Dead in the Water

Not all publicity is good publicity. Especially when the fake hijacking of the world’s first self-sustaining vessel turns into the real deal. With the ship and its cargo being auctioned off to terrorists, Mack Bolan must rescue the hostages and destroy the vessel before it falls into even more dangerous hands.

Joining Somali pirates on a raid gets Bolan on board, but getting off alive won’t be so easy. Mercenaries and criminal foot soldiers have taken over, transforming the vessel into a minefield. Bolan will need to act quickly to take control, and with the extraction window closing, the Executioner is ready to turn this ship into the Titanic.

“We need a new plan.”

“The plan is fine,” Spence snapped. “It was fine—until you had to start making changes. I shouldn’t even be here! I’m not a goddamn field agent!”

Bolan didn’t waste his breath arguing. The sun was starting to rise. Once they lost the dark, they’d lose the only real protection they had. The militants would realize they were facing only two men, and they’d swarm. Bolan and Spence had to take the fight to the enemy.

Bolan popped a smoke canister out of his harness and pulled the pin. He lobbed the grenade over the wall and immediately grabbed another. “Get ready to move,” he said as he sent the second spinning along the narrow street. Colored smoke started spitting into the night air.

“Move where?” Spence demanded.

“Where do you think?” Bolan asked, pointing toward the building where the bulk of the incoming fire was emanating from. “You said we needed to bring a gift, right? Well, how about we give your friends the best gift of all—dead enemies.”

Final Assault

Don Pendleton

Justice is a temporary thing that must at last come to an end; but the conscience is eternal and will never die.

—Martin Luther

Justice may be temporary, but my war against injustice is everlasting.

—Mack Bolan

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

Legend

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Copyright

1

The Gulf of Aden

The inflatable rafts glided across the dark water toward the looming bulk of their target. Garrand crouched in the lead raft, eyes on the prize, finger on the trigger. He expected no complications—the plan was solid—but it was best to prepare for trouble.

Georges Garrand always had a plan. It was his compulsion and his pride, and it had seen him through his term of service in the French Foreign Legion in addition to other, less praiseworthy organizations. Be prepared for enemy action and the screwups of your friends, and seize opportunity wherever and whenever you find it.

That motto was the reason Garrand was out here now, riding one of three military surplus boats with twenty of the hardest bastards in his Rolodex, armed to the teeth and high on coffee and ephedrine tablets. That was why he was going to take the Demeter.

The world’s first self-sustaining vessel, the Demeter was a super-yacht. The cargo holds had been converted into, among other things, two decks of passenger cabins, a five-star galley and hydroponic farms. An artificial cove had been built into the forward area of the hull, at the waterline, for fishing. The vessel had roughly 4,300 square feet of solar panels attached to it and an 860-foot skysail, which could be deployed at the touch of a button. A backup diesel engine was located on an engineering deck the size of a small village.

It was a floating city. A small city, true, but worth more money than Garrand had ever seen. And it was his for the taking if his plan went off without a hitch. Which it would, because it was his plan.

Two fingers tapped his shoulder, and he glanced back at his second-in-command, Yacoub. The Moroccan pulled down the edge of his keffiyeh and grinned. “What a way to earn a paycheck, eh, Georges?” Yacoub had served in the Legion with him, and when Garrand had decided to seek larger fortunes for less risk, the other man had come along.

“There are worse ways. And keep your cover on. There are too many cameras on that boat. No sense in giving the game away early.” Garrand tugged on his own keffiyeh for emphasis. All of the men in the rafts wore them, along with stripped-down FELIN suits. The electronics had been removed from the flak jackets and they didn’t have helmets, but all the men carried FAMAS rifles. The bullpup-style assault rifles were the service weapon of the French military, with a large trigger guard, a STANAG magazine and a handguard just below the muzzle. It was a compact, efficient weapon...two things Garrand prized.

Standardization of equipment was one of Garrand’s keystones. If everyone was using the same type of weapon, ammo rationing would be easier. He’d gotten the equipment, and more besides, from a black market dealer who’d owed him a favor or six. An investment in mercy that had paid large dividends.

Their clothing had been dyed and artfully torn in places to give the impression of hard use. Yacoub and several of the others, those who could pass for locals at a distance, had stripped the sleeves from their shirts. Garrand, born and raised in Marseille, kept his sleeves pulled down. The deception wouldn’t pass muster with anyone who was halfway knowledgeable about the region, but that wasn’t Garrand’s problem. It wouldn’t matter in the long run, at any rate.

As they drew close to the Demeter, he caught the faint sounds of music and laughter from the upper decks, far above his head. Garrand smiled. It was the Demeter’s world tour, and besides her crew, guests of every social stripe as well as their hangers-on and members of the press were on board. He had memorized the names and faces and the net worth of each just in case. It always pays to have a backup plan.

“What fool thought this was a good place for a party?” Yacoub asked, shaking his head. “It’s like they’re begging to be attacked.”

“This tub has a security force of thirty, and it’s reinforced to the point of ridiculousness. Even the most aggressive pirates couldn’t take the Demeter,” Garrand said. “It’s the floating equivalent of a gated community. What better way to show how secure it is than to float right through pirate alley?”

Yacoub shook his head again. “Still seems like asking for trouble to me.” He laughed and hefted his assault rifle. “But who am I to judge?”

“We’ve got a ten-minute window in the Maritime Security Patrol area, so when we have boots on the deck, move quick,” Garrand said, looking at the others. “We need to hit them hard and fast before they know what’s going on. Take over the control and engine rooms, and that’s game, set and match. And keep your cover up. We’re being paid to look like pirates, so play pirate. Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to.”

“You sure about the timing?” one of the others grunted. A Serbian named Borjan. Garrand looked at him, and Borjan fell silent. Garrand was touchy about his plans. They all knew that, but it didn’t stop some of them from pressing the issue.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I am quite sure.” Garrand looked back toward the vessel. “Aim for the cove,” he said to the man controlling the tiller. Until recently, he’d been part of the Demeter’s security staff, just like everyone on Garrand’s team. Garrand himself had been head of security before he and his men were very publicly fired. All part of their employer’s plan. It was a good plan. His was better, though. More profitable, too.

The cove was shuttered, as he’d expected. The metal doors could be opened from within when the Demeter was anchored, allowing the artificial cove to flood. But it was standard procedure to keep the Demeter shuttered tight while in the designated hot spots—the Gulf of Aden, the Strait of Malacca, a few others. Garrand knew this because he’d come up with that policy himself. He also knew the strength of the shutters, having overseen their installation. They would resist most forms of explosive...unless it was attached at just the right point.

“Chuckles,” Garrand said. The big American mercenary gave a grunt of acknowledgment and slid to the side of the raft, a shaped charge in his hands. He leaned out and gestured. Garrand nodded. “That’s it. Hurry it up. We have a hijacking to get on with.”

“Just call me D. B. Cooper,” Chuckles said, as he attached the charge to the spot Garrand had indicated. When it exploded, it would disable the shutters’ locking mechanism. Without that, the hull would ratchet open.

“I would, but we’re not in a plane and you’re terrible with parachutes,” Garrand said. “Set the damn thing up. We’re on a schedule.” He signaled for the tillerman to pull the raft back. The explosion wouldn’t be large, but no sense tempting fate. Garrand waved the other two rafts back, as well. “Wait...” he said as Chuckles readied the detonator.

“I know, I know,” the mercenary replied. Garrand frowned at the edge in the other man’s voice; Chuckles was good at his job, but he was testy. He didn’t like being told what to do, a trait he shared with the others. As the raft reached a safe distance, Garrand chopped his hand through the air.

“Open sesame,” Chuckles said, and the charge went off with a dull krump. Metal groaned and water slopped over the sides of the raft as the shutters opened like the petals of a flower.

“Hit it,” Garrand barked. The motor growled and the raft shot forward through the widening gap. As they entered the Demeter’s belly, he could hear alarms wailing. He lifted his assault rifle and was already leaping out of the raft as it thudded against the cove’s fiberglass shore. The others followed suit and soon, all twenty of his men were moving up the slope.

Garrand saw a startled face peering out through the window of the shutter control booth—the night crew—and fired. The window rattled as the bulletproof glass absorbed his shots, as he’d known it would, but the face vanished. “Two men on duty,” he said. “One armed, one not.”

“Unless they changed the routine after we left,” Yacoub said as they sprinted toward the booth. The others were spreading out, covering the entrance to the cove. They knew what to do and did it with the alacrity of trained professionals. Yacoub and two others would hit the engine room. The rest would follow Garrand to the upper decks and the control center. But first, they had to secure the cove.

“They didn’t change anything,” Garrand said.

Yacoub fired a burst at the closest set of speakers, mounted above the booth, and cut off one of the sirens in mid-wail. “Eight minutes until our window closes, by the way.”

“Plenty of time,” Garrand said. He hit the steel door with his boot. “Open up!” He kicked it again and then thumped it with the butt of his weapon.

Silence. That too was standard procedure. One member of the security team and a crewmember would be on duty. The booth was reinforced, and theoretically, the men inside could wait out most anything, up to and including an assault by armed invaders. Theoretically. Yacoub made a face. “Want to blow it open?”

Even as he spoke, a muffled sound came from within. “No need,” Garrand said. He waved Yacoub back as the lock disengaged and the door swung open. A man wearing the gray fatigues of the Demeter’s security forces stepped out of the booth holding a smoking pistol. “Hello, Sergei. How’s tricks?” Garrand asked mildly.

“Better now,” Sergei said. The big Russian was slab-faced, with eyes like polished stones. Beneath the plain uniform his broad torso was covered in elaborate tattoos. Sergei looked at Yacoub and nodded.

“Sergei,” Yacoub replied. The two men eyed one another for a moment and then looked away. They didn’t like each other, but they were professionals. They would work together. Failing that, he’d shoot one of them. He peered past Sergei into the control booth. He saw a body on the floor and blood. He looked at Sergei questioningly.

“I let him get off an alert, as you asked,” Sergei said.

“Pirates?”

“I told him you were the most piratical Somalis to ever prowl these waters,” Sergei said, holstering his weapon. He glanced toward the cove and then cocked an ear to the alarms. “Speaking of which, that hole in the hull is going to be a red flag to the bastards when they figure out we’re dead in the water. Those alarms will carry for miles, and even the most pig-ignorant fisherman knows what that sound means by now.”

“And that’s why you’re here, Sergei.” Garrand smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Make sure no one else tries to steal this boat before I do.”

“I’m going to need more men,” Sergei said doubtfully.

“I know,” Garrand said. His smile turned wolfish. “Don’t worry, Sergei—it’s all part of the plan.”

2

The Biggest Little City in the World

The Catania Hotel in Reno, Nevada, had seen better decades. The upper floors had been stripped to the plaster for everything and anything that could be sold, and the bottom floors weren’t much better. It had been five years since a guest had stayed at the hotel. These days, the only resident was a certain representative of the Claricuzio family and his bodyguards.

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, gave a quiet grunt of effort as he inserted the crowbar between the doors of the elevator. The elevator hadn’t gone higher than the sixth floor since the upper floors had been stripped, and the car was permanently stationed on the third for the exclusive use of Domingo Claricuzio and his bodyguards. Bracing his foot against the wall, Bolan forced the doors open and peered down into the shaft.

Bolan, clad in khaki fatigues and body armor, tossed the crowbar aside and swiftly slid a safety harness over the rest of his gear. A Heckler & Koch UMP-45 was strapped across his chest and his KA-BAR combat knife sat snugly in its sheath on his leg. After he’d gotten the harness on, he clipped several M-18 smoke grenades to lanyards for easy access.

It had been simple enough to get onto the Catania’s roof from the casino next door; Domingo had neglected to post guards on the upper floors. Perhaps the elderly don thought he didn’t need to bother with such measures.

Bolan hefted an ascender—the same device used by repair technicians—and attached it to the elevator cable and his harness. Then he clipped his harness to the cable and took a slow breath. His heart rate was steady. Instinctively, he checked his harness and his gear once more, and then, with a sound like tearing silk, he began to descend the length of the shaft.

Despite being semiretired and in hiding from his enemies, Claricuzio had his fingers in more than one greasy pie. He ran any number of businesses at a remove, including some profitable prostitution rings in Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean. But not for much longer.

At that thought, Bolan’s sun-bronzed face split in a grim smile. In the earliest days of his long and bloody war, he’d gunned down men like Domingo by the dozen and had taken his own licks in turn. Bullets, blackjacks and blades had exacted a cruel toll from his flesh over the years, and he sometimes wondered if he were held together by nothing more than scar tissue and bone sutures. But it was all worth it, every moment of blood and pain. When beasts like Claricuzio were put down, lives were saved—the lives they would have ruined or tainted or ended.

The Executioner had needed only a few days to set everything up. He’d kept tabs on his target, and he knew the hotel’s layout down to the unconnected light switch on the first floor. Five guards were posted at any one time: one in Claricuzio’s suite, two on the hall doors and two more patrolling the floors above and below, respectively. If any of Claricuzio’s brood were visiting, there might be more, but the don’s family members weren’t the visiting types. Even so, there was a chance Bolan would be facing more resistance than just five inattentive and relatively lazy punks in bad suits, which meant he would have to be quick and careful. Even a punk could get lucky.

On that grim note, the soles of his boots touched the top of the elevator. Swiftly he disengaged his harness and dropped to his haunches. With the tip of his combat knife, he pried up the hatch and dropped through. Bolan disabled the control panel and pulled a small wedge of thick rubber from his harness. Holding it between his teeth, he carefully pried open the elevator doors and slid the wedge into the gap to hold the doors open. Next, Bolan removed a small dental mirror from a pocket, unfolded it and slid it through the gap at the bottom of the doors.

Angling it one way and then the other, he pinpointed the two guards in the hall. Bolan retracted the mirror, placed it in his pocket and pulled a smoke grenade from his harness. He hauled the doors open with one hand and popped the pin on the grenade. Then he rolled the canister down the corridor, where it hissed and spewed smoke.

Shouts of alarm cut the air. Bolan sent another grenade rolling down the hall in the opposite direction. When the corridor was filled with smoke, he stepped out. The soldier knew there were a number of possible responses to the tactic he’d just employed. Men with training, or an iota of common sense, might sit tight and call for backup. But the men Domingo Claricuzio had paid to keep him safe were neither trained nor sensible. They would either blunder into the smoke or—

Italian loafers scuffed the carpet. A man coughed and cursed. Bolan caught a blindly reaching hand and drove a fist into the exposed elbow. Bone snapped and the guard screamed. Bolan lifted a boot and slammed it down onto a vulnerable patella. The kneecap slid and cracked beneath the blow, and Bolan grabbed the screaming man by his lapels and whirled him around.

The guard jerked as a pistol snarled. Shooting blind was the other possibility. Bolan held the dying man upright and reached across his chest to grab the pistol holstered beneath the guard’s cheap jacket. Without pulling the gun from its holster, he twisted it up and got a grip on the butt. Then he charged forward, holding up the sagging weight of the dead man like a shield. The smoke billowed and swirled, parted by the abrupt motion. He saw the second guard, eyes wide, mouth agape, the black-barrelled automatic in his hand bobbing up to fire again. Bolan fired first. The rounds punched through its previous owner’s coat and perforated the skull of the guard who’d killed him. He fell back against the door to the stairs, a red halo marking the wall behind his head.

Bolan let his human shield drop and he spun, raising the UMP. He fired off a burst, chewing the frame of the door that led to Claricuzio’s rooms. The door, which had been in the process of opening, slammed shut. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He padded forward quickly, aware that the other two guards could show up at any time. He fired two quick bursts with the UMP, once where the lock would be and then where the hinges would be screwed into the frame. Then he hit the door with his shoulder and rode it down. His teeth rattled in his head as he landed but it was better than having them shot out of his head by the guard he knew was inside the room.

The latter let off a panicked shot that sliced the air above Bolan’s head, then fell screaming as the soldier cut his legs out from under him with a burst from the UMP. Bolan pushed himself to his feet and stepped fully into the room, pausing only to deliver the coup de grace to the wounded man.

Domingo Claricuzio sat in his chair, his eyes on the television in front of him. He looked like an elderly hawk, and any excess flesh he might have once possessed had sloughed off with the passage of years. Claricuzio was a dangerous man, quick with a blade or a garrotte even into his sixties. “I like this show,” Claricuzio said, apropos of nothing. He pulled his feet back as the blood from his guard soaked into the carpet. His gaze flicked to the dead man. He clucked his tongue. “His mother will be disappointed.”

His eyes tilted, taking in Bolan and the smoking weapon he cradled. “I expected you sooner.” It was said calmly. There was no fear or anger or hate in the old man’s eyes, just...nothing. It was like looking into the eyes of a shark.

Bolan stared at the old man silently. This was not what he’d expected. He had come intending to cut the head off a snake, but taking the mobster into custody would be just as effective.

“Get up,” he said. “You have a gun?”

Claricuzio made a face. “Do I have a gun? What do I look like?” he said.

A shout from behind propelled Bolan into motion, and with instinct born from painful experience he hurled himself to the side. The soldier crashed into the wall and used the momentum to spin himself around as a flurry of bullets cracked through the air where he’d been standing.

Claricuzio gave a shout and flung himself out of his chair. Bolan couldn’t take the time to track him. His trigger finger twitched, and he emptied the UMP’s clip into the first of the gunmen who’d entered the room behind him.

The second, whether through desperation or simple instinct, lunged past his compatriot’s falling body and crashed into Bolan. The Executioner let the UMP drop and grabbed his opponent’s wrist, twisting the black shape of the automatic up and away from his face. The gunman cursed him in Italian and hammered a punch into his side. Bolan barely felt it, thanks to his body armor. He smashed his forearm into the guard’s face as he squeezed the man’s wrist, forcing him to release his pistol. As the gun clattered to the floor, he jerked the man’s arm up and drove his fist into the fleshy point where arm met shoulder. The guard’s arm dislocated with an audible pop and he stumbled back, his face white with pain. Bolan didn’t let him get far.

He grabbed the guard’s shirt, whirled him about and snaked his arms around the man’s neck, snapping it. Bolan let the body topple forward and released a sharp breath.

Something dug into Bolan’s side. It didn’t penetrate his body armor, but it took the wind out of him. If Bolan hadn’t been wearing the armor, he would have been dead. The soldier twisted about, clawing for his knife as Claricuzio came at him again. “You asked if I had a gun. I don’t, but I got a knife, and I know just where to put it,” he said as he slashed at Bolan with a thin, medieval-looking stiletto. “You think you can just show up and take me down?”

“That was the plan,” Bolan said, backing away, one hand extended to block Claricuzio’s next blow. As he spoke, he drew his KA-BAR combat knife and held it low.

“Who sent you, hey? Anthony? Salvatore?” Claricuzio licked his lips. “Little Sasha?”

“None of the above,” Bolan said.

Claricuzio shook his head irritably. “You’ll tell me,” he said. He lunged, moving with the grace of a man half his age, almost quicker than Bolan’s eye could follow. The tip of the stiletto scratched a red line across Bolan’s chin as he ducked his head to protect his throat. The soldier drove his own knife into Claricuzio’s side, angling the blade toward the heart. The old mafioso stumbled against him with a strangled wheeze. Bolan extricated himself and the other man slid off his knife and tumbled to the floor.

He sank to his haunches beside Claricuzio but didn’t bother to check for a pulse. The old man was dead. Bolan’s knife had torn through his heart, and his blood was soaking into the floorboards, where it mingled with that of his guards. Bolan examined the withered features for a moment, then looked away. Claricuzio had deserved death, and he’d gotten it. The Executioner pushed himself to his feet and snatched up the UMP. It was time to go. The police likely wouldn’t arrive for some time, but there was no reason to tempt fate.

Bolan’s sat phone rang.

His mind considered and discarded possibilities in the millisecond between the second ring and the moment he accepted the call and raised the phone to his ear. “All finished, Striker?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” There was a brief hesitation. “Claricuzio—I don’t have to ask, I suppose.”

Something in Hal Brognola’s tone caused Bolan to snap alert. “What is it?”

“The usual,” Brognola said grimly.

Bolan looked at the bodies at his feet and said, “Talk.”

3

The Gulf of Aden

“There he is,” Yacoub said softly. He made a surreptitious gesture toward the sky and the black shape moving through its wide, blue expanse.

Garrand glanced up and then back at his watch. He, Yacoub and three of his men stood on the Demeter’s upper deck, between the control room and what Garrand thought of as the cabana—a sheltered wet bar and outdoor swimming pool.

“Right on time,” he said. Ten hours had passed since they’d stormed the ship. The plan had gone off without a hitch, as he’d known it would. Though there were a few bodies to be disposed of, once they had time. He tapped his watch. “I’ll say this for him—he’s prompt.”

“He better be. I’m getting tired of standing out here in the sun so the remoras can film us,” Yacoub said, jerking the barrel of his weapon toward the gaggle of hostages corralled in the cabana. They were mostly press, with a few others mixed in—whose names and faces Garrand found vaguely familiar. Celebrities with nothing better to do than ride around on a retrofitted cargo ship, including three reality show finalists, an advice columnist and one style blogger, none of whom seemed to really understand their predicament. Or if they did, they were hiding it well.

Garrand smiled. He’d allowed the press to keep their cameras, and they had repaid him with a constant stream of camera flashes, equipment squawks and shouted questions. All part of the plan, he reminded himself as he watched the helicopter draw closer.

“I wonder where he got a helicopter,” Yacoub murmured. “Sure as hell not Eyl,” he added after a minute.

“Yemen,” Garrand said, shifting his rifle to a more comfortable position. “He has a finger in every pie.” He tugged at his keffiyeh, wanting a cigarette. Sweat rolled down under his collar. It was hot, and he was getting tired of playing pirate. He glanced at the hostages. They’d selected eight out of the twenty passengers—the most attractive and the most important. This was a photo opportunity, after all. The rest had been sealed below decks with the crew. Well, most of the crew, he thought with a satisfied sigh.

The Demeter had a crew of sixty, thirty of whom were security personnel. Of the thirty, only five weren’t in on the plan. Those five had been confined with the others after judicious application of rifle butts, fists and boots. Garrand had hired most of the security men himself, specifically for this trip, before his very public firing. Who fires somebody on Twitter? he thought. He didn’t even have an account. But that was a silly question. Nicholas Alva Pierpoint was exactly the sort of man who’d fire someone via social media.

“Helicopter’s not going to land,” Yacoub said.

“The pilot’s no fool,” Garrand replied. “Would you land a chopper on the deck of a ship swarming with guys wearing these—” he tugged on his keffiyeh “—and carrying automatic weapons?”

Yacoub laughed. “I suppose not.”

“Besides, you remember how Pierpoint likes to make an entrance.” Garrand pointed at the helicopter, which was now passing overhead. “And there he is now—the sixth most powerful man on the planet.”

As they watched, a tiny figure flung itself out of the helicopter and plummeted toward the Demeter. A rectangular parachute popped open and slowed the man’s descent. Yacoub whistled softly, and Garrand shook his head.

As expected, the hostages were filming the new arrival. At least one of them had managed to maintain a live feed of the “unfolding situation,” thanks to Garrand ensuring that the onboard wireless network was functioning. Garrand had no doubt that every news agency—legitimate, tabloid or otherwise—was salivating over the whole affair in real time. When in doubt, make news, he thought. That was one of Pierpoint’s guiding philosophies, right alongside “all publicity is good publicity.”

Well, he was getting both in spades with this one. One of his men halfheartedly raised his weapon and for a second, Garrand contemplated letting him get a shot off. Then he gestured sharply. The barrel of the rifle was lowered and Pierpoint landed light as a cat on the deck. Clad in black, he was dressed like a little boy playing war. Pierpoint was small and sandy haired and was wearing wraparound shades. Garrand thought he looked a little like a certain American movie star, the one who’d made that film about bartenders and liked to stand on couches. With an elegant flick of his fingers, Pierpoint snapped the deflated parachute loose from his harness and let the wind carry it out to sea.

“How did he manage to land with the sun at his back? That’s what I want to know,” Yacoub muttered. “Did someone teach him how to do that, or—”

“Quiet,” Garrand said. “The cameras are rolling, and the star has made his entrance.”

Pierpoint looked around, hands half raised. “Who’s in charge here?” he called out. Pierpoint wasn’t American, but he’d hired people to make him sound as nonthreatening as possible to his North American business partners. His nondescript accent rolled off his tongue, smooth as cream.

Garrand nudged Yacoub. “Go get him.”

“Why me?”

“You look more like a pirate than I do. Go,” Garrand said. He watched in satisfaction as Yacoub stumped across the deck, weapon held across his chest. Camera phones whirred and clicked, and the world watched as Pierpoint met the pirates.

“I’ve come to talk,” Pierpoint said loudly, playing to the cheap seats. “And to see that no one gets hurt.” He patted his chest, where a heavy duffel was slung. “I’ve got the ransom here.”

“We talk, then,” Yacoub replied in what was not a Somali accent, or even remotely close. Irish, Garrand wondered. Maybe Scottish? He rolled his eyes and fell in behind Pierpoint as Yacoub strutted toward the stairs.

The control room was occupied by two of Garrand’s men, who’d been watching Pierpoint’s arrival through the windows. Garrand hiked his thumb over his shoulder as they entered, and the men filed out. They would take his and Yacoub’s place on deck and pose for the cameras. Garrand took the captain’s chair before Pierpoint could reach it and gestured to one of the lower seats. “Sit. Yacoub, see if anyone is near the galley. A few bottles of champagne were chilling, last I checked. And grab some glasses, as well.” He nodded at Pierpoint. “This is a celebration, after all.”

Pierpoint smiled widely, displaying expensive dental work. He clapped his hands together and laughed. Garrand tugged his keffiyeh down and grinned. “I told you it would work.”

“And that’s why I hired you, Georges,” Pierpoint said. He swung his feet onto a control panel and leaned back. “Remind me to send a thank you card to your previous employer for the recommendation.”

“Given that he’s in prison now, I doubt he’d appreciate the sentiment.” Garrand sat back. Byron Cloud, his former boss, had been an arms dealer. He’d hired Garrand to put the boot to his competition, at a verifiable remove. Garrand had spent two weeks sinking boats full of secondhand military equipment in the South China Sea. A fun way to spend one’s time, but there was little future in the field of hard sabotage; these days it was all about computers and accounts and data tracking.

Pierpoint laughed. “Poor Byron—bit of a wet noodle, that fellow,” he said.

Garrand shrugged. Whatever that means, he thought. “You have the money? I’ve got half a dozen very twitchy shooters wondering when they’re getting paid for this little stunt.” It wasn’t quite as fraught as he made it sound, but it was close. None of his men were what one could call nice, but so far they’d been professional, and that was more important as far as Garrand was concerned.

Pierpoint patted the duffel he’d brought with him. He’d taken it off and was cradling it in his lap. “It’s all here. The most generous severance package I’ve ever provided, if I do say so myself.”

“And we’re worth every penny,” Garrand said. He shook his head. “Still, hijacking your own boat just to raise your profile seems excessive. Especially if you’re trying to get investors interested.”

“Ah, Georges, that’s because you have no idea how brand awareness works. People like narrative— stories—more than they like charts and statistics. Give them a good story and they’ll throw more money at you than you can handle. The best way to convince potential investors of the merits of my design is to show them how much people want it.”

“Yeah, but...pirates?”

“Pirates are hip,” Pierpoint said with a shrug. “They’re in the public consciousness right now, and it makes for a better story. I look like a hero, the public clamors for information about my recycled super-yacht, and the money pours in.” Yacoub returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He set it on the control panel and used his knife to pop the cork. Pierpoint accepted a glass and took a swig.

Garrand took his own glass and said, “I can’t imagine that super-yachts are a—what do you call it?—growth industry.”

“Not even close. But if I have my way, the Demeter will be one of a kind,” Pierpoint said, chuckling. “Damn boat cost me an arm and a leg to build, not to mention outfit. The component parts are more valuable than the whole, in this instance. The Demeter was just about showing what those components could accomplish when brought together. There are hundreds of applications for the technologies aboard this vessel. Everything from sustainable off-shore hydroponics facilities, to green engines, to manmade reefs and shoals that can replace those lost to pollution.”

“So this thing is—what? A marketing stunt?” Garrand said.

“I prefer to think of it as an exercise in synergistic brand building,” Pierpoint said. “This ship is, frankly, useless. It’s too expensive for any individual to maintain, and who needs a yacht with a hydroponics garden? It’s a very expensive floating island, and as I already own several islands, I look forward to rendering this boat down to its component parts once this cruise is finished.”

“It seems a shame. This vessel has a lot of potential.” Garrand looked around.

“Oh?”

“Oh indeed. A few days in the right port of call, and we could turn this thing into the largest drug lab this side of the poppy fields of Afghanistan. Or more...it’s a veritable citadel. Self-sustaining, fast and with enough room for a small army. Imagine what mischief the wrong sort of person could get up to with a ship like this—smuggling, drug-running, piracy...” Garrand trailed off. Pierpoint was staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Sometimes I forget that you and I have very different social circles, is all.”

Garrand snorted. “Not so different as all that.” He took a swig of champagne. “You know, I could take it off your hands, if you like.”

“What?”

“The Demeter,” Garrand said. “Since you’re only going to strip it for spare parts, you might as well give it to me, no?”

“What—just sell it to you?”

Garrand laughed. “Who said anything about selling?” Pierpoint made to rise to his feet, but Garrand was quicker. He drew his pistol from the holster beneath his arm and pointed it at his former employer, even as he took another sip of champagne. He smacked his lips. “This really is quite good.”

“You’re double-crossing me,” Pierpoint said, bewildered. He settled back into his seat, face pale, hands trembling.

“Technically, I’m simply amending the deal,” Garrand said. He holstered his pistol and poured himself another glass of champagne. “I’ve done all that we agreed to, Nick—may I call you Nick?” Garrand smiled and emptied the glass. “I organized this—what do you call it?—‘viral marketing stunt’ for your ‘brand,’” he said, crooking his fingers in air quotes, “and now I am taking my pay.”

“The money was your pay,” Pierpoint said through clenched teeth.

“The money was a guarantor of the safety of your guests and crew. The Demeter is my pay, and as she is now mine, I intend to sell her for several times what you’re worth. In fact, a number of interested parties are already on their way here.” Garrand made to fill his glass again, then thought better of it and simply took a swig from the bottle.

Pierpoint stared at him. “You can’t...”

“I already have,” Garrand said. “It’s not so bad, Nick. Think of the marketing possibilities... ‘The ship so popular, even criminals want one.’ It’ll play well, I think.” Garrand shrugged. “Or not. I admit, that sort of thing is outside of my area of expertise.” He nodded at Yacoub. “Would you be so kind as to take Mr. Pierpoint to his quarters? I think he’s going to need a few hours to recover.”

Garrand watched Pierpoint go and then took another swig from the bottle. He’d played it cool, but he was all too aware that he’d entered a less structured area of the plan. There were more balls in the air, more things that could go wrong at this stage. But the rewards were greater, as well.

He pulled the duffel to him, unzipped it and examined the plastic-wrapped bundles of cash. Then he grunted and zipped it back up. It was a good amount of money, but the boat would bring more. A lot more, if he played his cards right. “People like narrative,” he murmured.

The hostages were no longer bargaining chips. Instead, now they were insurance—as long as the usual suspects thought there was a chance of keeping them alive, they would hold off from any action. Not for long, of course. But long enough. He’d already adapted the cover story—they were no longer pirates, but terrorists seeking to make a statement—and he’d organized the appropriate means of disguising the arrival of his guests. But it was still a matter of timing and precision.

Garrand finished the champagne and set it aside. “Let the show begin,” he murmured.

4

Somewhere South of Yemen

The Executioner had found a number of papers among the late Domingo Claricuzio’s effects—including those naming the men in charge of Claricuzio’s Mediterranean operations. Enforced prostitution, human trafficking, the works... Bolan itched to bring the whole operation down.

But that would have to wait. Instead, he was on an unlisted flight. The plane was private, bankrolled on a black ops budget and stuffed to the gills with enough hardware to make it look like the set of a science fiction film. Bolan sat alongside Hal Brognola and three others in the plane’s state-of-the-art passenger compartment. They were heading toward the gulf, as near as Bolan could tell.

Brognola looked tired. Then, he always looked tired. As director of the ultrasecret antiterrorist Sensitive Operations Group, Brognola got his orders from the President himself.

Bolan looked around. Computer screens lined the cabin, resting above banks of hardware, including what he recognized as control consoles for drones and remote satellite surveillance systems. There were no windows, and the cabin had the blocky design he’d come to associate with stealth vehicles. He could hear the purr of the engines and the soft conversation of the crew. The internal lighting was cold, blue and sterile and it cast chilly shadows across the faces of the men around him.

Bolan knew for a fact one of the men was well out of his jurisdiction. He was African-American with hard features, and his scalp stubble was gray. Bolan met his bland gaze and said, “Still with the Bureau, Ferguson? Or have you traded down and joined the Agency?” He’d first made Ferguson’s acquaintance when a group of psychotic white supremacists had attempted to loose an antediluvian plague. Bolan had tracked them halfway to the Arctic Circle before he could put paid to the threat they represented, with a little help from the FBI.

“He speaks,” Ferguson said. “And it’s only been, what, three hours since we left Dulles?” He looked at the others and shrugged. “Can you believe this guy?”

“How do you know he has not joined Interpol, hey, Cooper?” one of the others said, leaning forward. Slim and dark, he wore an Italian suit.

Brognola laughed. “Agent Cooper knows better than that, Chantecoq.”

Bolan had first met the French Interpol agent and his subordinate, Tanzir, during a terrorist attempt to enter the United States through Mexico. “How is Agent Tanzir?” Bolan asked, looking at Chantecoq.

“Very well, Cooper,” Chantecoq said. Bolan inclined his head and looked at the third man. Tall and blunt featured with an expensive haircut and even more expensive sunglasses.

“CIA,” the Executioner said without hesitation.

“Among others,” the third man replied. He smiled and extended his hand. “My name’s Tony Spence. Pleasure to meet you, Agent Cooper. Big fan of your work.” All of the men present, save Brognola, knew Bolan by his cover identity, Agent Matt Cooper. Bolan had used many names throughout his long, lonely war, and he suspected that he would use many more before the end. Each name was like a weapon in his arsenal, opening doors and armoring him against the slings and arrows of his enemies.

Bolan didn’t take his hand. “I knew Tony Spence. He had about twenty pounds on you, and you’ve got about six inches on him. And he’s dead.” Spence had been Bolan’s CIA contact for a recent mission to Hong Kong—a mission that had gone dangerously wrong at the eleventh hour. Spence retracted his hand.

“He is. I’m not,” he said, still smiling. Bolan frowned. He had a long, complex relationship with various agents of the CIA. Some of his interactions had fallen somewhere on the spectrum between frustration and anger, but he’d grown to like Spence—the original Spence—in the brief time he’d known him.

“You can let me off at the next airport,” Bolan said. “I’ve got more important things to do than waste my time playing games.”

Brognola cleared his throat. “Ease back, Cooper. You know how these Puzzle Palace types like to complicate things. Every one of them has three names and none of them the one their momma gave them. Tony Spence is just an alias for use by whoever needs it at the moment.”

Spence inclined his head. “And right now, that’s me.”

Bolan sat back. He looked around. “CIA, FBI and Interpol...something smells funny.”

“Might be my aftershave. Wife’s making me try something new,” Ferguson said.

Brognola shook his head. “If you think those are the only letters in this particular alphabet soup, I’ve got some bad news...” He held up a hand as if to forestall the protest Bolan hadn’t been planning to make. “But that’s beside the point. What do you know from yachts, Cooper?”

“Been on a few,” Bolan said without elaborating.

“What about cargo ships?” Spence asked, leaning forward.

“Been on a few of those, too.”

“What do you know about—”

Bolan cut Spence off with an impatient gesture. “Pretend I don’t, since you seem to want to tell me a story,” he said curtly.

Spence smirked. He turned in his seat and pointed to one of the screens that lined the cabin as he tapped at a tablet. The volume increased, and Bolan found himself watching a BBC news report on an ongoing hostage situation somewhere in the Gulf of Aden. “Pirates,” he said. He’d dealt with modern pirates before, both in Somali waters and in the South China Sea. The former were mostly fishermen, out of their depth and desperate. The latter tended toward smuggling and drug running.

“So they’d have you think,” Brognola said. Bolan glanced at him. “Well, they might have been pirates to begin with, but they’re claiming to be terrorists right now. They might be something else tomorrow.”

“It’s not the pirates we’re worried about,” Ferguson said. He made a face. “Show him, Spence.” Spence tapped the tablet again, and a recording began to play on the screen. It was the same ship, Bolan saw, only from a different angle. He squinted.

“Camera phone?” he asked.

“These pirates are very social-media friendly,” Chantecoq murmured.

As Bolan watched, a man parachuted toward the deck. Spence froze the image and zoomed in on the parachutist’s face. “Recognize him, Cooper?” Brognola asked.

Bolan shook his head.

“Nicholas Alva Pierpoint. Sustainable technologies wunderkind,” Brognola supplied.

“Never heard of him,” Bolan said.

“If you had, I’d be more upset than I am now,” Brognola said drily. “He decided to make a public display of idiocy and parachuted onto his own hijacked ship to deliver the ransom, despite the collective scream of his lawyers.” Bolan watched as Pierpoint was led away. Brognola sighed. “Turned out the bloodsuckers were right for once. It was a singularly bad idea, and Pierpoint got added to the hostages, whereupon our merry band of pirates revealed that they were terrorists, and they’d trade the hostages for the release of certain prisoners in the usual places—Guantanamo Bay, Israel, Nigeria.”

“Any pattern?” Bolan asked.

“None. We think somebody picked names out of a hat and went for broke.”

“So it’s a scam. What do they really want?”

“Near as we can figure, to sell the ship to the highest bidder. And in fact, a number of said bidders have shown up. We’ve got surveillance footage from various ports of call, including Hargeisa International Airport, and a drone spotted the whole lot of potential buyers a few hours ago—guess where?—being welcomed aboard the Demeter.” Spence brought a number of grainy pictures onto the screen. One was of an antiquated speedboat hurtling across the water. There were several figures in it.

“You recognize this guy, I’m sure.” Spence zoomed in on one of the men in the boat. He was a big man with a round face and double chin. But he had a strangler’s hands, crisscrossed with scar tissue. The man’s name was Gribov, and he was an ex-KGB operative. Gribov, like a lot of former KGB men, had found new employment with a group of Pacific gangsters called the Yellow Chrysanthemum.

Bolan stared at the broad, squashed face of the notorious killer. “Who else?” he said.

“S. M. Kravitz,” Spence continued, tapping the tablet. The image of Gribov pixilated and was replaced by that of a thin man in an expensive suit with hair the color of sand and eyeglasses so thick a welder could have used them. He was walking through an airport. “Until recently, he was one of the money men for the Society of Thylea, as well as half a dozen other European right-wing organizations. God only knows who he’s working for now, since the Society got rolled up, but he’s here and looking altogether uncomfortable, what with all the armed brown folks.”

Bolan grimaced at the mention of the Society of Thylea. Gribov was a killer, but the Society was worse, wanting to wipe out two-thirds of the human population. He’d seen to their destruction personally, although both Ferguson and Chantecoq had, in their own ways, helped.

“This handsome fellow is Walid Nur-al Din,” Spence said as Kravitz’s lean shape was replaced by a Middle Eastern man dressed in battered fatigues and body armor and climbing out of a truck. His face was marred by an oddly geometric pattern of scars. “Syrian, mouthpiece of the Black Mountain Caliphate, one of several splinter groups of ISIL still fighting in Syria. Nearly got his face peeled off by a Bouncing Betty a few years ago, which did not improve his general temperament.” Spence tapped the tablet again.

“And finally, representing the Black Serpent Society, Mr. Drenk.” Drenk was Eurasian and, like Gribov and Kravitz, dressed as if he were heading to a boardroom, rather than the deck of a recently hijacked ship. He was walking along the shore toward a waiting boat. “Drenk is a nasty customer—they’re all nasty customers, but Drenk is the worst—with a file so thick we couldn’t bring it on the plane for the weight limit. Drenk isn’t known for his negotiating skills, so God only knows what he’s planning.”

Spence looked up from his tablet. “Those are the ones who took the bait. Garrand—the man who’s leading the terrorists—has four potential bidders, and we can’t allow any of them to take possession of the Demeter.”

“Why?”

“The Demeter is one of a kind. Lots of hush-hush goodies went into that particular basket—green technologies, mostly, things that’ll make a lot of the usual suspects angry, when and if they permeate the corporate membrane,” Spence said.

“You make it sound as if this Pierpoint had some covert help,” Bolan said. “That’s it, isn’t it? All that technology—it was government funded, wasn’t it?”

Spence shrugged. “Partially, and through third parties, most of whom have an interest in seeing the United States of America weaned off foreign oil. Pierpoint’s smart. He knows the ship is a good way of showing off all these previously underfunded projects in one fancy package. Once the money starts coming in, that tub will be stripped for salvage quicker than sin. The problem is, nobody bothered to file off the serial numbers.”

Bolan laughed. There was precious little mirth in the sound. “You’re afraid that if the ship falls into the wrong hands, people will—what?—figure out that the federal government was slipping a few extra bucks to Pierpoint under the table in a bid to undercut certain major industrial concerns?”

Spence looked at Brognola. “You were right. He’s clever.”

“No, just experienced,” Bolan said. He shook his head. “And it’s not a good enough reason. So elaborate.”

“Fine, you want more? Imagine what a savage like Gribov could do with a ship like that. Or Walid. You a movie fan, Cooper? Rule one—never give a super-vehicle to a bad guy. Especially when the vehicle in question is an ocean-going fortress. Which the Demeter is. It can sit out of sight in international waters forever, like the goddamn Flying Dutchman, only instead of ghostly sailors it has a crew of Jihadists or gunrunners or revolutionaries. All three maybe—that’s the worst-case scenario.”

Bolan was silent. The thought was not a pleasant one, he had to admit. Whoever got the ship would be in possession of a state-of-the-art vessel. Brognola cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, and Bolan wondered how much pressure he was under to help clean up this mess. “If there were anyone else capable of doing this, Cooper, I’d have dealt them in. But everyone is up to their bootlaces in blood and bullets, and this needs handling soon,” Brognola said.

“How many hostages?” Bolan asked after a minute. That was his main concern. The men and women on the Demeter, crew included, were innocent, and Bolan was determined to see them to safety, if possible.

“At least twenty passengers, but we’re not sure how many crewmembers are helping the kidnappers and how many might have been imprisoned. That’s not counting Pierpoint himself.”

Bolan sat back. In truth, he had decided to take the assignment the minute Brognola had asked him, such was his respect for the other man. But he needed to know the stakes before he went in. “So you’d like me to free the hostages and take the ship back.” Bolan examined the schematics Spence had brought up on the screen, his mind already pinpointing important areas. He wondered how many men the criminal bidders had brought—potentially three or four apiece, at least, if whoever was in charge was stupid enough to allow them to bring bodyguards. That meant the enemies could number fifty or more. He’d faced long odds before, but rarely like this.

“No, we’d like you to scuttle it, frankly.” Spence made a face. “Pierpoint messed up, and so did we when we trusted him not to. Best for everybody if we wipe the board clean.”

“Best for you, you mean,” Bolan said. Spence shrugged.

“To-may-to, toh-mah-to,” he said, smiling. Bolan didn’t like that smile, but there were innocent people to think about, and he was going to need help to get them out alive. If that included Spence, so be it.

“What do we know about the hijackers?” Bolan asked. “Whose flag are they flying?”

Chantecoq cleared his throat. “They’re not terrorists, no matter how they’re dressed. We know that much.” He handed Bolan several files and a handful of grainy photographs. “We caught faces with that last drone survey. They’re careful, but after a few days, even the most careful are due a slip. Their leader is suspected to be Georges Garrand. Former member of the Foreign Legion, former contractor for several Eastern European governments, including a leader currently in exile. Until recently, he was employed by Pierpoint Solutions as a security consultant. He was responsible for most of the security measures on the ship. Pierpoint fired him personally just after the Demeter set sail.”

“Fired him?” Bolan asked.

“By social media, no less. For all the world to see,” Chantecoq said, gesturing grandly. He smiled thinly. “Clever, no?”

Bolan didn’t reply. He flipped through the file. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Garrand was a mercenary. A very effective mercenary, but then, he’d fought those more than once. Still, Garrand was no thug—he was a decorated soldier with medals for bravery and a reputation for getting the job done. It was clear that Garrand was no saint, but neither was he the sort of man content to play hired gun for very long. As Bolan scanned the papers and photos, the meaning behind Chantecoq’s words finally registered. He looked up. “He was fired publicly? Why?” Bolan answered his own question a half second later. “To divert suspicion that this was an inside job.”

“That’s the working theory,” Ferguson said, running his palms over his head. “We’ve had Pierpoint’s domestic operations under investigation for several months. When we started looking into the Demeter project, it rang all sorts of bells. Too many wrong names too close to a project like this.”

Bolan nodded. “Like Garrand.”

“And a few others,” Ferguson said. “All of whom have records longer than my arm. Once we started digging into them—and Demeter...”

“It alerted us,” Chantecoq finished. “We are very interested in Mr. Garrand. He’s on our list. So we started to investigate as well, which alerted our American cousins.” He gestured to Spence.

“And here we are,” Spence said, spreading his hands. “Bouncing a hot potato back and forth until it landed in Hal’s lap. Sorry, Hal,” Spence added. He didn’t sound sorry.

Bolan resisted the urge to shake his head. All these government agencies only seemed to make the situation more and more complicated.

“Stuff your sorries in a sack,” Brognola grunted as he shoved an unlit cigar between his teeth.

“So, what do you want from me?” Bolan asked.

“We’ve got a boat that’s too high profile to stay above the water line, full of hostages and crewed by the lost and the damned,” Spence said. “Saturday morning serial territory, huh, Cooper?”

“Depends. How am I getting on the Demeter—jet pack?” Bolan asked, already thinking. He would need explosives, not many, placed at the correct points. Every structure had its weak spots, and the Demeter was no different. Once the ship started taking on water—

“Ha! No,” Spence said. He brought up a map and tapped a dot on the screen. Bolan recognized the Somali coastline. “This is Radbur. Old town on the coast of the Republic of Somaliland. Right on the Gulf of Aden, within spitting distance of our merry band of hijackers and the Demeter. Mostly fishermen. And these days, where there are fishermen, there’ll be pirates.”

“And you happen to know one of these pirates?”

“Indeed I do,” Spence said. “His name is Axmed. He was a pirate before it was popular and a smuggler in the off season. The Somaliland Navy has a price on his head, as do the Ethiopians, but he’s a relatively friendly guy.”

“Relatively?” Bolan asked.

Spence ignored him. “Axmed owes me one. If I know him like I think I do, he’s been eyeing the Demeter all this time. Hell, he’s probably already planning to try for it, especially given the traffic we’ve registered going in and out of the region. I bet some of Garrand’s guests went through Radbur on their way to the Demeter. That town’s been a smuggler’s paradise since the pashas were in power.”

“So I’ll—what—catch a ride with this Axmed?” Bolan said, looking at Brognola.

Spence clapped his hands together. “If you ask him nicely, yeah. And bring him a gift.”

“I have a better plan,” Bolan said bluntly. “You come with me and ask him yourself.”

5

Gulf of Aden

Drenk stood in silence, his coat folded over his arms, as the mercenary called Yacoub showed him his cabin. “The drinks cabinet is full, of course, and the galley is stocked,” he said, looking at his watch, then the floor. The mercenary wouldn’t meet his eyes. Few men dared to, a thought that brought Drenk no end of amusement.

Drenk looked about and then said, “The others?”

The Moroccan twitched as if stabbed. “In—ah—in their own cabins.”

“How many?”

“I don’t see how that—”

Drenk cocked his head. He said nothing. Drenk was not one to repeat himself. Yacoub swallowed and said, “Three others.”

“Is that all?” Drenk smiled. “How fortunate. I have always preferred intimate gatherings.”

“We expected more, but no dice,” Yacoub said, stepping toward the door. Drenk did not try and stop him, nor did he say anything about the way Yacoub’s hand dipped for the gun on his hip.

“That is always the way, in these matters. Only the truly interested bother to show up,” Drenk said without turning around. He heard the door shut behind him as the mercenary made a hasty exit, and he laughed.

Others had been scheduled to arrive. A dozen or more, in fact. He had taken care of three of them himself, waylaying them at airports and harbors. One he’d fed to the sharks in the Gulf. One he’d bribed. The third...well. That had been fun. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the memory.

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