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  “How is our time?” Armanjani demanded, removing a pair of latex gloves and stuffing them into a pocket.

  “Almost at the one-hour mark, sir,” Nasser replied, adjusting the clock with Cyrillic script on the wall.

  “Excellent! Then please…” But the major was interrupted by a hooting siren. “Report!”

  “Sir, our main targeting satellite is gone,” Khandis announced.

  “Was it shot down, or is this an electrical malfunction?” Nasser demanded, nervously biting a lip.

  “Unknown,” Dr. Khandis replied. “Switching to secondary systems.”

  Nobody spoke as the scientist spent several minutes working the console. However, the central monitor remained blank.

  “Well, Doctor?” Armanjani demanded.

  “The cause of the disruption is still indeterminate,” Dr. Khandis answered slowly, then jerked up his head. “But a Canadian spy satellite is approaching our former vector, so I would strongly advise leaving this location as fast as possible!”

  Breathing deeply, Armanjani said nothing for a long minute, then he finally nodded. “Accepted,” the major growled, pulling out a small control box.

  When he pressed his thumb against a glowing square, the rest of the switches became illuminated. Armanjani began flipping switches in a seemingly random pattern. There sounded a low buzz and the box went dark. The major tossed it away just before a spurt of dark smoke jetted from its side. The box hit the wall and broke apart, the melted components scattering across the room.

  “Let’s go! We now have five minutes to get clear,” Armanjani announced, striding for the door.

  Moving swiftly through the maze of corridors, the four people reached the main deck just as a waiting Black Hawk helicopter revved its engine to full power.

  Quickly climbing inside, the major and his people strapped themselves in, and the pilot immediately lifted off to angle sharply away from the cargo ship.

  “Major, what about the ship’s crew?” Hassan asked in alarm, turning to stare at the mountain of rectangular steel containers rising high above the huge vessel.

  “Sadly, there was no time to get them out,” Armanjani replied gruffly, sliding on a helmet and activating the attached mike. “Black dog. Repeat, Black dog, black!”

  Almost instantly there was a muffled explosion from under the surface of the ocean, and the saltwater began to bubble furiously around the Red Rose.

  Starting to list, the cargo ship shuddered as several explosions erupted, followed by several more, each louder than the one before. Jagged chunks of the steel hull were blown away like flaming meteors as black smoke poured from every hatchway and out of every shattered porthole.

  Crumpling apart, the bridge collapsed to crash across the helipad. Then each of the lifeboats violently exploded, the blasts sending out wild coronas of broken oars, burning wooden planks and dense billowing smoke.

  Four more Black Hawks lifted from the Red Rose as the colossal ship began to list to the side, the hundreds of thick chains holding the stacked containers in place loudly groaning as they started to stretch. A cargo container situated near the top slipped free from the restraints and tumbled into the ocean, the impact smashing it apart. A second container came loose, then another, as the weakening chains began to snap like overextended rubber bands, the loose ends whipping about to hammer open other containers, dent the deck and flatten the flexing gunwale. Rivets popped free like a hail of bullets, spreading the destruction as they ricocheted off the containers and the writhing deck.

  Just then, a powerful detonation ripped open the stern, the hull spreading wide to admit the rushing ocean. When the cold water hit the hot engines, there was a stentorian blast that split the Red Rose asunder from stern to bow.

  As the speeding Black Hawk raced for the horizon, the floundering vessel broke apart to disappear below the waves, leaving behind only greasy oil to stain the choppy water.

  “God be merciful, what a terrible way for them to die,” Nasser said softly, deliberately not looking at anybody particular.

  “I am not cruel, Fahada,” Armanjani said, sitting back into the copilot’s chair. “As the scuttling charges ignited, sleep gas was released into the rooms. The crew felt nothing as they perished.”

  Keeping her own counsel, the lieutenant said nothing. There was, of course, absolutely no way to confirm such a thing. Feeling a swell of sympathy, Nasser fought back the urge to say a prayer for the dead, wisely deciding that this was neither the proper time or place.

  “Look, sir, somebody is alive down there!” Hassan cried out, craning his neck to point out a window behind the speeding helicopter.

  “Go back!” Armanjani commanded gruffly, pulling a pair of binoculars from an overhead bin.

  As the pilot swung the helicopter around, the major adjusted the focus of the binoculars and soon found a small group of swimmers. Struggling to escape from the powerful undertow of the sinking vessel, the sailors were bobbing about in the choppy Atlantic supported by their ridiculously oversize life jackets.

  “How close are the other helicopters?” Armanjani demanded, glancing about the sky. He found the other Black Hawks.

  “Too far away to reach them in time,” Nasser said in a neutral tone. “And we can’t carry all of them.” She wasn’t offering a suggestion or giving advice, merely stating a cold, hard fact.

  “Yes, I see,” Armanjani muttered, his face a mask of stone. “So be it, then. We have no choice.”

  Swiveling around, the major activated the GIAT 12.7 mm coaxial chain gun and coldly strafed the struggling figures in the water with high-velocity lead. As the waves turned red, the sailors stopped moving, and the major released the controls as if they were unclean.

  This unplanned slaughter of his own troops made the man feel physically ill. There had certainly been enough helicopters for them to use for an escape. They had to have been delayed for some reason, going back to the barracks to retrieve personal items, or in the mounting confusion, they simply got lost in the maze of containers. It was a terrible waste. But then, bad timing had always killed more soldiers in combat than enemy gunfire. Strange, but true.

  “Where now, sir?” the pilot asked, steadily maintaining their original course.

  “Head for base,” Armanjani directed, briefly checking the glowing GPS on the dashboard.

  “Roger. Do I fly there directly, sir?” he asked, angling the helicopter into the new direction.

  “Of course not!” the major snapped irritably as the other Black Hawks assumed formation around them. Then his tone softened. “Head north by northeast for three hundred kilometers, then turn due west. I have contacts that can help us with refueling and layovers. It is going to be a long journey.”

  “Once we reach the coast, head north for Penzance,” Nasser added, pulling a folded map from a pocket and spreading it across a knee. “Be sure to stay at treetop level! Keep well below their radar, and do not use your own under any circumstances. No radar, GPS or anything else. Understand?”

  With both hands on the yoke, the pilot gave a curt nod. “Dead reckoning only, yes, sir.”

  “I can jam their radar for several minutes,” Khandis offered, patting a bulky leather bag on the deck.

  “Which would quickly summon a flight of RAF jetfighters from London,” Armanjani snapped. “No, Doctor, we must stay low.”

  “Once inland, I will direct you across the moors,” Nasser added succinctly.

  The
pilot scowled at the unknown word. “Moors?”

  “Swamps. We own a small farm in the hills. Land in the apple orchard. There will be a delivery van waiting for us inside a barn. From there we drive to the base.”

  “Yes, sir! What are my orders if we encounter the military?”

  “Ignore them. These helicopters are registered to the American NSA, which has a secret base near Menwithhill.”

  Reaching up, Hassan opened a storage unit and extracted a compact MP-5 submachine gun. “And what about the police?” he asked, inserting a magazine and working the arming bolt.

  “Same thing, ignore them. The local constables think we’re smuggling out the local cheeses to sell them illegally in France. So the last thing they want to do is interfere with our business,” the major said.

  “Because we employ their friends and relatives?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Besides, we’re not doing anything criminal,” Hassan said slowly. “Only the French are for refusing to admit the cheese.” The sergeant felt a rush of pride. How easily the major turned the police into his servants.

  “Smuggling cheese. Is this a joke?” the pilot asked hesitantly, unsure if he should laugh or not.

  Tolerantly, the major chuckled, feeling the tension ease from the pit of his stomach. “No, this is not a joke. There is a century-old feud between France and England over how to make cheese. Something to do with the pasteurization. Honestly, who can understand such people?”

  “Not me!” The pilot laughed, then dared to add, “If it can be told, sir, why is our base here, and not somewhere deep in the Amazon jungle?”

  Giving a snort, Nasser started to answer, but Armanjani cut her off with a wave. “What do you know about England?”

  “Pale women, good beer,” the pilot answered immediately. “They are friends of Israel, hate the Irish, are excellent sailors…” He paused for a moment, then smiled. “And it rains there constantly!”

  “Near enough. The nation is overcast almost the entire year long,” Armanjani stated, leaning back in the chair to gaze out the bulletproof window. “What better location for the masters of the Scimitar?”

  Jacksonville, Alabama

  DISPOSING OF THEIR WEAPONS before leaving Ireland on a commercial jetliner, Bolan and his team caught some much-needed sleep on the way back to Miami. Arriving on schedule, they drove to the storage units outside town to rearm, then grabbed a fast shower at Montenegro’s gym. After Kirkland reclaimed the G5, they flew directly to the Huntsville Airport. The three of them took a cab downtown and purchased a brand-new Hummer. They wanted something tough enough to handle the rugged hills of the southern badlands, but also needed a vehicle clearly identified as American to avoid creating any bad feelings among the locals.

  The Hummer fitted both of those requirements. However, in that poor a section of the state a new car of any type would have drawn unwanted attention, so Kirkland bought a roll of duct tape at a hardware store, and freely decorated the outside of the vehicle, making it seem old and battered. Montenegro added to the effect by kicking some dents into the doors, and Bolan shot it a few times, the bullet holes in the bumpers proclaiming the passengers weren’t people to annoy with due provocation.

  “Any coffee left?” Bolan asked.

  “Check the thermos,” Montenegro said, passing over the container. “Been a long day, eh, Matt?”

  “It’s far from over yet,” he replied, pouring a steaming black cup.

  The brew was strong and sweet and banished the fog in his mind like a magic potion.

  “Better get sharp, boys, we’re almost there,” Montenegro drawled in a Southern accent, as they drove past a long row of farm stands on the side of the road.

  Finishing off his coffee, Bolan checked his weapons and forged documents. His was wearing patched work clothes: cowboy boots, denim pants, flannel shirt and a leather biker jacket. The Desert Eagle was tucked into a cheap nylon shoulder holster, and a massive Bowie knife was sheathed alongside his Confederate flag belt buckle. Chained to his belt, an old leather wallet carried identification for a Daniel Coyote, along with all of the proper permits for him to carry a concealed weapon.

  Kirkland was in similar clothing, denim and flannel, with a leather bomber jacket, a pair of aviator sunglasses jutting out of a pocket. He had added a bushy mustache, attached to his upper lip with heavy-duty glue to make sure that it wouldn’t come off accidentally, and a tinted contact lens made his left eye seem cloudy. The big-bore Webley was holstered behind his back, and a .31 Russian pistol was shoved into his garrison belt.

  Reeking of cheap perfume, Montenegro was dressed in snakeskin cowboy boots, dark nylons and a short leather skirt that revealed everything but her political opinions. A black bra was easily seen through her white shirt, and her long hair had been frizzed into a blond afro that made her resemble a summer dandelion. Much of her exposed skin was covered with lewd tattoos—fake—some of them expertly done, while others were crude and seemingly made in prison with a sharpened pencil, cooking oil and candle soot.

  She carried both Glocks in a double shoulder holster, the handles riding just below the swell of her breasts. The weapons were partially hidden by a green-and-gold windbreaker bearing the logo of a famous football team.

  Just then, the Hummer flashed past a billboard advertising the All-American Diner, only five miles ahead.

  “All right, at this point it would be smart to use only our cover names,” Montenegro advised, using a pocket compact to add more blue eyeshadow. “Barrington is no fool, and might have people hidden in the woods to scan approaching traffic for inappropriate conversation.”

  “Paranoids always have lots of enemies,” Kirkland muttered, stroking his mustache with a finger. “Or my name isn’t Victor Layne. Just call me Tor!”

  “Bouncing a maser off the window would be useless,” Bolan said, pretending to cough. “I’ve had a Humbug running since we left the car dealer.”

  “Smart. But they can still use a telescope,” she said from behind the compact, “and a lipreader.”

  “At this speed?” Bolan countered, looking at the forest of trees flash past. “Then again, better safe than sorry…” He waited.

  “Loretta Elizabeth Snodie,” Montenegro said, using a pinkie to slightly smear her red lipstick. “But you can call me Larry.”

  “Larry?”

  “Larry.”

  “Not Etta?” Kirkland insisted. “Or Liz? Liz is a pretty name.”

  She scowled. “Larry!”

  “Daniel Coyote knows better than to argue with an armed woman,” Bolan replied, checking the magazine in the Desert Eagle. This was a replacement. The other gun had proved too badly damaged to trust in combat without extensive repairs.

  Dan Coyote…as in Don Quixote? Kirkland chuckled while shifting gears to switch lanes. “You’re as subtle as a sledgehammer, Dan.”

  “Thanks, Tor. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “So tell me, Loretta,” Kirkland asked with a playful smile, “are we engaged, or just fooling around?”

  Looking in the tiny mirror of the compact, Montenegro fluffed her hair and gave no response.

  Glancing over a shoulder, Kirkland sighed. “Let me rephrase that. Are we lovers…Larry?”

  “Of course not, silly! You’re both my sweet cousins,” she replied, tucking away the compact. “That leaves me free to try to seduce Barrington if it becomes necessary.”

  Bolan scowled. Edgar Barrington was
the man in charge of Swampfox Security, the richest man in the state, one of the richest in the nation.

  Swampfox had been formed originally merely to guard his factories and warehouses, but Barrington soon expanded its duties to breaking up strikes, smashing the offices of his competition, destroying unwanted environmental reports and dealing bloody justice to anybody who dared to steal from his many business concerns, or simply get in Barrington’s way.

  Trained by former Green Berets and armed with the best weapons on the market, the men and women of Swampfox Security were soon working around the world guarding diplomats and debutantes, marshalling Red Cross food convoys, and rescuing kidnap victims. For all intents and purposes, “Barrington’s Boys” were mercenaries who refused to attack anything. They only defended. That sounded good on paper and got them a lot of work. But in the real world, they were stone-cold killers, experts at extortion, demolition and torture.

  Unlike so many other legitimate private security firms, Swampfox worked for anybody who could pay their price, no questions asked: presidents, kings or warlords. But if their fee wasn’t paid on time, they did whatever was necessary to maintain the company cash flow, often leaving a long and bloody trail of bodies in their fiery wake.

  “Just watch your ass, coz,” Kirkland whispered. “That son of a bitch is crazier than a rattlesnake with rabies.”

  Taking a pair of cheap glass earrings from a pocket, Montenegro clipped them into place. “We’ll ignore the fact that reptiles can’t get rabies. Only warm-blooded animals can, you putz.”

  “Which is why he’s so crazy,” Kirkland said with a frown, then loudly added, “Honestly, Dan, why do I have to keep explaining these things to her?”