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?