Pandora's Legion

“Are you saying they’re just smugglers?”

“Looks like, Boss.”

Breezy turned away, intending to start an inventory, when he bumped into Malten. “Hey, Jeff, how ya doin’?”

Malten patted his Benelli. “I was just thinking. Four years in the teams and I never popped a cap. Now I come ten thousand miles to whack one sorry gooner just so I can say I scored.” He shook his head. “Hell of a cover charge to get into this club!”

As the prisoners were led away by some of Major Khan’s men, Omar Mohammed consulted his notes. “It’s as Brezyinski suspected, Colonel. They are smugglers, though one of them has been wanted by local authorities for some months. He was a suspect in a couple of murders.”

Leopole nodded. “So that’s why he went for his weapon.”

“Surely. At that point he had nothing to lose.”

The ops officer tipped back his hat. “All right, then. We need to talk to Khan and maybe Buster Hardesty. Obviously these guys have nothing to do with bioterrorism. Looks like we were snookered… I mean…”

“I know what snookered is, Colonel.” Mohammed managed to excise most of the derision from his voice. “But it could be merely the result of poor intelligence.”

“Well, either way, we need to know. And damn fast.”

19

QUETTA

To SSI’s operators — and all others in the world — everything was a contest. Except perhaps running. Daily jogging inevitably turned into a race for second place because nobody could keep up with J. J. Johnson. The ex- legionnaire had spent five years running everywhere: to and from meals; uphill and downhill; through sand; through water; on the obstacle course. The only time La Legion did not run was when it marched to the slow, patient cadence of Le Boudin.

It was a point of pride with Jeffrey Malten that he usually finished second to Johnson. But today Breezy was in fine form. He beat the ex-SEAL to the last corner by eight strides, then slowed. When Breezy overtook him again, he noticed that Malten was barely loping, turning his head left and right.

“What’s wrong, dude? Lose somethin?”

Breezy stopped, leaning forward with hands on his hips. He inhaled and exhaled twice, then straightened. “It’s weird, man. Where’s J. J.?”

BALUCHISTAN PROVINCE

“We have one of the Crusaders.”

Ali sat bolt upright on his cot. It took him a few pulses to absorb the implications of Kassim’s announcement.

The Syrian stepped farther into the room, almost apologetic for the unprecedented intrusion. Few people had ever seen the interior of The Blessed Doctor’s lodging. It was much like its owner: spare, clean, functional. The only adornment was an Islamic tapestry on one wall beside a bookcase.

Ali swung his feet onto the floor and picked his robe off the hook. “Tell me.”

“One of my agents noticed that many of the Crusaders run for exercise around the perimeter every day. I told him to track their activities in his intelligence reports. One in particular seemed stronger than the others and usually finished one hundred meters or more ahead of them. For a brief time he was often out of sight of the others.” Kassim shrugged eloquently. “It was simple.”

“Where is he?”

Kassim’s face showed a rare expression. It was a wolf’s smile. “He is on the way here.”

* * *

Jeremy Johnson, late of the French Foreign Legion, blinked at the sudden light. He had been bound and gagged for three hours, bouncing painfully in the Toyota’s trunk. When the sedan lurched to a stop, the trunk was opened and the blanket pulled off him. Three men lifted him out and unbound his bare feet. The manacles and tape over his mouth remained.

Kassim met the group, displaying obvious pleasure. One of the kidnappers handed him the American’s identification, which Kassim took inside the building. He knew that Ali would want to acquaint himself with the captive’s particulars before the interrogation began.

Minutes later Kassim beckoned to the escorts who shoved their prize through the door. Johnson saw the grinning bastard who had taken his dog tags plus one other man. That’s the boss, Johnson told himself. This one was somewhat older than the others; cleaner, more composed. He beckoned to a chair. More polite. More dangerous.

Johnson sat down, pointedly leaning forward to accommodate his hands behind his back. Ali took the hint and gestured to one of the acolytes. The man handed his Makarov pistol to a partner and released the manacles. “Thanks,” Johnson said, rubbing his wrists.

Ali set a bottled water on the desk and Johnson drained almost half. He realized that he was getting dehydrated after hours in the trunk.

“Now then,” Ali began. “Mr… Johnson.” He gave the American a smile intended to cause more fear than confidence. “I will do you the honor of being direct. If you tell me what I wish to know, I will release you tomorrow. You may tell your friends whatever you wish — perhaps that you were the victim of a ransom attempt. It does not matter.”

Johnson nodded, keeping a straight face. Lying bastard. You’re going to snuff me. He had already judged the situation and decided to cooperate in hope of living long enough to escape. But that would be difficult without his shoes.

“Why are you here?” Ali asked.

From experience in La Legion and extensive reading, Jeremy Johnson knew that good interrogators seldom began by asking for information they did not already possess. “I’m hired by a security firm. But I think you know that, Mr…”

Ali waved a dismissive hand. “My name is unimportant. But yes, Mr. Johnson, I know that you belong to Strategic Solutions.” He paused long enough to gauge the captive’s reaction. Seeing none, he proceeded. “I know that you are a bought dog. You sell yourself to the highest bidder like a common harlot.”

Johnson shrugged. “Girl’s gotta make a living.”

Ali barked a harsh phrase. The guard behind the chair responded instantly, bringing a frayed fan belt down in an overhand strike. It split the skin of the American’s neck, searing exquisite pain through his upper torso. Johnson’s composure melted in the hot rush of shock, blood, and rage. He cried out despite himself, sagging in the chair.

“One,” Ali said, holding up a linger. “From this moment, every time I dislike your response, you shall receive an additional stroke.”

Johnson pressed his left hand against the right side of his neck, felt the blood, and realized that he had few reserves. He knew that he could not tolerate many blows.

Ali read the signs. “Now, Mr. Johnson. I see in your face that you wish to kill me. You are free to try. But you will be shot in both legs and beaten more severely. In that case, before we allow you to die, you will tell us all we need.” He leaned back, pointedly casual. “Or… you may walk out of here in your own shoes in a few days.” Ali thought: Always give them some hope.

The legionnaire’s glare contained equal portions of hate and resignation. Ali recognized the signs and knew he was winning.

“To repeat, Johnson: what is your mission here?” Ali waited for a slow five count. Then he held up two fingers.

The blows came in rapid, vicious succession: a stroke from the right, a quick reversal, and one from the left. Johnson screamed in pain and fury, leaping to his feet and turned to face his tormenter.

Something hard smashed into his right knee. He went down, groveling on the board floor, holding his patella.