Don Pendleton - Line Of Honor

“But his unit was made an example of. I remember something about it.”

“His unit was sent home, then he had some brushes with the law,” Kurtzman stated.

“Tell me he wasn’t dishonorably discharged.”

“Corporal Ochoa was given the opportunity to take an early discharge rather than face trial. He took it.”

“And?” Bolan prompted.

“Our boy turns right around, joins Blackwater as a private contractor and heads right back to Iraq. He distinguishes himself and—”

“And Blackwater gets thrown out of Iraq for a civilian massacre.”

“So Sancho went south and was doing bodyguard work in Central America, and, can you guess?” Kurtzman asked.

“He shot some people he shouldn’t have.”

“Well, rumor is they needed shooting, and rumor is a cartel down there wants him dead. Regardless, his privileges below the Rio Grande have been revoked.”

“What’s he up to now?”

“He’s eking out living as a bounty hunter in the L.A. Latino community. His name is in every private security database in the U.S., but his record and his brushes with the law have him kind of blackballed.”

Bolan sighed.

“You gave me forty-eight hours and some very interesting recruitment parameters, Striker.”

Things looked a little better with the next two. Both men were South African National Defense Force, 44th Parachute Regiment, Pathfinder Platoon and had made warrant officer. The pair currently worked for Transvaal Security Incorporated. TS Inc. provided security for African VIPs and were widely reputed to have supplied mercs during the Diamond Wars. The similarities ended when you looked at the picture of the two grinning men arm in arm holding up steins of beer. Gus Pienaar looked like a 1980s vintage Clint Eastwood with a mild case of albinism. Tlou Tshabalala bore a disturbing resemblance to a young Bill Cosby except with a shaved head and shrapnel scars on his left cheek and neck.

Bolan blinked at their bios. “They both married the other one’s sister?”

“So it seems.”

“Well, racial harmony is a good thing.” Bolan had fought alongside and against South African mercs. They just didn’t come much tougher.

He glanced over the recruit that came straight out of left field. Togsbayar Lkhümbengarav was Mongolian. It was a little known fact that Mongolia was a nearly constant provider of forces to United Nations peacekeeping missions. Sergeant Lkhümbengarav had been serving nearly continuously from Kosovo to Afghanistan. The previous year he had been right there in Chad. His specialty was a small arms instructor for indigenous peoples forming their own security forces. “Definitely keeping him.”

“Thought you’d say that.”

Bolan examined the one commissioned officer in the group, 1st Lieutenant Tien Ching from Taiwan. He had been a demolition man in the 101st Reconnaissance Battalion, better known as the Sea Dragon Frogmen. He had transferred to the 871 Special Operations Group and twice gone to the United States to cross-train with the Navy SEALs. He held numerous Republic of China army medals and citations but nearly all of his deployment records were redacted. “Anything else on Ching?”

“Just that the rumor that he has engaged in some very black operations in Mainland China. Then he went private in Japan. He seemed eager for work outside of Asia when we contacted him. I think the PRC may know who he is and is gunning for him.”

Bolan dragged his finger across the screen and flipped open the next file.

Colour Sergeant Scott Ceallach had been one of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines of 3 Commando Brigade. His individual formation in the Royal Marines had the name 30 Commando Information Exploitation Group. That meant the colour sergeant’s job was to move ahead of the main marine force and find out information about the enemy, by fair means or foul, and exploit it as imaginatively as possible. It seemed he’d done some exploiting in Afghanistan before he had gone private.

“You like him?” Kurtzman asked.

“Royal Marine. What’s not to like?”

Bolan looked wonderingly at the absolute wild card of the bunch, and askance at the baggage she had brought with her.

Elodie-Rousseau Nelsonne had been an agent for the French General Directorate for External Security, Action Division. Female DGSE agent spoke volumes.

“You sure about this, Bear?”

“I know, Action Division has a cowboy reputation, but you know what else they’re also famous for?” Kurtzman queried.

Bolan did. “International rescues.”

“That’s right, and I have it on very high authority she’s been involved in some of their more recent high-profile success stories, as well as some that never made the papers. She’s been in Africa, and is currently doing work with Groupe Belge de Tour.”

Belgian Tower Group was one of the premier European private contractors. That said a lot about Mademoiselle Nelsonne, as well.

Nelsonne had drafted two men of her own choice to fill out the squad. Valeri Onopkov was Russian and Radomir Mrda was a Serb. According to Nelsonne, both men were veterans in their own lands and had seen service in Africa. To Bolan that meant the wars in Chechnya and Bosnia respectively, and Russians and Serbians serving in Africa usually meant war crimes that could appall even the native militias that considered atrocity a national sport.

The phrase “beggars can’t be choosers” came to mind. Bolan was running out of time and running out of options, and Kurtzman had delivered. Counting himself, it was a lean squad, and along with the target, if Dragonslayer was stripped for transport and they stacked everyone like cordwood, Grimaldi just might be able to extract them.

“What’s the team’s status?”

“We tried to make their flights coincide. No one has been waiting at the airport more than four hours. Ochoa’s ETA is fifteen minutes from now. Then the shuttle will pick them up as a unit and bring them to the safehouse.”

“I’ll put out the welcome mat.”

* * *

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI STOOD on the inner upstairs balcony of the safehouse and watched the team file inside. The house followed the general urban geometry of the Sahel and consisted of an almost featureless, two-story brown cube. The thick clay walls insulated against the heat of the day and the often bitter cold of the night. Being a CIA establishment, Uncle Sam in his mercy had installed air-conditioning. The climate control hit the mercs coming in off the street like a hammer, and they gasped and shuddered like people who had just plunged into an unheated pool. Bolan hoped no one had a heart attack. Abeche was in the running for the hottest major city on Earth. Three hundred and thirty-six days a year it was always over 90 degrees Fahrenheit. This day it was 115.

Scott Ceallach dropped his bags and tilted his head back in near ecstasy. He was a big, sleepy-eyed man. The Brit had grown a short mustache and beard since the photo Bolan had seen. He opened his eyes and looked up at the big American. His cockney accent was thick enough to cut with an ax. “Have a pint about?”

“Lager or stout?”

Ceallach raised his hand. “Bloody hell, squire, forget the sales pitch, I’m all in.”

Ochoa grinned up, as well. The sport coat and mock turtleneck he wore hid his tattoos and his high and tight was freshly buzzed. “Yeah, me, too. Whatever it is, I’m down with it.”

Bolan was pretty sure Ceallach was joking. Ochoa seemed in earnest. Lkhümbengarav and Ching were glancing around and talking to each other in low-voiced Mandarin. Lkhümbengarav looked nothing like his military photo. He had grown his hair out so that it could be pulled into a short ponytail, and he was cultivating a Fu Manchu mustache. If you closed your eyes and thought “Mongol,” you would most likely picture Lkhümbengarav in a fur hat on a horse. He noticed Bolan’s gaze and gave back a grin and a head bob. Ching regarded Bolan in open scrutiny but inclined his head.