Mike Maden - River of Gods

“My extra assignment for the general was to secure rhino horn for him while I was on this mission. I have no such expertise, so it was necessary to employ locals who could fulfill the task.”

“And why are you so resentful? Were you not adequately compensated for both missions?” Weng asked. “Paid fully in gold?”

“It was an inappropriate use of resources, in my opinion. I am a soldier. Not a delivery service.”

“Are you referring to the Silent Falcon or the rhino horn?”

“Both.”

Weng was silent.

Guo stood a head taller than the older woman, but he feared her greatly. She could easily order the other members of his team to kill him, and they would obey her without question. Or at least try to. But Guo feared anonymity even more than death. Death was eventual for everyone, and it was final. Only a man’s fame could live on forever, and few ever achieved it.

“Killing that American was a mistake,” Weng finally said.

“I’ve killed Americans before.”

“In Afghanistan, as a sniper, secretly assigned with other Hunting Leopards. Not like this.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“I know your desire to prove yourself in combat, particularly against Americans. You will soon have that chance again, but only under my authority.”

Guo allowed himself the least possible smile. “Where?”

“Mali. I have a target for you to eliminate. A desert warrior. Quite dangerous. Your contact there will provide the details. You will proceed there directly. I am sending some equipment there for your use.”

“Will Americans be there as well?”

“Perhaps. Until then, remain focused on the task at hand. Drones are the future of warfare and China must have them, but our nation still needs soldiers like you to acquire them. Don’t disappointment me again.”

“I won’t.”

Avenida Martires de Inhaminga

Maputo, Mozambique

5 May

The elephant stared at him.

“Hold?”

The baritone voice slapped Pearce’s fogged mind back to reality. His bleary eyes switched from the dusty elephant head looming over the polished mahogany bar to the man in front of him. Thousand-dollar suit. Million-watt smile. Forty-five caliber, short-barreled chrome pistol in a shoulder holster. Not that the Australian needed it. He outweighed Pearce by fifty pounds, all muscle, straining against the fine Italian silk suit.

Peace glanced at his cards again. Hard to focus after three days of drinking. After loading Johnny’s coffin on a commercial flight home, he headed for a familiar dive in the old port district, a crumbling relic in the part of town where tourists and police both feared to tread.

Hammered as he now was, he still couldn’t dull the image of Johnny’s slaughtered corpse in his mind.

Or the guilt.

“C’mon, Pearce. Quit playing the stunned mullet.”

Pearce tossed three cards on the felt. “Hit me.”

Pearce scanned the room as the Australian dealt. The two Iraqi bodyguards were slumped in their chairs, suits crumpled and stained, bored out of their minds. The ancient barkeep was stocking liquor. No other patrons.

“Well?” The Australian nodded at the three dealt cards on the felt.

Pearce picked them up. Glanced at the pile of cash on the table, along with a large leather pouch and his own holstered pistol. He was all in now.

Yup. Everything.

Pearce squinted at the blurry numbers on the cards.

“Don’t like what you see?” The giant Aussie smiled.

“Hey, boss.” A familiar voice.

A soft hand fell on Pearce’s shoulder. He turned around.

“What are you doing here?” Pearce asked.

Judy Hopper smiled softly, lowered her voice as if she were speaking to a dim-witted child. “You haven’t picked up your phone for days.”

Pearce set his cards on the table and patted himself down, face screwed with confusion. “Guess I lost it.” He glanced back up at her. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“Ian.”

Like every other Pearce employee, Troy had a proprietary tracker installed in his body. Judy was already in Africa a few borders away, which meant she was closest to him on the ground. That wasn’t saying much. Traveling in Africa was always difficult. Ian explained the situation, sent her the coordinates. She came as fast as she could.

The bodyguards eyed Judy, but not for weapons. She wore her mouse-brown hair in a ponytail and no makeup on her plain, tired face, but she was easy on the eyes, especially at this hour.

“Not your first card game, is it?” Judy asked. “Or your first stop.”

“I thought you quit,” Pearce said. “You said you quit.”

“Miss, we’re in the middle of a hand. If you don’t mind—” The Australian’s deep voice was kinder than she’d expected.

“Just a moment, I promise,” she said with a polite, earnest smile. She stepped closer to Pearce. One of the bodyguards sat up, the chair scraping on the old stained floor.

“I didn’t quit. I took a leave of absence. That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re still paying me.”

Pearce shrugged. “But you still quit on me.”

“I didn’t quit on you. I just needed time away. Spent it with some friends in Kenya.”

“A vacation. Sounds nice.”

“Miss?” The Australian’s tone sharpened.

“It was a refugee camp. No canoes or S’mores, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

“Looks like you quit them, too.”

Judy wanted to cry. Or scream. She’d never seen Pearce this wasted before. “Yeah, to find you, you… drunkard.”

BAM! The Australian’s hand slapped the table. “Are we going to finish this game or not?”

“WE’LL FINISH THE FUCKING GAME!” Pearce roared.

“Whoa. What’s this?” Judy picked up the leather pouch on the cash pile. Unbuttoned it. Rifled through the neatly folded documents. She found the title to the Pearce Systems Aviocar, still parked at the airport. “You’re betting my plane?”

“Your plane?” Pearce asked.

“Why am I arguing with a lush? What time is it?” Judy asked.

Pearce checked his wrist. Nothing.

The Australian pulled back his suit sleeve. Shoved the military-style watch in Pearce’s face. Pearce’s watch. The one Annie gave him years ago.

“Two… eighteen?” Pearce finally said, squinting.

Judy pointed the pouch at Pearce. “You can’t bet the Aviocar.”

“Sure I can.”

“Of course he can. He did.” The Australian pointed a thick finger at the pouch. “Put it back. Please.”

“We’re gonna need that plane,” Judy said to Pearce.

“I don’t need it anymore. And you quit, remember?”

“Well, I’m here now. We’ve got to go.” Judy tucked the pouch under her arm and grabbed Pearce’s shirt collar.

The Australian whipped out his chromed .45 pistol and held it to Pearce’s temple. Both bodyguards were on their feet now, pistols drawn.

“Pick up your damn cards and play your hand.” He waved the gun barrel at Judy. “And put those papers back.”

Judy sighed, frustrated. Tossed the pouch back on the table.

The Australian pointed his pistol at Pearce’s chest. “Mr. Pearce, last warning.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Boss—”

“Shhh!” Pearce held a finger to his lips to quiet her. “The man just wants to play a hand of cards. No harm in that.” He glanced at the Australian. “Right? Everybody calmed down now?”