plastic furniture was dull, dark slate gray, in variance with the usual olive-drab shell that the AUG was adorned with. Kamau flipped over the rifle, and in the glow of the flashlight beam, Bolan could see frayed fabric hooked to a collar around the ejection port.
“They took their brass with them,” Kamau noted. “Probably will ditch it off a pier.”
“Those are paranoid levels of operational security,” Bolan said. He picked up the Steyr and worked the spring-loaded bolt handle. The chamber was empty. Whoever had sanitized the weapon had thought to take the round in the breech, as well as the remainder of its magazine. “We won’t get fingerprints off this, nor do we have serial numbers on this thing.”
“Fingerprints,” Kamau noted. “You have your own crime lab or something, Cooper?”
“I’ve got a few friends who can look through Interpol databases for relevant information.”
“How do we know you’re not a policeman?” Kamau asked.
“Would a policeman drop a grenade in a suspect’s lap?” Bolan countered.
“This is Somalia, Cooper. We chop off thieves’ hands and hurl rocks at the heads of women who won’t let their husbands have their way with them,” Kamau answered. There was a hint of a sneer on the big Somali’s lips, a hint of disgust at the behavior of the men who claimed to be the law. “Blowing the hell out of a man with a grenade would make you a saintly police officer, because you at least give a quick death.”
“I’m as much of a cop as you are, Kamau,” Bolan said. In all likelihood, the Executioner figured he hadn’t told the man a lie. Bolan was no officer of the law. He wasn’t some civil servant with a .44 Magnum. The Executioner was his own man, a warrior who haunted the shadows of the world, seeking out the criminals and psychopaths who haunted decent citizens of every country. Kamau, with his hint of moral indignation at the abuses of the Shabaab and the Islamic Courts Union in Kismayo, was someone who was more likely a policeman, working undercover. If he wasn’t working for a government law-enforcement agency, then he was likely a lone crusader, much like Bolan himself.
Kamau looked at Bolan under a heavily hooded beetle brow, suspicion dancing in his eyes like reflected firelight. It was a moment that the Executioner had experienced many times before, facing down a man who could have been either friend or foe. Though Kamau could easily have been mistaken for a muscle-bound brute, he had a sharp awareness in his gaze. The Somali strongman buried his glimmer of curiosity and extended a hand. “You mess with Masozi, I’ll tear you apart.”
Bolan nodded. “I don’t doubt that. The Egyptian…”
“Mubarak,” Kamau interjected.
“Mubarak cheated me. I only came to show him my displeasure,” Bolan said.
Kamau looked around at the spatter of blood. “You were displeased by these people?”
“Yeah,” Bolan answered.
“Then let’s file our complaint together,” Kamau suggested, a grin forming on his lips.
Bolan nodded. That Kamau offered Mubarak’s name indicated that there was a foundation of conspiratorial trust between the two men. Cop or crusader, the big man was offering a shred of cooperation.
“You two done up there?” Masozi asked.
“Cooper’s rocket launcher sent the bastards packing,” Kamau called down from the roof. The pair hopped off and landed on the ground, crouching deep enough to absorb the impact of their fall.
“Whoever they were, though, they were interested more in Mubarak than they were you,” Bolan told Masozi.
“Perhaps,” the Somali said, derision dripping from the term. “They brought a fight to my doorstep.”
Bolan looked at the storehouse. “And whatever they did, they were done with this place. They could have stuck around, but since the storehouse and Mubarak’s magic beans were destroyed, they bugged out.”
Masozi sneered. “Mubarak was pretty convincing about the potency of those seeds.”
Bolan shrugged. “Neither of us have what we wanted, and it’s not like this remaining rocket launcher is going to satisfy the both of us.”
Masozi tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Mubarak had a stash that he was parceling out to us,” Bolan answered. “We want our gear.”
“So we head to Egypt and grab Mubarak’s weapons?” Masozi asked. “With what army? My Shabaab has been decimated. Did you find anything at all?”
“They left nothing. No casings, and a completely empty rifle that we won’t be able to trace,” Kamau told his boss. “But since they had lots of firepower, and came here after Mubarak, if we find out where the guns came from, we will not only get that for ourselves, but hit back against the scum who hurt our operation.”
Masozi looked around. “We don’t have a lot of resources.”
“I could help,” Bolan offered. “I generally operate solo, but I’m not going to be able to haul a lot of stuff by myself.”
“What makes you think we’d let you take anything?” Masozi asked.
“What makes you think Mubarak’s people don’t have more than all of your people could carry, and then some?” Bolan asked. “We go there, we hit the mother lode.”
Masozi looked to Kamau. “This sound like a good idea?”
“I’m just in this to get some payback,” Kamau replied. “Those were my men murdered by these sneaky bastards. Can’t hurt to get some free weapons in the trade-off.”
Masozi nodded. “All right. Let’s get some order back in this compound. We’ll need whatever boats we can scrounge to transport the men to retrieve the guns, and to bring them back here.”
Kamau and Bolan looked at each other.
Something bigger had just replaced the destruction of the Shabaab militiamen under Masozi. Something dark and ominous that threatened more than just the shipping lanes around the Horn of Africa.
The incinerated remains of jars full of ricin seed, buried in the collapsed storeroom, were the portent of an apocalyptic threat.
CHAPTER THREE
Egypt, the Sinai Peninsula, two days later
Blunt fingers clamped around Rashida Metit’s upper arm as she was hauled out of the tent where the women of the archaeological expedition had been held hostage. She struggled to break free of the ham-handed grasp, but her captor slammed a handgun slide across her cheek. Metit could feel a trickle of blood dribble from the cut on her face.
When the man tugged again, she went along without further resistance. Metit recovered enough of her senses to do no more than put one foot in front of the other, and when her captor shoved her into another tent, she stumbled headfirst through the flaps, crashing to the sandy floor.
The structure she was in had become the official “rape tent.” It stunk
