Fifteen
Salalah, Oman
“We Viking guys get all the shit assignments.” Rafe Sifuentes scowled as he looked around the Café Américain. “And this place? Total latrine.”
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, nodded. The bar was in fact something of a dump. The name was a dim nod to the film Casablanca, and that was about all it had in common with Humphrey Bogart’s place. Café Américain was one of the few government-licensed bars in Oman not attached to an international hotel, and it catered to sailors and foreign dockworkers in the Port of Salalah, as well as locals who could afford the bribe and wished to drink illegally outside their homes. It sported several big-screen TVs tuned to FOX News and international football. Sifuentes, a former US Army Ranger, was Texan, in his early twenties and sported military and Mexican religious tattoos over much of his physique.
“I’ve been in worse places,” Bolan admitted.
“Is that even possible?”
The Executioner took a long pull of his lager. “At least the beer is cold.”
“Yeah, well, settle in then, pilgrim, ’cause this is where we R & R until further notice. I was talking to a Rampart asshole at the airport. You know where his team spent time off between ships? The Seychelles. You know where that is?”
Bolan nodded.
Sifuentes went on anyway. “I had to wiki that shit. Tropical island paradise. Before that? The guy was in Goa—girls, ganja and surfing. Me and you, amigo? We’re in Salalah. What the hell kind of name is that? Sounds like a kid made it up. What the hell are we supposed to do here?”
“Tell you what, Sifuentes. If you stand up on the bar and sing Feliz Salalah, your drinks are free the rest of the night.”
Sifuentes laughed despite himself.
Bolan shrugged. “The locals will love you.”
“Dude, you maintain what my XO in Afghanistan called an eternally sunny disposition.”
“Like I said, the beer is cold.” Bolan tipped his bottle at Sifuentes. “And we’re getting paid. I’ve been in situations where none of that was happening.”
Sifuentes stared at Bolan as they toasted. “I bet you have. One of these days we need to talk.”
“One of these days,” Bolan agreed, raising his bottle and his voice. “But in the meantime, here’s to the sultan! Long may he reign! Insha’Allah!”
Several Omani men at the closest table smiled around the wads of khat in their mouths and raised their illegal beers in toast to their sultan.
“Well, look at you, gaining friends and winning influence.”
“Best to keep the locals happy,” Bolan observed. “Besides. We’ve got problems.”
Sifuentes blinked. “What kind of problems?”
“A guy walked in a minute ago and sat at a table in the corner with three other guys.”
Sifuentes casually glanced at the four men, who looked local but were wearing Western clothing. “Yeah?”
“He was one of the two guys who followed us from our room half an hour ago.”
“I didn’t know we’d been followed.”
“I wasn’t positive. Now I am.”
“So, what do we do?”
Bolan admitted to himself it was a good question. Sifuentes worked security for Viking Associates. The company hired ex-military men as security guards aboard major ships whose trade routes passed through known piracy corridors. Bolan was a paid employee of Viking as well, but he was undercover. The most pressing problem facing him and Sifuentes was that they were armed guards who weren’t currently armed. They were not licensed bodyguards, or anyone’s VIP security detail with diplomatic immunity. They could not carry guns in the Sultanate of Oman. They were issued arms only when they were out at sea in international waters, and Bolan had not been out yet.
“Harsh language?” Sifuentes suggested.
“Broken bottles and bar stools might be better. But at least two of those guys are packing, and I don’t like the odds.”
“You’re an observant son of a bitch.”
“Here’s what we do. We break out of here.”
“Then what?”
“We split up.”
Sifuentes’s face fell. “Aww, shit, man. Don’t you pull a fade on me now! Just when I was starting to like you!”
“No, escape and evade. They left one guy outside. They can’t chase us both. These guys can’t keep up with you, and despite what you might think about a guy my age, I can shake these guys.”
Sifuentes began to see it. “So they got nothing left but to go back to staking out our room again.”
“Right.”
“Then what—we camp on the beach and call for extraction?”
“No, their initial freak-out will give us some time. We lead them on a tour of the neighborhood and then go back to our room.”
“Then what?”
“You call Viking while I go shopping. Then we settle their hash.”
Sifuentes smiled. “You sexy bastard.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“So?”
“So, Sifuentes, one, two, three.” Bolan nodded. “Go!”
They shot to their feet and hit the door running. The men at the back table shouted in consternation. Two pulled pistols while the other two pulled phones. Bolan heard a gunshot, and patrons began shouting and screaming as he and Sifuentes burst out onto the waterfront. The sun was just starting to go down. Bolan broke west for the suq, dodging longshoremen, motor carts
