Force Lines. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ Dog smiled. “Give the man a gold star. Supposedly they surround the throne of God. The Four Living Creatures, the strongest, wisest, swiftest and most noble.”

      “And which would be you and your men?”

      “I didn’t say that. You did.”

      “And they represent, as I recall, the coming of the Day of Judgment?”

      “I believe your Koran holds some similar version regarding the Day of Reckoning.”

      “Indeed. Where the unbelievers will be separated from the faithful and cast into a lake of fire for all eternity.”

      “Something like that, if, that is, you choose to believe.”

      “I take it you believe in something else.”

      “I believe in what I can see and touch in the here and now. Like money—for starters.”

      “Ah, but, of course. You wish to be like your Donald Trump perhaps.”

      “Not hardly. I’m all man, all warrior. I don’t need to hide behind money or flaunt it because I have nothing else going for me.”

      “I see. Still…this insignia of the Four Living Creatures…”

      “Hey, I couldn’t tell you exactly who did the artwork, but mine is not to question my own higher and invisible authority.”

      Amarshar wanted to push the matter, certain the infidels were trying to warn him about personal doom, but sensed the sudden elevation in tension before one of his men, staring at the keypad, demanded to know the access code. As one of Black Dog’s operatives began to rattle off numbers and one of his lieutenants punched the sequence into a personal digital assistant, barking at him to slow down, Amarshar watched two of his men zip open the other nylon bags. Long slender tubes of gunmetal gray displayed, Amarshar stared at the eyeless face of Black Dog. In the corner of his eye, noting the bubbled helmets and spacesuits being hauled out and unfolded, he said, “I hope you’ll understand if I contact my men first and confirm what you have told me.”

      Black Dog looked set to curse as his lips parted to bare clenched teeth. “Yeah, okay. But make it quick.”

      Amarshar shut down an image of this man tied down and going under the heated blade of a knife that would skin him alive. The unmitigated arrogance of the infidel never failed to both amaze and enrage him, but he maintained an even tone as he said, “Then you’ll understand, also, that I have some concerns regarding what you have delivered.”

      Black Dog scowled. “And they would be?”

      “It is my understanding that the agent before us,” Amarshar said as his lieutenant finished punching in the last numbers on the keypad and he heard a soft click that told him the lid was unlatched, “may not be as potent as you have previously indicated.”

      “How’s that?”

      “High explosives tend to incinerate the agent before it can be fully, effectively dispersed.”

      Black Dog chuckled, glanced over his shoulder at his men as if he were stuck in the presence of a fool.

      Amarshar bristled, his grip tightening around the assault rifle. “You find what could potentially prove a colossal waste of money on my part amusing?” he growled as one of the operatives, his cheek swollen with chewing tobacco, spit on the ground.

      “Fear not. The charges have been shaped—engineered, if you will—to prevent just what you fear from happening. What you’ll get is a muffled pop, not much more than a smoke bomb going off, but with just enough force to disperse the agent in a vapor that is nearly undetectable to the naked eye. As advertised, I may add. Now, before your men there,” he said as Amarshar noticed the lid opening to reveal two neat rows of what appeared to be aluminum canisters, “start fooling around with that stuff like it’s nothing more than a handful of dung patties, I suggest you make that call, so me and mine can be on our way. One more thing.”

      Amarshar turned as one of his men hustled forward with the portable sat link. He held out a hand, a silent gesture that stopped the warrior in his tracks.

      “For the full desired effect, I suggest you figure out which way the wind is blowing before you go lobbing around those canisters.” Black Dog chuckled. “And I’d strongly urge jumping into one of those HAZMAT suits before you go much further examining that merchandise. They’re sealed up good with some state-of-the-art alloy I’ve never heard of, but you never know.”

      Amarshar shook his head at the men peering his way. They stood quickly, nearly jumping back two or three feet as if they’d just stumbled onto a nest of vipers.

      “That’s right, jump back, Jack. That stuff,” Black Dog said, “is virulent enough to maybe kill every man, woman, child and camel in this country. And, once again, my Iranian friend, that’s just as advertised.”

      “So you had previously mentioned. Which leads me to my next concern. What about the vaccine?”

      “Well, as I also previously mentioned, once my own agenda is accomplished you’ll get your magic fix.”

      Amarshar snorted. “You’ll forgive my suspicion and my impatience in that regard, being as I have already delivered into your hands fifteen of my own warriors.”

      Black Dog had to have sensed he was stepping toward the edge of an invisible precipice as he glanced at the armed Iranians taking a step or two closer to his left flank. “Take it easy. You’re asking me when will it happen?”

      Amarshar glanced at his men, smiled. “The man is a mind-reader,” he said.

      Black Dog’s voice turned to glacier ice as he said, “Soon. It will happen real soon. That’s about all I can tell you. So, I would suggest you keep in touch with your chat room in Mashhad and inform them they’ll want to stay glued to al Jazeera for breaking news.”

      Amarshar paused, fighting down his rising anger, wondering just how far he should push this contest of wills. He nodded, grunted, hoping both the gesture and noise came across as a man in charge but who could accept the enemy’s terms in a show of mercy. In truth, he found himself trusting the infidels even less than their first meeting, even less certain now which direction precisely the future as he envisioned it would take, and what that future was. Yes, they were on his hallowed ground, such as it was, they had come to him via cutouts, granted, and he had agreed, more or less, to their terms, but…

      But what?

      Was he afraid for his own personal safety, now that they had delivered what they had promised, at least in terms of the agent? That much made sense, as he considered how they were holding out on what could eventually prove the ultimate lifesaver, if and when, and where and how he chose to release the agent, and on whom.

      Amarshar decided to let the immediate future take care of itself, one way or another, and snapped his fingers for the sat link to be brought to him.

      “CRYING RACISM has become the hoped-for trump card of the coward.”

      “Who you callin’ a coward!?”

      “The race card has become the last refuge of the wicked and the guilty in this age of spineless political correctness and where СКАЧАТЬ