Seawolf Mask of Command (74 page)
Such were the risks of business.
The white sheets and the red cross weren’t the best camouflage, but they would have to suffice. Martin motioned toward his four men. They were nervous. Untrusting. They were smart. He gestured for them to get into the trucks. Two climbed into the cab of the rig and fired it up while the other two tentatively got into the back of the Toyota. Martin then turned his attention to the three Libyan soldiers standing just inside the shade created by the ammunition bunker.
He didn’t care for senseless violence. Murder was a dirty business that often had unforeseen repercussions, so he avoided it when possible. But the three Libyan soldiers had no loyalty to Masrata. They were simple conscripts who were literally trembling with fear. NATO teams were already in the country securing key weapons facilities, and it had been through a combination of luck, his connection with Masrata, and a close friend in Washington that had allowed Martin to plan this final score in Libya before folding up his tents and moving on. Those NATO teams would be arriving here soon, and these men would talk. Martin allowed an unhappy sigh to escape his lips. “Are those three soldiers important to you?”
Masrata shook his head. “I found them loitering on the base. They are deserters who ran from their units when the fighting started.” Masrata said this last with disgust, as if the three young men trying to save their skins were somehow less noble than what Masrata was doing. “I told them they were traitors and unless they did what I told them, I would have them shot.”
Martin turned his head toward Dmitri. A barely perceptible nod. Hardly a gesture at all.
“Can I give you a lift anywhere, General?” he asked as he turned his back on the three unfortunate soldiers.
The staccato burst from the FN SCAR caused Masrata to jump and turn abruptly as Dmitri opened fire, killing the three hapless deserters with a short burst. The big Lithuanian then stepped closer and delivered a coup de grace to each of the men, ensuring they were dead.
Masrata removed a package of cigarettes, his hands trembling. Martin understood. The general feared he’d outlived his own usefulness. Which he probably had, but Martin knew the general would never talk; and besides, the odds of his escaping Libya were remote.
Andrew raised a lighter, steadied his longtime supplier’s shaky hand, and lit the cigarette. “Get in.”
Masrata climbed into the passenger seat while Dmitri got into the bed of the truck. Once more, Martin drove, returning the general to the shade of the tin guard shack outside the ammunition dump. Martin pulled up to the small building and looked at Masrata. The general hesitated, afraid he would be murdered like the others.
“General, if I was going to kill you, I’d have done it before I paid you five hundred thousand dollars,” Andrew pointed out.
Masrata nodded and offered a sweaty hand. Martin shook it. “Best of luck to you, Amadou,” he said in goodbye, using the general’s first name.
“Thank you.”
Dmitri slipped into the cab beside Martin, the assault rifle between his legs. The general withdrew to the guard shack and Martin pulled away.
Dmitri turned up the air conditioner and then glanced back to make certain the tractor-trailer rig was following them. He then turned his attention to the road ahead. They drove in silence for several minutes, Dmitri watching the skies for any hint of NATO aircraft and the road ahead for the telltale signs of an ambush. Libya was in chaos, like many of the places Martin travelled to.
After they’d cleared the base, Dmitri broke the silence. “You should have killed him, Martin,” Dmitri said in heavily-Lithuanian-accented English.
Dmitri was one of the few people in the business who knew Martin’s real name. It was necessary, since he went nowhere without the Lithuanian giant. Martin shook his head, “It’s bad for business. The last thing we need is for our other friends to believe we aren’t to be trusted.”
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© 2013 by Cliff Happy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Edition:
Second Edition, July 1, 2013
Cover Design:
Angela Oltman @
angieocreations.com
Ebook Formatting:
Pilcrowphile Productions