Free Blond Cargo by John Lansing Page B

business. The first had just been bad luck. The woman was one of their Eastern European imports. Smuggled into the states through Mexico City and on up to Tijuana, where she made the last leg of her journey by panga boat into San Diego County along with a shipment of cocaine.
    The woman had gotten greedy, or desperate; broken into one of their parcels; and died with her face buried in a mountain of coke before she could be delivered to Malic’s client.
    She might well have committed suicide. Stupid woman, he thought dispassionately. A natural blonde. She would have been treated like a queen in Iraq. It was too bad about the tides, though. She should have been shark bait. Instead she’d floated back to Orange County, surprised a wedding party, and made the front page of the Orange County Register .
    The second woman, Malic had assured him, would be a most persuasive message. Help maintain the balance of power in Malic’s new job with Vargas Development Group. It was too dramatic for Hassan’s taste. He would have been happy putting a bullet in the back of her head.
    And now this demon. He bridled at Angelica’s sour disposition and wanted to slap the petulant look off her face. She was the last-minute replacement for the floater. All three women were interchangeable, cut from the same cloth. She would be made available to fill the order for an important Iraqi sheik, one of Malic’s oldest friends and wealthiest accounts.
    Who was Hassan to argue? He would follow orders and live the American dream. At least he wasn’t driving a cab.
    He answered Angelica in Arabic. It gave him pleasure that she was ignorant and spoke only the infidel’s language. He explained as to a child that she must remain sober and healthy. That alcohol was forbidden in the Koran. Besides, he said with a sneer, drinking would bring down her sale price.
    Hassan picked up one of the rucksacks filled with her food and set it on the table.
    Angelica attacked with the speed of a viper.
    She wielded her breakfast fork like a dagger. It arced down with one hundred and twenty pounds of blind fury and impaled Hassan in the back. Red blossomed on his upper shoulder as he roared with pain and dropped the sack of food, spilling salad, fruit, and cold cuts onto the rugged floor.
    Angelica bolted.
    Hassan spun wildly and grabbed for her, missed, and then caught her by the hair. She was already out of the door and into the hallway by the time she shrieked with the pain of her hair being yanked.
    Hassan grappled with her and then pulled her back against his body, wrapped his right arm around her while flailing with his left hand to pull the protruding utensil out of his shoulder.
    Angelica bit down on his wrist, breaking the skin, and pulled free again.
    Maddened by pain, Hassan dove for her and dragged her back into the room. He raised a fist—he wanted to kill her, wanted to strangle her, but knew he couldn’t damage the goods. And so he threw her down onto the dinette chair, oblivious to his own pain. He efficiently bound her hands behind her and her legs to the chair’s legs with the plastic ties he always carried when doing this kind of security work for Malic.
    Then he walked into the bathroom and carefully pulled out the fork, growling. Stupid, he chided himself. Never turn your back on an enemy. Had he learned nothing in the Iraqi army?
    Malic would have him killed if he damaged the prisoner, but Hassan had learned certain techniques, skills, and he would have his revenge.
    But first he applied soap to the bite on his wrist and stanched the flow of blood with a towel. He only hoped she was clean. He might need a tetanus shot. His shoulder was tender and sore, but he had suffered worse shrapnel wounds in the war.
    “Let me go,” Angelica ordered in even tones, fighting to control her breathing and keep the desperation out of her voice. “Untie me. Now. I can get you money, and my father will let you live to spend it. It’s your only hope. I’m your