Page 119 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“You rememberZulu?” Juan asked, his eye fixed on the red dot on his rifle.
“My favorite movie growing up. Why?”
“Who did you root for?”
“You have to ask?”
“I thought maybe we could sing like the Welshmen on the eve of battle.”
“I thought the Zulus sounded better.”
“They had a great bass section for sure, but no top tenors.”
Juan squeezed the trigger and ripped a short burst of rounds downrange at Osipenko as he raced through the trees trying to get around behind their position.
“Missed.”
Linc’s Barrett barked as he put a heavy round into the foliage, his sights resting on Plata ducking behind a tree.
“Missed.”
Suddenly, a line of bullets stitched across the lip of the crater.
“The guests have arrived,” Juan said, ducking low.
“I hope they brought dessert.”
?
Plata had ordered the second RHIB to land and begin its assault despite the Japanese lieutenant’s complaints. The Vendor had put them all on a two-hour time clock and it was running out fast.
He had correctly guessed Mendoza’s movement toward the armory, but hadn’t counted on him taking his sweet time coming down the trail.
In order to surprise the two Americans, he had changed the radio channels to communicate with the bodyguards, but kept on the regular channel to fool Mendoza with false chatter in case he was listening in.
Despite the late hour, everything was going according to plan untilel francésbetrayed them. Plata quite enjoyed killing the sentimental traitor.
The two Americans were skilled operators, but their defensive position wasn’t tenable. They were completely surrounded.
But so long as the Americans stayed there, they were winning. If he didn’t capture Mendoza soon, he’d lose the money. Worse, their American backup would be arriving shortly, which the Vendor assured him would be a death sentence. If he wanted to capture Mendoza, he had to keep up the pressure without killing him, but it would cost Plata many casualties.
So far, Mendoza had proven too smart—or too lucky—to capture. He hated thatbicho.
The more he thought about Mendoza’s arrogance, the angrier Plata got. Watching his men get slaughtered by those two Americans made his blood boil, and them killing his friend Dragu? had sent him over the edge. No doubt even more would die so long as he stayed his hand.
And who was this Vendortimadortugging on his neck like he was a monkey on his leash?
Plata seethed.To hell with the money. He was tired of being jerked around by Mendoza—and the Vendor.
This was his war now.
He keyed his mic.
“Plata to all units. We’ve got these American cowboys surrounded. On my signal, we attack—and kill them!”
?
The mercs and bodyguards opened up a barrage of withering fire.
