Silent Arsenal. Don Pendleton

It was an unauthorized landing in a country so hostile to the west, Abadal had been, at first, anxious, even unnerved by their brazenness, their lack of fear, but perhaps whatever intimidation they felt was only masked with contempt. The ice was broken, however, when the Germans came bearing gifts of cash and weapons, including heavy machine guns, handheld multibarreled rocket launchers, flamethrowers. The high-tech gear—cell phones with scrambled lines, the ground and air radar, night-vision goggles and other state-of-the-art wonders only dreamed of in Somalia—had required some lengthy instruction. But Abadal and his top lieutenants had gotten the gist, enduring gruff explanations by the Germans until they felt proficient enough to at least get the high-tech goods up and running.

      For their generosity, these Germans had a proposal, and they had chosen him to be ruler of all Somalia. Why him? he’d asked. They had grunted, shrugged and answered, “Why not?” Did he wish to remain a nomad in the desert with a few old AKs, some rusty technicals and indulging wishful thinking about greatness? Of course not, he’d countered. What did they want in return? They had claimed nothing more than a possible base of operations when the other clans were wiped out and he controlled the destiny of his country. They had a weapon, the first group had claimed, one that was as potentially devastating as any weapon of mass destruction.

      Now that he had seen the almost instant and clear catastrophic effects of this invisible killer, Abadal had questions, most of which were based on concern for his own safety. He found their leader; the tall, muscled one named Heinz with the bullet head and black leather jacket, and walked up to him.

      “Ah, my Somali friend. What do you think?” he said, admiring the view as shriveled figures in rags thrashed throughout the camp. “As good as promised, I hope?”

      “Tell me something. This virus in the food, can it be spread to others who have not eaten it? Can it be caught through the air? By touch?”

      “First of all, this was an experiment. Our way of showing you the future that, uh,” he said, voice thick with his native tongue, “we are prepared to place solely in your hands. Second, it is a biologically engineered parasite, not a virus, taken from the female Anopheles mosquito.”

      “I am seeing an outbreak of malaria?”

      Heinz shook his head, chuckled. “Yes and no. The details are very complex, scientific jargon you would neither understand, nor do you need to concern yourself with. And if you are worried about contamination, you will only become infected two ways. If you eat what is basically pig slop made from simple microyeast or you come into direct contact with bodily fluids.”

      “Blood?”

      “That would be a bodily fluid.”

      The German was talking to him like a child now. Abadal scowled. “But you said you can deliver an airborne plague, that you have the vaccine.”

      “That is true.”

      “When?”

      “Shortly. I will consult with my superiors. But, I must tell you, there may be a few more conditions before we are prepared to hand this country over to you. A plague that is spread deliberately…well, it is something that requires serious planning, contingencies to be thought out, and so forth. There is also the question of loyalty, compensation, reward and the like.”

      And there it was, Abadal thought, suspecting all along it was too good to be true. “So there is more in it for you than using my country as simply a base for whatever your intentions.”

      Abadal heard the quiet laugh again as Heinz told him, “A man of vision such as yourself surely must understand personal greatness and glory comes with a price.”

      “And what will mine be?”

      “We will be in contact with you. In the meantime, I suggest you thoroughly sanitize the area as we discussed.”

      Abadal clenched his teeth, angry that the German, this arrogant foreigner who had come to his land as if he owned it, would just walk away, dismissing him, a flunky. “You realize I could either decline your offer…or take what I want from you.”

      Abadal watched as the German kept walking, smiled at the death being spread below, then laughed out loud. “Yes, perhaps you could do just that, my Somali friend, but there would yet be another price to pay.”

      THE HORROR BEGAN just after nightfall.

      She was struggling to keep up with the man who told her his name was Mawhli. Beyond his name, she knew nothing about him, but if promised flight to Kenya…

      At the moment safe passage into the unknown future was her only option.

      Nahira Muhdu stumbled, Mawhli turning at the sound of her cry. He caught her before she was flung into a headlong tumble down the steep incline for the wadi, a fall that might have ended any hope of escape with broken bones or her son crushed in her arms.

      There was screaming behind her, brief hideous wails that chilled her to the bone. She gasped when she saw the tongues of fire, glowing waves shooting from hoses extended in the hands of shadows moving away from the technicals, a ring of death that encircled the camp.

      “There is nothing you can do for them, Nahira.”

      “Why?”

      “Only God knows that.”

      “Then he knows he cannot allow such evil men to go unpunished.”

      “I believe that, also. Come, we must hurry!”

      She hesitated, sick to her stomach, the stench of burning flesh carried to her nose on the wind, the heat from the fires touching her face. The breath of Satan. She turned, began following Mawhli into the wadi, melting into the darkness. She prayed for the life of her son, for safe passage into Kenya, then asked God for something she would have never believed herself capable of doing.

      Nahira Muhdu asked God to deliver retribution against the warlord and his murdering beasts.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “Sixteen years old, and Boise is the closest she’s been to a big city. Hops a Greyhound and I find out about this two months ago—no clue, no threats, no kiss-my-ass. Not even Mrs. Evans number three—Ilsa of the SS I tell ya—with all her keen female intuition, saw this bomb dropping. And here I was, thinking I was father of the year. The cop the press maggots used to call Dirty Harry on Steroids, lower than the lowest now. I can’t even hold my family together. Three-time loser, huh. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking?”

      “That’s not what I was thinking, Jim. And I’m not the enemy.”

      “Right, yeah, you’re a buddy, ex-cop, once my partner.”

      The man he knew from the old L.A.P.D. days was on an angry roll, fueled by whiskey and the torment of the day, steaming more mad at the world with every snarl and speck of flying froth. Carl “Ironman” Lyons figured the best thing to do was to let him vent, expend all the fury before he started firing off his own questions.

      “Fuck me raw. I keep asking myself why? It’s like some sick tape I keep running through my head, all these horrible images of everything that could happen to her. Wandering the street, maybe on drugs, some pimp… Goddammit, Carl. All I wanted was for her to have a decent life—you know, clean air, big sky, small town. No drugs, no crime, no gangs, a little slice of peace and sanity to grow up in, not drowning with all the other human turds in that toilet we knew, Los Angeles. We know the city can eat up someone her age. And with her looks… You see a picture of her, you’re looking at an angel, a goddamn princess. Now I track her here, one of my worst fears comes true. I find out she’s been dancing in a strip joint, for God’s sake.”

      Lyons didn’t believe in coincidence or fate, didn’t cater to psychic babble or all those crystal-ball hotlines that mapped out someone’s destiny, cradle to grave, fame and fortune and bliss on earth written in the palm of the hand. A former detective of the Los Angeles Police Department and currently a commando working out of Stony Man Farm—an ultra-covert intelligence