[Swordfish941]

Another passage:


Everyone immediately got out of their chairs and went out onto the deck. Greg was briefly stunned by the bright sunlight. He was photosensitive due to his migraines. Todd handed him a rope and he tied a sailor’s hitch around the cleat. The boat slowly reached the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront where tourists were sightseeing and shopping. As soon as he was close to the docks he hoped off with the rope in one hand and tied it around another cleat that was attached to the dock. Johnny was helping Katie and Lynn with the bow anchor, but Ares had already tossed the stern anchor in as if it was light as air. He tossed Greg his brown leather jacket. It was beaten up and a bit dirty, but it was worn with love.

“Alright, I’m going to meet Andersson at the yacht and I’ll be back with the money soon. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Greg took his pistol out of his holster and unloaded it. The magazine was loaded with .45 caliber hollow points. He loaded the magazine back in, chambered a round, cocked the hammer down, and engaged the safety. He placed the gun back in its holster and headed off to the yachting marina.

The man that had hired them was a Swede named Dag Andersson who worked for the African Union. He had found out that Sasha Solomon, an employee of the head of state, had taken money from the African Union and used it to fund the Lord’s Resistance Army. Andersson had hired them to kill Sasha quietly. It had been quietly, but Sasha’s death was painful. Greg had beaten him with the stock of his rifle and then shot him in the head at point blank range.

Greg had arrived at the marina and went towards a yacht called the Menelaus. A young man with bleached hair and a bad tan guarded it. He had M4 assault rifle in his hand. Greg approached him with a casual smile on his face.

“Hey, bru. It’s Archer. Gregory Archer. I’m here to see Dag Andersson. It’s about the money.”

“Your weapons.”

“Huh?”

“Hand over your weapons.” The guard said, cocking the bolt on his rifle. Greg pulled the .45 out of his holster and handed it to the guard, who tucked it in his waist. Greg walked into the yacht and was lead into the bar room. It was very elegant with a Persian rug in the middle of the room and a few paintings by Van Gogh hanging along the walls. Dag Andersson was at the bar with two bodyguards dressed in Armani suits. Andersson was in his early forties with dirty blond hair and smelled of a cheap aftershave.

“Ah, Herr Archer, so nice to see you. Drink?”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“Yes, but this is a particularly good Scotch. Single malt, five years.” He poured himself a glass as Greg sat down.

“So, is that pig Solom dead?”

“I shot him in the head with a rifle. Is that the answer you want, Dag?”

“Ja.”

“So are you going to give me the other half of the 25,000 Rand?”

“Her Archer, I am a man of my word.” He whistled to one of his guards.

“Heinrich, få portfölj. Det är i mitt sovrum.” The guard nodded and left the room.

“So, how long have you been a soldier of fortune?”

“About four years, Dag.”

“Is the money good?”

“It depends on the job. I usually make around 1,000 Rand for guarding a convoy.”

“I was a soldier once. It’s the Swedish law that every young man participates in military service. I fought in Afghanistan and lost a lot of good friends.”

Andersson took a sip of his drink and poured another glass for Greg.

“To all the young soldiers.” Andersson said and clinked glasses. Dag swallowed his down while Greg poured his into a nearby potted plant. The guard arrived with a briefcase in hand. He gave it to Greg, who then opened it up. There were 25 bands of money in the case. Each band held 500 rand in 50 rand banknotes. Greg closed the case and shook hands with Andersson. He then left the yacht and took his handgun back from the guard.