Don Pendleton - Fireburst

“Do you really think that we can deal with al Qaeda?” Nasser asked in her real voice. It was soft and gentle, almost girlish, as if she were a child wearing the clothing of an adult. “They’re animals! Not soldiers.”

“We can deal with them,” the major said. “And do not speak again until we are far away from here. These people have a very low opinion of women.”

“They’re fools.”

“True. But rich fools who hate the same enemy that we do. Let us hope they will deal honestly, and we will drive away from here millionaires!”

“Billionaires,” Hassan corrected hesitantly.

“Not after the split, no,” the major said, checking the clip in the 13 mm Magnum pistol.

Settling back into the seat, Hassan grunted in grudging acceptance at that. Then he asked, “Why can we not simply sell our device directly to the Saudis? They are the real masters of the Middle East.”

“Because their prince wishes to pretend that he is not a criminal, and thus keep the Americans from bombing his palace,” Armanjani answered curtly. “As they did to Saddam and so many others.”

“Bah, the Saudis are fools,” Nasser snorted. “All men are fools!”

“Most women, too,” Armanjani added with a chuckle.

Obscured by her kaffiyeh, Nasser’s expression was unreadable, but the skin around her sunglasses crinkled as her cheeks rose in what might have been a smile.

A few miles later, they reached an intersection and took a left turn. There were no street signs or mile markers. It resembled ten thousand other such intersections, ordinary and easily forgettable.

“Get hard,” Armanjani commanded. “We are here to deal, but I trust these back-doors Muslims less than a UN negotiator.”

As they crested a low hill, a shimmering expanse of blue appeared in the distance. Soon, they were driving along the shore of a small lake. In the middle was an artificial island with a white marble palace of domes, towers and spirals.

Once, this had been a minor palace owned by President Hussein, a paradise on earth. Now it was a burned-out hovel, barely able to stand against the evening breeze. Weeds filled the gardens, every window was broken and vile graffiti covered the outer walls in garish neon colors.

Parking the vehicle a safe distance away, Armanjani and the others exited the Hummer and did a quick recon around the palace before venturing through the sagging front doors. Their footfalls echoed off the bare walls as they walked into the shadowy mansion.

With their weapons at the ready, they eased across the spacious foyer, keeping apart from one another to prevent unseen snipers from getting a group shot. It was dark inside, the only light coming from a stained-glass skylight that had somehow escaped intact.

The palace had been stripped bare, everything of value removed, sometimes forcibly. Even marble columns and the electrical outlets had been yanked from the walls. The walls and ceiling were pockmarked with countless bullet holes, delicately carved doors had been reduced to jagged splinters, and there were dank piles in the corners that looked suspiciously like human waste.

Removing his sunglasses, Armanjani frowned in disapproval. This was sad. Saddam Hussein had been a father to his nation. A stern father, yes, but that was how you raised children—with the closed hand and the open heart. He simply couldn’t understand the raw hatred his fellow countrymen harbored for their fallen leader. Our father is dead, can we not at least honor him in the grave? the major wondered.

Proceeding along the main corridor, the three people swept past a library, steam room, billiard room, armory and movie theater before reaching the living room.

Laid out in overlapping circular patterns, the cavernous room rose and fell in random patterns, giving it a rather unearthly feel. All of the furniture and artwork was gone, of course, and the waterfall had been turned off, leaving only the mosaic on the bottom of the basin. Some of the tiles had been removed, but it was still easily recognizable as President Hussein with several busty American movie stars clustered around him. He was in full military uniform, with a scimitar and a gold crown, while they were clothed in diaphanous veils.

Splintery wooden bridges crossed over empty swimming pools, and curved niches lined the walls where there had previously been antique suits of armor from around the world. What might have once been a throne occupied a central location, but it had been used for target practice so much that that was only a theory.

Moving to the pile of riddled lumber in the center of the room, Armanjani and his people looked up to see five men in nondescript military uniforms on the second-story balcony. A decorative banister of iron lace edged the platform, and there were rows of raised seats for spectators to look down into the living room as if it were a sports arena.

All of the men were heavily armed with assault rifles, pistols and knives. One man actually had a Russian RPG strapped across his back, while an elderly man with a bushy beard was carrying a battered leather briefcase.

“You’re late,” the man with the briefcase stated loudly.

Instantly, Armanjani and his people swung up their weapons and clicked off the safeties.

“That is not the correct greeting,” the major stated, leveling the Tariq.

With a sneer, the old man waved that aside. “Bah, foolish games.”

“Then we go,” the major declared, backing away.

“Nicholas!” another man on the balcony said quickly.

There was a pause.

“Tesla,” Armanjani replied in the countersign.

However, the members of al Qaeda and Ophiuchus didn’t ease their stance or lower their weapons.

“Well?” Armanjani demanded impatiently, shaking the briefcase to make the handcuff chain jingle.

“We have seen the reports,” the old man said, stroking his beard. “Each target was hit exactly as you said it would be.”

“Most impressive,” another of the men replied in a throaty growl.

“Then are you ready to do business?” Armanjani asked, lowering the pistol and tucking it into the holster.

“Yes and no,” the old man replied.

“Meaning?”

“Your price is too high,” a third man stated with a scowl. “Much, much too high!”

“The price is fair,” the major replied, obviously annoyed. “Besides, this is not the marketplace, and we are not tourists!”

A fourth man laughed. “Everything is negotiable.”

The major scowled. “Not this. The price is fair. Do you wish me to put it into an auction and have you bid against the Chinese and the Russians?”

At those words, the men on the balcony shifted their stances slightly, and Armanjani knew that he had just made a deadly mistake by admitting that he was in charge and not merely an emissary.

“I see a red dog,” Nasser whispered.

“Agreed,” Hassan muttered softly.

“So be it, red dog.” Major Armanjani drew and fired the pistol in a single move.

The old man with the briefcase threw back his head as the 13 mm Magnum round smashed through his teeth, and then out the top of his head. A geyser of pink brains splattering across the bullet holes and graffiti.

“Kill them!” a second man bellowed, turning to run away.

“No, get the briefcase!” another countered, pulling an electronic device from a pocket and pressing the button on top.

When nothing happened, Hassan shouted a war cry and cut loose with the Atchisson. The autoshotgun discharged the entire magazine of double-O buckshot cartridges in a continuous roar, and sparks flew as a hundred pellets ricocheted off the iron railing. However, all of the remaining men vanished in the deafening maelstrom, their bloody bodies thrown backward to smack into the raised seats.