Don Pendleton - Death Gamble

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.