The action opens in an African shanty town bar frequented by two hardened White mercenaries. As the two quietly enjoy a beer, the bar is visited by several menacing African nationalists demanding funds for their terrorist cause.

McLeod airily waved the two intruders away. As he did so, a glimmer of indignation flickered across the interloper’s blood-streaked eyes. Perhaps no one had ever dared to refuse them the so-called donations the three were soliciting.

‘We want a contribution, brother, from both of you. You donate, or we decide what you wish to give. You have two choices, man, my way or my way.’

Both men were menacing. The smaller of the two, a wiry individual, raised his voice so the rest of the bar could now hear the exchange between them.

As the silence fell, a vacuum descended in the tavern. It quickly reached the point where all attention was focused on the two crazy soldiers and the two mercenaries provoking them. The expressionless McLeod said nothing but his complexion paled as his big hands rested easily on the table in front of him.

‘I am talking to you, you piece of shit.’

The challenging words died as McLeod’s hands suddenly shot upwards. Grasping each of the men’s heads the merc sharply brought their two skulls violently together.

The crack sounded like a gunshot. The echo was heard in the sharp intakes of breath from the wide-eyed customers as the two assailants dropped silently to the floor.

The mercenary’s response to the men’s demands was carried out with surgical precision; it was as if the mercenary had simply brushed a couple of flies off his shirt.

Peter nudged McLeod to remind him that there was a third antagonist, the apparent leader of the squad, to be taken into consideration.

The older and presumably senior of the three self-appointed cops had meanwhile quietly risen from his barstool.

The political party activist was now making his way towards their table. Feigning unawareness of the approaching threat, McLeod stood silently before dusting his hands off and again reaching for his beer.

Coolly, the tough ex-seaman raised the neck of the bottle to his lips and emptied it of its dregs. As he did so, he looked down with undisguised contempt at the two inert figures at his feet.

At that point, the stillness of the bar was broken by piercing screams reverberating around the still-crowded bar. Acting on instinct, McLeod spun sideways just as the third of the cops lunged at him.

THE SWEETHEARTS OF DEATH, Michael Walsh. Previously published at The Last Gladiators.

The attacker’s arm was outstretched and in his fist was clasped a vicious-looking hunting knife. The weapon’s long blade flashed blue in the harsh neon light but missed its intended target.

McLeod, in that instant, reached out and caught his assailant’s wrist. As he did so, he bent it back sharply. The trooper was rewarded with the sound of a loud crack. Peter hunched his shoulders and winced as the screaming assailant fell writhing to the sawdust-sprinkled floor.

His assailant’s now useless hand was grotesquely fixed in an unnatural position. Like a discarded stage prop, the weapon he had used in his thwarted attack had fallen against one of the still unconscious figures spread-eagled on the bar floor.

McLeod was amused at the frisson caused by the stir bent as he scooped the assailant’s fallen blade up. Gazing introspectively at the assembled crowd, his face betrayed a quizzical yet menacing stare.

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The body language of his bearing suggested he was more than happy to welcome any further attacks. There weren’t any takers. The incredulous onlookers separated as Annie bustled forward with a worried expression on her usually beaming African face.

‘Bwana, you must go, quickly now. This is a very bad thing you have done.’

‘What are you talking about, woman? Why should I go anywhere? Get me another beer.’

‘No, bwana; you must go now quickly. These men are Shumbas. There will be others here soon. They never act alone and they are always in bands. There will be trouble, I mean big trouble. You must go and go now quickly.’

McLeod looked bemused. ‘Shumbas? What are they, what on earth are you on about, Annie?’

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‘They are the Binga Socialist People’s Party Youth Wing. It is led by Paul Chutemba. They are very bad people. You must go now. They can kill us all,’ Annie emphasised as she anxiously wrung her heavily ringed hands.

‘Okay, if it upsets you, we will go, but really, Annie, but one more Tusker, please?’

‘Please, bwana, no more words…  just go.’

Peter smiled and was relieved when his companion didn’t pursue the matter. Impudently picking up a filled glass on the bar and uncaring of whose drink it might be, the mercenary sent its contents down his throat.

Then, with a mock theatrical bow, he and Peter departed the still bar and breathed in the humid night air.

As the two mercenaries packed up their troubles in their old kit-bags, they became vaguely aware of a few locals watching from the shadows.

Playfully, McLeod made a few feints in the direction of several children. Instead of squealing with delight and running away as might be expected, the kids merely stood sullen and silent as they watched two dead men walking. Word gets around quickly.

The mercenaries thought nothing of it as they clambered into the Land Rover. Against the backdrop of one solitary street light, he could see a body of men approaching.

‘A storm is brewing.’

‘Enough of them already,’ McLeod sighed.

‘I think this approaching storm looks threatening, too.’

‘Fuck them,’ smiled the mercenary as he spun the wheel and gave the Land Rover full throttle. You can share this story on social media:

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AFRICA’S DOGS OF WAR. legendary mercenary bestsellers by the man who wears the dirty tee-shirt: SWEETHEARTS OF DEATH, THE STIGMA ENIGMA and RETRIBUTION. https://michaelwalshbooks.wordpress.com/