answer my question before you really start to piss me off.”
Mitchell was taking a step toward the man, on the verge of slapping a straight answer out of him, when the front door crashed open. For a second he was paralyzed at the sight of four armed blacks charging the room, frozen long enough for the invaders to begin unleashing autofire. By the time he palmed his Beretta, he glimpsed Johannsen tumbling to the deck, scarlet fingers spurting from his skull and chest, then felt the first few rounds tearing into flesh pitching him, back and down.
MIRBA SETTLED the severed head beside the man’s notebook computer, placed the card with the image of Al-Jassaca in a spreading pool of blood. Quickly he wiped the knife on the man’s shirt, sheathing the blade as he sensed a presence just beyond the doorway to the study. He slipped the AKM off his shoulder.
“You’ve had your fun. I suggest you vacate now.”
It had been almost too easy, dropping the sentries, lopping off their bullet-shattered heads, then penetrating through the kitchen door. He wasn’t sure what he’d actually expected—more hardmen, bells and alarms blaring, some type of resistance—but he had gunned down the CIA man with a quick burst of autofire where he sat, scrolling through what looked like an endless series of numbers. Not a stir in the house, until now.
Mirba, though, knew all along what he would do when he encountered the traitor. His part of the mission was finished, and so was the American, as he turned, found the shadow, armed with a pistol, looming tall and angry in the doorway. Witnesses, even paymasters, were always a liability.
“I’ll take it from here.”
And Mirba lifted his AKM, squeezed the trigger and blew the infidel traitor off his feet. The nameless adversary was grunting curses, rolling on his side, pistol tracking when Mirba drilled a 3-round burst into his chest.
All done, he figured as he took the laptop and dumped it in a nylon sack and began his retreat from the abattoir, as silent as a ghost.
THE CROWD BURST into a stampede with the opening rounds. Their terror and panic was pure sweet music to his ears, a taste of paradise, he thought as he surged into the banquet room swinging the Czech subgun to his three o’clock as Bodyguard-driver Two was digging into his coat for his weapon. Number One was already tumbling back, pasta and sauces flying through the air, when Haludba Demmahom hit the second guard with an SMG blast. He aimed for the face, having already noted the extra girth beneath the shirts, hit the grim snarl point-blank with. Number Two kicked off his feet, he advanced deeper into the room, found the two HVTs jumping from their seats. The DOD man was hauling his bulk for the exit door next when Demmahom gave him some lead, squeezing off a short burst that stitched him up the arm before his head burst apart in a gory detonation of red and gray. Advancing, he looked at the senator who had his hands raised, blubbering something Demmahom couldn’t make out through the maelstrom of shouts and screams to his rear. A check of his watch, counting down to pay dirt, and he delivered 7.62 mm judgment to the senator, shredding his white shirt to a crimson rag, the man windmilling his arms as he jig stepped, tumbling over his seat, down and crashing to a twitching sprawl.
All computers and paperwork, he’d been told, were to be taken.
Not much time, as he kicked it into another higher gear, yanking the folded nylon pouch from the small of his back, dumping the laptop and two briefcases into the big sack.
Flipping the calling card with the picture of the beast of Judgment Day on their table, he made the fire exit door with seconds to spare. The thunderous retort of the explosion brought a smile to his lips. With any luck, he thought, what was a paltry body count would rise before he vanished from the premises, God willing.
THE FLASH-STUN GRENADE stole him critical seconds. As Rikaz Hanahzud charged down the foyer, his senses choked with dust and cordite, he held back on the subgun’s trigger. He found them in the living room, on their feet now, as they hopped, deaf and blind, around the coffee table, screaming as he ripped them apart with a long stuttering burst. They were crashing down as he took the corner post, peering through the smoke, watching the hall opposite the living room.
For some reason he felt disappointed, having hoped to encounter a larger group.
Two dead CIA officials, though, and their gunmen had to suffice for the moment. Tonight, four dead infidels. Tomorrow was another day. All this racket, he knew, was sure to alert the neighbors. Time to pack it up.
Whether the blast or a few rounds from his subgun, he found both laptops had been reduced to mangled shards. There was a way to retrieve what was on the hard drives—or so he hoped—though he wasn’t sure of the procedure.
Later, once he was clear and free.
There were papers, some floating to the floor now, so he quickly filled his nylon sack with ruins and paperwork, then retraced his path. At the front door, he found the hall empty, dropped a card with the image of Al-Jassaca on one of the dead sentries, and marched away, hoping God guided him safe and unmolested through the night.
IT WAS A SICKENING display of pure savagery, but Ron Baraka had expected nothing less. The good news, from where he stood, slipping into the apartment, AK-74 up and ready, was their bloodlust had so consumed them they were blinded to all else except their machetes hacking off arms. One quick assessment and he could tell Guangalat had given the order to shoot low, gut shots or legs, but to keep a couple of them breathing long enough to become amputees. He understood a little Bantu from all the years he’d spent in Angola, knew Guangalat was in a mindless rage, feeling duped, no doubt, that the real Katanga hadn’t stepped out from behind door number one.
Tough. Katanga was the org’s meal ticket. It was the diamonds he had come here for, content to leave the dirty work to hired field hands.
Without warning, Merkelsen stepping up on his right wing, they cut loose with autofire, sweeping the Angolans, left to right, their lackeys unable to do much else besides lurch to their feet, shout in pain and shock, and it was done.
There was a groan, the pitiful sound marking the remains of the ringer as he rolled around in his own blood, glazed eyes searching out a mercy nowhere to be found. As Merkelsen swept the diamonds off the table, Baraka looked at Mitchell. The thief was dead. Lucky for him, he thought, or he might be tempted to do some on-the-spot surgery himself. How long and how much carat weight the man had stolen from him he didn’t know, but a quick look at the size of the pouch and Baraka figured the thief had come here, part baby-sitter, but looking to walk off with a few mil in cold cash. Sashay off into the sunrise, waving a middle finger salute at the Organization.
It was, yes, about the money, Baraka knew, but there was a bigger picture to consider as he turned and followed Merkelsen for the door.
There were entire nations, perhaps even the world to conquer.
CHAPTER TWO
It was called the Serpent Tank, and from what Mack Bolan had gathered, he suspected it was aptly named. According to the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm, the ultracovert intelligence base in rural Virginia, it was a CIA slush fund, created for the express purpose of buying arms—small and large—information, and whatever in-country contract players that could aid and assist Company black operatives in tracking down the enemies of America and the free world. The trouble was, given his vast experience in dealing with the CIA, what with the double-dealing, double-speaking, backstabbing operatives he’d encountered over the years, he couldn’t help but wonder how many snakes were in charge of the tank, and what some of the funds might actually be used for. The short list could include narcotics, arms, even WMD for enemies of
