style="font-size:15px;"> And Bolan found himself staring at Commander Raz Tachjine, the muzzle of the Moroccan’s Spanish Ameli machine gun aimed at his chest.
RON BARAKA WAS DISTURBED. As he stepped away from the Learjet, greeted by his three most trusted fighters, he was hit by the first wave of bad news. It was troubling enough, shouldering the overthrow of an entire country, with Yemen in the wings, but there was no word out of Casablanca about the down payment to the North Koreans, and the way Engels informed him about Colonel Yoon Kimsung’s growing agitation and desire to leave Morocco, it sounded like the deal was about to fall through. No way, at the eleventh hour, he thought, would he be left holding the crap end of the stick.
Baraka heaved a breath, marching toward the first line of tents and stone hovels. He let his gaze wander over the sprawling camp, taking in the vast motor pool of Hummers, four-wheel drive SUVs and the rust bucket Toyota pickups most of the rabble here used as transport. Kairoush had fielded a small army of extremists, all of them well armed, with heavy machine-gun nests grabbing up turf on four points, but he had plopped them down in some of the most godforsaken country he could imagine. For miles in any direction it was all sand and stone, with some ancient ruins sprouting up to the west of camp. Marrakech, about twenty klicks or so west, was as close to civilization as he would find. Well, the Consortium had never promised him a day at one of Morocco’s beaches or leisurely booze-sodden nights in the clubs and cabarets. Still, he was mired in the bowels of hell, and the coming days didn’t bode much better for any decent change of scenery. During the day it was blistering hot, with the occasional Bedouin caravan with camels wandering the desert wasteland. At night it was bitter cold, with gusts blowing down from the mountains that could chill a man to the bone. He spied the fire barrels, shucking his black leather bomber jacket higher up his shoulders, the armed shadows of extremists looking his way. He was aware of the HK MP-5 slung across his shoulder, briefly wondered if he’d be forced to confront the NKs at gunpoint if they reneged on the deal.
“Hold up,” Baraka told his men, Engels, Durban and Morallis forming a half ring around him as he stared out across the rolling dunes, dark humps like a camel’s back outlined by moon, starlight and the combined glow of firelight and kerosene lamps around the camp.
And Baraka began looking toward the immediate future. Two Huey choppers and one Bell JetRanger, purchased at considerable expense through Consortium contacts high up in the Moroccan military, were grounded in a gorge in the mountain foothills. Getting to the far southern desert wastes of Morocco near the Mauritania border where the two C-47 Dakota transports waited wasn’t the problem. Hell, if he wanted, he could kill the North Koreans, take the nuke and fly on. No, the Consortium was in the revolution for the long run, no shortcuts, no quick fixes. He was to arrange the purchase of two more backpack nukes ASAP, as in this night. He wasn’t to fly off for the Angolan border without the package. Besides, he needed Katanga out of Barcelona and en route for his big return by sunrise. So much to do, he thought, so little time…
“Since there’s no word out of Casablanca,” Baraka told his men, “we’ll assume the worst. Either Kairoush took our money and ran or someone got to him.”
“If that’s the case,” Morallis said, “then our time in this country has run out.”
“You think?” Baraka quietly rasped. “Okay, we have how much cash on hand?”
“Three bags,” Durban said. “Just under ten mil.”
“I want you three to go get it,” Baraka said. “The North Koreans have stated they’re with us all the way through the revolution. They want in, they’ll have to take whatever money we have for now.”
“Yeah,” Engels growled, “they left at our disposal all of one full squad of their Special Forces. We’re not exactly battalion strength when we go marching into Luanda.”
Baraka ignored the skepticism. Grimly aware of the long odds, he knew that without the threat of the backpack nuke there was very little chance they could pull off the seemingly impossible. Morocco today, Angola tomorrow, then Yemen. Then what?
Telling himself he worried too much, he drifted a hard look over the grizzled, bristled faces of his soldiers. “We go with what we have. Go get the money. I’ll take care of the North Koreans, but be ready to back my play.”
Nodding, they strode off, their HK subguns in hand, Baraka wondering how many men he would lose in the coming revolt. Sure, the Consortium could always recruit more shooters, but finding hardened, bonafied warriors like the men he now commanded was next to impossible.
Go with what I have.
There was no other way.
Swiftly he rolled into camp, silently cursing the dark eyes boring their natural hostility into the side of his head. Say something had happened to Kairoush and his people in Casablanca, word reaching the top lieutenants here that the infidels needed to be skewered and hung over a fire for some imagined treachery that was beyond his control? Twenty shooters of his own on hand wouldn’t cut it against an extremist strong force of eighty or so. The only option, if a storm blew over the camp, would be to cut and run.
Baraka found Merkelson guarding the tent where his NK guests waited. He swept through the flaps, found the three North Koreans turning his way, wearing their perpetual scowls carved in stone, and demanded to know, “Is there a problem?”
“YOU WANT TO EXPLAIN, Tachjine, just what the hell you think you’re doing?”
Bolan listened as Dawkins echoed his angry thoughts, but the soldier was more focused on the Ameli subguns, as Tachjine’s six-man force spread out in a standard flanking pattern, taking cover behind crates, forklifts, weapons swinging this way and that.
“The weapons, gentlemen!” Tachjine barked. “You will drop them now!”
“Or what?” Dawkins snarled. “You’re going to gun down American agents you swore up and down to cooperate with. Or are you just some lying backstabbing sack of—”
“Drop the guns!”
And Bolan saw their own four-man force barrel through the door, HK subguns out and fanning the Moroccan commandos, the tension shooting up to superheated as their team pealed off in twos, sealing the six of their foreign so-called hosts. The Executioner sidled for a crate, heart thundering in his ears, while he drew the Uzi, watched both sides whirling on each other, shouting and cursing. If, Bolan thought, this was Tachjine playing out a dirty hand then he was steeled to go the distance.
“Enough! Silence!” Tachjine roared, the Moroccan commander raising his Ameli subgun over his head, as if the gesture was an olive branch. “We can talk this out!”
“Bullshit!” Dawkins growled. “You just murdered a man in cold blood. He was our prisoner and he had valuable information.”
Bolan took cover behind the edge of a crate, Uzi pointed at Tachjine’s chest, Beretta holding steady on swarthy faces framed in black helmets. “You better explain yourself, Commander. And if anyone starts shooting, you’re the first one I drop.”
“And believe me,” Dawkins said, “Agent Cooper hasn’t struck me as being long-winded on diplomacy.”
The short, swarthy, goateed Tachjine nodded, an odd smile creasing his lips. “I believe that. It would appear Special Agent Ballard has had a very busy night already. I count nine bodies to his credit, and the night is still young.”
“Saying you’ve been following us?” Dawkins quipped,
