Warrior's Edge Read online

  The Executioner's mirthless laugh echoed in the room. He holstered his Beretta and said, "Turn around, Croy. We both know the game we have to play here. You act like you're ready to go to the grave with your secrets, and I act like I just might be ready to bargain. Sooner or later we strike a deal. Isn't that right?"

  Croy returned to his former position near the bars. "That depends on the deal."

  "It's simple enough," Bolan said. "You talk, you walk after the smoke clears. And if your story checks out. Right now I'm prepared to believe you weren't involved in the massacre in the square."

  "Why's that?"

  "If you were sent to hit Janelle, and you missed at that range, I don't think Fowler would have brought you aboard."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  "Don't thank me just yet," Bolan went on. "If it turns out you've been lying to me, if we find out in any way that you misled us, well, the ZIS has a fatal cure for that."

  "Trust me, mate," Croy said. Like a neighbor chatting over a fence, the man's arms slid through the bars. He idly clasped his hands together for support.

  Or for a two-handed sucker punch if Bolan got too close. Despite his air of unconcern, the Executioner knew the man was just waiting for an opening.

  "So," Croy said, "let's see if we got anything to talk about. What do you want to know?"

  "Let's start with the desert. After your unit was taken prisoner, you didn't seem too surprised to see a second force of Desert Knights."

  "That's right, mate. I take life as it comes."

  "How about death?"

  "That, too, if it has to be."

  "Anything can be arranged."

  Croy shrugged. "Yeah, well, that's a problem for me right now," he said, looking at the Beretta. "I don't like dealing with a man with a gun. Kind of takes away the spirit of the thing."

  "Everything's open to negotiation. If this makes it easier for you to talk, then I'm all for it." Bolan slid off the shoulder rig, carried the weapon to the far side of the room and leaned it against the metal door. Then he returned to the cell. "You were saying?"

  "I was saying I got nothing to say. Yet." The Aussie studied Bolan carefully, his eyes gauging the man. The Executioner had made one concession. How far could he push it?

  "It's time you laid your cards on the table, Nick. I got places to go…"

  "Places to go, people to kill," Croy taunted.

  "Don't have to go too far for that. It's time, Nick. You talk or I walk and then you swing."

  "All right," Croy said. "Here's the deal. Like I said, Fowler has special units for special tasks. He's got teams in the city. He's got troops in the field. He's got plans you never dreamed of. But if you want to know what they are, you open the door, give me a shot at my assignment."

  "Which is?"

  "To kill you," Croy said.

  "Are you telling me this has all been a ruse to get you inside the palace? That Fowler sacrificed all those men for that?"

  "There's a lot I could tell you, but you've got to open the door to find out."

  The Executioner studied the Aussie predator. Croy was about two hundred pounds of brute muscle, a man who had bulled and battled his way across Africa after fleeing his native land one step ahead of the law. He knew the type, knew what they could do.

  "You got a deal, Nick." Bolan keyed the lock, and the door swung inward.

  Croy wasted no time. Like iron drawn to a magnet, his ham fist whipped toward Bolan's face, the motion seeming to propel him from the cell.

  Bolan let it come, twisting to the right at the last instant, letting the blow glance off his cheek.

  As Croy's momentum carried him forward, closing for the kill, Bolan kept on spinning to his right. His rigid right elbow swung around like a war hammer, picking up speed and power until it crashed into the underside of Croy's jaw.

  The impact lifted the man off his feet. His broadbrimmed hat sailed to the floor as his head tilted back, blood fountaining from his mouth like an oil strike.

  Bolan continued his move, unfolding his arm and snapping a fist to Croy's face. His knuckles caught him in the bridge of his nose, producing a sharp crack.

  At the end of his split-second maneuver, Bolan stepped forward and closed the gap with the falling man. This wasn't a friendly contest. There were no times-out. The object was to take the man down as fast as possible, then make sure he stayed there.

  Bolan went straight for the dazed man's gut with a front snap kick. Nothing fancy, just a plain, curledtoe pickax to the abdomen.

  Croy took the hit dead-on and bounced back against the wall. He hung there suspended for a moment, like a freeze frame from a road accident. Then he fell like a diver onto the concrete floor, flat on his ruined face.

  A stream of blood reddened the floor around his head. The Aussie groaned. He couldn't get up, nor could he retreat into unconsciousness.

  Bolan dropped into a half crouch and pressed his right knee into Croy's back. "Game's over, Nick. Next move's final. You decide."

  Croy grunted his assent.

  The Executioner backed away and gave him room to move. Not that moving was all that easy for Croy.

  Bolan had executed the techniques in little more than a second. Like a surgical strike, it had taken the fight out of the man and perhaps saved them hours of "negotiating." Croy stirred slowly. He stretched his arms and legs. Then, like a man coming back from the dead, he crawled to the rear of the cell. He grabbed the edge of the cot and managed to pull himself into a sitting position.

  "I kept my part of the bargain," Bolan said. "Now you keep yours. Start talking."

  Croy tilted his head back, then ran his cuff across his face to wipe off some of the blood.

  He shook his head slowly from side to side.

  "Damn," he said. "You're just like Fowler. You had this figured out all along." His words came out slowly. Like a drunkard's, the Aussie's speech was slurred and broken.

  But Bolan sat there patiently, taking the time to piece it together. With all the hard Intel Croy was divulging, it sounded just like music to his ears.

  7

  Sea breezes washed over the immense body of Emil Nashonge as he paced the well-shaded veranda and looked out at the ocean. The diamond-capped waters of the Atlantic beckoned to the deposed head of state.

  Hissing surf called to him.

  But it was a call he couldn't respond to.

  All he could do was scowl. The water wasn't for him, nor was the open air that rushed through the leaves of the palms that stood like graceful sentinels posted all around the villa.

  During the daylight hours his unmistakable profile wasn't supposed to be seen away from the screened-in veranda on the second floor of the secluded villa. Nor could he walk the terraced grounds.

  Such simple pleasures were forbidden him, on the order of Heinrich Fowler, kingmaker, life taker. The man had left complete instructions about every aspect of Nashonge's life.

  He had no illusions about the danger he was in. Leopold Sabda wasn't the only leader in captivity. Fowler controlled every move that Nashonge made, every breath he took.

  The safe house was a prison.

  In ordinary times the villa on the outskirts of Zandeville would be a paradise. Like stepping-stones, the plushly landscaped tiers led down to the sea. From the bottom tier a wooden stairway descended to the private beach and dock where a cabin cruiser and speedboat glinted in the sunlight.

  Despite the sleek fishing poles that adorned the cockpits like radar, they weren't strictly luxury boats. Below decks and concealed in the paneling were weapons caches, communications gear and the most important survival tool of all U.S. dollars, gold coins.

  Wherever flight took them, they'd survive.

  These weren't ordinary times. This was war, and the government of Emil Nashonge had been one of the first casualties. Here in exile he was a powerless observer.

  On paper the villa belonged to a French businessman who'd been co-opted by Heinrich Fowler years
ago. But the Frenchman rarely showed his face at the deceptively calm concentration camp.

  It was staffed entirely by Fowler's mercenaries, who watched his every move not a difficult task when their prisoner was a man of his girth. Nashonge had allowed himself to become obese.

  And not just his body. For years his thinking had also grown flabby. Anytime he had problems he turned them over to Fowler, who eagerly solved them.

  Before he realized it, he'd turned over the government to Heinrich Fowler.

  And finally he'd given up his freedom.

  To the outside world the staff attending to Nashonge's needs appeared to be nothing more than servants. But they were also professional killers.

  Every time he heard their footsteps he wondered if that was the last sound he'd hear.

  Were they waiting on him, bringing him the meat, fruit and alcohol that made up his customary diet? Or were they drawing their weapons as they approached, bringing him the ultimate peace?

  Fowler had prepared several different scenarios for his return to power. Nashonge would either be the hero or the fall guy, whatever it took for Fowler to accomplish his goals. There was no guarantee that Nashonge would ever return from exile. He could very easily become one of the disappeared ones, the troublemakers who just vanished from the earth and were never heard of again.

  Nashonge had rubber-stamped the practice years earlier. Since then, Fowler had used it to purge the government of Nashonge's enemies, and his friends. He was adrift in a government run by another man.

  With a gargantuan sigh Nashonge left the veranda and walked back into the air-conditioned interior. It was time to watch the news and find out what was happening in the country.

  As he passed the television set he grabbed the remote control, flicked it like a magic wand, then dropped into the extrawide chair to watch the newscast.

  A familiar apparition appeared on the screen.

  It was the face of Martin Molembe.

  On-screen was a blowup of a photograph of Molembe that had appeared throughout the world press. His name was now on the lips of every Zandesian. Soon it would be known worldwide. The man was grooming himself to fill the vacuum. While he proclaimed to the world his efforts in saving President Sabda, he was in reality paving the way for his own presidency.

  It wouldn't be so bad, Nashonge thought, to be followed in office by Martin Molembe. The country would thrive… Odd, he thought. He so rarely thought about the people, about the place of Zandesi in the world. But now that it was taken from him, he couldn't help thinking of all the things he could have done, the mark he could have made. Instead of opting for a presidential paradise, he could have opened the gates to his own people. Shared the wealth… He shook his head. Such dreams were for men like Leopold Sabda and Martin Molembe, whose face seemed to grow godlike as the camera moved in for a close-up.

  "Hail Caesar," Nashonge muttered.

  The photo showed Molembe with a gentle expression and a hint of a tired smile on his face, like a postcard from a long-lost friend. In a way that's just what it was.

  In the old days Martin Molembe had been a friend. Several times he'd counseled Nashonge against giving Heinrich Fowler such free rein, and Molembe had always been adamant about the people deserving honest rule. He'd pressured Nashonge to take control back from Fowler, to give the people a voice.

  But Nashonge had taken the easy way. He'd gone along with Fowler's plans, and now his friendship with Molembe was gone. The leader of the ZIS was with the enemy.

  Judging from other news clips he'd seen recently, the ZIS chief wasn't alone in his actions. Most of the Zandesians were his enemy, although to the reporters they always spoke guardedly. After all, there was always a chance that Nashonge could return.

  At the moment the chances of a triumphant return seemed slim, Nashonge thought. Not while he was confined to quarters, watched over by men loyal to a usurper.

  The screen suddenly changed, showing a brief travelogue of downtown Zandeville, people going about their business, unworried.

  As the reporter's voice praised Martin Molembe as one of the key figures responsible for maintaining the state of calm so soon after the massacre, the camera panned the presidential palace.

  The television camera zoomed through the main entrance and, once inside the palace, took the viewer into the office of Martin Molembe.

  Nashonge recognised it instantly, even with all of the plaques, medals and certificates missing from the walls. It was the once of his former chief of staff, a man who was now also in hiding. Or perhaps dead. Nashonge had no way of knowing.

  But now the office looked very functional.

  There was no trace of the ornate trappings so typical when Nashonge had been in residence.

  Sitting behind a desk with a sparse top, the head of the ZIS wore an elegantly tailored suit that tempered his military image. Tonight there was a glimpse of the statesman about him.

  He spoke in low but confident tones. It was the voice of truth, the voice of a man who had nothing to hide.

  A good act, Nashonge thought as he watched Molembe's media performance.

  A ZNT logo emblazoned the head of the microphone wielded by the reporter from Zandesi National Television, a thin, earnest-looking man.

  "As the highest-ranking member of ZIS, Mr. Molembe, you are currently in charge of keeping the peace and conducting the war at the same time." He spoke in the accentlexs English favored by aspiring international correspondents. "These tasks seem to be at odds with each other."

  "Actually they complement each other quite well," Molembe replied. "Here in the city there's a sense of stability. Life goes on. And it goes on very well. That's only possible because of our efforts in the war against the terrorists in the desert."

  "That brings us to the unusual decision you made recently when you released several mercenaries taken prisoner during the desert campaign. It seems a strange way of fighting a war, to go out to the desert to capture terrorists only to bring them back to the city and release them. How do you explain that?"

  "I'll explain it the same way I did when we released them. It's a way for the legitimate government of Zandesi to get its message out to the people that we don't want war with foreign mercenaries. Nor with our own people who fight alongside them."

  "But they went away unpunished," the reporter protested.

  "That isn't the way we see it. The mercenaries who were released were misguided. They didn't take part in the inaugural massacre. They didn't even know the reason why they were brought here until they were forced out into the desert and told to fight. A tragic circumstance for both sides. In this case we'll be merciful. But from here on, let it be known that all mercenaries have been given fair warning. There will be no more releases."

  "There has been talk of amnesty."

  "So far it's only talk," Molembe replied. "No one has taken us up on our offer. Anyone who wishes to quit the fighting and leave the country is guaranteed safe passage."

  "And those who stay?"

  "They'll be dealt with according to the rules of war. The government of Zandesi will prevail against those who try to tear it down. The will of the people shall prevail. We will fight to maintain our freedom."

  The camera turned toward the reporter, who smiled cynically.

  "That sounds all very noble, but how do you address the fears of the people who say that the country is now in the hands of the military no matter what you choose to call them these days? And they will likely remain in control even if Leopold Sabda is returned."

  The question took Molembe by surprise.

  "That is unthinkable," he said. "It will take me only one second to turn over this job. I'm a soldier, not a politician. The problems facing Zandesi are best solved by the man elected by the people."

  "And what if President Sabda doesn't come back to use. He's in dangerous hands."

  "Elections will be held," Molembe said. "That is my promise."

  "Will your name be on the ballot?"

>   "I have no interest in running. Only serving."

  Emil Nashonge almost found himself believing it. So earnest. So honest. But he knew that no man could refuse power once it was thrust into his hands. He'd do anything to hold on to it.

  No matter how genuine Molembe seemed as he voiced his desire to serve the country, there was an echo that only Nashonge could hear.

  It was the echo of his own words, uttered so long ago when he'd said similar things to the public.

  But Nashonge had succumbed.

  And chances were good that Martin Molembe would also fall to the temptations offered him.

  He, too, would take the necessary steps to hold on to his power no matter how pretty a picture he painted at the moment.

  8

  The army of looters struck at seven in the evening, when the streets of Zandeville were quiet, the people immersed in the siestalike lull between the end of business hours and the beginning of nightlife.

  A battered red pickup truck clattered down the main street, Avenue de Paris, which was the capital's glittering shopping district.

  Four men stood in the bed of the truck as it traveled the middle of the street, two men on each side dressed in jeans and T-shirts, looking decidedly out of place in the cosmopolitan venter of Zandeville. They looked like refugees from another world, a poisoned universe of murder and terror.

  They were smiling, as if they planned on having a good time.

  The truck rolled to a stop. Leaning over the side panels of the vehicle for balance and leverage, the men started the festivities by tossing rocks and bricks at the shiny glass windows that offered capitalist glimpses of Paradise.

  Bursting glass crashed onto the street from shops lining both sides of the avenue.

  The truck began rolling again as the men shouted their war cries.

  "Down with Molembe!"

  "Smash the regime!"

  "Free Zandesi…"

  "Free food!"

  Twisted laughter shrieked from the truck as the men picked up more missiles from the pile of bricks and rocks stacked in the rusty truck bed.