Page 23

CHAPTER 22

TEN MINUTES LATER, Captain Savage was silently fuming. His guest would simply not budge.

The warlord was called Taifa. If he had a last name, it was long forgotten. He was in his sixties, with hard features and rheumy eyes. His throat was marked by a deep scar, evidence of one of the many attempts on his life.

The negotiations had reached an impasse over a critical point—Taifa’s insistence that his oldest son, Cumar, take over a powerful regional militia. Cumar, a thuggish thirtysomething, stood behind his father, flanked by two huge bodyguards with automatic rifles.

Savage was out of patience. “No,” he said firmly. “ My man will lead the militia, not yours.”

He nodded toward the back of the room, where a half dozen crew members stood ready. A young man stepped out of the group and walked to the center of the cabin. He stopped directly in front of Taifa. He was not quite six feet tall, and skinny as a straw. Maybe twenty years old. He looked like a schoolboy.

Savage clapped his hands on the young man’s narrow shoulders. “This is Abai. Abai has my trust. He will lead the militia.”

Taifa and his son both wrinkled their faces, holding back laughter. The two bodyguards stepped forward, grinning. They poked Abai in the ribs with their gun barrels. “Digaag caato ah!” they repeated in a mocking sing-song. “Skinny chicken!”

Savage just watched.

Abai held his ground, expressionless, as the metal barrels prodded him. He lowered his head slowly, as if in embarrassment. Suddenly, he whipped both hands up and ripped the rifles out of the bodyguards’ hands, barrels first. He flipped the guns around his wrists like batons and came up with them pointed at the guards’ foreheads.

Taifa’s jaw dropped. Savage could tell that he was stunned. The warlord let out a long sigh.

“Impressive,” he said. “But still no. Cumar must lead.” It was tradition, he explained. A matter of family honor. As the oldest of three brothers, Cumar was born to inherit the top position. There could be no question in the matter. None.

Now it was Savage’s turn to sigh. The discussion was going nowhere. It was time to clear the room. He gestured to Cumar and Abai. “Both of you— out! Let the grown men talk.”

Cumar glanced at his father. Taifa nodded. The warlord’s son followed Abai out the door and down the main deck toward the stern of the ship.

Savage leaned in close to Taifa’s face. “Listen to me. Your son is weak. The troops don’t trust him. He is a coward in battle. All he cares about are drugs and whores.”

Taifa said nothing, but Savage could tell he was seething. The warlord stood up and nodded to his two guards. The body language was clear. The meeting was over.

So be it , thought Savage.

A crew member opened the cabin door. Taifa walked out, followed by his gunmen. Savage followed, his mouth clenched. He joined the warlord on deck. Taifa leaned over the railing, looking down at the powerboat that had carried him and his team from shore.

Empty.

“Cumar!” he shouted, looking left and right.

Savage stood back. “Taifa,” he said, “the decision has been made. From on high.”

The warlord looked up. His expression froze. He dropped to his knees on the deck.

Cumar was hanging forty feet above him, swinging by his neck from a guyline. Abai stood on a platform nearby, arms folded.

Taifa’s bodyguards raised their guns. At that moment, a dozen of the Prizrak ’s crew appeared from behind the rail overhead, rifles pointed down, looking on with unsettling smiles.

Savage stepped up to Taifa and pulled him to his feet. His tone was now conciliatory—even kind. “You have two other sons. They are healthy and well. And they will stay that way—under Abai. Understood?”

Through tight lips, the warlord mumbled, “Understood.”

“Good,” said Savage.

Before too long, he thought to himself, the whole world would understand.