Lucifer's Fire

by Richard Turner

  Grinning to himself, Jackson never told them about his little white lie to Seras’ thugs. He had called it right, just in the wrong place.

  An hour later, the stillness of the air was shattered when the loud, rhythmic sound of rotors filled the valley.

  Like a flock of birds of prey diving down from the sky, three ghost-gray Sea Knight transport helicopters descended while above, four Super Cobra attack helicopters bristling with weapons flew cover. As soon as the helicopters touched down, the side doors were flung open and heavily-armed Marines in full-battle order ran out to set up a defensive perimeter.

  After waking Mitchell from his deep slumber, Jackson waited for his friend before walking over to a young African-American captain who was busy giving orders to his platoon leaders.

  The captain saw two dirt-covered and disheveled men walking to him. He dismissed his officers. “I take it you gentlemen are Ryan Mitchell and Nathaniel Jackson,” said the captain.

  “We are,” said Mitchell, holding his hand out in greeting.

  “Good afternoon, my name is Captain David Ward,” said the young officer, eagerly shaking Mitchell’s hand. “What the hell happened here? Please don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but you look like crap.”

  “I seem to hear that a lot these days,” said Mitchell.

  “Well, I for one am happy you could make it,” said Jackson. “Captain, the American hostages are safe and under our protection in the jungle. Unfortunately, the rogue Liberian soldiers killed two of them at another site about twenty klicks from here. I’m sure their families would appreciate it if you sent someone back and retrieved their bodies.”

  “Can do. Just give my executive officer the grid coordinates, and we’ll send a chopper to pick up their remains,” replied Ward.

  Twenty minutes later, Mitchell, Jackson, Cardinal, and Sam boarded a Sea Knight helicopter along with the rest of the American hostages. The mood in the back of the helicopter was euphoric as the hostages, with tears in their eyes, hugged the Marines who were trying to buckle them into their seats.

  With a loud whirl from its powerful engine, the Sea Knight slowly took off from the ground and then began to climb up into the sky. Joining the attack helicopters, the small armada picked up speed and then, leaving the world below them, they flew for the airport in Monrovia and freedom.

  38

  Polaris Operations Complex

  Albany, New York

  Three days after leaving Liberia behind them, Mitchell’s team found themselves sitting around the mahogany briefing table in the main conference room. Yuri, as was his style, had somehow vanished with Seras’ Augusta helicopter before the Marines knew what was going on. Mitchell had received an email earlier in the day in which Yuri explained that he was returning to Sierra Leone to give them the Augusta in exchange for the one they destroyed. Yuri also wrote that he was planning to take a few weeks off to spend some time at a resort with a certain young female constable named Hannah Bright.

  Mitchell popped open a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and shot a couple back with a swig of Gatorade. His body was on the mend, but it would take weeks before he felt like himself again.

  Jackson took a long swig of coffee and then dug into a box of donuts that he had brought to the meeting. He tossed one over at Mitchell. “You’re looking a bit run-down. Jelly donuts have amazing recuperative powers, or so I’ve been told.”

  “By who, the man whose kid you’re putting through college with your donut habit?” joked Sam.

  General O’Reilly, accompanied by his usual retinue of Fahimah and Mike Donaldson, walked in the room. However, this morning there was a difference, as Jen walked in with them. Offered a job working for Mike Donaldson at Polaris, Jen had readily accepted the position. She had figured that if she was going to be helping Mitchell, she might as well get danger pay for it.

  After everyone was seated, O’Reilly began. “Folks, I cannot say how proud I am of each and every one of you. Without your heroic efforts, the Martinezes and all of their friends would be dead. Her father is flying up here next week to personally thank you.”

  “How are they doing?” asked Mitchell.

  “They are at home with Emily Martinez’s father in Las Vegas,” answered O’Reilly.

  “I didn’t think they would get on the plane to come home,” said Jackson. “Even after all they went through, they still wanted to go back and build their school.”

  “They still might, but not until they have had a chance to take stock of everything,” said O’Reilly.

  “I got a report this morning that Caroline Seras’ body was found, washed up on a riverbank about fifteen kilometers south of where she vanished,” said Donaldson.

  “The other woman?” asked Mitchell.

  “Her body hasn’t turned up. There’s a good chance that it may never be found as there are crocodiles in that part of the river,” explained Donaldson.

  Mitchell sat back in his chair and grinned.

  “What’s that for, Ryan?” said Jen

  “I’m not sure that you can write her off that easily,” said Mitchell. “I have this feeling that we haven’t heard the last of her.”

  “What about the coup? Has it finally been put down?” asked Cardinal.

  “Yes, for the most part. The Liberian army has established control throughout the country,” explained Fahimah. “The nephew of the late president was sworn in yesterday as the acting president of Liberia. He has called for new elections in a month’s time.”

  “What about the treasure? Has anyone moved in to take possession of the diamonds? After all, all we did was make it hard—but not impossible—to get,” said Mitchell.

  “Yes, Russian Imperial Diamonds has already set up a contract to dig up the treasure in cooperation with the government of Liberia,” said Donaldson.

  “What they couldn’t take illegally, they’re now going to take legally and with the blessing of the Liberians,” said Mitchell, shaking his head. “Makes me glad that I didn’t choose to become a jewelry salesman.”

  “Well, that wraps it up, I think,” said O’Reilly. “Except to say that after Mister Cole, Emily Martinez’s father, visits us in two days’ time, you will all be on three weeks’ paid vacation.”

  “Sounds good, I could use the time to take the family somewhere nice and quiet,” said Jackson.

  “We’ve wanted to go to Vegas for some time, so I guess that’s where we’ll go,” said Sam.

  With a broad smile on his face, O’Reilly asked everyone but Mitchell to leave the room.

  As soon as they were alone, O’Reilly moved over and sat beside Mitchell, his eyes studying his protégé. “I know no one will tell me the truth when you’re all sitting in the same room together, so I’m asking you now. How is everyone doing?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, sir. This one sucked. I haven’t seen that much death since I was last in Afghanistan,” replied Mitchell solemnly. “I think the team has earned a good long break, followed by perhaps some low-level training here at Polaris for a couple of months to allow them to rest and decompress. There’s only so much a person’s mind can deal with. I don’t want this one coming back to haunt them.”

  O’Reilly sagely nodded and then patted Mitchell on the shoulder. “Consider your team on training duties for the next three months.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Now why don’t you and Jen come over to my house tonight? I know Diane would love an excuse to dress up and entertain.”

  “We’d love to,” said Mitchell.

  “If there’s nothing else to discuss, I’ve got a ton of paperwork waiting for me on my desk.”

  “Have fun with that,” said Mitchell, smiling from ear to ear.

  “What the hell are you smiling for?”

  “I just realized that Jen has an office in the basement. It’s time to see if I can break all of the corporation’s sexual harassment rules in ten minutes or less.”

  O’Reilly stood up. He walked away shakin
g his head. If he had harbored any concerns for his people’s well-being, they evaporated with each passing footstep. Mitchell and his team were going to be okay.

  39

  Six weeks later

  Hotel – St. Regis Grand Rome

  With a world-weary sigh, Alexander Bashilov removed his reading glasses and then stood up. Moving over to the bar in his spacious hotel room, he poured himself a stiff drink of vodka. Shooting it all back at once, he poured himself another glass and then went back to the table where his work was neatly piled.

  Checking and double-checking that the agreement he had signed with the Liberian government was foolproof and would ultimately only profit one side, specifically Russian Imperial Diamonds, Bashilov was happy that their agreement would hold up in any court of law. Running a hand though his thick, sandy-colored hair, Bashilov was feeling tired. He was thinking of calling it a night when there was an unexpected knock at the door.

  An alluring woman’s voice called out, “Room service.”

  He thought it odd; he hadn’t ordered any food. Shaking his head, he walked to the door and looked through the peephole. A smile crept across his chubby face when he saw a beautiful woman with short red hair standing there in a long overcoat. His boss must have sent the woman to him as a token of his gratitude.

  He opened the door slightly and looked out at the woman. She looked to be in her late twenties with smoky, emerald-green eyes. Her overcoat was pulled snug to her lithe physique. On her feet were expensive high-heeled shoes.

  “Yes?” asked Bashilov, smiling in anticipation of a good time.

  “May I come in, Mister Bashilov?” said the woman, her voice tinged slightly with a Scottish accent.

  “Certainly,” replied Bashilov, opening the door for her.

  The woman walked past him and stood in the middle of the room. On her face was a lustful smile.

  Bashilov locked the door behind him. He walked over behind the woman. “May I take your overcoat?”

  “Yes, please; I’d like that.”

  Undoing her overcoat, the woman let it fall into Bashilov’s eager hands. However, instead of lingerie underneath, the woman was dressed in a snug-fitting green shirt with black Capri pants. Her outfit had been a disguise.

  Before he could say a word, she lashed out with her right hand, hitting him square in the windpipe. Pain filled his mind. His throat felt as if it were on fire. He dropped to his knees, fighting to get air into his lungs.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t killed you—at least not yet,” said the woman. She reached into a pocket in her overcoat and pulled out a small micro-pistol and aimed it at his head.

  “Now listen clearly, Mister Bashilov. My name is Grace Maxwell, and I am here to settle some outstanding debts between your boss and the people you hired to retrieve a fortune in diamonds in Liberia.”

  Bashilov tried to speak but found that he could only whisper; and even that hurt his bruised throat.

  “I recently checked Colonel Chang’s Swiss bank accounts and to my surprise, I found that you have yet to pay him for his services. Why is that?”

  “We were told that you were all dead,” croaked Bashilov. “There was no point paying when there was no one left alive to collect the money.”

  “Not true, I’m living proof of that,” said Grace as she screwed a silencer onto the barrel of her pistol.

  “What do you want?” said Bashilov, his eyes grew wide as he looked over at the pistol in Grace’s hand.

  “I want the money that we are owed. I want all of it transferred into the late colonel’s account by noon tomorrow. He has debts to pay, and I want to ensure that his name is not sullied by you and your employer’s treachery.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good, now before you get any ideas of calling your men waiting for you in your BMW SUV downstairs to intercept me, be aware that they are no longer with us . . . if you catch my drift.”

  Bashilov’s mouth turned dry with fear. His bowels felt like water. He had never been so scared in his life.

  “Now, before I go, I need to ensure that you’ll live up to your end of the bargain,” said Grace, her voice cold and threatening. “Stand up, Mister Bashilov.”

  Bashilov shaking with fear did as he was told.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Bashilov.

  “This,” said Grace firing off a shot into his right kneecap. Red mist sprayed the carpet as Bashilov tumbled to the floor, clutching his knee.

  “If the money is not transferred on time, I will hunt your family down and kill them one by one in front of you, before putting a bullet in your stomach and leaving you to die a horrible and painful death. You’ll writhe in agony, knowing that you could have saved the lives of your children if you had only done as I instructed you to.”

  Through clenched teeth, Bashilov swore on his mother’s grave that he would personally transfer the money the instant the banks opened in the morning.

  Grace grabbed her overcoat and slipped it back on. She unscrewed the silencer from her pistol and placed it away in a pocket. A second later, she walked over and looked deep into Bashilov’s frightened eyes. Smiling, she knew he would do as she had asked.

  She grabbed a napkin from his table and tossed it to him. “Place it over the wound. It will help stop the bleeding,” said Grace. “I wouldn’t want you to pass out from a lack of blood before you had a chance to give me my money.”

  Grace walked to the door, smiled at Bashilov and then, in the blink of an eye, her face turned cold and serious. “I want you to call your boss and tell him that things have changed and that I, Grace Maxwell, have taken over Colonel Chang’s business enterprises and that from this day forward, I will be keeping a close eye on him.”

  With that, she let herself out. Checking that she was alone, she began to walk down the long, red-carpeted hallway. She grinned to herself and vowed to rebuild Chang’s organization from the ground up. Grace realized that the world was her oyster, and she intended to devour it.