Death Gamble

“His regrets, but not himself,” Kursk replied. “He is a coward.”

“You misjudge him,” Iron Man said. “Even as we speak, he’s on the mainland trying to correct the problem.”

“He should have corrected it when it first occurred. He had ample warning. I gave him guns, technology and support. Still, he let the whole incident go to hell. Now I must pick up the pieces.”

Iron Man took a few steps forward. The plastic tarp surrounding him and Blood Claw crunched underfoot as he did. That they were the only two required to stand upon the protective floor covering hadn’t escaped their notice. He looked at the tarp, swallowed hard and returned his gaze to Kursk.

“With all due respect, Mr. Kursk, your own men, Cole and Armstrong, did no better. They had helicopters, missiles and the cover of darkness. Still, they failed. Our men fought in the open. We were only to be bait.”

Kursk remained silent, knowing Iron Man’s words rang true. The Russian had gotten word of the American interloper shortly after he’d arrived in Sierra Leone. A contact within the State Department had gladly shared what he knew in exchange for a hefty deposit in a Cayman Islands account. Details were spotty: a Justice Department agent was coming into Sierra Leone and was slated to meet with a small group of American agents who were expected to help him carry out a paramilitary operation of some sort.

Kursk’s men had fleshed out the details by hunting down the State Department operatives tapped for the mission and sweating the details out of them. Then they killed the men and dumped their bodies in a burned-out building miles from Talisman’s compound.

The Justice Department suspected Trevor Dade was in Africa, and the American agent was coming to rescue the scientist. Little did the Americans know that Dade already had been transferred to Kursk’s coastal island location. Any sightings linking him to Sierra Leone were old news.

The plan had seemed foolproof. An agent robbed of his backup would most likely turn tail and run rather than tackle an armed camp on his own. Kursk had assumed he’d insured the man’s death not only by leaving him to fight Talisman’s people, but also by sending a team of his own mercenaries to take the man from behind. By the time the Americans retaliated, Kursk had planned on being gone.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

“Where is the American?” Kursk asked.

Iron Man shrugged. He gave Kursk a placating smile, spoke in a soothing tone. “Still in United Nations custody,” the African said. “That should keep him away from us for a while, anyway. Everything will turn out all right. Leave this to us.”

From what Kursk knew of Iron Man, he’d studied political science and diplomacy at a British university before returning to his homeland to rape and pillage. He considered himself the consummate politician, negotiating with the local government and the international community even as Talisman terrorized with his strong-arm tactics.

Without a doubt, Iron Man was good at handling people. But no one “handled” Nikolai Kursk, especially when he smelled fear, as he did with this man.

“I will leave nothing in your hands,” the Russian said. “You people fight well against unarmed civilians. You cannot withstand a real battle, with a real warrior.”

Iron Man shot Kursk a hurt look. Like everything else with the man, Kursk assumed it was calculated and insincere.