Chapter 46

46

Juan was completely knocked out when an ear-piercing siren suddenly screamed in staccato bursts overhead. The sound sliced through his nervous system like a katana, startling him awake.

His wide-opened eyes were painfully blinded by fast-flashing halogen lights brighter than a noonday sun. The sudden sensory overload completely disoriented him, but he went from deep chemical slumber to full consciousness in just nanoseconds.

The siren cut out mid-scream as the lights suddenly stopped flashing, leaving Juan’s ears ringing and his aching retinas spotted with throbbing shadows. Cabrillo shut his eyes to clear his mind and his vision. When he opened them a few seconds later he saw that he was in a barred cage, like a human-sized dog kennel.

Thirty feet across from him he saw a line of ten similar cages, every other one containing one of the men he’d been training with the last few days. All of them were in their nightclothes—skivvies, T-shirts, and barefoot. No one had bothered to dress them when they were tossed unconscious into their cages. Incredibly, Juan’s artificial leg had remained attached.

There were ten kennels at the far end as well. The cages were arranged in a square U shape and he was in the fifth cage. At the open end of the U was a high platform with steps that led down into the U. The whole room was enclosed by cement walls, floor and ceiling—no doubt part of the three-story building he had seen the day he arrived on the island.

Plata was in the unit directly across from him. The mercs were all in various states of shock and disorientation, no doubt in proportion to their level of drunkenness the night before—or was it the same night? He couldn’t tell. Cabrillo craned his neck to see farther down the line. Four cages down from Plata, he spotted Linc, who locked bleary eyes with his. They exchanged a quick nod.

Good to go—whatever happens.

Juan was suddenly aware of the aches and pains racking his body, and the cool feeling of plate steel beneath his hands. He saw a device locked onto his wrist, like an oversized Apple Watch, but with a steel band that couldn’t be removed. The large glass face was blank, displaying nothing.

Cabrillo heard the metal clank of a rolling steel door opening beyond the platform and beyond his sight. Moments later, several men and two women walked onto the platform. All but one of them wore indistinct civilian clothing. One of the women and three of the men were East Asian. Two other men were Black. Others were blond or brunette Europeans. Some carried a distinct military bearing with close-cropped haircuts to match.

The youngest of the bunch was a South Asian man with shoulder-length hair pulled into a ponytail and sporting a close-shaven beard. Cabrillo identified him as an Indian national. He wore a one-piece flight suit with camel-colored Merrell tactical boots and, strangely, black gloves. He wore no weapon of any kind.

But it was the exceptionally large middle-aged man in the center of the group, a bearded Japanese man, that stood out. Beyond his imposing size, the man carried himself with the self-possessed confidence of a warrior who had never known defeat.

One tough customer, Juan told himself.

The bearded giant stepped closer, separating himself from the others, including a small band of armed and uniformed bodyguards, who stood back in the shadows. He tented his long fingers as he prepared to speak.

Juan sighed.

What fresh hell is this?

---

★“My lords of war,” the bearded Japanese man said, “allow me to introduce myself. I am your employer. I am the Vendor.” He gestured to the others standing next to him. “We have been observing you over the course of your time here. Your performances were exemplary—far exceeding my expectations. You are to be congratulated.”

The Vendor slow-clapped his enormous hands and the others joined him.

Juan’s gut knotted with a sickening certainty. Not good.

“What game are you playing, Plata?” the Russian shouted. Several other mercs cursed in agreement.

Juan couldn’t see the ex-Wagner’s face. He was in the same row of cages as he was.

Plata white-knuckled his cage bars and shook them as he turned his head to face the Russian.

“Does this look like a game to you? I don’t know what’s happening!”

The Vendor turned to the Russian.

“Don’t blame Señor Plata. He was unaware of the new contract terms I initiated.”

“What new terms?” Plata asked.

The Vendor addressed the room. “You all signed a contract to work for me and are still in my employ. The mission has changed—but so has the compensation. It will make you very rich.”

“Nobody gives money away,” McGuire said, his Irish lilt slurred by the knockout gas. “What’s the catch?”

The Vendor gestured broadly toward the group of dignitaries around him.

“These distinguished men and women have come from all over the world to observe and evaluate a live-fire demonstration of my latest infantry combat system.”

“You treat us like this? And you expect us to demonstrate your system?” Drăguș asked.

“No, my lords of war, you are not the system demonstrators. You are the system targets.”

A wave of angry protests flooded the room.

“I didn’t sign up for any of this!” the Syrian shouted.

The Vendor frowned quizzically. “You want out of your contract?”

“Yes! Immediately! I demand it!”

The Vendor turned toward the young Indian in the flight suit.

“Rahul, release Mr. Al-Mawas from his contract.”

The Indian nodded and gestured to the other guests. They parted evenly. He then gestured toward the back of the platform with his gloved fingers.

Juan heard the high whine of servos and hydraulics behind the guests and the padding of heavy rubber feet hitting hard concrete.

Seconds later, a spiderlike robot skittered on eight composite legs across the platform and halted briefly.

A few mercs gasped in shock. Others cursed. The guests stared impassively.

The spider-bot stood about six feet tall. Its carbon-fiber body was a single platform, not divided by head and abdomen like a regular spider. What functioned for its head and eyes was a small, circular dome that rotated three hundred sixty degrees on the forward edge of the platform.

Rahul pointed at the Syrian’s cage.

The spider-bot sped effortlessly down the steps and toward the target cage. Its rubberized feet thundered across a piece of steel plating in the center of the floor. It halted inches from the Syrian’s door.

“Wait—” Al-Mawas moaned.

Too late.

The spider’s back opened and a short-barreled weapon emerged. A sudden gout of flaming napalm sprayed into the cage, setting the Syrian on fire.

The mercs yelled and cursed as Al-Mawas screamed in flaming agony, hurtling himself against the walls in a vain attempt to put out the fire. Within moments his screams became whimpering cries as he fell to the floor, mercifully blacking out as the unquenchable flames stole his life.

The room stank of gasoline, burnt hair, and charred flesh. Oily black smoke curled in tendrils out of the cage. Instantly, the overhead ventilation system vacuumed up the pollution with powerful fans and vented it all away. The room cleared of smoke and smell in less than twenty seconds.

“Contract terminated,” Rahul said.

“Thank you,” the Vendor said. “You may take your position now.”

Rahul bowed slightly. He gestured with his fingers without looking. The spider-bot turned one hundred eighty degrees and scrambled up the stairs, following Rahul out the rear exit.

The guests gathered back together on the platform.

“Unfortunately, that contract termination puts you down a very capable man. The good news is that you are now collectively over one million dollars richer.”

The room was too shocked to react.

Finally, Drăguș spoke up.

“How are we richer?”

“Ah, yes, the terms of the contract. Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?”

The Vendor came down to the lower floor. “As I said before, my honored guests are here to evaluate a live-fire demonstration of my latest high-tech infantry combat system. It gives a single soldier the equivalent combat power of an entire platoon. You have just experienced a small taste of what that power entails.

“To evaluate the capabilities of my system, I recruited each of you for your demonstrated combat skills and experience. Your commanders, Plata and Drăguș, expertly forged you into a combat team and established sufficient unit cohesion. Your success in the various training modules is proof of that. In fact, you were so successful that we cut the training short.”

The Vendor turned toward the observers, who all nodded in agreement.

“I also recruited you because you are mercenaries who are highly motivated by money. In order to make the contest fair between you and Rahul, I needed to motivate you properly.”

“To make it fair to us?” the Brit said. “Let us out of these cages, mate, and I’ll tear that wet noodle of yours apart with my bare hands.”

“Trust me, you’ll be let out soon enough,” the Vendor said. “Believe me when I say you’ll wish I had left you locked in those cages.”

He pulled a remote control out of his pocket. The steel plating in the center of the floor parted and a large LCD monitor emerged. On the stand next to it was a small pole and flag like the ones used on practice putting greens. A sensor stood in the middle of the flag.

The Vendor pressed another button and an overhead image of the island was displayed on both sides of the screen so that everyone could see it. Ten red electronic “flags” were stationed around the island including the city ruins, the jungle, and the mines. They were each numbered 1 through 10. Supply caches were labeled A through J.

“Here are the rules,” the Vendor began. “Each flag is worth two million dollars. After all ten flags are collected, the survivors will split the twenty million dollars evenly.”

“And that’s why the Syrian’s death put more money in our pockets,” Plata said.

“Exactly. Of course, if only one of you survives, he collects all twenty million, paid by Bitcoin into the account he provided earlier.”

“Then you’re setting us up to kill each other to maximize our profits,” the Brit said.

The Vendor flashed a toothy smile. “A classic game of prisoner’s dilemma. I shall enjoy observing the outcome.”

“What happens if we kill you?” Osipenko asked.

“Excellent question. The short answer is that you will receive no money. The longer answer is that it won’t be possible. As soon as you leave here, a minefield surrounding this facility will be electronically activated.”

“What if we collect fewer flags?” one of the Polish twins asked.

“All ten flags must be collected or none of the money will be distributed.”

“How are they collected?” the Nigerian asked.

“Check the devices on your wrists,” the Vendor said. He held up his arm. He had one attached to himself as well.

Juan had forgotten about it. He glanced down to see that it had activated. The same map that appeared on the LCD monitor was now on his wrist display.

“These devices serve several functions,” the Vendor began. “First, it shows you where all of the flags are located.”

“Makes it easy enough for that muppet to lay up ambushes for us, doesn’t it?” McGuire said.

The Vendor smiled. “That would be an unfair advantage, wouldn’t it? But rest assured, Rahul does not have access to your map nor does he know where the flags are located.”

He pointed again to his wrist device. “When you capture one of these flags, it will turn from red to green. Let me show you.” He passed his device by the sensor in the flag and one of the red flags on the screen turned green.

“Easy enough, yes?”

“Can Rahul recapture the flags?” Linc asked.

“No, Mr. Davis. Once you capture them, they remain yours. Otherwise the game may never end. Speaking of which…”

The Vendor tapped another button on his remote. The map on the LCD monitor disappeared, replaced with a countdown clock that read 48:00:00.

“You will have just forty-eight hours to collect all ten flags.”

“And if we fail to capture all ten?” Drăguș asked.

“Hiding is not an option, gentlemen. If you don’t succeed in claiming all ten flags within forty-eight hours, you will all be killed.”

“What about our gear? Food? Ammo?” one of the Poles asked.

“You will return to the armory and collect your weapons, same as the ones you used in training. There are also packs, medical kits, tents, survival gear—-anything you can think of. Your digital maps also show you the location of caches of food, water, and ammunition all around the island marked by the letters A through J. Rahul has neither access nor knowledge of any of these, either.

“As I’m sure some of you have surmised, one of the main purposes of the many exercises was to familiarize you with the island.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” the Frenchman asked. “You might change the rules of the game again.”

The Vendor laughed. “Such a stupid question. We hear it all the time in the movies, don’t we? Why do writers have to be so unoriginal?”

“We don’t have to trust you,” Juan called out from his cage. He pointed at the Vendor’s clients. “If you violate the rules of your own game, those people will know your new combat system doesn’t work.”

“Very perceptive, Señor Mendoza. Any other concerns?”

“How do we know you will pay the reward money when we win?” Osipenko asked.

“Because money doesn’t mean anything to me. You will also be guaranteed safe passage to any destination of your choosing. I doubt any of you with your criminal records will go running to the authorities with wild stories about my island if for no other reason than they would confiscate your reward money.”

“How would they know about our money?” the Frenchman asked.

“I would tell them. Anything else?”

The room was mostly silent. Juan heard a few whispers between cages. The men were already plotting tactics and strategies for survival.

“One more thing about your wrist devices,” the Vendor said. “It measures your heartbeat. That allows us to know who’s dead and who is still in the fight.”

The Vendor’s clients all turned and headed for the rear exit as the Vendor climbed the stairs. When he reached the platform he turned around.

“Fight hard, my lords of war. It is your only hope of surviving—and also of getting very rich. Good luck.”

He gave a brief nod of respect, turned on his heel, and headed for the rolling exit door. As soon as it banged shut, another steel door opened in the far wall.

The room was suddenly filled with the sharp, ear-piercing blast of a nuclear air-raid siren—completely different from the one that woke them earlier. The hellish, polyphonic wail screamed like a choir of damned souls.

After thirty nerve-shattering seconds, the electronic cage door locks popped open—and the countdown clock launched.

The mercs all scrambled out of their kennels.

“To the armory!” Plata shouted as they all raced for the exit and whatever fate awaited them.