Death Gamble. Don Pendleton

watch and knew that in another twenty minutes he’d be rewarded for the sweet anticipation that had nagged him for days.

      He checked the load on his AK-47, then stared at Trevor Dade’s campuslike home. The thirty-acre compound rose out of the desert like an ostentatious oasis—bright lights, fountains, palm trees, glittering swimming pools and hot tubs dotted the landscape. Three Mercedes convertibles were parked along the circular driveway fronting the luxurious home.

      The compound’s big gates rolled open and a convoy of SUVs glided into the night, headlights slicing through the inky blackness. They would follow a series of access roads and ultimately catch Nevada’s highways, taking the afternoon shift’s guards home for the night.

      The third-shift crew was inside, getting its briefing. Talisman checked his watch: 11:02 p.m. In six minutes the anal-retentive crew chief would usher the guards outside, just as he did every evening, and send them to their positions.

      Talisman ran his fingers over the control board of the small device sitting on its rocky pedestal next to his right knee. A series of lights and beeps told him the device was ready to go.

      The Russian had said the apparatus would knock out communication between the security team members and their home base, the Haven. Suddenly, the guards would find themselves isolated and would fall in short order. Or so the Russian said. And considering how badly he wanted Dade, Talisman was inclined to believe what the man told him.

      At the same time, the Insider—Talisman didn’t even know the Russian’s name—with the help of that crazy bastard William Armstrong, planned to ignite a series of explosions miles away, creating a disturbance sure to draw the helicopter security team’s attention.

      In twenty-four hours, Talisman would be back in Africa a little richer and his blood lust satiated—at least for a while. Shadows drifted in and settled around him—a group of his best soldiers and former Spetsnaz commandos—and they waited to spill blood on American soil.

      It was just a taste of the carnage to come.

      “SON OF A BITCH!”

      The cool desert air pressed against Ethan Sharpe’s face as he stormed from the sprawling home and into the black, starless night. He slammed the oak door behind him, ground his teeth together and bit down on another curse. Hoping for a moment that the other man would let the outburst slide, he sensed a pair of eyes scrutinizing him and knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.

      “What’s eating you?” Danny Bowen asked.

      Sharpe jerked a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at the house behind him. The words spilled out before he could censor them.

      “In there is what’s bothering me,” he said. “Dade. He may be a hot-shit scientist, but he’s a poor excuse for a man. He sure as hell doesn’t deserve the kind of protection we give him.”

      “Not our job to decide that, Ethan.”

      Sharpe shot his friend a withering look. He realized the guy was right, and replaced it with a grim smile and a shrug.

      “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Hell, I shouldn’t be griping to you, anyway. I’m the damn team leader.”

      Bowen punched Sharpe on the shoulder. “But I’m the voice of reason. That’s why you keep me around.”

      Sharpe knew that much was true. The two men had become friends, sweating their way through Ranger school together and serving in the same overseas hot zones, even standing as best man at each other’s weddings. Sharpe was the hothead; Bowen was a master of tact and diplomacy. If Bowen thought Sharpe ought to suck it up, then by God Sharpe knew he ought to listen.

      He exhaled loud and long. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, but maintained its edge. “It burns me to watch this guy snorting coke, hiring hookers, drinking himself into oblivion—all on the company dime. Every night it’s the same thing. It makes me sick.”

      Bowen nodded. “Yeah, but you’d still lay down your life for him, wouldn’t you?”

      Sharpe didn’t hesitate. “Hell yes.”

      “Damn straight you would. That’s because you’re a good man. So don’t let him get under your skin. Only things we need to fret about are the UFO freaks and scorpions.”

      Sharpe let his smile widen and felt his shoulder muscles loosen when he did. “I’m rooting for the scorpions. Now get the hell out of here before I write you up.”

      Bowen nodded and disappeared into the darkness. Sharpe ran over his statements in his mind, kicking himself for what he’d said. He trusted his friend not to share them with anyone else. But it was so damn unprofessional.

      It also was true. Dade had become a liability. His drug habit and whore chasing had landed him in trouble. And word was the main headquarters was ready to cut the man loose.

      But first they wanted Dade to finish the Nightwind project. Wanted it so bad that the company was willing to overlook the scientist’s troubled ways while he wrapped up the project. Sharpe wasn’t supposed to know any of this, of course, but he’d caught enough gossip and filled in the blanks with his own observations. It didn’t take a genius to discern what was going on.

      So Sharpe had tried to keep his moral judgments to himself—not something that came naturally. Every now and then, like tonight, his disgust bubbled to the surface. Otherwise, he’d put up and shut up. Be a good soldier. Even if his only reward was a gaping hole in his stomach.

      TEN MINUTES PASSED, and Sharpe decided to check in with the troops. “Hawk command to team. Check in.”

      “Hawk One okay.”

      “Hawk Two okay.”

      “Hawk Three same traffic.”

      A pause from Hawk Four, Bowen.

      The hair on the back of Sharpe’s neck bristled. What the hell, Danny? Check in. “Hawk Four, status check.”

      “Hawk Four,” Bowen replied. “I’ve picked up a couple of warm spots on the infrared scan. Looks like two bodies on a ridge.”

      Shit. “I’ll back you up, Hawk Four,” Sharpe said. “The rest of you hold your positions. Look alive and watch your backsides.”

      The team members acknowledged the radio traffic with terse replies. Sharpe drew a micro-Uzi from his custom rig and trudged forward, boots smacking first against concrete and then sand. Bowen was patrolling the compound’s southern quadrant. It would take Sharpe ninety seconds to get there.

      In Sharpe’s line of work, ninety seconds was ample time for things to go straight to hell.

      “They moving on us, Danny?” he asked.

      “Negative. Just two blips on the mountain. Probably a couple teenagers screwing. Or someone watching the sky for little green men. You guys chill. I can handle this myself.”

      “Negative. I’ll be there in a few seconds.”

      “You’re the boss. But don’t say I didn’t tell you so if it turns out to be some harmless freak squad.”

      Bowen had a point. During the past month, Sentinel Industries had taken the Nightwind—a laser-equipped jet fighter—on a series of midnight test runs. Inevitably, the sight of a strange aircraft had stoked the curiosity of local UFO buffs and conspiracy theorists. Armed with cameras, sketch pads and binoculars they had descended in droves upon the barren desert surrounding Sentinel’s research and development site. The security teams usually rewarded the curious with an armed escort from the property and stern warnings to stay away. But some of them just couldn’t resist a return trip.

      Maybe it was nothing, but Sharpe’s instincts told him otherwise.

      Bowen’s voice, taut with panic, sounded in Sharpe’s headset, jerking him from his thoughts.

      “There’s more and they’re coming over the wall,” Bowen said. “They’re dressed in black and armed to the