Treasure (Dirk Pitt 9)

"I didn't come out here in the wet to discuss our political differences!" said Ammar, fighting to control his wrath. "Tell me if the helicopter has been damaged."

"Doesn't have a scratch. And I might add that your pilots are still fit to fly. That make you happy?"

"You would be wise to surrender your weapons and Turn over my craft and flight crew."

Pitt shrugged. "Screw you."

Ammar was shaken by his failure to intimidate Pitt. His voice turned abrupt and cold. "How many men do you have, four, perhaps five? We outnumber you eight to one."

Pitt nodded his head at the bodies scattered beside the crushing mill.

"You're going to have to play catch-up ball. The way I see it, you're about nine strikes down on the scoreboard." Then as an afterthought he said, "Before I forget-I give you my word I won't sabotage your chopper.

It's yours in pristine shape providing you can take it. But harm any of the hostages, and I blow it from here to the nearest junkyard. That's the only deal I'll make."

"That is your final word?"

"for now, yes."

A thought crystallized in Ammar's mind, and he was swept by a sudden revelation. "It was you!" he rasped. "You led the American special forces here."

"Luck gets most of the credit," Pitt said modestly. "But after I found the wreck of the General Bravo and a splaced roll of plastic, it all fell into place."

Ammar stood there for a moment in profound astonishment, then recovered and said, "You do your powers of deduction an injustice, Mr. Pitt. I readily concede the coyote has run the fox to ground."

"Fox?" said Pitt. "You flatter yourself. Don't you mean maggot?"

Ammar looked at Pitt through narrowed eyes. "I'm personally going to kill you, Pitt, and I'm going to take great pleasure in seeing your body shot to pieces. What say you to that?"

There was no in Pitts eyes, no hatred etched in his face. He stared back at Ammar with a kind of bemused disgust one might display in exchanging looks with a cobra behind glass at a snake farm.

"Give my regards to Broadway," he said, turning his back on Ammar and walking casually back to the door of the crushing null.

Furious, Animar burled down the flag of truce and strode swiftly in the opposite direction. As he moved he eased an American Ruger P-85

semiautomatic 9-millimeter from the inside pocket of his coat.

Suddenly he whirled, whipped off his mask and went into the classic crouched stance with the Ruger gripped in both hands. The instant the sights lined up dead center on Pitts back, Ammar pulled the trigger six times in quick succession.

He saw the bullets tear into the middle of Pitts ski jacket in a ragged grouping of uneven holes, watched as the concentrated impact knocked his hated enemy stumbling forward into the wall of the crushing mill.

Ammar waited for Pitt to fall. His antagonist, he knew with firm certainty, was dead before hitting the ground.

Gradually Ammar became aware that Pitt was not acting as he should.

Pitt did not fall dead. Instead, he turned, and Animar saw the devil's own smile.

Stunned, Ammar knew he'd been outwitted. He realized now Pitt had expected a cowardly attack from the rear and protected his back with a bulletproof shield under the bulky ski jacket.

And with a numbing shock he saw the gloved hand hanging from the ve was fake. A magician's trick. The real hand had materialized, a hand clutching a big Colt 45 automatic that protruded from the partially unzipped ski jacket.

Ammar aimed the Ruger again but Pitt fired first.

Pitts first shot took Ammar in the tight shoulder and spun him sideways.

The second smashed through his chin and lower jaw. The third shattered one wrist as he threw it up to his face. The fourth passed through his face from side to side, Ammar rolled to the gravel and sprawled on his back, uncaring and oblivious to the gunfire that erupted over him, not knowing that Pitt had leaped uninjured through the door of the crushing mill before Ammar's men belatedly opened fire.

He was only vaguely aware of Ibn dragging him to safety behind a steel water tank as a short burst of fire from inside the crushing mill sprayed the ground around them. Slowly his hand groped up Ibn's arm until he clutched the solid-muscled shoulder. Then he pulled his friend downward.