
One.
“I want the front porch removed.”
One