Death Gamble. Don Pendleton

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      Prologue

      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 СКАЧАТЬ