Warrior's Edge Read online

  Janelle was in the middle of the platform, two rows behind Sabda. She was there in her official capacity as liaison between the newly formed government of Zandesi and the U.S. embassy.

  But as Sabda's protegee, she was much more than liaison. In her unofficial capacity she served as protocol officer, public-relations specialist and campaign manager. Descended from French landowners, she was a full-fledged Zandesian. One who saw a chance to bring democracy to the country.

  In Leopold Sabda she had seen a man who could lead Zandesi to freedom.

  But then he became a captive right in front of her eyes.

  Sabda and his closest advisers moved toward one side of the stage, gesturing at the helicopter that was circling overhead.

  The helicopter descended, hovering at the edge of the platform. Sabda's advisers started climbing into the open cabin. The chopper crew helped them scramble aboard, lifting off as soon as Sabda was inside.

  And then she heard shouting from inside the chopper. Fowler's men had managed to climb aboard. They knew of the escape plans, and had worked their way through the crowd to board the helicopter with the president.

  There were gunshots, screams, then three bodies were tossed out of the helicopter as it awkwardly rose in the air.

  The chopper flew like a heavy metal leaf, listing to the left and right as it sank gradually toward the ground. But then it levered out and managed to fly over the courtyard gates, finally touching down in the street where several of Fowler's vehicles awaited them.

  They took Sabda away.

  And they also took Janelle's peace of mind.

  Because in her dreams one of Fowler's gunmen pointed the barrel of a machine gun in her face… and fired.

  She screamed, and the shots stopped as she snapped awake, sitting straight up in bed.

  Then she discerned the heavy rappings on the door. Someone was knocking, softly calling her name.

  "It's all right, Janelle! It's only me."

  She recognised the voice, but she was still caught up in the dream fugue. The killer had seemed so real that his dream shadow was still affecting her, weighing her down.

  "Open the door. Please. It's me, Martin." She drifted out of the bed like a woman who'd just come back from the grave. She shrugged into a light silk robe, opened the door, then stood in the shadow of the Zandesian giant.

  "What's wrong?" She shook her head, unable to speak.

  His arms reached out to her, and she fell into them like a child. Nothing romantic could ever pass between them. Martin Molembe had been her mentor, cultivating her, leading her into Leopold Sabda's circle. She saw him as a brother, a brother who'd returned from war.

  His face was tired, caked with grime, sweat and innumerable cuts and burns from the field.

  She realized he'd just come back from fighting the mercenaries in the desert, while all she'd been fighting were the phantoms haunting her dreams.

  "I was…" She faltered. It sounded so weak. "I was dreaming. That's why I was screaming. I was dreaming about the day they took Leopold."

  "We all have those dreams," he said. "They'll stop soon. And that's a promise. I know it's late, but right now I want you to come downstairs and see a man who's going to help me see that promise through."

  "What's his name?" she said.

  "That's a good question. At the moment we're calling him Michael Belasko. He's an American on loan."

  "The Americans promised us troops, hardware, soldiers."

  "That they did," Molembe agreed. "And in a way, that's what they sent us. I've seen him in the field, and I'll tell you one thing. I'm glad he's on our side. He's a hard man to kill."

  "But you could kill him?"

  "If I had to," he replied. "I'd try. It would be a close call."

  She nodded and swept her hair back over her shoulder. The longer she was awake, the stronger she began to feel. She was anchored in the real world once again.

  "He wants to see you, Janelle."

  "I want to see no one. Tell him I'll see him in the morning. When I'm good and ready."

  Molembe shrugged. "He's most persuasive. And he doesn't do things without a good reason. It will be worth it to all of us."

  * * *

  The Executioner stood at the bottom of the winding stairs and looked up at the thirtyish blackhaired woman escorted by Martin Molembe.

  Her shoulder-length hair framed a narrow face with almond eyes awash with worry and lack of sleep.

  Despite the obvious exhaustion, she still had an elfin beauty about her, enhanced by the slender but statuesque figure beneath her robe.

  A petite Parisienne, he thought. Here in the presidential palace she looked more like a debutante than one of the Desert Knights' "Most Wanted" women.

  The scowl the woman had prepared for her uninvited guest melted away when she saw him.

  Bolan hadn't changed his gear yet. He still wore his desert garb, caked with the debris of war. Maybe that had something to do with her change of demeanor, the warrior thought. She could see they were each fighting the war in their own way.

  "And you are?" she said when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  "I'm here to see you. The name is Michael Belasko."

  The corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. "Of course. Martin has told me about you." Her eyes sparked with interest as she appraised the Executioner. "What could you possibly want with me at this hour?"

  "The possibilities are endless," Bolan said, locking onto her gaze. "But for now let's just say that I want your cooperation. There are some prisoners I'd like you to see…"

  As though a dark curtain had dropped, the glow in her eyes quickly faded.

  "I'd rather not."

  "It's more a matter of need than desire," Bolan said. "The prisoners we brought back are mercenaries in the employ of Heinrich Fowler. Naturally all of them say they had nothing to do with the massacre. Just as naturally we want people who witnessed the massacre to view them to see if they're telling the truth."

  "And if they are?"

  Bolan paused. "It's a calculated gamble. Martin and I have worked something out that could be to all of our advantage."

  "Monsieur Belasko has some ideas I think are worth listening to," the Zandesian Intelligence chief said. "In here." He led the way to a pair of double doors.

  A guard stepped aside as they entered a sparsely furnished room that had been an office for one of Emil Nashonge's underlings.

  Photographs, plaques, figurines and an elaborately scrolled, gold-lettered nameplate of the former occupant were piled unceremoniously in a box in the corner of the room. Now it was Spartan and functional, reflecting the down-to-earth nature of its current occupant.

  Bolan and Janelle dropped into the two pastelcolored chairs that faced the desk.

  Molembe headed toward a small serving cart at the side of the room with a tea setting and hot plate. He flicked on the hot plate, started brewing a pot of tea, then sat behind his desk.

  He clasped his hands on the desk top and leaned forward, covering his reflection on the glossy surface.

  "Well," he said, "now we can begin our summit meeting."

  "One long overdue," Janelle replied. "It's rare to see you at your desk these days. Too rare."

  Molembe gave her a sharp look, which the woman ignored.

  "There's too much at risk when you're in the field," she said.

  "It's where I belong."

  "Under normal circumstances, yes. But the fact is, Martin, that aside from a few paper shufflers, right now I'm looking at the entire government of Zandesi. We must consider the possibility that Leopold may never come back. And if you are killed, what then?"

  Bolan saw why Janelle had risen so far.

  She wasn't just a pretty face or figurehead.

  Sabda had groomed her to be a devil's advocate.

  She had the intellect and the courage to challenge anyone.

  Molembe tried to evade her question. "We came here to discuss another matter." He nodde
d at Bolan. "Let's talk about the prisoners."

  "She's right," Bolan said. "We know Fowler's strategy is to draw your troops into the desert and keep them tied up in a guerrilla war. If he manages to kill you in the bargain, what's to keep him from killing Sabda and his cabinet? In the chaos that follows, the people might welcome Fowler and Nashonge."

  "If it's necessary to go back to the field," Molembe said, "then I'll go. There are risks no matter where we fight from. And yes, Monsieur Belasko, I realize I'm a target. But I should be quite safe with you protecting my back."

  "I usually work on the front lines," Bolan said. "I'm a soldier, not a bodyguard."

  "Understood. Now, back to the reason why we're here…"

  "Yes," Janelle said. "You woke me up to make me a special brew of tea."

  Molembe laughed. He went over to the stand and poured tea into small round cups, which he handed to Janelle and Bolan before returning to his desk with his own.

  "Now," he said, raising his teacup, "we can begin." He nodded toward Bolan.

  The Executioner outlined the plan he and Molembe had developed. In exchange for full disclosure of their mercenary operations, the prisoners would be released.

  Using her contacts and, if necessary, those of the U.S. covert community, a well-publicized press conference would be broadcast around the world. Such a move would demonstrate the legitimacy of the government of Zandesi and their willingness to end the war.

  "And if it backfires?" Janelle asked. "This could attract the kind of people we don't want. Some mercenaries could see this as a recruiting drive. Or if they are strong enough, maybe even view Zandesi as ripe for their own coup."

  "The best way to fight mercenaries is to hit them before they get here," Bolan told her. "Spare these prisoners, and it might save us from fighting a hundred more recruits from the outside world. Mercenaries aren't all killers for hire. If some of them see what's happening, they might stay away. And the ones who ignore the message, well, they'd come no matter what we did."

  "I still don't like the risk."

  "Don't forget our other targets," Bolan said. "Even if this doesn't stem the flow of meres, it will still help us with rebel forces. All those who give up their arms will be granted amnesty. At the same time it shows the world that the caretaker government is genuine in its quest for peace. It gives us the higher moral ground."

  "And from there," Molembe added, "we can take better aim at our real enemies those who continue the fight. While I, too, share some of your doubts, Janelle, politically, in the eyes of the international community, this is the best weapon we have."

  "Politically Martin, you aren't that experienced. I still think this sets a dangerous precedent. The mercenary element will come to expect this from us. They'll think they can exploit this weakness the next time."

  "They'll be dealt with harshly next time," Molembe argued. "That's something we'll make clear in the press conference. But mercy is called for in this case. Most of these mercenaries were green and had little idea of what was expected from them. For all they knew they were here to support President Sabda."

  "Or assassinate him," she said.

  "That's why we want you to take a look at them before we go ahead."

  "Okay." She tilted her cup and drained the last of her tea as if it was a shot of liquid courage. "Let's get it over with."

  * * *

  A line of mercenaries stood side by side in the narrow single cells flanking both sides of the wide corridor in the basement of the presidential palace.

  At the moment it had a courthouse atmosphere, with all of the hardmen waiting for the verdict to come down. Their whispered voices and mutters traveled from cell to cell as they watched the small party that had entered the holding room, looking for clues to their fate.

  Some of them looked at the SMG's carried by the two uniformed guards. Others were drawn to the black-haired woman whose eyes kept sweeping the room. To men in their straits she was as beautiful as a dream, but a dream dreamt by others. But eventually most of the men turned their attention to Martin Molembe. The huge Zandesian had shown no indication of his plans for the prisoners, and his eyes gave away nothing as he scanned the cells.

  Nor was there any comfort to be found from the tall American who stood next to the Zandesian. His stone-cold sniper's eyes seared right through them.

  "Listen carefully to me," Molembe bellowed. "Listen as if I were pronouncing the words of the last rite."

  It had the desired effect. The mercenaries fell silent, wondering just how close they were to the final ceremony threatened by the ZIS chief.

  "There are two ways out of here," the man continued. He gestured to the windowless metal door at the far end of the corridor. "That way lies the graveyard. These men will be your escorts." Both guards stepped forward, crisply raising their submachine guns until the barrels pointed waist high at the prisoners.

  Though they were mostly new to the mercenary game, every man knew the fate of many a gun for hire. An informal firing squad would terminate their stay.

  The threat of certain death put them in a cooperative mood. Not a man moved.

  "There's another door you can take. You can walk right through the same door we came in through, then you can keep going. We'll get you to the airport and fly you right out of here."

  A bitter laugh came from the cell nearest the door. It was the Australian mercenary, looking right at home as he gripped the metal bars. So far the only thing he'd told them was his name.

  Nicholas Croy.

  With a tobacco-baked voice that sounded as if he were in charge, totally unfazed by his situation, Croy said, "What do we have to give up?"

  "The truth."

  "The truth, eh?" Croy stepped back from the bars. His stubby trigger finger rode the brim of his hat. "Truth's a pretty flexible item."

  "Just don't bend it too far," Bolan warned, stepping nearer to the cell.

  "Who's this?" Croy asked. "I thought you gave the orders."

  "I do." Molembe tipped his head toward Bolan. "And he carries them out. He's the one who'll ask all the questions. He's the one who decides what door you take."

  Croy shrugged, acting as if the presence of the Executioner made no difference to him, although he'd obviously been sizing Bolan up ever since he'd walked in.

  But the presence of Janelle Vallois did have an effect on the Australian free-lancer.

  When he noticed how she was carefully checking out the prisoners at the other end of the corridor, a wary look came over his eyes. He tilted his brim down and stared straight ahead.

  Janelle moved slowly around the room, finishing her study of the prisoners. None of them provoked a reaction from her. Until she came to Croy.

  Her face blanched, and she stepped back instinctively, putting the guards between herself and the cell.

  "What is it?" Bolan asked.

  She pointed a finger at the Australian. At first she didn't say a word, but her eyes made the accusation just the same.

  "Recognize him?"

  She nodded. "He was there, at the inauguration. He was shooting at everyone…"

  "That's a lie!" Croy snapped. He white-knuckled the bars and pulled himself forward, spitting out his hatred. "You believe a damned woman? Let a woman do your dirty work for you…"

  "Shut it," Bolan growled. He upholstered the Beretta 93-R and tapped the barrel against the iron bars.

  Croy backed away.

  "Take a good, hard look," Bolan advised the woman. "Are you sure he's the one?"

  "Yes!" she hissed. "Of course I'm sure! He tried to kill me from the helicopter."

  "You're out of your bloody mind," Croy muttered, shaking his head. "If I was gunning for you, honey, you'd be worm bait now…" He looked pointedly toward Bolan, then said, "Attracting a different sort of maggot entirely."

  "You can quit the act anytime," Bolan said. "We get the idea you're a tough bastard."

  "It's no act. I come from a long line of sons of bitches."

  "M
aybe," Bolan said. "Fact is, you gave up when you had a chance to die in battle."

  "We Croys are crazed, not crazy. I wasn't in a dying mood."

  "Killing's more your style," Bolan said. "Especially women."

  "The lady's mistaken. And it's damned obvious why. Every man with a gun looks alike when you're on the receiving end. It wasn't me. I came in with this lot."

  Bolan targeted the man in the next cell, a thin, sunburned man who looked as though he wished he could go back in time and abort the mission in Zandesi. "Is that true?" Bolan asked.

  The man was eager to please. Without missing a beat, he said, "It could be. The first time I saw Croy was in the desert. We all met at the same time out in the Harana."

  Bolan checked the story with the other prisoners. All of them remembered seeing Croy come in with a few other meres, who were also new to the region.

  Fresh blood for Fowler's machine.

  "Look," Croy said, "I admit I was with Fowler before that. I'm no saint, but I don't go in for slaughter. The helicopter attack, the murder of the UN observers, all that was done by a special unit. Me, I'm just a desert rat."

  "Tell me about it," Bolan prompted.

  "I said all I got to say."

  "For now."

  The Executioner conferred with Molembe and Janelle in a low voice. The Zandesian officer repeated his offer. Leniency in exchange for candor. The rest of the hardmen all jumped at the chance.

  But Croy remained silent.

  A few moments later the guards began escorting the mercenaries outside, taking them down to the debriefing rooms where ZIS men waited for them.

  Within five minutes only Bolan and the Australian mercenary were left in the holding room. The Executioner held the key to his cell, spinning the large key ring on his finger, producing a hypnotic effect on the prisoner.

  "Is this your idea of torture?" Croy asked. "It's pretty lame, mate."

  "I don't kill unless I have to. The way it goes down is up to you."

  Croy stepped back from the bars. "If you want to kill me, kill me." He lifted his arms over his head and spun around so his back was to Bolan. "If this makes it easier for you, be my guest."