Black Widow. Cliff Ryder

      MUSTAFA PUNCHED numbers on his cell phone while he sat in the luxury of his private car. Two bodyguards sat with him and the driver. Bulletproof glass made the night outside the windows seem darker. Despite the additional weight of the armor, the sedan rode low and smooth and moved powerfully.

      The connection rang twice.

      “Yes,” a deep voice with a Russian accent answered.

      “I have found our leak,” Mustafa announced. Later, when he found the true leak, he could simply claim that person had acted in collusion with Hamid.

      “That’s good, but it’s too late to save my shipment. This is a big disappointment to me.”

      Mustafa held back a curse. He couldn’t blame the other man for feeling as he did, but he still didn’t want to carry the blame.

      “I’m hoping to replace your shipment very soon,” Mustafa said. “As a matter of fact, I have leads now that should—”

      “No.”

      Mustafa controlled his anger, fear and frustration. He wasn’t used to being told no. “I don’t understand.”

      “Your services are no longer required.”

      That wasn’t what Mustafa wanted to hear. He wasn’t a domestic servant who could be casually dismissed. He silently cursed his bad luck and promised a horrible death to whoever had betrayed him.

      “Don’t be hasty. You’re not going to find anyone else who can deliver the goods you need.”

      “It’s already been arranged.”

      Mustafa tried to think of something to say.

      “I want the money that I gave you in advance,” the man said.

      “I have already given the money to my contact,” Mustafa said.

      “Then get it back from him.”

      “He blames me for the loss of the goods.”

      “As do I.”

      Mustafa hardened his voice. “We all risked in this venture. The loss should be shared.”

      “The loss should never have happened. Because I know that you have suffered a hardship, I will give you ten days to get my money back to me.”

      “That’s impossible.”

      “I hope, for your sake, that getting the money back to me isn’t impossible.”

      “I can’t do it in ten days.” Mustafa’s first recourse in any money matter was to buy more time. After a little more time, he was certain he could renegotiate the deal—or at least pass his losses on to others. His driver suddenly swerved to the right. The bodyguard seated beside Mustafa pulled his sidearm. On the left side of the car, a truck sped forward and slammed into them. Mustafa’s driver cursed as the car wobbled, then cursed again as the truck in front of them suddenly stopped. The sedan driver applied his brakes, but it was no use. The sedan slammed into the back of the truck.

      “Get us out of here!” Mustafa bellowed. “That was no accident.”

      His driver tried to get away, but there was no room to maneuver.

      Three men bailed out of the truck. They carried stubby submachine guns and moved professionally.

      “Now!” Mustafa shouted.

      The bodyguard beside him raised his pistol.

      “Do not shoot,” Mustafa ordered. “That’s bulletproof glass. The ricochet will hit us.”

      The man held the pistol ready all the same.

      Frantic, Mustafa’s driver shoved the car into reverse. The car bucked and moved back a foot or so.

      Headlights suddenly flared in the back window as another vehicle roared up from behind. Mustafa stared helplessly and held on to his cell phone. He disconnected from the Russian and punched in another number as the third vehicle smashed into his sedan and drove it into the stopped truck.

      Mustafa’s head jerked painfully. He told himself that everything would be all right. The car was armor-plated and protected enough to save him until help arrived.

      The driver struggled with the wheel and shifted gears. He was trapped, unable to go forward or backward. Rubber shrilled on the street.

      The bodyguard on the passenger side tried to open his door, but it moved outward only a few inches before being blocked by the wall. He barely got his hand and pistol out.

      “Shut the door,” Mustafa said. “We’ll be safe in here. This car was designed to withstand a tank round.” He didn’t know if that was true, but the man who sold him the car had claimed that. It felt good to remind himself of that now.

      The three men outside stopped. Two men flanked the third as he removed a high-powered, battery-operated drill from a canvas bag he carried. Without a word, he placed the drill bit against the bulletproof glass, pulled up the safety goggles hanging around his neck and initiated the drill.

      The bit chewed smoothly through the glass. Setting the drill back into the bag, the man took out a canister attached to a rubber hose. He threaded the rubber hose through the hole created by the drill. In the next instant, liquid propelled by compressed air filled the sedan’s interior.

      The sweet, unmistakable aroma of gasoline filled Mustafa’s nostrils. On the other side of the bulletproof glass, the man flipped open a lighter and ignited the flame. The yellow and blue fire danced.

      “Wait!” Mustafa shouted, pressing his face against the window. “We need to talk!”

      “Speak English,” the man said in that tongue.

      Mustafa’s hopes rose. If the men were willing to talk, there was room for negotiation. At least it would allow his other security team to arrive.

      “Can’t we make a deal?” he pleaded.

      The man waited a moment, as if processing the offer. “I want your phone.”

      Mustafa hesitated. The lighter flame danced but didn’t waver. The smell of gasoline grew stronger.

      “All right,” he agreed. The phone contained a lot of information that might prove damaging to him, but he had no doubt the man would kill him if he didn’t hand it over.

      Mustafa lowered the window a little over an inch. He didn’t want the man to just shoot him out of hand. He slid the cell phone through the space.

      The man plucked the phone from his fingertips and shoved it into a pocket.

      “That’s what you wanted, right?” Mustafa said. “The phone?”

      “No,” the man said. The headlights of the truck behind the sedan revealed the man’s features. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed with a chiseled jaw.

      Realizing what the man intended to do, Mustafa grabbed the pistol from his bodyguard’s hand and tried to shove the barrel through the space.

      Without flinching from Mustafa’s pistol, the man touched the flame to the hole in the bulletproof window. The gasoline vapor and liquid caught fire at once.

      Horrified, Mustafa watched as the flames spread over his arm, then crawled along the seat and covered his body. The liquid whoosh of the accelerant’s ignition filled his