As in most countries where Europeans once trod, there was a language barrier. Madagascar was no different. He addressed the Iranians in English, aware most of the Madagascan soldiers had a working knowledge of the universal language. “Behold the fate of all those who give themselves over to the Great Satan like common whores. I am General Fateh Arakkhan, but you already know that. What I am to you is your ayatollah—or sign of God. Treason is unacceptable. Submission to my will is acceptable. You have been brought to this island to serve in what will soon become the mother of all holy wars. Yes, I know you have your own agendas, regarding your islands in the Strait of Hormuz.”
The screams faded to bitter weeping as shock set in and their limbs hung limply by their sides. “We must plan our futures together if we are to succeed in defeating our enemies. These three men were fools, with weak wills and deceit in their hearts. You can clearly see I still have friends in important places in Sudan, watching, waiting for my return.” He glossed over the fact it never hurt to spread the wealth around, whether Khartoum or here in Madagascar, where he had the president tucked in his pocket, along with ranking Madagascan officers and about one-third of the People’s National Assembly. “I am issuing the fatwa. Anyone who is not with us is against us. It cannot be much more clear and simple. Gaze now upon the fate of our enemies. That is all.”
A moan of agony rose up from the courtyard as he moved down the parapet. He would need a few minutes at some point with Fhalid to discuss where it all went from there. For now he would simply let his actions speak the truth, revealing the future of his enemies for all to behold.
RYAN COLLINS HAD a lifestyle to maintain, and figured a measly quarter-million a year wasn’t cutting it. There was the beachfront home in Malibu to consider. There were bimonthly trips to Hawaii, three sports cars to think about. There were two ex-wives with their hands clawed deep in his pockets, and their lawyers planted square up his butt. There was a mistress who had a coke habit….
Girls, girls, girls.
All things about the opposite sex considered, he felt right at home as he claimed a table in the far corner, eyes lighting up at the blond vision shaking and baking on stage. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the coiffed dark hair, the rugged movie-star good looks, couldn’t resist a smile.
Feeling good.
He saw she was already cutting a beeline his way, all smiles, ready to rock, waving off the come-ons from the wanna-be lady-killers. He was one of the privileged elite clientele who had access to the back rooms. And why not, he figured, the kind of money he threw away in the place, a fringe benefit or two should always be on the menu. He was in a stressful line of work, after all, needed relief, and things weren’t getting any less tense around the office.
Los Angeles was a party town, around the clock, and Collins was looking for some way to keep the good times rolling. He believed he had found the answer, only he was concerned where he might go with his information and who should get it.
And for what price.
Still, he was disturbed about recent events he couldn’t explain, but his ticket to paradise was stashed away in the aluminum briefcase by his side.
And there were shadows following him. He couldn’t see them, but three of his colleagues had gone AWOL. The past month or so had seen a few grim-faced robots—Terminators, he thought—lumbering around the DYSAT office in Century City. These days, he felt he was always being watched, since he was a top-ranking executive with access to sensitive information to classified high-tech weapons, microchip processors….
Well, he had stumbled across the order manifests and they didn’t jibe with production output. Not only that, but the end users—purchasers—were logged as…
He shuddered to even consider whom DYSAT had fallen into bed with. Okay, he figured he could talk to the president of the company, a former Air Force colonel, and put the screws to him. It might cost him his job, but if he made some noise about going to the Feds unless there was ample cash compensation…
“Hey, cutie. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Was it his imagination, or did Cyndy look especially pleased to see him?
“Likewise.”
“You want a drink first?”
“After.”
She took his hand, leading the way. Paradise.
“You sound real horny tonight.”
“Tough day at the office.”
She seemed too eager to please, not even bothering to relieve him of two hundred bucks first, but he figured she was just hot to get it on. He trailed her through the rear door, into a narrow, murky hall. He was grateful the back rooms were nearly soundproof, blotting out the thunder of heavy metal and the roar of hyenas in heat. The only kind of noise he wanted to hear was her mewing for more. Down the hall to the last room, and she opened the door. He was moving inside, looking from the soft light burning on the nightstand, adjusting his eyes to the deeper gloom, when he spotted the shadow.
“What the…?”
“Mr. Collins. Nice of you to show up.”
Collins felt his blood pressure rise like a war drum in his ears, heart pulsing with fear and anger. “What is this? I’ve seen you before.”
“I left your envelope with the bartender.”
Collins nearly bellowed with outrage as the whore simply nodded, not even looking at him as she left the room, the door snicking shut.
The Terminator rose, and Collins heard the dialogue leaping to mind, aware he had been set up, screwed. He was about to say, “I can explain,” when the behemoth in a buzz cut pulled out a pistol and attached a sound suppressor.
“Your services are no longer required by DYSAT.”
“Listen! No, I can—”
A chug, then the lights were punched out.
CHAPTER ONE
“You look like the messenger with bad news—and ‘very’ bad news.”
Hal Brognola was fondling an unlit cigar as he rolled into the War Room at Stony Man Farm. The director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group swept on, past Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, the chief cyber sorcerer who was confined for life to his wheelchair, thanks to a bullet, and grunted at Bear’s remark.
“Well?” Kurtzman pressed. “Did the Man give us the green light?”
The Man, of course, was the President of the United States, and half of Brognola’s twin-bill duty was playing a critical role as the Farm’s liaison to the chief executive. “We’re sitting in limbo—still.”
No thumbs-up from the Oval Office, and Barbara Price, the Farm’s mission controller, groaned. “Unbelievable. Does he have any clue how hard we pushed, maneuvering all the logistical chess pieces, to get it at the doorstep of…this eleventh hour?”
The Justice man knew all too well how many hours—belay that—days the Farm team had racked up, the number of strings tugged, contacts cajoled, markers raked in from the Pentagon to Langley. It galled him alone to think Stony Man’s elite commandos were poised on three separate thresholds, combat ready, chomping on prebattle nerves.
Waiting for the phone to ring.
The big Fed poured a large foam cup of Kurtzman’s infamous coffee, then dumped enough sugar in the black swill to make