Desert Fallout

“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 of sweat, sex, blood and vomit. Metit and all the other female archaeological students on this dig had been on this floor at least twice in the past four days, dragged there by bored and angry terrorists who had grown tired of waiting for Ibrahim Mubarak’s return from Somalia.

Metit clawed at the sand and scurried a few feet deeper into the tent. Her tormentor chuckled at the sight of her desperate attempt at escape, and walked over to the trunk. The heavy lid and combination lock would prevent the hostages from getting to their captors’ weapons when the rapist dozed off in postcoital exhaustion. He spun the dial on the lock, rolling through the tumblers in order to open it, then dropped his AK-47 and Glock 17 into the trunk. The two simple guns and their ammunition would prove problematic if they fell into the hands of even a novice like the pretty twenty-three-year-old Rashida Metit. The Glock had no thumb safety, and was always ready to fire, while the AK-47 had been designed so that even untrained irregular militiamen from Angola to Zimbabwe could use them.

Her captor took one stride toward her, and Metit kicked out. Barefoot, she didn’t have much of a chance of causing him harm, even if he hadn’t danced lithely out of the path of her driving foot.

“Still have some fight, eh, bitch?” the rapist asked, chuckling as he unbuckled his belt.

“Get away from me,” she growled.

His chuckle turned into a deep guffaw as he slipped the belt out of its pant loops. He wound the leather around one fist, the cured hide creaking as it was drawn tight into an improvised fist weapon, the buckle hanging across the top of his knuckles once he was done. Metit knew what punches from that felt like. “Get undressed, girl. It’s fun time.”

Metit gritted her teeth, showing no intention of following his orders. He was going to have to work for what he wanted, and she lashed her foot out again. Only the rapist’s reflexes had protected his testicles from being smashed, her kick instead landing on his muscular thigh. The belt-wrapped fist came down hard on her shin and pain seared from ankle to hip, the leg gone numb from the brutal, jarring impact.

She grabbed at the side of the tent, her splintered fingernails clawing for a handhold, and her tormentor stepped in closer to her. Her fingers ached from the days of abuse as a prisoner, the nails cracked and worn down to the quick as she and the other women had scratched at the ground in order to dig an escape tunnel from their prison tent. It was when the terrorists had discovered their efforts that the rape tent had been initiated.

The wound belt bounced off Metit’s jaw, and her brain spun helplessly inside her skull. The impact hurled her against the canvas, which was taut enough to hold her hundred-and-five-pound weight without tearing. Then she crumpled to the ground.

Moments later, a rough hand squeezed her chin, holding her limply bobbing head still for a moment, and a second later, blessed unconsciousness descended upon her.

REALITY BROKE THROUGH her fever dreams of unconsciousness, and Metit managed to rise to her elbows before her stomach contracted violently. Bile coughed out between her blood-caked lips, and the acid in it burned the puckered wound on her inner cheek. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she rolled onto her side, instantly regretting the decision as she put her weight on her injured leg. Metit righted herself, lying on her back to alleviate her injuries.

Numbly, she reached down to take inventory of herself with her fingers. Her T-shirt was still intact, only having been shoved up and out of the way to bare her breasts. Her shorts and panties were gone from her hips, however. The sob she released transformed into a pained cough from a dry, blood- and bile-clotted throat and she turned her head to spit out the choking glob.

She took several deep breaths. Her leg ached badly, but gently flexing her foot and toes, she knew that no bones had been broken. It was a small mercy. Metit grimaced and saw that her shorts and underwear were still wrapped around one ankle. Stiffly, she slid her hurt leg through them, and pulled them up.

Getting dressed took on a new level of discomfort, every movement aggravating aching muscles, spearing her pain receptors mercilessly.