“I know better than to get in the middle of you two when you’re bickering,” Blancanales said.
“This isn’t bickering,” Lyons said. “I’m not bickering.”
“I might be,” Schwarz said.
“Might?” Lyons shot him another side-eye.
Blancanales could not help but grin. It was not too much longer before the windshield-mounted GPS announced the turn for their destination. Lyons pulled onto the RhemCorp property and rolled up to the guest parking spots near the front. He was careful to back the old Suburban in for a fast getaway, should it come to that. While he was doing that, Blancanales sent a scrambled text to the Farm from his satellite smartphone, alerting Barbara Price and mission control that they were on-site and preparing to make contact with Harold Rhemsen.
“Check it,” Schwarz said as they exited the vehicle. He jerked his chin toward the guards at the front door. There were two outside the building, one on either side of the ornate double doors. Both had Brugger and Thomet MP-9 submachine guns with extended barrels and skeletonized stocks. The weapons had red-dot optics and fore-grips with built-in weapon lights.
“That’s a lot of hardware for civilian contractors on American soil,” Blancanales noted.
“There’s still time to break out the bigger guns,” Lyons said. “I’m game.”
“Now you’re just teasing,” Schwarz put in.
“Come on,” Lyons said. “Let’s go through the motions.” He reached under his bomber jacket and adjusted his shoulder holster. As they neared the security guards, the insignia on the two operatives’ uniforms became visible.
“Blackstar,” Schwarz mumbled under his breath.
“Well, that’s just great,” muttered Lyons. “How many legit businessmen would sign on with those ghouls? Want to give me that money now, Gadgets?”
“I’ll pay as I go,” Schwarz quipped.
Blancanales frowned. Blackstar was a notoriously discredited military contractor and mercenary supply outfit. Government oversight committees were even now investigating Blackstar’s parent company for war crimes in both Iraq and Afghanistan. If RhemCorp was employing armed mercenaries for security, that did not bode well. Blancanales was tempted to think Lyons’s plan to just knock the place over might be a good idea.
Lyons eyed the two Blackstar men hard as Able Team passed between them. The trio of counterterror operatives emerged in the lobby of RhemCorp. It was an unremarkable space, not overlarge. The building itself was similarly nondescript. Able Team had seen some pretty lavish and indulgent office structures in their time working on United States soil. Whatever sort of power-broker Rhemsen was, he wasn’t the kind of man given to ostentatious displays of wealth.
Lyons, with his teammates close behind, strode up to the reception desk. The receptionist was an older woman, her face lined and haggard. Blancanales watched as Lyons tried and did not quite succeed in hiding his reaction when she looked up from paperwork in front of her.
“Yes? May I help you?” she asked. Her voice was piercing and nasal. It was the kind of voice television comedians put on for a laugh. Evidently this was the one she’d been born with.
“Agents Perry, Tyler and Hamilton,” said Lyons. “We’re with the Justice Department.” He flashed her the Justice credentials Brognola’s office had issued to Able Team. Lyons had no idea what names were actually written on the credentials. In situations such as this he just offered the first three names that came to mind. He could always disclaim these as cover identities if someone started to ask questions and demanded to closely examine the identification cards. The badge contained in the ID holder was completely legitimate. Able Team’s operatives were, for all legal purposes, fully authorized operatives of the United States Justice Department. Brognola would back them up on that, no matter what.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the receptionist.
“No,” Lyons answered. “It’s a matter of national security. Have Mr. Rhemsen greet us in the lobby. We need to speak to him privately.”
“I’ll see if he’s in,” she said, reaching for the telephone on her desk. The big former cop reached out and laid a heavy paw on the handset in its cradle.
“He’s in,” Lyons said. “No runarounds. No excuses. No meetings that can’t be interrupted. Get him down here. Now.”
Something in Lyons’s expression caused the receptionist’s already pale face to turn gray. She looked at the handset, waited for Lyons to release it and picked up the phone. She pushed only a single button, waited a moment and then said, “Sir. You had better come down. Right away.”
Moments later the single elevator in the lobby chimed. When the doors slid open, the man who slithered out was wearing a suit that was probably worth as much as Able Team’s SUV. Blancanales was momentarily taken aback. Rhemsen’s face was a ghastly mask of too-smooth flesh stretched across his skull in a way that made him look like a snake. His eyes, under hooded lids, were very blue—too blue to be natural. He was obviously wearing colored contacts.
“Gentlemen,” Rhemsen said, showing a thousand-watt smile full of capped and brilliantly white teeth. “I understand there’s a rather urgent matter that demands my attention.”
“You might say that,” Lyons said. “Justice Department. We need to talk to you about some weapons systems RhemCorp manufactures.”
“I can’t imagine you would have anything else to talk to me about,” said Rhemsen. “Come with me, gentlemen. We’ll go straight to my office.” He gestured for them to follow him to the elevator.
Able Team stepped in with Rhemsen in the lead. There were several security guards milling around in the lobby, and as Rhemsen put his hand in front of the electric eye of the elevator, two of the goons started to walk over.
“Nope,” Lyons said. “Your Blackstar Bunnies can wait in the lobby.”
The shadow of something unpleasant passed across Rhemsen’s plastic face, but he managed to hide it right away. “Of course, gentlemen,” he said smoothly. At a hand motion from him, the guards suddenly discovered very interesting and invisible things to occupy them on either side of the elevator doors.
Rhemsen took his hand away and looked at Schwarz, who was standing closest to the control panel.
“Uh…floor?” Schwarz asked, looking glib.
“The one labeled ‘P’ for ‘Penthouse,’” said Rhemsen.
Schwarz pushed the button. The elevator began to move, silently and swiftly. Quiet saxophone music began to filter in through the elevator speakers.
“I’ve never heard an elevator version of ‘Soul Finger’ before,” Schwarz commented.
“You still haven’t. I think that’s ‘Girl from Ipanema,’” Blancanales said.
Lyons glared daggers at them both. The elevator reached its destination.
“I assume this has something to do with my Thorn missile systems,” said Rhemsen. “I assure you, gentlemen, I am the victim of a smuggling ring. I’m very aware of export controls and other regulations that the government puts on restricted hardware.”
The doors opened. Blancanales was amazed to see that Rhemsen’s office was oval in shape. It was, in fact, a reasonably accurate replica of the office of the President of the United States. Framed on the wall were, not the paintings of the President and the Vice President, or even the President and the First Lady, but Harold Rhemsen dressed as some kind of Napoleonic general. On the desk, which was itself a replica of the President’s, was a gold placard. It read, The Buck Stops At My Bank Account. To say it was all a little megalomaniacal would be an understatement.
Rhemsen