were you saying again?” Barbara asked, easing her grip.
“Yes, sensei,” he wheezed softly.
“Senpai,” Barbara corrected. “I’m only a teacher, not a master.”
Seeing that everything was in order, Montenegro bowed to the class, then crossed the mats to kiss Bolan warmly on the cheek. “Nice to see you again, Blackie.”
“Same here, Heather.” Bolan smiled. “You look great.”
“You, too!” Montenegro chuckled.
“I see you’ve updated the curriculum,” Kirkland said diplomatically.
“Shut up! Never speak to me again,” Montenegro growled. “And just who the hell do you think you are?”
Confused by that, Kirkland struggled to formulate a response as Montenegro strode down the hallway to the locker room.
After a moment, the men followed.
“So, where are we going, jungle or desert?” Montenegro asked, taking off the black belt before going into a private changing stall.
“We’ll discuss that somewhere less public,” Bolan said, leaning against the wall. “But pack light.”
There came the sound of a running shower. “Guns, guts and garters?”
“That sounds about right.”
“If you need any help with the garters, just let me know,” Kirkland said teasingly.
“Why, are yours slipping?” Montenegro asked as the shower stopped. “Colonel, are you sure that we need the shaved ape?”
“Wouldn’t have brought Bill along if he wasn’t necessary,” Bolan said, trying not to grin. “And call me Matt during this gig.”
“Matt it is,” Montenegro replied. “I suppose that somebody has to carry the luggage.”
“Heather, don’t say things like that!” Kirkland exclaimed in a shocked voice. “We don’t think of you as the luggage! More like…deadweight.”
Just then, the door swung open and Montenegro stepped out of a steamy cloud. She was still barefoot, but was now wearing a loose khaki shirt tucked into cargo shorts that showed a lot of leg. Her tousled hair was damp, but Montenegro was wearing full makeup, with jade earrings and a silver necklace.
“What happened to your legs?” Bolan asked in surprise.
“Laser surgery,” she replied, stepping into sneakers. “Scars make a man look tough, but aren’t very attractive on a woman.”
Just then, his cell phone vibrated and he took the call.
“Heads up! The main NASA launch facility at Cape Canaveral has just been attacked,” Bolan announced. “Over a hundred dead, including the head of NASA. The assembly building is gone, along with the prototype for the new Falcon rocket. Most of the base is on fire…”
He scowled. “Okay, Base. Striker out.” He put away the cell phone.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the locker room changed.
“Okay, I brought a full kit, and Matt has an arsenal,” Kirkland said quickly. “Anything special you need at home?”
“Yes, some new Glocks that I’ve been training with, and my body armor,” Montenegro replied, tucking away the knife.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got enough level four body armor to sink Manhattan.”
“General issue level four, or some specifically tailored for female soldiers?”
“General issue.” He gestured at the door. “Okay, you’re right. Lead the way.”
As Montenegro started down the stairs, she asked over a shoulder, “What’s our first move, Matt?”
“I have our ride waiting at the airport,” Bolan said. “From Miami we fly directly to Andrews Air Force Base where we pick up some heavy ordnance and switch to a C-130 Hercules.”
“And then?” Montenegro asked, pushing open the ground-floor door and rushing across the lobby.
Both men said nothing until they were outside and on the street.
“Sri Lanka,” Kirkland replied. “We’re going after the White Tigers.”
She paused. “They’re behind the attack on NASA?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Bolan said honestly.
Furrowing her brow, Montenegro started to ask a question, then comprehension flared.
“You clever bastards,” she said, slowly smiling. “Come on, my Hummer is this way. Let’s go!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Eyl Bay, Somalia
The morning sun was bright and hot enough to melt the flesh off a person’s back.
The sluggish water in the bay moved thick and gray, foamy with toxic chemicals, and raw sewage floated about on the surface. Seagulls screamed in annoyance overhead, and dead fish lay rotting on the pebble shore. Not even the local insect population was interested.
Clustered protectively along a torpid river were hundreds of ramshackle buildings. Most of them were squat and ugly, the ancient engineering adage of “form follows function” played out here as the impoverished inhabitants were forced to make do with whatever they could get their hands on. However, there were a handful of large buildings, made of tan brick instead of crude adobe bricks. The roofs were beautiful blue domes that reflected the bright sunlight, and more than a few had television antennas or shiny satellite dishes. The cracked streets were strewn with garbage, dotted with potholes and puddles of human waste.
There were no cars or any other form of motorized conveyance in sight. No music could be heard playing anywhere. There were no factory whistles, fire alarms, church bells, school bells or police sirens, only a deafening silence to go with the oppressive heat. The starving people shuffled along like an army of the damned heading back into Hell.
The town boasted a crude dockyard, the concrete pilings pitting under the salty spray. The workers were lean, but seemed almost fat in comparison to the people in town. Their clothing was a mixture of old and new, all of it clean, and they were heavily armed with multiple pistols, knives, machetes and well-oiled AK-47 assault rifles.
Using a plastic funnel, a tall man was carefully pouring gasoline into an engine bolted to a speedboat. “Is that enough, cousin?” he asked, stopping to straighten a kink in his sore back.
“More than enough,” the captain replied, screwing down the cap to the fuel tank. “With luck we should make a fine haul today. Our scouts along the coastline report that there is a yacht only fifty miles away.”
“A rich yacht full of fat men and their pale wives with big breasts?”
