Page 91 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

“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.

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 farcorner 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. Dragu? 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.