Walking over to the fireplace, Bolan opened the briefcase and started tossing the bags of heroin into the flames. The contents burned brightly, sending up thick plumes of dark smoke.
“Are you insane?” screamed SanMarco, starting forward.
Still tossing them in, Bolan raised the Magnum, and clicked back the hammer.
“Okay, okay, I get the fucking message,” muttered the drug lord. “Money ain’t the point here, eh. Fine. Then what is?”
“Your life.”
His eyes narrowed at that, but SanMarco said nothing, clearly weighing his options. “Done,” he muttered at last, the single word sounding like it was ripped from his throat with a pair of rusty pliers.
“Good. Now, call your driver,” directed Bolan. “Have him meet us a block south of here, on the coast.”
“But I have a full garage in the basement...”
“As well as enough armed bodyguards to make this all end badly...for you.” Bolan waved the revolver. “Call the man, and live another day.”
Reluctantly, SanMarco pulled out a cell phone and issued the requested commands. “Okay, my private elevator—”
“We’re taking the stairs to the roof.”
“What? Why?”
Without bothering to reply, Bolan nudged the skinny man with the barrel of his revolver. The stairs led to a locked door again, but this time SanMarco opened it with a steel key. Exiting onto the roof, Bolan scanned the area for guards or video cameras and saw that it was clean. “Overconfidence will be the death of you yet, SanMarco,” he said, guiding the man across the empty expanse.
The rooftop was rather nice, with stone benches, sculpture bushes, even a bubbling water fountain. A small touch of beauty, paid for with immeasurable human depravity.
“Now what? We jump?” SanMarco demanded petulantly, looking over the edge into the darkness below.
“Fire escape.”
“That’s six stories!”
“You’re getting soft, SanMarco. Maybe it’s time to retire.”
The man did not reply, but his body language left nothing to the imagination.
Bolan descended behind SanMarco, his gun pressed firmly against his back. The climb down was tense. Bolan could never take his attention off the man, in case he tried to signal somebody inside the nightclub. But the windows were heavily tinted, and the deafening techno beat nullified any possible verbal communication.
Reaching the street, SanMarco paused to catch his breath as if just having descended Mt. Everest.
“Stop your stalling,” Bolan directed, draping a seemingly friendly arm around the man while digging the barrel of the Magnum into his ribs. “Just a few more blocks and then we head...” He paused.
“North,” muttered SanMarco.
That had the ring of truth. Bolan knew that a lot of flat open farmland lay to the north of the city where the Brazilian jungle had been burned down to harvest the vast stretches of timber and develop cropland.
Walking along like old friends, Bolan and SanMarco zigzagged through the boisterous streets, heading further away from Thunder Alley until the nightclub was lost in the distance.
“This isn’t the way to the coast,” SanMarco said hesitantly.
“True,” replied Bolan. “Now call your driver and have him drop off your car in that lot across the street.”
A few minutes later, a Bentley sedan arrived at the indicated lot. A liveried driver got out, one hand tucked inside his coat pocket. Standing halfway out of the vehicle, the driver studied the area for a few moments, then eased his stance, closed the door and walked slowly away.
As he turned the corner, Bolan herded SanMarco into the Bentley. Passing the man the switchblade knife, Bolan directed him to slice the rear seat belts into strips and then Bolan bound his wrists together tightly. From SanMarco’s expression, it seemed the drug lord would have much rather slit Bolan’s throat, but with Bolan’s Magnum just inches from his face, he did as commanded.
After checking to make sure the man had not tried any tricks, Bolan got behind the wheel. The big engine started with a low purr, and Bolan pulled out of the lot and into the street.
The drive out of town was long, and the bound man in the front seat never truly stopped wiggling. Bolan had to keep himself from slapping the bastard across the face with his pistol.
Hours passed, and eventually Bolan left the main highway and turned onto a gravel road full of potholes. Nothing was in sight but flat acres of weeds and low, rolling hills.
“If you’re wasting my time...” Bolan said in a dangerous tone, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
“There it is,” growled SanMarco, jerking his chin to the left.
Sure enough, rising from a vast field of wild brambles was an old Quonset hut, the kind the Allies used in World War II as makeshift airplane hangars.
A crude dirt road stretched outward from the hut, and Bolan noted several small burn areas where torches or flares had obviously been used as landing lights. Very low-key. The word covert hardly covered the situation.
“You stay here,” Bolan said, parking the Bentley and getting out.
“Funny man. You’re a fucking riot,” SanMarco spat, the tendons in his neck and arms visibly distended as he flexed against the knotted seat belts.
Circling the hangar, Bolan checked for any sensors, tripwires or live video cameras, but it seemed clear. Which meant nothing, but it was the best that he could do under the circumstances without an EM scanner.
The padlock on the front door was covered with rust, but upon closer examination that was fake. Just an artful mixture of brown and grayish paint and corn flakes to make the lock appear as if it had not been open since Cortés killed the Mayans.
Without his usual assortment of equipment, Bolan had no choice but to go old school, so he simply shot the lock. The metal exploded under the hammering arrival of the slug, broken pieces flying everywhere.
Not surprisingly, the hangar door moved easily, the tracks well-greased. As it did, Bolan stepped to the side to let his sight adjust to the darkness inside. Bright and dark, a bad combination for any intruder. One guard and he’d go down.
As Bolan’s eyes started to pick out details, he began to smile. The interior of the hangar was spotless. Workbenches lined the far wall, along with numerous gasoline pumps, and there was even a small arsenal of weaponry near a glass-front cabinet. Mostly M16 assault rifles.
More important, sitting in the middle of the hangar was an old friend of Bolan’s, a Cessna Citation. Then he saw the name painted across the fuselage. Sea King. Clever. SanMarco named the plane after a boat to send people in the wrong direction. Perhaps the drug lord was just a tad smarter than appearances would suggest. But if that were true...
Bolan spun around and sprinted back to the Bentley just in time to see that SanMarco had somehow gotten a hand free and was clawing open a hidden compartment in the ceiling. He dragged out a fat silver .44 derringer. Firing from the hip, Bolan put a round directly into the weapon, sending it crashing through the passenger side window.
“Son of a bitch!” screamed SanMarco, clutching his broken fingers.
“The next round goes into your forehead,” Bolan stated. “Keep to the deal, SanMarco.”
“Yeah, sure,” the man snarled, shaking off the tiny green shards of safety glass covering his body. Gingerly, he tucked the wounded hand under his arm.
Bolan returned to the hangar and did a fast check of the weapons, then started ferrying them onto the plane. He found the Cessna fueled and ready to go. Which meant a maintenance crew must have been here recently, within the past day or two. It was always hot down in Rio, and the tanks would leech dry a little every day.
As expected, several fuses were in the wrong slots. That was an old trick. A thief would get just enough power to star
t the engines, maybe taxi a little, then the fuses would blow, leaving him stranded and extremely vulnerable in the middle of the runaway. Easy pickings for the drug lord’s street soldiers.
Bolan had just gotten all the fuses in place when he heard the sound of racing engines. Rushing to the open doorway, Bolan saw dusty contrails rising in the distance, coming his way. The drug lord’s guards were here. Time to go.
Grabbing an M16 assault rifle, Bolan stuffed his pockets with magazines and spare 40 mm grenades. Cracking open the grenade launcher, he shoved in a shell and boldly stepped outside. Now there were five contrails. Two due east, three trying for a flanking maneuver.
He heard a muffled laugh from the Bentley, and Bolan put a single 5.56 mm round through SanMarco’s upper thigh. The drug lord howled in pain as blood gushed from the wound.
“Move again, and I send the next one through your ear,” Bolan whispered, moving backward into the hangar.
Radiating fury, SanMarco nodded his consent, then started wiggling along the front seat in a futile effort to escape his bounds.
Spinning around fast, Bolan charged back to the Cessna and started the engine. As it caught, he opened the side window, pointed the M16 toward the fuel pumps and pulled the trigger.
The range was too short for the warhead in the 40 mm grenade to arm, but the fat 40 mm shell punched a colossal hole through the pump, and aviation fuel gushed out in a torrent.
As the fuel started to spread across the paved floor, Bolan revved the Cessna to full power and charged straight into the sunlight. He saw SanMarco screaming, as the Cessna bore down on the Bentley. But at the last second, he banked the plane hard, spinning it around in a tight circle and kicking up a huge cloud of dust.
Bolan heard the dull staccato of machine guns firing from the approaching vehicles and spiraled away from the hangar once more, increasing the protective dust cloud. Then he emptied the M16 into the hangar, the 5.56 mm rounds ricocheting wildly off the machinery and tools, throwing off a wealth of bright sparks.
Straightening the plane, Bolan accelerated toward the crude runway as a titanic explosion burst from the hangar, engulfing the Bentley. Blinded by the dust and smoke the guards braked their cars and started shooting in every direction.
A bullet zinged off the side window of the Cessna, and something hard smacked into the rear of his seat. Damn, these boys were good!
Shoving the M16 out the window, Bolan sent a shell into the group of armed men coming his way. It hit the soft ground directly before them, and the blast threw their tattered bodies high. Dropping the assault rifle, Bolan now grabbed the yoke in both hands and concentrated solely on getting his ass airborne. Long seconds ticked by before he finally reached operational speed, and the Cessna gently lifted off the ground.
Immediately, Bolan slipped to the left, then the right, then tried for the blue even while doing basic evasive maneuvers. He heard distant gunfire, but nothing seemed to hit the plane, and a few moments later he was far beyond the range of the guards and their weaponry.
Bolan checked his instruments and started making some course corrections. Okay, he was free and armed. Time to start tracking down the pirates again. He still needed to get that damn briefcase open and find some way to link the cell phone to the GPS dust tracers he had hidden in the Constitution’s cargo. That meant a quick trip to an old contact in Jamaica. There, he could borrow, buy or, if necessary, steal everything else he would need for the mission.
The decision made, the soldier settled in for a long flight.
Chapter 8
HMS Black Dog
Now flying the Scottish flag and renamed the Black Dog, the modified ore freighter sailed along the choppy waters, the bow cutting deep into the foamy brine.
It had taken the pirates a full day to probe every inch of the old ship, but there had been no more deadly surprises. However, they did locate a wealth of GPS tracking dots. These were burned.
The dangerously antiquated Howitzer on the main deck had been disassembled and consigned to Davy Jones’s locker. In its place was a SAM launcher artfully draped with a thick sheet of patched canvas.
In the command room, Narmada carefully sat down in his new captain’s chair, twisting it back and forth to make sure that the modifications could, and would, take his inordinate weight. The springs squeaked, but the chair held firm.
“My compliments to the Chief Mechanic,” said Narmada with a thin smile. “He did an excellent job on this.”
“She,” corrected Chung. “I promoted Ensign Lucinda to Chief Mechanic after she found the last of those damn global positioning tracers.”
“Hopefully all of them.”
“She got them all. We’re clean.”
“So Lieutenant Charleston is....?”
“Down in the engine room, oiling pistons and greasing widgets.”
“Was that wise?” asked Narmada in a flat tone.
Pulling out a knife, Chung shrugged. “Executive decision. I’m the First Officer, right?”
“Yes, you are,” said Narmada. “Nice to see you using the rank.”
“Shit!” snarled Lieutenant Fields, lowering her radio headphones.
Pivoting in his chair, Narmada cocked an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
“Yes, Sir,” Fields replied, turning off the satellite link. “The Yerrel Corporation in Amsterdam does not believe that we have the ability to sink any of their oil tankers.”
“Idiots,” chuckled Chung as he used the knife to carve off a slice of an apple. He popped the segment into his mouth. “How close are we to something they have?”
“Two hundred nautical miles, south-by-southwest.”
“ETA?” Narmada asked thoughtfully.
“Roughly three hours.”
He frowned. “Impossible! Unless...are we headed for each other?”
She smiled. “So, it would seem.”
“Readiness is all,” chuckled Chung, carving another slice.
Captain Narmada swung around in his oversized chair and studied the newly installed wall board. It was covered with tiny blinking lights showing the known location of possible targets—cargo ships, freighters, yachts and island resorts—along with the theoretical position of any military warships capable of successfully attacking his fleet. The Black Dog massively augmented the firepower of his trawlers, but Narmada was not enough of a fool, or an egoist, to even consider hitting anything from a major power, such as America, the United Kingdom, France or China. All he was interested in was making money and staying alive.
Born in the isolated hill country of Montenegro, Robertian Wolfe was a gangly child, always hungry and in constant pain. His mother had died bringing the giant child into the world, and his grief-stricken father had fled into the night never to be seen again.
Abandoned and alone, Wolfe was taken in as an orphan of the church. But even they had trouble feeding the rapidly growing infant. The village elders thought he was cursed, or possessed by demons, and tried to exorcise the child. But soon it was patently obvious that he was simply growing at a phenomenal rate. Over six feet tall at the age of ten, Wolfe’s prime interest in life was simply getting enough to eat to ease his nonstop growing pains.
Stealing chickens from his neighbors kept Wolfe alive—and thrown out of the church and into prison for two years. There, the young giant learned how to fight and then how to kill to stay alive. His natural size and speed made him a formidable opponent, and soon nearly all the prisoners were forced to pay Wolfe a small serving of their own meager rations or suffer the consequences. When he was finally released, Wolfe assumed the name Ravid Narmada and walked over the Black Mountains into Kosovo, where there were fewer laws and many more opportunities for a bold man who didn’t mind getting his hands bloody.
For years Narmada ran errands for warlords, smuggled drugs, stole fro
m wounded soldiers on both sides, looted churches and even sold medicine—most of which he made himself in a small basement—on the black market. Many of the patients treated with his crude snake-oil drugs died in horrible agony, but the money kept rolling in until he had amassed enough wealth to hire a few men with guns. Chung was the first, a cold man with no conscience. The man’s race had also opened previously closed doors in the Far East. Only a small crack at first, of course, but soon Narmada and the Sun Nee On Triad had a lucrative arrangement dealing drugs and slaves.
Using those profits to buy his first ship, a battered old Norwegian ore carrier, Narmada fled the cold rivers of Kosovo and escaped into the warm Mediterranean Sea. Working under the guise of a deep sea salvage company, he spent years attacking small villages along the Greek coast; delivering shipments of drugs for the triad; raiding Albanian sheep farms to feed his crew looting Italian villas, warehouses in Malta and shopping malls in Tripoli; and occasionally capturing other pirates for the reward. But soon, Narmada saw the critical flaw in that plan and instead started recruiting those other pirates.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Narmada specifically targeted Russian fishing trawlers. Because many of them were actually spy boats and the crews were no longer getting paid, Narmada easily captured the vessels, recruiting some of the more willing crew members and killing the rest. Soon the starving orphan from Montenegro found himself the commander of a small fleet of fishing trawlers equipped with advanced radar jamming equipment, sonar defusers and a plethora of weaponry, mostly AK-47 assault rifles, grenade launchers and flamethrowers.
From his early days in Kosovo, Wolfe remembered the raw terror those fiery weapons could create in a civilian population and now made them his trademark. A village on fire was bad enough, but trapped on the confines of a ship at sea, the crew soon had to surrender or die.
After that, it was open season on the high seas, and Narmada had to quickly learn about Swiss bank accounts and international bearer bonds to protect his growing wealth. Lieutenant Fields helped with that problem. She knew more about black-market currency than anybody he had ever known and was just as ethically ambiguous about the law as the rest of his crew. Aside from that, Narmada knew very little about the woman. She claimed to be Australian, but she spoke with a strong Russian accent. Personally, he did not care. Everybody had secrets. Fields was loyal and feared him. That was enough.
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