man who’d done it, but nine AKs swung in his direction. Hawke had seen the blow coming in the man’s eyes and so was ready for it. He’d also caught a glint of light from the cliff above out of the corner of his eye. Now it was gone. With any luck at all, the rest of the team above had not been spotted.
The same guard with the loopy grin came over and kicked Hawke brutally in the ribs with his steel-toed boot. Then stood over him, smiling. Hawke twisted away in the snow, rolling to avoid the next blow to his ribs, gaining precious seconds, talking softly into his lipmike as he moved. He no longer had to feign any pain. His left side was on fire.
“Hey, Tommy,” Hawke whispered, “You up there?”
“Got you covered, Skipper,” the sniper Tom Quick replied. “In the rocks above and behind, on your left, sir.”
The guard advanced and kicked Hawke again, even more viciously. The pain was searing and it took his breath away. This guy was starting to seriously piss him off.
“Got a shot, Tommy?” Hawke managed.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Take it.”
A neat red hole instantly appeared between the eyes of the grinning man standing over Hawke.
“Old pals of Mr. bin Wazir,” Hawke said smiling up at the guard who was dead on his feet but didn’t realize it yet. “We understand he lives nearby. Thought we’d drop in.”
Before anyone else could react, Tom Quick took out the tango with the .50 cal on the roof of the Hagglund, and then dropped two more on the ground with clean head shots. Hawke got to his feet, bringing up the HK as he did, moving to give Patterson a clear field of fire as well.
Hawke heard a burst from a weapon on his left, swung instantly that way and fired. His rounds caught the man in the throat. He dropped his weapon and raised both hands to the wound, unable to stop the geyser of bright arterial blood which erupted. The man collapsed in a heap in the blood-soaked snow.
Five of the six remaining guards, unaccustomed to armed resistance, turned to run for their vehicle. All five died on their feet in less than ten seconds, victims of Hawke, Patterson, and the silent but deadly sniper above. Quick had acquired the new lightweight HK 7.62 sniper rifle for the mission. So far, he had no complaints. The sixth guard, spotting Quick on the edge of the overhang, raised his automatic to return fire. Before he could squeeze off a burst, Hawke hit him low, across the knees, and sent him sprawling in the snow. In an instant Hawke was all over him, ignoring his own pain, the snout of his weapon jammed up under the guard’s chin.
He looked into the terrified boy’s eyes and asked, “Do you want to live? Nod yes if you speak English.”
“Yes—”
“Name!”
“Rashid—”
“Get on your feet, Rashid. I’m requisitioning your vehicle. Sorry. Force majeure. You’re driving.”
“Good work, Pards,” Patterson said, “Your friend Mr. Quick up there makes a fine addition to the squad.”
“Still, we do appear to have lost the element of surprise—Widowmaker, FlyBaby, you guys get down here on the double. We’re taking this ATV inside the Pasha’s palazzo. Copy?”
“On our way, skipper.”
They loaded Gidwitz and Wagstaff into the troop transport. The two men were still groggy, but coming around courtesy of the oxygen. Mendoza and the rest of the team climbed inside the carrier as well, except for Hawke and Patterson, who would ride up front with the kid driving the snow-cab. Quick would be riding up on the roof, manning the .50-cal.
Hawke looked at his watch. Christ. It would be a very close thing. He had less than eighty minutes to find Kelly, extract vital information from bin Wazir, and get the hell out of there before the B-52s showed up and the big bunker-buster bombs started falling. And the Tomahawks came cruising.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Flight 00
JOHNNY ADARE STARED AT THE MAN CALLED POISON IVY IN amazement. They were toe-to-toe in the sitting room aboard the Pasha’s 747-400, special edition. The little cretin I.V. Soong was standing before him waving a wad of U.S. dollars in his face. One hundred thousand of them, to be exact. First the guy says he wants to test the aircraft’s emergency oxygen system, and then asks, by the way, is the cockpit sealed? Adare immediately grabbed the intercom phone to call Khalid up in the cockpit.
Johnny had started to punch in the cockpit code, but the wiry little fellow grabbed his wrist.
“No!” Soong shouted. “Put it down. You will ruin everything. Just listen for one moment. If you don’t like what you hear, then call the cockpit. Okay? Please!”
That’s when he opened up the smaller of the two shiny black suitcases he’d stowed under the Pasha’s fancy leather sofa. The big one, now empty, had held all the replacement oxygen canisters. This smaller one was full of cash. Johnny eyeballed it carefully. If each wad was U.S. fifty grand, there had to be a million quid in there. A little less than one and a half million dollars. Just the bloody sight of so much cash in one place was enough to make Johnny quietly replace the receiver.
The sun came out on Dr. Soong’s face once more.
“Let’s have a drink, shall we?” Soong said. “Another whiskey? I may join you. My nerves, you see. Rough flight. Shaky.”
Johnny collapsed into the big leather armchair the Pasha used when he was on the phone. Soong went to the bar and poured them each a tumbler of Jameson’s. He handed one to Johnny, took a healthy swig of his own, and sat carefully on the edge of the sofa.
“Good, good,” he exclaimed in his high-pitched voice. “A toast! To your new life as a rich man, Captain Adare.”
“Tell me what’s in the canisters, Doc.”
“It is an—experiment—I am conducting, sir. A test.”
“I ain’t a fucking test pilot, Doc. And I don’t do fucking experiments. Eight miles up, anyway.”
“Ah! Is a good one! No, you don’t have to do anything. You know about what you were originally supposed to be carrying aboard this plane? Something called a Pigskin?”
“Got a rough idea. I don’t want to know.”
“There was a problem with them. Very unstable. Be glad I did not allow them to be loaded on your airplane, believe me, Johnny. Very lucky. My god.”
“I’m a lucky man,” Adare said, deciding to let the “Johnny” pass for now. “What’s in the bloody canisters?”
“I am coming to this. Please. How much is the Pasha paying you for this trip?”
“Two hundred fifty grand. Free and clear.”
“Tsk-tsk. So unfair.”
“What?”
“Khalid is getting one million.”
“What? You’re bloody lying!”
“Shh! Calm yourself, Johnny. It’s not a problem.”
“The bastard’s getting a million?” Johnny said, swallowing his whiskey. “But he tells me he’s getting a quarter of that. Son of a bitch! Ten years we’re flying together and our last job for that fat bastard bin Wazir, he thinks he can screw me over?”
“Grossly unjust! This is why I picked you, Johnny. To have this little chat back here. I pretended fear back in the cockpit so Khalid would not suspect. See?”
“Yeah? Keep talking. So this—experiment—why not just tell Khalid about it? Why pick me?”
“Because I know Khalid’s reputation. By the book. Always by the book. Veddy, veddy British. So that’s why I asked for a private word with you. You are a most reasonable and intelligent man with whom I can do business.”
