“They’re okay.”
Kariem nodded. He’d never been all that concerned with a few guns failing or exploding in his soldiers’ faces. Men were cheap. Weapons were expensive.
Black scanned the faces of the rebels surrounding him with an easy smile. Some were sitting on the burning hot hoods of their vehicles, while others milled around eyeing him. There were around twenty in all. Probably a third were either drunk or on something. All were armed.
If things went south, he was definitely going to be killed by a bullet that he’d overcharged these assholes for. Before that happened, though, he’d punch a few holes in General Douchebag’s head. While close-contact fighting wasn’t Black’s specialty, it didn’t have to be. All he had to do was draw and pull the trigger before one of Kariem’s inebriated minions could figure out how to get his rifle off his shoulder.
“It’s my understanding that you’re selling weapons to my enemies,” Kariem said. His face was a lifeless mask—like one of those Old West bandits propped up in his coffin. It was fucking unnerving.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Black lied. “Who told you that?”
“One of my men. He used to fight for Abdo and he says you are providing him with equipment.”
“Wait a minute, now. You and Abdo are allies,” Black said.
It had been true up until about a month ago, but that alliance had fallen apart over something even his troops didn’t fully have a handle on. No one could blame an American new to the area for not being able to keep up with the ever-shifting landscape of African rebellion. At least, that’s what Black hoped.
Kariem stared at him for a few seconds and then began reaching for his waistband. Black swatted at an imaginary fly in order to get his hand next to the Beretta he had stuffed in his waistband. It turned out to be unnecessary. The African just pulled out a small leather pouch containing a diamond nearly the size of a golf ball.
Two minutes later Black was standing in a cloud of dust with that stone safely in his pocket. He leaned against the jeep he’d been left, watching the truck full of weapons struggle to keep up with the general’s motorcade. The cold sweat of fear turned into the hot sweat of being stuck in the desert with nothing but a piece-of-shit jeep and a pair of flip-flops for transportation.
Fucking Mitch Rapp.
*
The rebel jeep was still holding together as Black crossed the White Nile and headed into Juba. After hours of nothing but dust and rock, the landscape turned green, with majestic trees and tended fields dotting the landscape. Not that any of those things were easy to make out. The on-again, off-again civil war had done a job on the city’s power infrastructure, leaving it in a permanent gloom.
He had to rely on his one working headlight to navigate the roads, weaving through pedestrians, bicycles, and the occasional farm animal. Finally he turned onto a quiet street that dead-ended into an old church. Its faded yellow walls were still structurally sound, as was most of the roof, but that was about it. The windows were boarded up, the steeple was listing badly, and the cross that had once topped the bell tower was lying broken by the perimeter wall.
It wasn’t much, but it was home.
He pushed a button on the remote in his pocket and the heavy doors that once welcomed the city’s Christians opened enough to allow him to drive inside. He parked the jeep amidst the overturned pews and headed for his living quarters at the back. The crates that he normally would have had to navigate were conspicuously absent. The sale to Kariem had wiped him out of merchandise and he’d need to sell the diamond to his fence in New York before he could bring in any more. On the bright side, his demonstrable lack of inventory would give him time to figure out what he was going to do about his client list. The under-the-table sales to the government still seemed safe, but the situation with Abdo was tricky. The problem was that while Abdo was far stupider than Kariem, he was just as vicious. He wasn’t going to just sit quietly by while his weapons supply dried up.
Best to consider the problem with the assistance of a few of the beers he kept stashed in the fridge behind his desk. Hopefully, the power had been on all afternoon. There was nothing worse than getting back from nearly being dismembered only to find a fridge full of warm brew.
He pushed through the door but then froze when he saw a man sitting at his desk. He had a dark complexion beneath shaggy hair and a slightly more presentable beard. It didn’t take long for recognition to kick in.
Black spun and sprinted back into the nave, leaping what was left of the altar before spotting the shadow of someone in his path. He tried to get around it, but without being quite sure how it happened, his feet were taken out from under him and he found himself rolling uncontrollably across the rubble-strewn floor. He was about to get up and start running again when a woman slipped a blade under his chin.
Where the hell had she come from? The bitch was wearing white pants and a blouse that was completely free of dust and sweat stains. How was that even possible?
She stared down at him with her dark hair hanging down on either side of his face. Black usually went for girls who were young and easy to impress, but this woman was gorgeous. Her age was impossible to determine—the athletic shape looked late twenties but the face had a few subtle lines that suggested early forties.
He heard footsteps and tried to spot the approaching man without causing the blade to cut into his throat. Finally he came into view, looking down at Black with an expression of vague disappointment.
“Mitch! Come on, man. Don’t let me get killed by a chick. Especially one this hot.”
The woman eased the pressure of the blade against his skin and looked up at Rapp. “I like him.”
*
“This is the best you could do? Arms dealing to both sides in a civil war?” Rapp dropped behind Black’s desk again and fished a beer from the refrigerator.
“Come on, man. You said to stay out of your way. How much more out of your way can I get? I’m off the edge of the fucking earth.”
It was hard to argue. The kid could follow instructions.
“Have a seat, Kent.”
He did as he was told, looking a little hopeful at Rapp’s rare use of his alias.