Death Gamble. Don Pendleton
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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