Line Of Honor. Don Pendleton

in an international group of doctors, drivers and volunteers. Osmani and his men don’t expect resistance. If it comes to it, we jump the sons of bitches, pound them like nails, confiscate their weapons and disable their vehicles.”

      Ceallach cracked his knuckles with an explosive ripple of pops and cracks. “Right! The old-fashioned way, then.” He raised his hand and waved at the approaching vehicles in a happy fashion. One of the gunmen in the back of the flatbed actually waved back. The vehicles ground to a halt. The soldiers jumped down out of the flatbed, some with their rifles in hand. Others had them slung. Most had their folding stocks folded. They were in a low state of alert. The captain was more leisurely as he let his driver jump out and open the door for him. Two soldiers got out of the back. The officer wore a stainless-steel Ruger .357 Magnum revolver in a conspicuous gunfighter’s rig low on his thigh.

      Bolan arranged his face into an obsequious smile and stuck out his hand. “Good morning…” He made a show of looking at the patch on the man’s shoulder and smiling hopefully. “Captain? I’m Dr. Cooper.”

      Osmani barely acknowledged Bolan’s guess with a slight nod. He ignored the outstretched hand. The big American looked at his hand and lowered it sheepishly. The captain had the accent of a man whose primary language was Arabic. “I am Captain Osmani. I will see your manifest immediately.”

      Bolan blinked in feigned surprise. “We already passed customs and inspections in the capital. Is there some kind of—”

      “Your manifest, Dr. Cooper. Immediately.”

      Bolan nodded at Grimaldi, who held out his clipboard. Osmani’s driver intercepted the clipboard and then handed it to his captain. Osmani flipped through the pages listing medicines, medical equipment, water purification gear and various aid-station necessities.

      “Captain,” Bolan said, “I’m very sorry you had to come out in the middle of this storm.” Osmani inclined his head and gazed at Bolan over the rims of his sunglasses like a snake eyeing a not particularly fast or wily insect.

      Bolan recoiled and let himself stumble on over his words. “I mean, Captain, as you may have heard, there has been an outbreak of dysentery in the interior. We need to get our water-purification equipment on-site as quickly as possible. Every second counts.” He stammered like a man who wasn’t used to these sorts of negotiations. “Is there any way we could…” Bolan made a show of swallowing a frog in his throat. “Expedite things?”

      Osmani handed the manifest back to his driver, who handed it back to Grimaldi. The captain lowered his official hostility by a tiny increment. “I am aware of the ongoing humanitarian crisis. Rather than requiring you and your people to return to the capital and—”

      Nelsonne gasped on cue and clutched Bolan’s arm. “Return? But, no! We bring—”

      Osmani didn’t miss a beat. “But it would be better for you to continue your humanitarian mission immediately. However, since I have been dispatched in my official capacity, certain permits will have to be authorized.”

      Bolan looked at the captain like a deer in the headlights. “I understand completely. I was given some money for…discretionary expenses.”

      “Excellent.”

      “How much do you…?”

      Osmani sighed tolerantly. “How much discretionary income do you have?”

      Bolan very reluctantly produced a money belt from under his shirt.

      Osmani’s driver leaned in and whispered something in Arabic. Both men looked at the Kong brothers. The driver whispered urgently. Osmani went reptilian once more. “Who are these men?”

      “They are Abdullah and Salva. Interpreters recommended by the Red Cross in Nyala,” Bolan explained.

      “I am reminded of a story about a pair of twins I have heard. Rebels and war criminals who are wanted in Khartoum.”

      “Captain, I assure you—”

      “I am taking these two men into custody. You will submit to a full inspection of your cargo. You will mount your team into your vehicles and return with me to town where the matter will be investigated further. Your passports and all currency both foreign and domestic will be temporarily held. You will button up the plane, leave it here and the pilot will come along, as well.”

      Bolan let his jaw drop and made a show of failing to draw up some dignity. “Uh…team? This must be some kind of mistake. We’ll get it cleared up back in town. In the meantime, I want you to obey the captain’s every order and assist him and his men in all ways.” Bolan turned back unhappily. “Will that be sufficient?”

      “For the moment.”

      “What would you like to inspect first?”

      “You will show me—”

      “This?” Bolan’s sucker punch snapped the bridge of Osmani’s sunglasses and the septum beneath. The right uppercut lifted Osmani onto his toes and sat him down. Pienaar and Tshabalala exploded into synchronized flying rugby tackles that pushed two of the men holding their rifles into the dust. Bolan spun 360 degrees and his spinning back-fist clouted Osmani’s driver like a ball and chain. Nelsonne’s leg flew upward in a goose step from hell and her savate kick toppled a man, spitting teeth as he fell to the ground. Bolan looked for his next opponent.

      His team had the situation well in hand.

      The Executioner turned his head just in time to see Tien Ching relax his hands. Three men lay fallen at his feet in moaning ruin. Ochoa stood over a man who clutched his groin and vomited. Mrda had his man in a stranglehold and was easing him down to the ground. Onopkov rubbed his head and lit a cigarette. His man lay on the ground with an egg-size lump between his rolling eyes. The Kong brothers gleefully stomped the truck driver who lay in a ball trying to cover himself.

      Bolan watched with admiration as Ceallach pressed his opponent over his head and hurled him against the grille of the truck. “That’s for you, wee man!” he roared. Wee man bounced brutally off the bumper and fell fetal into the dust.

      Bolan waved the Kong brothers off. “Enough.”

      Shartai gave the truck driver a last kick for good measure, then the brothers began walking up and down the line of violence, collecting weapons.

      Bolan looked at Grimaldi. “Where were you?”

      The pilot waggled the manifest. “Someone had to hold the clipboard.”

      “Thanks, Jack.”

      “No problem.” The pilot looked meaningfully into the mounting storm. “Can I go now?”

      “Yeah, you’re out of here.” Bolan turned to his team. “Haitham, Shartai, load their weapons into the back of our truck. Speaking of weapons, Lucky, break ours out. Goose, T-Lo, burn the command vehicle. Who here is good at tying up people?”

      Nelsonne smiled winsomely. “I am quite talented at securing men.”

      Bolan grinned. He bet she was. “Secure the prisoners. Rad, Val, help her and then load them in the back of the truck. Leave them any water they brought. Confiscate any phones or radios. Sancho, disable the truck engine, and I mean permanently, then help Scotty get the canvas top on over the prisoners. Once you’ve finished your jobs I want everyone to go to the Mog and Lucky will issue you weapons.” Bolan watched as his team set about their tasks with well-oiled precision. “We’re out of here in twenty.”

      4

      The Sudan

      The dust storm died at dusk. The team set up camp for the night in a dry creek bed and strung camouflage netting across the three vehicles to form a covered camp. It was a cold camp, as well. They kept no fire, and the heating elements of the MREs were used in the back of the truck. Bolan walked over to the Unimog. Nelsonne sat in the cab monitoring the radio. Everyone was bundled against the sudden