LITMIR.BIZ

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was a pause.

      “Tesla,” Armanjani replied in the countersign.

      However, the members of al Qaeda and Ophiuchus didn’t ease their stance or lower their weapons.

      “Well?” Armanjani demanded impatiently, shaking the briefcase to make the handcuff chain jingle.

      “We have seen the reports,” the old man said, stroking his beard. “Each target was hit exactly as you said it would be.”

      “Most impressive,” another of the men replied in a throaty growl.

      “Then are you ready to do business?” Armanjani asked, lowering the pistol and tucking it into the holster.

      “Yes and no,” the old man replied.

      “Meaning?”

      “Your price is too high,” a third man stated with a scowl. “Much, much too high!”

      “The price is fair,” the major replied, obviously annoyed. “Besides, this is not the marketplace, and we are not tourists!”

      A fourth man laughed. “Everything is negotiable.”

      The major scowled. “Not this. The price is fair. Do you wish me to put it into an auction and have you bid against the Chinese and the Russians?”

      At those words, the men on the balcony shifted their stances slightly, and Armanjani knew that he had just made a deadly mistake by admitting that he was in charge and not merely an emissary.

      “I see a red dog,” Nasser whispered.

      “Agreed,” Hassan muttered softly.

      “So be it, red dog.” Major Armanjani drew and fired the pistol in a single move.

      The old man with the briefcase threw back his head as the 13 mm Magnum round smashed through his teeth, and then out the top of his head. A geyser of pink brains splattering across the bullet holes and graffiti.

      “Kill them!” a second man bellowed, turning to run away.

      “No, get the briefcase!” another countered, pulling an electronic device from a pocket and pressing the button on top.

      When nothing happened, Hassan shouted a war cry and cut loose with the Atchisson. The autoshotgun discharged the entire magazine of double-O buckshot cartridges in a continuous roar, and sparks flew as a hundred pellets ricocheted off the iron railing. However, all of the remaining men vanished in the deafening maelstrom, their bloody bodies thrown backward to smack into the raised seats.

      As Hassan reloaded the Atchisson, Armanjani quickly unlocked the handcuff from his wrist, and Nasser turned to aim the XM-25 at a suspiciously intact door.

      A split second later, it slammed open and out rushed a dozen men brandishing AK-47 assault rifles. Instantly, she fired and the 25 mm shell exploded inside the chest of the lead man, his body parts smacking into his comrades and sending them tumbling in all directions. Then Nasser fired twice more, the 25 mm shells exploding on the floor, and blowing the scrambling men into screaming hamburger.

      “Should we try for their briefcase, sir?” Hassan asked, sweeping the room for any further enemies.

      “Ignore it, that’s a trap,” Armanjani answered, opening his briefcase to extract a bandolier of military canisters.

      Draping it across his chest, the major yanked free a canister of white phosphorous, pulled the pin, flipped off the safety lever and threw the bomb down a dark hallway.

      The canister bounced out of sight, then erupted into a writhing fireball that filled the hallway. Several human torches stumbled out of the flames screaming insanely and waving their arms.

      Ignoring the walking corpses, Nasser fired shells down two other hallways. The HE charges detonated thunderously, shaking chunks of plaster off the walls, but invoking no additional death screams.

      “Find the rest of them!” Armanjani snarled, moving to the cover of a bridge while firing random shots from the Tariq.

      Nasser and Hassan followed his example, hammering the room with high-explosive death. Doors exploded off gilded frames, a chandelier crashed into a pool, a bridge collapsed, and then a false wall fell over, revealing a group of men loading a linked belt of ammunition into the breech of a.50-caliber machine gun.

      Shooting as they moved, Armanjani and the others scattered. Half a heartbeat later, the machine gun sputtered into operation, the hammering stream of heavy-caliber combat rounds chewing a path of destruction across the room, across the pools, bridges and finishing the annihilation of the throne.

      Ducking behind the waterfall, Hassan cried out as he caught some shrapnel.

      Safe behind a concrete column supporting the balcony, Armanjani slapped a fresh clip into his handgun. “Green dog,” he said.

      Squatting under a bridge, Nasser nodded and shifted the XM-25 into a new position.

      As the stream of .50-caliber rounds moved away from his position, Armanjani stepped into view and emptied the Tariq at the group of men. One of them fell clutching his throat, but the rest answered back with a volley from a variety of handguns, machine pistols and assault rifles. With a strangled cry, the major spun around and dropped.

      “We got him!” a man cried, and the others stopped shooting to cheer in victory.

      Fools, Nasser thought, swinging up the XM-25 to fire three shells at the domed skylight.

      The bulletproof display of stained glass loudly shattered under the trip-hammer detonations of the 25 mm rounds, and a colorful rain of broken shards plummeted downward. The deluge hit the floor in front of the hidden machine gun, and noisily smashed into smaller pieces. The cheering stopped as the members of al Qaeda screamed and clawed at their bleeding faces.

      Immediately, Armanjani started throwing more canisters of phosphorous while Nasser reloaded and Hassan cut loose with the Atchisson. In only seconds, the cries of pain ceased, and there was only the crackle of the chemical flames cooking the tattered corpses.

      Moving fast, the major and the others charged down the main hallway just before the stacked belts of .50-caliber ammunition started cooking off, a stuttering barrage of wild bullets zinging everywhere.

      Only seconds later, the personal ammunition carried by the terrorists did the same thing, exploding inside their guns and pockets. Bloody chunks of raw flesh were blown around in a ghastly abandonment.

      “Black dog!” Armanjani yelled, scrambling up a steep flight of curved stairs.

      Reloading as they ran, the three members of Ophiuchus ignored the second floor and continued to the third. Briefly, they ran across the exposed span of another bridge, and then directly into the private sleeping quarters of the former president of Iraq.

      Easing their steps, the three of them slipped past the rows of barren guest quarters to reach the master bedroom and proceeded directly to the small linen closet.

      While the others warily stood guard, Armanjani pushed open the door and fumbled along the top shelf. Unless his memory was wrong, it had to be here somewhere. It had to! In the distance, more ammunition detonated, and the machine gun briefly sputtered into action.

      Finding the hidden switch, the major pressed it three times, and a section of the wall moved aside to reveal a steel pole. Grabbing the pole, he slid down into the darkness.

      The descent took a lot longer than he remembered, and it seemed impossibly long before Armanjani hit the floor of the sub-basement. Landing in a crouch, he instantly stepped aside. A moment later, Nasser arrived, closely followed by Hassan.

      As the sergeant landed, they heard three fast clicks, and the entire length of the pole suddenly jutted razor-sharp blades. With a gasp, Hassan jerked his hands clear.

      “I told you to move fast,” Armanjani reminded him harshly.

      “Yes, sir, you did,” Sgt. Hassan panted, rubbing his undamaged

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