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  “The first is a trap, the second a lie,” Armanjani said in dismissal, starting to heat the water.

  “Sir, they all want to meet in person.”

  “I have no problem with that. There is a nice little village in Portugal that will serve us well for just such a purpose. But I suspect the Mafia is a trap. They wouldn’t have the funds.”

  “I see. That leaves only the Chinese Red Star and the Hammer of Saudi Arabia.”

  “They both have the funds for Scimitar, so both are potential customers.” The major chuckled, carefully measuring the tea.

  The Red Star was the infamous counterintelligence agency for the communist Chinese, and the Hammer was the nickname of the GIP—the General Intelligence Presidency, which was the main intelligence agency of the Royal Saudi government.

  “What aren’t you telling us, Doctor?” Nasser asked.

  “Both of them wish a demonstration, something we announce in advance of the attack.”

  “They do understand that this is a weather-based weapon system?” the major asked.

  “Of course, sir! But still…”

  “What kind of money are they talking?”

  “Red Star won’t discuss that without a demonstration first,” Khandis read from the monitor, “While the Hammer has offered an opening bid of fifty million.”

  “Euros, francs or dollars?”

  “U.S. dollars.”

  “Bah, not enough,” Armanjani replied, inspecting a mug. “All right, give them a demonstration, and get that price up to where it belongs.”

  “I’ll assume you want something in America?”

  “Where else?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll bring up the feed now.”

  While the tea samovar began to bubble softly, Armanjani went to the wall monitor and studied the real-time weather patterns of the North American continent. There were good clouds over Ontario, useless as a target, but also decent rain storms near Kansas and Florida. However, there was nothing worth hitting there aside from some nuclear missile silos and NASA. He needed something big this time, something startling, that would garnish new coverage from around the world.

  Just then, the weather patterns shifted into a new formation, and the major broadly smiled. “Hit that,” he commanded, pointing at the target with a finger.

  “Are you serious?” Khandis whispered, both hands poised above the keyboard.

  “Burn it to the ground, Doctor! Hit it with everything we’ve got!” Armanjani growled, pouring himself a mug of tea. “And don’t stop until I tell you to.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jacksonville, Alabama

  Flanked by a gas station and a car wash, the All-American Diner was unusually large for such a remote location. Bolan knew that was because the establishment didn’t depend on drive-by traffic for its supply of customers. The diner was owned by Edgar Barrington and specialized in catering to the needs of his personal army. Rumor said that the cigars sold at the counter contained marijuana, and that there was a brothel in the basement. But neither the DEA nor the FBI had ever been able to prove the allegations.

  Pulling into the parking lot, Kirkland braked to a halt away from the other cars and trucks. “All ashore that’s going ashore!”

  As Bolan got out of the Hummer, he heard bluegrass playing softly from a radio in one of the big rigs. The air smelled of diesel fumes and sweet dogwood, the combination taking him to happier times and places for a brief moment.

  Taking her time, Montenegro climbed out of the Hummer. “Nice place. I like it!” she drawled, hoisting her bra into a more comfortable position. “Whadda they serve?”

  “Food,” Kirkland muttered dourly, slamming the door and locking it before heading up the front walk.

  Knowing that anybody new would be noticed immediately, Bolan and the others had decided to use that to their advantage, and made sure they weren’t very good at hiding their assorted weaponry.

  Several of the truckers went silent as Bolan and Kirkland approached, then their attention switched to Montenegro and they openly grinned in frank appreciation.

  “The boys seem to like your 44s,” Kirkland whispered, politely holding open the door.

  Walking past, Montenegro hit him with an elbow. “Dope, they’re both 9 mm.”

  “He wasn’t talking about your guns, coz,” Bolan added, bring up the rear.

  In spite of the number of cars parked outside, the diner was relatively empty. A few truckers sat at a small bar in the back knocking down beer and shots, while a burly giant was loudly slurping soup from a china bowl.

  “Hey, folks, table or booth?” a waitress said in casual greeting as if she did the exact same thing ten thousand times a day. There was a pencil stuck behind her ear, and a worn plastic name tag on her breast said Dottie.

  “A table far from the washroom,” Bolan said, trying to sound exhausted as he stretched to pop a couple of joints.

  “Been driving long?” Dottie asked with a knowing smile.

  “All of my damn life.” Bolan laughed, then he tried to appear embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, Dottie, no offense meant.”

  “None taken. I hear worse every fucking day,” Dottie said, looking at Kirkwood. “Hey, your wedding ring fell off.”

  “I’m not married,” Kirkwood said, looking at his hand in confusion.

  “Really? Well, isn’t that nice,” Dottie purred, walking away with a lot of hip action.

  “I think you made a conquest there, cousin,” Montenegro whispered, following along.

  “Could be useful,” Bolan commented.

  “Not a problem,” Kirkland replied softly, stroking his mustache. The waitress was pretty, in a matronly way, with long dark hair and excellent legs. Her hourglass figure still had a lot of time on the clock, and her pink-and-brown uniform hugged her tight in all the right places. Kirkland could tell that she wasn’t armed, carried a smartphone and wore pantyhose.

  Maneuvering her way across the diner, Dottie led them to a table in the corner, nicely situated between the counter and a window, but far from the television or the washroom.

  “Good enough?” she asked, gesturing with an open hand.

  “Perfect, thanks,” Bolan replied, pulling out a chair.

  “The special today is a pork chop dinner with sourdough biscuits and gravy,” Dottie continued, laying down a fan of plastic menus. “Sound good, or do you folks want a minute to look over the menu?”

  “That would be great,” Montenegro said, sitting down.

  “Coffee for everybody?” Dottie asked, only looking at Kirkland.

  “Absolutely, doll, thanks,” Kirkland said, patting her shapely rear.

  “Hey, now!” Dottie exclaimed, pretending to be offended, then she spoiled the effect by grinning. “You ought to buy a lady flowers first, stud.”

  “Are there special flowers for each location?” Kirkland asked, looking the waitress up and down as if he hadn’t seen a woman in years.

  That took a moment to decipher, then Dottie leaned in to ruffle his hair. “Roses will get you where you want to go,” she whispered, then turned and walked away, shouting their order over the general din of conversation and clattering dishware.

  “She seems nice. How far do I have to take this?” Kirkland asked, getting settled into place.

  “As far as necessary.” Montenegro grinned. “Want to order some roses?”

  Just then, a tall man rose from a nearby table and ambled over. He wa
s wearing military fatigues and combat boots, and a British-style gun belt with shoulder straps to help carry the weight. There was a slim automatic pistol holstered on his hip, the protective leather flap down to cover the weapon.

  However, Bolan and the others easily spotted a second gun tucked into an ankle holster, and something tucked up the sleeve of his right arm, though there was no way to tell what it was.

  “Hi, I don’t know the faces, but I like your choice in hardware,” he said as a greeting. “That a Desert Eagle, buddy?”

  “Sure thing.” Bolan smiled affably. “I like a little extra firepower.”

  “A little?” The man laughed. “You planning on hunting buffalo?”

  “Works great on folks wearing body armor, too,” Bolan confided. “The name’s Dan Coyote. This here is my cousin Victor Layne and my cousin Loretta Snodie.”

  “Hey, there. Roger Dupree.”

  Everybody at the table was suddenly alert.

  “Come again?” Kirkland asked politely, a hand inching closer to the Webley.

  “Dupree, Roger Dupree,” the tall man said awkwardly. “Do you folks know me or something?”

  “No, but we have a friend in Miami with the exact same name,” Montenegro said slowly, deliberately not looking at Bolan.

  Just a coincidence. Unnerving, but such things happen even to the best laid plans.

  “Mind if a join ya?” Dupree asked.

  “Have a seat,” Kirkland said, pushing out a chair with his shoe.

  “Thanks!” Dupree said, hunkering down.

  Trying not to be obvious, he stole a glance at Montenegro, and she smiled in return, putting just enough voltage into it to generate some interest, but not cause a complete meltdown. Dupree responded by shifting his chair a little closer.

  Introductions were made as Dottie delivered the coffee, plus a wicker basket of sweet rolls. It was clear that she wanted to speak further with Kirkland, but one look at Dupree, and she hurried away.

  “What was that about?” Kirkland asked curiously, sampling a roll.

  “Former girlfriend,” Dupree said sheepishly. “We’re really not supposed to date the staff here, ya know. But…” He made a vague gesture in the air.

  “Boys will be boys,” Montenegro supplied helpfully.

  “After a tour, a man needs a little R & R,” Dupree offered as an apology.

  “Hey, you must be one of Barrington’s Boys!” Bolan exclaimed, trying to sound excited.

  “Bet your ass I am!” Dupree boasted proudly. “Anybody hauling iron in this part of the state is a brother, you better believe that. Even the cops. When did you folks join?”

  “Haven’t yet,” Montenegro said, spooning some sugar. “But that’s why we’re here.”

  “Oh! You folks looking for work?”

  “If Swampfox is hiring?” Kirkland said as a question, adding milk to his mug.

  “Hell, yes! We always need a few more men on the line,” Dupree said. “What with all of the crazy stuff happening in the Middle East.”

  Then he paused uncertainly. “However, the boss doesn’t like ladies on the front line, and I’m not sure how well-fixed we are for nurses, cooks and such.” Under the table, he patted her knee. “Sorry, Loretta.”

  “Not a problem, sweetie.” Montenegro smiled.

  “Etta here is one of the best smiths you’ll ever see,” Bolan said.

  “You’re a gunsmith?” Dupree asked in obvious delight and disbelief.

  Munching on a honey bun, Montenegro smiled. “There are damn few guns that I can’t rebuild or repair.” Which was an outright lie.

  “Can you prove it?” Dupree asked in a friendly challenge.

  Drinking coffee, Bolan flexed his free hand, flashing five fingers, then two.

  “Not a problem,” Montenegro stated. “Your sidearm is a Glock 17, not the Model 18 machine pistol.”

  Reaching for a sweet roll, Dupree dropped his jaw. “How the fuck… I mean, shitfire…that is… I… sorry.” The man radiated embarrassment. “Loretta, how can you possibly know that? The 17 and 18 are absolutely identical! Glock deliberately made ’em that way!”

  “I use the same gun,” Montenegro said, gesturing toward the weapons tucked under her breasts. “And yours doesn’t have enough wear on the barrel.”

  “Told you she was good,” Bolan said, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Damn!” Dupree laughed, reaching out to pat her wrist. “You’re correct, this is a 17. Hellfire, girl, the quartermaster could really use a smithy like you at Gibraltar.”

  “Where? The Rock of Gibraltar?” Montenegro asked, searching among the artificial sweeteners for some real sugar. “Isn’t that on the island of Malta or something? Like halfway around the world?”

  “Not that one,” Dupree laughed. “Gibraltar is just what we call our base out in the swamp. Man, you should see it! The place is a real hardsite. There’s barb wire, video cameras, dogs, land mines, the whole magilla. We could hold off those idiots in the National Guard for years without breaking a sweat.”

  “Not much of a challenge there,” Kirkland said, the National Guard tattoo on his arm feeling oddly uncomfortable under his shirt, as if it was itching to come out into public view.

  “Yeah, you got that right!” Dupree chortled. “What do we care about those weekend warrior types? Hell, there’s even a SAM bunker hidden in the…” He stopped short. “Sorry, not supposed to talk about that.”

  “Talk about what?” Bolan said puzzled.

  Dupree furrowed his brow then smiled. “You’re quick, Dan. Quick and smart. Damn, it was lucky bumping into you folks today!”

  “For many reasons,” Montenegro whispered, stirring the sugar around in her mug.

  Grinning as if he had just won the lottery, Dupree squared his shoulders. “Now, you folks come see me on Monday! I’ll take you straight to the boss myself!”

  “And collect a nice bounty for the new recruits?” Kirkland asked with a knowing wink.

  “Hey, a man’s got to make a living,” Dupree said, glancing at Montenegro. “Hope you don’t mind waiting until then. What, ah, hotel you staying at?”

  “Why can’t we go now?” Montenegro asked, sidestepping the question. She wasn’t overly worried about his amorous intentions. Southern men were an odd mixture of courtly knights and horn dogs. If Dupree went too far, she’d knock him unconscious and he’d have all the more respect for her as a proper lady when he woke in the hospital.

  “Shoot, honey, there’s nobody’s at the base today!” Dupree said, gesturing around the empty diner. “The boss sends most of us out on field maneuvers every couple of weeks. Keeps us sharp.” He shrugged, using both hands. “Just bad timing, I guess.”

  “Timing is everything,” Bolan agreed.

  “Why aren’t you on maneuvers with everybody else?” Montenegro asked, looking the man directly in the eyes, while toying with her necklace.

  “Somebody’s got to stand guard,” Dupree said proudly, his attention flickering back and forth. “I only came out for dinner. MRE packs will keep you alive, but—”

  “But they’re dogfood compared to our pork chop special!” Dottie announced, arriving with a tray loaded with steaming dishes. “Make some room there, people! These ain’t daisies, you know!”

  Quickly, the table was cleared and everybody dug into the food with gusto. The plates were almost overflowing—no skimpy meals at the All-American Diner.

  The food was delicious, and nobod
y spoke again for a while until the initial rush ebbed. Then the conversation drifted away from business and into more neutral subjects: cars, guns and sports. By unspoken agreement among the men, their favorite topic, women, was strictly forbidden with a lady at the table.

  As expected, Dupree kept flirting with Montenegro, until she decided the timing was right, then she pretended to misunderstand a compliment, and moved her chair away from the man in icy silence. Closing ranks, Bolan and Kirkland shifted positions to flank Montenegro.

  Flustered, Dupree tried to regain lost ground but soon saw that the battle was over, and paid for the entire meal as a parting gesture before leaving the diner and climbing into a Range Rover.

  As soon as the man drove away, Bolan and the others added a generous tip to the bill, then exited to their car, and drove off in the opposite direction.

  “Okay, that got us the intel I had hoped for,” Bolan said, steering with one hand, while turning on the Humbug. “Everybody is gone, and the base is down to a skeleton crew.”

  “Still won’t be a piece of cake,” Kirkland stated, furiously scratching his mustache. “We ghosting this time again? Shadows in the night?”

  “We hit and git. All that matters is finding those files on Amir Bull.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Montenegro said, taking off the earrings and rubbing some circulation back into the aching lobes. It was a wonder that so many women got their ears pierced. “All right, I can jam the proximity sensors, sonar and land mines easily enough. I brought along enough equipment to invade the Pentagon. But what about those dogs he mentioned?”

  “I hate shooting dogs in the first place,” Kirkland stated, “and unless it’s a clean kill they howl loud enough to wake up the whole state.”

  “There’s a tranquilizer rifle in the back,” Bolan said, turning onto a dirt road. “Along with some BZ grenades.”

  Surprised by that, Kirkland paused in the act of removing his contact lens. “Now, I thought the Army stopped making those years ago?”