One by one, Moi watched his men fall, each dropped by a single shot fired from a laser-targeted sniper rifle mounted on one of several Autonomous Rotorcraft Sniper Systems (ARSS)—small, unmanned helicopters. Within moments, all of his men were dead, down, or fleeing for cover.
“Not Predators. ARSS. Impressive,” Moi admitted. He was, after all, a military man. Sniper rounds continued to fire.
“Hellfire II missiles cost a hundred thousand dollars apiece. Lots of collateral damage, too, which is also expensive. I took out each of your men with a single .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge at a cost of just four dollars apiece. It’s important to control costs in business operations, don’t you think?”
Moi stared at the plasma television. He was numb with disbelief. His entire command had been effortlessly destroyed by remote control. Chopper blades beat in the humid air outside of his penthouse. He glanced over just in time to watch a gray-skinned ARSS lower to the level of his balcony. The hovering unmanned helicopter was the size of a pickup truck and it pointed a suppressed RND 2000 sniper rifle directly at him from a turret fixed to the starboard runner. The roar of the rotor blades was barely muted by the thick double-paned glass of the penthouse’s sliding glass doors.
Another image suddenly appeared on the television. Moi watched himself being watched by the ARSS targeting camera. It almost amused him.
“And now it is the paid assassin’s turn to kill me,” Moi lamented.
“I told you, I wasn’t hired to kill you.”
Moi shook his head. “What is to become of me then?”
Another overhead image popped up on the big screen: a convoy of AU vehicles racing through the streets of Mogadishu.
“General Muwanga will be here shortly to take you into custody. I don’t need to tell you what kind of reception you’re likely to receive in his interrogation facility. He’ll also supervise the delivery of the CSB.”
“That fat meddler. Why did he not have the guts to assault me himself?”
“The AU can’t afford another fiasco. Neither can the Western aid agencies. Their donors are getting fed up with all of the corruption. And a pitched gun battle between African peacekeepers over stolen food would only embolden Shabaab and their al-Qaeda masters. So I was hired to clean up the mess.”
“I may yet be able to afford General Muwanga a surprise or two,” Moi boasted. He stormed over to a nearby closet and pulled out his personal weapon, an Israeli-built TAR-21 bullpup assault rifle. He favored the futuristic compact design over the dated but reliable Heckler & Koch G3 weapon system that was standard issue in the poorly funded Kenyan Defence Forces.
The ARSS yawed a few degrees. Moi froze. The giant sniper rifle’s suppressed barrel seemed to be pointed at his head.
BAM! The sliding glass door shattered as the sniper rifle fired. Chunks of glass rained down on Moi as he dropped to the ground with a thud.
“Sorry about that,” the American said. “Had to clean up one last item.”
Moi was confused. He turned around. A splintered bullet hole was carved in the door. Thick red blood oozed beneath it and seeped into the fringes of the handwoven silk carpet. Moi’s last surviving soldier had crept up into the stairwell to hide—and die.
Moi scrambled to his feet, embarrassed, and snatched up his rifle. He detached the magazine from the butt stock and checked it to make sure it was fully loaded.
“How long until the general arrives?” Moi asked.
“Six minutes, judging by his current speed. But there’s an alternative.”
“I look forward to putting a bullet in his fat, ugly face.” Moi racked a round into the chamber.
“If General Muwanga takes you alive, the Ugandan government will humiliate your prime minister, and your uncle will no doubt be dismissed from his cabinet position and will most likely be arrested and executed after a show trial, along with several other members of your family, all of whom have profited from your misadventures. Your name will live in infamy, your family will bear unforgivable shame, and your nation will suffer a loss of prestige it can ill afford.”
Moi frowned with despair.
“However,” the disembodied voice continued, “an arrangement has been negotiated. If General Muwanga finds you and your entire command killed, it will be reported that you and your soldiers bravely died to a man defending a humanitarian food shipment from a Shabaab assault. You’ll be buried with full military honors, and the surviving members of your family will enjoy the everlasting fame of your exploits.”
“My uncle will see through this charade. He will demand retribution,” Moi insisted.
The voice laughed. “Your uncle is the one who suggested it.”
Moi’s shoulders slumped with resignation. He glanced at the ARSS still hovering outside of the shattered glass door. He calculated that a headshot from this range should be easy for the American. Moi’s back stiffened, as if he were suddenly on parade.
“I should be grateful if you would do the honor, Private Citizen. I prefer to die as a soldier.”
“Then you should have lived like one, Colonel.”
Moi wilted again.
“Yes, I suppose I should have.”
He crossed over to his bed. He was tired now. He wished he’d been allowed to have his nap. “You have thought of everything, Private Citizen. I commend you on your efficiency. Your employer should be satisfied with the services you have rendered today.”
“We aim to please.”
And with that, Moi lifted the short barrel of the TAR-21 and placed it in his mouth. He began taking deep breaths to gather his courage. On the fourth inhalation, he found it. The rifle cracked and the top of his skull exploded, spattering blood and brain tissue onto the spinning fan blades above his bed.
Near the Snake River, Wyoming
Troy Pearce was still lean and cut like a cage fighter despite the strands of silver in his jet-black hair. His careworn face and weary blue eyes belonged to a combat veteran who’d seen too much trouble in the world.
“Satisfied, Sir Harris?” Pearce asked.
Sir Harris had watched the entire Somali operation unfold in a live feed while sitting in his country manor outside of London. They spoke via an encrypted satellite channel.
“Perfectly, Mr. Pearce. I trust you had no casualties on your end?”
“That’s why I use drones, sir. The safety of my people is my top priority. Accomplishing the mission is second.”
“Outstanding. Your team has accomplished the mission brilliantly, as expected. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to upload that final footage to my intranet server?”
“Did you get that, Ian?” Pearce asked.
A thick Scottish brogue rumbled in Pearce’s earpiece. “On its way now.” Ian McTavish was Pearce’s IT administrator and a certified computer genius.
“Of course.” Pearce was running this mission out of a specially equipped luxury motor home he used on occasion. It was parked on one hundred acres of secluded woodlands next to a rough-hewn cabin hand-built by his grandfather sixty years ago.
Pearce added, “The CSB is scheduled to arrive at the camp by midnight, local time. General Muwanga will contact you directly when it’s delivered. I assume you’ve already made the financial arrangements with him?”
“Yes. I just hope we won’t be employing your services again, Mr. Pearce. Heaven knows the Western powers committed their share of crimes in the past, but it seems that the greatest challenges too many Africans face these days come from the hands of other Africans.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Muwanga. When he finds Moi’s command torn to pieces, he’ll understand the true cost of breaking his contract with you. With any luck, the word will get around to the other pirates and pissants and they’ll leave you alone.”
“Yes, quite.” Sir Harris chuckled.
“My people will be providing top cover for the relief convoy, and then our contract is fulfilled.”
“Splendid. Thanks again for your service, Mr. Pearce, and your discretion. And please congratulate your
