“Sifuentes was a Ranger, I know that. How come he isn’t anymore?”
“Busted for failing a drug test. Marijuana.”
“How about Mono?”
“Moisés Nilo. Squad mate of Sifuentes. Busted at the same time when their unit got drug-tested.”
“And the mullet?”
“Lazlo Mendez. He’s 101st Airborne. He was offered an early, honorable discharge to testify in a military court tribunal. The case is sealed, and his discharge papers have been redacted. You want Hal to ask for it?” Kurtzman referred to Hal Brognola, Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm.
“No. Tell me about the black guy.”
“Jimbo Ketch, born and raised in the United States Virgin Islands. Boatswain’s mate second class. Transferred to the United States Navy Riverine Squadron, RIVRON 3.”
Bolan was detecting a theme. “Tell me how he lost his rating.”
“He got in a brawl with three other Riverines. One of them was an officer. He claimed he didn’t start it, and the attack was racially motivated, over a woman.”
“Did he win?”
“Oh yeah. He put two of them in the hospital. However, he’d been reprimanded for fighting several times in his career. He got busted back to E-3. Finished his bit and didn’t re-up. Went into private security.”
“And the woman?”
“Bianca Maria Ibarra, United States Marines. Military and Police. She made sergeant. Served in Iraq with distinction. Bronze Star and Purple Heart. She was accepted into the United States Marine Corps Criminal Investigation Division, graduated at the top of her class.”
“And?”
“Conduct unbecoming. Apparently Miss Ibarra has a bad habit of getting a little too friendly with superior officers, apparently sometimes more than one at the same time. She was up for a dishonorable discharge. Rumor was she was going to testify about the dishonorable behavior of a number of officers. Her discharge was reduced to general. She applied to several California police departments and was rejected. She currently holds a private investigator’s license in the State of California as well as a California private patrol operator license to provide security and bodyguard services.
Bolan considered his new teammates. “Quite the band of fallen heroes.”
“It is odd. Rampart buys out Viking, cleans out the bad apples, rebuilds the brand and then restocks it with this riffraff.”
Bolan didn’t know his team yet, but he knew Sifuentes was Ranger all the way, and he was willing to bet Abe would fight an armored fighting vehicle with his bare hands for a teammate. “I wouldn’t call them riffraff just yet.”
“So what would you call them?”
Bolan was starting to have an inkling about that. “Expendables.”
“Really? How so?”
Bolan considered his mission. The UK’s MI6 had intercepted chatter that nuclear materials from North Korea were being smuggled on a freighter to Iran. There had been a plan to intercept that ship, but it had dropped off the planet in the Arabian Sea. All hands were lost, including the security team from Rampart Group. The loss had been attributed to Somali pirates. Section 6 was damn good. They might have lost eyes on that ship, but they kept their ears open on that line of chatter. They caught wind of a rumored second ship smuggling nuclear material. It disappeared in the Strait of Malacca with all hands and a Rampart Group team. MI6 had pulled strings and gotten a former British SAS sergeant hired by Rampart Group.
Bolan tapped the file, and up popped a photo of the grinning, prematurely balding, impossibly broad-shouldered Colour Sergeant Terry Wellens. He looked like a member of the royal family on steroids.
Sergeant Wellens, his team and the ship they’d been guarding had disappeared. Bolan had done his homework. It was shocking how many ships sank, ran aground or outright disappeared on the 70-plus percent of Planet Earth that was ocean.
As far as MI6 was concerned, once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, three times was enemy action. Then one of the supposedly lost Rampart team members showed up on Interpol facial recognition in the Netherlands. Bolan tapped another file. The military file photo of blond, high-and-tight-haircutted, ramrod-straight Lance Corporal Jup Gein of the Bundeswehr Airborne Brigade 1 contrasted sharply with the grainy security photo of a rumple-suited, mustachioed, shaggy-haired man drinking coffee in an outdoor café in Amsterdam, but the Interpol software gave the resemblance 87 percent.
Bolan gave it 99 percent.
Interpol recognition software did not recognize spec ops operators at rest.
Bolan did.
The photo had been taken months after Gein, Wellens and their ship had disappeared.
Trying to curb Iran’s nuclear ambitions was a worldwide concern. The UK had brought its concerns to the desk of the President of the United States. The President had flexed the Farm option. Favors had been called in within the private security community, and Viking Associates had hired Bolan on. The problem was, that was exactly the strategy MI6 had used to get a man into Rampart, and their man was MIA.
“If we’re right, and Rampart Group is involved in very bad things, they may need to not make the next couple of ships disappear, and rather than making their teams disappear, it might look better if there were bodies. Bodies of people no one will miss, like Viking bodies, but that will still raise a hue and cry and give Rampart more business.”
“That’s an ugly little scenario you have there.”
Bolan agreed. Reported pirate attacks on ships were genuinely down. That was because many navies of the world had deployed fighting ships into well-established pirate waters, and many commercial ships were now flying flags and advertising online that they were sporting a contingent of armed security guards. Strangely enough, despite that, genuine ship vanishings were up.
Every instinct Bolan had honed in battles on every continent on Earth told him something was going on.
“So how are you proceeding?”
“Have to wait for a job and see what happens. I’ll give it a week. If we dig up nothing after that, we have to come up with a whole new plan. Meantime, I’ll mix and mingle, try to pick up some intel.”
* * *
Bolan went with his nose and followed the smell of coffee into the mess.
“Oh my God!” Sifuentes enthused to a rapt audience over pad thai, mac and cheese, coffee and corn bread. “You should have seen Blue! So he cuts the first guy’s hand off, catches the grenade and hot potatoes it to me!”
Big Abe called bullshit.
Sifuentes sighed in memory of the action. “The next guy in? The next guy? Blue just about beheaded the son of a bitch.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m talking ear to ear, Abe. Like ‘Assassin’s Creed’–worthy.”
Ibarra leaned in. “With what?”
Sifuentes drew one of his khanjar daggers from beneath his shirt and set it on the table. “With these. One in each hand. If you blinked, you missed it. If any of those assholes blinked, they died in the dark. It was that fast. I got one of them. With a Mini-Uzi Blue delivered with his toe. Blue got three, two with knives, one with that commandeered grenade.”
“Bullshit,” Abe reiterated.
“Oh, and then there was the guy climbing up the drainpipe.”
“What happened