Death Gamble

by Don Pendleton

  “What the hell does that mean?” Bolan asked.

  Ivanov explained, and it turned the warrior’s blood cold.

  11

  Jon Haley watched as the blacksuited men raced around the airfield, loading weapons onto the Black Hawk chopper with deadly efficiency. He had no clue as to his location. They’d blindfolded him and bound his hands before whisking him away from the house, his wife’s screams still echoing in his ears.

  He’d spent most of the two-hour car ride in silence. Nothing to do but listen for someone to drop a clue that might tell him what was going on. Or brood about the safety of his wife and children. The former never happened, and the latter train of thought roared through his mind nonstop.

  The big pasty bastard sauntered toward him. The cool wind whipped the tails of the man’s calf-length leather jacket about his legs as he moved, adding to his vampiric appearance.

  After the car ride, they were deep in the desert and the night had quickly turned cool. Haley shivered under the pilot’s suit he’d been given. His pilot suit. The one he’d left at the Haven for cleaning before heading home on vacation. If these guys had access to his uniform and flight gear—all of it stored on one of the nation’s most secret bases—he knew he’d been sold out at levels he couldn’t fathom.

  In a word, he was fucked. Now he had to find a way to help himself and those he loved. For the moment, that meant playing along with Paleface, doing as he was told without argument.

  The big man wore a combat harness underneath the leather duster, and extra magazines and hand grenades were easily visible. A second Uzi hung from a strap on his back. The man moved easily under the weight.

  “You ready to destroy your country, boy?” the man asked, his mouth splitting open like a nasty gash into what barely passed as a smile. Even in the darkness, with only a few lights burning, the man wore his sunglasses. The black shades contrasted with his pallor and made him look like the big-headed aliens featured in television specials and books about abductions. He’d be almost comical if he wasn’t so damn evil, Haley thought.

  A switchblade opened in the man’s hand and shimmered in the meager light. Haley felt his heart jump in his chest as the man stepped toward him. His muscles tensed, and the pilot shifted his weight to his back leg so he could bury a front snap kick into the man’s gut. If he was going down, he’d damn well go down fighting.

  Paleface grinned, but kept his distance. “Easy, boy,” he said. “I’m just going to cut you free. I need you to carry your own gear.”

  Haley turned and the man cut him free. He brought his hands around front and began to massage at his wrists, rubbed raw from the plastic bindings. He started to turn, but a thundering blow hammered into his kidneys and propelled him forward. He fell to the ground, the cracked asphalt tearing open his palms as he put out his hands to cushion his fall.

  Haley whirled, started to come up. He stopped short, the knife blade only inches from his face.

  “That was your one warning,” Paleface said.

  “Kill me and who’s going to fly your damn plane?” Haley replied.

  “Kill you? Hell, I wasn’t talking about killing you. That comes later. I’ll kill your babies. Slay those little brats just like they were rodents. The lady comes next. You’ve landed in hell, son, a hell where I’ve got all the power. The sooner you bend your mind around that fact, the better off your family will be.”

  Haley sucked in a deep breath, tried to calm his stomach. His eyes burned with hatred, but he said nothing.

  Paleface continued. “You work with us and your family lives.” Another wicked smile twisted his face. “I can’t vouch for their condition, of course. Your wife’s a pretty lady and those Russians are the horniest bastards I ever saw. But she’ll walk away.” Paleface gave him a wink. “Hell, who knows? She might even enjoy it.”

  Rage pulsed through Haley’s body and he nearly surged up at the guy, ready to literally rip the leering smile from the bigger man’s face. Images of his family flashed across his mind, and he stayed still.

  He’d behave. For now.

  Paleface hadn’t mentioned Haley’s fate, and the pilot didn’t bother to ask. He’d already resigned himself that this might be a death flight for him. They may keep him alive for a little bit. Force him to show them how to fly the Nightwind, but eventually he’d die. He also was pretty sure the same fate would befall his family, but he wasn’t about to risk that.

  The man continued speaking. “Now when you get into the plane, you disable all the tracking equipment and fly that thing out of here. We’ll have a scramble team of fighters follow you in case you encounter any resistance or you get squirrelly on us. You go where we tell you, or we’ll shoot you from the sky and scrap the mission. We’ll scrap your family right after that. You just haul ass for the coordinates I gave you. We have a team that will disassemble as much of the plane as we can, put the pieces on a submarine and haul ass out of there.”

  “When does my family go free?”

  “Once we’ve got what we want, we’re done with them. How fast that happens is up to you.”

  “Just show me what to do,” he said.

  “Get your ass on that chopper, Cowboy, and I’ll do just that.”

  Cowboy? A chill passed through Haley and he knew in an instant who’d sold him out.

  HAROLD BANNER STEPPED inside the elevator and punched a button for the uppermost floor. As the cage silently slid up from the Haven’s lower levels, the former military man tried to think of something other than the blood he was about to spill.

  It was a wasted effort. A thousand thoughts swirled around in his mind, a fetid mix of doomsday scenarios and self-recrimination. He popped another antacid and he occasionally had to remind himself to breathe. The Glock 17 holstered beneath his black leather bomber jacket irritated his conscience, a constant reminder of his treachery.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late. With the push of a button, he could return downstairs, retrieve the suitcase nuke and go home. He lived a lonely, Spartan existence. He had no family, and precious few friends or possessions. The gambling had stripped him of all of that. He could disappear without a trace in a matter of hours. Hell, he could even place an anonymous call to the police, let them know of the danger facing Haley and his family. Maybe point them to the suitcase nuke, help them take it out of circulation before it hurt someone.

  Save the day instead of destroying it.

  The elevator stopped, and Banner shook his head. He was in too deep now. Any fantasy of changing things, turning things around was just that. He stepped from the elevator and started down the long, sterile corridor that stretched before him. He unzipped the leather jacket to afford himself easier access to the Glock. A duffel bag swayed from his shoulder as he made his way down the hall.

  He’d always loved to gamble and his postmilitary career with Sentinel Industries had seemed too good to be true. Double his military pay, all his expenses paid and living within driving distance of Las Vegas. Who in their right mind could turn their back on that?

  With weekly pilgrimages to Las Vegas, it hadn’t taken Banner long to get underwater in gambling debts, about eight hundred thousand at last count. But he hadn’t worried about it. The Russians continued to extend him credit and had been discreet about his debt. Despite his losing streak Sergei Ivanov had treated him well, like royalty. The booze, the women and—most importantly—the credit had flowed like water from a burst dam. Sometimes he’d share a little secret information in exchange for a forgiven debt.

  At last, Banner was a high roller. He’d gotten some damn respect and it had taken the Russians—the same people he’d spent a career training to fight—to give it to him.

  Then that shifty bastard Ivanov had pulled the rug out from under him. All debts were due, immediately. Ivanov hadn’t detailed the consequences of not paying. But the pair of thugs flanking him, a couple of ham-fisted assholes pumped up on steroids and cocaine, left little doubt as to Banner’s possible fate.

&n
bsp; He knew his life wasn’t much, but it was still worth living. When Ivanov had offered him a deal—all debts forgiven plus a little cash to start over somewhere else with a new identity—it sounded too good to be true. That others in the government also were involved in the Russian’s scheme had cinched the deal.

  Banner had jumped at the prospect.

  He didn’t realize he was jumping feet first into hell.

  He set the duffel bag down in a recessed doorway in the corridor—just like they’d told him to. Then he walked to blast doors sealing the security department’s control room. Placing his eyes to the retinal security scanner, he waited for the apparatus to beep. The door hissed open and he stepped inside.

  Because of his flawless military record and years of service to Sentinel Industries, Banner had access to all but the most classified sections of the Haven. This night he cursed the privilege.

  The room was alive with the clicking of keyboards and multicolored displays. He counted three guards. Two sat at a large console, operating radar and communication equipment. The shift commander, a guy named Steve Cullen, sat at a bank of monitor screens, taking in views of the building’s interior.

  Cullen turned to Banner and smiled. “Burning the midnight oil, hotshot?” he asked.

  Banner’s body tingled with fear and anxiety, but he returned the smile. “You know it,” he said. “No rest for the wicked.”

  “Amen.” Cullen turned back to the bank of video monitors. “How can we help you tonight? You got some new hires you need us to background or what?”

  Banner tried to keep it light. “Not quite,” he said. “I need a cup of coffee.”

  Cullen turned. “Where’s your cup?”

  Banner felt his stomach lurch into his throat for a second. A former Las Vegas police captain, Cullen had led Clark County’s organized crime division for years. The guy was hardwired with a suspicious nature, and he never missed a detail.

  “Took it home last night,” Banner said. “Thing had so much green in it, I didn’t know whether to clean it out or cover it in salad dressing.”

  Cullen made a disgusted face, then grinned. “You gross bastard. Grab a foam cup, get your coffee and get out of here.”

  “Right.” At the coffee maker, Banner poured himself a cup of the steaming liquid, made a show of cutting it with powdered creamer and sugar.

  “Hey, Banner,” Cullen called.

  Banner froze. “Yeah Steve?”

  “You can keep the cup.”

  The former cop laughed and Banner chimed in. He went back to preparing his coffee and checked his watch—12:30. Time was running out. He had to move.

  He hesitated another moment. It still wasn’t too late to walk away, a small voice cried out from deep within. Once he killed someone he’d have lost his last chance for redemption. He’d be one hundred percent committed. But at this moment he still had a chance. He could take the coffee, walk away.

  And then what?

  Trying to salvage his life now was like trying to find pristine wood on a centuries-old shipwreck. Forget it.

  Cullen, staring intently at the monitors, spoke again. “So what the hell you doing here this late, Banner? Your pilots not filling out their paperwork on time again?”

  Fluidly, Banner slipped the Glock from under his jacket.

  “Something like that, Steve.” His voice sounded icy.

  Cullen noticed the change and turned toward Banner. He never finished the move. From fifteen feet, Banner triggered the weapon once, twice. The handgun’s crack reverberated throughout the room. Nausea passed through Banner for a moment as Cullen’s head disappeared in a crimson spray. Banner shifted into autopilot and continued his slaughtering.

  Swiveling at the hip, he sighted down the pistol and caught the other two security men thrusting themselves into action. The shock of being attacked by one of their own in their inner sanctum had bought Banner an extra moment or two. But he’d burned up most of that.

  The men dived in separate directions, each grabbing for hardware. Banner panicked for a moment as he fired against two living, breathing targets and squeezed off two shots that went wild. A bullet sizzled past his ear and, more out of primal instinct than fear, he dropped to the ground. Handgun fire cracked like thunder about the room, and a pair of bullets whistled past Banner’s ear as he went down.

  He sought refuge behind a desk. Glock leading the way, he peered around the furniture and caught one of the guard’s kneecaps protruding from behind cover. The Glock bucked once in his hands and a 9 mm round hurtled forward and bit into flesh. The wounded guard screamed in shock and pain. He pitched forward as he instinctively tried to gather up the wounded limb. The Glock barked twice more and Banner buried two rounds into the man’s skull. Surrounded by his own blood, the man twitched briefly before releasing life.

  Heart slamming in his chest like a jackhammer, breath escaping in panicked gasps, Banner listened for the third guard. It’s either him or me, he thought. He realized the other guy was thinking the exact same thing.

  A pair of pistols exploded, causing Banner to jerk. The guard had freed his backup piece and was firing both weapons. Slugs drilled through the desk, passing just inches from Banner’s heaving torso.

  The shots were hitting too close for comfort, Banner decided. He hauled himself up and sprinted for Cullen’s console. He fired on the run, spraying bullets everywhere, trying to drive the guy under cover. The guard was better trained than Banner, and he held his ground. A bullet punched through Banner’s jacket, but missed his torso. He dived forward, landing with a smack against the floor. Rolling into a ball, he tried to gather his breath and plan his next move. He felt something wet and realized he was sitting in the gore leaking from Cullen’s shattered skull.

  Banner heard only one weapon and assumed the guard’s other pistol had run dry. Another bullet smacked into the console and then there was dead silence followed by a muttered curse. The guard’s pistol had either run empty or jammed.

  Banner brought himself up. A head of close-cut, bleached blond hair poked up from behind an overturned table. Banner raised his weapon and three shots later had murdered his third victim.

  Moving to the monitor station, Banner rolled Cullen’s body away with the tip of his foot and began studying the controls. Movement in one of the monitors caught his attention. Twelve men in navy blue jumpsuits, a security team, were hauling ass down the corridor and toward his position.

  It turned Banner’s stomach, but he knew what he needed to do.

  Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a small detonator. He rested his thumb on the switch, then paused. He felt light-headed and disconnected from his body, as though he were floating above it all watching someone else commit these atrocities unfolding around him.

  He swallowed hard, flicked the switch.

  An explosion resounded in the corridor, causing pieces of the ceiling to crumble down. For a moment, Banner wondered whether the Russians had packed the explosives incorrectly, whether he’d end up buried alive in this godforsaken desert tomb.

  But the walls and the steel blast doors held. A quick look at the monitor told him that the security team had fared much worse. Severed arms and legs, battered torsos littered the passageway. Even though the image was a silent one, Banner knew there were no screams echoing in the corridor. He’d left no survivors.

  The light feeling in his head grew worse. Sinking first to his knees, then to all fours, Banner felt his insides roiling, until finally he heaved out the contents of his stomach, his insides convulsing until he had nothing left.

  Then he brought himself to his feet and with the press of a few buttons, laid open the Haven’s defenses, leaving it ripe for invasion.

  He pulled a digital phone from his pocket, hit a button activating a programmed number and waited for an answer.

  When a voice answered, Banner said, “It’s done.”

  “WHAT’S WRONG, Cowboy?” William Armstrong yelled over the helicopter’s twin General Ele
ctric turboshaft engines. “You ain’t getting sick are you? Not a big hot-shit pilot like you.”

  Jon Haley shot Armstrong a hard stare but said nothing. Armstrong returned the gaze with a cold one of his own and held Haley’s stare until the pilot looked away. Just like two dogs trying to figure out who’s boss, Armstrong thought. There was no doubt in his mind. He had Haley by the short hairs, and both men knew it.

  Four men, all dressed in flight suits and body armor, sat on either side of Haley. A couple of them smiled or snickered as Armstrong needled the tense test pilot. Two others stared straight ahead, white-faced, wide-eyed and sweating. They were scared, and Armstrong knew why. Once inside the main hangar complex, they’d shed the body armor, board the jet fighters and escort Haley, Armstrong and the Nightwind out of the country. The pilots had a life expectancy of about twenty minutes, but the ones lucky enough to survive the escape would get a big payday.

  Or so Kursk had told them. Armstrong knew better; the Russian didn’t like to share his wealth with the rank and file. In Armstrong’s case, though, the Russian knew better than to hold back even a dime of promised wages. Anyone stupid enough to be penny-wise and pound-foolish with Wild Bill Armstrong ended up dead. Pure and simple.

  With practiced ease, Armstrong ran his hands over his gear, scrolling down a mental checklist and making sure he had everything he needed close at hand. He wanted to be ready to rock-and-roll once he hit the ground. When the communications blackout began, they had only minutes to get in and out of the Haven.

  Granted, hitting the facility after Dade’s kidnapping was risky. Word was that security had been cinched like a tourniquet after the incident. But, according to his sources, Sentinel Industries, the Pentagon and the CIA were expecting more kidnappings and concentrated their forces on a few scientists. Many of them had been moved underground.

  No one expected an assault on the base itself. It was too audacious for anyone to conceive of.

  Armstrong smiled.

  That’s why he was perfect for the job. Audacity was his stock-in-trade.