Warlord Of The Pit. James Axler
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hut. The reed walls exuded a cloying, pungent aroma, and the floor was damp. Neither Kane nor Grant relaxed, keeping their weapons close to hand. Mersano produced a candle from a small box and lit the wick with a wooden match.
In the flickering, yellow illumination, everyone stared at the outlanders with a mixture of bemusement and distrust, but no one spoke. Irritably, Kane asked, “Is anybody going to tell us what’s going on here?”
Clarise’s shoulders lifted in a shrug beneath her rain cape. “Pandakar is a pirate stronghold and has been for the last one hundred years. It’s a family business.”
“Not surprising,” Grant said. “Piracy flourished in this part of the world up until the late twentieth century.”
“The extent of it is becoming a little too broad,” Kane stated. “Trade lanes and shipping routes are closing down. According to our intel, Captain Saragayn’s fleet looted 300 ships last year.”
“More like 310,” Clarise replied. “He tried to expand onto land, setting up an empire along the China coast. He seized territory and villages, but the armies of several warlords united and drove him out.”
“Saragayn suffered major losses,” Mersano interposed smoothly. “He’s weak in terms of manpower and matériel. We thought this would be the optimum time to overthrow him.”
“Apparently you miscalculated,” Kane pointed out dryly.
“Not as much as you might think,” Clarise countered. “We drew most of his forces away from his treasure ship. We’ve got our own people on the inside.”
“Like you?” Grant inquired. He looked toward Mersano. “And you’re one of his rivals?”
An enigmatic smile touched his lips. “You might say that. I’m his son, back from exile. Most of the captain’s inner circle is made up of his bastard spawn who have their own designs on the old man’s fortune.”
Kane gusted out a sigh. “This is starting to sound complicated.”
Clarise chuckled. “We did say it was a family business.”
“I have my own small fleet,” Mersano continued proudly. “My theater of operations is the Sulu Sea. Occasionally we raid along the south China coast, but I prefer the merchant junks. I also run military supplies—guns, food and medicine—to some of the warlords setting up in shop in Indochina. I have my own connections, so I don’t need Saragayn.”
“Then why are you staging this attack?” Grant challenged.
“Saragayn is considered a devil incarnate, even here where life is not held even to the value of a cigar,” Clarise said grimly.
“My father is still ambitious,” Mersano went on, “but his ambitions exist now for their own sake. Wealth is only a means to an end with him. He’ll never be satisfied. And now he’s negotiating with outsiders who’ve promised him support if he stages a new assault on China.”
“These outsiders you mentioned…do they happen to travel under the name of the Millennial Consortium?” Kane intoned quietly.
Clarise’s eyes narrowed, her full lips creasing in a frown. “They do. Is it because of them you are here? To prevent that alliance?”
Kane dug into a pants pocket and produced a small button made of base metal. He flipped it toward Clarise, who snatched it out of the air. Holding it close to the flame of the candle, she examined the image inscribed upon it: the stylized representation of a standing, featureless man holding a cornucopia—a horn of plenty—in his left hand and a sword in his right, both crossed over his chest.
“Have you seen anyone wearing that button?” Kane asked.
Clarise nodded. Tossing aside her rain cloak, she turned out the lapel of her shirt and displayed an identical disk. “This should give you an idea of how deep the infiltration has become. Even Saragayn’s top officers are required to wear those buttons.”
“Who is the consortium emissary?” Grant asked.
“He goes by the name of Mr. Book. Obviously an alias.”
“Obviously,” Grant agreed. “Is he here now?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps he got wind of the insurrection and fled, with the idea of returning and cutting a deal with the winner.”
Kane smiled without humor. “Yeah, that’s the consortium’s strategy, all right.”
“I placed my men all along the waterfront,” Mersano said. “Even aboard the Juabal Hadiah. Scores of them are masquerading as laborers, fishermen, deckhands. We thought when the time came, we would strike all at once and seize power quickly.”
“We were betrayed,” Clarise said softly, bleakly.
“That’s all very interesting,” Grant stated, “but at this point all we care about is recovering our friend and getting out of here.”
“Captain Saragayn won’t let Baptiste go now,” Clarise replied.
Kane’s jaw muscles tightened into knots. “Why not?”
“For one thing,” Mersano said, “he might suspect she had something to do with the insurrection.”
“Or,” Grant interjected, “if she was spotted by the consortium agent and recognized, she could have been ratted out.”
“Or,” Clarise said, “there could be a simpler explanation—Saragayn wants her for himself. But whatever the reason, if you want Baptiste back, your only option is to ally yourselves with us. I’m sure you’ve heard the old bromide about the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Yeah, we have.” Kane blew out a disgusted breath. “Too many damn times.”
Chapter 3
After the first warhead exploded, Brigid Baptiste plunged into the crowded emporium of vice, figuring Captain Saragayn wouldn’t think to look for her among the prostitutes, gambling tables and cockfighting arenas.
Brigid found it difficult to believe that the huge palace of lust and greed was confined within the hulls of a ship. As far as she had been able to learn, the Juabal Hadiah pandered to all tastes, however mundane or perverted. Gambling, drugs, women or even children, she reflected grimly.
Brigid crossed a casino swiftly, trying not to appear intent on leaving. The various gambling stations were decorated with colorful bunting and a band played a variety of musical instruments, blaring forth with a cacophony at a volume she found painful.
From the ceiling hung mirror balls that reflected distorted bird’s-eye views of the blackjack, roulette, paikow and fan-tan tables. The beeps, burps and bells of slot machines added to the clangor.
Barely audible over the noise rose the murmur of a dozen languages, as varied as the clothing styles worn by the men and women clientele—white jackets, saris, Malay sarongs and bajus.
Brigid felt distinctly underdressed in her black whipcord pants with the cuffs tucked into thick-soled combat boots. She wore a gray T-shirt that accentuated her full-breasted, willowy figure. Her bare arms rippled with hard, toned muscle.
A tall woman with a fair complexion, Brigid’s high forehead gave the impression of a probing intellect, whereas her full underlip hinted at an appreciation of the sensual. A mane of red-gold hair fell down her back in a long sunset-colored braid to the base of her spine. Her emerald eyes were narrowed behind the rectangular lenses of her wire-rimmed spectacles as she pushed through the crowd.
Brigid ignored a drink offered to her by a surprisingly buxom Asian woman in a topless outfit and circled a baccarat table. She didn’t think she was pursued by Saragayn’s security staff. She assumed—she hoped—they had other matters to occupy them. She just kept moving through the low-ceilinged gambling hall.
Her distinctly un-Asian features and coloring did