Rebel Trade Read online

  When he had almost reached the ghost town’s outskirts, one of Boavida’s soldiers ran in front of Bolan, as if trying to obstruct his passage with a body-block. It was no contest, flesh and bone against the hurtling machine, with power, weight and grim determination all on Bolan’s side. He felt the first impact, and then the lurch of running over something, cushioned by a drift of sand cradling the broken man.

  Then he was out and off across the dunes, craning his neck to watch the helicopter as it approached. He couldn’t see its occupants, but watched the whirlybird pursue its course toward Kolmanskop without veering away to intercept him. In another moment he was past it, saw its shape receding in his rearview mirror as a spotlight flared, probing ahead toward Kolmanskop.

  Good hunting, Bolan thought, and kept the pedal to the medal.

  All he had to think about, from that point on, was getting back to Windhoek, past whatever land patrols might be in play, and making contact with a charter pilot who would carry him across the border.

  Once he’d done a final bit of cleaning up.

  Epilogue

  Christ Church, Fidel Castro Street, Windhoek

  Captain Rodrigo Acosta liked to think that he possessed as fine a sense of irony as any man, but he did not appreciate the humor of the site selected by Moses Kaujeua for their meeting. As a Cuban spy, Acosta might have been expected to admire the street’s name, but the Second Deputy Assistant Minister for Home Affairs should certainly have known that agents of the Castro revolution found no solace at a church.

  Acosta stood outside the looming structure, opened to the public—or at least the Lutheran portion of it—in October 1910. Across the street, a giant rifleman on horseback, cast from bronze, studied Acosta from his place outside Windhoek’s Old Fort. The Rider Memorial, erected in 1912, symbolized white conquest of the land and Namibia’s aboriginal people, thus posing another insult to Acosta and all that he’d believed since he was educated by the state in childhood.

  And Kaujeua was late. Ten minutes and counting, despite the urgency of his assistant’s call requesting—no, demanding—that Acosta meet him for an urgent conversation in this public place, where they could not be overheard. The politician’s tardiness was aggravating. It would be a challenge for Acosta to be civil, never mind accommodating. Indeed, he saw no need for any further meetings, since their problem had been solved last night.

  A bloodbath in the desert, and the slate was clean. There would be no more bungling on the part of Boavida. He was on his way to fill an unmarked pauper’s grave. The men who’d died along with him were revolutionary soldiers, but the world was full of cannon fodder. Those who fell were easily replaced.

  At last, Acosta saw Kaujeua’s car approaching. Naturally, it was a jet-black limousine with small flags mounted over each headlamp, the symbols of Kaujeua’s privilege and status. Standing in the church’s shade, Acosta watched it stop, a husky escort leaping out to open his passenger’s door.

  Kaujeua took his time emerging from the limousine, smoothing the jacket of his shiny suit, pretending that he didn’t see Acosta for a moment, then proceeding toward the church alone. His lips drooped in a disapproving frown.

  “I don’t like being summoned,” he announced, when he was close enough to speak without raising his voice. “If you have business to discuss, Captain—”

  “Me, summon you?” Acosta interrupted him. “Your aide called me, demanding that I meet you here, of all places, and now you turn up late. I don’t know what your game is, but—”

  “My game?” Kaujeua bristled. “Now, see here—”

  And what Acosta saw was the explosion of Kaujeua’s skull, before a spray of blood and mangled tissue blinded him. He fell back, gasping, bitter vomit rising in his throat while he clawed at his eyes to clear them.

  What in hell—?

  A trap!

  Acosta turned to run, the sunny street still crimson-smeared through blurry eyes. He covered two long strides before the sniper’s second bullet found him, putting out the lights.

  Job done.

  Until next time.

  * * * * *

  ISBN: 9781459227668

  Copyright © 2012 by Worldwide Library

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com