"There he is," Pierre Armont said, peering through the fog with his Tasco Infocus Zoom binoculars. They did not require focusing, and with a touch of a lever he jacked up the power from six to twelve. "I want the sucker myself. We missed him in Beirut, but this time…"
Up above, Sabri Ramirez was gliding along the side of the fallen gantry, an automatic in his hand. Ramirez, Armont knew, was famous for his Beretta 9mm, used to such deadly effect over the years. It was his trademark, always employed for assassinations.
But now, finally, after all the years. There was the Hyena, exposed and clear. One shot. One shot would do it.
"He's mine." Armont leveled his MP5, captured Ramirez in the sight, and clicked it to full auto. Vance was a genius. He had lured the Hyena from his lair. Take him out, and the whole op would be over in time for morning coffee.
Ramirez was edging down the side of the gantry, the cold angle-iron against his back, when there was an eruption of gunfire down the hill. It was controlled, professional fire that seemed to be coming from two locations. An assault.
Well, fuck Hansen. The President had lied, claiming he had called it off. Had he lied about the money, too? The fleeting thought made him seethe. But one problem at a time.
He quickly ducked behind the fallen gantry, disappearing into the shadows. One more phone call, then a check with Geneva. If the money hadn't been transferred, Souda Bay and the American Sixth Fleet were both going to disappear in a nuclear cloud. In fact, they were anyway. What better way to cover an egress?