Cold Blooded III: Sins and Sanctions (Nick McCarty Assassin Series Book 3) Read online

  “Are you done now?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You do know I’ve FaceTimed you, and I can see you ignoring me, even from the seat, right?”

  Nick kept his night vision range finders on the surroundings of the warehouse he had under surveillance. “You’re only a touchscreen away from talking to empty air, my bored friend. It wouldn’t be because Tina has been with you so long, the wedding suite opulence has already worn off to be replaced with her caustic boredom, would it?”

  Silence. Crickets… and then Gus’s muttering curses. “You’ve made me into an action slut. Thanks to you, even my honeymoon seemed less enthralling than the murderous missions you coerce me on. I even miss being called Payaso. I’m sick! I need help!”

  Nick nearly lost his bearings listening to his old friend. “Enough. I have to keep you safe from this one, my faithful sidekick. It’s too dangerous. I am surrounded by people wishing me harm: police, terrorists, CIA, FBI… hell even the Boston Firemen will be calling for my head by the time I get done with this unauthorized op. I cannot speak more without risking discovery, Payaso. Go forth, and do good deeds.”

  “Please! There… I said it. He’p me… he’p me.”

  “What about Tina?”

  “What about her?”

  Nick laughed. “Okay… you got me, Payaso. I’ll call you from the room if this goes to the next stage I’m following.”

  “Acknowledged. If it takes more than a few hours, your brave sidekick may already have perished by self-inflicted wounds.”

  “Damn… Payaso?” Nick held in laughter with every fiber of his being. “You’re making me doubt your humanity, your loving nature, your bonding with Tina as your soul-mate, your-”

  “One more word, Muerto, and I slash my wrists!”

  “I’ll be talking at you soon, Payaso.” Nick disconnected, noting Gus would be invaluable with him on this. He had stayed rogue by choice, fielding and laying off Sergeant Stallings’ calls. Nick noticed from his first admission Stallings wanted ‘justice’. He wanted a terrorist cell frog marched out of a building to face the American peoples’ righteous anger at their planned dastardly deed. Nick didn’t do ‘justice’. He killed bad guys now exclusively, and no one on earth did it any better when Nick embraced a job like he did this one. He had listened to one of the Isis Islamists in a cave somewhere talking to a terrorist enabling Al Jazeera dupe, claiming on the news earlier in the day that their acolytes would bathe the American people in blood. Nick grinned. Yep, gonna’ get me some of that.

  Then within minutes of Gus’s call, Sherazi arrived with a half dozen goons at the warehouse Ebi Zarin had already entered. Nick dutifully filmed everything while texting Gus, narrating the time, the participant he recognized, and the location, as he had done with Zarin. He left immediately. He had a cam in place, and listening devices already implanted. Nick arrived at the Boston Harbor Hotel moments later. He laughed, seeing Gus waiting out front with a ‘Go Bag’. Nick popped the lid on his rented Ford Edge. Gus threw in his bag, and slid into the passenger side seat with his satellite laptop in hand.

  “Payaso… my old friend.”

  “Shut up, Muerto. What are you up to, and who do I have to kill to get in on it?”

  Nick drove toward the warehouse again, but stopped a few blocks away from the hotel. “Take the wheel, Gus. What did you bring?”

  “Flash bangs, your MP5 with silencer, your Glock with a silencer, and that Italian Stiletto you like so much.”

  “I love you, man!” Nick traded places with Gus, but retrieved implements from both Gus’s bag and his own, laughing out loud when he found a full head evil clown mask. He placed his earwig in place as did Gus. Nick also fastened his cam into place so Gus could follow his every movement. He had already put on a Kevlar vest before going on his surveillance run. “Nice mask, Payaso. How did you know I was coming back to the hotel?”

  “Gut feeling from your text. I knew you were within a short time frame to act. We have a book signing in Salem the day after tomorrow. When you brought me on board, I figured it would be tonight. You’re going Ronin on this job, huh?”

  “Not quite,” Nick replied. He explained the basic parameters including Cinny’s death, and that she was Stalling’s niece. “Several agencies know this Isis wing has been marked for sanction. The main guy to get alive is James Sherazi. Several factors filter in if that ever gets done. I’m not sharing with Sergeant Stallings. He’s an above board police officer with impeccable service record. He’s lost his niece to these bastards, and he knows his sister won’t recover from her daughter’s death. I’m going to close this one out myself with your help, Payaso. Want a piece?”

  “Hell yeah, Muerto!”

  Nick smiled. “Good, because so do I. Cinny will get justice, but whether James Sherazi will live through it will be in God’s hands. You’re in my ear, Payaso. Pay no attention to anything other than warnings going out to the police. This warehouse isn’t anywhere near a housing district. Thanks for coming in on this, my friend.”

  Gus reached over to grip Nick’s shoulder without looking away from the street ahead as he followed the GPS screen. “You’re doing right, Muerto. I got you into this crap while whining about you doing bad things in retirement. I see a hell of a lot more good you’ve already done since then. I’m happy to be a part of it. I don’t much give a damn how you do it.”

  Nick glanced over at Gus with a grin. “That’s good, Payaso, because when I get inside the warehouse with those bastards, only divine providence will allow Sherazi or Zarin to survive. If they do survive, then my plan starts. I need to take them somewhere to get answers. It won’t be pretty, but I plan on making this Isis/Hamas cult combination extinct. The damn government keeps letting the cell members of these cults in, as if they’re simply poor immigrant trolls. Jesus… God in heaven, I’d like to know why.”

  “You and the rest of the country. I’ve been thinking about it. It’s possible these idiots have a number of explosive materials in there with them.”

  “I’m counting on it. That’s the part I’m rolling the dice on as to whether the right guys survive. I hate these bastards, Gus. I have many contacts and friends in the Middle East. You met a few of them when I did the hit on Abdul Nazari. I’m willing to deal with these clucks in the Islamist murder cults on a one on one basis like Isis and Hamas when they’re not here trying to blow us to kingdom come. The turds get let into America, making headlines in return for our generosity by claiming they will bathe us in our own blood, and I figure bypassing the idiots who let them in is the only way to deal with them.”

  “I hate to say it, but I don’t see any other effective way. The damn people in charge are so busy being politically correct, they’ll sacrifice us plain old American citizens in any number necessary to be thought of as being down with the Islamic struggle. Good God, brother! Now, you’ve triggered my media induced Islamophobia!”

  Nick chuckled. “You’re screwing up the media word application saying that. Islamophobia means ‘fear of’. We need a new term. How about Islamist-interfectorem?”

  “It has a nice ring to it. What’s it mean?”

  “Islamist killer. Interfectorem is Latin for killer.”

  “The term fits better than phobia for sure,” Gus agreed. “We’re not in fear of these murderous jackasses, cutting the heads off American citizens with dull knives. Americans want them handled like the chicken-shit cowards they really are.”

  “Save it, Payaso. I’ll give you some closure with these hyenas on our target list. One of these days though, I’ll probably go mental, and snatch someone highly positioned in government. The need to know why we keep allowing immigration from the Middle East will finally overwhelm my common sense.”

  “I can tell you the answer without the need for interrogation of the narcissistic pawns in our government. It’s the money. They buy off politicians, and they’re damn good at it, the Saudi’s especially. Back to business, Muerto. We’re on Clifford Stree
t. How do you want to do this?” Gus parked on the roadside.

  Nick retrieved his satellite uplink laptop from the back seat. In moments he had his cams on line. “We’re already within range. I couldn’t get a cam inside without killing someone in this short of time period. I did manage two cams aimed at new arrivals. Before I texted you, I filmed our two main guys entering with a thug posse. I’ll send the video to Paul so he’ll be able to cross off the corpses. I’m going to recon the place before I do anything. I planted an audio pickup I’m listening to right now. Unfortunately, I believe they have an underground chamber where they’re doing their dirty deeds, shielded from any audio pickup. If I can get inside to confirm my hunch, I may be able to toss down some party favors into their playroom. It would depend on whether they’re stupid enough not to have a sentry keeping watch. I need you to keep the head phones on, network the audio so we both can hear. With the headphones on you’ll be able to hear anything down to a pin drop inside. If my recon or entry cause a commotion, you’ll be able to alert me.”

  “Sounds good. How far away do you want to start your approach?”

  “Fifty yards should do. If they have motion detectors, I didn’t trigger them the last time. I think they feel pretty safe.”

  “I know they wouldn’t simply leave a door open for you,” Gus pointed out. “I’m betting they have more than a deadbolt on their doors.”

  Nick turned the laptop so Gus could see the screen. He cued up a video clip. “HD baby.”

  Nick zoomed the screen to the entrance doorway, making the electronic keypad on the frame fill the screen. Gus watched as the first man approaching the keypad entered the code. Nick slowed it down, so Gus could see the numbers and sequence perfectly.

  “That’s cheatin’.”

  “So… I’ll finger in the code, enter, and wait for you to listen. If you don’t hear anything, I’ll find their underground terrorist toy cellar. Wait until you hear what I have planned for the contestants who survive my initial greetings. Your new mask will fit right in.”

  “Somehow, I don’t like the sound of that.” Gus left the lights off on the final approach, moving slowly toward their destination while still hugging the roadside. “It seems like a sure way to become incarcerated, Muerto.”

  Nick sighed. “I was only incorporating a great way for you to try out your neat new mask, and have some fun.”

  “What kind of fun?”

  “The kind where murdering jackals end their lives in comical form.”

  “You thought eviscerating Big Tex and pouring bleach on his intestines was comical,” Gus replied.

  “So what’s your point?”

  * * *

  “I’m ready,” Nick whispered.

  “I have my ears on. Do it.”

  Nick used the code. The green light blinked on, and Nick went in with the MP5 with silencer ready to fire. Only red safety lights illuminated the interior ground floor with a dull eerie effect. Nothing moved within Nick’s field of vision. He knelt next to the now closed door, using his night vision ocular to scan the inside with patience attained in many past deadly encounters. He resisted the impulse to move his scan quickly, even though the warehouse area near the entry seemed empty of anything other than some shelving and crates. Waiting for Gus to report on any sign of discovery audible on the audio pickup he had installed earlier, Nick moved away from the entrance.

  “Nothing so far, Nick. I’ll let you know when the five minutes pass you specified.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  After hearing the allotted time had passed, Nick checked the entire warehouse perimeter for anything out of the ordinary. He did brief inspections into crates on shelves near the walls, but found nothing. Working his way around the outer circumference, Nick kept the interior in sight also, searching for anything from his vantage point resembling a downward access. He inspected the warehouse in diminishing circles, paying close attention to shelving and crates. Near the end of his third circle, Nick spotted the hatch. Its cover of tattered canvas revealed the sharp corners of an entry to something below. Inspecting it, Nick found the cover canvas, dirty and grimy with grease and oil, to be a prop glued onto the hatch cover.

  “Found it. Take the headphones off, Payaso. This may get very loud.”

  “I’m set, Nick.”

  Nick pulled the pin on the military tear gas canister first, opened the hatch, and threw it down inside what he could see was a well-lighted area below. He knelt on the hatch, grinning. A military grade tear gas canister is nothing like anything civilians imagine. In an enclosed space, the formula causes projectile vomiting, amongst numerous agonies not common knowledge to the general populace. Picture a slightly downgraded version of nerve gas. Through the cover, Nick heard screams, panic, and distress without remorse.

  “Oh ye soldiers of Islamist murder, here comes baby.”

  Nick pulled the pin on a military concussion grenade, popped the hatch slightly, and threw it down into the chamber. This time, Nick ran for it, unknowing of whether it would set off C4 charges capable of leveling the block. He was crouching with the entrance door open when the blast projected only a muffled whump noise. He returned to the hatch.

  “I believe we’ll have live ones, Payaso.”

  Gus took a deep breath, allowing the pent up adrenaline rush to seep out slowly. “Damn, that was a miracle. Why don’t you think the explosives went off?”

  “Maybe they’re innocent Muslim lambs, meeting underground to exchange ideas on the passages from the Koran.”

  It was many moments before Gus could speak after Nick’s reply. “Okay… okay… how long before you can check on the banditos?”

  “I’m putting my mask on now. I’ll know what’s happening in a couple minutes. How’s my button cam working?”

  “Perfectly. I’ve recorded everything since you entered the building without a hitch. They sure didn’t leave anything in the main warehouse to be detected. I’m watching, so give me a view of everything when you go down into that hole, partner.”

  “Will do. I’m certain they have first class ventilation down there, so clearing away the aftermath of my party favors should be in progress right now.” Nick finished fastening his oxygen breathing apparatus into place. He opened the hatch to the smoky interior, descending with his MP5 ready.

  The chamber below, complete with writhing and comatose figures in various positions strewn where they gave up any semblance of recovery, brought another smile to Nick’s face. He investigated the lower realm with cold efficiency, noting the small arms armory, ammunition, and explosives within sight. Nick then went from man to man.

  He fired a three shot burst from his MP5 through the heads of each man not either Zarin or Sherazi. “Not you… not you… not you… hey we have a winner.” Zarin was unmoving. He had passed out during his first moments after the concussion grenade went off. Nick used his plastic ties to restrain him. “I have Zarin still alive and breathing, Payaso. I’m moving on.”

  * * *

  Gus cringed in spite of how he felt. He knew each burst meant a death. It was a false positive. The underlying thread of completion stabbed into his brain. He rejoiced in their deaths as if he were on a battlefield with life or death choices. He knew every life Nick took represented an enemy unable to plot the demise of a country Gus embraced above even life. That America unknowingly employed a quirky cold blooded killer without remorse or mercy to correct mistakes its hierarchy made in policy no longer bothered Gus. He and Nick were soldiers. They didn’t invent the problems, but Gus guiltily enjoyed being part of the bloody solution.

  “Oh man, Payaso,” Nick complained in his ear. “It’s a good thing you aren’t down here with me. What a mess. I have to rethink using the tear gas grenade in the future. Thank God we have the tarp in the back. I found Sherazi. I should add Fabreeze to my equipment bag. This boy needs a shot of April fresh scent.”

  Gus laughed. “I see how well your prep work did with the risk factor. There’s no gun battles afte
r you use that military duo. How come they don’t do use the dynamic duo in combat on house to house situations?”

  “Probably something ultimately idiotic like the sensibilities of our enemies. When I was with Delta, we used the duo, but only if we didn’t have some CNN traitor or other media embed to film the grisly effects. There is a shit load of everything imaginable down here. We’ll need Paul in on this. I believe all will be forgiven for my rogue op when he sees the treasure we’ve uncovered. Network him in with us, Gus. I don’t think this can be turned over to the locals this time, including the FBI.”

  “On it.”

  * * *

  Nick dragged the unconscious Zarin and Sherazi into a clear area. He tested the air and found it bearable so Nick put away his mask, and put on a different black mask – that of El Muerto. With no intention of dragging both men up the stairs, Nick washed away the residue from their faces before slapping each of them into blinking, agonized consciousness. “Hello, boys. You naughty little terrorists have been very bad boys. I’m here to help you pay for your sins. I am El Muerto.”

  Zarin blanched at the mention of El Muerto, his eyes widening in horror. “You… you tortured Mel Berringer to death… in horrible fashion! You can’t just kill us here in America!”

  It was then as Nick looked on in amusement, Zarin and Sherazi took note of their dead cohorts with pooling blood. “How can you do this? Why do you wear a mask?”

  “We’re learning from you chicken shit bastards,” Nick replied to the vocal Zarin. “When we know a bunch of you assholes need to be tortured and killed, we make a game of it with our own masks. How do you like it?”

  That woke Sherazi to consciousness. He was incensed. “Torture and kill? This is not a game. You have no right to do this! I am a citizen!”

  Nick chuckled. “Not anymore. I’ve revoked your rights. You two are so cute. Do you think I don’t know you murdered a young woman sent to infiltrate your cult? I’m the one you get when you don’t allow our regular law enforcement agencies to work. The really bad part for you two is when they call me in, I bring hell with me. Welcome to hell, brothers.”