Читать книгу Death Gamble - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

Nevada

Some men became killers reluctantly, accidentally. Not Talisman. He loved a good blood bath and had traveled halfway across the world to immerse himself in one. The big African soldier checked his watch and knew that in another twenty minutes he’d be rewarded for the sweet anticipation that had nagged him for days.

He checked the load on his AK-47, then stared at Trevor Dade’s campuslike home. The thirty-acre compound rose out of the desert like an ostentatious oasis—bright lights, fountains, palm trees, glittering swimming pools and hot tubs dotted the landscape. Three Mercedes convertibles were parked along the circular driveway fronting the luxurious home.

The compound’s big gates rolled open and a convoy of SUVs glided into the night, headlights slicing through the inky blackness. They would follow a series of access roads and ultimately catch Nevada’s highways, taking the afternoon shift’s guards home for the night.

The third-shift crew was inside, getting its briefing. Talisman checked his watch: 11:02 p.m. In six minutes the anal-retentive crew chief would usher the guards outside, just as he did every evening, and send them to their positions.

Talisman ran his fingers over the control board of the small device sitting on its rocky pedestal next to his right knee. A series of lights and beeps told him the device was ready to go.

The Russian had said the apparatus would knock out communication between the security team members and their home base, the Haven. Suddenly, the guards would find themselves isolated and would fall in short order. Or so the Russian said. And considering how badly he wanted Dade, Talisman was inclined to believe what the man told him.

At the same time, the Insider—Talisman didn’t even know the Russian’s name—with the help of that crazy bastard William Armstrong, planned to ignite a series of explosions miles away, creating a disturbance sure to draw the helicopter security team’s attention.

In twenty-four hours, Talisman would be back in Africa a little richer and his blood lust satiated—at least for a while. Shadows drifted in and settled around him—a group of his best soldiers and former Spetsnaz commandos—and they waited to spill blood on American soil.

It was just a taste of the carnage to come.

“SON OF A BITCH!”

The cool desert air pressed against Ethan Sharpe’s face as he stormed from the sprawling home and into the black, starless night. He slammed the oak door behind him, ground his teeth together and bit down on another curse. Hoping for a moment that the other man would let the outburst slide, he sensed a pair of eyes scrutinizing him and knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.

“What’s eating you?” Danny Bowen asked.

Sharpe jerked a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at the house behind him. The words spilled out before he could censor them.

“In there is what’s bothering me,” he said. “Dade. He may be a hot-shit scientist, but he’s a poor excuse for a man. He sure as hell doesn’t deserve the kind of protection we give him.”

“Not our job to decide that, Ethan.”

Sharpe shot his friend a withering look. He realized the guy was right, and replaced it with a grim smile and a shrug.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Hell, I shouldn’t be griping to you, anyway. I’m the damn team leader.”

Bowen punched Sharpe on the shoulder. “But I’m the voice of reason. That’s why you keep me around.”

Sharpe knew that much was true. The two men had become friends, sweating their way through Ranger school together and serving in the same overseas hot zones, even standing as best man at each other’s weddings. Sharpe was the hothead; Bowen was a master of tact and diplomacy. If Bowen thought Sharpe ought to suck it up, then by God Sharpe knew he ought to listen.

He exhaled loud and long. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, but maintained its edge. “It burns me to watch this guy snorting coke, hiring hookers, drinking himself into oblivion—all on the company dime. Every night it’s the same thing. It makes me sick.”

Bowen nodded. “Yeah, but you’d still lay down your life for him, wouldn’t you?”

Sharpe didn’t hesitate. “Hell yes.”

“Damn straight you would. That’s because you’re a good man. So don’t let him get under your skin. Only things we need to fret about are the UFO freaks and scorpions.”

Sharpe let his smile widen and felt his shoulder muscles loosen when he did. “I’m rooting for the scorpions. Now get the hell out of here before I write you up.”

Bowen nodded and disappeared into the darkness. Sharpe ran over his statements in his mind, kicking himself for what he’d said. He trusted his friend not to share them with anyone else. But it was so damn unprofessional.

It also was true. Dade had become a liability. His drug habit and whore chasing had landed him in trouble. And word was the main headquarters was ready to cut the man loose.

But first they wanted Dade to finish the Nightwind project. Wanted it so bad that the company was willing to overlook the scientist’s troubled ways while he wrapped up the project. Sharpe wasn’t supposed to know any of this, of course, but he’d caught enough gossip and filled in the blanks with his own observations. It didn’t take a genius to discern what was going on.

So Sharpe had tried to keep his moral judgments to himself—not something that came naturally. Every now and then, like tonight, his disgust bubbled to the surface. Otherwise, he’d put up and shut up. Be a good soldier. Even if his only reward was a gaping hole in his stomach.

TEN MINUTES PASSED, and Sharpe decided to check in with the troops. “Hawk command to team. Check in.”

“Hawk One okay.”

“Hawk Two okay.”

“Hawk Three same traffic.”

A pause from Hawk Four, Bowen.

The hair on the back of Sharpe’s neck bristled. What the hell, Danny? Check in. “Hawk Four, status check.”

“Hawk Four,” Bowen replied. “I’ve picked up a couple of warm spots on the infrared scan. Looks like two bodies on a ridge.”

Shit. “I’ll back you up, Hawk Four,” Sharpe said. “The rest of you hold your positions. Look alive and watch your backsides.”

The team members acknowledged the radio traffic with terse replies. Sharpe drew a micro-Uzi from his custom rig and trudged forward, boots smacking first against concrete and then sand. Bowen was patrolling the compound’s southern quadrant. It would take Sharpe ninety seconds to get there.

In Sharpe’s line of work, ninety seconds was ample time for things to go straight to hell.

“They moving on us, Danny?” he asked.

“Negative. Just two blips on the mountain. Probably a couple teenagers screwing. Or someone watching the sky for little green men. You guys chill. I can handle this myself.”

“Negative. I’ll be there in a few seconds.”

“You’re the boss. But don’t say I didn’t tell you so if it turns out to be some harmless freak squad.”

Bowen had a point. During the past month, Sentinel Industries had taken the Nightwind—a laser-equipped jet fighter—on a series of midnight test runs. Inevitably, the sight of a strange aircraft had stoked the curiosity of local UFO buffs and conspiracy theorists. Armed with cameras, sketch pads and binoculars they had descended in droves upon the barren desert surrounding Sentinel’s research and development site. The security teams usually rewarded the curious with an armed escort from the property and stern warnings to stay away. But some of them just couldn’t resist a return trip.

Maybe it was nothing, but Sharpe’s instincts told him otherwise.

Bowen’s voice, taut with panic, sounded in Sharpe’s headset, jerking him from his thoughts.

“There’s more and they’re coming over the wall,” Bowen said. “They’re dressed in black and armed to the teeth. Must be a dozen of them. I think they saw me.”

Bowen came into view, backpedaling furiously and raising his M-16 as he tried to find cover against the small army bearing down on him.

Bowen cut loose with his M-16. Jagged yellow muzzle-flashes and the chatter of autofire split the night. He swept the weapon across the top of the ten-foot security wall, hosing it down with a swarm of 5.56 mm tumblers. Sharpe heard return fire crackle and saw bullets smack into the ground around Bowen’s feet.

“I’ve got your back, Hawk Four,” Sharpe said.

Sharpe squeezed the micro-Uzi’s trigger. The weapon spit flame and lead as he fired into a trio of men who’d already hit the ground and begun to fan out. One of the men whirled in Sharpe’s direction and brought a weapon to bear on the security chief. Sharpe tapped out a burst that stitched the man from groin to throat. Sharpe ripped an identical weapon from his harness.

More gunshots lanced around him, forcing him to thrust his body behind one of the team’s armored SUVs. Bowen was still out there. Sharpe’s headset flared to life. “Hawk Leader, what’s your status?”

“Taking fire. Hawk Two and Three, get over here and back us up. Hawk One stay put, raise central command and get us reinforcements. Watch our butts. I don’t want to get hit from behind.”

Gunfire split the air around him. Gravel crunching under boots caught his attention. One of the blacksuited men came around the SUV’s front end and drew down on the security chief. Sweeping his weapon low, Sharpe loosed a quick burst and took the man’s legs out from under him. The guy screamed, dropped his weapon and jerked as lead chewed through flesh and bone. He stumbled backward and, as Sharpe eased off the trigger, the man fell to the ground.

Bullets crashed into the SUV. Sharpe saw the injured man’s right hand scrambling along the ground for his lost weapon. Sharpe planted another burst into the man, killing him instantly.

He hadn’t heard any more radio traffic, and a cold splash of fear traveled down his back. “This is Hawk leader. Units, report in.”

Silence. He tried twice more and got the same results. His luck was equally bad when he tried to reach central command for help. Somehow his state-of-the-art communications system had been jammed.

And where the hell was Bowen?

Moving in a crouch, Sharpe came around the SUV’s back end, crunching brass shell casings underfoot as he did. He caught sight of Bowen, who’d taken refuge behind a brick barbecue pit and was reloading his M-16.

Sharpe watched as twin ribbons of gunfire lanced out of the darkness and converged on Bowen’s torso. The impact whipsawed the man, shredded clothing and flesh and launched him into a grotesque death dance. His head jerked violently, and he tumbled to the ground.

Bowen’s sightless eyes stared at Sharpe, who felt his body go numb. A scream of rage rumbled forth from deep inside him, and he began firing the Uzis at anything that moved. He downed two gunners in rapid succession before his weapons went dry, one right after the other.

Ejecting the magazines, he moved back behind the armored vehicle. Motion to his right caught his attention. Sharpe turned, looked up and saw a helmeted figure ten yards to the west of him.

A laser sight’s red dot rested on Sharpe’s forehead, then everything went black.

TREVOR DADE EYED the woman he viewed as his latest acquisition. He decided she’d do as Sentinel Industries’ going away present to him.

She was a petite, shapely brunette, decked out in a red minidress. She had exposed shoulders, her arms and legs were lithely muscled, smooth and feminine, but pronounced enough to register with him. She was built more like a tennis player or a gymnast than a call girl. Good, he thought as he appraised her like a used car. A woman ought to keep herself in shape. Especially for the money he was shelling out.

Seated on the couch, legs tucked under her, she’d asked him where he came from, about his job, all the usual small talk. She absorbed his curt answers with the feigned interest Dade had come to expect from the endless parade of hookers that populated his life. When he mentioned he designed laser systems for the military, she’d perked up and asked him questions. Dade brushed them off, figuring she was too stupid to understand.

He splashed some Scotch into his glass over ice, added soda and a cocktail onion. He dropped a crumbled Ecstasy tablet into his drink and stirred. She had requested straight vodka. He poured two fingers of liquor into a glass and spiked the drink with a sedative. Word had come minutes earlier that it was all going down later this night and Dade wanted the woman unconscious, dragged away, dumped elsewhere. Whether she lived mattered little to him; he just didn’t want to be associated with her. One dead hooker connected with him was enough. It had been enough to set everything in motion.

Tonight I get to play victim, he thought. Go out in style.

A smile tugged at his mouth.

“What are you thinking?” the woman asked. She also smiled, anticipating a shared joke.

“Nothing,” Dade grumbled. She frowned momentarily, recovered and plastered her hundred-dollar-per hour smile back across her face. Taking a long pull from her drink, she eyed him over the rim of her glass.

“Okay,” she said. “So, how long are you in town?”

“Leaving tonight. Within the hour. I’m flying out.” Dade had been told to expect extraction by helicopter.

The woman set the drink in her lap, feigning disappointment. “Tonight? I’d hoped to spend more time with you.”

“I’ll pay for the whole night,” he snapped. “You’ll have to earn a living someplace else tomorrow.”

A storm of anger swelled in her eyes but passed just as quickly. She unfolded her legs, set her feet on the floor and shifted across the couch to him. She placed a hand on his thigh.

“I guess we should get started then,” she said.

“That’s what I’m paying you for. First, finish your drink. I haven’t got all damn night.”

Shedding her veneer of civility, she gulped the remainder of the spiked vodka and slammed the glass on the coffee table. “No, you don’t. Not with me, anyway.”

He shrugged, settling into the couch, hoping to get his money’s worth before the drugs kicked in and the shooting started.

As she began to unfasten her dress, machine guns rattled outside, startling them both. He pushed the woman away and looked at the wall clock: 11:23. They’d come a half hour before they’d said they would.

He’d drill the Russian for this.

The woman looked at him. Her mouth started to open, to form a question. He put a finger to his lips to silence her.

“Shut up,” he said, “and let me check this out.”

Draining his drink, he rose from the couch with a grunt, shambled to a window and peered through it. Muzzle-flashes interrupted the darkness, momentarily illuminating the shooters. In the repeated glare, Dade saw members of his security entourage twisting, dying, under repeated bursts of gunfire.

Too bad about most of those guys, Dade thought. Except for Sharpe. Sanctimonious prick constantly looked down his nose at Dade. He’d never snort coke with Dade, or shack up with a hooker for an evening, even when Dade offered to pay. Dade wasn’t dying to party with the guy; he just liked to own things. And employees who took drugs on the job or married men who screwed around would sign away their souls to keep from being found out. Dade was only too happy to provide the paperwork.

But Sharpe, with his uptight, superhero morality, hadn’t been for sale. Dade had no use for him.

He turned. The woman stood behind him, trying to peer around his bulk to see what was happening outside. Her eyes looked clouded, and she struggled to stand. Dade assumed the drug was kicking in.

“What’s happening? Who’s shooting?” She slurred her words.

He shoved her hard back into the couch. “Sit down, shut up,” he said. “No one’s going to hurt us. I have people outside.”

“We should call for help,” she cried.

“Stay where you are. I’ll handle this.”

The woman looked like she wanted to stand, but she found herself unable to do so as the drugs raced through her system, claimed her will. She stayed seated, fought to keep her eyes open. Dade ignored her. He returned to the bar, fixed another drink. He heard gunshots and screams outside. What possessed these men to lay down their lives to protect someone? he wondered. Even someone as important as him?

He gulped his drink and prepared another.

Dade looked at the woman. She remained on the couch, eyes closed, head cocked to one side, asleep. He stepped behind the bar, withdrew a leather valise and set it on the bar. Popping the case open, he checked its contents, making sure the disks remained inside.

The disks contained the sum total of Dade’s dozen or so years of hard work developing the Nightwind aircraft. The world thought the best America could muster were lumbering jetliners outfitted with massive, sometimes unreliable laser-weapons systems. Sentinel and the U.S. military had been only too happy to perpetuate that belief, even as the Feds secretly funneled billions into the Nightwind program.

Sentinel had given Dade the proverbial blank check. In return, he had created a product expected to generate untold billions in revenue while also providing the military with the ultimate weapon.

Now they planned to repay him with a pink slip.

When the gunfire outside finally stopped, Dade stepped into the foyer and peered through the peephole. An army of strangers surrounded the door. A battering ram hit the oak portal with a dull thud. He considered keying in the security code, letting them in the easy way, but decided against it. Let them work for him.

He was, after all, the prize.