by Tony Masero
Chayne drops his head. Thinking. “You up for this?”
“Sorry, bro. You know how it goes. I can look, but I’d better not touch.”
“Okay, thanks for the up anyway. How far away?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most.” He hesitates. A gleam in his eye. “Listen. Fuck it! Count me in. I can’t let this happen and just watch you guys get creamed.”
“What is it, Chayne?” Clem awake. Dreamy. “Who’s there with you?”
“Don’t worry.” He turns to look at her. “This is Peak, he’s a friend. But we have a problem and we must act quickly. No questions, Clem. Get Robert and yourself dressed and get back here as quickly as possible.”
“But why? What is it?” Worried. Confused.
“Some men are coming and they mean us no good.”
“But who...”
Harshly. “No more! Get dressed and get the boy ready.”
She blinks at his tone. Looks mildly offended, then sees the look in his eye. Wrapping the blanket around herself, she hurries off towards Robert’s bedroom.
Peak watches her leave, cracks a thin smile and winks. “Gardener, stroke gamekeeper, huh? Yeah, I think I read that book.”
Chayne ignores him. He is all business now. “Will you hold here? I’ll have to go get suited up.”
“Sure. I got my little friend for company.” Peak brings up a Remington pump action shotgun from alongside his leg. “Seven rounds of pure hell.”
Chayne jogs down to his cottage and the black holdall. Within minutes, he is back. Locked and loaded.
Peak is waiting. “Listen,” he says. “How about I run loose outside and you hold things together here? They won’t be expecting anything from out there.”
Chayne nods, velcro-ing his armored vest in place. “Good call. I’ll let them take the door, then let loose. Okay, let’s do it! Later.”
“Luck.” Peak is gone.
Clem and Robert are back in the room. Fully clothed and curious. “Who was that man, Chayne?”
“He’s our poacher,” he raps it out quickly. “He spotted some armed men on their way here. We don’t know what they want, but we have to take it that they mean harm. I want you and Robert to lock all the doors and windows. Then find a safe hiding place. But hurry. They’ll be here any minute.”
He sees the movement through the window. “Too late. They’re here already. Go get somewhere safe!” Too late. It’s all too late. They’re not ready. Not ready by half.
Watches through the frosted glass. Edging the curtain aside. A spread of ten men. Dark against the snow. Jogging purposefully. Heading straight towards him from the tree line.
A hand comes up. They stop. Drop to one knee as a team. Two confer, indicating the ground. Shit! Peak’s footprints. These guys look like they’re colored men. And they move like military. They’re all black military. What the hell is this? They break and spread. Left and right. Still approaching.
Chayne backs away to the fireplace. Feels the dying warmth against the back of his legs. Crouch position. Double grip facing the door. Pulls back the slide on the Walther. Double action mode. Feels his heart pumping. The adrenalin rush filling his head. Come on. Come on, then.
Shuffle outside. Shadow on the curtain. Try the catch. It’s locked. Bang! The door flies open, a kick bursting the lock. Two shapes fill the doorway. He fires twice. The loud reports filling the room with a metallic echo that screams in his ears. The two men catapult backwards. The stopping power of the .357 bowling them over out into the snow.
He dives sideways behind the sofa.
An automatic appears around the doorjamb and looses off a string of shots.
He answers. Chews long splinters from the wooden doorway.
The automatic again. Stuffing and feathers fly from the sofa. Bullet holes pock the wall above his head in explosions of plaster.
Breaking glass. They’re coming in the back. There is the boom of the Remington. Screams. Answering fire. It is a medley of gunshots. A cacophony of noise that rolls out over the empty countryside.
Chayne moves position again. Under the window. Lifts the curtain. Chances a glance. They are waiting. A rifle butt smashes through the glass. Catches him on the forehead. It is a heavy glancing blow. He loses vision for a moment. Dazed. Can’t focus. Where is the Walther? Lost it. They are on him. Smells the pungent sweat of their excitement. He curls into a fetal ball. They pummel him with rifle butts. Loud shouts. A language he cannot understand. They jabber wildly. Then he is gone. Into the blackness. Gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Lemsid, Laàyoune, Tartaya, Agadir...
“It is called Bled es siba, the Land of the Lawless. Well named for such as we, don’t you think so, Isam?” Habib Hamid smiles.
Isam squints at the broiling Moroccan coastline and says nothing. But then, as Habib knows, he rarely speaks. Habib knows him well. He reads the stolid man’s thoughts. There is one God and Mohammed, Blessed be His Name, is His messenger. Devoted as Isam is to Habib, it is the Koran that gives Isam his direction. That is the law and Isam obeys it.
“You are too literal, Isam. Only to the West are we lawless. We know we have the one God with us. They are the ones without law or morality.”
Habib settles back in the command chair on the bridge of the Mungo Star and surveys the sparkling sea with satisfaction. Everything is going well. They are safe here. Not only the fleshpot holiday resorts, but more importantly, these seas off the Western Sahara house one of the best stocked fishing grounds remaining in the world. The EU magnates in Brussels will not dare risk pollution damage to their leased rights here. The next immediate obstacle, as Abid, the older intellectual, had so quickly foreseen, is transport.
He turns to Hikmat, who is lighting a cigarette by the bridge windows. “It is time to make our transmission. Let the Besiff speak to the Polisario. Bring the camels to the tent.”
“It shall be done, Habib.” Hikmat scratches his face nervously, and then scurries off, trailing a ribbon of smoke behind him.
Besiff... it is a good name, ‘By the Sword’. Habib decides he has chosen well. He is an anointed leader under God, blessed by the mullahs for this mission. To raise a holy crusade. And now, he has the means to arm his soldiers. But much depends on the Polisario for this final stage. That wild band of Algerian guerrillas with their headquarters in the Atlas Mountains. Once, they had only fought to evict the Spanish from Algeria and undermine the Moroccan royalty in an attempt to gain access to the Atlantic Ocean. Now, he has revived them. Brought pride and purpose back into their existence. If they carry out their task well the complete shipment will be safely transported into hiding amongst the Polisario strongholds in the mountains.
Soon, then, the others will come to him. The disparate groups of freedom fighters that the West seeks to diminish collectively with the title ‘terrorists’. From all corners of the east. United now by a common cause. Rising in a wave of warlike passion. Sweeping away the dissolute decadence of the west. Bringing holy law back to the land.
But they will have to come soon. These weapons cannot stay long. They must be dispersed before the West arrives to seek them out.
The word must be spread. “Nada, bring the digital movie camera.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ringing.
McBraith struggles up slowly from a drug induced sleep. He is exhausted. The drugs were the only way to stop his brain from racing and get some rest. Anne is snoring gently beside him. Oblivious.
“What?” he blurs into the mouthpiece. Clears his throat. “Who is it?”
It is Tom Carlisle on watch at the office.
“They’ve posted a message on the web.”
“Who?” McBraith is still struggling to clear his mind. “Who’re you talking about?”
“A gang calling themselves the Besiff. Some Arab terrorist group. It’s a recorded message calling for other terrorist groups to come forward and join with them.”
Anne stirs. Slides a long, smooth leg acr
oss him. Irritably, he brushes it aside and sits up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed.
“Are they the ones with the ship?”
“Yes, they’re still holding it anchored off the coast of Morocco. The whole thing looks like a sales ad. Stop me and buy one kind of thing. He’s offering supply to all and sundry.”
“Who is this bastard?”
“Goes by the name of Habib Hamid. CNN are saying he’s still on the most wanted list. Been on the loose for a while now.”
“Is he approachable, do you think?”
“No idea, Mr. McBraith. We’ve also had calls from the Foreign Office. I’ve managed to put them off so far, but I won’t be able to hold them off for much longer.”
“Get me on a flight out there right away. And email me that movie. I want to see this guy. Know what I’m up against. Maybe I can talk some sense into him. Make a deal or something. I can’t just sit here doing nothing. There’s too much at stake.” McBraith is dressing hurriedly as he speaks, the phone trapped on his shoulder. “You’ll have to field the government. I can’t be dealing with them right now.”
Anne is awake. Watching him dreamily through half lidded eyes.
“What’s the nearest airport over there. Agadir? Somewhere like that. Get the company plane on the tarmac and a flight plan filed soonest, have a car pick me up. Do we have anyone out there I can contact?”
“I’ll check and let you know.” Carlisle hesitates. “Do you think this is wise, Mr. McBraith? Going alone, do you want me to come along?”
McBraith thinks it over. “No. I need you here. I’ll take Anne with me. Listen, Tom. Whoever you find for me down there, make sure he can handle himself, will you?”
He hangs up. Neck muscles locked in tension. Feels the sweat starting to form on his brow. Unzips his laptop and connects to the phone output.
“What’s going on, Charles?” She is sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “What time is it?”
“Get up, we’re leaving,” he says, booting the computer.
“Charles, its three o’clock in the morning! Where are we going at this hour?”
“For a short break in the sun.” He connects to the Internet. Taps in his code for his office email. It is there. He starts the download.
“Business or pleasure?” She is up. Half in shadow, standing naked beside the bedside lamp. He looks at her. A momentary pause as he takes in the length of her body. Wish it were pleasure.
“We’re flying down to Morocco to sort this business out once and for all.”
She frowns doubtfully. “Must we?”
“For five hundred mil, yes we must. The African is holding my nuts in his hand. I can’t risk losing this cargo. Don’t take much with you, we’re traveling light.” He turns back to the laptop.
Plays the recording.
Jagged, haloed color image. Amateur. Ship’s bridge with bright sunlight behind. A handsome face. Pixels jump as he speaks. He is speaking in Arabic. Subtitles beneath.
“We are the fighters of the Besiff—By the Sword. My message is to our brothers around the world. Come to us, brethren. Come and fill your arms with our weapons. Freely we give them. It is time to rise not as one but as many. There is only weakness in division. The time is at hand when we can show ourselves in the daylight, come out from the shadows and drive all the unbelievers from our lands. Come to us here.”
McBraith sighs. I’m coming, brother. I’m coming.
Chapter Seventeen
Swimming. Coiling smoke. A light. The world rushes past. God! It hurts.
Clem is sobbing somewhere. Peak standing over him. Hand bunched in a bloody tea towel.
“You with us, Chayne?”
Wincing, he sits up and leans against the wall. “What happened?” He aches all over. The armored vest saved him from the worst of the beating, but there is blood on his face. He can taste it running down his chin.
“They’re gone. Took the kid. You nailed two of them. I got one before they spiked my hand. Blew my Remington to scrap in the process.”
“Clem?”
“The lady’s okay, but understandably upset. They punched her about a bit. Nothing serious. Looks like the whole setup was just to heist the kid.”
Chayne tries to get up. Takes Peak’s offered hand. “They were all black military, Peak.”
“Uh-huh, gotta be this African arm’s deal. They want some leverage. Or reassurance. The kid will be insurance. Guess we surprised the hell out of them, though. They weren’t expecting resistance.”
“Doesn’t feel like much of a damned resistance.” Chayne rubs his forehead, feels the welling wound. Hazily, he looks for his Walther. It is habit. Finds the weapon under the sofa. Holsters the weapon.
“Come on, Bud. Don’t take it bad. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Peak guides him to the kitchen.
Clem sits there, face in hands. There are bruises forming. She raises a tearstained face. Black mascara ribbons channel down her cheeks. “Oh, Chayne.” She sobs. “They took Robert. Why would they do that?”
Holding his hand against the pulsing head wound, he circles her with his free arm. “Has to be your husband’s partners in this arms deal.”
“The bloody fool. The stupid bloody fool.” She buries her face in his shoulder. “God! I’ll kill him for this, I swear I will.”
“I’ll get Robert back, Clem. I promise.”
She feels his blood dripping on her wrist. “You’re hurt. Let me see.”
“It’s okay. Head wound. Just a bleeder. Looks worse than it is.”
She rips a length off a kitchen roll and hands it to him. He plugs the wound with a handful as she takes a medical kit from the cupboard.
“Police?” asks Peak. Cups his hand. Lights up.
“Guess so.”
She is wiping away the blood with gauze. “This might need stitches, Chayne.”
Shakes his head. No.
“They’ll keep us talking,” observes Peak.
“What about the body count?”
“Took them when they went.”
“Can you use your magic to do a trace?”
Peak shrugs. “I guess. But I’ll have to report in. Don’t know what they’ll say.”
“Fair enough.”
Clem is taping him up under a pad of gauze. “Best I can do, Chayne. But it really needs a hospital.” She turns. Sees Peaks bloody paw. “Maybe I should look at that too.”
Gratefully, he obliges, holding out his hand. “Don’t mind if I don’t look, though, do you ma’am? Not much of a one for the sight of blood.”
“You don’t seem much of a poacher either,” she observes dryly.
“Just your friendly neighborhood hiker.” He grins.
“Right. Packing a shotgun and Lord knows what else.” She unrolls the bloody rag. The left palm had been split open. Beneath the broken skin, it looks like raw hamburger. Clem swallows and bites her lower lip. “Mr. Peak, this is a mess.”
Peak sucks smoke. Exhales between his teeth. “Drop of iodine and a bandage will do fine. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Tough guy.”
Chayne fetches himself a glass of water from the tap. Tips out some Paracetamol. Swallows it all in one go. “Can you do the police bit, Clem? They’ll keep the questions coming for hours, and I need the time. Have to lock onto these guys before the trail goes cold.”
“I suppose I should let Charles know,” she says.
Chayne shrugs. “Whatever you think best. Just play down our part to the police. Don’t mention Peak, he’s not here. Say your gamekeeper put up a fight and took out after them. Anything to hold them for a while.”
Frowning, she looks at him. “Can you do it, though? Alone, I mean?”
Their eyes lock. He nods. Silent promise.
Peak raises his bandaged hand. A knowing look on his gaunt face. “He’ll do it for you, lady. Don’t fret on it. You’re looking at the original Superman here. Now, big guy, let’s go check in and see if those billions of bucks worth
of technology can help us find these sons a bitches.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Bull Elephant is holding court.
Before him the gathered members of his council sit nervously. Army leaders to one side, civil to the other. They have been to these gatherings before. It does not bode well.
It is a long room. Fashioned in an overblown Hollywood style. Draped curtains of lush velvet hang fastened by gold tasseled ties; the ballroom-sized floor is covered with imported Italian marble. A great chandelier of crystal hangs centrally. Bizarrely, strings of Christmas tree lights run around the chamber blinking on and off in a cheap echo of all the splendor.
Omaluli sits on the carpeted dais he has had built to befit his majesty. His throne is an ornate extravaganza in golden baroque, and around him are four of his most trusted bodyguard. Each one armed with an AK 47-assault rifle. Omaluli himself is dressed in military fashion, medals cover his chest and two pearl handled automatics are belted around his waist. He eases them on his vast girth.
“Where are my weapons?” The voice is deep and ominous. There is no answer, only a dense silence.
Kamami Utu rises tentatively to his feet. “Great One. The raid on the home of the traitor McBraith has been a success. We have his child.”
“So.” Omaluli smiles. “We have his child.” The smile is deceptive, it widens to a grimace. “Can I fight wars with a child? I need guns, Utu. I need them now. Our neighbor, the dictator Ebu, grows ever restless.” He turns to the military. “Tell them, Colonel. Tell these fools what he has done.”
An elderly white-haired war chief rises to his feet. His uniform a mixture of colonial and tribal accouterments. “They raid our borders with more frequency, Excellency...”
Omaluli lunges forward in his chair. “Don’t tell me. I know what they do,” he bellows. “Tell them!” A ringed finger points at the trembling ministers.
With a quiver in his voice, the colonel continues. “Recently, reports of cattle raiding have increased in the northern provinces. A strike on our oil reserve at Mkambi has been made, seriously depleting our stocks.”
