Warrior's Edge

by Don Pendleton

  After both sides checked each other out, Fowler's crew emerged from the shadows and climbed into the cars and jeep.

  The helicopter lifted off and headed toward the area it was supposed to be patrolling.

  The terror teams were almost in place. Soon they'd make their play.

  With their passengers aboard, the cars drove slowly back down the coastline road, a soft parade of assassins. The convoy turned back up the driveway and rolled up to the dimly lit farmhouse.

  When Fowler's car stopped, several shapes filtered from the house and from the outbuildings. A small army had gathered in the dark.

  Leading them was Gunther Braun, a German national who'd worked with Fowler on several other operations. His blond hair had turned greyish, and his once-lean frame now carried a lot of extra pounds. Braun was a grand old man in the mercenary trade.

  Braun and his crew were expensive talent but worth the cost. They handled a good part of Fowler's citywide operations, including the looting spree that had rocked Zandeville.

  Fowler and Braun clasped hands, then headed toward the barn off to the left of the main house. Inside was an old Volkswagen van and a beat-up station wagon, both packed with long cardboard boxes.

  "How do they look?" Fowler asked.

  "Perfect. Right down to the last gold button."

  "Good. Let's see them." Braun smiled.

  He was long used to Fowler's ways, knowing that the man never took anyone's word for anything. He always had to see for himself.

  "Fresh from the warehouse," Braun promised, opening the van doors. "We brought them out this afternoon." He pulled down several of the cardboard boxes and opened them for Fowler's inspection.

  Inside the boxes were stolen government uniforms, the trademark police blues of the ZIS.

  Goldlettered ZIS insignia emblazoned the brim of the peaked police hats and the shoulder boards and collar tabs on the shirts. Gold buttons gleamed in the moonlight. The newly issued uniforms came complete with wide belt and holster.

  "Any security problems?" Fowler said.

  "Not unless Molembe's got some necromancers on his team. Our inside man «disappeared» shortly after he smuggled the uniforms to us."

  "How tragic."

  "Actually it was kind of fun. As a reward for his services, we took him out for some deep-sea fishing."

  "And?"

  "And he made excellent bait."

  Fowler nodded his approval. "Excellent." Then he looked out into the darkness where the troops had gathered. "Well, what are you waiting for? Enlist these men into the ZIS."

  Braun called out to his men. In just a few minutes they had transformed themselves into crisply dressed ZIS officers.

  Then Fowler and some of the Desert Knights he'd brought with him changed into the of ficial uniforms. He tucked his coil of hair down the back of his collar, tilted his brim hat forward and put on a pair of glasses.

  Satisfied he wouldn't be recognised, Fowler conducted a brief inspection of the others.

  When they passed muster, he turned his attention to a small group of men who'd stayed in their plain clothes.

  At their head was Gauclere, still looking as though he was ready for a night on the town.

  Fowler pulled Gauclere and the others off to the side. "You know your targets?" he asked.

  "I've been dreaming about it," Gauclere replied, "every step of the way."

  The other men nodded. They, too, had already lived out the mission in their heads. Now all they had to do was play it out on the world stage.

  "All right," Fowler said, "get on with it. It's time to make your dreams come true. You'll have a tenminute head start before we bring in the cavalry."

  * * *

  Gauclere bobbed his head to the beat of the music booming from the Ocean Top club at the end of the pier. He'd ordered a drink at the bar, flirted with a barmaid, then turned his attention to the dance floor as if he were just one more man searching for romance.

  The elegant club was favored by Zandeville's grand monde, the high society who clung to its comfortable world no matter where the war raged.

  Just like every other night, the club was packed. It was a place where the upper-class movers and shakers of Zandeville came to be seen.

  And, Gauclere thought, it was a place where they could go out in style.

  The mercenary sipped his drink slowly, looking around the club at the other men who'd entered with him. They were sitting at a small table alongside the dance floor, glasses of champagne in front of them, waiting for his cue.

  * * *

  The blue-uniformed Desert Knights drifted down the coastline in twos and threes, moving inexorably toward their soft targets. The beachhead brigade, Fowler thought as he watched his men trudging through the sand, stopping and taking up their positions.

  Atlantic surf thrashed and hissed on the shore. Steel-drum-and-guitar music drifted from the seaside hotels and nightclubs, some of them on stilts, as if they were gracefully walking out into the water.

  From their tables and booths came lilting feminine laughter and the clink of ice-filled glasses, the sounds of nightlife blending with the music.

  It was a beautiful sight.

  Especially when viewed through a sniper scope.

  Heinrich Fowler swept his Belgian FN FAL 7.62 mm rifle from left to right, picking out dance partners for the fatal waltz.

  The cross hairs in the illuminated scope drifted over the bare and lovely shoulders of Zandesian women in their gowns and the European emigres who'd made Zandesi their home long ago.

  Before the night was through they'd wish they'd never come here. The people of Zandeville would fear both rebels and government troops alike.

  It would be a night to remember.

  Fowler hummed along with the music that drifted from the nightclub. It had a catchy beat.

  Soon the dancers would move faster once he added some 9 mm counterpoint.

  * * *

  The woman glided across the dance floor of the Ocean Top, a vision in red.

  In her midthirties, Lydia, as she was known, still held on to the beauty that had made her a prize in every capital in Europe. Her face was smooth, her eyes daring, her voluptuous figure wrapped in red satin.

  A prize to the well-off men in the Ocean Top circle, a trophy for Gauclere. Like a hypnotized man he watched her move with her partner. His hand was on her hip, and now and then his lips upon her neck.

  But she turned this way and that, breaking away from his grasp every few steps.

  She was an exquisite and potent symbol of Zandeville royalty, and she was about to be dethroned.

  Gauclere finished his drink, wiped his lips with his napkin, then reached inside his jacket to pull out a .45 automatic.

  Pivoting to his right, Gauclere fired at the woman. The heavy slug shattered her head like a melon, spraying her dying thoughts over her partner.

  The man stared in shock and fear, but only for a moment. The next round caught him in the chest. He flew back, dancing around like a blood-spattered puppet before he fell to the floor.

  The stampede had begun.

  Gauclere's companions had pushed their table aside, raised their weapons and begun to fire.

  One after the other the high-born died.

  The band threw down their instruments and ran for cover, their screams joining the rest.

  Splashes sounded from outside the club as the patrons jumped into the water. Some of them missed, thanking onto the gleaming power boats moored there.

  And inside the club the dance of death went on.

  * * *

  It was time. Fowler exhaled softly as he pulled the trigger of his FN FAL rifle.

  The woman was sitting alone at her table, her drink halfway to her mouth, when the shots rang out.

  She screamed as the glass shattered and fountained her bright green drink into the air.

  Then the bullet passed on to the next target, a waiter who'd taken his last order. He fell back with red ribbons of blood
seeping down his collar.

  The woman jumped to her feet and danced around the slain man. She looked toward the beach where the shot had come from, then looked around wildly for help.

  Fowler adjusted his aim and squeezed off another round.

  The woman shook as if she'd received an electric shock. She took several staggering steps, then fell to the floor dead, a blossoming bullet hole drenching her white cotton with red.

  "Thanks for the dance," Fowler muttered.

  The crack of rifle fire sounded up and down the beach as the Desert Knights opened up at random.

  Then they stormed the clubs, hurtling through the brightly lit alcoves, their official uniforms giving the club goers hope that the madness was over.

  But then the blue-uniformed men opened fire, as if they were in a panic. They fired at anything that moved. The saviors had turned into slaughterers.

  After wreaking havoc at the clubs, the fake ZIS teams went in pursuit of the mercenaries who'd started the panic.

  The streets were alive with screams and gunfire. And blue uniforms.

  Then it ended as quickly as it had started.

  The marauders vanished into safehouses, discarding their uniforms and waiting for the inevitable chaos that would follow.

  Madness and murder had come to the capital.

  10

  The hooded rider approached the ZIS picket line and raised his right hand in greeting. He did so slowly, aware of the guns pointed at him from within the desert outpost.

  The pickets were also aware of the long line of Maskarai horsemen who fanned out behind the first rider, cradling their rifles in the event things turned ugly.

  Word spread quickly inside the camp, and in a few moments Captain Tsawa, commander of Molembe's desert troops, arrived at the gate.

  Tsawa recognised the bronzed rider from the day he and his tribesmen had been captured by the ZIS commandos captured and released on the condition they wouldn't ride against Molembe again.

  "Let him pass," Tsawa ordered.

  A handful of men in desert-camouflage fatigues opened the barricades and let the horseman enter.

  "What do you want?" Captain Tsawa asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the tribesman.

  "Molembe," Zhoave responded.

  "I see."

  At the moment Molembe was spearheading a sweep through the city, searching for the gunmen who'd laid waste to Zandeville's gold-coast resorts uniformed gunmen. Until they devised a way to fight back at the death squads, the city would be in chaos.

  And all the blame would fall on Molembe.

  "He's not available."

  "I have to talk to him."

  "First you have to talk to me," Tsawa said. "This way." He pointed toward a shelter that was little more than brush and netting draped over several six-foot high posts.

  The Maskarai tribesman looked down at Captain Tsawa, then reluctantly dismounted and followed him. He looped the reins of his horse around one of the posts and stepped inside the shade.

  "Please," Tsawa said, "make yourself comfortable." He gestured at one of the benches that had been formed from empty ammo boxes.

  "Most luxurious quarters." Zhoave smiled as he sat across from Captain Tsawa.

  "Now, why have you come?"

  The tall Maskarai warrior studied Tsawa, taking his measure before committing himself.

  "My people have been approached by Fowler's colonials again. They wish to strengthen their forces with our riders. They need us to protect their hostages while they go to fight on the coast."

  Tsawa nodded. The Maskarai had a centuries-long history as superb horse soldiers. They fought on horseback and they often negotiated on horseback, which showed how sincere Zhoave was in wanting to strike a deal.

  He'd dismounted to accept the Spartan hospitality of the ZIS captain.

  "What have you told Fowler's men?"

  "That we will join them," Zhoave said. "And that is why I must talk with Molembe. We want only to join Fowler's people to destroy them. Word has reached us that the German's troops were responsible for the massacre of our people and not the ZIS."

  "We already told you that."

  "Yes," Zhoave replied. "And now we were told by our own people, Maskarai, who saw Fowler's men leaving the slaughter."

  Captain Tsawa nodded. "We'll help you avenge them."

  The Maskarai tribesman was ready to strike a deal, but not with Captain Tsawa. "I must have Molembe's word. I must see him here."

  "Impossible. He's in the city, hunting for the German."

  "Then I will speak to his warlord."

  Tsawa looked surprised. "Who do you mean?"

  "The warrior who Molembe looked to during the battle. The warrior who brought about our capture."

  Captain Tsawa suddenly knew who he was talking about. "You mean the American who was with us?"

  "The warrior," Zhoave repeated.

  "I'll see if I can get him out here," Tsawa said. "It'll take a couple of hours. Perhaps more."

  "I will wait for him in the desert. Alone." Then Zhoave gave him the rendezvous point, a dried water hole a mile away from the outpost.

  "The warrior will come," Captain Tsawa promised.

  He accompanied the Maskarai tribesman back to the gate, then called for his radioman.

  A coded message was transmitted to a Serpentine Force chopper, then to Molembe's Intelligence unit in the capital. A short time later the answer came back.

  The warlord was on the way.

  * * *

  The helicopter flew straight from Zandeville, touched down at the outpost for a briefing, then lifted off once again and headed for the rendezvous.

  After a quick recon of the area satisfied the pilot that he wasn't setting down in the middle of an ambush, he landed on the hard-baked ground in the center of the dead oasis.

  Bolan jumped down from the chopper and approached the hooded Maskarai warrior. The two men greeted each other, then began to negotiate.

  In return for finding the hostages and leading the ZIS to them, he wanted one thing he wanted the war to continue until the Desert Knights were pushed out of his land.

  Bolan gave him his word, and they began planning for the day when the Maskarai joined the Desert Knights.

  * * *

  Four rows of marines were doing calisthenics on the deck of the American assault ship when the CHBLEDF Sea Knight carrying Mack Bolan made its approach.

  The aircraft had picked him up five miles out to sea from the deck of one of nearly a dozen yachts dragooned into the ZIS fleet. They were part of Molembe's unofficial navy, piloted by commandos who were unknown to the rank-and-file members of ZIS and, hopefully, to Heinrich Fowler's informants. They'd be waiting for Bolan after he returned from his mid-Atlantic shopping expedition.

  As the Sea Knight touched down on the white-circled helipad, Bolan thought how easy it would be to just load the Marines onto the choppers and drop them onto the mountain fortresses.

  The four assault ships in the area could carry up to twenty Sea Knights each or a mix of Harrier aircraft and Sea Stallions, enough capability to fight a small war if they got the green light.

  The Marines could engage the enemy in strength, dig them out of their strongholds and bring the fighting to a quick end. That would ensure that the acting government had a solid base to operate from in the event that President Sabda never made it back alive.

  But the green light wasn't coming. Not yet.

  Maybe not until it was too late.

  Bolan jumped onto the deck, slinging his gear bag over his shoulder. Almost immediately the black-clad warrior was spirited out of sight as Hal Brognola ushered him below decks to a small briefing room that had been commandeered by the Justice operative.

  "Welcome to the floating newsroom," Brognola said, closing the door behind him. "You're just in time for the photo spread." The big Fed led him over to a slanting counter that ran around three sides of the room. Several recent satellite photos of the Ha
rana Desert and the cities on the coast were spread out on the counter.

  "All the news that's fit to print?" Bolan said, scanning the photographs and Intelligence summaries.

  "All the news that's fit to hide. We've got every square inch of the city covered, and too much desert for my taste."

  U.S. reconnaissance satellites and overflights had been tasked to Zandesi hot spots, providing a bird'seye view of what was going on at ground level. Circles and notations in black marker covered many of the photographs.

  High-resolution shots of the Zandeville White House and the buildings surrounding the presidential complex were laid out side by side, revealing the presence of several armed units on the rooftops.

  "I hope these men are working for Molembe," Brognola said, tapping a pointer onto several of the pictured units. "Know anything about them?"

  "Fits in with Molembe's operations," Bolan said. "He's got some deep-cover operatives stationed all over the capital. They're poised to operate as quickreaction teams. I'll check it out with him when I get back to make sure these are still his people."

  There were also several photos of villas with protected courtyards identified as possible bases for Fowler's confederates in the city.

  A number of photos highlighted farms and villas in the outlying area that also showed a lot of activity where people were gathering for safety, many of them with weapons.

  "Most places near Z'ville have become armed camps," Brognola said. "They're all waiting for something to come down. Something's definitely in the air, Striker."

  "Yeah, I noticed. They're getting ready to shoot first and ask questions later."

  Bolan carefully studied the photos of the Zandesian capital, imprinting them in his memory. Though he'd share most of the hard Intel with Molembe, he planned on withholding some of it as a way of testing the ZIS chief's openness about his troop strength and positions.

  It was standard procedure. The Executioner believed in trusting his fellow man, as long as he could verify that trust. Little things like that kept a man alive.