Cliff Ryder - Black Widow

"Now!" Mustafa shouted.

The bodyguard beside him raised his pistol.

"Do not shoot," Mustafa ordered. "That's bulletproof glass. The ricochet will hit us."

The man held the pistol ready all the same.

Frantic, Mustafa's driver shoved the car into reverse. The car bucked and moved back a foot or so.

Headlights suddenly flared in the back window as another vehicle roared up from behind. Mustafa stared helplessly and held on to his cell phone. He disconnected from the Russian and punched in another number as the third vehicle smashed into his sedan and drove it into the stopped truck.

Mustafa's head jerked painfully. He told himself that everything would be all right. The car was armor-plated and protected enough to save him until help arrived.

The driver struggled with the wheel and shifted gears. He was trapped, unable to go forward or backward. Rubber shrilled on the street.

The bodyguard on the passenger side tried to open his door, but it moved outward only a few inches before being blocked by the wall. He barely got his hand and pistol out.

"Shut the door," Mustafa said. "We'll be safe in here. This car was designed to withstand a tank round." He didn't know if that was true, but the man who sold him the car had claimed that. It felt good to remind himself of that now.

The three men outside stopped. Two men flanked the third as he removed a high-powered, battery-operated drill from a canvas bag he carried. Without a word, he placed the drill bit against the bulletproof glass, pulled up the safety goggles hanging around his neck and initiated the drill.

The bit chewed smoothly through the glass. Setting the drill back into the bag, the man took out a canister attached to a rubber hose. He threaded the rubber hose through the hole created by the drill. In the next instant, liquid propelled by compressed air filled the sedan's interior.

The sweet, unmistakable aroma of gasoline filled Mustafa's nostrils. On the other side of the bulletproof glass, the man flipped open a lighter and ignited the flame. The yellow and blue fire danced.

"Wait!" Mustafa shouted, pressing his face against the window. "We need to talk!"

"Speak English," the man said in that tongue.

Mustafa's hopes rose. If the men were willing to talk, there was room for negotiation. At least it would allow his other security team to arrive.

"Can't we make a deal?" he pleaded.

The man waited a moment, as if processing the offer. "I want your phone."

Mustafa hesitated. The lighter flame danced but didn't waver. The smell of gasoline grew stronger.

"All right," he agreed. The phone contained a lot of information that might prove damaging to him, but he had no doubt the man would kill him if he didn't hand it over.

Mustafa lowered the window a little over an inch. He didn't want the man to just shoot him out of hand. He slid the cell phone through the space.

The man plucked the phone from his fingertips and shoved it into a pocket.

"That's what you wanted, right?" Mustafa said. "The phone?"

"No," the man said. The headlights of the truck behind the sedan revealed the man's features. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed with a chiseled jaw.

Realizing what the man intended to do, Mustafa grabbed the pistol from his bodyguard's hand and tried to shove the barrel through the space.

Without flinching from Mustafa's pistol, the man touched the flame to the hole in the bulletproof window. The gasoline vapor and liquid caught fire at once.

Horrified, Mustafa watched as the flames spread over his arm, then crawled along the seat and covered his body. The liquid whoosh of the accelerant's ignition filled his ears. Then he felt the painful charring of his flesh.

Abandoning his efforts to shoot the man, Mustafa gripped the lock release and tried to open the door. The man outside the car leaned against the door and jammed it.

"No!" Mustafa howled. He drew in his breath, sucking in the gasoline vapor, and the flames crawled inside him. Death claimed him almost at once.

Kate looked at the glowing icon on her notebook computer screen and pressed it.

Immediately a videophone link opened up and revealed Samantha on the other end of the connection. The call was heavily encrypted.

"I got the notice that you wanted to speak to me." Curiosity showed in Samantha's dark gaze.

Kate leaned back in her chair. "We've had some developments."

"I heard Mustafa was killed by a rival. Burned in his car," Samantha said.

Kate didn't like thinking about that. The man's death had been horrible, but she wasn't going to second-guess an agent's work in the field. Especially not when it concerned a murderer like Mustafa.

"More than that," Kate said. "Have you heard of a man named Mayrbek Taburova?"

"No. Should I have?"

"MI-6 seems to have been poking around in his business over the last few years." Kate tapped the keyboard. "I'm sending you some files. Overview for the moment. But I'll be sending more-developed records to you later."

"I assume I'm going to get to know a lot more about Taburova," Samantha said.

"We all are." Kate entered the last necessary keystroke and sent the document package she'd pieced together.

Instantly the open frame containing Samantha's face pushed over to the side of the large plasma monitor. An image of a man with a square jaw took shape. His blue eyes showed cruelty, but his full lips promised passion. He wore his dark hair swept backward, and it curled slightly over his ears and at the back of his neck. Dressed in a dark blue turtleneck and a gray shooting jacket, he carried a shotgun over his shoulder and stood in an open field.

"Intriguing," Samantha said. "Looks like a poster boy of some kind."

"He is," Kate agreed. "According to the intel I've received, Taburova is one of the current leaders of the Chechen rebels. He's lost an eye since this picture was taken."

"I thought we'd agreed to stay out of that nasty bit of business for the time being."

"We had. Fighting a civilian war in the Russian Caucasus Mountains would be impossible. Russian military forces haven't had much luck with that."

"So why are we interested in Taburova?"

"Because Mustafa bought those weapons for Taburova," Kate said.

"American weapons?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't make much sense."

"I thought we'd take a longer look at him and his involvement in this."

Samantha frowned. "That seems like something we — or another intelligence agency — should have known."

"Someone may have. Taburova was one of the founding members of the Islamic International Peacekeeping Brigade."

"You say peacekeepers. I say terrorists."

Kate nodded. "Some of the intel I have states that Taburova was with one of the leaders when he was ambushed and killed."

"I suppose he carries a grudge," Samantha said.

"Since the ambush, Taburova has stayed out of sight, but sources believe Taburova has moved higher in the hierarchy of separatists," Kate said. "We've tied Taburova to Mustafa and the weapons. I know that Mustafa got the payment from straw banks in Russia." Kate tapped the keyboard, flashing image after image to Samantha.

Several images passed by. They were taken by Russian agents and military sources, and all of them showed Taburova in action. The man obviously had a charmed life. A number of times he'd been in the thick of battle with men lying dead all around him. Those images, Kate knew, were the kind that created legends and heroes.

"What was Taburova going to do with the weapons?" Samantha asked. "Why not give information anonymously to the Russians and let them handle it?"

"Taburova managed to move millions of dollars through Russian banks without their security service knowing about it. I'd like to know what else they're unaware of," Kate said.