The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 2

by Christopher Cartwright

  “General!” The mercenary at the edge of the sand dune yelled. “I’ve got it!”

  “Well… well. I must thank you for your honesty, Mr. Reilly,” General Ngige said. “I really don’t like torture, although it is the only choice in certain circumstances. I am so glad that you didn’t force this to be one of them.”

  Sam drew a deep breath in, as though it were his last. The cigarette burned right down to its butt. The mercenary next to him attached a full magazine to his AK-47.

  In the distance the three men heard the second mercenary yelling something. All three turned to look, and saw the mercenary waving both hands frantically.

  “What does that fool want?” the General asked.

  “It appears he’s trying to warn you about something,” Sam said, cheerfully.

  “What?” the General asked.

  “This!” Tom yelled, withdrawing the sidearm from the General’s holster. In the same movement he aimed the Berretta at the closest mercenary – the one pointing his AK-47 towards Sam – and pulled the trigger.

  The mercenary swung his weapon around. But he was too slow. By the time he faced his attacker two Berretta 19mm parabellums struck his forehead – turning it into a pink spray in an instant. His weapon finger pulled at the trigger, emptying all 32 shells in a wide arc by the time his body hit the ground.

  The General reacted with reflexes that were much faster than his age suggested. Swinging his right arm he punched Tom in the area known by boxers as the sweet spot at the side of his jaw. The inertia forces the mandible sideways potentially sending all residual energy into the brainstem with the greatest likelihood of knocking most opponents out.

  Tom Bower was far from average.

  He was a giant of a man. Six foot, eight inches tall. Framed in two hundred and forty pounds of muscle, hardened by a lifetime of heavy physical labor. He’d never boxed professionally, but he’d had his share of bar-fights when he was younger and he had no trouble holding his own. If there was ever a man whose jaw was built to take a beating, Tom was that man.

  Sam watched the General’s fist make contact with Tom’s jaw. He was certain the impact hurt the General as much as it did Tom. The impact rattled Tom momentarily, but was far from enough to put him down. The General looked surprised that Tom was still standing. Ngige launched forwards for the Berretta, which was still locked in Tom’s massive hand. Like a crazed banshee, he bit at Tom’s hand, trying to free the weapon.

  Sam ground the butt of his cigarette, burning at a temperature of eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit, deep into the General’s right eye. The General screamed in agony. Instead of fighting, the General turned and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sam raced to catch the General and then dived to the ground. AK-47 shells raked the sand eight feet to his side. The second mercenary, the one who’d gone to retrieve the book of Nostradamus, no longer afraid of hitting his commander, had taken aim and was firing at them.

  “You okay, Tom?” Sam asked.

  “I’m good,” Tom replied. “He got a lucky hook shot at me, that’s all.”

  Sam shuffled forwards on his elbows and knees. He picked up the AK-47, which had fallen when Tom had killed the first mercenary. “Let’s just hope this guy doesn’t get a lucky shot off.”

  “You get him, and I’ll get the important looking guy!” Tom said and started running towards the General.

  Sam lined the crosshairs with the mercenary standing in the distance. He breathed in deeply. Forced himself to relax and breathe out slowly. Consciously slowing his heart rate in the process. Midway through exhaling he paused for an instant and pulled the trigger - releasing a burst of three bullets.

  The shots went wide by several feet to the left and the mercenary dropped to the sand. The weapon hadn’t been correctly calibrated. Sam gritted his teeth and searched for the mercenary again. He’d watched the now dead mercenary reload the full magazine just before Tom arrived. Sam made the mental calculation. At least ten rounds fired before the mercenary died, plus the three he’d just fired. That left him with seventeen from the original thirty round magazine.

  “You got eyes on the shooter?” Tom asked.

  Sam scanned the sand dune in the distance and stopped. The back of the guy’s legs were just visible above the sand. Nothing to shoot at, but so long as the other guy’s head stayed down, they were safe. “I’ve got him. He’s holed up over there.”

  “Are there any others?”

  “No. Just him and the guy who got the lucky punch.”

  “Okay. You take care of the shooter and I’ll get the other guy!” Tom said.

  “Sounds good.”

  Sam watched Tom come to a crouched standing position and run in the direction of where the General had fled. Tom’s height, combined with his massive frame made for an awesome opponent. Sam quickly returned his glance toward his attacker.

  The shooter lifted his head, unable to resist the target. Sam corrected for the inaccuracies of his weapon and squeezed the AK-47’s trigger.

  Sand, approximately two feet to the left of the shooter’s head, turned into small clouds of dust. Sam watched as the shooter’s head disappeared again. Sam gritted his teeth. He’d overcorrected.

  Over the sand dune, where Tom had run, Sam heard the distinct popping sound of the Barretta being fired. He hoped the sound meant the General had been shot, but there was always a risk the General had a second weapon.

  Sam adjusted his position slightly to the right, trying to get a clearer shot. Nothing. All he could see was the guy’s ankle and boot. It looked like the shooter was less interested in showing his face again.

  Sam swore. He could wait in the stalemate for hours. Neither of them getting a clear shot until one of them slipped up. Sam sunk into a relaxed firing position. He carefully made the adjustments to his focus. Moving approximately two feet further to the right and then settled, ready to fire.

  He breathed in slowly. And then exhaled even slower. Each breath slightly adjusting the position of his weapon until he was certain of his aim. On the third breath Sam squeezed the trigger – and a spray of pink mist replaced the boot.

  Sam grinned. Finally, the AK-47 was firing true.

  He heard the guy yelling in his own language. It didn’t matter that Sam couldn’t speak a word of it. Swearing sounds the same all around the world. Sam focused in where the shooter had disappeared.

  There was nothing but sand.

  It meant the mercenary was well trained. Even a good soldier would be inclined to roll around in agony. It would be a reasonable mistake, and if the shooter had made it, Sam would have killed him.

  But the mercenary was well trained. Disciplined. And that meant more waiting. Sam heard the rapport of three shots fired from the Berretta followed by the mechanical clicking sound of an empty chamber.

  Sam had run out of time. If Tom had run out of bullets he was in trouble. He stood up and ran toward the injured mercenary. Sam’s trigger finger squeezed the edge of the trigger. He was ready to fire the first shots if he had to. Without hesitation he ran up the sand dune.

  The mercenary reached for his weapon. His mouth set hard, and his eyes filled with intense hatred, the injured man aimed the AK-47 right at Sam. But his reaction was too slow.

  Sam fired several shots in rapid fire succession. He bent down and searched the mercenary’s lifeless body. He took two full magazine as spares for his AK-47 and then called out to Tom.

  “You okay, Tom?”

  No answer.

  Shit! Sam ran through the thick sand dune, following the deep imprints where Tom’s heavy feet had trod.

  He rounded the first crest and found Tom slowly walking back towards him.

  “Tell me you got him!” Sam said.

  “No. He was quick for a man who just lost his eye. By the time I reached the second ridge I knew I wasn’t going to catch him. I emptied the Berretta trying to get lucky and put him down, but he disappeared over that far ridge.”

  Sam
swore. “How could you let him get away?”

  Tom laughed. “What can I say, I never was a very good runner. By the way, you’re welcome.”

  “For what?”

  “I just saved your life!”

  “And I appreciate it. I just wished you hadn’t let him slip through our fingers in the process.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tom replied, looking at the burning sun rise above the horizon. “Without water, the desert will finish him off before nightfall. Who was he, anyway?”

  “General Ngige. The rebel leader of the Democratic Republic of Congo – and the most dangerous man in Africa.”

  Sam and Tom turned to walk back to the oasis.

  “What’s he doing this far north?” Tom asked.

  “Beats me. He says he came to find the book of Nostradamus.”

  “Why? What did he expect to read in it? His future?”

  “No. He thinks he already knows his future.”

  “Then what did he want it for?”

  “Said he needed to destroy it, to protect his future.”

  In the distance, on the other side of the oasis, Sam could see a figure swimming towards the surface. Above it were several bubbles. The woman whose life he’d saved, was about to surface. Good. She might just give me the answer to a number of questions. He glanced to the other side of the oasis and spotted a fourth man – another mercenary, carrying an AK-47, running towards her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Zara waited as long as possible to surface from her refuge beneath the cooled water of the oasis of Bilma. The longer she remained there the more likely her attackers would leave, or be killed by the treasure hunter who’d saved her life. There was still a high probability the treasure hunter would have been killed instead.

  She stared at the dive gauge through blurred eyes, unprotected by a mask. The gauge read 10 BAR or possibly 70 BAR. It was impossible to differentiate between the one and the seven the more she stared at the instrument with blurry eyes. Zara had done a dive course years ago, while on a short vacation to the Red Sea off the coast of Egypt. BAR, she recalled, was a measurement of pressure representing a standard atmosphere. Or technically slightly less than a single atmosphere at sea level. Ten BARs meant there were ten times the pressure which the air would exert on the tank if it was at sea level. Depending on the size of the dive tank, BAR represented a different value of air. For example, a 3L tank is going to hold significantly less air than a 12L tank. For each BAR of pressure in the larger of the two tanks, the diver would have four times as much air volume.

  There was no way she could remember all the technical details, but Zara knew that 10 BAR meant she was dealing in minutes before the tank ran out. She slowly maneuvered herself toward the surface. Stopping her ascent at three feet from the surface, because she heard gunfire.

  She remained at that depth until it became hard to draw air from the regulator. Once she could no longer breathe at all, she moved right to the edge of the oasis and surfaced. Zara allowed no more than her eyes and nose to break the surface and even then, she was right up against the shoreline. The sound of gunfire had ceased. She turned in the water and scanned the oasis. The treasure hunter’s camp she’d spotted earlier had been tossed into disarray. The camels had all gone. Did that mean the treasure hunters had left without her? They would probably want their dive equipment back. It was more likely the beasts had been spooked by the gunfire and run off.

  Her eyes stopped at the location where she’d first fallen into the oasis. Zara’s gaze traced the footprints from the water, up the sand dune, to where she’d dropped the book of Nostradamus. Next to her old footprints, were a second set of deep impressions in the sand. At a guess, they were from a large man, unaccustomed to the gentle movements required in traversing deep sand. Her glance stopped about a third of the way up the first sand dune – where the book was now missing.

  She felt the uneasy pervasiveness of panic. Gone! It can’t be lost now! She wanted to scream out loud, “Give it back!” like a child at a playground who’d lost something precious. She forced herself to exert discretion. No book was worth losing her life over.

  Zara carefully made a 360 degree turn. Scanning the area in multiple ninety degree arcs until she was certain the place was empty. Just when she was certain, Zara heard the cheerful voices of two men approaching. The question was, were they the treasure hunters who’d saved her life, or the rebel soldiers who’d tried to take it?

  She ducked further into the water and waited. She didn’t have to wait long. Two men shuffled down the steep sand dune on the opposite side of the oasis. One was tall and one average in height, and shared the solidly built frames of men accustomed to hard work for most of their lives. They both wore board shorts and looked like they were at the beach on vacation, except that the shorter one was carrying an AK-47.

  Who are these people?

  Zara stood up, ready to find out. Across the oasis, the diver who’d saved her life, raised his AK-47 and aimed at her. In the instant it took for her to comprehend the impossible, she tried to duck under the water to avoid the spray of bullets which raked the water and sand no more than a few feet away from her.

  In an instant Zara discovered she hadn’t reacted fast enough – and now might have to pay for it with her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Zara felt the heavy arm wrap around her neck and lock. Her captor knew just the right amount of pressure to keep her from being able to move at all while allowing her to remain conscious. She tried to reach her flick knife in her pants pocket, but couldn’t reach far enough downwards. Instead, she launched both her hands at the arm, trying to free herself. It was tough like leather and thick as any bodybuilder she’d ever seen. She dug her short fingernails into the skin as hard as she could. Her captor didn’t even grimace. She tried to find somewhere more vulnerable to attack. Her fingernails scratched at his face. The pressure on her throat tightened, instantly stopping her from being able to breathe.

  “Do that again and I’ll snap your neck,” he said.

  Zara made no reply.

  “Now, you’re gonna tell me where that book is, bitch!”

  Zara tried to speak, but her captor was pressing on her neck so hard her windpipe was being crushed. She made little more than a muffled, incomprehensible sound. Her eyes fixed on the two treasure hunters on the other side of the oasis. Both were running down the sand dune towards her. She grinned. Would they really save her life twice in one day? She needed to buy time. Zara pointed to her neck and tried to speak again. More garbled noise came out, but nothing comprehensible.

  “If I release some of the pressure are you going to talk?” he asked.

  Zara nodded. She felt the pressure loosen slightly and took a deep breath in. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, where did you hide the book of Nostradamus?”

  “I can’t remember,” Zara replied. “My mind’s been a little rattled by the recent events. I nearly drowned and now you’re trying to choke me.”

  “Remember soon, or your neck will snap under my arm like a chicken bone,” her captor reminded her.

  Zara watched as the two men on the other side of the oasis split up. One ran clockwise around the oasis, while the other went counterclockwise. They were going to double up on her captor, preparing to target him from both sides. She quietly mumbled something incoherent. The pressure on her throat noticeably loosened again.

  “I buried it in the sand.”

  “Where?”

  “Other side of the oasis. Can’t be sure where, but you’ll find it eventually.”

  “I need you to show me exactly where you buried it.”

  She dipped her head, like she no longer had the strength or the will to live. Her captor pulled on her hair until her head faced him. Her captor was dark skinned. He wore a camouflaged uniform like the others who’d tried to drown her. His brown eyes were wide, and he smiled as their eyes met. He had a well-developed jawline and heavy facial features, which were disru
pted by his pleasant smile. It gave him the appearance of a man who didn’t want to hurt her, but would force himself to, if it was the only way to achieve his goal.

  He looked really happy. She guessed the treasure hunters had somehow beaten the other three men, including his commander – so why was he so happy? The answer hit her hard. He wants the money, he doesn’t care about a rebellion. He thinks he’s going to be rich!

  She saw the shorter of the two treasure hunters, the one with the AK-47, approach quietly. She mumbled something inaudible.

  “Speak up!” her captor demanded.

  Zara looked directly in his eyes. “Go to hell.”

  “No doubt I will. But first I intend to get rich, and so I’m gonna need that book.”

  The soldier looked at her eyes, as though she might betray where she hid it. She stared back at him, challenging him to look away. Abruptly his grin set hard as he noticed her eyes glance to the left. At the same time, Zara felt the pressure on her throat tighten to the point she nearly passed out. The man spun around to face the man who had rescued her.

  “That’s close enough. Any further and I break her tiny neck. I could do it in a heartbeat. Like pulling the wings off a beautiful butterfly.”

  “What do you want?” The shorter man asked without lowering his AK-47.

  “I want the book.”

  The treasure hunter smiled confidently. It appeared honest and unpracticed. She noticed the lines of his smile formed easily, like a man who smiled often. There was more to it though. Something that said, I can have it all in life. Comfortable. Confident. He then shrugged. “Or, I could shoot you dead now?”

  “Wouldn’t work,” her captor responded without taking any pressure off her windpipe.

  “Why not?”

  “You might hit me, or you might miss. Either way, I would have enough time to break her neck. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the second man to my left.”

  The treasure hunter appeared genuinely indifferent. “I can live with it, either way.”