Line Of Honor

“No, big guy, Sancho’s the only one I trust.” Grimaldi frowned. “Except for maybe the Brixton Bomber and the Mongolian, and the South Africans are okay, except every time I see them I hear the song “Ebony and Ivory” in my head, oh, and T.C. He seems like a stone-cold killer of men.”

That was two-thirds of the squad. “So…you don’t like Russo?” Bolan asked.

“Oh, I like her a lot, but she makes me nervous, and so do those ex-Communist-bloc savages she has with her.”

Bolan controlled his bemusement. “Bear picked her.”

Grimaldi made a noise.

“How we doing on gear?”

“I’ve got a Hercules on the airstrip with all three vehicles and all requested equipment stowed and ready to go. I’ll get you and the team on the ground and in the saddle. After that it’s up to you.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

The pilot shifted in his seat uneasily. “This is messed up. I should be going with you. I should be driving.”

Bolan kept his poker face. It was an interesting phenomenon that pilots automatically assumed they were NASCAR drivers in the making. In Bolan’s experience, “knight of the air” and “rubber meets the road” were two different sciences entirely and rarely mixed well. “I need you hot on the pad, Jack. Ready for extraction from a hot LZ at heartbeat’s notice.”

“Well, if you put it that way,” the pilot said, “I’ll drop you off and be waiting by the phone.”

Both men turned at a polite knock. “Come in,” Bolan said.

Nelsonne walked in smiling, went to the sideboard and made herself a whiskey and soda. “I have taken the liberty of acquiring us a pair of guides.”

Bolan regarded the French agent drily. “Where will they be guiding us to?”

“That is up to you, but they are men of Central Sudan, and have acted as guides and interpreters before. I think you will find them useful in a myriad of ways.”

“You vouch for them?”

“I have worked with them. They are good men.”

“Where are they?”

“Waiting outside.” Nelsonne batted her lashes at Bolan. “Would you like to meet them?”

“Well, it’s awfully hot outside for standing around.” Bolan leaned back and pressed the intercom button. “Two guests outside. Show them up.”

In moments two men in their early twenties appeared in the conference-room doorway and looked in shyly. Both were as tall as Bolan but stick-thin. Their skin was so black it almost seemed blueish. That told Bolan the two men were at least by blood from the South Sudan. Despite the heat they wore matching blue jeans, denim jackets and cowboy boots. They had identical huge brown eyes and even huger identical smiles.

“They are twins,” Nelsonne explained.

“Let me introduce Haitham and Shartai Kong.”

Bolan gestured for his guests to take a seat. “You gentlemen hungry?”

The Kong brothers nodded and sat.

“You guys drink beer?” the soldier asked.

“Yes.”

Bolan hit the intercom for the kitchen. “Could we get a pitcher of beer and some of that lamb up here for our new guests?” Bolan leaned back in his chair. “Kong…that’s a Dinka name.”

The brothers nodded, their shy smiles becoming slightly prideful.

“From Kurdufan?”

Kurdufan was smack-dab in the middle of what had once been the Sudan, and like the Sudan itself Kurdufan had been split into north and south. It was a bit of luck because that was exactly where Bolan was going. The Kong brothers nodded in proud unison.

“Mademoiselle Nelsonne says you’re both excellent guides.”

Bolan was fairly certain it was Haitham who answered. He had a Darth Vader–quality baritone. “Guides, interpreters.” He gave Bolan a sly smile. “Scouts.”

Bolan smiled back in suspicion. “SPLA?”

The Sudanese People’s Liberation Army had been fighting the government in Khartoum since the mid-1980s. Haitham’s chest swelled as he stood and pulled up his T-shirt to show a puckered bullet scar in his lower right abdomen. Both Bolan and Grimaldi’s eyebrows rose as Shartai stood, turned, unbuckled his pants and dropped his trousers to display a long pink scar creasing one buttock. Shartai slapped it for emphasis. Both men burst out laughing and sat again. “Since we were children.”

Bolan glanced at Grimaldi.

“They have a good attitude,” the pilot admitted.

One of the staff brought in a mound of leftover sliced lamb on a bed of couscous and a pitcher of beer. The Kong brothers tucked into the food and greedily began sucking down beer. That told Bolan they were either Christians or animists. The fighting had driven untold numbers of Dinkas south as they had battled the government of the Muslim-dominated North. Christians were ruthlessly suppressed. The traditional African spiritualists were often annihilated out of hand. Nelsonne swirled the ice in her drink. “I have told them you pay well.”

Neither man stopped eating but their eyes snapped to Bolan as they kept shoveling it down. Bolan saw no need to be stingy and he wanted their absolute loyalty, and to him rather than Nelsonne.

“Let’s keep it simple. I’ve already hired nine team members. I see no reason to treat you any differently. As full members of the team I’ll give you ten thousand euros now as a signing bonus, and…”

The Kong brothers stopped chewing and food nearly fell out of their mouths as their jaws dropped.

“And fifty thousand more on completion, or to your families if you’re killed.”

Haitham wiped his chin with the back of his fist and leaned back. “You are serious?”

Bolan went to the safe in the wall, punched in his code and produced two bundles of euros. He sat back down and slid them across the table. “I’m deadly serious. This is going to be hazardous duty, and that’s why I’m paying hazardous-duty pay. I think the two of you will be invaluable members of my team. You in?”

“Oh, indeed,” Haitham said.

“Most assuredly!” Shartai was in full support.

Bolan raised his beer. “Welcome to the team. Jack?”

Grimaldi finished his beer. He knew what was coming. “Yeah?”

“Go get the plane ready.”

Darfur