Page 103 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
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Kabak, the Turk, stood in the dank, dark basement of one of the city’s crumbling buildings. He passed his wrist device over the triangular flag, capturing it. He checked the display as another red flag turned to green.
That made three. McGuire and the Nigerian had captured their assigned flags, but seven still remained.
Perhaps it was the chill air that sent a shiver down his spine, but he doubted it. The reality was they were running out of time. Their only hope of survival was capturing all ten flags. But judging by the diminishing radio chatter, he assumed the other mercs were getting killed off faster than they were capturing flags.
His radio suddenly crackled in his ear.
“Kabak—you read me?”
The Turk recognized Plata’s voice despite the static.
“I read you.”
“I’m standing at my flag, but my capture device is dead. I need your help.”
“Where are you?”
“Flag number seven,” Plata replied. “I’m in the gray building directly across the street from you. Third floor.”
Kabak checked his digital map. Flag number seven was three hundred meters due east, not across the street.
What is going on?
“That’s not possible.”
“I know where my flag is,” Plata said. “I will meet you across the street, then take you there. It’s about three hundred meters from your position. I know the safest route. No windows.”
“How do I find you?”
“Third floor, top of the stairs, hard left, first door. A closet. No windows. Hurry!”
Kabak frowned. Crossing the street meant being exposed to the air, something he had assiduously avoided.
“What about surveillance drones?” the Turk asked.
“All clear for now—but hurry!”
Plata’s flag would make four, Kabak thought. Then they could team up and plot out the rest. There was still a chance he would escape this madhouse alive.
“Roger that. On my way.”
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Kabak climbed the fracturing stairs to the first floor and made his way to street level. He stood inside the door, away from any prying eyes that might be above.
There was, indeed, a gray building directly across from him, its doorway askew as the foundation cracked and sagged over the years. The potholed street was strewn with rubble. It would be a short thirty-meter dash across the road to the other doorway, and safety.
“Still clear?” Kabak asked, worried about surveillance drones.
“Still clear. But hurry!”
“On my way—now.”
Kabak took a deep breath, clutched his rifle, and raced into the street, his body aimed directly at the cockeyed doorway. Five charging steps into his run he was nearly cut in half by three large-caliber armor-piercing rounds that tore through his rib cage.
The Turk was dead before he hit the ground.
