Читать книгу Gathering Storm - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

Memo: Barbara Price/Aaron Kurtzman to Hal Brognola

Recommendation for action based on collated data.

Major Kamal Rasheed. Member of the Ba’ath Party. Loyalist fedayeen. Hard-line Hussein man. He got out of Iraq once the writing was on the wall. He dropped out of sight for a while, but rumors started to circulate he’d been seen in Iran, then Afghanistan. As with other members of the inner council, this man won’t let go. We’ve picked up Internet chatter he’s working with other members of the old regime to make some kind of comeback. There’s all kinds of speculation flying around, but there has to be some truth in among all the rumors. There are too many messages flying around the Middle East, calls for Islamic loyalists to come together to oust the Americans and their stooges from Iraq.

When we picked up details of increased movement down in Santa Lorca, Central America, concerning the increase in illegal arms, it didn’t come as a surprise when information was received about a Middle Eastern buyer looking for small arms. The other matter tagged on to this was the hint that these weapons might be destined for the U.S. This could tie in with the information we’ve picked up from our main security agencies about upcoming strikes within the U.S. and their connection with the resurgence of ex-Hussein loyalists. One of our contacts came through with a photograph. Not the best, but when it was put through the computer program the closest match it gave was Kamal Rasheed.

We need to confirm just who it is buying weapons down there, because if it does turn out to be Rasheed, it more or less confirms that the data we were receiving about the old regime getting its act together is genuine.

I suggest we set up an operation. Get a team into Santa Lorca, offering a good deal on the kinds of weapons being sought, and identify the main buyer. If it does put Rasheed in the frame, our suspicions will be confirmed. An added bonus would be to get our hands on Rasheed and bring him back. Let our security services put him through a debriefing session. See what they can get out of him.

Santa Lorca, Central America

THE MAN’S NAME WAS REGAN. His gaunt, lined face was tanned and unshaven. He was wearing a crumpled white suit. On the beer-stained table in front of him was a sweat-stained Panama hat, the brim curled and frayed. He watched the man across the table from him through watery blue eyes, constantly blinking as he toyed with the squat bottle of local beer.

“You better be straight with me, Bubba,” he rasped. His voice was coarse, low, as if he was unable to raise it above a whisper. “This ain’t fuckin’ Paducah. Mess with the locals here and they’ll cut off your balls and barbecue them in front of you. Understand me?”

The tall, rangy man facing Regan made no comment. He was calm, his hands mobile and sure as he rolled a cigarette using paper and tobacco. He stuck the finished cigarette between his lips and lit it with a battered black lighter. He took a long draw, visibly enjoying the taste of the smoke.

“You been listening to me, Bubba? I don’t make speeches just to hear myself talk.”

“You had me fooled,” the other man said. His accent was British, hard-edged, and Regan became aware that he wasn’t dealing with a novice. “Let’s stop buggering about, Regan. Neither of us is here for the beer—and I can see why after tasting it. We arranged a deal. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can move on and you can count your money. Two weeks in this bloody place is playing hell with my social life.”

“You can provide me with the ordnance I need? Anything from handguns to rocket launchers?”

“And everything in between.”

Regan rubbed his stubbled chin. He glanced over the Briton’s shoulder, just to make sure his two bodyguards were still in place. The pair sat at a table near the door, doing nothing except making their beer last as long as possible.

“Understand what I’m going to say next, Bubba. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the people I’m brokering this deal for are fussy. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“They want to see I’m not peddling you a load of scrap iron?”

Regan spread his hands. “You show up hawking a cargo of weapons. So you say. How do I know you ain’t screwin’ me around?”

The Briton nodded.

“I guess with the kind of money they’re offering they have a right to see the merchandise.”

“So it’s no problem?”

“No.”

“How soon can you show me samples?”

“Boat is standing by. I can pick up what we need and have it here later tonight. Your warehouse?”

Regan nodded, smiled and picked up his beer.

“Four a.m. I’ll bring along my client. Let him check the stuff out. If everything is okay, we can complete by tomorrow evening. Just remember he’ll want the full shipment up front before he hands over any cash.”

The Briton stood. “I’ll go and get my people working on it.” He dropped a folded paper onto the table. “My hotel and room number. Give me a call if anything crops up.”

As soon as the Briton had left the bar, Regan beckoned to his men. They came to his table.

“Follow him. Let’s see if he’s who he says. I don’t want this deal screwing up.”

“Don’t you trust him?”

Regan smiled, scrubbing at his unshaven jaw. “I don’t trust anyone.”

One of the bodyguards grinned. “You trust us.”

“Do I? Who the fuck ever said that, Bubba?”

THE BRITON LEFT the bar and made his way along the street. It was already dark. The night warm and sticky. He took his time, knowing full well that Regan would have him followed. It was what he would have done in Regan’s place. He returned to his hotel, collected his key and went directly to his room. Inside he crossed to the window overlooking the street and saw one of Regan’s bodyguards lounging against a storefront on the far side, half hidden in shadow. The man was lighting a cigarette and trying to look as though he belonged. He failed badly. No matter how casual his attitude, he still identified himself as an overmuscled hardman, even down to the bulge where his too-tight jacket fitted over the shoulder-holstered gun he was carrying. The other man had obviously gone into the hotel and was, even now, probably paying the desk clerk to take a look at the Briton’s details in the guest register.

George Reese, British National. Home address, London.

That was what it said in the register. If a deeper probe into Reese’s background was carried out, his background in dubious operations would show. Suspected of involvement in arms smuggling, some drug dealing. His sphere of operations would catalog deals in the Middle East, Asia, South and Central America. George Reese, though traceable if anyone wanted to follow through, was in fact a totally fictitious character who only existed in the computer files at Stony Man Farm, Virginia, U.S.A. Any requests for information on the character would be routed through to Stony Man, where his fictitious profile would be accessible to any tracer. George Reese was nothing more than a cover for one of the Phoenix Force operatives on this particular mission.

David McCarter.

TURNING BACK from the window, McCarter took off his jacket and tossed it onto the bed, went to the dresser and picked up a pack of Player’s cigarettes. He needed one to take away the taste of the tobacco he had purchased from the hotel bar. It was rough, running a close second to the home-brewed beer they sold in the area. He lit the cigarette and took a long draw, sighing with relief.

He took a cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed-dial number. When his call was answered, McCarter asked, “Did you pick me up?”

Calvin James affirmed his query.

“We trailed you back to the hotel. Watched one guy go in while the other stood across the street. Hey, your first guy just came back out. He’s crossing to meet the other one.”

“Let’s hope they bought my biography.”

“Hell, these guys don’t exactly look like they work for the Oxford English Dictionary.”

“You and T.J. follow them. See where they go. Who they meet. Call me if anything happens we need to know about.”

McCarter broke the connection, waited a couple of minutes, then made another call. This time it was to Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo. They were on board the sixty-foot motor vessel anchored off Santa Lorca, along with the cargo Phoenix Force was offering for sale to Regan.

“I did my deal with Regan,” McCarter told Manning when the Canadian answered his call.

“And?”

“I show him samples. Early morning call. Four a.m.”

“Okay. Let’s hope he brings his buyer along. If he doesn’t, we’ve come a long way and set this deal up for nothing.”

“Took our pessimistic pill this morning, did we?”

“You have to admit this has been a hell of a long shot from the word go.”

“So? We’ve worked thinner operations before.”

“Yeah? This one is so thin Stevie Wonder could see through it.”

“Bugger me, is that Canadian humor I hear?”

Manning chuckled softly. “I’ll see you later.”

McCarter glanced at his watch. A long time to go before he made his rendezvous with Regan. He figured to allow himself a couple of hours to get to the boat, pick up the samples and get them to the dock area where Regan’s warehouse stood. Until then he had little to do, so he decided to relax. If anything cropped up, the others would let him know. James and Hawkins were keeping in the background, acting as shadows to cover McCarter, without showing themselves to Regan or his men.

McCarter sauntered down to the hotel bar and asked the man behind the counter if he had any chilled Coke. To his surprise the barman produced cold bottles from a cooler. The Briton took half a dozen and climbed the stairs back to his room a relatively happy man. He closed the door and settled down on the bed, switching on the TV set. It was lucky he had the Coke. It helped to ease the pain of watching old U.S. series dubbed in Spanish. He did some channel hopping and came across three Western series, yet another rerun of Star Trek, and ended up watching Mannix, with every character mouthing out-of-sync Spanish.

McCarter watched the episode, through. He smoked three more cigarettes and downed two bottles of Coke. He was feeling better. He switched off the TV, eased his long frame off the bed and crossed to the window. It was quiet down below. The Briton spent a few minutes at the window, letting the faint breeze cool him. He was about to turn away when he picked up a sound from the other side of his room door. McCarter stepped away from the window and crossed the room to stand against the wall to one side of the door. He turned his head slightly and picked up a scrap of sound. It was the sound of a floorboard creaking under weight. The weight was quickly removed but only made the board creak again. A man’s hushed voice expressed impatience and elicited a sharp response.

At least two.

But what were they doing outside his room?

The Briton decided he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. As he eased his Browning Hi-Power from the shoulder holster he was wearing, the door handle moved slightly as pressure was put on it from the other side. He flicked off the main room light, leaving on just a small lamp on a table beside the bed.

The door swung open and two men stepped inside, scanning the room as they did. Both were armed with pistols. Seeing the room apparently empty seemed to confuse the pair for a few seconds and McCarter used the time to his advantage. He booted the door shut and as the gunners swung around he launched himself into action.

The barrel of the Browning cracked down across the wrist of the closer man, the hard blow numbing his grip on the pistol he carried. As the man grunted in pain, McCarter rapped the Browning against the side of his skull, hard, stunning the guy. As the first man slumped to his knees, McCarter turned his upper body and drove his bunched left fist into the second man’s face. The blow was delivered with full force, cracking against the target’s jaw. His head snapped around, blood spraying from a split lip. The guy fell back against the wall. The Phoenix Force leader was already closing on him, his right knee coming up in a blur to drive into the guy’s exposed stomach. The breath gusted from his slack mouth and the man clutched himself. He offered no resistance as McCarter snatched his pistol from his hand. Stepping back, the Briton kicked the first guy’s gun across the room, then backed up himself to cover the two men.

“I don’t suppose you bums are room service? No? Didn’t think so. So who are you?”

“Someone you don’t want to mess around with.”

McCarter glanced at the speaker. The accent wasn’t local. There was something familiar about it. European? Slavic maybe? Difficult to tell. The man had been mixing with other cultures and had lost a degree of his native cadence.

“Might be a good idea if you stopped watching cheap movies,” McCarter said. “Coming up with a line like that. Bloody terrible. Now why don’t we stop being silly. Just tell me who you are and what you want.”

“We want you out of Santa Lorca. We do business here. This is our territory.”

McCarter grinned. “Losing out, are you? Tough. You blokes never heard of competition? Now I suggest you get the hell out of my room and stay away from me.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand. But take it from me, chum. If you keep this up I’ll kill you. No second chances. Keep that thought when you leave. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

The two men glanced at each other. They were in a bind. No weapons, and it was plain to see that the man they had come to hassle was in no way disturbed by their presence. They gathered themselves and moved to the door. McCarter followed them into the passage and stayed until they had disappeared down the stairs. He went back into his room, closing and locking the door. He picked up the discarded weapons and placed them in his leather holdall. Then he got back on his cell phone and spoke to James again. He explained what had happened.

“You think this could cause us problems?”

“If we’ve stepped on the toes of the local union of gunrunners it could get busy. The sooner we have our meet with Regan’s buyer, the better. All we need is to identify the buyer, grab him if he fits the bill, then get the hell out of this sweatbox and go home.”

“Our boys here only went back to the bar and spoke to Regan. Looks like he was just checking up on you. We’ll keep an eye on them.”

“Okay.”

McCarter put in a call to Manning and gave him an update.

“Let’s hope they don’t decide to do something drastic like hit the ship,” McCarter said. “Losing a piece of action is making these guys a little tetchy.”

“Let’s hope your meet goes smoothly,” Manning said.

MCCARTER PULLED UP outside Regan’s warehouse, cutting the engine of the battered Jeep 4x4 he’d rented from a local contact. He checked out the dock area. It appeared deserted, but the Briton never took anything on face value. There were a hundred places where a man with a weapon could hide. Taking that thought to its logical conclusion, McCarter realized there could be a hundred armed men in hiding. It was a sobering thought. Enough to make him pull a pack of Player’s cigarettes from his pocket and fire one up. The smoke he took in eased his tension a little. McCarter exhaled and glanced quickly at his watch. Almost time.

At the far end of the dock a car appeared, easing around the edge of the most distant warehouse. It moved forward slowly, headlights picking out McCarter’s parked Jeep. The Phoenix Force leader reached across to make sure his Browning was still beside him on the passenger seat.

The advancing car came to a stop twenty feet away. Both front doors opened and Regan’s hardmen stepped out. They moved to the rear doors and opened them. McCarter saw Regan step out of one door. The man who emerged from the other side of the car was unknown to the Phoenix Force commander. Dressed in a dark suit and shirt, even down to a black tie, he stayed a few steps behind Regan, who led the way along the dock until he was no more than a couple of feet from the Jeep.

“At least you’re on time, Bubba,’’ he said as McCarter stepped from his vehicle.

“And I’ve brought your samples.”

McCarter turned to the rear of the Jeep and lifted out a rolled tarp. He carried it to the front of the vehicle and laid the tarp on the hood. McCarter unrolled the bundle to expose two M-16 A-2 rifles, one fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher. There was also a Beretta 92-F and a LAW rocket launcher.

Regan stepped forward to look over the weapons.

“Go ahead,” McCarter said. “They won’t fall apart.”

Regan picked up one of the M-16s and examined it thoroughly. He knew his weapons, expertly stripping the rifle and reassembling it with practiced ease. He did the same with the Beretta.

“Good condition,” he said. “If I asked where you got them?”

“You’d get the same answer I would if I asked who you banked with.”

Regan chuckled. He turned to his rear seat passenger. “You want to check these out?”

The man moved forward into a patch of light. He was lean, his complexion dark, a trimmed beard and mustache covering the lower half of his face. He wore steel-rimmed glasses. He barely glanced at McCarter as he reached out to pick up one of the Berettas, turning it over, working the slide. Once he had the weapon in his hands his attitude visibly changed. His stance relaxed, his gaze fixed on the pistol. The weapon worked like a drug, soothing him. He nodded slowly, his lips moving as he carried on some inner conversation with himself, slender fingers caressing the smooth, cool metal.

McCarter felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. The man was a little creepy, he decided. The Briton glanced across at Regan, who returned his gaze and offered a brief shrug.

The prospective buyer placed the Beretta back on the tarp. He gathered his thoughts and cleared his throat.

“Excellent. I believe we can make our trade. You know what we require, Regan. The price as agreed. I will bring cash. U.S. dollars. Make your arrangements.” He offered McCarter the briefest of glances. “I will take delivery myself.”

He turned then and made his way back to the car, leaving McCarter and Regan alone on the dock.

“I thought he was going to make a bloody date with that Beretta,” McCarter said.

“As long as his money is genuine, I don’t care if he takes the fuckin’ thing to bed with him, Bubba.”

“Regan, you’re all heart.”

“Ain’t I just. You got enough stock on that boat to fill this order?”

“No problem. Just tell me where and when.”

“Right here. How about this evening? Around eight?”

McCarter wrapped his weapons back in the tarp. He placed them in the rear of the Jeep.

“I’ll have the boat in the harbor, waiting for my call,” he said to Regan.

Regan nodded and turned back toward his car.

McCarter waited until he was alone before he took out his cell phone and called Manning.

“ID confirmed. The buyer is Kamal Rasheed.”

“Have you arranged the deal?”

“Eight o’clock tonight. Regan’s warehouse.”

“I’d better let Jack know. We want him standing by at the airstrip. This is where it could get hairy.”

“It’s been quiet up to now,” McCarter said. “I don’t feel comfortable with the setup.”

“You worry too much.”

“Somebody has to.”

MANNING CONTACTED Jack Grimaldi. The Stony Man pilot was waiting at a small airstrip a few miles along the coast from Cristobal. He had an old but fully maintained Douglas DC-3 on standby, ready to airlift Phoenix Force out of the country. He had flown in two days earlier after receiving a signal from Manning. In Santa Lorca, anything more sophisticated landing at the airstrip would have aroused deep suspicion and questions.

“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Grimaldi had said after Manning had advised the deal was to go through the following evening. “This going to be a quiet farewell party? Or do I break out the flak jackets?”

“Anybody’s guess, Jack. You know how these things can change. David did have some unwelcome visitors at his hotel. Santa Lorca Mafia tried to scare him off.”

“Wish I’d been there to see that.”

“Just keep your eyes open in case. I have a feeling when we come to hitch our ride we’ll be in a hurry.”

“No problem. Let me know when you’re getting close.”

Manning cut the call and turned to Rafael Encizo. “Let’s go check the charges.”

Encizo nodded and the Phoenix Force pair went belowdecks to check out the thermal charges Manning had installed in the motor vessel’s hold. They were more for protection than anything else, a noisy distraction in case the team needed to make a rapid withdrawal.

JACK GRIMALDI HAD the DC-3 ready and waiting by late afternoon. He had topped up the fuel supply, paying the owner of the strip in cash. The man had retreated to his control hut, putting up the shutters for the rest of the day.

With the instincts of a born pilot, Grimaldi had spent the previous few hours running checks on the aircraft. It wasn’t in his nature to leave anything to chance. Faults that occurred at fifteen thousand feet took on a significance that might not have seemed so bad on the ground. Grimaldi had too much respect for his, and the team’s, lives to allow something like that to happen.

With the DC-3 locked down, Grimaldi retreated to the cockpit. He had the plane positioned so he could see the approach road from Cristobal. He settled into the pilot’s seat and leaned over to check the 9 mm Uzi and Beretta 92-F stored at his side.

Satisfied, he relaxed and wound down to wait. As a backup pilot for the Sensitive Operations Group, much of Grimaldi’s time was spent waiting. He usually didn’t resent it. His was one of those functions that required him to be there when he was wanted, and when that time came he had to be on the spot, with all engines running. He got involved in the action from time to time, and always acquitted himself well. Jack Grimaldi was no slouch when it came to battle. Conversely he had learned the combat soldier’s creed of always resting when the situation allowed. The same applied to food and drink. Any break in hostilities meant weapons checks, food and rest. Once the heat was turned up again there was no way of telling when there would be another lull. So refueling, mentally and physically, were the priorities. Grimaldi’s mentor, Mack Bolan, had opened the ace pilot’s eyes to these unwritten rules. He had taken them to heart and lived by those rules every time he went on a mission.

Port Cristobal Dock

CALVIN JAMES AND T.J. Hawkins were in position on the roof of the next warehouse along from Regan’s. They had been there since late afternoon, clad in blacksuits and armed with their personal weapons and M-16 A-2 rifles. For communications they wore lightweight Tac-Com headsets.

Down on the dockside McCarter wore similar gear, as did Manning and Encizo on the boat.

They were on the far side of the harbor, in among a scattering of moored vessels, waiting for McCarter’s signal to bring the boat in.

The Briton glanced at his watch. It was seconds before eight. Shadows were starting to crawl out of the corners, pushing over the dock. A soft red glow spread across the Pacific. It would be full dark in an hour.

The Phoenix Force leader turned as sound caught his attention.

The roller door to Regan’s warehouse began to open, rattling against steel guides. As it reached head height, figures appeared in the opening. Regan, flanked by his two hardmen.

Just behind, still in his dark clothing, was Kamal Rasheed. He was carrying a black leather attaché case in his right hand. Three men stood close by him, almost blocking him from McCarter’s view.

“Seven, I can see,” McCarter said softly into his microphone.

“Affirmative. Seven,” Calvin James answered.

“Just remember trust is for children and cute puppy dogs,” McCarter added. “And incidentally, it’s my arse on the line down here.”

“Sorry, boss, didn’t get that last line,” Hawkins said.

Regan walked across the dock and stared out over the harbor. He glanced at McCarter.

“Cute outfit.”

“My tennis whites stand out too much.”

“When you’re ready, Bubba,” Regan said, reaching across and tapping McCarter’s microphone.

“Okay, boys, bring her in,” the Briton said.

The boat eased into view, moving out from the cluster of other vessels and heading toward dockside. Manning was at the wheel, with Encizo standing at the bow. As the craft reached the dock, Manning brought it around, easing the vessel up to the mooring point. Encizo threw a rope to McCarter, who looped it around a mooring ring. The Briton secured the line. Manning cut the engine.

Regan turned to signal his men.

McCarter heard a soft voice in his earpiece.

“Four coming in from north end of dock,” James said. “On foot. All armed.”

“I can’t see them,” McCarter growled. “Where?”

“Behind the yellow dock crane. They’re moving out now.”

The sudden flurry of movement caught McCarter’s attention. He spotted the armed newcomers as they broke into a run, rapidly closing on the warehouse frontage. He reached inside his jacket and hauled out the Browning.

“Friends of yours, Bubba?” he asked Regan.

“Fucking hell, no,” the man yelled, pulling his own handgun.

There was one of those extended moments of immobility as everyone assessed the situation.

And then the dock was racked by the sound of autofire.

The first volley of autofire reached out in the direction of Regan’s hardmen, punching into flesh and taking out one man, dropping the second to his knees. Even as the man tried to pull his weapon, a second burst from one of the attackers tore through his throat and dropped him on his back, blood bubbling from his torn flesh.

Rasheed took a step back, his trio of bodyguards forming a human shield around him. One gave a startled cry as he took a couple of slugs in his right shoulder. The impact pushed him off balance and he fell against Rasheed, knocking the man to his knees. The wounded bodyguard pulled a stubby SMG from under his coat and turned to return fire as the other bodyguards bent to help Rasheed.

From his position on the warehouse roof, Hawkins settled his sights on the lead attacker and put two 5.56 mm slugs in the guy’s chest. Dead on his feet, the target fell, legs giving way under him. He flopped onto his back, the rest of his team pushing forward, still firing.

McCarter, down on one knee, brought his Browning up double-handed and fired. His two shots hit one of the attackers in the shoulder, tearing through the padding of flesh and shattering the man’s collarbone. The guy went down, on his knees, all thought of aggression wiped from his mind as the initial numbness gave way to pain. He put a hand to his shoulder and fingered ragged shards of bone protruding from the wound.

“Gary, Rafe, take Rasheed.”

“You got it.”

Encizo, wielding a 9 mm Uzi, scrambled onto the dock. Manning was behind him, pausing only long enough to activate the timer that would transmit the detonation of the incendiary package he had laid in the hold. On the dock, he followed Encizo.

Hawkins took out another of the attack group, his 3-round burst slamming the guy to the dock in a twisting tumble. The man tried to get to his feet in a show of sheer resistance. Hawkins fired once more, laying the 5.56 mm slug through the top of the target’s skull.

Kamal Rasheed was yelling wildly to his remaining bodyguards. They formed a line in front of him, pushing him back toward the warehouse door in an attempt to get him under cover. At the same time they lifted their pistols at the advancing Manning and Encizo.

Regan turned his attention on the remaining attacker. The man had a transceiver in his hand and was yelling into it.

“Son of a bitch,” Regan screamed, losing control. He raised his pistol and began to fire, pulling the trigger in a frenzy of rage. “Try to queer my deal, you assholes!”

The majority of his shots missed, but enough found their mark, driving the target backward, bloody eruptions bursting from his chest.

McCarter swung around and moved to assist his partners. As he did, Encizo, ignoring the shots peppering the dock around him, took out one of Rasheed’s remaining bodyguards, placing a single shot in the guy’s head. As the man fell, Calvin James triggered a close shot that removed the surviving bodyguard.

“Let’s move,” McCarter yelled.

He took off across the dock, reaching Kamal Rasheed as the Iraqi ducked under the warehouse door. McCarter caught hold of the man’s coat collar and hauled him back. He snatched the attaché case from Rasheed’s grip.

“You cannot…” Rahseed protested.

“I’ll tell you just once. Shut it, keep it shut, or I will bury you here and now.”

Rasheed stared into the Briton’s eyes and saw a gleam of wildness there that convinced him he would be wise to do as he was told.

“Fire in the hole,” Manning warned as he glanced at his watch, seeing the second hand sweeping toward the end of the time set on the explosive pack.

The Canadian’s estimate was out by around three seconds. There was a muted thump as the detonators went off, followed by a harsh crackle and blinding light that burst out of the open hatch covers. The intense power of the incendiary charges spread and began to burn the motor vessel.

“Reassemble,” McCarter said into his microphone, calling James and Hawkins down off the roof.

He caught Encizo’s attention. “Go and bring the wagon. We need to be out of here fast.”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Regan yelled.

McCarter rounded on him. He barged straight in, stiff-arming Regan in the chest and bouncing him off the warehouse wall. Regan made a token gesture with the gun he still held in his hand. McCarter ignored it, pushing the muzzle of his Browning into the soft flesh under Regan’s chin. The gunrunner made a soft sound. He let his own weapon fall from his fingers.

“Think before you answer, Bubba, because if it isn’t the one I need…”

“What?”

“Where did chummy over there want those guns delivered?”

Regan was many things. He wasn’t a fool. He’d seen the way these men operated. His death wouldn’t mean a thing to them, so he raised both hands in surrender.

“Same place as the other shipments. Mexico. Nuevo Laredo. Local guy named Luiz Santos. Then over the border into the U.S. But I don’t know where. You can blow my balls off and I still wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

McCarter kept up the pressure, pushing until the steel muzzle really hurt.

“Let me make one thing clear. If we go to Mexico and find Santos has got the word, you will expect us back here. And balls could well be at the top of our list. Understand, Bubba?”

Regan nodded.

“No second chance, Regan. We get burned, we always come back.”

“Christ, looks like I got enough problems with those local suppliers we just tangled with. Last thing I need is you on my fuckin’ back. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t need to.”

“We’re just a collection service,” McCarter said. “We’ve got what we came for.”

Regan eyed Rasheed. “Him? He’s worth all this trouble?”

“He’s worth it,” the Phoenix Force leader said.

Behind them the boat’s fuel tank ruptured and sent a fiery cascade across the water. Some of the burning fuel spilled across the edge of the dock.

“Tell me something,” Regan said. “The guns on that boat. They real, or was that part of the scam?”

McCarter smiled.

“Real. But they were all spiked. Except the ones I showed you. Hell, Regan, don’t you know it’s against the law to sell stolen weapons?”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Aren’t I just.”

The Jeep 4x4, Encizo at the wheel, swung into view from behind one of the warehouses. The moment he braked, Manning opened one of the rear doors and pushed a resisting Kamal Rasheed into the vehicle. James and Hawkins appeared. James climbed into the Jeep, so that Rasheed was between him and Manning. Hawkins took the center position in the front, leaving the final space for McCarter. He climbed in and slammed the door, feeling the Jeep surge as Encizo pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

Leaving Port Cristobal, Encizo picked up the road that would connect them with the airstrip. Once they left the town behind, the tarmac surface petered out so that they were driving on a dusty, uneven strip that had more ruts than they had ever seen in one stretch of road.

“Any chance you can get more speed out of this thing?” McCarter asked.

“Right now we’re close to takeoff speed,” Encizo told him. “If we come off this road we’ll probably launch into orbit.”

McCarter laughed. “I wish.”

“Hey,” Manning said, “I think someone has called in backup.”

McCarter looked in the rearview mirror, recalling one of the attackers on the dock sending a message via his transceiver. A dark SUV was trailing in their dusty wake, clinging to the rough road as if it were on rails. The big and powerful vehicle was brand-new. It looked as if it had the power to overtake and run the ancient Jeep off the road.

“Look at him move,” Hawkins said.

“Confirms one thing,” James said. “There are two maniac drivers in Santa Lorca and I’m a passenger with one of them.”

“You want to live forever?” Encizo asked.

“Maybe not, but the next ten minutes would be nice.” James grinned.

Following on his remark came the crackle of autofire. Winks of light showed from the pursuing vehicle. A couple of slugs clanged against the Jeep’s bodywork. The rear window cracking as a stray slug bounced off the toughened glass.

“Those bastards are bound to get lucky before we hit the airstrip,” Hawkins said.

The Jeep began to climb a long incline. Manning checked the position of the SUV, then leaned forward to watch the crest of the slope coming up.

“Foot down, Rafe,” he said. “If there’s a downslope on the other side, keep the speed up until I tell you, then hit the brake.”

Encizo nodded. He trod on the gas pedal and put the Jeep along the road at dizzying speed. He saw the crest coming fast, then the Jeep cleared the hump and left the road for long seconds. It came down with a thump that jolted the passengers violently. The Jeep bottomed out, scraping up earth and creating a thick swirl of dust that misted the air behind them. Encizo felt the wheel wrench in his hands and had to use all of his strength to keep the vehicle on the road.

“Hey, Rafe,” Hawkins said, turning to check behind them again. “You know how they do that in movies and the cars come out in one piece?”

“So?”

“I think we left some bodywork behind us.”

Manning’s guess had been correct. There was a slope on the far side of the hump. The Jeep bowled along it, bouncing once again as it hit the level road.

“Now,” Manning demanded.

Encizo hit the brake and hung on to the wheel as the Jeep slowed, sliding to one side.

The moment the speed had dropped to a safe level, Gary Manning eased open his door and cleared the vehicle. He turned immediately and faced the slope they had just come down, bringing his M-16 to his shoulder.

As Manning raised the rifle, the roar of the pursuing SUV’s powerful engine increased as it burst into view over the hump in the road and sped in their direction.

Manning watched the SUV as it sped toward him. Once it was in range, he stepped forward and tracked in the M-16. He knew the American rifle well. He was also the team’s lead sniper, deadly accurate with a rifle. He was entirely comfortable with the M-16 and now he sighted in on the oncoming SUV. The driver had to have seen the Phoenix Force commando’s armed figure. He jammed on the brakes, putting the big vehicle into a dust-kicking skid.

Manning wasn’t about to allow the opposition time to take cover. He opened fire, placing his shots in the visible front tire, the 5.56 mm slugs tearing and shredding the rubber. The tire flattened and the SUV’s steering went leaden in the driver’s hands. The vehicle lurched and rocked, threatening to overturn, but remained upright as it came to a juddering halt.

One of the rear doors swung open and an armed man sprang out, swinging his own weapon into play. Manning hit him in the chest with a pair of rounds. The man bounced off the side of the SUV, pitching facedown in the dust. Manning immediately switched his aim and began to jack off shot after shot into the windshield and the side windows. Glass imploded and they could see shapes inside the SUV struggling to get clear. The driver’s door opened and an already bloody figure tumbled out, hauling his SMG into play. He fired a burst in Manning’s general direction. Manning hit him with a single shot that entered just above his right eye and cored through and out the back of his head, blowing brain scraps onto the SUV’s door.

The big Canadian took another couple of steps forward, the M-16 already following its next target as another gunrunner emerged from the far side of the SUV. He had stayed low until the moment he raised his head above the hood of the vehicle, searching for the shooter who was eliminating his partners. He never even had time to see his killer. Manning’s M-16 cracked once and the bullet blew off the back of his skull. The man did a complete turnaround before he slammed facedown on the ground.

It became very still after that.

Manning remained on full alert, watching the enemy vehicle. He couldn’t see any movement inside the vehicle and decided that his shots through the windows of the SUV had taken out any others still inside. He took a couple of steps back, freeing the magazine from the M-16 and feeding a fresh one into the receiver.

McCarter stepped up beside him. “Persistent buggers, aren’t they,” he commented.

“Were,” Manning corrected.

The Briton touched him on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the Santa Lorca militia decide to chip in.”

“This burg got a militia?”

McCarter shrugged.

They returned to the Jeep and Encizo moved off. He pushed the vehicle as fast as was safe on the dirt road. A couple of miles out from the strip, James put in a call to Jack Grimaldi.

“Crank up that crate, Flyboy. We’ll be checking in anytime now.”

“Ready when you are, ladies. Make sure you wipe your boots before you come aboard. I run a clean ship.”

ENCIZO TOOK the Jeep across the airfield and parked just behind the DC-3. The engines were already running, turning over smoothly. Grimaldi leaned out of the cockpit, waving at his passengers as they made for the open hatch. As the last man in pulled the hatch shut, the Stony Man pilot released the brakes, boosted the power and the aircraft began to move. Grimaldi coasted to the end of the runaway and waited until he had the engines balanced and trimmed. Then he upped the throttles and the DC-3 began to roll along the strip.

They lifted off into a sky that was darkening around them. Grimaldi banked the aircraft onto its correct heading once they were out over the Pacific. He settled back in his seat, enjoying the experience of piloting an aircraft like the DC-3. It was real flying as far as he was concerned. No digital readouts or satellite-controlled flight settings. Just his hands on the controls, a far cry from supersonic jets and even his beloved Dragon Slayer. For Jack Grimaldi this was a flight of pure indulgence and he was enjoying every minute of it.

KAMAL RASHEED HAD BEEN handcuffed to his seat with metal handcuffs. He resented Phoenix Force, making his feelings known whenever anyone came close to him.

“Do all the ranting you want, mate,” McCarter told the Iraqi. “When we reach the U.S. you’ll be handed over to the people who are going to be looking after you from now on, and I can tell you they aren’t as nice as we are.”

Rasheed glared at the Briton. “You should reconsider what you are doing. Do you realize who I am?”

“Don’t remind me. Kamal Rasheed. One of Saddam Hussein’s little helpers. We have a nice long file on you. And what a bloody charmer.”

“You dare to judge me?”

“Damn right I do.”

“Because I am Muslim you have decided I am your enemy.”

“Change the record, Rasheed. You people keep bleating on about your religion like it’s the reason for everything. I don’t care who you worship. This isn’t about religion. It’s about a bunch of bullies who held their own country to ransom, put everyone who wasn’t in their club in fear. You terrorized them, tortured them, kept them in ignorance and stole every bloody thing you could get your thieving fingers on. Kids died from malnutrition while you miserable bastards had gold taps fitted to your bathrooms, ran around in luxury cars and salted away billions of dollars in your personal accounts. That had nothing to do with religion of any kind, so don’t throw that one at me.”

“Because you have me, do you think it will stop what we are going to do? We have God on our side, and we will win.”

“See? You can’t open your mouth without using your religion as an excuse. Just for once talk to me man-to-man. Stop bloody hiding behind God.”

The expression in Rasheed’s eyes hardened. “You are not fit to speak of him. This is why we will destroy you. Maybe not this year. Or the next. But we will in the end, because we are chosen.”

McCarter backed off, shaking his head. “What the hell am I wasting my breath for? This bloke is on automatic pilot. Open him up, I’ll bet you find a recorder inside with a tape-loop quoting the phrase of the day.”

“Hard to communicate with someone tuned out of real conversation,” Hawkins said. “Hey, boss, what do we do with this?”

He held up the attaché case. McCarter reached out and took it.

“We sneak a look.”

He sat on one of the side benches bolted to the DC-3 deck. McCarter laid the case across his thighs and examined the locks. He tried one and the clasp sprang open. McCarter repeated the operation with the other lock. He raised the lid. Stacked inside the case was a thick layer of one hundred dollar bills. The layer was four deep.

“What have we got here?” Hawkins asked.

“My next month’s salary,” McCarter said. “Short a couple of bucks.”

He took out one of the banded stacks of bills and flicked the end with his finger.

“Man, you could buy all the cigarettes you’ll ever need with that,” Hawkins breathed, visibly impressed by the amount in the one stack of bills.

“And have change for a few cases of Coke.”

Hawkins raised his eyes to look across at Rasheed. The fedayeen had his gaze fixed on the case.

“I think we pissed him off lookin’ at his stash,” Hawkins said.

McCarter replaced the money as something else caught his eye. Resting in the leather pocket on the inside of the case lid was a grained-leather personal organizer. The Briton reached for it, pulling it from the pocket and turning it over in his hands.

Unable to conceal his panic, Rasheed lunged forward in his seat, coming to an abrupt stop as he reached the limit of the handcuff chain. The metal of the bracelet dug into his flesh, drawing blood. The Iraqi ignored the pain as he watched McCarter examining the organizer.

McCarter heard the sound as Rasheed fought his handcuffs. He realized it was the discovery of the organizer that had agitated the Iraqi, not the money.

“T.J., I believe we have Mr. Rahseed’s attention.”