Inside were brand-new AK-47s, gleaming with oil, reeking of gun grease.
He picked one up and weighed it in his hand.
Good stuff.
Scorpion walked up beside him.
"General, this batch is free. Next batch, you pay."
Cheku looked at him.
"How much?"
Scorpion smiled.
"Mr. Black Mamba doesn't want money. He wants you to do him a favor."
Cheku's eyes narrowed.
"What kind of favor?"
Scorpion leaned in, lowered his voice.
"He heard there's an airport in Kosovo, called Priština. That airport is in NATO's hands now. But his people need to borrow that runway, put down a few planes."
Cheku was silent for a few seconds.
"What's on the planes?"
Scorpion didn't answer.
Cheku watched him.
"If you don't spell it out, I'm not doing it."
Scorpion was silent for a few seconds.
Then he spoke:
"People."
March 10, 1998, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."
When Bramo pushed the door open, Victor was reading the latest report from Congo.
"Victor, news from Kosovo."
