It took Elna a moment to realize that the ceiling had collapsed in a corner of the game room, bringing down a couple of large metal panels and a bunch of dirt, burying some of the card tables that had been there. The lights in the room were dark, and one of the bulbs hung down at an angle. Elna approached the nearest table and leaned against the edge. She saw someone approaching from the hallway, swiping his hands in front of him as he came. Elsewhere in the bunker, Sniffy was barking like mad.
“Staff Sergeant,” she said, as the pale-haired man stepped through the door into the game room.
“You survived the blast,” he said. “I figured you all got buried in there. Damn Fish almost brought down the whole bunker. What was he thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Elna replied. “We were in a hurry. Some of the mercenaries pursued us into the passageway.”
“And Fish?” Prig peered past her.
She didn’t want to say it, so she bent over, wincing at the pain in her back, waiting for someone else to tell him. She heard Malin helping Selene and Pop through the door and realized it was up to her.
“He didn’t make it,” she said finally. “They wounded him, so he stayed behind and held them off while we fled. I took the detonator and set off the charges.”
Prig dragged his hands through his short hair, then smacked the doorframe with an open hand. “Another one of my people gone,” he said, quietly, a hiss full of anger, “but they’ll pay for it. They’ll all pay. You wait and see.” He turned back to Elna, his expression hovering somewhere between a crazed smile and a furious scowl. “This isn’t over. Come on. Let the doctor check you out. You look pretty banged up. We’re all down the hall.”
And with that, he put the cap back on and swept out of the room.
Commander Tucker filled the back door of the kitchen, a cold determination keeping him steady. He heard his men scrambling at the end of the hall, saw shadows moving back and forth beneath the open hatch.
The damned Chinese Communists didn’t pay us nearly enough for this job, he thought. Did they know an ambush was being set for us here?
He tried to regulate his breathing, disconnecting from any emotion. He’d run hundreds of dangerous missions for a variety of clients, so he had plenty of practice at this. The mission was quickly going south, but he would turn it around. He always turned it around. Hell, he’d been in worse situations than this. It was why he got paid for these kinds of black ops missions.
The men were still scrambling about, shouting at each other, so Tucker strode down the hall. The ammunition in his vest pockets rattled as he walked. Tucker liked to keep all of his tools handy, even though it made his vest quite heavy. He had a Glock 19 in a holster on the right side, a KA-BAR knife in a sheath on the left, plenty of spare loaded magazines in the small pockets along the front of the vest, a Springfield Hellcat in a shoulder holster, and a smaller knife in a sheath strapped to his left forearm. He was an enormous man—there was plenty of room for all of these weapons and more. There was always something to choose from in any situation.
He descended the stone steps into the wine cellar. Three of his men were moving about on the far side of the room. One of them held a bright LED flashlight, and it cast their shadows in long nightmare patterns across the floor. Tucker could see immediately that the entryway into the secret passage had collapsed. A large pile of bricks and dirt had gushed into the cellar. The men were currently digging at it with their bare hands, as if they thought they might tunnel through to the other side.
“How many were down there when it collapsed?” Tucker said. He resisted the urge to shout, but his men lurched and spun to face him.
“Four went after them,” the soldier with the flashlight—Connor—said. “Ardmore, Thanh, Rousseau, and Koike. We’re trying to get to them, sir.”
Four. Tucker wanted to strangle someone.
“And how many enemies were there?” he asked. “Did anyone get a good look at them?”
“No, sir,” Connor replied. “We didn’t get down here before the doorway collapsed. Sorry, sir.”
He waved off the apology. “Get shovels. There’s a tool shed out back. Keep digging.”
And with that, he turned and ascended the steps. He wanted to stand there and see if they could find a way through, but he knew his presence might distract them.
Ardmore and Thanh, he thought. Getting drunk on wine, losing sight of the mission. They were highly recommended on the mercenary market, but they weren’t worth the price. The other guys better pick up the slack. Our reputations are on the line here.
He realized he’d reached down and grabbed the handle of the KA-BAR knife.
Maybe I shouldn’t hold back, he thought. Maybe the lack of fear has produced this subpar performance.
He heard boots in the kitchen. When he reached the door, he saw the youngest soldier—a South African merc named Burgers—rounding the center island. He wore his black cap cocked at an angle. Tucker was often tempted to smack it off his head. The young merc had a thin face, a prominent nose, traces of acne on his cheeks and forehead, and at the moment, his face was twisted up in terror.
“Sir, sir, part of the building came down,” he said. “There’s a fire. There’s all kinds of problems!”
“Calm down,” Tucker snapped, partially drawing the knife from its sheath. Burgers noticed this and flinched. “Lead me there.”
The
