TREACHEROUS CARGO

A freighter smuggling nuclear materials from North Korea to Iran should be an easy target for law enforcement. But then the ship drops off the map around the Horn of Africa, and another freighter with similar cargo disappears soon after. The only link between the vessels is a private security firm. With nukes floating around in the Indian Ocean, the race is on to prevent a horrific disaster…and Stony Man Farm has the perfect man for the job.

Mack Bolan’s first move is to infiltrate the security company as an undercover guard. But when he forms an unlikely alliance with a Somali pirate, it becomes clear these ships aren’t just falling prey to high-seas holdups—and it’s up to Bolan to unravel the conspiracy. With enemies onboard his vessel and trawling nearby waters, Bolan must be sharper and more uncompromising than ever. But not even an ocean can douse The Executioner’s fiery crusade for justice.

AK-47s stuttered into life from the approaching pirate boats.

The Caprice’s harbor searchlights stabbed into the gloom as the ship’s collision alarm began to whoop. The deck hummed beneath Bolan’s boots as the freighter’s diesels went to full power.

The captain shouted across Bolan’s com-link. “Fast boats coming alongside to starboard! Right in front of you! It’s the bloody Spanish Armada…”

Ladder hooks clanked onto the rail, the ladder shifting and shaking as it took the weight of boarders. Bolan lit his firebomb and rose. He swung the sling overhead like a tennis serve and released it over the side.

Men in the skiff below screamed as the flaming bottle shattered and fire engulfed the prow. The Executioner dropped just as bullets screamed past his head.

A high-powered rifle cracked out on the water.

“Sniper!” Bolan roared. “Hit the deck!”

Then a grenade launcher blooped and the stern lit up in an orange, high-explosive flash.

Rogue Elements

Don Pendleton

People who make no noise are dangerous.

—Jean de La Fontaine

A soldier has to remain calm and steadfast. Hatred and anger clouds judgment, and that can get you killed. When you face an enemy, you have to keep your head—or you’ll lose it.

—Mack Bolan

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Dedication

Legend

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Copyright

Chapter One

Salalah, Oman

“We Viking guys get all the shit assignments.” Rafe Sifuentes scowled as he looked around the Café Américain. “And this place? Total latrine.”

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, nodded. The bar was in fact something of a dump. The name was a dim nod to the film Casablanca, and that was about all it had in common with Humphrey Bogart’s place. Café Américain was one of the few government-licensed bars in Oman not attached to an international hotel, and it catered to sailors and foreign dockworkers in the Port of Salalah, as well as locals who could afford the bribe and wished to drink illegally outside their homes. It sported several big-screen TVs tuned to FOX News and international football. Sifuentes, a former US Army Ranger, was Texan, in his early twenties and sported military and Mexican religious tattoos over much of his physique.

“I’ve been in worse places,” Bolan admitted.

“Is that even possible?”

The Executioner took a long pull of his lager. “At least the beer is cold.”

“Yeah, well, settle in then, pilgrim, ’cause this is where we R & R until further notice. I was talking to a Rampart asshole at the airport. You know where his team spent time off between ships? The Seychelles. You know where that is?”

Bolan nodded.

Sifuentes went on anyway. “I had to wiki that shit. Tropical island paradise. Before that? The guy was in Goa—girls, ganja and surfing. Me and you, amigo? We’re in Salalah. What the hell kind of name is that? Sounds like a kid made it up. What the hell are we supposed to do here?”

“Tell you what, Sifuentes. If you stand up on the bar and sing Feliz Salalah, your drinks are free the rest of the night.”

Sifuentes laughed despite himself.

Bolan shrugged. “The locals will love you.”

“Dude, you maintain what my XO in Afghanistan called an eternally sunny disposition.”

“Like I said, the beer is cold.” Bolan tipped his bottle at Sifuentes. “And we’re getting paid. I’ve been in situations where none of that was happening.”

Sifuentes stared at Bolan as they toasted. “I bet you have. One of these days we need to talk.”

“One of these days,” Bolan agreed, raising his bottle and his voice. “But in the meantime, here’s to the sultan! Long may he reign! Insha’Allah!”

Several Omani men at the closest table smiled around the wads of khat in their mouths and raised their illegal beers in toast to their sultan.

“Well, look at you, gaining friends and winning influence.”

“Best to keep the locals happy,” Bolan observed. “Besides. We’ve got problems.”

Sifuentes blinked. “What kind of problems?”

“A guy walked in a minute ago and sat at a table in the corner with three other guys.”

Sifuentes casually glanced at the four men, who looked local but were wearing Western clothing. “Yeah?”

“He was one of the two guys who followed us from our room half an hour ago.”

“I didn’t know we’d been followed.”

“I wasn’t positive. Now I am.”

“So, what do we do?”

Bolan admitted to himself it was a good question. Sifuentes worked security for Viking Associates. The company hired ex-military men as security guards aboard major ships whose trade routes passed through known piracy corridors. Bolan was a paid employee of Viking as well, but he was undercover. The most pressing problem facing him and Sifuentes was that they were armed guards who weren’t currently armed. They were not licensed bodyguards, or anyone’s VIP security detail with diplomatic immunity. They could not carry guns in the Sultanate of Oman. They were issued arms only when they were out at sea in international waters, and Bolan had not been out yet.

“Harsh language?” Sifuentes suggested.

“Broken bottles and bar stools might be better. But at least two of those guys are packing, and I don’t like the odds.”

“You’re an observant son of a bitch.”

“Here’s what we do. We break out of here.”

“Then what?”

“We split up.”

Sifuentes’s face fell. “Aww, shit, man. Don’t you pull a fade on me now! Just when I was starting to like you!”

“No, escape and evade. They left one guy outside. They can’t chase us both. These guys can’t keep up with you, and despite what you might think about a guy my age, I can shake these guys.”

Sifuentes began to see it. “So they got nothing left but to go back to staking out our room again.”

“Right.”

“Then what—we camp on the beach and call for extraction?”

“No, their initial freak-out will give us some time. We lead them on a tour of the neighborhood and then go back to our room.”

“Then what?”

“You call Viking while I go shopping. Then we settle their hash.”

Sifuentes smiled. “You sexy bastard.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“So?”

“So, Sifuentes, one, two, three.” Bolan nodded. “Go!”

They shot to their feet and hit the door running. The men at the back table shouted in consternation. Two pulled pistols while the other two pulled phones. Bolan heard a gunshot, and patrons began shouting and screaming as he and Sifuentes burst out onto the waterfront. The sun was just starting to go down. Bolan broke west for the suq, dodging longshoremen, motor carts and a surprising number of camels.

“See ya!”

* * *

Viking Associates kept a couple of rooms in a crumbling Portuguese Colonial for employees in transition or on R & R in Salalah. Bolan did a perimeter check around the grounds and called Sifuentes. “Sitrep.”

“Clear in here.”

Bolan went around back and made a fairly risky rusty-drainpipe ascent to the third floor with his purchases from the suq. He spoke quietly at the open window. “Coming in.”

“Clear.”

Bolan rolled into the room.

Sifuentes was visibly relieved. “Oh, man. Tell me you got guns.”

“No, I couldn’t get any guns.”

“Oh, shit...”

“We’ll get guns.”

“Yeah? From where?”

Bolan reached into the doubled plastic bag he had brought from the suq. He drew a nine-inch, crescent-shaped blade of a khanjar dagger. He flipped the blade into his hand and held it out to Sifuentes. “From them.”

“Dude.” Sifuentes took the wickedly curved dagger. “You are so hard-core.”

“Did you call Viking?”

“Yeah, they’re sending a boat from the arsenal ship.”

“ETA?”

“Dawn. Or maybe noon. And they can’t bring any guns. And they gotta go through customs.” Sifuentes was an Army Ranger veteran of Afghanistan. He’d eaten a shit sandwich or two in his life. He got that “Rangers lead the way” look in his eyes. “They’ll let us know and pick us up at the pier.”

Bolan made his determination. “These guys are either going to hit us, or they’re not.”

Sifuentes nodded. “Sounds legit.”

“I think these guys are locals. I don’t think we got made for ship security, and the local chapter of the Arabian Sea Benevolent Pirate Association has a bounty on guys like us.”

“And?”

“They want to play pirate? Then quick’s the word and sharp’s the action. Repel all boarders.”

Sifuentes held up his blade. “With Port Salalah souvenir daggers?”

“It starts with that.” Bolan took out three more daggers and handed one more to Sifuentes. “Then it escalates.”

Sifuentes held a dagger in each hand. He laughed aloud. “Fuckin’ ay, Bubba! We got catapults and boiling oil?”

Bolan reached into his bag and took out four plastic squeeze bottles of French dish soap. “No, but this contains lanolin. Go pour one on both back windowsills and pour a bunch down the outside of the drainpipe I climbed up.”

Sifuentes smiled like it was Christmas and ran to lubricate all methods of third-floor rear access. Bolan did not share the young ex-Ranger’s enthusiasm. This was going to happen very fast or go south even faster. He took several moments to spritz out the second two bottles in ever-widening concentric circles on the tiles in front of the door. Sifuentes returned and was inordinately pleased by what he saw. “We can take these assholes! We can take ’em!”

Bolan tossed away the empty soap bottle. “With science.”

“Dude—” Sifuentes gazed at Bolan in awe. “You’re, like, Bill Nye the Assassin Guy.” He sniffed at the French aromatherapy filling the foyer. “Unless their Spidey senses detect lavender.”

“There is that. So I want you lurking in the door of the kitchenette. When they kick in the door, there’s going to be a puppy pile right here in front of me. It’s going to get all stabby. The first gun I reap I am kicking or throwing to you, and then it is all on you. If I still have a pulse, I’ll grab the next gun and we take them all down.” Bolan didn’t usually repeat himself, but he locked gazes with the young Ranger and held it. “This is going to happen real fast.”

“I hear you, brother.” Sifuentes held a nine-inch Omani hand-scythe in each fist. “If the guns don’t come, then it’s you and me against them, bro. It gets all stabby. Real fast.”

Bolan nodded his approval. “Let’s do it.”

“Lights on or off?”

“On, and put on some music. Something inviting.”

Sifuentes’s thumb rapidly roamed the screen of his smartphone. “Here, dig this. It’s dope.” Angry, Mexican heavy metal thundered and snarled out of the phone’s surprisingly powerful speaker. Sifuentes made the horns with his other hand. “Zombie Bullfighters of Death.”

“Well, if a couple of brother Vikings have to have theme music for a pirate ambush on the Arabian Peninsula...”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Sifuentes enthused.

“Take your position.”

The former Ranger took his position in the kitchen doorway. Somewhere along the line Sifuentes had forgotten that he was the senior Viking associate in charge, but Bolan had that effect on people. The Executioner pushed an ottoman to the left of the door and proceeded to wait. Less than five minutes later he saw shadows beneath the door. Bolan pointed a dagger toward the floor. Sifuentes nodded that he had seen.

Bolan estimated at least three targets in the hallway. Sifuentes’s head snapped back toward the kitchen. He rapidly pantomimed hand-over-hand.

Someone was climbing the drainpipe.

That someone screamed as his hands suddenly closed around the soaped pipe and he fell two stories to the cobblestones below. A fist punched through the door in front of Bolan. It was gloved and holding a hand grenade.

The Executioner lashed out. The crescent moon of Arabian steel just about took off the assassin’s hand at the wrist. The grenadier screamed, and the bomb fell in a spray of blood as its cotter lever pinged away. Bolan snagged the falling grenade and went for the double play as he flung it at Sifuentes. “Hot potato!”

The younger man didn’t blink. He snagged the live grenade and hurled it out the kitchen window. The lethal orb detonated two stories down, and the fallen drainpipe climber screamed as he ate steel rain. The door smashed open beneath a boot.

“Allahu akhbar!”

A man charged in redecorating the flat with a stubby machine pistol. Bolan reversed his blade in his hand and lunged as lead flew and brass sprayed.

The man caught Bolan too late out of the corner of his eye. “Allahu akh—”

Bolan felt flesh part as he drew his sickle of steel from the killer’s left collarbone to his right ear. The assassin went boneless in double arterial spray. Bolan got two fingers on the falling machine pistol, but it fell away from his grasp and hit the floor. He got the toe of his boot into it and sent the Mini-Uzi spinning across the tiles toward Sifuentes. “Now or not at all!”

He dived for the weapon.

Bolan rose.

The third man leveled his weapon.

The Executioner hurled his blade. A curved khanjar dagger was no sticker, but about half a pound of steel and buffalo horn hit the assassin in the face and his shots went high and wide. The killer staggered as Sifuentes drilled a burst into his chest. Bolan ripped a grenade off the assassin’s belt as he fell, and pulled the pin. The remaining man in the hall fired burst after burst through the doorway, but he had no angle. He screamed in fear as Bolan pulled a bank shot and bounced the grenade off the far wall in the hall and sent it out of sight. The bomb whip-cracked. The killer in the hall’s scream was nearly lost in the explosion’s echoes as he fell.

Bolan scooped up a Mini-Uzi and wiped blood off the action. “Any movement out back?”

Sifuentes took a quick peek out the kitchen window. “Just one guy in puddles and piles.”

Executioner took a quick look down the hall. The last assassin had taken a Russian F1 hand grenade at kissing distance and turned the walls into modern art. Lodgers on the first and second floors were screaming. “Hey, you remember your plan about waiting down on the beach?”

Sifuentes nodded. “Yeah?”

“Call Viking. Tell them that’s where we’ll be.” Bolan quickly searched the fallen. “We’re going out the kitchen window and down the drainpipe.”

“Cool.”

“Don’t slip on the soap.”

Chapter Two

The Arabian Sea

The Huey descended toward the ship that was their new, temporary home. Both Bolan and Sifuentes had been surprised when the civilian-marked chopper had flown right up to the pier at dawn and someone had texted the former Ranger, instructing them to get on board, and fast. Bolan took in the ship. The Alice O’Kieffe was a small blue ’70s vintage coastal freighter. She had been converted into an arsenal ship. The majority of ports of call on the planet did not allow armed civilian ships to sail into port. The major shipping security companies like the Rampart Group and Viking got around that by keeping ships offshore and at strategic points in the shipping lanes where men and weapons could be loaded and off-loaded in international waters. The ship had a makeshift helicopter deck. Four shirtless, muscular, tattooed men were currently playing a game of two-on-two basketball. The central painted H made for a decent basketball key. The players stopped and squinted upward as the helicopter came in out of the brassy midmorning sun. Bolan raised an appreciative eyebrow at the sight of the copper-colored woman in a camo bikini sunning herself on top of a lifeboat out of sight of the rest of the crew.

Sifuentes smirked. “Dude, I know you have like, superpowers and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Bolan acknowledged.

“But B.B.? Don’t even think about it. Abe thinks she’s a lesbian. Mono thinks she might have a dick. Either way, she doesn’t mix with her coworkers, and if she did, Abe has first dibs.”

Bolan filed away that minefield of information.

The chopper touched down on the helideck and ship’s crewmen came out to unload the crates Bolan and Sifuentes had been sitting on. By their banter the soldier made them for Malaysians. A man who could have been Sifuentes’s little brother but with even more tattoos and a ’70s-porn-worthy mustache ran up as the rotors stopped. “Sifu! Haven’t seen you since Mombasa!”

“Mono!” The two Latino soldiers engaged in some sort of elaborate hand-jive. Another Latino sporting the startling combination of a beard and a mullet joined the pair, and a conversation in rapid-fire Spanish commenced. A black man with a shaved head eyeballed Bolan, then a large Polynesian man rumbled forward. “Hey! Sifu! Who’s the skinny little white lizard?”

Bolan topped Sifuentes by a head and had a lean but well-muscled physique. Then again, the big Polynesian topped Bolan by a head and looked to be a rock-solid two hundred and fifty pounds. Bolan smiled and stuck out his hand. “You must be Abe.”

Abe stared at the hand and then at Bolan like he had to be kidding.

Bolan shrugged. All eyes turned as the bikini-clad woman walked barefoot onto the helideck. She was Latina and built like a bantamweight female MMA fighter except that she clearly had some surgical augmentation filling out her bikini top. It was hard to gauge the face beneath the big mirrored sunglasses, but her lips were sensual and a short-going-to-bushy-shag haircut framed it all. The mirrored shades looked Bolan up and down. “Che, Sifu. Who’s your friend?”

“This guy?” Sifuentes enthused. “Let me tell you! This guy, he—”

“I haven’t seen blue eyes in a while.” The woman took a long look into Bolan’s arctic blue eyes. “Haven’t seen eyes like that ever.”

The woman turned and put a wiggle in her walk for Bolan as she went to the helicopter gangway. “See you around, Blue.”

The soldier felt the trouble with a capital T coming, but he smiled at the sight anyway. Big Abe’s face went from scowling water buffalo to snarling demon tiki. “Listen, white boy, you gonna—”

“That’s white man, to you.”

The helideck went silent. Abe reared to his full height in outrage. “Fucking Viking, we get all the shit details! Rampart?” Big Abe stabbed a massive finger at Bolan accusingly as he began venting his grievances. “They don’t want no brown people! They want white boys with beards like you!”

Bolan stroked his chin and prepared himself to fight a Samoan who was twice his size and ten years younger. “I don’t have a beard. I applied to Rampart Group, and they told me I was too old and I could take a Viking Associate’s slot if I still wanted a job. And that is white man to you, poi-boy. Don’t make me tell you a third time.”

The Latino contingent stared in shock.

Big Abe roared as his hands clenched into fists. “Poi is Hawaiian!”

Bolan was confident he could take Big Abe in hand-to-hand combat. He had severe doubts about being able to beat him in a stand-up fight. “You saying you never pounded taro when you were a kid, uso?” Bolan countered.

“Hmm!” Abe grunted at the Samoan word for “brother,” and Bolan knew he had scored. A slow, rueful smile crossed the big Samoan’s face. “I mighta. Once or twice. You been to my islands?”

“Does American Samoa count? I worked with a few brothers from there back in the day.”

The tension on the helideck eased considerably.

Big Abe shrugged his massive shoulders. “Where I was born, where I signed up. Where I call home. So I guess it counts. You?”

Bolan told the truth. “Massachusetts.”

“Never worked with no Bay Staters.”

Bolan smiled. “Check out the big brain on Abe.”

“We had to memorize all the states, capitals and nicknames in school.” Big Abe looked out over the Arabian Sea. “Truth? Don’t know who is farther from home, brudda.”

Bolan consulted his mental map. “You, by about three thousand miles.”

Big Abe laughed. “Check out the big brain on Blue!”

“So are we going to fight? If we are, can I have a meal and a nap first?” Bolan heaved a sigh. “It’s been a long-ass seventy-two.”

“Well, the day we do fight, I want your best. So yeah, go down to the galley. Tell Namzi you want the fried rice with julienned Spam and two fried eggs on top. I swear to God that little Indonesian shit makes magic. Plus he’s from Java, so the coffee is good.”

Bolan shoved out his hand again. “Will do.”

The Polynesian engulfed Bolan’s hand in his own but forwent the bone-crusher. “Welcome to Viking Associates, Blue. Welcome to shit detail.”

* * *

Bolan stretched out on his bunk. He put one khanjar dagger beneath his pillow and left the other in his backpack. He took out his phone and punched in the number for Stony Man Farm, in Virginia. His signal bounced off an NSA satellite, then was routed through a series of cutouts, before landing at the Farm. The firewalls and cybersecurity protocols chewed on Bolan’s communication and decided it was kosher. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman answered.

“You in?”

“I’m in.”

“Where are you?”

Bolan hit the GPS tracker app on his phone. “The worst stretch of ocean ever.”

“How are you doing otherwise?”

“I spent all my money on beer, knives and soap.”

“Okay...”

“I’m sending you some pictures.” Bolan had managed to photograph the Viking team currently aboard the ship while pretending to text. “They’re all former US military. I need to see their files and what you can dig up.”

“On it.”

“Thanks.”

“How are you getting along with your new playmates? Viking Associates has a pretty rough reputation.”

Bolan grunted in bemusement. Viking had worse than a pretty rough reputation. They worked cheap, had a record of not observing international protocols, as well as killing would-be pirates rather than trying to capture them or drive them off. One of their Russian teams had kept a teenage Somali pirate alive and had their fun with him before cutting him up, tying a rope around him, throwing him overboard and using him as shark bait. The fishing had been successful, word had gotten around and it had a salutary effect for ships flying the Viking flag. The problem was that two of the team members had been dumb enough to film the atrocities with their phones and send it to their friends. The videos had gone out onto the web and gone viral. Viking became a pariah. No one would hire them. They went bankrupt, and there was talk of a United Nations human rights tribunal. Rampart Group had swooped in out of nowhere, bought them out and fired most of their employees. Rampart had tagged the word “Associates” onto the security company, but Viking was still the black sheep of the private security industry and the bottom rung of the Rampart Group. As both Sifuentes and Big Abe had stated earlier, Viking Associates got all the shit details. Bolan considered his last forty-eight hours with them pretty successful.

“Well, I have a nickname, and I think the cutest girl in class likes me,” Bolan said drily.

“Sounds promising,” Kurtzman muttered.

Pictures and files started appearing on Bolan’s phone. “Just so you know,” Kurtzman said, “we do appreciate the easy requests every once in a while. The big guy is Aperaamo ‘Big Abe’ Umaga. Samoan. Tenth Mountain Division, then Ranger. Failed the Special Forces course because of ‘attitude’ problems.”

“That might have been foreseeable.”

“Classic Rangers lead the way, but does not play well with others,” Kurtzman continued. “In private security he’s had goon-squad duty, and VIP ‘stand around and be huge and mean looking’ jobs. He signed on with Viking right when everything went south. He survived the culling.”

“Sifuentes was a Ranger, I know that. How come he isn’t anymore?”

“Busted for failing a drug test. Marijuana.”

“How about Mono?”

“Moisés Nilo. Squad mate of Sifuentes. Busted at the same time when their unit got drug-tested.”

“And the mullet?”

“Lazlo Mendez. He’s 101st Airborne. He was offered an early, honorable discharge to testify in a military court tribunal. The case is sealed, and his discharge papers have been redacted. You want Hal to ask for it?” Kurtzman referred to Hal Brognola, Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm.

“No. Tell me about the black guy.”

“Jimbo Ketch, born and raised in the United States Virgin Islands. Boatswain’s mate second class. Transferred to the United States Navy Riverine Squadron, RIVRON 3.”

Bolan was detecting a theme. “Tell me how he lost his rating.”

“He got in a brawl with three other Riverines. One of them was an officer. He claimed he didn’t start it, and the attack was racially motivated, over a woman.”

“Did he win?”

“Oh yeah. He put two of them in the hospital. However, he’d been reprimanded for fighting several times in his career. He got busted back to E-3. Finished his bit and didn’t re-up. Went into private security.”

“And the woman?”

“Bianca Maria Ibarra, United States Marines. Military and Police. She made sergeant. Served in Iraq with distinction. Bronze Star and Purple Heart. She was accepted into the United States Marine Corps Criminal Investigation Division, graduated at the top of her class.”

“And?”

“Conduct unbecoming. Apparently Miss Ibarra has a bad habit of getting a little too friendly with superior officers, apparently sometimes more than one at the same time. She was up for a dishonorable discharge. Rumor was she was going to testify about the dishonorable behavior of a number of officers. Her discharge was reduced to general. She applied to several California police departments and was rejected. She currently holds a private investigator’s license in the State of California as well as a California private patrol operator license to provide security and bodyguard services.

Bolan considered his new teammates. “Quite the band of fallen heroes.”

“It is odd. Rampart buys out Viking, cleans out the bad apples, rebuilds the brand and then restocks it with this riffraff.”

Bolan didn’t know his team yet, but he knew Sifuentes was Ranger all the way, and he was willing to bet Abe would fight an armored fighting vehicle with his bare hands for a teammate. “I wouldn’t call them riffraff just yet.”

“So what would you call them?”

Bolan was starting to have an inkling about that. “Expendables.”

“Really? How so?”

Bolan considered his mission. The UK’s MI6 had intercepted chatter that nuclear materials from North Korea were being smuggled on a freighter to Iran. There had been a plan to intercept that ship, but it had dropped off the planet in the Arabian Sea. All hands were lost, including the security team from Rampart Group. The loss had been attributed to Somali pirates. Section 6 was damn good. They might have lost eyes on that ship, but they kept their ears open on that line of chatter. They caught wind of a rumored second ship smuggling nuclear material. It disappeared in the Strait of Malacca with all hands and a Rampart Group team. MI6 had pulled strings and gotten a former British SAS sergeant hired by Rampart Group.

Bolan tapped the file, and up popped a photo of the grinning, prematurely balding, impossibly broad-shouldered Colour Sergeant Terry Wellens. He looked like a member of the royal family on steroids.

Sergeant Wellens, his team and the ship they’d been guarding had disappeared. Bolan had done his homework. It was shocking how many ships sank, ran aground or outright disappeared on the 70-plus percent of Planet Earth that was ocean.

As far as MI6 was concerned, once was happenstance, twice was coincidence, three times was enemy action. Then one of the supposedly lost Rampart team members showed up on Interpol facial recognition in the Netherlands. Bolan tapped another file. The military file photo of blond, high-and-tight-haircutted, ramrod-straight Lance Corporal Jup Gein of the Bundeswehr Airborne Brigade 1 contrasted sharply with the grainy security photo of a rumple-suited, mustachioed, shaggy-haired man drinking coffee in an outdoor café in Amsterdam, but the Interpol software gave the resemblance 87 percent.

Bolan gave it 99 percent.

Interpol recognition software did not recognize spec ops operators at rest.

Bolan did.

The photo had been taken months after Gein, Wellens and their ship had disappeared.

Trying to curb Iran’s nuclear ambitions was a worldwide concern. The UK had brought its concerns to the desk of the President of the United States. The President had flexed the Farm option. Favors had been called in within the private security community, and Viking Associates had hired Bolan on. The problem was, that was exactly the strategy MI6 had used to get a man into Rampart, and their man was MIA.

“If we’re right, and Rampart Group is involved in very bad things, they may need to not make the next couple of ships disappear, and rather than making their teams disappear, it might look better if there were bodies. Bodies of people no one will miss, like Viking bodies, but that will still raise a hue and cry and give Rampart more business.”

“That’s an ugly little scenario you have there.”

Bolan agreed. Reported pirate attacks on ships were genuinely down. That was because many navies of the world had deployed fighting ships into well-established pirate waters, and many commercial ships were now flying flags and advertising online that they were sporting a contingent of armed security guards. Strangely enough, despite that, genuine ship vanishings were up.

Every instinct Bolan had honed in battles on every continent on Earth told him something was going on.

“So how are you proceeding?”

“Have to wait for a job and see what happens. I’ll give it a week. If we dig up nothing after that, we have to come up with a whole new plan. Meantime, I’ll mix and mingle, try to pick up some intel.”

* * *

Bolan went with his nose and followed the smell of coffee into the mess.

“Oh my God!” Sifuentes enthused to a rapt audience over pad thai, mac and cheese, coffee and corn bread. “You should have seen Blue! So he cuts the first guy’s hand off, catches the grenade and hot potatoes it to me!”

Big Abe called bullshit.

Sifuentes sighed in memory of the action. “The next guy in? The next guy? Blue just about beheaded the son of a bitch.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m talking ear to ear, Abe. Like ‘Assassin’s Creed’–worthy.”

Ibarra leaned in. “With what?”

Sifuentes drew one of his khanjar daggers from beneath his shirt and set it on the table. “With these. One in each hand. If you blinked, you missed it. If any of those assholes blinked, they died in the dark. It was that fast. I got one of them. With a Mini-Uzi Blue delivered with his toe. Blue got three, two with knives, one with that commandeered grenade.”

“Bullshit,” Abe reiterated.

“Oh, and then there was the guy climbing up the drainpipe.”

“What happened to him?” Mendez asked.

“We defeated him like the rest.” Sifuentes nodded in memory. “With science, and soap. Plus, he’s the guy I hot potatoed the grenade onto. He’s all messed up.”

Bolan walked into the mess. “Hey, fellas!” He nodded at Ibarra. “Felita.”

Ibarra smirked. “Call me B.B.”

Big Abe shook his head. “Sifu’s talking all kinds of crap about you and he in Salalah, brah.”

“It went ugly real fast.” Bolan nodded. “We had to improvise.”

Mono slurped noodles. “I believe it.”

Bolan went to the galley counter. Namzi ran a hand through his comb-over and gave the Executioner a big, red-stained, betel-nut-chewing smile. Bolan smiled back. Indonesians were considered the most smiling people on earth, and if there was one person on a ship at sea you wanted to ingratiate yourself with, it was the cook. Namzi heaped noodles onto Bolan’s tray with a Chinese cleaver that could behead an ox. “I make your chai just right!”

Bolan bowed slightly. “You’re the best.”

Namzi bowed back. The soldier took his tray and sat at the team table. When the team looked at him expectantly, Bolan shrugged. “Do we have a job? I spent all my money buying Sifu knives and beer and soap. I need to get paid.”

The entire table burst out laughing. Big Abe rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you this, Blue. You and Sifu’s stories match up.”

“Lying.” Bolan shrugged again. “Too much to remember. But I’ll tell you this.”

Ketch spoke for the first time. “What’s that?”

“It wasn’t good.”

The table went quiet and hung on Bolan’s words.

“As a matter of fact, it got really sketchy back there in Salalah, and local thugs don’t usually bring hand grenades.”

“What are you saying, brah?” Abe asked.

“That’s all I’m saying. Do we have a job?”

“Yeah, we got a job.” Big Abe nodded. “A freighter going right up the Gulf of Aden, pirate alley, right past Somalia, and Yemen is at war.”

“Destination?”

“Yanbu, Saudi.”

“You know, I’m new, but I had a bad feeling in Salalah, and I’m having one now.”

“So what are you saying, brah?” Abe repeated.

“Just what everyone already knows. I’m thinking we need to mind our Ps and Qs, watch each other’s asses, and watch the horizon, 360, 24/7.”

Sifuentes grinned. He was totally ready to roll with Bolan again. He held up his hand and his fingers curled for the fist bump. “Fuckin ay’, Blue! Me and you! Let’s get stabby!”

Bolan fist bumped and looked around the table. “Do we have guns?”

Ibarra shook her head. “Kind of.”

Chapter Three

Bolan took up his weapon. “Cool.”

“Cool?” Ibarra sneered. “Screw you, cool breeze. Rampart gets the latest German technology. Everything is all HK and gleaming. Viking gets this surplus, Italian, Saving Private Ryan shit. Rumor I heard is the Italians were going to donate it to the Kurds fighting ISIS, and even they didn’t want it. It’s like they’re setting us up to fail.”

Bolan examined his Beretta Model 1959 rifle. It was missing significant amounts of finish. The wooden stock had a crack in the forearm, and it did indeed look a lot like a prop from an American World War II movie except that it took a twenty-round magazine and had a muzzle brake the size of a cigar for launching rifle grenades. Bolan raised an eyebrow, a hopeful note in his voice. “Do we have grenades?”

Big Abe kicked a crate in disgust. “We have bayonets.”

“Cool.” Sifuentes got happy. “Have I told you what Blue does with blades? I’ll take two!”

Bolan nodded at a crate with Italian words on it, and numbers that implied ammo. “Do we get any trigger time, or is that strictly for the job?”

“That’s the good news.” Abe took a bayonet and popped the top of the nailed ammunition crate with shocking hand and wrist strength. “We got two thousand rounds of ammo.”

“Pistols?” Bolan inquired.

“I told you!” Abe growled. “This shit! And bayonets!”

Bolan wasn’t entirely displeased. If the battle was ship to ship, he preferred something with some reach and penetration, and when targets were swarming you there was something very focusing about telling your team to fix bayonets. “We got cleaning kits?”

“Yeah, and web gear.” Big Abe kicked another crate. “Like any of it is going to fit me...”

Bolan sat cross-legged on the deck and fieldstripped, cleaned and lubricated his rifle as if his drill sergeant were timing him.

“Wow,” Big Abe grudgingly opined. The team watched, rapt, as Bolan reassembled the weapon and loaded a magazine.

He rose. “Need a target.”

Big Abe took up the empty rifle crate and hurled it into the ship’s wake. “There you go.”

Bolan watched the aged yellow pine box bobble and churn in the turbulence.

“Yo, Blue.” Big Abe’s features set into scowl mode. “Anytime.”

Bolan would have preferred an optic, but the Beretta’s iron sights were a clone of the WWII Garand rifle’s. Connoisseurs considered them the greatest battle sight of all time. Bolan watched the crate leave the ship’s wake and gently bob on the surface. Ibarra raised a pair of range-finding binoculars. “You’re at three hundred meters, Blue.”

Bolan nodded and gave the sight-adjustment drum a couple more clicks.

“Four hundred meters.”

Bolan waited as the ship sailed away from the crate.

“Five hundred meters.”

Bolan waited. He allowed himself that he was on a ship in motion on the ocean and armed with a rifle he had never shot before. He decided to cut himself some slack. He dropped to one knee. “Tell me when we get to eight hundred.”

Murmurs broke out on the bow.

Ketch gaped. “Holy shit.”

“Bullshit,” Abe declared.

Ibarra lowered her optics in shock and then brought them back up to her eyes. The Viking team collectively held its breath.

“Eight hundred meters.”

Bolan fired.

Ibarra got excited. “You’re about five meters in front of it! Raise you aim and—”

Bolan fired and fired again. The rifle crate spun, bobbed and spit splinters as bullets tore into it. Bolan fired on methodically. Sifuentes jumped up and down waving his arms. “Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!”

The rifle locked open, oozing smoke out the chamber. The crate had been reduced to swiftly dispersing kindling. Sifuentes strutted like a peacock. “My mad, bad, big brother Blue! That’s what I’m talking about! Anyone doubting us now?”

Ketch slowly shook his head. “No.”

Big Abe stared. “That’s fucked up.”

Mendez stroked his beard like a sage. “That was some shooting.”

Bolan nodded modestly. “Thank you.”

Sifuentes was giddy. “He could have done it throwing his knives!”

Mono stepped up eagerly and handed Bolan a fresh magazine. “Teach me!”

“Maybe.”

“You know,” Ibarra said with deadly seriousness, “I just might sleep with you.”

Bolan reloaded his rifle. “Cool.”

* * *

Bolan sipped an ice-cold Stella Artois beer. The team’s mood had visibly improved. Alcohol was strictly controlled on arsenal ships. They were filled with soldiers of all nations, bored out of their minds as they proceeded to proverbially hurry up and wait for their job slots as freighters sailed across the vast oceans at a snail’s pace. However, Team Viking had a job in the morning, and each member had been issued two beers. Another way to relieve bored, disgruntled fighters was to give them trigger time, and the team had burned a thousand rounds at floating targets while Bolan had walked the firing line on the bow and given tips and adjusted sights.

It helped that the cook had a thing for Bolan and had weezed each team member an extra beer and a couple of shots of Indonesian tuak palm wine from the pantry. Sifuentes had been convinced to take a break from his usual death metal, and was playing Mexican club music out of a phone dock and attached mini speakers. There was a lot of laughing and telling tales that kept getting taller. Ibarra seemed incapable of keeping her body from moving to the music even when seated. Bolan idly considered asking her to dance, but he didn’t want to make Abe jealous. Ibarra had noticed Bolan noticing her, and her smile got wider with every drink.

His eyes flicked to the door to the mess.

A second later a huge black man walked in. “Well, looky, looky here.”

Everyone except Bolan jumped in his or her seat. Sifuentes lunged to punch the music off. Mendez and Mono made sad attempts to hide their tuak shots. The man was as tall as Bolan but built like Big Abe. The most startling thing about him were his almost honey-colored amber eyes. They literally seemed to have the power to smolder even while he smiled, and the smile was not friendly. Bolan noted the man was wearing a Rampart Group black baseball hat and openly carrying a Glock holstered on his thigh. The man turned his unfriendly smile on Big Abe. “Abraham.”

The Samoan glowered back, but it was pure, frustrated rage, as if Superman had walked into the room and Abraham was fresh out of kryptonite. “Hyram.”

“Having a little party, are we?”

“Seemed appropriate.”

“Oh, I can think of about a dozen reasons why this is inappropriate.”

Big Abe had no answer.

“You know—” Hyram made a show of sighing and rolling his disturbing eyes “—I keep trying to clean up you Viking assholes. To make something out of you, or at least salvage something of value, and this?” Hyram just let that hang.

His smile turned overfriendly when he looked at Ibarra. “Yo, chica. How long are you going to swim in the tide pool with these losers?” He made a “come to me” motion with both hands and leered. “All you gotta do...”

Fear and rage twisted Ibarra’s features. Bolan took in the rest of the table. It was like some bad Western where the whole town was terrified of the gunfighter who had taken up residence.

Ibarra snarled like she was about to say or do something suicidal. “You know what, Hy?”

Hyram grinned like he was cocking a gun. “What?”

Bolan finished his shot of tuak and set it down on the table a little too hard. “You know, that sounds suspiciously like sexual harassment.”

The only sound was Namzi gasping in terror.

Bolan followed his shot with a pull on his beer. “Doesn’t Rampart have some kind of training film about that? Or someone in Human Resources you can talk to?”

The town was silent as a new gunfighter walked out into the street. Bolan had made his decision when the man had walked in and he had seen his teammates’ reactions. The soldier had won over Big Abe and the rest of the team with charm. The man before him would not be swayed by any charm offensive. He would take it as ass licking, and kowtowing to Hyram would ruin any chances of furthering the mission. The big man leered in false amusement.

“Well, now, you must be Blue. Heard about you. Read the report. I’d call it bullshit, but then again, Sifuentes isn’t known for brains, much less imagination.”

The Latino bristled but said nothing.

Bolan reached into the beer bucket and twisted the cap off. “Sifu saved my life last night. Two of us with knives, five of them with Uzis, and he was Johnny on the spot. Played hot potato with a live grenade, dropped it on the asshole climbing up the drainpipe, then he commandeered one of their weapons and turned into a human wall of lead.”

“Yeah, and what were you doing during all that?” Hyram said, sneering.

“Cutting lunch meat.”

“Well!” Hyram threw back his head and laughed. “All right, white boy!”

Abe slammed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder in warning. The Executioner smiled and ignored it. “That’s white man to you, honey gaze.”

Hyram stopped laughing.

“What’s your claim to fame again?” Bolan asked.

“Forgive me, old man.” Hyram leered again. “You’re new. So I’ll explain it to you. Once. I’m your supervisor. Though these days I feel more like a yard duty at a Montessori School. As a Viking associate, you may disport yourself as you wish while on R & R, as long as you don’t endanger the reputation of the company or your fellow associates. When waiting on station on an arsenal ship or on a mission, there shall be no intoxication. Which, if you had read your contract, puts you in violation, and subjects you to being given a verbal warning, being written up or, should the situation warrant—” Hyram cracked his knuckles in happy expectation “—being subjected to disciplinary measures.”

Bolan nodded. “I get it.”

Hyram seemed almost disappointed. “You get it?”

“Yeah, I get it, but my signing bonus was short, the five connecting flights sucked, and did I mention me and Sifuentes? Our R & R in Salalah was neither restful nor relaxing.” Bolan tossed back the rest of his beer. “So fuck you.”

Hyram stepped forward. “Oh, Blue...”

“No!” Bolan rose and pumped feigned rage as he pointed an accusing finger. “Fuck you! Me and Sifu had knives and liquid soap. They had grenades! Now you want to give me a public dressing-down? I am too old for this shit! Put a weapon in my hand and point me in a direction or send me home with a severance check! You wanna dance?” Bolan took the khanjar dagger from behind his back and slammed it on the table. “Helideck! Knives! Right now!”

Bolan figured he could beat Hyram in a fight—he’d taken down bigger, badder guys than him—and he sensed it had been a long time since the man had been confronted like this. The mood of the mess had gone from cowed persecution to the Roman Coliseum. They wanted to see Bolan open Hyram like a letter, and they wanted to watch the big man bleed out on the big letter H up top. Namzi clasped his chest and gasped like the female lead in a silent movie.

Hyram slowly held up his hands and suddenly turned on the warmth. “Like I said, Blue. You’re new, and I did read Sifuentes’s report. It was a page-turner. And I’ll tell you something for nothing, and I don’t care whether you believe me or not. I told the higher-ups that R & R should be in Mombasa or Mumbai. None of our guys should be unarmed on the Arabian Peninsula with all the shit going on right now. Some bean counter looked at a ledger and figured closer was cheaper. I am going to have that talk with them again.”

Bolan slowly sat down. “I believe you.”

“Well, good.” Hyram walked up to the table and took a beer from the bucket. “Closing time, kids, last call for alcohol. Big day tomorrow! Jobby-job time!” The Rampart Group enforcer of discipline walked out of the mess whistling.

Ibarra shuddered. “God I hate that guy.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d kill him,” Ketch said.

“You know you have mad skills, Blue.” Sifuentes sighed. “But I wouldn’t have bet any pay on you.”

Ketch shook his head. “No.”

Big Abe looked at Bolan in awe. “You were really going to go up on the helideck with Hyram? With knives?”

“Naw.”

The mood around the table deflated slightly.

Bolan produced the other, Russian-made F1 hand grenade he had taken off the dead assassin in Salalah. “I would have just fragged him.” Bolan grabbed a fresh beer. “You don’t give assholes like that a chance.”

Big Abe smiled with childlike delight.

Sifuentes’s morale resurged through the ceiling. “Fuckin’ ay, Bubba! I love this guy!”

Chapter Four

Bolan lay in his bunk reading files the Bear had sent him. Hyronemous “Hyram” Yard was a bad dude. He had taken the unusual route of joining the United States Marine Corps, reaching the rank of sergeant in Force Recon, not re-upping, and then enlisting in the Navy and becoming a Navy SEAL. He had the almost unheard-of distinction of having fought on two different continents in two different branches of the United States military. He had failed the Navy SEAL Officers Course, finished his stint and gone into private security.

Bolan looked up at a knock on his door. “Open.”

Ibarra peeked in. She was wearing a T-shirt and her camouflage bikini bottoms. “Blue?”

Bolan looked over at Sifuentes. “Sifu?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

“Right!” Sifuentes grabbed his tablet and scrammed.

Ibarra closed and locked the door behind him and immediately spooned into Bolan’s side. She smelled nice. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I get the idea.”

“You do?”

Bolan threw a blanket over the two of them. “You don’t want to be alone on this ship, much less alone in your room, when Hyram Yard is aboard.”

Ibarra snuggled closer. “You are a surprisingly sensitive man, Blue.”

“I can be. What happened with Hyram and Big Abe?”

“You can imagine. Hyram shows up and fires everybody. Those he didn’t fire he treated like dog dirt. Big Abe wasn’t having it. They had it out, publically. Big Abe is a brawler. Hyram is a fighter. He went all MMA. Beat Abe bad and bloody. Then he made him submit, and then he choked him out for good measure. Made an example out of him.”

“What a dick.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t go up on the helideck with him.”

“Me, too. It’s nicer in here.”

“Hmm.”

Ibarra threw a leg over and sat on Bolan’s stomach. “So what do you say about making it even nicer in here?”

Bolan laced his fingers behind his head and admired the view. “I’d say I’m up for that.”

Ibarra pulled off her T-shirt and leaned over to turn off the light.

A fist hammered the door. Bolan knew the answer but asked anyway. “Who is it?”

“Blue!” Yard called out. “You and me need a minute!”

Bolan sighed.

“Maybe Sifu ran off his mouth. I tried to be sneaky,” Ibarra told him.

“I know.” Bolan rolled out of bed. “Just a minute!” He made sure his dagger and grenade were a lunge away in either direction. The soldier opened the door and found Yard filling the frame.

“Hey, Hy. What’s up?”

“It’s your first assignment tomorrow, Blue. I want to get a few things straight. You...” His words trailed off as he looked at Bolan’s bunk.

The soldier looked back.

Ibarra was naked and lighting a cigarette.

Yard’s shoulders sagged slightly. “Prick.”

“Yeah.” Bolan nodded. “Not the first time I’ve been called that.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So, we going up to the helideck?”

Yard actually laughed. “No, no need for that. Not just yet.”

Bolan locked gazes with the man. “She’s mine. Until she says different.”

“You may not believe this, but I have never boned a coworker, much less a fellow soldier.”

“I believe you.”

“Well, that means a lot.”

“So can you get lost?” Bolan looked back at Ibarra.

Yard raised his hands and walked down the steel hallway. “Can do.”

Bolan closed and locked the door.

Ibarra sighed. “I think you’re winning his respect.”

“No, I made him wary. Right now he is trying to figure out his next line of leverage.”

Ibarra wrinkled her nose. “Which is me?”

“No.”

“So what am I?”

“Mine. Unless and until you say different.”

Ibarra’s smile lit up the cabin.

Bolan shrugged. “And I’ll defend your honor, regardless.”

“One condition.”

“Name it.”

“Turn off the light. It makes me uncomfortable.”

Bolan turned off the light.

The bulk carrier Caprice

The helicopter dipped toward the freighter. Mendez examined the deck covered with cranes and hatches. “Hey, Hy! There’s no helideck!”

“You’re real observant, Sifu!” Yard shouted back from the copilot’s seat. “Try not to break your ankles!”

Bolan motioned Ibarra and Sifuentes to lean in. At the moment they were the only people he trusted. “What else is missing?”

Sifuentes gazed hard at the ship. “What?”

“No, in here.”

Ibarra gasped. “Madre de dios...”

“Keep it down,” Bolan advised.

Sifuentes looked around in confusion. “Throw a dog a bone, Blue!”

“Yo, hermano!” Ibarra grabbed Sifuentes’s collar and yanked him close so she could snarl in his ear. “We don’t have any guns! None of the stuff we were issued is on the chopper!”

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...”

A few crewmen stood on deck and watched as the helicopter hovered over a hatch. One waved. Bolan waved back.

“All right!” Yard shouted. “Listen up! Ketch, you’re taking lead on this one. You have a seven-man team. I want three on watch and three off at any given time, one man floating. I want a report, texted, after every watch whether there is anything to report or not. There are water cannons fore and aft. Get anyone up to speed on their use who isn’t.”

Ketch was appalled. “Water cannons?”

“We’re still in the Omani territorial waters. The Caprice is going to take on a packet of cargo in Raysut. It’s less than fifty kilometers from here. You’ll be there tomorrow. The second she leaves port, she heads into international waters. You’ll have guns by noon.”

The team stared.

Yard’s eyes went cold. “There has never been a pirate attack between Salalah and Raysut. The pirates know the sultan takes that shit personally. He maintains firing squads and televises the results. You are flying the Viking Associates flag. As soon as you leave Raysut and are in international waters, I will personally deliver the hardware.”

The team just stared.

“Anyone want to renege on their contract?” Yard asked.

Bolan grabbed his bag and stepped out of the chopper. He fell four feet and landed lightly on the massive cargo hatch. The rest of the team followed. The chopper flew away without a wave goodbye.

“Motherfucker,” Sifuentes declared.

Bolan listened to his instincts. “Ketch?”

The man blinked and looked away from the departing helicopter. “Yeah?”

“I’m taking command.”

“Thank God.”

A clutch of off-duty crewmen smoked and took in the newcomers. Ibarra held most of their attention. Bolan nodded at a lanky blond man with a beard. “Hey, sailor.”

The sailor spoke back with an American accent. “Hey, yourself, asshole.”

“What’s your name?”

“Houston, Crane Specialist, what’s it to you?”

“I need to speak to the captain immediately.”

Crane Specialist Houston regarded the Viking detail dubiously. “Shouldn’t you guys have guns?”

“Yeah, and that’s what I need to talk to the captain about.”

The sailor scowled. “We don’t have any. It’s against company rules.”

“I know, and you’re going to get hit tonight, tomorrow by the latest.”

The sailor’s face went blank. “We’re going to get hijacked? In the next twenty-four hours?”

“No, the Caprice is going to disappear, with all hands.”

The sailor just stared.

“Houston?” Bolan locked eyes with the sailor. “We have a problem.”

The sailor ran toward the superstructure waving his arms and shouting. “Captain!”

* * *

“We’re about to be attacked?” the captain asked. “Really?”

Bolan could not imagine a more stereotypical ship captain. Merchant captains these days usually wore a shirt with the shipping company logo on it and whatever civvies were comfortable for the climate. Captain Douglas Cleverly wore a crisp white uniform blouse with epaulettes while on duty with the matching white captain’s hat. He also had a beard, smoked a pipe and spoke with a British accent.

Bolan cocked his head. Cleverly had a distinctly military bearing. “Her Majesty’s Royal Navy?”

Cleverly allowed himself a small smile. “I commanded a frigate. I retired. Then my twin daughters decided they wanted to go college. In the United States, and you now find me in mercantile shipping.” His smile died. “Now, from what I gather, you are implying that the Caprice is being set up for an attack, and your own employers are setting you up to fail.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“That is the most ridiculous bloody thing I have ever heard.” Cleverly snorted. “And, as I mentioned, I commanded a frigate in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. You would not believe some of the things I’ve heard, much less seen.”

“Would you believe me if I said I do?”

The captain looked Bolan up and down again and nodded. “Perhaps.”

“Captain, I hope I’m wrong, and if I am I’ll buy you a bottle of scotch.”

Cleverly spoke without missing a beat. “Glenlivet twelve-year-old will do nicely. Your earliest opportunity will be at the duty free in Jeddah.”

“Done,” Bolan agreed. “But meantime I would like you to operate on the assumption that this ship will be under attack in the next twenty-four hours.”

“It is against company policy for any officer, sailor or specialist on this shipping line to have a firearm or anything else that constitutes a lethal weapon on board. That said, I have a Browning Hi-Power with two spare magazines and a box of ammunition in my cabin. Are you requisitioning them?”

“No, but I suggest you load it and keep it handy. If worse comes to worst, use it to defend the bridge.”

“Then, forgive me, but just what is it I can do for you?”

“I gather if the ship is attacked and looks like it is going to be taken you have a safe room protocol?”

“Yes, if the ship looks be lost, I have the power to disable navigation and steering, and there is a four-cornered bulkhead area below that the crew can retreat to.”

“Then all I can ask is for you to aggressively maneuver the ship with the water cannons in mind up until we are boarded. What you do after that is up to you and the crew.”

“Forgive me for asking, but what exactly will you be doing during the attack, Mr...?”

“Blue.”

“Mr. Blue.”

“Defending the Caprice. That’s our job. Speaking of which, what’s in the manifest?”

“Mostly building supplies bound for Port Sudan.”

“What else?”

“Kerosene, again for Port Sudan. The country pretty much runs on it at this point.”

Bolan nodded. “Anything else of note?”

“Two container units of Indian Amrut Brandy, bound for ports of call the Prophet Mohammed would not approve of, and, might I add, if this all some sad plot to finagle a grog ration, I will—”

“I’ll need two cases of the Amrut, actually just the bottles, and four or five cans of kerosene.” Bolan quirked an eyebrow for what was becoming his munition of choice on the Arabian Peninsula. “Got any liquid soap?”

Captain Cleverly saw exactly where this was going. “Oh...my...God...”

“Oh, and I need to talk to the engineer.” Bolan saw his plan coming together. “I’ll need ball bearings, biggest he has.”

* * *

Bolan stood in front of a folding table and addressed his team. Morale was about as low as it could get. The Executioner shouted, “At attention!”

Team Viking snapped to attention.

“The enemy will most likely attack us midships, in fast boats, attempting to avoid the water cannons and erect boarding ladders. They will not be easily dissuaded. It is my personal opinion that they intend to take the Caprice, kill everyone on board, including us, and make it disappear. The captain and crew will try to maneuver the water cannons into position, but they will be mostly useless.”

“No fucking shit!” Mendez agreed. “So we’re back to you and Sifu’s liquid soap and souvenir dagger defense? I say we call Hy back and seriously renege on our contracts! If he won’t come, we commandeer the lifeboat and get the hell out of here. Who’s with me?”

Mono, Big Abe and Ketch looked on the verge of agreeing. Sifuentes gave Bolan a guilty look.

Ibarra gave Mendez a Latina-to-Latino head fake and sneer. “Puto.”

He stabbed a defiant finger her way. “Call me anything you want, honey! You go ahead and stay here with your gringo boyfriend! The Somali pirates will probably do things to you he’s afraid to try! Me? I am out!”

Mono and Ketch nodded.

Bolan nodded. “Laz?”

“Yeah?”

Bolan dropped to one knee and hurled a right-hand lead into Mendez’s bladder. He folded as Bolan rose. The Executioner watched with clinical detachment as his teammate writhed, clutched and peed his cargo pants. “That’s pee, Laz. The next time I hit you, you’ll pee blood, and I’ll throw you overboard. The minute you stepped off that chopper you were in. All in. There is no going back. All we have is us, and a job we’ve already been paid for. We have a cargo and crew to protect and a ship to save. So stand up. Stand up for your team.”

Mendez moaned.

“Stand up, or I stand you up. Then I bum-rush you right over the rail. It’s your choice. I don’t give a shit. We’re out of time.”

Mendez got a foot underneath himself and stood. “Screw you.”

“Good.” Bolan nodded in approval. “Anyone else?” He suddenly held up his hands. “Except you, Abe. Not sure I can bum-rush you anywhere, big man.” Big Abe snorted. “No worries, brah. Anyone turns chicken shit on this action, I’ll hold ’em, you hit ’em.” The Samoan lifted his chin toward the blue waters over the bow. “Then I’ll be happy to take out the garbage.”

Despite his extreme physical discomfort, Mendez bravely raised his hand. “Can I ask a question?”

“I welcome questions, Laz.” Bolan nodded. “What’s on your mind?”

“Do you have a plan?”

“We have a strategy.” Bolan turned to Crane Specialist Houston, who set a brandy carton full of bottles on the table. Every soldier who had seen combat kept a spare pair of boots close. Bolan had requisitioned all of them and spent the last hour cutting out the boots’ tongues and weaving the laces. The Executioner took up his backpack and dumped out his handiwork on the table. “Houston.”

Crane Specialist Houston took up an Amrut bottle loaded with kerosene and liquid soap with a bandanna stuffed down the neck.

Big Abe sighed happily. “Molotov cocktail!”

Bolan nodded at Houston. “Light me.”

He put the bottle in the sling and Houston’s Zippo lighter chinked. Bolan pulled the sling taut and gave the burning bottle three good revolutions to give the fire oxygen, then slung it. The flaming bottle pulled a beautiful spiral and slammed into the bow crane ten meters away. Bolan was pretty sure Captain Cleverly was having a fit up in the bridge as the fire clung viscously and crawled up the crane. Team Viking stared in fascination.

Bolan reached into a plastic bucket and took up a one-inch ball bearing he had requisitioned from the ship’s engineer and seated the sphere of high-carbon stainless steel in the sling’s pocket. It had been a while since Bolan had used the maneuver, but he gave it the forward, back and forward Z-shaped windup for dramatic effect and let loose.

The flaming crane boom rang like a bell.

“And that’s how David slew Goliath.”

Big Abe clapped his hands. “Biblical, brah.”

The rest of the team started applauding. The crewmen standing under the bridge started applauding. Bolan nodded at Houston, and the crane specialist ran to the boom with a fire extinguisher. Bolan held up the sling to his team.

“They have to sail right up to us. They have to try to attach a ladder, then they have to climb up it. This is how we defeat them. They aren’t ready.” Bolan turned and held out the sling. “Abe, you’re up.”

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