Dangerous Cargo

by Stewart Clyde

  “Cold Killer, regarde le,” the rebel said to the man behind Stirling. “This is Cold Killer. If you move, he will kill you.”

  The rebel leader walked past him. Cold Killer looked at Stirling with a depraved grin and dried snot on his lip. His eyes were a watery yellow, a sure sign of malaria. He jabbed Stirling in the temple with his AK-47 and Stirling looked at the ground in submission and clenched his jaw in frustration.

  “I am not going to die here,” he said under his breath.

  “Hey, you, English! Where da explosive?” the rebel leader shouted from behind him. He came up and grabbed Stirling’s face.

  “I only ask once, English.” His lips opened in a sly grin, relishing this part.

  “Where da explosive!?” He let go of Stirling’s face and slapped him across the jaw. Stirling felt the burn of the strike on his cheek and stared blankly straight into the mirrored lenses.

  “I am going to kill you,” he said matter-of-factly through gritted teeth.

  The rebel laughed and removed his sunglasses. Stirling saw he had a long scar across one eye, it was creamy white and blind.

  “No, English.” He shook his head, “I am going to kill you. Right now.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two clear plastic vials. “You see? I am going to scoop up your blood and get a promotion. Climb the corporate ladder, eh?”

  He laughed and looked at Cold Killer and said, “Hey, wena, tue-le maintenant.”

  Cold Killer cocked his rifle.

  “Say your prayers,” the leader grinned. Cold Killer pressed the rifle into Stirling’s temple.

  “Yes, yes. I want to say my prayers. Please,” Stirling said.

  Cold Killer looked at the rebel leader, unsure.

  Stirling lifted his hands in front of his face in prayer and started, “Our Father, who art in heaven …”

  The rebel leader’s laugh boomed, Cold Killer shouted in Stirling’s ear and jabbed him in the temple. In one action, Stirling brushed the barrel past his head with the back of his hand and reached into his crotch for the revolver. Stirling saw the yellows of the savage eyes widen as he squeezed the trigger. The front of Cold Killer’s neck exploded and he dropped his rifle to plug the hole with both hands. The gore seeped through his fingers as he choked on his own blood.

  The gunshot echoed around them and off the truck and the trees, and the birds took flight. As the sound died away, Cold Killer dropped and gurgled his last breath into the dirt. Stirling was up quickly. He grabbed the pink wrapped box and a clump of the rebel leader’s Afro in the other hand and yanked him yelling to the cover of the thicket on their flank.

  “Déglingue le! Déglingue le!” Shoot him! he screamed at the others as Stirling dragged him to the cover of the bushes. The rebels yelled back and fired a volley over Stirling’s head.

  “They don’t want to shoot you,” Stirling grunted as he pulled the man away. He stopped at the edge of the bush and turned back to face the truck.

  “But I do …” he said into his ear. “Who set me up?”

  “Déglingue le!” the rebel shouted again to his men. They looked at one another. Stirling put the revolver to his temple. “Déglingue le!” he screamed desperately.

  Stirling closed one eye and turned his face away and pulled the trigger. The blood splatter hit him on the cheek and neck, and the body fell into the grass.

  Chapter Two

  The Mediterranean Sea

  * * *

  He took a sip of his Scotch with ice and looked out at the white pebble beaches and green rocky coast line. He stood on the upper deck of his prized possession, his super-yacht Helios, wearing a too tight blue speedo and too loose gold jewellery. He’d taken it from a Russian oligarch by making him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The yacht in exchange for not killing his daughter.

  He sucked his top lip and tasted the peat and pulsed his forearm, so the scorpion tattoo covering it twisted and moved, as if it was crawling under his skin, and then slammed the crystal tumbler down hard enough that he thought it might break. The girl near him on the sofa jumped and quivered.

  “Read it to me. Read it to me, you bitch. You don’t read English? Or what?” He spoke in a Chechen dialect of Russian. It was the tonal match of bumping into furniture in the dark. The girl was wearing a bikini and high heels, and she was balled up in the corner of the L-shaped sofa. She watched him through the brown hair that hung in her face and trembled.

  “Maybe if I fuck you like my teacher fucked me, you’ll learn to read.”

  She yelped. He climbed onto the sofa and leered. He leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear.

  “Can you read English?” he rasped.

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  His voice grew louder and crescendoed, “So, read it and tell me what it says, in Russian!” He snatched the book from her hands and she cowered. He held it with both hands and looked at the cover, a copy of The International Jew by Henry Ford.

  “This is a great book, by a great American,” he said spitting the words. “I must know what it says.” He raised the book and hit the girl across the face with it. The blow knocked her head back and he felt his dick harden in his speedo. This was turning him on. He moved to strike her again.

  “Sir, a call for you,” a voice said urgently behind him. It was his valet, Dimitri.

  He looked down at the girl and bared his teeth. Then he climbed off the sofa and snatched the phone.

  “Speak,” he said into the receiver.

  “He escaped the ambush,” the voice said. It sounded far away.

  “Well that is no bloody use to anybody, is it?”

  “No, Scorpion.”

  “And the weapons?”

  “Recovered, sir. We have them.”

  “This isn’t sending a good message to the others who try to steal our business, is it Chovka? You know we still have to kill the smuggler, don’t you?”

  “Yes sir, I will take care of it right away.”

  The Scorpion paused and looked at the girl. Tears ran down her face, she had her hand up to her nose and dabbed at the blood as it ran onto her hand.

  A red speck hit the creamy-white sofa.

  “I don’t pay you to think, do I, Chovka?”

  There was no reply.

  “Don’t just kill him like some dog in the street. We have him in a position now, a position where he is injured, limping. A position we control. We don’t kill him, yet. We need everyone to know that we control the weapons in Africa. We crush any challenge, and we do not blink first.”

  The Scorpion went back to the sofa and sat down, he handed the girl a napkin without looking at her.

  “It is the end game now Chovka. No. No. I have a plan. You see? There are more ways to kill a fox, we can also choke it with cream.”

  “I don’t understand, Scorpion.”

  “That is okay. I do. Who supplied the guns?”

  “That Greek bastard, Basil.”

  “I see. So, let’s pay his debt off. We buy the debt from that dirty Greek crook, like our good friends the Rothschilds would. And then? He owes us the money for the guns, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So let him pay. And, if he can’t, we will get him to do something for us. Maybe, instead of chasing this fox, we let him come to us. And he can bring with him a big bowl of cream.”

  He dabbed his forefinger in the blood on the sofa and tasted it on the tip of his tongue and hung up the phone.

  Scorpion handed it back to the suit.

  “Fetch me another girl, Dimitri. This one is going to have an accident.”

  Matadi, Democratic Republic of Congo

  * * *

  The rebels had fired wildly as Stirling ran. He’d disappeared into the bush, hard targeting as bursts of gunfire zipped and snapped and slammed into the leaves and branches around him. He’d moved fast to get out of the killing area.

  Now, he marched through the night back to the border. It was careful work. He moved in bursts, from cover to cover, li
stening for the rebels who might have followed, or wild animals crouched in trees ready to pounce and sink their teeth into his neck.

  He could see the Matadi suspension bridge in the dark. It was built by the Japanese and spanned the great Congo River. He hid out of sight, near the road and with the lights on top of the bridge in view. It was just before dawn and he kept a look out for VD’s pick-up truck. The plan had been for Stirling to sell the weapons in Kinshasa for cash, detonate the plastic explosive to destroy the cache, and kill as many rebels as possible. That was the plan, but now he was in trouble and early to the rendezvous.

  The border crossing was calm in the early morning. Africans liked to move in the light, like any people of a wild land. They had a right to fear the dark and there were enough legends and folklore demons and evil spirits to stop children running off in the night.

  Stirling saw a vehicle pull up to the guard hut and watched it closely. He saw the Afrikaner resting his forearm on the door and sharing a joke with the overnight sentry. He was relieved, in spite of the pain in his stomach, he hadn’t eaten since dishing out sweets to the kids on the previous morning.

  The pick-up trundled down the dirt track towards him. It squeaked and jolted from side to side and Stirling saw VD in front with his bush hat on, singing along to some kind of South African country music. His name was Johan van Driebek, but Stirling called him VD for short. A sort of inside joke that Johan wasn’t party to. They’d met in Luanda doing private security work together. VD was an old hand at the mercenary game in Africa and took Stirling under his wing.

  Stirling stepped out from his hiding place and in front of the left headlight. VD braked hard and swerved and covered Stirling and the pick-up in a coat of dust.

  “Fokken hell, bliksem,” VD hollered and swore in Afrikaans out the window. “What the hell are you doing here, this isn’t where we are supposed to – ” his rant tailed off while Stirling walked around and got in. The rusted door scraped and whined as he pulled it shut. They were both large men and the cab was cramped.

  “Hell, good to see you too, partner,” Stirling said and they shook hands and Stirling grinned as VD calmed down.

  “Please get me the out of here. It’s been one hell of a night,” he said.

  VD was wide and round and used his Popeye-style forearms to turn the pick-up around. He bumped over the grass verge and overcorrected to get it back on track and back towards the border. They waved as they drove back into Angola and the guards watched curiously as they trundled back across the bridge.

  “What’s that?” VD said looking at the battered pink box on Stirling’s lap.

  “Semtex,” Stirling said. “So drive carefully, hey?”

  VD kept a straight face and pretended to concentrate on the road.

  “Plastic explosive in pink wrapping paper? Cute,” he said. “So what the hell happened? I told you not to go into the Congo alone, didn’t I?” he shook his head, making it clear he was feeling a bit sniffy. “So?”

  “You were right, kind of,” Stirling said.

  “Kind of? I told you not to do any gun deals. The Chechens own that action. I said they would try and kill you. Didn’t I?”

  “You did.”

  VD massaged his reddish beard.

  “So what happened?” he asked.

  “I was hijacked.”

  VD looked at him open-mouthed and then his eyes narrowed disbelievingly.

  “Watch the road please,” Stirling said and jostled the wheel to keep them on the track. The pick-up lurched and VD turned the wheel to keep them steady.

  “No one is dumb enough to rip off that shipment,” VD said and regained control.

  “That’s what I thought too. But I don’t think they were only after the guns. They were trying to send a message.”

  “What message?”

  “Don’t screw with us,” Stirling said flatly.

  “So, what then? You think they wanted you?”

  “I know they did.”

  “How?”

  “The lead guy had empty vials on him. To fill up with fifty-cc of me. My blood as proof of death.”

  “Shitting hell, shitting hell. I told you! I told you! Don’t mess with those guys man.”

  “Listen, VD,” Stirling said. “I wasn’t just going into the Congo to sell weapons to those rebels.”

  “Huh? What you mean?” VD watched him out the corner of his eye. Stirling knew he couldn’t tell VD the truth, but he didn’t want to lie to his friend either.

  “I needed to rock the boat. Kick the hornets’ nest. I needed to see if I could find the buyers, and you know ... “

  “What? No I don’t know. What you mean, take them out?”

  Stirling nodded. “Yup.”

  “What! Why? Are you stupid?”

  “No, listen.” Stirling waited to make sure VD was doing that.

  “Okay. I should have told you sooner. Brought you up to speed.”

  “Finally. Something I agree with,” VD nodded.

  “These guys, selling weapons, they are very bad men. Those weapons kill civilians, children, they chop off their arms. Selling them to the same people who massacred people in Rwanda, and is anyone doing anything about it?”

  “No,” VD said, “so what, you were going to make these guys have an accident?”

  “Eventually, after I found out who the players were and worked my way up to the big boys. Undercut the Chechens and then cut off the demand,” Stirling locked eyes with VD. “Watch the bloody road,” Stirling said.

  VD laughed.

  “Okay, so why?” he asked.

  “Look, when I was in theatre I lost guys. Boys who trusted me and who I trusted with my life. And I lost those guys, cut down by illegal seven-six-two rounds from China and bomb-making kits from Iran.”

  “Afghan?”

  “Yeah,” Stirling nodded. “So I can’t do anything about that, right? They binned me. But I can try here.”

  “Ja, try something bloody crazy, man,” VD said.

  “I am going to put a stop to the weapons. Well, I was, until I got hijacked.”

  “And now?

  “I don’t know. I still owe the suppliers for the shipment, so there is that,” Stirling said.

  “Wait, that scaly Greek bastard sold you the guns on credit?” VD spat. “How much?”

  “A lot, more than I can get by tomorrow – and the juice is running. I have a big debt now. I was going to sell them, blow them up, and pay the Greek.”

  VD whistled. “You must be able to sell ice to an Eskimo if you convinced those guys to give you guns on credit,” VD shook his head. “They’re going to kill you, man.”

  They sat in silence and the headlights swished along in the darkness. VD started tapping the steering wheel and turned the music up and it hissed louder.

  “I think I have an idea,” VD said. “We can’t get it all, but maybe we can get some, and get that Greek slime-ball to lay off you for a while. What do you reckon?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “How about you meet me at the nightclub tonight?”

  “Which nightclub?”

  “Buala Blues.”

  Stirling laughed. “What the hell you want to go there for?”

  VD nodded along to the beat and watched the Angolan bush glide past at a calm forty miles per hour. Stirling watched him out the corner of his eye. What was this Dutchman up to?

  Chapter Three

  They drove all day and around dusk made their way past the red-tiled roofs of the old colonial buildings along the beach front in Luanda. Stirling felt safer and looked out of the beaten up pick-up at the port city. It was split between new and old, wealthy and poor. Modern glass skyscrapers, opposite clay-tiled roofs of the historic Portuguese quarter. The derelict shanties of informal settlements and their destitute owners lapped at the city like the tide.

  After dark, VD led Stirling walking through the shanty town. Dogs barked as they made their way down the narrow passages between densely packed
dwellings. VD took Stirling down a green passageway and a tube of light flickered on the ceiling. VD paid a bouncer and he banged rapidly on a steel door. He ushered VD inside and Stirling stepped through the doorway.

  “What’re we doing here?” Stirling asked over the music.

  They stood in the crowded nightclub, and past VD there was a tired looking boxing ring and stained mat, squared off with decking rope. VD looked around as if he hadn’t heard; the music was loud and the nightclub was filled wall-to-wall with dancing people. Over on the stage a band of three horns and a drummer played while a woman in colourful dress danced and sang. The antique boxing ring was in front of the band.

  Yellow electric lightbulbs hung from beams along the warehouse roof, wrapped in red acetate sheeting which gave the place a pink-grapefruit glow. The people jived and shouted and drank spirits out of clear plastic cups. They were the only white faces in the place. Stirling watched VD’s mouth and tried to hear. It opened and closed and he waved his hands, but Stirling shook his head and couldn’t make out what he was saying. Stirling pointed to his ear and shook his head. VD leaned in and pulled Stirling’s shoulder to his chin.

  “Ag, go get a drink and relax man. Look who is at the bar, you know him,” he said and pointed at the bar, “I need to talk to somebody.”

  To continue reading on the Kindle Store, please press here: www.amazon.com

  End of excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

  Also by Stewart Clyde

  I hope you enjoyed Dangerous Cargo, a prequel to the Stirling Hunt thriller series. The series features former Special Boat Service operator and black-ops specialist, Stirling Hunt.

  And the action continues in Blood Feud, where Stirling is recruited by Soames and the Clubhouse for a covert black-op. Blood Feud is about one man’s quest to bring a terrorist to justice—and it’s winner take all.