Lucifer knowing that he was going to meet his maker, hobbled to his quarters, opened his chest, and dug out his heavy, blue-and-gold-embroidered captain’s jacket, taken years ago from a dead Spaniard, along with an old, battered tricorn hat. If he was going to die, he vowed that he was going to do so on his feet, looking like a freeman and a pirate leader. He slowly walked the perimeter of the fort and passed the word that his men should bury whatever jewels and gold they still had on them, so they didn’t fall into the hands of their heathen enemies.
A few hours later, Lucifer sat alone in the dark and rolled a pink diamond the size of a goose egg back and forth in his callused hand. He shook his head at his bad luck. To have come so far and gotten so incredibly rich only to see it all disappear just seemed damned unfair. Seeing a young boy no older than twelve sitting alone in the dark, Lucifer grinned to himself. The boy looked like he did when he first signed on as a privateer. With a wave of his hand, he called the lad over.
“What’s your name, boy?” asked Lucifer.
“Thomas Gordon,” replied the boy, without looking up at Lucifer.
“When did you sign on, lad?”
“I made me mark with you when you took our ship off Jamaica,” replied the boy.
Lucifer tried to remember the day. However, so much had happened over the past few years that he couldn’t; instead, he smiled at the boy. Holding out his hand, he gave his diamond to the boy and then told him that sometime after midnight, he should be able to slip over the wall without being seen. Once outside, he would have to take his chances with the natives.
“I ain’t afraid to fight, cap’n, sir,” protested Gordon.
“Aye, of that I have no doubt,” said Lucifer. “But come tomorrow evening, there ain’t gonna be a soul left alive in these here walls to tell the world what happened to us. You’re young and healthy. If anyone of us stands a chance of making it out of here alive, it’s you. Keep quiet, Thomas, stay low, and if you run like the wind you might live to see another day.”
Pocketing the diamond, Gordon grabbed a canteen of water and then jammed as much fruit as he could into a small haversack. Making his way to the nearest wall, he silently crouched down in the shadows and waited for his chance to escape.
No one saw him leave. Like a thief in the night, an hour later, Gordon slipped over the wall and was swallowed up in the dark.
And now, that was how things stood. The night seemed to drag on forever. Men who hadn't prayed for years now found themselves asking their maker to spare their lives. After what they had done to their fellow human beings, none of the pirates expected much forgiveness.
Lucifer knew that it wouldn’t be long before dawn. Lost in thought, he loaded his two pistols with double-shot, just to make sure whoever he shot stayed down, and then placed both pistols back in his belt. Slowly, he drew his curved blade and rested it on his lap while he fished around in his pockets for his pipe. Finding it, he grabbed a candle and lit his pipe. Lucifer sat back on his stool and inhaled the rich-tasting tobacco as he looked toward the horizon. The gray light of dawn was already turning a reddish hue.
They would be coming soon.
Hobbling over to the ramshackle defenses at the entrance of the fort, Lucifer was pleased to see that each man standing there had a musket or two and a brace of pistols lying beside him. The remainder of the men behind them would have to wait until a man fell before he could get his hands on a weapon. A couple of nervous-looking boys, not yet big enough to hold a musket, stood behind the defensive line; their job was to load and re-load the muskets as soon as they were handed to them. A smile crept across his scarred face as Lucifer looked around at the men with whom he was going to fight and die today. Like him, they wouldn’t sell their lives cheaply.
The steady beating of drums from the jungle stopped.
Everyone turned and looked into the gloom.
A loud defiant call came out of the darkened jungle.
Men grabbed up their muskets and warily looked at the thick, green wall surrounding the old fort.
A lone native warrior stepped from the safety of the trees with his spear brandished high above his head.
Lucifer stared at the man and saw that he had short gray hair and looked to be at least seventy years old. Lucifer thought that perhaps the man was a witch doctor, placing a curse on them. To hell with the heathen, he thought. Grabbing a musket from the hands of one of his men, Lucifer took careful aim at the old man and then slowly pulled the trigger. A loud blast of fire and smoke shot forth from the end of the musket, blocking his view for a second. When the smoke cleared, the man was no longer there. Lucifer hoped he had hit the man, but he somehow doubted it. Their enemies may have been heathens, but to a man, Lucifer and his men were brigands; God wasn’t going to be on their side today.
A second later, a challenge from hundreds of warriors erupted from the jungle. Followed by a volley of arrows and spears that filled the sky as they arced up and began raining down upon the barricade.
“Down,” yelled Lucifer as he hugged an old wooden box for cover from the incoming missiles.
Screams of agony rang out.
Lucifer turned his head and saw the boys who had been waiting to load the muskets drop to the ground, their bodies covered in slender, poisonous arrows.
Most of the arrows fell short . . . but not all. A man beside Lucifer died in the volley along with the unfortunate boys. Lucifer thought they could live without the boys, but he needed every man he could to fight off the enraged natives. He was soon to be proven wrong.
Three men hesitatingly stepped forward to replace those who had fallen.
Thinking it might be over; Lucifer slowly popped his head up to take a look around. A moment later, another barrage was launched at them, and then another. Two more men were struck, their bodies writhing in pain before they died from the poison-tipped arrows. The barricade at the entrance to the fort was soon embedded with hundreds of spears and arrows.
Lucifer popped his head up just as a bloodcurdling war cry echoed through the jungle and then, like a wave rushing toward a tidal wall, hundreds of native warriors burst forth and charged straight at the fort.
First to fire was their cannon, jam-packed with dozens of musket balls. Like a massive shotgun firing, a large swath of warriors fell under the deadly hail of bullets; their bloodied bodies fell to the ground forming a human barricade that blocked the way forward. The cannon crew didn’t have time to admire their handiwork. Hurriedly, they rushed to reload the cannon before any more natives got any closer.
Next, all along the barricade, shots rang out as Lucifer and his men emptied their weapons into the mass of warriors struggling to climb over the mound of dead and dying. There were so many of them that they couldn’t miss. Warrior after warrior fell under the withering fire from the fort. No matter how many Lucifer’s men killed, more native warriors bravely pushed forward, hoping to get a chance to dispatch one of their hated enemies. Courage on both sides was never in doubt.
Soon it was cutlass and sword against the wooden spears and clubs of the natives. Fighting like demons, Lucifer’s men hacked at the native horde, killing dozens at a time, but soon numbers began to tell as more and more of the pirates fell under the avenging spears of the native warriors. Slowly but surely, Lucifer and his pitifully few remaining men were pushed back to the center of the fort. Blood-covered swords rose and fell, dropping warriors at their feet.
Exhaustion and wounds began to take their toll.
After a few more minutes of fighting, only Lucifer and two other men still remained on their feet. Bodies of the dead and dying covered the dirt floor of the fort.
The fighting slowed and then stopped. Both sides stood back trying to catch their breath. A hushed silence descended over the fort.
Lucifer stood there covered in blood, sweat, and mud. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before it was all over. There was no doubt where he would end up . . . down with the Devil; at least they had the same last name
, thought Lucifer with a grin on his face.
A murmur surged through the mass of warriors standing a couple of meters away. Like a wave, the warriors parted and the old man who had placed a curse on the pirates earlier stepped through the throng of warriors and walked over until he was standing, looking up into Lucifer’s cold eyes.
For a minute, the two men stood there, silently eyeing one another, until the witch doctor slowly raised his hand above his head and pointed at Lucifer. Unexpectedly the warriors as one raised their spears in salute at Lucifer and his two remaining men.
“Cap’n, do yah think they’re gonna let us go?” asked a terrified youth standing beside Lucifer.
“After what our men did to their women, would you? Now stand up straight, my boy, and die like a man,” Lucifer said as he raised his hand to his hat, removed it, and then bowed to the saluting native warriors as if he were at court.
The witch doctor watched the display and then with a blood-curdling cry on his lips, threw himself forward, plunging a small wooden spear deep into Lucifer’s chest. Blood spurted out of the ragged wound. Lucifer staggered backward and then fell to the ground, his hand wrapped around the knife protruding out of his chest.
With a loud, lusty cheer, hundreds of warriors charged the remaining men, stabbing and slashing them to death.
Gordon stopped to catch his breath. He looked back over his shoulder. In the distance, smoke curled up into the azure sky. A sudden feeling of loneliness and desperation filled his heart. He didn’t have to be told that everyone who had stayed behind was now gone. For the first time in his life, he was truly alone. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the diamond given to him. Taking a deep breath, Gordon turned about and peered down the slender game trail that ran through the jungle. He placed his fate in God’s hands. He resolved to stay alive. He stepped off the trail and vanished from sight. Thomas Gordon had no idea that his escape would trigger events in the future that would threaten thousands of lives.
2
Yemen
Present day
With a lazy turn of its body, a brown-spotted Yemeni falcon flew on a warm updraft above the desolate sandy and rock-strewn countryside, and headed toward the cliffs of a barren escarpment where its nest was built. Something below caught her eye. She looked down and saw a column of cars racing along a dusty trail. The falcon knew not to bother with the vehicles, and they in turn would not bother her. Looking to either side of the vehicles for any mice or other rodents that might have been scared off by the cars, the falcon saw none. She decided to wait for the interlopers to leave and leisurely turned back to her nest.
Above her, unnoticed, a near-invisible Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, painted ghost-gray, followed the vehicles as if it were itself a bird of prey stalking them. Its powerful cameras zoomed in on the column of black BMW SUVs accompanied by several Land Rovers packed with heavily armed guards.
The procession raced past several long-abandoned mud and brick houses, sending up a trail of dust behind the cars as they raced along under the blistering heat of the noonday sun. After a few minutes, the lead vehicle began to slow down as it approached what appeared to be an oil rig, one of many that dotted the rocky desert. However, looks could be deceiving. The dozen or so buildings that made up the compound were surrounded by a tall, electrified fence, covered with razor-sharp concertina wire, to prevent any curious onlookers from getting in, or anyone from getting out. State-of-the-art surveillance cameras mounted on tall, slender, sand-colored metal towers scanned back and forth along the perimeter of the fence like silent sentinels.
Two unshaven guards dressed in desert-colored uniforms, with assault rifles leisurely slung over their shoulders, waved to the approaching vehicles and then opened the gate to the compound, allowing the vehicles in.
The two escort vehicles skidded to a halt on either side of a nondescript, wooden, one-story, whitewashed building that once belonged to the owner of the oil rig. Like everything else in the compound, it had seen better days. Young men dressed in dust-covered camouflage fatigues, wearing red-and-white headscarves, and expensive, western-made Oakley sunglasses jumped from the Land Rovers, fanned out and took up positions in front of the building, their AK 47s at the ready.
Behind the soldiers, a tall, slender, and impeccably dressed man walked out of the building into the scorching heat. A smile crept across his handsome face.
Mohammed Al-Hadi watched with pride as his men waited silently in anticipation of the arrival of the BMW SUVs. Al-Hadi was wearing a hand-tailored, gray Armani suit, with a pair of highly polished black leather shoes, both shipped in from London. His outfit was complemented by a matching gray silk shirt and perfectly formed white tie. Al-Hadi stood just over two meters tall, with a solid physique that he hadn’t lost from his days in the Yemeni Special Forces. His jet-black hair was cut short. Al-Hadi looked down at his gold, diamond-encrusted Rolex watch and smiled with smug satisfaction, noting that his men were precisely on time and with their special guest safely delivered.
The armored BMW SUVs came to a gradual halt in front of Al-Hadi, and like a well-oiled machine, four men from his close-protection detail doubled forward and surrounded the idling vehicles. Like Al-Hadi, the men were impeccably dressed. All wore matching blue, double-breasted suits and carried futuristic-looking 9mm, MP9 short-barreled submachine guns. The looks on their hard faces said that they were not afraid to use them. With a nod from Al-Hadi, one man approached the last SUV, opened the rear passenger door, and then held it wide as a blindfolded man was carefully helped out of the vehicle.
Al-Hadi beamed with satisfaction at his men and then nonchalantly waved his hand, indicating to his men to escort their prized visitor inside.
A small, wiry man in his late thirties, with a long, black ponytail broke away from the other guards, approached Al-Hadi, and then gave a crooked grin as he stopped beside his larger comrade.
“Any issues?” asked Al-Hadi, as he turned and embraced the smaller man.
“None, my old friend,” said the man as he returned Al-Hadi’s embrace.
Letting go, Al-Hadi looked down at the man who had been his right-hand man for the past three years, since he met Grigori Yermelov during a profitable deal with the Russian Mafia. Al-Hadi left the Yemeni Army as a captain, looking for a quicker and easier way to make money. He quickly joined the more profitable criminal underworld by assassinating a local warlord and then stealing his men and his booming business. Soon, Al-Hadi had his reach into everything in Yemeni society and found it just as equally lucrative to branch out into the world of international crime.
“Is he clean, Grigori?”
“We searched him from head to toe and found nothing,” replied Grigori. “I even swept his hotel room for bugs. Same thing again, nothing. I can guarantee you that he has followed your directions to the letter.”
Al-Hadi turned to walk inside. “Come, Grigori, my old friend, it is time to conclude our business. By suppertime today we will both be rich men; very rich, indeed.”
Together they walked past two bodyguards holding open the front doors of the building without even acknowledging them. Respect in their line of work needed to be earned, and to Al-Hadi and Grigori, men like these were disposable tools of the trade. There were always more destitute ex-soldiers waiting to join his criminal organization, so why bother with pleasantries when most men never even lasted a year.
Al-Hadi entered a spacious, air-conditioned room that once had been the head office of the oil company director, but now, like everything else, it was his. Looking around, he saw that his guest was already sitting down in a comfortable, high-backed green leather chair with his blindfold still on. A necessary precaution when dealing with professionals, thought Al-Hadi. He observed that the man was dressed sensibly in loose-fitting, green cargo pants with a khaki-colored shirt and multi-pocketed vest. On his feet was a pair of well-worn hiking boots. If the man was bothered by what was going on, he didn’t show it. Al-Hadi would not have expec
ted anything less from a well-paid professional. Taking a seat at his highly polished mahogany desk, Al-Hadi gestured at the closest guard for the blindfold to be removed. The man stepped forward and pulled off the blindfold.
Grigori opened a small leather briefcase and then swiftly handed a manila folder to Al-Hadi, who quickly skimmed its contents, refreshing himself on the details of the man sitting across from him.
Al-Hadi raised his head and then looked into the eyes of the man he had brought into his seat of power. He was not surprised to see the picture in his file no longer truly matched the man opposite him. His body was firm and athletic. His thick, brown hair was slightly longer than it had been when he had served in the U.S. Army, his skin seemed more tanned, and his blue-gray eyes looked hard and cold. This is something you never accurately get from a picture, pondered Al-Hadi. The man had a rugged, relaxed, and confident air about him, which Al-Hadi suspected women liked, but that was never a concern for him as he took whatever—and whomever—he wanted.
“Good morning, Captain Ryan Mitchell, I hope my men weren’t too rough earlier today when they searched you, and that your journey here was pleasant enough,” said Al-Hadi in English, with the hint of an upper-crust British accent. Closing the file, he placed his slender, ring-covered hands together on the table.
“It was fine, I suppose,” replied Mitchell with a smile.
A soldier entered the room, carrying a small wooden box. Grigori took it without saying a word, looked inside, and then placed a black Casio survival watch, a leather wallet, and an iPhone in front of Al-Hadi.
Al-Hadi picked them up, gave them a cursory look as if they were items of cheap jewelry, and then handed them back over to Mitchell. “Yours I suspect, Captain.”
“Yes, they are, thank you,” said Mitchell as he pocketed his wallet and iPhone before placing his watch on his right wrist.
Lucifer's Fire Page 2
