Countdown_ The Liberators Part 8

G.o.d, Labaan asked silently, why do you hate Africa so?

The elder, and obvious leader, stepped up to the top of the step and, without a word, cuffed the driver across the face. He then grabbed the driver by the back of his s.h.i.+rt and threw him down the steps and onto the dirt and chunks of disa.s.sociated asphalt outside.

Men normally helpless against fate, suddenly given the power of the gun. How many places have I seen this?

Labaan tried to put a look of fear on his face. He wasn't sure he was succeeding. Then again, acting was never my discipline. It was no matter, though; looking around he saw that Delmar looked afraid and Adam seemed absolutely terrified. Labaan cast his own eyes down, lest eye contact reveal to the gunman that Labaan was not precisely a helpless civilian.

For a moment Adam thought about shouting out who he was and what his father would pay for his return. Labaan won't kill me; neither will he let Delmar. They need me alive. But . . . that man and those boys just might, on general principle. They've that look of the hyena about them, rangy, mangy, feral, and hungry. He s.h.i.+vered.

Labaan trusted Delmar enough not to make that confirming look. He kept his eyes downcast until the eldest of the bandits was no more than six feet away. Then, wordlessly, Labaan raised his pistol and opened fire.

Adam screamed aloud as the first shot was fired. From his vantage point, he saw a spray of blood erupt from the back of the bandit with the newer and more evil looking rifle. The bandit began to fall backwards. Even as he did, two more sanguinary fountains sprayed out of his back.

Delmar stood to his full height at the first shot, his pistol gripped in both hands and rotating downward to target the other two. That these were children mattered not a bit. Adam saw the one nearest the front, the one farthest from him, frozen in shock. The shock ended when a single bullet exploded the boy's head like an overripe melon.

The middle boy dropped his rifle and turned to run, screaming and throwing his hands into the air. Both Labaan and Delmar turned their pistols on the boy's back, firing so close together that Adam couldn't tell whose shots were whose. The boy was flung downward over his erstwhile friend, bleeding and ruined.

Down below, from the rear of the bus where Abdi and Gheddi had taken firing positions, an altogether more violent firing burst out. In less than a second, so it seemed to Adam, the muzzles that had been visible ahead of the bus disappeared. There was a brief pause and then his two submachine gun bearing captors appeared ahead. They aimed downward. With three more bursts of fire, it was over.

Adam, trembling, pushed his head out an open window and threw up.

"And that's foreign aid, too, boy," Labaan said.

Adam was back in his chair, still trembling and gone comparatively pale, as Labaan and Delmar dragged the two boys' bodies out. A few minutes later the driver reboarded the bus and grabbed the feet of the only bandit who had been of age and fully responsible. That gunman, as had the children, left a trail of blood along the tattered rubber matting of the floor.

It seemed like a long time to Adam before everyone reboarded. The four captors sat and began to disa.s.semble and clean their firearms, taking care to reload the magazines as well. The driver took a broom out from somewhere under the bus. He gathered some dirt in his hands and, reentering, began to spread it over the blood stains. With the broom he spread the dirt around, collecting up the blood.

"It attracts flies," the driver explained, unnecessarily. He then swept the dirt forward and down the steps.

When he looked down, Adam saw that indeed flies were beginning to settle on the remnants of the blood. He looked up and out the window, mostly to avert his eyes from the sight. This was worse, as vultures were settling in a ma.s.s not so very far away. Once again, Adam stood and stuck his head out a window to vomit.

Gheddi laughed at the captive, earning a sharp rebuke from Labaan.

"I remember you, cousin, the first time in action. Be polite, lest we bring up things better left forgotten."

With a scowl, Gheddi turned back to his firearm.

When he'd finished, and resumed his seat, Adam gasped, "They were just children and you shot them in cold blood. Like animals." He seemed to have forgotten his own earlier comparison to hyenas.

"They were animals," Labaan answered. "Feral," he added, unconsciously voicing Adam's own, earlier thought. "Clan- and tribe-less. No one will miss them. And the world is better off without them. I don't know their precise crimes, yet that they had a lengthy list of them I have no doubt."

"I doubt they had kidnapping on those list of crimes," Adam said, raising a grin from Labaan.

"No, probably not kidnapping, unless you count temporarily, for purposes of rape. And what I do for my tribe is not a crime."

CHAPTER NINE.

Courage is the greatest of all the virtues.

Because if you haven't courage, you may not have an opportunity to use any of the others.

-Dr. Samuel Johnson

D-120, San Antonio, TX

Warren Zevon's "Lawyers, Guns, and Money" was playing from the computer's speakers as Phillie walked into the office.

"Is what we're doing legal?" Phillie asked of Bridges. "I asked Wes and he said you used to be a lawyer and I should talk to you."

Matt Bridges, late forties, balding, gla.s.ses, pushed himself back from the computer where he'd been working on the standard enlistment contract, and setting up dummy corporations for the procurement of everything from land, to s.h.i.+ps, to aircraft, to rubber boats. He rotated his chair and began drumming the fingers of his right hand over and around his mouth. He actually knew the answer, already, but this delay gave him a chance to appreciate the sheer good looks of Philomena Potter, something all the crew liked to do when chance offered.

"Have a seat, Phillie," Bridges said, indicating with on hand the chair normally used by Ralph Boxer. When she'd sat down, he continued, "The answer is yes, in part, and no, in part. It's complex.

"The overall operation is legal. We are hired by a foreign ent.i.ty that has practical sovereignty over a part of the Earth's surface to accomplish a hostage rescue. That's legal. Not even in violation of sundry treaties against the use of mercenaries, since it's more a police function than a military one. To that end, we are buying a s.h.i.+p, aircraft, arms, equipment. That's all legal.

"Moreover, while that ent.i.ty has practical sovereignty over an area, n.o.body recognizes anyone as having legal sovereignty over what used to be the overall country. The former state has no diplomatic presence anywhere. It has no national government. No one accepts pa.s.sports from there. Pirates operate from there and no one local even tries to control them. International law-wise, it's a black hole and anyone can do pretty much anything there.

"However"-Bridges's chin went up on the how and down on the ever-"Terry is taking a team day after tomorrow to Myanmar, to spring a legally held prisoner from custody. That's illegal. Biggus d.i.c.kus Thornton is going to pick up a patrol boat for sale in Finland, which is legal, but then intercept a merchant vessel at sea, and either interrogate and release the crew or kill them and sink the vessel. That's illegal."

Phillie suddenly had a sinking feeling. She'd been so caught up the excitement at first, the air of sheer energy as Wes' apartment turned into a headquarters, that she hadn't thought enough about it.

"It was also, for example, legal for us to buy that old missile complex. It will be legal for us to a.s.semble some light aircraft there. However, it is illegal for us to transport a couple of dozen bright looking Mexican illegal immigrants there to put those kit planes together."

"We are not going to be importing any illegal weapons into the United States. On the other hand, we are going to be importing a very large quant.i.ty of extremely illegal weapons into Brazil. We are also, unless Stauer takes my suggestion and goes in by sea, going to smuggle some portion of them into Kenya, illegally. Moreover, while many of the items we are going to purchase will be legally acquired, a fair proportion are likely to have been stolen-misappropriated, anyway-from somebody's a.r.s.enals."

"Oh, dear," Phillie said aloud. She looked at Bridges. "You're a lawyer. Why are you taking part in this operation that has so many illegalities to it?"

Bridges sighed. "Lots of reasons. Personal loyalty to Wes. Money? That, too." He shrugged. "But mostly because I am just so f.u.c.king-if you'll pardon the expression-bored with my life. This is the most fun I've had in years. Worth being shot over if we get caught in Africa."

Phillie's already very large and very green eyes widened still further. "Ummm . . . did you say 'shot'?"

"Well, that's become traditional there for people whom they can fit in the category of mercenary, and even though we technically aren't, they're not too keen on the letter of the law."

"Thanks, Mr. Bridges," she said, rising unsteadily. Shot?

"Please, call me 'Matt.'"

"Okay, Matt. Thanks. I have some thinking to do."

"One other thing to think about, Phillie," Bridges said. "If it helps any, we're doing some illegal things, but we're doing them in a good cause."

Chewing her lower lip, she nodded and left. Bridges turned back to his computer, tracing the planned route of MV George Galloway.

Phillie's excuse had been that she needed to go to her own place to pick up some clothes. In fact, she just needed to be alone to think.

Her apartment was considerably closer to the hospital where she worked than Stauer's was. It was also considerably smaller, and much less neat than her lover's usually was. The bedrolls littering the floors back at Wes', and the piles of pizza boxes and pyramids of beer cans, had rather changed that. Her place was also, and this mattered, considerably quieter than the other.

She wasn't a cat person, and the complex didn't allow dogs of a size that would make her consider a dog to be "real." Thus, she only had to move some clothes to make room to sit. She did, then thought better of it and went to the kitchen sink, under which she kept a bottle of bourbon. She rinsed a gla.s.s that looked clean enough anyway, then bent down, opened the cabinet door, took out the bottle and poured herself a stiff one.

A quick stop at the refrigerator garnered some ice cubes. With that, drink in hand she returned to her living room and sat down, kicking off her sneakers and putting her feet up on the gla.s.s-topped coffee table.

"What the h.e.l.l have you gotten yourself into, girl?" she asked, rhetorically. "What kind of sentences do they give people who do what Wes is planning to do?"

She sipped at the bourbon, laid her head back, and stared at the ceiling.

The problem, Phillie told herself, is that I stuck am on a sliding scale. Right now, Wes is utterly attractive. Right now, as near as I can tell, I'm in love with him.

She s.h.i.+fted gears to think about that. In love with Wes? Let's see, pitter-pattering heart when we near to being together, even if I saw him just that morning? Check. Ache with emptiness when we're not together? Check. Perpetual horniness? Check. Dreams about raising children together? Check. Me pleasing him feels better than him pleasing me? Check. Think about him all the time, even to distraction? Check. Swallow rather than spit? That one's a no brainer. Of course.

Willing to go to jail for him? Harder . . . buuut . . . check.

Willing to go to jail for him over something like this? Let's put that one off for a minute.

Another sip of the bourbon. Another. Another. Jail? JAIL? Big long drink; glug-glug-glug.

Phillie got up again. This time she stopped at the refrigerator first, to get ice, before going to the sink. When she returned to the sofa she brought the bottle with her.

She was thinking much more clearly now, she was certain. Back to sliding scales. Sip. In three years the age of the men I'll find attractive is going to be about sixty. Sip. In eight years, when my biological time bomb clicks out, they'll be closer to seventy. Sip. And that's just impossible. I'll never have a baby if I wait that long. And I wanted THREE of them.

Sip. Sip. Sip. Glug-glug. Pour some more.

Not going to be a mommy if I'm shot, either. Sip. Sip, sip, sip.

The warm caramelly taste of the bourbon filled her mouth. Would prefer it was Wes. A pleasant glow had spread across her body. Prefer that was Wes, too. But SHOT?

Then again, it has been fun these past few days. Fun like the ER never is. Sip. And isn't a person ent.i.tled to at least one real adventure in life? Sip. And to have it surrounded by men like those Wes has collected? They would never let me be shot? Sip. What am I worried about?

Sip. Well there's still jail . . . the chance of jail. No matter, I already agree that Wes is generally worth jail. Worth jail for this, though? Well . . . this thing he's doing makes him happy. And maybe that's enough.

Phillie heard a key enter the lock of her apartment door. The bolt fell back with a clump. The door opened and in the doorway she saw Stauer. She nodded to herself, half drunkenly, then stood up and walked to meet him. One hand reached out and pulled him inside. She closed the door shut behind them.

"Bridges told me you were-"

"Shut up, Wesss," she slurred, turning the interior lock. She turned and put her hands on his shoulders, pus.h.i.+ng him against the door. "Ah'm going with ya on this, so ya better get me fitted for armor. Meanwahls, we haven' ha' any tahm for this since your crew showed up . . . " Phillie's accent tended to revert to rural Texas when she'd had a few. Her hands fumbled at his belt as she began to sink. He thought she was falling and reached to hold her up. She shrugged his hands off and finished sinking to her knees just as the belt came undone.

Phillie took him in hand and gave a few light flicks with her tongue. Then she looked up at him, smiled, and asked, "Did Ah evah tell ya Ah'm in love with ya, ya bad old man?"

Phillie lay asleep and lightly snoring, her head on Stauer's chest and one long leg thrown across his. His right arm cradled her head and wrapped around to cup one breast. With the left hand, he stroked her cheek.

A man is only as old as the woman he feels, Stauer reminded himself. But I foresee the day coming fast when I'll have to mainline v.i.a.g.r.a.

And why are you here with a woman-h.e.l.l, she's nearly a girl-half your age, you dirty "bad old man?" She's not just a convenient port in a storm, so to speak. Never has been. Been with her longer, too, two years now, than any woman I can think of.

Okay, so why?

Well, it isn't just the s.e.x, as good as that is. Process of elimination maybe? The fact that women my age or near it rarely look good, while women much younger than Phillie, or even her age, are usually, to be brutally honest, just airheads? Or, even if that's not fair, and it probably isn't, we just don't, even can't, share world views?

Yeah, all right. Maybe that's part of it. Phillie because so many others are just poor fits. But that's not the whole story.

His eyes jerked in Phillie's direction. I wonder if you'll ever guess I told Bridges to give it to you with both barrels, to see if you'll scare off. Kind of confirms my judgment, generally, that you didn't. Was it a dirty trick? Well . . . yeah. But, on the other hand, you didn't scare off. So we'll be fitting you for armor tonight, and tomorrow morning you report to Terry's people down in Somerset for the quickest basic combat training course in history.

Not that I intend for a New York minute letting you fight; but you have to become part of the team. Course, if Terry downchecks you then you're not going past Brazil.

D-119, Somerset, Texas