Chapter 47

47

The thirteen mercs charged through the cool, balmy air of the early-morning sunrise, the air-raid siren still blaring its doomsday signal overhead. While most of the men were still badly hungover, they all suffered worse headaches from the knockout gas.

They dashed into the armory tent. A long table stood on the far wall. On it were a couple of boxes of protein bars and two dozen liters of bottled water. Several of the men tore into those first.

Also on the table were stacks of their neatly folded and labeled uniforms, boots, socks, and shirts. Everyone else started there, including Juan and Linc.

“We’re sitting ducks in here,” the Brit shouted as he pulled on his pants. Others agreed. The fear in the room was palpable.

“Just shut up and gear up—now!” Plata barked, his mouth half full of protein bar.

As soon as the men dressed, they ran straight to their individual lockers.

Juan and Linc stood back, wolfing down a couple of bars and gulping water. They watched as the mad scramble of grabbing gear and weapons nearly turned into a brawl. The blaring war siren was driving their panic into a frenzy.

Juan took the opportunity of the pandemonium to duck in a far corner and secure his combat leg with support straps without anyone noticing. Linc’s big frame also blocked the view.

The two of them hustled back over just in time to watch Plata grab one of the Polish twins by the straps of his armored vest before he could throw a punch at the Turk. Drăguș cussed out the Russian for nearly knocking him over.

Cabrillo whistled hard. The shrill pitch cut through the hellish war horn. Strangely, it cut out just as if Cabrillo had willed it.

The silence stopped everyone in their tracks.

“This is exactly what the Vendor wants,” Cabrillo said. “Panic and chaos.”

“No one needs your advice, Mendoza,” Plata barked.

But the mercs responded to Cabrillo’s commanding, confident voice. They suddenly settled down, and over the next ten minutes finished pulling on armor and helmets, stuffing rucks with ammo, holstering mags and pistols, and checking their main weapons and comms. A few grabbed extra protein bars and stuffed them in their pockets, while others filled up canteens at the cleaning station. The Turk, the unit’s assigned medic, quick-checked his medical kit.

Juan and Linc finished kitting out, but in a calm and orderly fashion, moving more slowly but more efficiently than the others.

“We’re out of here in two minutes,” Plata said. “Anyone not geared up and in formation will be left behind.”

Juan stepped over to Plata and pulled on his arm to take him aside quietly. He glared at Cabrillo’s hand on his rock-hard bicep.

Cabrillo lowered his voice and spoke in Spanish.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do, hermano, but if we form up outside we’ll just be one big target. Better we split up and meet somewhere under cover—somewhere away from the flags.” Cabrillo pointed at the map device on Plata’s wrist.

Plata sneered at him. “Don’t you think I know that? I was planning on running as soon as we got outside.”

“Where to? The traffic control tower?”

“Exactly. Now get your gear on—or get left behind.” He turned to the room. “Line up at the door!”

The Polish twins were first at the door, followed by the others. Plata and Drăguș were next to last, stuffing their packs to overcapacity. Juan and Linc packed lightly, and stood toward the back.

Plata and Drăguș pushed through the crowd.

“Here’s the plan. We don’t know what’s waiting for us out there. We don’t want to be exposed and we don’t want to bunch up. We’ll take off in pairs and spread out. Use the trees or whatever cover you can find. Let’s all meet up at the airstrip tower.”

“That’s a two-mile run,” the Nigerian said.

“You want me to call you a cab?” Drăguș barked.

“What’s the plan after that?” the Brit asked.

“I’ll let you know when we get there—assuming we all make it.”

Plata pointed at the Polish twins.

“You ready?”

The towheaded blonds nodded curtly in sync.

Drăguș held the tent door open.

“Go!”

The rest of the men queued up with their respective teammates. They all listened, half expecting gunshots or explosions as the Poles ran for their lives. Twenty seconds passed.

Nothing.

Plata sent the next pair off, then the others, in staggered intervals. Finally, only Plata, Drăguș, Juan, and Linc were left.

“You coming or not, pendejos?” Plata said.

Linc and Juan squared up at the door. Linc’s sniper rifle was so big and heavy there was no point slinging it, so he hefted it by the built-in carry handle.

Because Linc had his hands full, Juan shouldered the Barrett’s five ten-round .50-cal magazines in his pack, each weighing over three pounds, along with his own spotter’s gear, ammo, and weapons.

Plata stared daggers at Cabrillo. “Better watch your step out there, boludo.”

“Siempre.” Always.

“Drăguș shouted, “Go!”

---

★The Polish twins arrived at the airstrip tower hardly breaking a sweat. They were the youngest and fittest of the unit. They smashed through the tower’s locked door with ease and took up positions for overwatch at the windows as the rest of the team came thundering in.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone was gathered on the first floor. Most were huffing and drenched in sweat, especially Linc.

“Okay, Plata. You’ve got us here. Now what?” the Brit asked.

“Nobody locks me in a cage,” Plata said, seething. “We’re going to kill that man.”

“How? He’s holed up in a cement fortress behind a moat of land mines. Even if we had metal detectors or even ground-penetrating radar, he can set them off remotely while we’re digging ’em up.”

“Seems to me we have three options,” the Irishman McGuire began. “Take out the Vendor—which is nigh unto impossible. Take out Rahul, or grab the ten flags as quickly as we can.”

“Flags or not, in the end, we kill the Vendor,” Plata said.

“We kill him, we don’t get the money,” the Nigerian said.

“Once I begin to separate his eyes from their sockets, he’ll give us the money, I promise you that.”

“We should take out Rahul,” Juan said. “Kill him, and we’ll be plucking up flags like daffodils.”

“That’s idiotic,” Plata said. “How do we even find him? We have less than forty-eight hours. It might take us a week to locate him. If we pick up all the flags, the game is over—no need to kill him. But as soon as we do get those flags, we’re going after this engañador ‘Vendor.’ ”

“You don’t think Rahul is out there waiting to ambush us?” Linc said. “All he has to do is keep us from one flag and we lose.”

“He doesn’t know where the flags are, remember?” The Frenchman held up his wrist map and tapped it. “We have these. He doesn’t. He must find the flags on his own. That gives us an advantage.”

“I bet he’s already setting up some kind of electronic surveillance,” Linc said. “And when he does, we’ll be walking into his traps.”

“We should stay together,” the Turk said. “If he’s set up an ambush at one location, we can overwhelm him.”

“Ridiculous,” the German said. “We should split up. He sees us all together and—boom!” He mimicked an explosion with his gloved hands.

“Should we wait until nightfall?” McGuire asked. “I brought these.” He held up a pair of night vision goggles. “There are more back at the armory.”

“Wait around twelve hours for him to scout the island and set ambushes for us? Are you stupid?” the Frenchman asked. “We have to act fast. The clock is ticking.”

“I hate playing defense,” the Brit said. “I say we take the fight to the muppet. We outnumber him thirteen to one.”

“It used to be fourteen to one, remember?” Osipenko said. “Until your ‘wet noodle’ set the Syrian on fire.”

“Al-Mawas was locked in a cage without a weapon,” Plata said. “Let’s see Rahul try his tricks against heavily armed commandos in a fair fight.”

“If you think that little stunt with the fire-breathing bug was his best trick, you’re insane,” Juan said. “The whole point of this ‘game’ is to pit thirteen trained fighters against one man. Did you see those spectators? They looked like military types. This is a weapons test. The Vendor sells weapons. Those were prospective buyers. The Vendor must be trying to sell Rahul and his spider-machine to them and the proof of concept is us—all thirteen of us. Do not underestimate this man.”

“Don’t underestimate these men, either,” Drăguș said. “They’ve already proven themselves.”

“Against what, paper targets?” Linc said.

“I’m not afraid of a mechanical insect,” the Turk said.

“Use your head,” Juan said. “That trick with the fire? That was meant to terrorize us. It’s only a short-range weapon. There’s no way for one man to take out thirteen men at close quarters. He must have long-range weapons in his arsenal.”

“What kinds of weapons?” McGuire asked.

Juan shrugged. “Whatever he can operate at a distance, probably remotely.”

“Missiles? Mortars? Drones?” Osipenko asked.

“All of them, some of them. A combination, most likely. And like Davis said, he’ll tie them into some kind of surveillance capability.”

“You seem to know a lot about this man,” Plata said. “Perhaps too much.”

Linc tapped the side of his head. “He’s just using logic. It’s about time we did, too, before we get our heads blown off.”

“So, flags or Rahul?” one of the Polish twins asked, still staring outside on overwatch.

“We should vote on it,” the Frenchman said.

“There’s no voting,” Plata said. “I’m in charge.”

“Because the Vendor put you in charge,” the German said.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. The Vendor put you in charge—but the question is, for what reason?”

The big Guatemalan lunged at the German with catlike speed.

Juan had never seen such a large man move so fast.

Plata grabbed the German’s throat and shoved him against the block wall, knocking the breath out of him. Before anyone could react, Plata laid his knife blade on the German’s cheek, the sharp point just millimeters beneath his cornflower-blue eye.

“Tell me, Fritz. Why do you think he put me in charge? Tell me. Tell me!”

The German swallowed hard.

“Because you are the best of us.” The German’s words barely escaped his throat still clutched in Plata’s iron grip.

“Say it louder.”

“Because you are the best of us!”

Drăguș laughed.

“Ganz genau, Fritzy,” Plata said as he withdrew his blade and released the German.

The German coughed, trying to catch his breath.

“So what do you want to do?” McGuire asked.

Plata sheathed his knife as he stepped over to the window, his eyes scanning the empty airstrip.

“We take out the flags as fast as we can.” He turned around. “Gather close. Check your maps.”

The men collected in the center of the room.

“Thirteen men, ten flags,” Plata said. He pointed at the Frenchman. “Pick your flag.”

“Number three,” the Frenchman said. It was a city flag. “Pour le Tricolore.”

The Turk took number five.

“We’ll take number nine,” one of the Polish twins said. “Together.”

“As I expected.” Plata then pointed at the German, who picked number one, and then distributed the rest of the flags.

In all, the three most distant flags from the air tower were assigned to pairs, including Plata and Drăguș, and Juan and Linc. The rest of the flags went to individuals. All ten flags and all thirteen men were accounted for.

“The faster you get your flag, the more likely you are to survive,” Drăguș said.

“Unless Rahul is already there waiting for you,” the Russian said. “Then God help you.”

Drăguș ignored him. “Use cover whenever you can. And watch for ambushes.”

“Keep an eye on your map,” Plata said. “If there’s a flag close by that hasn’t been captured, take the initiative and grab it. If you see any of our fallen, call it in.”

“I wouldn’t use comms if I were you,” Juan said.

“Why not?” the Frenchman asked.

“He might be able to lock onto your transmission signal and turn it into a target.”

“Your paranoia is duly noted, Mendoza—and ignored. We’re using comms.” Plata scratched his chin, thinking. He checked his wrist device.

“Check your maps,” Plata began. “At noon, we’ll all meet at cache D for sitreps. If you couldn’t get your flag, you tell us why. We’ll figure out what flags are left and plan from there.”

“I agree,” the Turk said.

Plata scowled at him. “No one asked your opinion.” The bearded Guatemalan turned to the others. “Also, make sure you aren’t followed on the way back. Otherwise, you might get us all killed.”

Drăguș checked his watch. “We’re wasting time.”

“You’re right,” Plata said. He turned to McGuire. “What do you SAS guys always say?”

“ ‘Who dares—wins!’ ”

Plata grinned. “That’s right. So let’s saddle up—and get moving. Now!”

Plata was first out the door. His warrior spirit had infected the men. They bolted into the early-morning sunlight after him, each headed for their respective flags. Each man was a brave and experienced fighter.

And each was targeted for death.