Page 68 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“Like I’ve never heard that one before.”
“I hear Libya is crazy.”
“Heart of darkness, man. But good money.” Davis turned his gaze toward the window, ending the conversation. McGuire was being too nosy, and the truth was that Davis’s story was a bit thin because he didn’t exist.
Unlike Cabrillo, Franklin “Linc” Lincoln didn’t live and breathe this kind of undercover work. Linc was a special warfare operator. His job was to hurt people and break things, not playact, and his expertise was the business end of any sniper rifle he could wrap his big hands around. Unable to speak any other languages or push into the deep psychology of undercover personality changes, Linc had to basically be himself.
But because of the Vendor’s technical prowess, Linc needed some kind of cover lest he be discovered—which would not only have led to the rejection of his application but also would have alerted the Vendor they were on to him. The easiest thing to do was to put Linc in a completely different and utterly covert service branch. No need for language skills, and the likelihood of another CIA special ops fighter in the mix was practically nil.
The dark web ad specifically stated it preferred non-Americans but also needed a sniper. They gambled on Linc’s incredible sniper “legend,” which was actually based on his real service record. Apparently, the gamble paid off. With any luck, they were one step closer to finding the Vendor.
If this really is a Vendor op, Linc reminded himself. There was still a fifty-fifty chance it wasn’t.
?
Two hours later, McGuire turned off the two-lane asphalt road and onto a rutted dirt track, splattering the white Daihatsu van with a thin coat of mud. Fifteen minutes after that, he pulled to a stop beside a large lean-to that stood on the edge of a wide jungle airstrip.
The covered lean-to featured several picnic benches, where a dozenoperators from multiple nationalities sat or stood, all drinking Tiger Lager beer. Tats, beards, scars—and lots of attitude. Some were telling war stories, while others told jokes for men who laughed too loud.
It looked chummier than it was, Linc knew. Like the first day of football camp, or enlistment day at the intake center. Everybody yaks it up because they’re nervous, but also because they’re sizing each other up, trying to establish dominance hierarchies. Linc laughed to himself.
If they were dogs, they’d all be sniffing each other’s butts.
On the far end of the structure was a massive camp kitchen. A couple of Malaysian women were tending a roaring charcoal grill, turning slabs of beef and cut-up chickens. The meat spit sizzling fat into the flames and filled the air with tangy smoke. Pots bubbled with noodles, rice, and vegetable curries.
“End of the road, brother. We’re just in time for some chow.”
McGuire tumbled out of the van and made a beeline to a tall man sporting a bushy beard and a ball cap, and whispered something to him.
Linc pulled his leather duffel and climbed out of the van.
Several heads turned toward Linc. The ones who didn’t were still watching him in their peripheral vision. It wasn’t the first time Linc had intimidated a collection of violent men. Two clean-shaven young towheaded blonds—identical twins—smiled at him, but their raging blue eyes bore into his.
Linc shrugged off the attention, and made a show of sniffing the air, savoring the sweet aroma of roasting meat and the smoky tang of charcoal. He dropped his gear in the stack of luggage already piled up against the wall and headed for the ice chest crammed with cold beers. A dark-headed merc stood nearby. Linc pulled a lager and cracked the cap.
“That’s not a real beer,” the man said with a smile and a clear Spanish accent. He stuck out his hand. “Mendoza.”
They shook.
“Davis.” Linc held up his Tiger Lager bottle. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Only two percent alcohol. But it is adequate. A local favorite, I’mtold. Now, Negra Modelo? That,mi amigo, is a real beer. A man’s beer. AMexicanbeer.”
“I’ve had Modelo before. Never been to Mexico.”
“It is the land of my ancestors. You should come down sometime to myrancho.” The Mexican mercenary stood six foot one and was powerfully built. His hair was close cut and jet-black. But his eyes were blue.
Linc knew without a shadow of a doubt he was talking to Juan Cabrillo, but somehow, he felt as if he really was engaging with Mendoza. It wasn’t Juan’s dyed hair, the authentic accent, or even the puckering star-shaped scar in his thick bicep that made the deception work. It was him totally inhabiting his character—actually believing he was the former Mexican special operator andsicarioMendoza.
Linc nodded. “Soon as we finish this gig, I just might take you up on that.”
“I hope that you will.”
“By the way, you speak English better than me.”
“My mother taught it at the University of Guadalajara.” Mendoza lifted his beer. “Salud!”
They clinked bottles and swigged their beers.
