He emptied everything left in the MP5's dual banana clips, hitting the driver of the jeep and another guard as he closed in on the helipad and the chopper's nearer landing bar, then dropped the submachine gun and lunged as the aircraft lifted away. For an instant he had a good grasp on the bar with both hands as he was hoisted into the air. But it was slick from the rain, and the air rush beating down on him from the blades felt like the gales of a Cat 5 hurricane.

He'd come so d.a.m.n close, but there was no choice. It was time to cut his losses while he still could.

"WHERE'S THE body?" Commander McCoy demanded tersely, arms folded tightly over her chest as she sat on the table facing the North Korean.

"I do not know of what you speak," the man answered calmly in perfect English.

He was secured tightly to an uncomfortable wooden chair in the living room of the thatched-roof hut located at the edge of a sprawling rice paddy. But he didn't seem concerned about his dire situation-or the least bit uncomfortable in the chair. Oddly, he seemed more intrigued by what would happen next than anything else.

"You know exactly who I'm talking about," McCoy countered. "Last week the United States lost a pilot off Tanchon when his jet blew an engine. He ditched in the Sea of j.a.pan, and you people picked him up."

"Well, if that is true, you would have to kidnap a member of our esteemed navy to obtain more details. I am an economist at the Central Bureau of Statistics. I have no knowledge of what occurs off the coast of Tanchon other than what I read in the newspaper. And I do not recall reading anything about that." He sighed as if he wasn't proud of his career but had become resigned to it over the years. "I am just a mid-level bureaucrat."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

He certainly looked the part of a North Korean bureaucrat. He was clean-cut and dressed in a dark suit, b.u.t.ton-down shirt, conservative tie, and large-lens bifocals. In fact, he looked more like a professor than anything. But he wasn't. She knew that for a fact. She had the right man.

"You're a senior member of the National Security Bureau." She removed a small .22 revolver from her coat and placed it on the table beside her leg so he could clearly see it. "You're the secret police. You're the bad guys in this part of the world, and you're one of their worst."

"I beg your pardon," the man said politely with a perplexed smile. "I am-"

"You interrogated that pilot personally after the navy delivered him to you." This b.a.s.t.a.r.d was good, very good. But she was better. "Then you executed him. You suffocated him with a steel cable."

The man shook his head sadly. "No, I did not. It sounds so terrible. I am very sorry if it is true." He sighed again. "I wish we could all just get along."

She pulled a single bullet from the top pocket of her shirt, inserted it into a chamber of the .22's cylinder, spun the cylinder, and placed the revolver back down on the table beside her leg, when it stopped spinning. "I just want to know where his body is so I can take him home. His family needs closure."

"Well, I-"

"He wasn't just a pilot." McCoy eased off the table and picked up the gun. For the first time she'd seen concern on the North Korean's face. Just a little, but it was there. "You and I both know that."

"We do?"

"He was a spy. I'm not denying that. But I want his body. His mother is a devout Catholic. She must be able to lay his body to rest properly to have peace." McCoy pressed the gun barrel directly to the North Korean's forehead. Again, she had to give the man credit. He didn't flinch as most did when metal touched skin the first time. "Tell me, or you have a one-in-six chance of surviving this first round of roulette."

"His body is gone." The man's voice had gone low and gravelly in a heartbeat. His expression had gone grave as well. "There's nothing I can do. I'm sorry. If I'd known, I would have made arrangements."

She nodded as she turned and placed the gun back down on the table. "I appreciate your honesty." She removed a thin steel cable from her coat pocket and uncoiled it. "But not your action."

The man's eyes went wide when she turned to face him and he saw the cable in her hands. As she moved behind him, he began to struggle violently against the ties binding his wrists and ankles to the chair. And as she slid the cable over his head and tightened it around his neck, he began to scream. But there was no one in the paddy field to hear him.

Tighter and tighter she twisted the cable. At first, the blood only seeped from the 360-degree wound cutting into his neck. But as she twisted harder and the cable dug deeper, blood gushed down and soaked his shirt collar.

When he was dead, she let go of the cable, and his head fell forward. "Good riddance," she muttered, "and good revenge."

The pilot who had ditched in the Sea of j.a.pan had been a close friend and a good man. His death had been avenged-and now she could get to Kodiak.

AFTER FALLING fifteen feet from the helicopter to the concrete pad, Troy had picked himself up and sprinted into the jungle. Miraculously, he'd avoided being shot by the guards and hadn't been injured by the fall. His chest was still sore from the jeep crash, but it was nothing serious.

He spent several hours scouring the ruins for Bennington and his men, aware that Gadanz's were searching for him. But he didn't care. He didn't leave anyone behind if at all possible.

However, when dawn began to break he headed out. It was possible that Bennington had been doing the same thing-searching for him-and they'd never find each other if they were both on the move. Hopefully, Bennington and his men had headed back to camp, and they could rendezvous there. So he began to retrace his steps through the jungle.

As he was about to reach the small clearing where he'd burned the pictures of Jennie and his family, a low growl came from above. He stepped back quickly and glanced up, appalled by the sight. Pablo's b.l.o.o.d.y body lay sprawled across several branches, and a beautiful orange and black jaguar lay beside it, long tail twitching as the cat stared down at him menacingly.

CHAPTER 5.

DANIEL GADANZ reclined in a large, comfortable chair, which sat on a raised platform positioned against one wall. As he savored his favorite Cuban cigar, he gazed across the room through the dim light. His eyes were trained on two long curtains that were drawn together over the windowless room's lone doorway. Even as he tapped an inch-long ash onto the thick rug covering the platform, he stared ahead, as if in a trance.

The ash continued to burn, and one of four raven-haired young women kneeling on the platform around the chair put it out with her palm when the rug began to smoke. She stifled a scream at the sharp pain suddenly searing her skin by biting down hard on her slender forearm. Like the other three women kneeling around Gadanz, she was beautiful-and naked.

Swarthy and obese with long, thinning hair he rarely washed, Gadanz perspired heavily in the high humidity of the Peruvian mountains near the Colombian border. So he kept the air-conditioning in this room of the sprawling jungle compound set at a constant sixty-four degrees-which was harsh for the nude women. But they didn't complain. No one around Gadanz complained about anything. It wasn't worth the risk.

Subordinates were starting to whisper that he was going crazy.

The drug empire he ruled over with an iron fist made him one of the wealthiest men in the world, though he would never show up on the "richest" lists published annually by Forbes or Fortune, as Pablo Escobar once had. Gadanz was too careful for that. And he'd sent the editors a personal letter. He was confident his name would never appear on those lists.

In fact, Daniel Gadanz was difficult to track down at all. He rarely spent more than two nights at the same location, always convinced that enemies were closing in. So he maintained six compounds in South America, three in Thailand, two in Mexico, two in the United States, and one on the Tajikistan border with Afghanistan-as well as an air force of jets on which he moved around the world to stay ahead of his enemies.

The fat man's eyes narrowed. Six nights ago in Venezuela he'd almost been killed by one of those enemies, proving to him once and for all that his paranoia was well founded. He'd already executed his head of security and several lieutenants as punishment and as a message to others of the security detail. And he'd never go back to that compound again.

Gadanz exhaled two full lungs of heavy smoke as he pulled the collar of the tentlike robe snugly around his thick, flabby neck. He knew the young women kneeling around him were cold, but he cared not. They served at his pleasure, and he paid their families very well. Where else in the jungles of Peru were they going to earn that kind of money?

"Nowhere," he growled out loud. "That's where."

Gadanz's eyes narrowed again when the curtains stirred ever so slightly. There had been a draft, and that could mean only one thing.

A thrill coursed through his chest. Revenge was getting closer.

LIAM STERLING moved cautiously down the shadowy corridor toward the doorway he'd been directed to. An average-looking Australian, he'd never been proud of his less-than-imposing or outstanding physical features. But he was intensely proud of his ability to carry out what others in his line of work deemed impossible or were too scared to attempt-execute missions in any corner of the world and leave no trail.

Thanks to acquaintances in high places and the substantial bribes he constantly plied them with, Sterling held citizenship in many countries. So he moved around the globe with ease. And he was a master of disguise, so when he moved he wasn't recognized. In the end, he'd turned his average looks to his advantage. Men with outstanding features had difficulty altering their appearances convincingly. Sterling had no such challenge.

He glanced back down the corridor when he reached the heavy curtains. The guard who'd directed him this way gestured and nodded that he'd reached the correct location. Sterling waved back. He found it fascinating that the guard wanted to stay as far from Daniel Gadanz as possible. Most underlings craved face time with their ultimate leader. Such was not the case at this jungle compound.

After slipping through the curtains, Sterling hesitated a moment to take in what would have been a jaw-dropping scene for most. The naked young women kneeling around Gadanz were like something out of the Arabian Nights. However, he'd met with the drug lord several times over the last few years, so nothing about Gadanz surprised him anymore.

But really, four of them?

Gadanz's net worth exceeded two hundred billion dollars, and it was climbing as steadily as America's national debt, Sterling knew. The world loved its heroin, cocaine, and marijuana. It was an awful but indisputable truth. And no matter how stiff governments made the penalty for doing drugs, the world still would. Escape-even temporary-was worth anything to a large portion of the population.

Sterling never touched the s.h.i.t. But he was willing to sell his services to a man who was neck-deep in the trade, in the name of making f.u.c.k-the-universe cash for one mission.

He'd already run two highly successful missions for Gadanz, and the rewards had been substantial in both cases. But the bounty for this mission alone could dwarf everything he'd ever earned, including what Gadanz had paid him before-combined. That had been made very clear before he'd agreed to make this trek deep into Peru's jungle.

"Come up here, Liam," Gadanz called, beckoning. "Don't be afraid."

Sterling snickered at what he considered a grave insult. The idea that he was afraid of anything was absurd.

"Come on," Gadanz ordered impatiently.

As he climbed the stairs, Sterling glanced directly at one of the young women kneeling to the left of Gadanz. They were all pretty, but Sterling found her more beautiful than the others. There was a longing for shelter in her sad eyes, and he found it compelling.

"I trust your trip into the jungle was uneventful," Gadanz said between puffs on the cigar. "A long way to come, but I'm confident you'll be glad you did."

"No worries, mate," Sterling answered in his thick Aussie accent.

Gadanz chuckled. "How appropriate."

"Excuse me?"

The fat man waved the cigar in the air, leaving a smoke trail between them. "I'd forgotten you were Australian, Liam."

That didn't explain anything.

"You're here tonight to discuss high crime," Gadanz continued, "and you're from Australia. If I'm remembering my history correctly, Australia is a nation with its past rooted deeply in crime. I believe England sent her worst criminals to Australia in the late eighteenth century to purge herself. Therein lies the explanation to my insightful observation concerning the appropriateness of our meeting."

"Right, well-"

"If those poor Aborigines had only known what was coming."

Sterling kept his mouth shut. The fat man was on a roll. When he was ready, he'd get to the matter at hand.

"Do you approve of the subjects decorating my throne?" Gadanz asked, gesturing grandly around him with the hand clasping the cigar.

Sterling grinned self-consciously.

"I take it from your reaction you do."

Sterling and the young woman to his left traded glances again, and this time she smiled back. "Of course, mate."

"Perfect, Liam, just perfect. Now let's-" Gadanz shut his eyes tightly, leaned forward, put a hand to his forehead, and groaned.

"You all right, Daniel?"

"I'm fine," Gadanz hissed, straightening back up in the chair. "Come close, Liam," he gasped, still wincing from the sharp pain that had torn through his skull. "Lean near to me. I don't want my subjects hearing this."

When Gadanz finished whispering in his ear, Sterling stepped back and stared down intensely. This would be the mother of all missions. Now he understood why the drug lord was offering him such an immense amount of money to execute this mission.

"I want revenge," Gadanz said. "And I want it very badly."

"Obviously."

"My brother Jacob was a good man," Gadanz continued, "and he was murdered. His death was not an accident, as the U.S. authorities claim. They murdered him while he was in custody last December, and they must pay. I want their families to feel the same loss I feel. I want the entire country to feel it."

While Sterling could accept that Gadanz was motivated by revenge, he believed there were other factors involved as well. When the mission succeeded, chaos would reign. And chaos in the United States would only make Daniel Gadanz wealthier. Gadanz was a pa.s.sionate man, and he'd loved his brother dearly. But Gadanz rarely did anything without a profit motive somehow involved.

"Given the list you just reeled off, I think everyone will-"

"I want to add three more targets to that list."

Sterling glanced at the young woman again. A few moments ago Gadanz hadn't wanted the four women to hear anything. Now he was going to mention specific targets aloud?

"Daniel, I don't think we should-"

"I've come to understand," Gadanz interrupted, "that the United States operates an intelligence unit, code named Red Cell Seven."

Sterling had been about to divert the conversation again, before anything crucial was said, so the women would stay clear of danger. But the mention of the cell distracted him. "Red Cell Seven doesn't exist. I've heard rumors of it for twenty years, for as long as I've been in this line of work. But it's just a good spook story."

"Wrong, Liam. Despite its limited number of agents, it is by far the most elite and effective intelligence ent.i.ty operated by any country anywhere in the world. It is the unit that last December was responsible for stopping my kill-team attacks on America's civilian population. It is the unit that flushed me out of my Florida base and from which I escaped at the last possible second. And it is the unit that murdered my brother Jacob."

This was a fascinating development. Gadanz rarely moved on rumors. The drug lord checked facts carefully. He was meticulous about it. "How do you know?"

"I have a source who has described the cell and its operations to me in such detail that I cannot question the veracity of the information. In the end, everyone has a price for information. Fortunately, I can pay any price. So I can get any information. Just like you have a price for taking on this mission, this person has a price for giving up information." Gadanz puffed on the cigar as he stared at Sterling. "What makes Red Cell Seven so effective is precisely what makes it impossible for most people to find. It operates autonomously, Liam. It has no formal reporting responsibilities to anyone inside the U.S. government. Not DOD, not any of the intel groups, not Congress-technically, not even the president. Equally important, it is funded completely by private interests. There are no official money trails."

"It's hard for me to believe that U.S. officials would allow that kind of cell to exist," Sterling countered. He still wasn't convinced that Gadanz had the truth about this. "They're too concerned with doing the right thing, with political correctness, even if it weakens their country." He hesitated. "Who is your source?"

"You know better than to ask that," Gadanz replied sternly.

Sterling shrugged. He hadn't really expected an answer, but it had been worth a try.

Gadanz tapped another ash over the side of his chair. "In addition to the other targets I mentioned, I want you to kill the man who runs Red Cell Seven. His name is Bill Jensen."

Sterling's gaze raced to the young woman, who was staring back at him this time. She had no idea of the danger she was now in because Gadanz had mentioned a specific target.

"For many years Bill Jensen ran a powerful Wall Street firm," Gadanz continued, "but he led a double life. He ran money for Red Cell Seven at the same time. He raised it in the private sector from wealthy patriots. Now he runs everything. He is the leader of Red Cell Seven." Gadanz took a deep breath as he gazed at the burning ember on the far end of his cigar. "He's been in hiding for the last nine months because he fears that elements loyal to the president are trying to kill him." He chuckled. "So, ironically, in this case my interests and President Dorn's interests are aligned."

"Why would elements loyal to President Dorn want to kill Bill Jensen?"

"Because they believe that Jensen and others in Red Cell Seven are trying to a.s.sa.s.sinate Dorn. It's a kill-or-be-killed situation."

"Why?"

"President Dorn does not appreciate the cell's ability to operate autonomously and with total immunity. He detests Red Cell Seven and its tactics."

"But you just said Red Cell Seven was responsible for stopping your kill-team attacks in the United States last December and for almost catching you. Wouldn't President Dorn be their biggest advocate? He's riding a huge wave of popularity because those attacks were derailed so quickly."

"President Dorn believes that Red Cell Seven was responsible for the attempt on his life last fall. That, of course, trumps any fondness he may have for them stopping my Holiday Mall Attacks."

The a.s.sa.s.sination attempt on Dorn had exploded a year ago on an outdoor stage in Los Angeles. Dorn had barely survived after his thenchief of staff had thrown himself in the bullet's path at the last second and slightly deflected it, Sterling recalled. The bullet had still penetrated Dorn's chest, but it hadn't shattered his heart, as it would have without the redirection.

"Why would Red Cell Seven want to kill President Dorn?" Sterling asked.