Page 114 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

“Running now.”

Juan’s image from the airplane was overlaid with forty dots at key nodes on his face, delineating the features that comprised his unique facial identity. Those metrics included skin texture analysis, nose width, eye socket depth, geometric ratios between facial landmarks, jawline contours, and 3D analysis.

Next, the twelve mercenary faces appeared separately next to Juan’s photo from the plane, each one slapped down like a playing card on a blackjack table. As each face card was slapped down, the same forty dots at key nodes appeared on their faces as well, and a mathematical analysis comparing the two appeared in a separate window. Each analysis ended with a percentage match.

The first face up was Plata, who scored a fifty-one percent match. Within thirty seconds, all of the other faces had been compared. Davis had the lowest score at eleven percent. The highest score was Mendoza’s at sixty-eight percent, despite his hair color.

“Keiko, I want you to refine the parameters.” He gave her a few suggestions.

On the second run, Mendoza scored eighty-six percent.

The computer automatically overlayed the two photos. Despite Kevin Nixon’s brilliant prosthetic work, which included subtle changes to Juan’s facial geometry and skin texture, Keiko was finally able to suss him out.

The Vendor couldn’t help but smile with admiration. How could a one-legged man sneak onto an island posing as a cutthroat mercenary? Of course! Because the men weren’t subject to a complete physical. There had been no need for one. They weren’t being recruited for a long-term career. They had been recruited to die quickly and violently. Who cared if they had tuberculosis or piles or even a fake leg?

The presence of the spy explained how theOregonfound his island and perhaps also the destruction of his drones. The Vendor quicklychecked Banfield’s text message. The quick response force had been canceled before the drones had been destroyed, not after. That surprised him. He assumed it would have been the other way around.

It didn’t matter. This was a dangerous fellow in service of a very capable vessel that knew his location and was no doubt on the way. The Vendor faced a dilemma.

The wiser course of action would be to evacuate immediately. But in so doing, he would never discover the identity of the spy nor the origin of theOregon. Worse, he would never learn how the interloper had managed to defeat his infantry combat system, something he desperately needed to know if he wanted to bring it to market.

His goal now was to capture the one-legged menace and torture him until he revealed all of his secrets. After that, he would kill him in the most unpleasant way, if for no other reason than the sheer satisfaction of destroying the man who had so successfully frustrated his will.

?

Plata and Dragu? stood inside the underground mine just a few feet away from the German’s corpse. Dragu? had just rolled him over with the tip of his boot to reveal a skull with the face completely melted away. The stench nearly made them both vomit. According to their wrist devices they were just fifty-three meters away from the next flag.

They had entered the mine with extreme caution, searching for the German’s body and whatever weapon had caused his demise. While they had found the corpse, they could not locate the device that had destroyed him.

Three long clicks suddenly chirped in Plata’s headset, followed by four short clicks.

This was the prearranged signal the Vendor had established when he wanted Plata to change radio channels and contact him privately.

“Go on ahead and grab the flag,” Plata ordered. “I need to check on the others.”

“Piece of cake,” Dragu? said.

“Yes, cake. But still be careful, eh?”

Dragu? nodded and sped on ahead.

Once the Romanian was out of earshot, Plata switched to the other radio channel and keyed his mic.

“You’ve got some big brass cojones calling me. What do you want?”

“I have a new business proposition for you.”

“Lucky me! Does this one involve exploding vampire robots? Mechanical piranhas? Tell me.”

“Your man Mendoza. He’s an American spy.”

Plata swore violently. “I knew it! I always hated thatbasura. He thought he was smarter than me.”

“Apparently he was.”

“Yourecruited him.Youvetted him. Not me.”

“Fair enough. By the way, did you know he had one prosthetic leg?”