The rattle and clink of the ball was thunderous.
The ball stopped.
The croupier’s voice broke. “Seventeen black.”
There was a moment of stunned silence as the croupier’s shaking hand placed the marker on top of the tall stack of chips on the number.
The manager’s eyes were saucers.
The prince’s mouth was big enough to down a Big Mac in one bite.
Wild screams broke out. Lacey’s whoop was at the top of the heap. She got out of her chair and bounced around the table to the thrumming music, her hands waving above her head.
The prince and Jake shook hands. They exchanged a look of camaraderie and shared accomplishment that pushed away the noise around them.
They each had just won three million thirty-four thousand euros on a single spin of the wheel.
The manager had his cell phone pressed hard against his ear. Whoever was on the other end of the phone was doing all the talking. After nodding several times, he said something into the phone, hung up, and walked over to the table. He was all business. “Congratulations, gentlemen.”
The look on his face said it all—they were going to close the table. Jake couldn’t let that happen. He was up to nearly three and a half million, but he needed at least double that amount.
They had given him a credit chit for three million, and he had chips worth four hundred seventy-five thousand euros in front of him. Before the manager delivered the message, Jake placed four one-hundred-thousand euro bets on four separate numbers: five red, eight black, thirty-one black, and twenty-four black, intentionally spreading his bets in a haphazard manner.
Jake added a hint of slur to his words. He stood up and spun toward the crowd. “Man, that was fun. Let’s do it again!”
The crowd roared.
Jake held up his last stack of chips. “And this bet is for everyone in this room!” He placed a seventy-five-thousand-euro bet on red for the crowd.
The loud music was completely drowned out by the cheer.
The manager hesitated. Jake knew he would have a riot on his hands if he closed the table now. Jake hoped to tempt him with the random bets, make him feel like this was the casino’s chance to win some money back.
The manager’s phone buzzed, and he flipped it open. A wave of relief washed over his face. Someone upstairs had made the decision for him. He pocketed the phone and smiled. He nodded to the croupier to proceed.
The prince’s brow furrowed at Jake’s unusual bets. “A new strategy, Jake?”
Jake turned his head away from the manager and gave his new friend a quick wink. Still slurring, he said, “Yeah, something like that. But if I were you, I’d stick to the same plan as before. Hey, how about a number in honor of your entourage over there. How many are there?”
“Five.”
“Okay, that’s it.” Jake scanned the betting surface. “Hey, I’m already on five anyway. That’s a good sign. Go for it!”
Still a little wary, the prince grabbed a hundred thousand and placed it on the red number five.
Jake stood on wobbly feet to face the crowd. Throwing up an arm up like a torchbearer, he yelled, “Is everybody ready?”
Arms shot up in the air to match Jake’s. They shouted in unison, “Yes!”
Jake turned back to the table and pointed at the crowd’s bet on red. “Hey, wait a minute, I’m not betting with the crowd. That’s bad luck.”
Jake slid his fingers across the felt in front of him. He had no more chips left to bet. He opened his empty hands and shrugged his shoulders to the audience surrounding the table.
The superstitious crowd groaned.
Then, as if in afterthought, Jake said, “Wait!” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the three-million-euro chit. He placed it on the red square beside the crowd’s bet and looked over at the manager. His slur was more pronounced. “Will this play?”
The manager glanced at the one-way mirrors over the table. He pulled his phone out and checked it. No one called. The decision was his.
Jake could sense that the manager was on the fence. If he could get the three million back from the American, he would be a hero with his bosses upstairs. But if Jake won…
As if she knew it was the perfect time to strike, Lacey grabbed Jake’s arm, her face aghast, her eyes brimming with tears. “Jake, no, you can’t. That’s everything. Our future! You always do this, and you always lose!”
Jake moved his hand halfway toward the bet and stopped, as if trying to decide whether or not to pull it. Lacey didn’t know how close she was to the truth. Jake never came home a winner on weekend romps to Vegas with his friends. Now the lives of everyone he cared about rode on one final spin of the roulette wheel.
The crowd was a growing distraction.
He was feeling that third tequila, affecting his ability to focus.
Can I do it one last time?
As if sensing Jake’s uncertainty, the manager stepped forward, all charm and finesse, his decision made before Jake could change his mind. “Of course, monsieur, your three million on red plays.”
Jake hesitated. His hand trembled slightly as it hovered over the bet.
After several moments, he made a fist and threw it in the air with a shout. “Let it ride!”
The crowd erupted.
Waving one hand over the table, the croupier said, “No more bets, mesdames et messieurs, no more bets.”
He flicked the ball around the rim of the wheel.
The air grew thinner than at the top of Mount Everest as every person in the room drew in a deep breath and held it at the same time.
The ball clinked to a stop.
The croupier staggered. “Five red!”
Chapter 31
Fifteen miles outside Kuwait City, Kuwait
THE CLICKS AND SNAPS of weapon checks echoed in the hot, cavernous interior of the hangar. Scattered among the cots and folding tables that had been brought in to convert a corner of the hangar into a makeshift barracks, eight tough-looking mercenaries double-checked their kits. The prince’s luxuriously renovated Boeing 707 was parked in the opposite corner. Several equipment crates sat open in the middle of the hangar, their contents laid out neatly across the floor.
“Christmas in Kuwait,” Tony said, as he and Jake admired a matching pair of tripod-mounted machine guns. They were both dressed in civilian khakis and short-sleeve shirts. “The XM312 fifty-cal machine gun. Only forty-two pounds each and nine times more accurate than its predecessor, the M2.”
“All business,” Jake said.
Tony removed the cover from the multi-lens sensor array attached over the barrel of one of the weapons. “You can bet your ass they are. These bad boys can watch your back all by themselves, fully automatic with IR sensors. Just lock ’em and leave ’em, and anything in their field of fire with body heat warmer than a jackrabbit’s will cease to exist.” He replaced the lens cover and began unpacking the next crate.
Jake shook his head. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. His take from the casino had been over 9.7 million euros. Nearly half of it had already been used on equipment and escrow deposits for the hired specialists.
The prince had been euphoric. Even his elderly advisor had cracked a smile after the last spin of the roulette wheel. Later, after learning the reason for Jake’s desperate need for the money, the prince insisted that he be allowed to help. He offered his palace grounds and airstrip fifteen miles outside of Kuwait City as a staging area for the rescue operation. From Monaco, they’d all hopped on the prince’s private jet parked in nearby Nice for the eight-hour flight, arriving early the next morning. That had been twenty-four hours earlier.
Tony’s mercenary contact had proven true to his word, and the ops team and special equipment began flowing in later that afternoon and through the night. The last two members of the team and their ride were due to arrive soon.
Jake surveyed the unlikely group spread out in the hangar. Marshall, Lacey, and Ahmed were
huddled over a computer in one of two small offices along the back wall. Except for the female sniper, the hired help was stripped down to wifebeaters and T-shirts over charcoal-gray, nighttime digital BDU trousers. Rippling muscles, tattoos, and not a few battle scars were exposed. They looked meaner than a pack of hungry hyenas.
From the previous introductions, and the backstories contained in each of their personnel files provided by Tony’s contact, Jake knew there was an underlying thread of steely professionalism that bound them all together. That they could deliver untold violence, there was no doubt. But these guys had thrived because they also understood the business of fighting. Their equipment was state of the art, and they had provided valuable input earlier in the day when Tony put the fine points of the assault plan together.
The two former Navy SEALs, Charlie “Tark” Tarkinton and Willie Tucker, had worked with Tony before. Both in their early thirties, the cousins had matching red hair and freckles and hailed from Charleston, South Carolina. They had extensive background in high-altitude, high-opening (HAHO) covert airdrop infiltration, a key element in this mission.
Jake and Tony watched the men as Tark, who had an army-green skull scarf wrapped around his head, handed his Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle to one of four Latinos who stood in a semicircle around him.
“Papa” Martinez, the shortest of the four, with a round, shaved head and eyes that seemed to be constantly scanning for threats, hefted the offered weapon and spun it through practiced hands as he gave it the once over. “It feels like the M4. What’s the upside?”
“Proprietary gas system with a short-stroke piston drive,” Tark said. “It prevents combustion gases from entering the interior, which means no jams. Bury it in the sand or dunk it underwater and all you got to do is shake it and shoot it. Never fails.”
Papa handed the weapon back. “Nice, holmes. But I’m married till death do us part to my Grendel 665. An M4 on steroids, with the stopping power of an AK.” From under his cot he pulled a Benelli M3T pistol grip combat shotgun with a sidesaddle shell carrier. “And then there’s my backup puta, Rosa.”
Papa was the leader of the four-man fire team. His three younger Latino partners, Snake, Juice, and Ripper, had been part of his crew since they all ran together on the streets of South Central LA. When they’d joined the marines eight years ago as an alternative to prison after a major gang bust, there’d been seven of them. Three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan had whittled them down to five. They tried going back to LA. But when one of the boys got drilled in a drive-by, Papa pulled Snake, Juice, and Ripper together, and they went to work for an international private security company. That had been four years ago. Since then, Papa and the boys had earned a solid reputation as one of the toughest fire teams on the circuit.
Juice and Snake had shaved heads. Their arms were sleeved with tattoos, the most prominent being a set of praying hands on their right shoulders. Juice was bigger than big, like a refrigerator with a bowling ball on top. He had wide-set dark eyes and fists the size of toasters. He was slow to get moving, but once up to speed, nothing could stop him. Snake was wiry, built like a featherweight boxer, fast and agile, with coal black eyes that looked right through you. They both sported the Grendel like Papa.
Ripper wielded the LWRC Infantry Automatic Rifle, updated to handle the 6.5 Grendel round. The IAR could spit 750 rounds per minute on full auto, and Ripper always carried a healthy supply of hundred-round drums into the action. He was half-Mexican and half-American Indian, with long black hair tied in a ponytail, and a wide movie-star smile broken by a gold-crowned front tooth. He carried two black-anodized combat knives in shin holsters on both legs and moved like a cat. Hand to hand, he’d rip you in half before you knew what hit you.
Jake was glad they were on his side.
Knowing full well that Jake and Tony were both within earshot, Juice nudged Papa and gestured toward Jake. “What’s his story, jefe? We gotta babysit him or what?”
“Jury’s out, vato,” Papa said. He nodded at Tony, who gave him a hard look. “But Sarge says he’s chill.”
Juice sized up Jake. “I don’t know, man. There’s something off about him.”
Becker, a demolition and specialized weapons expert from Down Under, overheard the comment. He had a short, sinewy frame with wavy blond hair and blue eyes that glimmered in stark contrast to his chocolate skin, darkened as much from the sun as his partial aboriginal heritage. He chimed in with a deep Australian accent. “Mind your bizzo, mate. That bloke’s got skills all right. Sarge says he’s as cunning as a dunny rat ’n’ faster than a ’roo on a rampage.”
Tony stepped into the middle of the group with Jake beside him. Tony’s growl brooked no debate. “He’s also runnin’ this op and the man signing your fat paychecks.”
“Listen up,” Jake said, knowing he needed to make a point with these guys. “You’re all getting paid five times the going rate for a reason. What we gotta do isn’t gonna be easy. In fact, it’s damn near impossible.”
Impossible is just a state of mind, Jake thought. He had finally figured out how to duplicate the amazing speed he’d exhibited at Sammy’s bar.
Back then, he didn’t have time to think about the mug that was flying toward his face. He just reacted. The organism that is the human body took over. His conscious mind played no role. His brain, his senses, and his muscles all worked together on their own to get the job done. His hand had snapped up and grabbed the mug, protecting the organism. The brain is a muscle, and like every other muscle in the body, it retains the memories of past actions.
How else could Kobe Bryant make those fading jump shots so regularly?
Jake needed to figure out how to tap into the memory of that blazing reaction in the bar.
He’d practiced and practiced over the past couple of nights while everyone else slept. Slowly but surely he had made progress, using plastic glasses to test his speed. Dropping a suspended glass, spinning around, and catching it before it hit the floor was no longer a problem. The bad headaches that he got after doing it, however, were getting worse.
Mental checklist: Speed issue solved. Living long enough to enjoy it? No.
Jake glanced at the hard men standing around him, doubt etched on some of their faces. Without warning, he lunged forward, pulled one of Ripper’s combat knives out of its shin holster, stood back up, and displayed the big knife flat on his palm. His uncanny speed brought a collective gasp from the men.
Jake continued, “Just because something’s impossible doesn’t mean it can’t be done.” Jake focused his thoughts on the knife, willing it to remain hovering in space as he slowly lowered his hand to his side.
“Madre de Dios,” Snake said, crossing himself.
“I’ll be buggered,” Becker said.
Jake felt a sharp pain at the back of his skull, but he refused to show it. He released his mental hold on the weapon and snatched it out of the air as it fell toward the floor. A stunned Ripper took it from Jake’s offered hand.
No one moved. Jake had their full attention. He fought back a wave of nausea before continuing. “While you guys secure the perimeter and set the stage for our escape, the sarge and I are going into the depths of hell to collect the hostages, one of whom is a six-year-old girl. Don’t worry your asses about whether or not I can hold up my end. Just do your jobs, and one way or another, I’ll do mine. Got it?”
A strong “Hoo-rah!” echoed back from the ex-marines in the group.
“You heard the man,” Tony said. “Keep your heads in the game and get your shit ready.”
The men went back to work checking their kits.
Becker steered Jake and Tony over to an eight-foot-long table scattered with equipment.
“Are you set?” Tony asked.
“Yeah, everything I asked for is here,” Becker said. “You already saw my two remote-control fifty-cals.” He waved his hand over the collection on the table. “We’ve also got claymores, tripwire, satchel charges,
frag and fuel-air grenades, detonators, and enough C4 to take down a mountain.”
“Good, because that’s just what we’re gonna do,” Tony said, exchanging a glance with Jake.
Becker clucked his tongue and hiked one of his thick blond eyebrows. He walked over to a crate about the size of a washing machine and pulled the lid up. “Lend a hand, Sarge. Let’s get ’er out.”
Jake watched as they pulled out what looked like a miniature ATV. It supported three dark-gray pressure tanks connected to a black funnel angled upward on the rear chassis.
“Lil’ Smokey here is my special surprise. Once we’re done pissin’ on the hornet’s nest up there, we’re gonna need to get out fast and under cover.” He crouched down, his hand on one of the ATV’s tanks. “She’s a modified, self-propelled, radio-controlled version of the M56E1 smoke-generating system. She spits fog oil embedded with graphite fiber.”
“Duration?” Jake asked.
“Twenty to thirty minutes, depending on wind conditions. The smoke will obscure both visual and infrared better than a sandstorm in the outback.”
Tony continued to make rounds with the men, checking and rechecking kits and attitudes.
Jake watched the team from just outside the wide-open hangar door, his attention on the quiet Cossack woman sitting by herself in the far corner of the space. Her name was Maria. She was inspecting and cleaning her Dragunov 7.62 SVD sniper rifle with the same care as a mother would give her newborn child. She was a small woman—barely taller than her rifle—with short dark hair, a hooked nose, coal-black eyes, and skin burnished from a life outdoors. Her sharp features were broken with a faint patchwork of premature wrinkles—not a single one of which would be confused with a laugh line—earned from several lifetimes of stress that had been crammed into her twenty-something years, first as a Chechen rebel and later as a freelancer.
He appreciated the care she took as she examined each of the specially made rounds of ammunition before pressing them into the magazine. As if sensing Jake’s stare, she paused, turning her eyes toward him from across the hangar. She locked her gaze on him like an eagle spotting a rabbit in the snow.
A slight nod of her head affirmed the unspoken acknowledgment between them. She was responsible for covering Jake’s back during the first critical minutes of the operation. For the next twenty-four hours, their lives were linked.