Night of the Warheads Read online

  Not perfect, but close.

  The truck, now on its side, upper wheels still spinning crazily, blocked all of the jeep except a bit of its rear end.

  But he would have to hurry. The monks behind the rocks were zeroing in, obviously reading his plans and trying for the jeep's tires.

  Once in the seat, Carter unearthed the Model 12 and fired up the engine.

  "Amigo…!"

  Cubanez's voice reached him through the sound of gunfire from across the street. He was partially leaning out a side window, away from the slugs coming from behind the rocks.

  "Did Hubanyo and Mendez make it?" Carter shouted.

  "Affirmative! They are in the hardware store… it is the one in the center!"

  Carter nodded. "How many left?"

  "Near as I can tell, five. Two behind those rocks, three behind the store."

  "Cover me!"

  Cubanez gave a thumbs-up sign and disappeared.

  Carter roared back down the alley he had just come up with the truck. Once through, he cranked left and gave the little machine all it could take. He went on by the alley where the truck had been originally parked and kept turning.

  Soon he was beyond the village shacks and bouncing crazily over open country. When he was a good thousand yards from the village, he banked left and began to climb.

  Rocks, ruts, and generally rough terrain gave the jeep hell, but eventually Carter came out on the road that led back into the village.

  He 180'd the jeep and skidded to a halt on the far side of the curve, out of sight from below.

  From a webbed pouch between the seats, he chose three M-34 incendiary grenades and arranged them in the passenger seat. With a new magazine in Wilhelmina, who was back in his leg holster, Carter looked to the Model 12.

  He fixed the stock and draped the lanyard over his left shoulder. When he dropped the jeep's windshield, the space between the left-hand grip and the magazine fitted perfectly down over the round bar at the base of the windshield.

  It would serve as a reverse bi-pod of the sub, allowing Carter to fire, release the Beretta without it flopping, and throw the grenades, only to regrip and fire again.

  He was ready.

  Carter went through the gears quickly, hitting fifty by the time he rounded the curve.

  The chatter of renewed gunfire found his ears as the jeep's nose dipped and he hurtled downward, directly for the dusty square and the area toward the storefront beyond it.

  At one hundred yards he started firing. The little Model 12 bucked in his hand but stayed in place on the windshield bar.

  The monks had shed their robes. Beneath them they wore green and brown fatigues. Carter could see insignia, and he guessed it matched that worn by the dead «bodyguard» near the Ford.

  That would be their game.

  Carter could almost see the headlines: "Government Troops Kill Leftist Leader."

  At fifty yards he let up on the accelerator and released the Beretta.

  There had been some confusion behind the rocks when the two shooters had seen that they were flanked and still being fired upon from the bar.

  But they quickly recovered.

  Now one had shifted around to return Carter's fire while the other still concentrated on Cubanez. But between the peppering fire from the two angles, neither of them could get off a shot that would do any damage.

  Carter released the Beretta and. in three-second intervals, threw the grenades. The M-34 had about a five-second fuse. By the time the first one went off, Carter was firing again.

  The first grenade was short.

  The second wasn't.

  The body that had been firing at Cubanez lifted into the air and settled down over a boulder, arms and legs sprawled grotesquely in every direction.

  Just as the jeep reached the narrowed lane leading up to the monastery, the third blast rocked the air.

  Carter's shooter stood. He dropped his weapon and staggered from behind the rocks, his hands vainly tearing at his ripped and scorched eyes.

  Carter made the turn, lifting the muzzle of the Model 12 around and laying it across his right arm.

  The guy was fifteen yards from the jeep when he started crying out in Spanish: "I'm finished… I'm finished!"

  "You bet your ass you are," Carter hissed, and laid a burst across his chest from nipple to nipple.

  At the top of the hill, Carter slid lithely from the jeep. Ejecting the nearly empty magazine, he jacked in a fresh one and started down the incline a boulder at a time.

  From far across the square, Cubanez and his Beretta were quiet. Gaiter could not see the head of one or the muzzle of the other above the window casing.

  Good man.

  Cubanez was already moving out, probably far to the right and below Carter to give him backing if he needed it.

  Halfway to the bottom, Carter stopped.

  Firing was intermittent now.

  A pop or two from just beneath him would bring small-arms fire from the second floor rear of the hardware store.

  Carter waited until he could get a fix, then moved out again.

  He placed two of them, one in some rocks right at the base of the hill. The other was just below his present position, on a direct line with the second-story window.

  Where was number three?

  Carter found out ail too soon.

  A tiny scrape. Boot sole against stone.

  He whirled, the Model 12 bucking in both hands.

  The guy got off one shot. Carter felt the sting and tug of the slug at his left ear as his own slugs tore into the guy's gut.

  He screamed. Once. And then toppled backward over the rocks to lay silent.

  Carter didn't wait now. He moved on down through the rocky killing ground, his ears attuned to every sound.

  Alerted by the burping fire of the Model 12 above them, the two remaining shooters had slipped their positions.

  "Señor Carter…"

  Carter looked up.

  Hubanyo's fat, florid face was in the window.

  "To your right — behind the two trees!"

  Carter moved right in a crouch. He took his sight lines off the tops of two scrub oaks that angled toward the sky from above the line of rocks.

  Every five feet he stopped to listen.

  Nothing.

  And then he heard it: the soft pad of booted feet on dry dirt.

  The guy had flanked him. He was moving up now through the rocks to Carter's right, about twenty yards in the rear.

  Carter smiled to himself. He hunkered down and waited, filling his hand with a good-sized rock.

  It wasn't long.

  When the guy was directly on the other side of Carter's boulder, he rolled the rock over the top.

  The firing was instantaneous.

  That was the way Carter found him when he came around, rifle in the air, firing at sound.

  Carter centered the death end of the Beretta on his chest and planted his feet.

  "You can live, amigo."

  The guy cursed loudly and brought his rifle down in an arc, firing.

  The man screamed in agony when the first 9mm slug hit his shoulder.

  The screaming ended in a gurgling death rattle when the next four took his head off.

  The sound of the Model 12 had barely died out when Carter heard Cubanez's voice calling to him from near the edge of the buildings.

  "Amigo… Nick!"

  "Yeah?"

  "How many did you get?"

  "Two behind the rocks and two up here."

  "Then it is over. We are coming out."

  We? Carter thought. moving cautiously the rest of the way down the hill, still in cover.

  He hit the bottom just as Cubanez came around the side of the building. The Spaniard had a wide grin on his face, and the muzzle of his Beretta ground into the soft spot behind a man's ear.

  "His name is Manuel Ortiz," Cubanez said. "He is Cuban and, as you Americans would say, he is scared shitless."

  Carter smiled.
/>
  They had their prisoner.

  Four

  Nick Carter sighed in contentment as the strong yet wondrously gentle and feminine hands floated down over his bare back. They moved like feathers over his naked buttocks, then slid between his legs.

  The fingers did amazing things, until the pleasure threatened to turn into pain.

  "You like?" asked the sultry voice.

  "I love," Carter replied and rolled over onto his back.

  She was gorgeous, all five-foot-ten of her, full of pleasurable angles and even more pleasurable curves. Her breasts were bare, as was the rest of her, and they hung like two huge melons directly above Carter's eyes.

  Her name was Delores, and Carter had met her on the flight back from Madrid three days before.

  The attraction had been instantaneous and mutual.

  "What do you do?" she had asked.

  "I'm a reporter for Amalgamated Press and Wire Services," Carter had replied without blinking. "I'm just getting off an assignment in Spain. And you?"

  "I'm rich."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. I like to read, gamble, play tennis, travel, and make love… not necessarily in that order."

  Her eyes had said the rest.

  "I have to file my story when we land. It should take about two hours. Can I meet you for dinner?"

  "Sure." She scribbled her address. It was near Carter's apartment in Arlington. "I'll have something brought in."

  "You don't have to."

  "I want to. By the time you get to my place you may not be hungry… for food, I mean."

  Carter wasn't sure she was legit, but with that face, that figure, and all that blond hair, he wanted to find out.

  It should have taken him two hours to file the Spanish report. He did it in just fifty minutes and took another ten briefing Hawk.

  The prisoner confirmed just about everything. Nels Pomroy was indeed the go-between. Whoever the head of the far left wing of ETA was. he wanted Julio Mendez out of the way. Pomroy had hired a freelance shooter originally, but the guy had obviously failed or balked on the contract at the last minute.

  When the arms unexpectedly fell into Pomroy's hands, he hatched the plan to trade off with the Latinos for Freedom.

  The prisoner they had captured had so spilled his guts that his buddies in Mexico and Belize would be under surveillance within twenty-four hours. At the first sign of any more activity, they could all be picked up by the local police or security organization.

  All nice and neatly wrapped up.

  "Maybe," Hawk said. "And maybe not."

  "But that's about as much as I can do," Carter said.

  Hawk nodded. "Take a week. Relax, but stay in touch."

  "Will do," Carter replied, and ten minutes later he was giving a cabbie Delores Teller's address in Arlington.

  She met him in a sheer negligee that didn't hide a wispy pair of panties and a bra that couldn't begin to contain the occupants of its cups.

  "Hungry?"

  "Yeah."

  "Food?"

  "No."

  "The bedroom's this way."

  That had been three days before. They had eaten several meals, but as yet they had never put their clothes back on.

  Among the other delightful things Delores did, she gave massages. About the time Carter figured he was going down for the last time, Delores gave him a massage.

  It never failed.

  "What are you looking at?"

  "The bottom of your breasts. They're amazing."

  "Why?"

  "They don't sag."

  "I do exercises. Want to go to Monte Carlo?"

  That was another odd little twist to her personality. She often changed the subject in mid-sentence, and it was always interesting to Carter to hear the new thought she came up with.

  "Why Monte Carlo?"

  She shrugged. "I dunno. I think you'd be a ball to be with in Monte Carlo. We could read, travel, gamble, play tennis…"

  "And make love all at the same time." Carter grinned.

  "Yeah. Want to?"

  "Can't right now, Delores. But we can make love."

  "All right."

  That was something else Carter liked about Delores. She was a very agreeable lady.

  She leaned forward until her breasts grazed his face.

  "Kiss them, Nick, honey. Make them hurt with your kisses the way you did before."

  Her breasts were milky white and the nipples were darker than pink, almost crimson in the dim light.

  But it wasn't the color as much as the touch.

  Carter reached with both hands and caressed the smooth flesh. The nipples seemed to harden at his touch, and she forced them one by one to his lips.

  His eyes rolled upward to hers. They were green, widely set in her beautiful face, and right now they were flashing with an animal sensuality that told Carter she did not want to wait much longer.

  "Delores, you amaze me. Lie down."

  Her laugh was genuine, coming spontaneously from the long, clean line of her throat. And it was no little-girl giggle; it was the throaty chuckle of an amused woman.

  "Why? Because it's only six o'clock in the morning?" she said, sliding into the bed beside him.

  "That's one reason," Carter said, burying his face in her blond mane and rolling his hips between her thighs. "But there are about a million more."

  Their bodies collided, and they were instantly in the throes of a lusty rhythm. Her breaths and sighs, her clutching hands and her heels hitting his bullocks were all spurs, making Carter pound into her body with a force that he thought had left him long ago.

  "Good, so good," she growled, biting his lip even while kissing it.

  "Only because you are so wild," he replied.

  At last her passion peaked. It drew a scream from her lips and an arch from her body that brought Carter to his own climax.

  At first he thought it was some new, strange sound coming from Delores. By now he had learned that during — and even after — lovemaking, the woman could indeed come up with strange sounds.

  And then he realized that it was the beeper.

  "No… where…?" she groaned, feeling him slide out of her.

  "Have to… telephone," he replied, padding across the room.

  "Nick…"

  "Sorry." He dialed, and even at six a.m. there was only one ring.

  "Amalgamated."

  "Extension two hundred."

  The mechanical gnomes made clicks on the line, and Ginger Bateman's husky rasp filled his ear.

  "Two hundred."

  "It's me."

  "Come… pronto."

  "Oh, Christ…"

  "Here, Nick. Now!"

  "It's six o'clock in the morning."

  "You think I don't know that? I slept here last night. P-R-O-N-T-O!"

  "Your Spanish is lousy," Carter hissed, but she had already hung up.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Delores was sitting up in bed, her breasts a huge, tantalizing shelf over her folded arms. Anger and rejection were already starting to form in the green pools of her eyes.

  "I have to go into the office for a while."

  "You don't…"

  "I do."

  She practically broke the bed when she fell back on it.

  "Damn all you people who work for a living. When will you be back?"

  "As soon as I can. I promise."

  "You mean it?"

  "I mean it."

  "I hope so," she said, sitting up again. "There's something about you that's… well, nice."

  "You, too," Carter said and kissed the tip of her nose. At the door he paused and turned. "Delores…?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If I don't get right back… I mean… well, how about leaving word with your service where you'll be?"

  "Then it might be a while?"

  "It might," he admitted.

  "Hey."

  "Yeah?"

  He turned. She was smiling and her eyes said, "It's
me again."

  "Yeah. Just check my service."

  It was torture all the way to Dupont Circle not to remember how she looked, naked, sitting in that bed.

  * * *

  It was one half hour later to the minute when Carter arrived at the Amalgamated Press and Wire Services Offices. Amalgamated put out a couple of magazines a month and ran a small news service. But it was all a front for AXE and allowed the ultrasecret agency to have field offices all over the world under the guise of "news gathering services."

  Out of these field offices operated the men with «N» designations. Nick Carter was one of them: "N3, Killmaster." There had once been N1 and N2, but they had long since bought the farm.

  Agent N3, Nick Carter, was top dog among the field agents.

  But that meant nothing when David Hawk said "Jump!"

  Or, in this case, "Pronto!"

  Carter was through final security within two minutes of his initial arrival and at Hawk's office thirty seconds after that.

  "He's waiting."

  Ginger Bateman sat behind her desk, partially hidden by a mountain of papers. Normally she was the most perfect composite of brains and beauty the Good Lord could fashion from a hank of hair and a hunk of bone.

  Now she was a mess.

  Her sable hair with its brilliant deep-red highlights was in total disarray, and there were lines around her eyes and mouth that did not agree at all with her perfect features.

  "I thought all was calm."

  "All was calm, but all of a sudden ail is chaos. The big man has had us all running all night like there was no tomorrow."

  "You look like hell."

  "Thank you, Nick. We've been going for two days, twenty-four hours a day, nonstop."

  "What's up?"

  "The missile heist in Germany a few months ago. Remember it?"

  "I read the bulletins."

  "Good, then you're briefed. Go on in."

  She dropped her head into her hands and began massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers. For the moment Carter forgot Delores.

  "Hey…"

  "What?"

  "Dinner tonight?"

  "Impossible," she said with a chuckle.

  "Why?"

  "You'll be in Paris."

  "Then we'll dine at Maxim's."

  The beautiful features cast off their weariness for a second, and her lips spread in a wide smile.

  "You're incorrigible…"

  "And in love, and hungry, and horn…"