Sitting in the pilot’s seat on the Raptor, Jericho watched as all six of the missiles were shot down.
“You sure are a resourceful sonofabitch,” he muttered. He knew what must have happened—the agent he had fought must have somehow gained control of the Phobos and co-ordinated with the Coalition forces to shoot the missiles down. The notion that he had attached the firing configuration to his bio-chip had been a total bluff, one that had been designed to prevent his death at the hands of those agents. It had worked in as much as it had allowed him to escape.
His plan had failed and he was alone. All his men who had followed him were on that ship, so they were either dead or captured.
Like this, there was nothing he could do of significance. If he wanted to gain anything from this, he wou
