the prisoner around the throat and squeezed until the bones cracked, killing the man on the spot. Which was probably exactly what the rebel had hoped for in the first place—escape from the brutal torture to reveal the location of a hidden weapons cache. The doctors at Johannesburg had offered to repair the scar, but Zane refused, preferring to keep it as a grim reminder to himself to never again offer another person mercy.
“If only we had some fuel,” Southerland muttered, scowling into the distance. “Where are those fools?”
“Just arriving now, sir,” Sergeant Davidson said over the comm system. The pilot had stayed in the control room of the X-ship to monitor the pressure in the fuel tanks during refueling.
“And look what the idiots are carrying,” Major Theodora “Zolly” Henzollern drawled, lowering her binoculars.
Standing well over six feet tall, the major was a Nordic beauty with soft, curly blond hair that cascaded gently to her shoulders. Diagnosed as a sociopath as a child after burning her parents alive, Henzollern was sent to an insane asylum, but escaped as a teenager and roamed the streets robbing rich tourists, until being caught and forced to join the army.
In boot camp, her special talents were soon discovered, and the young woman was promptly put to work in the underground torture rooms for the Ministry of Defense, then into the field as a counterinsurgent for the Ministry of War, and finally recruited as a personal bodyguard for the legendary Colonel Southerland.
Seemingly impervious to the cold, Henzollern was also wearing a ghillie suit and sneakers, but carried a wide assortment of weaponry. A coiled garrote hung from her shoulder epaulet, an Italian stiletto was sheathed at her hip, an American switchblade knife tucked up a sleeve, and a French police baton was holstered at the small of her back. Holstered directly in front of her stomach was a brand-new, Heckler & Koch MP-7 machine pistol. Larger than a standard Colt .45 automatic pistol, the superfast HK could fire 950 rounds per minute, creating a wall-of-lead effect, the oversize clip containing 4.5 mm rounds of highly illegal, case-hardened steel penetrators that were capable of going straight through NATO-class body armor.
“Air tanks,” Southerland stormed, clenching his fists. “Those are conventional air tanks, not liquid air containers!”
“Yes, sir, they are,” she replied, brushing back her riot of curls with stiff fingers, her hand brushing against the coiled, plastic garrote on the way down. “It seems that O’Hara was right. He said not to trust these people. Guess the little bastard was correct.”
“So it would seem,” the colonel stated, forcing open his hands and clasping them behind his back in a martial stance.
Bouncing and shaking at every irregularity in the rough ground and coughing blue smoke, the battered old truck came to a rattling stop only a few yards from the colonel and major, smack in the shadow of the huge X-ship. Turning off the sputtering engine, the incredulous driver was unable to look away from the gigantic ship, but the fat man in the passenger seat seemed unimpressed. A missile was a missile; they were all the same. Big, noisy and expensive. Merely toys for governments, and not a proper weapon at all. Ivan Kleinof had made his fortune in the mean streets of Prague, Minsk, and finally Moscow with only an ice pick, nothing more. Even the old KGB had been afraid to cross the path of Icepick Ivan, the red czar of the Soviet underground.
“Greetings, my friends!” Kleinof boomed in a deep bass voice as he climbed down to the ground. “I have your shipment. Where is my money?”
“Inside my ship,” Southerland said woodenly. “But I don’t see my shipment. Is it hidden among those useless tanks of compressed air? Or perhaps it is lashed under the bed of that…well, let’s call it a truck, shall we?”
The smile vanished from Ivan’s face, and the driver behind the wheel put his hands out of sight below the dashboard.
“What are you babbling about, old man?” Kleinof shot back. “That is exactly what you ordered, a hundred thousand yards of oxygen and hydrogen, and right on schedule, too!”
“No, you’re over an hour late,” Southerland replied, bending his head slightly forward like a bull about to charge. “I order a hundred thousand gallons, not yards, fool, and those are compressed air cylinders, not liquid air tanks! Don’t you know the difference?”
“Bah, all oxygen is the same.” The man snorted, waving a hand to dismiss the claim. “My people stole these from a hospital. It is the very best oxygen and hydrogen. I should charge you more, so such quality, but a deal is a deal, eh?”
Pursing her lips, Henzollern noted the numerous splatters of blood on the outside of the air tanks, but that did not concern her. How these people got the fuel was not important. Only that they had brought the wrong stuff.
“As you say, a deal is a deal,” Southerland said, turning sideways. “And you have reneged on it completely.”
“What? I don’t know that word…renig?”
“Renege. It means to fail,” Southerland said calmly, turning his head slightly. “Zolly, please kill these idiots, but don’t hurt the truck. We may need that later.”
Suddenly grinning, Henzollern whipped forward the MP-7, the weapon firing into the cold ground, it stitched a path of destruction straight into Kleinof and up his body. Caught in the act of pulling an ice pick, the criminal’s face took on a strange expression as he broke apart and toppled to the ground in segments, wisps of steam rising from his internal organs.
Snarling a curse, the driver jerked up a pump-action shotgun and fired, but Southerland and Henzollern had already separated, and the hail of buckshot rained harmlessly off the hull of the X-ship.
As the driver worked the pump, Southerland came out of the roll on one knee and fitted the Webley, a foot-long lance of flame stabbed from the barrel. A hole appeared in the windshield of the truck, and the driver jerked backward as he sprouted a third eye. Moving his mouth as if talking, he convulsed, and the shotgun discharged, blowing a hole in the floorboard. A rush of pink gasoline chugged out of a severed fuel line, the cool liquid hissing as it hit the hot exhaust pipe. Southerland and Henzollern retreated quickly as there came a whoof from under the truck, and a few seconds later flames engulfed the vehicle, setting the corpse ablaze and licking out from around the hood. Keeping their distance, the man and woman waited until the shotgun shells cooked off from the heat, the random spray of buckshot finishing the job of shattering windows, flattening a tire and blowing off a door before stopping.
“Pretty,” Henzollern whispered softly, watching the growing conflagration.
Casting a glance at the killer, Southerland holstered his weapon and touched his throat mike. “Davidson, did you see?”
“Yes, sir,” came the crisp reply. “And I’ve already worked out the calculations. We can travel about fifty miles on what is remaining in the auxiliary tanks and fuel lines. But after that we’re dead on the ground.”
Unacceptable. Whipping out a cell phone, the colonel tapped in a long number, then listened carefully for eight clicks as the call was relayed twice around the world via satellites.
“Yes, Colonel, was there trouble?” Eric O’Hara said as a greeting.
Southerland detected a faint sneer in the hacker’s voice and accepted the unspoken reproof. He had been wrong, O’Hara right. He couldn’t fault the man for feeling smug. That was only human. But if the hacker had said anything out loud, he would have killed him.
“We
