Pirate Offensive. Don Pendleton

yet.”

      A tense minute passed in silence, then another.

      “So, my intel was good,” said Bolan.

      “Good, but late. Still, I like that you offered his name without a price,” Sergeant Gato said. “And a hundred missiles seems a fair price for the....”

      Bolan waited.

      “The Constitution,” she finished.

      “Good name,” Bolan said. But remember, you get the warship back afterward.”

      “Perhaps. And if we do not? If it sinks or is stolen or damaged beyond repair?”

      “Then I help steal you another. But I want the Constitution.”

      “Why, if you can so easily steal another warship? Probably something even better than what we have.”

      “Because your ship will not look dangerous,” Bolan stated bluntly. “But it actually will be. I’ll need that to get close to my target.”

      “A covert attack?”

      “Exactly.”

      “I see,” the commander said, leaning back in the chair. “So, we each have something the other wants. But can we trust each other?”

      “No.”

      “Good answer. Let me think on this,” she said, pulling out a cigarette pack. She tapped it on the bottom and one jumped up. She caught it between her lips then offered the pack to Bolan.

      “Thanks, but I quit years ago,” he said. She shrugged, lit a match on the sole of her boot and inhaled. The rest of the rebels just stood there, watching him intently, waiting for the next order from their commander.

      The muscles in his arms were starting to become warm, but Bolan was no longer likely to let go of the grenades. There was still plenty of time to negotiate. The rebels were poor but proud. They never would have accepted charity, or even a gift, naturally assuming there would be strings attached. But a deal, a trade, this they could accept. Besides, he would need a crew, and who better than the people who knew every nut and bolt in the vessel?

      “What is your name, Yankee?” she asked out of the blue.

      “Colonel Brandon Stone. And I am addressing...?”

      “Major Esmeralda Cortez.”

      Bolan nodded. “Major.”

      “Colonel,” she replied in kind. “So, do you have a crew for our ship?”

      “Nope.”

      She paused. “Us? You also want us?”

      “Who better than the people who built it?”

      Major Cortez took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “That would require additional funding.”

      “I expected as much. More missiles?”

      “No, assault rifles. AK-47s with grenade launchers. And ammunition.”

      “Not a problem. But the new model AK-101 is much better. Longer range, less ride-up, easier to clean.”

      “Easier to clean.” She laughed. “Yes, you are a soldier. Politicians talk about firepower. Soldiers talking about keeping their weapons clean.”

      “Damn straight.”

      Major Cortez took another long, slow drag, then dropped the smoldering cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it under a boot heel. “You will be watched, and closely.” She rose from the chair. “At the first hint of treachery, you will be killed.”

      “Accepted.”

      “Then we have a deal.”

      “Good.”

      “Who is it you wish to kill? This enemy that you must get close to using...guile?”

      “Captain Ravid Narmada, the leader of a pirate fleet that usually operates somewhere in the Atlantic.”

      “Somewhere?” the balding rebel laughed scornfully. “Usually?”

      Bolan shrugged.

      “So you will draw him to you using the Constitution as bait,” Major Cortez said.

      “Exactly.”

      “This is intolerable,” one of the soldiers began with a worried expression.

      “Jose, with the profit from selling half of the missiles delivered to us—”

      “If they exist!”

      The major gave a curt nod. “Yes, if they exist. But if they do, we could soon buy a second warship. The Russians are selling off their old diesel submarines very cheaply these days.”

      “A submarine!” the burly rebel exclaimed.

      Major Cortez gave a feral smile. “Imagine the surprise, Lieutenant Esteele, when a submarine rises from the middle of the Bay of Montevideo and uses its torpedoes to pave the way for the big gun of the Constitution, eh?”

      From the expressions on the faces of the rebels, Bolan could see they liked the idea a lot.

      “Two warships,” Major Cortez replied, using her fingers to brush back a loose strand of ebony hair. “A lion and a lamb. For the sake of the nation, I am willing to accept this risk.”

      “Done,” Bolan said.

      “Lieutenant Esteele,” the major said, “your new duties include watching Colonel Stone day and night. Guard him from harm, but one wrong move on his part, and you have my full permission to blow off his head—anywhere, anytime.”

      “Yes, Major.”

      “First order of business is to help me get these arming pins back in place,” Bolan said.

      Pushing back his cloth cap, Lieutenant Esteele frowned, then bent over to retrieve the pins from the dirt and slid them back into the grenades.

      Passing one of the deactivated grenades to the lieutenant, Bolan got a roll of tape from his pocket and lashed down the arming lever on the one he still held. But when he reached for the other, he saw that the lieutenant had already secured his grenade with a heavy rubber band and was slipping it into a pocket of his fatigues.

      “Just in case, eh?” Esteele grinned without any warmth.

      Nodding in acceptance, Bolan flexed his hands to restore proper blood circulation. “All right, Major. How long will it take to reach the Constitution?”

      “A few days. It’s moored in the Cayman Islands. For a price, they are willing to hide anything for anybody.”

      “Excellent. We can also pick up your first payment there.”

      “And those are where?” a rebel asked.

      “In the Cayman Islands. For a price, they’re willing to hide anything for anybody.”

      “So I’ve heard.” Major Cortez laughed, slapping Bolan on the arm. “I like you, Yankee! Please do not make the lieutenant kill you.”

      Chapter 3

      Key West, Florida

      It was a quiet night along the Keys, and the little chain of scattered islands looked peaceful. The elevated highway that connected them back to mainland America had almost no traffic, and the ocean was quiescent, the swells low and gentle, the breeze balmy and warm. A picture-postcard night for a tropical paradise.

      There was no moon in the sky, which was keeping most of the honeymooners and tourists off the white sand beaches. Hot and jazzy Latin music emanated from a dozen bars and restaurants , and the police rode bicycles along the clean streets, mostly just watching out for drunks and the occasional lost child.

      Sitting alongside each other on a stone breakwater,