TEXT: Scanned by Highroller.
  Proofed by Highroller.
  Freedom comes at a high price and requires constant guardianship. Taken for granted, it can slip
  away all too easily. When the hand weakens and the eye turns aside, the time may come when the
  resolve needs to be strengthened. And in those times there may be a need for armed conflict to
  restore the balance. As always it is the men and women of the Armed Services who must carry
  that burden. They bear the brunt of the inevitable clash of arms, and they do so in the spirit of
  the pledge they made to ever defend and protect our peace. Their fight goes on. They continue
  to suffer and often to make the ultimate sacrifice. They deserve both our respect and our
  enduring gratitude.
  PROLOGUE
  San Remo, Italian Riviera
  Abe Keen had a lead. The freelance investigative reporter was involved in a project chasing
  down former members of Saddam Hussein's administration, and he'd been working on his story
  for the past three months. Keen had succeeded in identifying and photographing four of the
  former dictator's cabinet members who had managed to escape from Iraq as the coalition forces
  moved in. Working from tip-offs from his not-inconsiderable sources, Keen had journeyed to a
  villa on the Italian Riviera, where he was expecting to find a group of the hard-line inner circle. If
  the information was true and he managed to get the final batch of photographs, the journalist
  would have everything he needed to complete his series of articles.
  Keen was perched on an outcrop overlooking the villa. From his vantage point, armed with his
  camera and telephoto lens, he was able to look down on the pool and the patio surrounding it.
  Three hours had passed, but as yet he'd seen nothing of significance.
  He was used to long periods of inactivity. It came with the job. The great pictures seldom came
  easy. Not in Keen's line of business. He wasn't looking for that defining moment when the lens
  caught a fragment of life at its most fragile. Keen was a hunter. His life paralleled the man in the
  bush, stalking his prey and waiting for the right time to squeeze the trigger. It was often a long
  time coming, and one of the first things the hunter had to learn was patience. The ability to sit
  for long periods, doing nothing. Just waiting. Waiting for that split second when his quarry
  presented itself in the crosshairs. Keen had honed his craft over the years. Now it was part of
  him. Just as breathing was a natural function, so was Keen's ability to let the moment come to
  him—and when it did he grasped it and froze it on film.
  Below him there was movement on the poolside. First, the armed bodyguards. Even though the
  villa was behind high walls, with electronic warning systems, the bodyguards always came out
  and scanned the immediate area. They moved with the precise actions of men who breathed
  security. Once they had the poolside secure, they stood back while the principals came out and
  took their places around the table, talking among themselves.
  Keen put his eye to the viewfinder of his 35mm camera, using the motor-driven, powerful
  telephoto lens to check out each of the four men around the table. As each one came into sharp
  focus, Keen pressed the release button and photographed him.
  He knew them all well. They were all fedayeen, ex-members of Saddam Hussein's regime, faithful
  carriers of the flame still dedicated to Iraq's old guard. These men lived and breathed for the day
  they could return to Iraq and take up their former positions and rule the country once more.
  They were dreamers who closed their eyes to reality, fervently clinging to the tattered remains of
  a defeated and crushed dictatorship. Regardless of the inevitably of the outcome, they
  steadfastly refused to accept it.
  Keen's diligence had paid off. Here, now, he had his final proof. The four fedayeen were
  gathered in one place, most likely discussing their plans for a victorious return to Baghdad.
  Watching them, Keen decided it might even be sad if it wasn't scary. These men were no
  amateurs. Far from being idealistic dreamers, they were hard, ruthless men, who had killed in the
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  name of the old regime and who would kill again if the need arose. He had no doubts on that
  score. Whether or not they succeeded in their planned return to power, the quartet below would
  create a lot of death and suffering if they were allowed to carry on with their plans.
  Sudden movement by the open sliding doors that led poolside caught Keen's attention. He
  swung the camera lens in that direction and saw a tall, broad figure step out of the villa. The man
  was dressed in light clothing, his dark hair cut short against his skull. He paused as the bright sun
  caught him and raised a large hand to shield his face. He turned and crossed to the table where
  the four men had pushed to their feet. Keen watched as each man stepped forward to embrace
  the newcomer.
  For a few moments the group stood talking, and then, as if by some invisible signal, the four
  returned to their seats and waited for the newcomer to join them. There was a spare seat at one
  end of the table. The man moved to it and sat. He stared around the table, at each man in turn,
  speaking to them individually. He finally sat back, placing his large hands flat on the table in
  front of him and for the first time raised his head, giving Keen the opportunity to focus on his
  face. As the lens brought the face into sharp relief Keen's finger hovered over the release button,
  ready to take the photograph.
  He froze, staring at the image the camera gave him. his finger hovered over the button as his
  disbelieving mind held him in immobility. He might have stayed that way if his professionalism
  hadn't clicked in. His finger came down on the button and the camera took a succession of
  shots. It was only as the sound of the shuttering mechanism intruded that Keen snapped back to
  reality. He took his finger off the button and sat back, still taking in what he had seen.
  To be precise, who he had seen—a man who had been pronounced and identified as dead
  during the war. The man had been killed during a running battle with an American Special
  Forces team in the northern Iraqi town of Tikrit. He had been found in the ruins of an official
  party headquarters, his body having taken the full force of a grenade. In a local hospital, a doctor
  had examined the body and carried out an autopsy. When his report had been delivered, it had
  identified the dead man.
  Razan Khariza.
  A colonel in Hussein's military, Khariza had been hated and despised for his treatment of Iraqi
  citizens. He had a penchant for torture. For devising and utilizing terrible means for extracting
  information, or for simply inflicting pain on those who stood up against the former regime.
  Khariza was a man who had little respect for his own people. He had willingly participated in
  purges within the administration, turning against people he had previously called friends. In his
  other capacity he had undertaken the purchase and importation of weapons and technology
  aimed at improving Iraq's offensive ordnance. Khariza had traveled extensively on behalf of the
  regime, making and fostering contacts in a number of countries and with individuals able to
  arrange the purchase of weapons and equipment.
  He had supposedly been killed during the hostilities.
  But here he was, alive and well, heading a meeting with the very men he had commanded during
  the time he had served the former dictator of Iraq.
  Now, with the image still large in his viewfinder, Keen realized he had stumbled on to something
  big. He had no doubt he was looking at Khariza. He knew the man's face well. This was no
  lookalike. Razan Khariza had never used a double. There had been no need. He'd never had a
  high profile. His work was done in the shadows, out of the light of day. And if he was dead,
  what would be the purpose of someone impersonating him?
  There would be no logic to that. A double might have the appearance but wouldn't carry what
  was in Khariza's head. Keen was convinced he was looking at the genuine article, and the more
  he studied the man, the more he started to understand the recent activity among the group
  Khariza was talking with right now.
  There had been a great deal of coming and going from the villa over the past few days. Keen
  had been curious as to why. Now he understood. The group had been preparing for Razan
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  Khariza's appearance. Now he was here, in the flesh, and Abe Keen knew something was being
  organized.
  He used up the rest of his roll taking as many shots as he could, then put his camera away. He
  slung his bag over his shoulder and backed away from his vantage point. He moved carefully,
  staying in cover until he was well clear, then gained his feet and negotiated the slope that would
  take him back to where he had parked his rental on the road that wound up into the hills from
  the main highway. It provided access to the villas scattered around the hills and cars were always
  driving back and forth through the area.
  He unlocked the Peugeot's door and slipped in behind the wheel. He started the car and turned
  it around, driving back to the main road and heading for San Remo. His mind was full of
  questions he didn't have answers to. Keen was trying to work out what Khariza was up to. He
  hadn't shown himself simply to have a get-together party with his old friends from the regime.
  The five men seated at that table were hard-line loyalists of the former regime. Keen had no
  illusions. The five were planning something.
  He just wished he knew what.
  Keen's car had gone, leaving only a faint mist of dust in the warm air. A man eased out of the
  undergrowth, pausing to brush a hand over his clothing. He carried an expensive digital camera
  in his free hand. He made sure it was secure before he slipped it into a pocket inside his suede
  jacket. The action pushed aside the jacket to briefly expose the Glock autopistol carried in a
  shoulder holster.
  He made his way down the side road, having to step to the side as cars appeared and drove by.
  He returned to where his partner was waiting in a car some distance along the road that wound
  its way in the direction of the villa. He took out a transceiver. He activated it and raised it to his
  lips, speaking to the person who responded to his call.
  "Yes. There was someone watching. We think he was taking photographs of the villa. It was too
  risky to do anything here. Too many cars up and down the road. But I know what car he is
  driving. We can trace him through that And I took photographs of him. We can run it through
  our database. Once we identify him, something can be done. Don't concern yourself over that. It
  will be taken care of."
  Keen drove directly to his hotel, parked the car and went to his room. The first thing he did was
  to rewind the film in his camera and remove it. He took out a new roll of film and put it in his
  camera, pressing the release button to expose about half the film. He placed the camera in its
  case, then he sat on the edge of the bed, studying the roll of film in his hand, debating his next
  move.
  Ten minutes later Keen left the hotel and drove across town to a photo store. He knew the man
  who ran it. After a few moments discussing the price, Keen was installed in the darkroom at the
  rear of the store. An hour later he was done. He had processed and printed the images captured
  on the film. With the results in a manila envelope, he returned to where he had parked his car
  and drove back to the hotel.
  He spread the photos out across the bed and studied them. He had printed off two sets. He
  slipped one set of prints into a padded envelope and wrote his own London address on the
  front. Calling the desk, he asked for a seat to be booked on the next available flight to London.
  The desk returned his call ten minutes later and confirmed they had him booked on a flight that
  left at eight-thirty that evening.
  Keen took a laptop from its case, placed it on the writing desk and connected it to one of the
  room's power points. From his equipment case he took a slim scanner and plugged it into the
  laptop. He disconnected the room phone from the socket and plugged in a modem cable from
  the laptop. He spent the next ten minutes scanning a number of the photographs, assigning them
  to document files before accessing his e-mail address book. He scanned the list of names until he
  found the one he wanted and opened a new e-mail. He typed in a brief message, attached the
  document files and sent the message. The files took time being transmitted, but Keen was
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  eventually rewarded with the acknowledgment that his e-mail and attachments had been
  successfully delivered.
  Working steadily, he disconnected his equipment and stored it all away in the carry bag,
  including the set of prints he had scanned. He reconnected the room phone, then glanced at his
  watch. Still plenty of time before his flight. Keen checked the room, making sure he had packed
  everything. Then he called the desk again and asked for his room bill. He picked up his luggage
  and left the room, making his way down to the lobby. At the desk he settled his bill, paying for
  his flight at the same time. His ticket would be waiting for him at the check-in at the airport.
  His luggage was placed in the trunk of the Peugeot. Keen climbed in and drove away. He had
  things to do before he headed for the airport.
  His first stop was at the main post office where he had the padded envelope weighed and
  stamped. He paid for airmail delivery, then returned to the parked Peugeot and picked up the
  route that would take him to the airport.
  He had been driving for no more than five minutes when he spotted the tail car.
  Abe Keen had been tailed before. The nature of his profession meant he often intruded on
  delicate situations and elicited a variety of responses. Investigative journalism of the kind Keen
  was involved in was far removed from celebrity probing. Keen's subjects had a more direct line
  of response than threatening an invasion-of-privacy suit. Over the years he had been physically
  assaulted, once ran down by a car and had been shot at three times. On the second shooting he
  had taken a bullet through his left arm, but had kept his finger on the camera release button,
  actually capturing on film the moment he had been fired upon.
  The sight of the black Mercedes some forty feet behind him made Keen aware of his
  vulnerability. He didn't carry any kind of weapon himself. He used a camera, not a gun, realizing
  and accepting the danger he placed himself in. He glanced at his watch. Still time before his
  flight. And it would take him another ten minutes before he reached the airport. He took
  another look in the rearview mirror. The tail car had dropped back behind a silver Toyota. Keen
  knew that if he could see the Mercedes, they could see him.
  He stepped on the gas pedal, moving away from the Toyota. The car had closed in on his rear.
  As soon as Keen accelerated, so did the Toyota.
  Keen realized he had a pair of cars following him. For what ever reason, the Toyota was upping
  the pace. Keen had the feeling the Toyota was ready to tailgate him if the opportunity arose,
  deliberately hit his back end and force him off the road. Anyone driving by would see it as a
  road accident, with one impatient driver clashing with another. No one would want to get
  involved. They would drive on by and allow the two parties to sort out the mess themselves.
  The light was starting to fade now. If the tail car was going to do something, this would be the
  time, as the day gave way to dusk. Drivers would be even less ready to stop to see what had
  happened now. They would prefer to stay inside their own vehicles. Safe from what was going
  on outside.
  Keen rammed his foot down hard, feeling the powerful car surge forward. The hell with them,
  he decided. If they wanted him they were going to have to work at it. He forgot about speed
  restrictions as the Peugeot hurtled along the road, speeding by the other traffic. He could see the
  Toyota falling behind a little. If they were going to make their play, it would have to be soon.
  Once it got full dark it would be easier for him to lose his pursuers. His other ace was the
  possible presence of the local cops. If he passed any patrol car at the speed he was going, he
  would attract their attention. It would be worth being pulled over just to make the tail cars back
  off.
  As it was, there were no patrol cars in sight. No flashing lights or wailing sirens. Keen's
  high-speed drive brought him to the airport at Genoa far faster man he had anticipated. He was
  forced to reduce his speed as he neared the access road to the airport. He followed the road
  around to the parking area and eased the Peugeot into a slot. He opened the trunk and took out
  his luggage. Normally he would have taken time to return to the rental office and settle his
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  account. This time around he was going to leave the car where it was. It would be located and
  the rental company informed. They would check out who had rented the car and follow through.
  By that time Keen would be back in London if everything went as planned and he would deal
  with the rental company then.
  He entered the terminal building and made his way to the airline counter for his ticket. He had
  to go through the identification process, showing his passport and credit card before his ticket
  was handed over. Keen took it and made his way to the flight check-in desk where his luggage
  was weighed and tagged, vanishing from sight along the conveyor.
  He was told the flight was on time and would be taking off within the next half hour. He walked
  through the busy terminal, searching for the departure lounge, then had to go through the usual
  delay at the customs desk. With that over, he passed through the barrier that fed him into the
  departure area. At least his pursuers couldn't get to him now. No one was allowed through to
  this section if they didn't possess tickets and passports. There were armed security guards and
  probably police patrolling the terminal building. Any sign of a disturbance and they would be on
  hand very quickly.
  Keen located a bar and ordered a drink. He took it and sat at a table where he had his back
  against the wall and could see the entrance to the area. It never did any harm to be cautious.
  So far, so good.
  Abe Keen didn't let himself become complacent. He was thinking ahead. If his pursuers missed
  him here, they would pick up the pursuit once he arrived in London. It wouldn't take them long
  to work out who he was and where he lived in the U.K.'s capital city. Keen didn't need telling
  that Razan Khariza's people would quickly gain intel on him.
  By the time they had finished, they would know everything there was written down about him.
  Regardless of the possible threat to him, Keen had no intention of going into hiding. It wasn't
  his way. Since he had taken up his profession he had accepted that situations might occur that
  might put him in danger. He wasn't going to change his way of life now. Not even for someone
  like Razan Khariza.
  London, England
  Keen's flight touched down ten minutes late due to a sudden change in the weather. Rain hit just
  as the airliner had swung in over mainland U.K. and followed it all the way to Heathrow. He
  took the rail link into London, then picked up a cab to his flat in Camden Town. He glanced at
  his watch as he climbed the stairs to his floor. It was just after 3:00 a.m. Keen realized just how
  tired he was. It had been a long day.
  His bags slung from his left shoulder, he put his key in the lock and pushed the door open. As
  was his usual practice, he reached out with his right hand to flick on the light switch. It clicked,
  but the hallway remained dark.
  Keen was about to let go with a choice word or two but stopped in his tracks as he picked up
  the strong odor of a fruity aftershave.
  He realized immediately it wasn't one of his.
  And knew in that same moment that he wasn't alone.
  He made to back off, out of the door, but a powerful hand caught hold of his arm and he was
  pulled inside with enough force to throw him to the floor. He hit hard, cracking his head against
  the tiles. The impact left him stunned, disorientated. Even so, he heard the door click shut
  behind him, and picked up the sound of movement in the seconds before he was lifted bodily
  and half dragged along the hall and through the door that led into his kitchen.
  Discounting what he had thought before about not letting himself become threatened by
  Khariza's people—because he knew damn well that was who was behind this—he had to give
  them credit for locating his home so quickly. After the thought, he decided it was a strange thing
  to consider in his present situation.
  He struggled to free himself from the two men who were holding him. All that achieved was a
  sharp rap across the mouth that split the skin and pushed his inner lip back against his teeth. He
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  tasted blood in his mouth and could also feel it trickling down his chin.
  It was still dark in the kitchen. Keen heard a third man moving around. He heard the sound of
  the Venetian blinds being closed. There was a soft click, and the light under the cabinet unit to
  his left came on.
  The man facing him was leanly fit. He had strong shoulders under the long leather coat he wore.
  It was buttoned right up under his chin. His face was shadowed in the dim light, the curve of his
  shaved skull gleaming softly. His eyes shone like bright pinpoints as he leaned forward to stare at
  Keen.
  "No time-wasting, Mr. Keen. We both know why we are here and what we want. Let us take it
  and this can be over quickly."
  His voice was soft, with a Middle East accent.
  "And then you'll let me go so I can report it to the police? You must imagine I'm stupid."
  "Taking those photographs was not exactly the act of a smart man. Did you not think we would
  have taken precautions against such things?"
  "We all make mistakes."
  The man nodded. "Certainly so in your case. Now, the photographs?"
  "In my bag," Keen said. "The middle-size one." His luggage was dragged off his shoulder. Keen,
  still in the grip of one of the other men, watched as the bag was opened and the contents spilled
  out across the wide work surface.
  "Are these the only copies?"
  "I only need one set to prove my case."
  "Have you shown the photographs to anyone?"
  "In the time I had in San Remo? Go figure." The man in the leather coat pawed through the rest
  of the bag's contents. He held up a packet. "These are the negatives?"
  "Fuck you, find out for yourself. I don't figure I'm coming out of this alive, so why the hell
  should I make it easy?"
  Leather Coat sighed as if he was disappointed. He said something to his two men that Keen
  barely heard. The man gripping his arms swung Keen around suddenly. He placed one hand at
  the back of Keen's head and smashed the journalist facedown against the work surface. Keen's
  world exploded in stunning pain as his nose was crushed flat under the impact, blood squirting
  across the pale wood surface. His left cheekbone cracked and his lips split open. He groaned,
  trying to pull free from the grip of the man who had pushed his face into the work surface. Pain
  rose, engulfing his battered face.
  He was in no condition to see Leather Coat reach out and pick a heavy cast-iron fry pan from
  the hook on the wall. Leather Coat stepped up behind Keen and slammed the pan down against
  the back of Keen's skull. Keen grunted in shock, arms flailing helplessly. Leather Coat repeated
  the blow over and over, the thick cast iron descending with terrible effect against Keen's skull.
  Flesh lacerated, bone crumbled and Keen's skull became a bloody, misshapen mess. The
  journalist's shuddering, twitching form became still. It was only the grip of Leather Coat's
  partners that kept Keen from falling to the floor. Leather Coat, breathing strongly, threw aside
  the iron pan. It was slick with blood and had fragments of bone and flesh adhering to the
  underside. The work surface itself was streaked with more blood and broken skull pieces.
  On Leather Coat's orders Keen's body was allowed to slip to the kitchen floor. The killer
  gathered up the photographs and the negatives. He placed them inside his coat. He gestured to
  his pair of helpers and they followed him out of the kitchen, along the hall and out through the
  front door.
  CHAPTER ONE
  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.
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  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 Afghanistari.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?"
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  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."
  Page 8
  
  "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 onboard 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
  Page 9
  
  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
  Page 10
  
  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."
  Page 11
  
  "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 9mm 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
  Page 12
  
  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
  attache 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 5.56mm 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.
  Page 13
  
  "Gary, Rafe, take Rasheed."
  "You got it."
  Encizo, wielding a 9mm 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 5.56mm 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
  attache 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."
  Page 14
  
  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?"
  "Sonofabitch."
  "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 auto-fire. 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
  Page 15
  
  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 5.56mm 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.
  Page 16
  
  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 attache 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
  Page 17
  
  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."
  CHAPTER TWO
  War Room, Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  Hal Brognola was a worried man. He had reason to be. Things were happening that had given
  him sleepless nights for the past few days, and his recent visit to meet the President had only
  added to his concern. The incidents, occurrences, breaches in security and rising
  tensions—however they were wrapped up in diplomatic words—had spoken volumes to Hal
  Brognola. They had told him in no uncertain terms that the current status quo was about to be
  rocked once more.
  And when those things happened, or threatened to happen, Brognola took on the full weight as
  head honcho of the missions that were carried out by Stony Man operatives.
  Stony Man Farm was the President's covert intelligence agency, a dedicated off-the-books
  operation used by the Man when other considerations had been rejected. Then SOG's talents
  were brought on line and the combat teams given their orders.
  There were times when objectives needed to be reached, situations brought under control and
  individuals prevented from executing their personal plans. In areas where the normal protocols
  had no valid acceptance, the Sensitive Operations Group's commando teams were given their
  own mandate and sent out on covert missions. Brognola was waiting for his teams to join him in
  the War Room.
  Separated from the relatively new Annex with its state-of-the-art Computer Room and
  Communications Center, the War Room sat beneath the original farmhouse that was the public
  face of the Stony Man complex. The house, the wood-chipping mill and sundry outbuildings
  were all that was visible to the casual eye. The vital sections of the SOG operation lay
  underground, concealed from prying eyes. Protected by thick concrete walls and surrounded by
  electronic sensors, the unseen heart of the complex was manned day and night, all year round.
  Terrorism and its associated threats didn't operate on a nine-to-five basis, and neither did Stony
  Man. Everything about the Farm was covert, from buildings, equipment and personnel. It wasn't
  supposed to even exist. Stony Man was the President's secret weapon. A totally dedicated force
  ready to respond to any global threat aimed at America, her allies or simply a threat to stability.
  One of the problems with incidents in Stony Man's remit was the probability of escalation
  drawing in other nations and the U.S. being caught in the ripples.
  Page 18
  
  Stony Man had learned, through experience, that reaching out to stomp on a possible threat at
  its inception often prevented it developing into an out-of-control epidemic of death and
  destruction. The Stony Man combat teams were used to being handed missions that came out of
  scant information that grew and intertwined with alarming speed.
  Able Team had arrived from different locations earlier that morning. The other group, Phoenix
  Force, was due to arrive within the next half hour. It had recently returned from a mission in
  Central America, where its members had infiltrated a gunrunning operation to identify the
  buyer. What the team didn't know, but would soon become acquainted with, were the details
  included in one of the folders Brognola had on the War Room table. The players in the
  weapons-buying deal were one of the reasons the big Fed had called his people together.
  What he was about to brief them on had the potential to be both wide-ranging in its implications
  as well as threatening to the security of the U.S. mainland. The situation was building to become
  disturbingly serious unless Stony Man did something about it quickly.
  One of the telephones rang. Brognola picked it up and heard the gruff tones of Aaron
  Kurtzman, Stony Man's cyberchief. He was a big man, with a commanding presence that
  swamped the fact that he was confined to a wheelchair. He was capable of being hard on his
  cyberteam when the need arose, but they would work for him until they dropped, such was the
  depth of their respect for the man. Right now The Bear, as Kurtzman was known, and his team,
  were immersed in collating and analyzing information coming into their domain from varied
  sources. It all had to do with the matter at hand and the moment he recognized Kurtzman's
  voice, Brognola knew things had gone up a notch.
  "You want the bad news first, or the bad news?"
  "That's what I like about you, Aaron. You always wrap things up nicely."
  "Didn't you once tell me I was hired because of my winning ways?"
  "I don't think so, pal."
  "Okay. We are picking up reports of activity along the Turkish-Iraqi border. It appears the
  Kurds have made a couple of incursions in Turkish no-go areas and attacked a military post.
  One Turkish soldier killed and a couple more wounded. The Turkish authorities have started to
  move military units into the area and there have been warnings about reprisals if this sort of
  thing happens again."
  "This information reliable?"
  "Oh, yes. No doubts on that."
  "Why now?"
  "I'm heading down to see you. There are other things I need to discuss. All related." Kurtzman
  paused. "You got any of that War Room coffee on the go?"
  "Yeah."
  "Thought so. I'll bring my own."
  Brognola grinned as he put the receiver down. Kurtzman bringing his own coffee was as much
  of a threat as anything that might come in via the communications setup.
  He picked up his copy of the files he was about to present to Able Team and Phoenix Force.
  For the next few minutes, Brognola went over the data. Not for the first time. He had been
  reading during his helicopter flight to Washington and his briefing with the President. He had
  gone over it all with the Man, and he had skimmed through it on the return flight to Stony Man.
  It made compulsive reading, despite the content, which was far from uplifting.
  In essence, there was a growing threat from a number of sources. In isolation each item was
  disturbing. Linked together they formed an alarming scenario that implied a concerted effort to
  destabilize the Middle East region and also pointed at some large-scale security threat to the
  U.S. itself.
  The current incident concerning the Kurdish attack on a Turkish outpost was one of a number
  of similar incidents. The way they were happening suggested, at least to Brognola, a pattern.
  Pieces of a puzzle that needed fitting together. The President had made it clear he wanted the
  Page 19
  
  SOG to take on the task of dealing with the affair.
  The White House, earlier same day
  "You've seen the photographs Leo Turrin sent in?"
  "Yes, Mr. President."
  "How in hell did this happen, Hal? Khariza was supposed to be dead. Out of our hair. Now he's
  shown up on the Italian Riviera alive and well and having a pool-side chat with his old regime
  cronies. Did somebody slip up, or have we been had?"
  "Right now, Sir, I don't have answers."
  "Get them. Put your people on this full-time. Last thing we need right now is the Middle East
  blowing up in our faces on top of this mainland threat. It's just what the extremists want to
  happen. Stir up feelings until the whole thing goes out of control. Security assessment teams are
  indicating some kind of terrorist strike here on U.S. soil. The way this is going, now would be an
  opportune time for such an attack. We have commitments in the Middle East. A large
  percentage of our efforts are channeled in that direction. We don't know that these Mideast
  incidents are a distraction or part of an overall plan. We need to know, Hal. People are dying
  out there. And there are Americans on the list. Something has to be done. Damned if I'm going
  to sit back and just let things slide."
  "I understand, Sir. Phoenix Force has already had contact with one of Khariza's group. Kamal
  Rasheed. They picked him up in Santa Lorca, trying to buy weapons. We handed him over to the
  CIA."
  "There's something in the wind, Hal. Too many things happening out there that tell me we could
  be in for a bumpy ride. All these incidents. Rumors flying around. Familiar names keep
  cropping up. Linked to Khariza's inner circle. And now he rises from the dead. It all sounds a
  little too neat to me. Get your people on the job, Hal. If there's a tangible threat to mainland
  security, I want it handled soon as. I want Stony Man to take it on board. I don't have the time or
  inclination to go sparring with Agency protocols. They'll want to discuss it in committee, weigh
  the various arguments and options, advise me it isn't the right time. I want something done now.
  There's too much bullshit coming at me from the other agencies. Hal, I want direct action on
  this. Last thing this country needs is another World Trade Center disaster. The American nation
  has suffered enough. Find the bastards behind this mess and come down hard on them."
  "I already have my people pulling in all the data they can. Soon as we get it all together, maybe
  we can pin something down."
  "Hal, this is priority. Find out what's going on and shut it down. Any problems over anything
  you need, call me. I'll leave contact details so you can access me at any time."
  Brognola recalled some of the hot spots the information had indicated. They were widespread
  across the Middle East and Europe.
  "Glad you mentioned that, Sir."
  Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  Brognola heard the War Room door open. He glanced around to see the men of Able Team
  entering and making their way across to the conference table.
  Carl Lyons, the team commander, Rosario Blancanales and Hermann Schwarz, were skilled,
  seasoned individuals. Each man had his own unique personality. For the most part, Able Team
  handled missions within the borders of the U.S. With the spread of terrorism, the associated
  threats and the expansion of the playing fields, Able Team was sometimes to be found taking
  trips well beyond the territorial boundaries of the U.S. mainland. In the end they went where the
  mission dictated.
  Blancanales took himself to the coffee station that held the simmering pot of coffee and poured
  himself a mug.
  "Hey, anyone want coffee?"
  "I'll have one," Brognola said, recalling Kurtzman's promise to bring his own. "Black. No
  sugar."
  Page 20
  
  "That it?" Blancanales asked. No one else spoke.
  Lyons dropped into a seat close by Brognola, studying the big Fed closely.
  "You okay?"
  "I could do with a couple of days somewhere quiet and deserted. Apart from that, I'm doing
  fine, but thanks for asking."
  Schwarz, sitting a little distance away, leaned forward. "Why don't you go with him, Carl? A
  break would be helpful right now."
  "I don't need a break."
  "I was thinking about me and Pol," Schwarz said, his face blank.
  "One day, when I'm really gone, you'll remember all the things you said."
  Blancanales placed Brognola's coffee on the table, then took a seat. He glanced across at Lyons.
  "No, we won't. We'll be too busy having f-u-n."
  The War Room's door opened and Aaron Kurtzman rolled his wheelchair across the floor. He
  was carrying the familiar coffeepot he kept brewing 24/7 in the Computer Room. Behind the
  broad-shouldered cyberexpert was Barbara Price. Tall, blond and utterly capable, Price was
  Brognola's mission controller. She thrived on a crisis alert, remaining calm and in control,
  whatever the situation. She moved ahead of Kurtzman, reaching the conference table and
  depositing a stack of files in front of her seat.
  "Phoenix has arrived," she informed them as she took her place. "Be down any minute."
  Kurtzman had moved across to the coffee station. He placed his pot down and plugged it into
  one of the power sockets.
  "Never leave home without it," he said as he took his place at the conference table, in front of
  the panel of controls he used to illustrate his findings on the large TV wall screens. He tapped
  the keyboard and the screens snapped to life. Images and data were displayed in sharp profile.
  "Any new material?" Brognola asked.
  "Try this."
  Kurtzman brought up a report from the Arabic TV network Al-Jazeera. The station,
  broadcasting all across the Middle East, had become known for its strong, un-censored images
  during the Iraq war. It had come under some criticism for the way it showed the news, but
  countered that it was primarily there to broadcast to the Arab nations and to depict the
  incidents as they happened, not in the sanitized versions shown to Western audiences.
  "Say what you like about these guys," Kurtzman remarked, "but what you get is what you see."
  The item showed a bullet-riddled car skewed across a street. Doors were open and bodies were
  seen in the vehicle or hanging half out of it. There were also three bodies on the road. The whole
  scene was familiar to the Stony Man crew. An ambush, the car riddled with autofire and the
  passengers killed before they could react.
  "Do we know who the victims are?" Price asked.
  "UN personnel based in Baghdad. The three on the ground outside the car were Iraqi police.
  They were in the car just showing on the right side of the picture."
  "Did this actually happen in Baghdad?" Schwarz asked.
  Kurtzman nodded. "Our mystery players are starting to get confident. No more hiding in dark
  alleys. They're showing they can do this with impunity. In broad daylight."
  Phoenix Force came into the War Room at that point, taking their places at the table.
  "We miss anything?" David McCarter asked.
  Brognola indicated the screen image. "Aaron was just showing us the latest incident in Baghdad.
  UN team ambushed and shot. Three Iraqi police officers, as well. That's on top of the Kurdish
  attack on a Turkish military post."
  "From intel reports we've been monitoring there seems to be a lot of activity in the Middle East
  region," Price said. "Now, I understand there's always something going on, but in the last week
  or so, this activity has gone up a notch. There's a concentration around Iraq. Attacks on U.S. and
  U.K. personnel. The UN Covert intelligence suggests there's a great deal of background
  Page 21
  
  rumblings in the major Iraqi cities. And we've all heard about the renewed incidents in Israel and
  Palestine. We have information on recruitment in the Mideast and Europe of hard-line Ba'athist
  supporters. Loyalists of Saddam's regime. All low-key at the moment. We were hard put to get a
  trace on the who and the why, but these photos have kind of got us on track."
  Price spread out copies of Abe Keen's prints.
  "Khariza?" Manning said. "He's supposed to be dead."
  "Looks anything but deceased to me," Calvin James remarked.
  "The journalist—who took these—Abe Keen, was found murdered in his apartment in London
  the same night he got back from Italy where he had taken the photos," Brognola said.
  "Aren't those others from his old group?" Blancanales asked, glancing up from examining the
  prints.
  Brognola nodded. "They're all there except one. And we know where he was."
  "Kamal Rasheed. Brokering a deal for arms in Santa Lorca," McCarter said by way of
  explanation.
  "Phoenix broke up the connection in Santa Lorca and got a name. Luiz Santos. Aaron ran a
  make and it seems he's been in the business some while. The information we got was that the
  weapons Rasheed has previously bought went via Santos into the U.S. What we need now is
  where they went after that and what they are going to be used for. The organizer Phoenix found
  in Rasheed's attache case may give us some answers about Rasheed's dealings."
  "Anything from it yet?" James asked.
  "Most of the entries were in Arabic script. They're being translated now. If and when we get
  anything useful, it will be sent to the appropriate team," Kurtzman said.
  "Are we looking at anything significant time-wise?" Gary Manning asked. "What I mean is, are
  we looking at a special date? A reason to launch any possible attacks on a particular day?"
  Price shook her head. "There is a significant Iraqi election of provincial leaders coming up. It's
  taking time to build the permanent inner council to run the country. You all know the timetable.
  A couple of less-than-successful attempts. Clashes between political and religious thinking.
  Intertribal rivalry. Only this time 'round, everyone is hoping the various parties can reach an
  amicable working agreement. If these incidents keep occurring they could throw the various
  groups into doubt. And that would go down a treat with Khariza's group."
  "So an incident on the day of the election would give cause for concern," Manning said.
  "It's a point worth noting," Brognola said.
  Calvin James stood to fetch a cup of coffee.
  "They'll be voting Saddam back into power next."
  "May not be as wild as you think, Cal," Price said. "Not Saddam Hussein, but members of his
  old regime may be trying to get sympathizers into the ruling party, even if it has to be by the
  back door. That came from our Israeli sources. They have confirmation on ex-fedayeen behind
  troubles on the Gaza Strip. Stirring things up among the Palestinians."
  "I wondered when that bunch would stick its head over the parapet again," McCarter said.
  "We knew the fedayeen wouldn't just fade out of existence," Brognola said. "They cut and run,
  but they're still out there. They won't quit. Not as long as there's even the remotest chance they
  might be able to get back into power again."
  "Bit like the Nazis."
  "David has a point," Brognola said. "Look how long they carried on after WWII. Even though
  they were scattered all over the globe, they plotted and planned their comeback. Okay, it didn't
  amount to much in terms of retaking power, but they still recruited believers and kept the old
  guard protected while they were able."
  "The Nazis had a lot going for them," Encizo pointed out. "Look at the money they had salted
  away. That gave their organization a lot of clout. Enough money can buy you a lot of power."
  "We've already seen an example of Khariza's fedayeen shopping for weapons," Brognola said.
  "This was small-scale dealing. I figure they're using money they managed to haul out of Iraq once
  Page 22
  
  the war started to go against them."
  "Small change," Kurtzman said. "Cash they kept around for emergencies."
  "The money recovered in Iraq is nothing to what the regime hid over the years," Brognola said.
  "Now that we have intel that Razan Khariza is on the scene, it suggests he and his crew are
  making moves. The big accounts have enough cash in them to buy a couple of small countries. If
  the fedayeen get their hands on those they'll have finance to run a war. But until they get their
  hands on the real money, they are going to use every means available to them. Beg, steal or
  borrow, Razan Khariza isn't going to sit back and wait. Hence the weapons deal Phoenix
  interrupted."
  "What kind of money are we talking about?" Manning asked. "How big does it go?"
  "I doubt if anyone knows exactly just how much money the regime salted away over the years,"
  Brognola said. "It's common knowledge that the money came from a variety of sources. In the
  region of $2 billion was literally stolen from the shah of Iran some years back. Then there was oil
  revenue. Kickbacks on deals. Money siphoned off aid programs. Back-door deals. The regime
  had backing from investors who helped them negotiate special terms. Even banks chipped in.
  We've had figures of $30 billion in total, but the stuff is so spread about we may never know the
  actual figure."
  Kurtzman opened one of his files.
  "Money was handled by agents, brokers, companies created so that cash could be made to
  vanish. The regime made extensive use of electronic cash transactions. They were able to move it
  back and forth across the globe. In effect, the cash was being laundered."
  He brought up an image on one of the large wall screens.
  "From Iraq to London. Across to South Africa. Hong Kong and Japan. Even Russia. Down to
  the Balkans."
  "Looks like it's done some traveling," James said. "Aaron, isn't it possible to follow the
  electronic trail?"
  Kurtzman sighed. "Not as easy as it sounds. The way the money has been pushed around lessens
  the chances of tagging it. Each transaction weakens the electronic trail. One big chunk would be
  broken up and distributed among a number of recipients. They would push it further along the
  path. Some would be put into legitimate businesses. It's like shuffling a pack of cards before you
  deal. There's no way of knowing where a particular card will show up. By the time the cash
  comes together again, no one knows where it originated."
  "The whole system was designed to conceal what was being done," Brognola added. "And to
  make it difficult for what is being attempted now. M-I6, Mossad, CIA, they all have teams out
  looking for the regime's missing billions. One thing we did come up with. Aaron put names and
  faces through the system—Saddam's agents, his brokers, whatever you want to call them. Key
  individuals have disappeared. Others we know have died in suspicious circumstances. The
  conclusion is they were killed by regime hit men as a way of guaranteeing their silence,
  preventing them giving any information as to where the money might be."
  "If Khariza was such a big noise," Manning asked, "how come he doesn't have access to at least
  some of the cash?"
  "Small amounts, no problem," Brognola said. "But he'll need the big money to broker his main
  deals, the kind of money he can't get without access to the right accounts."
  "Our friend from Mossad, Ben Sharon, has a contact who might be able to give us some
  guidance," Price said. "His name was mentioned in Rasheed's organizer."
  Brognola nodded. "Aaron."
  The screen image changed to show a head-and-shoulders shot of a man in his forties—black
  hair, cleanshaven, a lean face, bright eyes staring directly at the camera.
  "Ibn el Sharii. According to background checks, he was part of Khariza's staff," Kurtzman said.
  "Big Saddam loyalist until the regime had his brother executed as a traitor just before the war.
  Something about him having been caught in meetings with pro-Western groups. Rumor has it
  Page 23
  
  Khariza carried out the execution personally. Insider information tells us that Sharii took the
  news badly. He realized his own time was running out, so he got out of Iraq before he went the
  same way as his brother. Before he left he set up a virus in the computer program where the
  access numbers and codes were stored. The moment anyone tried to access the system to get the
  account codes, the virus would just corrupt the whole thing and wipe it completely. Sounds like
  he wanted to leave the regime something to remember him by."
  "Giving the finger to the fedayeen isn't a good way to stay healthy," James said.
  "Maybe Sharii decided he didn't have anything more to lose. He stayed low, out of sight in
  Europe, finally reached London. It was a Mossad agent who spotted him there. Sharon
  connected the information Abe Keen sent to us with Sharii's knowledge. Mossad agreed to let
  Sharon follow through with us because we've worked with him before. Mutual needs, really,"
  Price said. "One more thing. Khariza still has plenty of sympathizers out there. People who
  agree with his aims. Groups who want us to suffer. They'll give him help with what money and
  equipment they can, and they'll point him in the direction of anyone who he wants to get his
  hands on."
  "Thing is, you're right," Blancanales agreed. "There's a whole world of help out there for
  someone like Khariza."
  "They'll be crawling out of the bloody woodwork," McCarter said. "Sad thing is, we'll have
  people from our own countries ready to help, too."
  "They have their beliefs as much as we do, David."
  McCarter glanced at Brognola. "Don't I know it. All I'm saying is it makes it harder for us to get
  to the right people."
  "Aaron has got some more intel for you," Brognola said. "It should give you background on the
  missions you'll be assigned once he's through. Barbara has logistic details and backgrounds for
  cover identities. This is up and running, people. The way things are accelerating, we have to start
  in top gear. It's obvious the opposition is operating in a number of different areas, so we have to
  cover what we can. We're going into this with minimal information. You know my feelings on
  that, but the President has the bit in his teeth and I can understand his motives. Situations can
  change fast, and if we don't stay on top we could be too late if the main event comes out of left
  field. I know this is throwing you in without much background. It means you're going to have
  some location changes. Can't be helped. Let's find out what Khariza is up to. Go for anything
  that might give us answers. The President has given this to us because he knows we'll locate and
  terminate without interagency rivalry or internal agendas getting in the way."
  "Any contact with other agencies as a matter of interest?" Calvin James asked. "We've had
  problems before from them because they don't know us and we don't know them."
  "If anything gets in the way, you pass it to me. I'll field it and get the President to step in."
  "Hal, with due respect, that's a crock," Lyons said tersely. "We end up in a face-off with some
  agency rule-book geek, there isn't much chance for time-out so we can call home and get
  clearance."
  Brognola held up his hands in surrender. "You got me there, Carl. In the field you have to call
  whatever you feel is the right choice. If there's no time and it's a case of being compromised,
  then do what you have to. It comes down to the choice about which is the priority decision. Let's
  call this what it is, guys. We are in a war situation. The ex-regime groups are out to do two
  things. Inflict as much pain and suffering as they can on specified Western targets and stir up
  trouble in the Middle East. At the back of all this are the attempts to get hold of power in Iraq.
  Do I have to spell out the end results if we don't go out and stop it?"
  Kurtzman picked up a printed sheet. "This is an extract from one of the Intelligence Analysis
  think tanks. Something to bear in mind. "Ex Ba'ath Party members will seek out their stolen
  money so they can rearm themselves. Part of their strategy will be to move into organized crime
  in order to reestablish themselves. It has to be remembered that these people were used to the
  best of everything and will want to retain their status. But they will also do what they can to
  Page 24
  
  infiltrate the Iraqi ruling party to destabilize it and get some control over the government. They
  will attempt to stir up trouble between all the various classes within Iraq society. Their ultimate
  aim will be to create unrest. Mistrust. A sense of loss of national identity."
  Lyons leaned back in his seat. His question had been answered. It was the same for all of them.
  In an ongoing tactical situation, where balances had to be weighed, there were times when
  choices to be made might not look so clean-cut in the light of day. There was no easy way
  around that kind of dilemma. A man had to deal his hand and live with the consequences.
  "Initial missions," Price said to break the contemplative silence. "Able, you need to follow up
  these mainland threats. Pick up where Phoenix left off. Nuevo Laredo. Your contact in there is
  Tomas Barranca. If there's any talk about these arms deals Phoenix hit on, Barranca is your
  man." She handed over files for the team to study.
  "Aaron," she said.
  Kurtzman brought images and data on-screen. "Tomas Barranca. This is the house he rents on
  the Nuevo Laredo outskirts. His car. This is the cantina he frequents. He's pretty friendly with
  the guy who owns the place. That's him."
  "Who does this guy work for?" Blancanales asked.
  "You could call him a freelance," Price said. "In the past he's had associations with the CIA. Did
  some good work for the DEA in tandem with the Mexican drug squads. Lately he's been doing
  fieldwork for Justice. His name came up when Leo handed over those photos of Khariza."
  "Sounds a risky way to earn a living," Schwarz said. "How does he do it?"
  "Simple," Price said. "He's careful."
  While Able Team worked on the research Kurtzman had collated, Phoenix Force took their
  missions on board.
  "I don't like splitting you guys," Price admitted, "but we've got too much ground to cover.
  Gary, Rafe, Cal—Italian Riviera. San Remo to be exact. See if you can get a line on Khariza and
  his people. Check on the villa where Abe Keen spotted them. We have to start somewhere.
  That's as good a place as any. See if they're still in the area. Everything current we have on
  Khariza and his buddies from the old regime is here in these files."
  "David, you and T.J. are booked for London. You'll meet with Ben Sharon and he'll brief you
  about Sharii. Right now that's all I can give you. Sharon says the guy is terrified of Khariza's
  people finding him."
  "Not the wisest choice of places to hide out then," McCarter observed. "There are a bloody lot
  of Iraqi expats living in London, as well as the illegal visitors. Sooner we get there, the better."
  "Get your stuff together," Price said. "You'll be going home courtesy of the U.S. government's
  own airline."
  McCarter groaned. "U.S. Airlift Command again? Christ, have you ever eaten the bloody stuff
  they serve on those flights?"
  Hawkins grinned at the Briton's grumbling. "Cheer up, old fruit," he said in mock English. "Let's
  get you to Blighty and you can 'ave a plate of fish and chips down the Old Kent Road."
  McCarter glared at the younger Phoenix Force commando. "T.J., don't you ever do that again.
  If I even thought I sounded like that I'd go and join Bin Laden in a bloody Afghan cave and
  never show my face again."
  In the background Lyons's dry tones were heard. "Does he mean it?"
  "We live in hope," Blancanales replied.
  "Okay, people, listen up," Kurtzman said. "No moving out until we go through the rest of my
  background data. I managed to locate another batch of photographs showing more of Khariza's
  Iraqi buddies. They'll come in handy if you come up against them. Always helps to know the
  players."
  There were groans all around.
  "Somebody give me a tranquilizer," Blancanales said.
  Kurtzman beamed at them. "That's what I like to hear. Enthusiasm. Now somebody bring me
  Page 25
  
  some of my coffee. I wouldn't want to dry up halfway through."
  CHAPTER THREE
  Aboard the Petra
  "So, my friend, are matters progressing as you wish?" Razan Khariza raised his head from its
  contemplative position on his chest and studied the speaker. His host. His lifelong ally.
  Radic Zehlivic, an Albanian Muslim, stood in the middle of the luxurious saloon of the
  oceangoing motor vessel Petra. Zehlivic was a multimillionaire. He had made his fortune over
  the years from astute playing on the world stock markets. He was a man who took great chances,
  investing in risky markets that had paid him back handsomely. Any money made was plowed
  back into further dealings and Zehlivic's fortune had grown and expanded. He had investments
  in property, land, in oil and ship building. He played the Western world at its own game, using
  wealth and an inborn intuition to manipulate the financial game for his own gain. He had
  percentage holdings in innumerable companies across the globe and was respected within the
  financial and business communities. Yet his name seldom made the headlines. He was as
  reclusive as he was smart. He stayed true to his faith, doing little to advertise his wealth beyond
  his close circle of friends, using his money to fund those who were working against the West.
  There were few people he trusted. Oddly, despite the man's reputation both inside and out of
  Iraq, one of his trusted circle was Razan Khariza.
  Zehlivic's mother had died giving birth to him, and his late father had been a clever and
  industrious man who had made his money from property dealings in his own country. His talent
  for turning quick, profitable deals had also made him enemies. In the end he had transferred his
  money to London, moving himself and his son there, where he had restarted his business
  operations. The British had been easy to manipulate and no one ever knew the duplicitous
  methods Zehlivic Senior used to work his deals.
  Father and son lived in a country house in Buckinghamshire, just outside a small village. Zehlivic
  Junior still owned the house and used it often on his visits to the U.K.
  He had met Razan Khariza at the private school they had attended in England. In fact they had
  spent much of their youth in the country, and though their paths went in different directions in
  their early twenties, each had kept in touch with the other, Radic's admiration and devotion to
  his Iraqi friend becoming ever stronger.
  In the tumult of the military action that had deposed Saddam Hussein and had seen the total
  dispersion of his regime's high-echelon members, Khariza might have died or been captured if it
  hadn't been for the assistance he'd received from his friend. A telephone call from Zehlivic had
  offered help during Khariza's darkest hour.
  Through Zehlivic's chain of contacts, his knowledge of the country and a considerable outlay of
  money, Khariza had been spirited out of Iraq just ahead of the attack that hit Tikrit. A body had
  been substituted for Khariza, dressed in his uniform and carrying identity papers and personal
  belongings. When the local party headquarters was hit during a running battle, the body was
  deliberately mutilated with a grenade and then taken to a local hospital where the medical
  examiner, bought and paid for by Zehlivic, carried out an autopsy, making sure that all files and
  details matched the dead man identified as Razan Khariza. Members of the fedayeen were never
  fingerprinted or had medical details revealed during the regime, so there was nothing for the
  Coalition forces to match to. All they received was the formal declaration and postmortem
  photographs of Khariza's badly mutilated body.
  Though Khariza had been an important functionary within the regime, his death was accepted as
  a minor victory within a larger canvas. He was listed as dead and as he had no family to claim
  him, the body was handed over to the hospital for interment. It was, in fact, quickly cremated
  and the ashes scattered.
  The doctor who had performed the autopsy had prepared to leave Tikrit himself once the
  formalities were over. With his few belongings packed along with the extremely large amount of
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  cash he had been paid, the doctor had been picked up by some of Zehlivic's people and driven
  away late at night. He was never seen again. As soon as the car he was in reached a safe distance
  from Tikrit, it stopped and the doctor was taken out. He was shot twice in the back of the head
  and his body buried. The car drove on, taking away the doctor's luggage, along with the money.
  The body was never found.
  Razan Khariza, out of Iraq, went into hiding, courtesy of his friend Zehlivic. He remained in
  obscurity for as long as it took for the hostilities to cease and Iraqi reconstruction to start. When
  other members of the late regime began to surface, and Khariza heard of their survival, he began
  to contact them. They, glad to find out he was alive, rallied to his call. They needed someone
  with his leadership qualities to ferment their plans for a return to Iraq.
  In their eyes, America and its allies might have won the initial engagement. What they didn't
  realize was the true fact that the war was far from over. In truth, for the fedayeen, it had only just
  begun.
  They wanted their country back as it had been before, with control in the hands of the Ba'ath
  Party.
  So they began to organize resistance, to create diversions that would confuse the enemy and
  allow the fedayeen time to get their own people into place. They would locate the immense
  hoards of cash that had been sent out of the country and placed in secret accounts.
  As soon as that money was in their hands, they could buy any weapons they needed to mount
  major offences.
  That, however, seemed to be a stumbling block at the present time.
  Which was why Radic Zehlivic's question jarred Khariza's mood.
  Khariza pushed to his feet and crossed to gaze out the window, watching the gentle swell of the
  blue Mediterranean. The sky was cloudless and hazy blue. Peaceful. Calm. Khariza felt a pang of
  guilt. Here he was, safe and far away from the struggles in Iraq. He countered that thought with
  the realization there was little he could do in any physical sense at this point in time. Until he had
  the various strands under his full control, all he could do was wait. Khariza disliked the feeling
  of helplessness. He was a man of action, of control, and he was feeling impotent right now.
  There was so much to do. To arrange. Matters were progressing, but at an alarmingly slow pace.
  Until the huge money caches were back in his hands, all he and his people could do was initiate
  the low-key portions of the operation—the individual removal of interfering officials, the strikes
  against various factions that would lay the blame on others. Important as these incidents were,
  they paled into insignificance when compared to the main events. And those couldn't be brought
  online until Khariza had the money to pay for the ordnance purchases. They wouldn't come into
  his hands until money had been exchanged. It was simply a matter of business. The amounts of
  cash being talked of were extreme and Khariza's suppliers weren't going to deliver purchases
  until they were paid. It was as simple as that. If Khariza took the items, then failed in his
  intentions, the sellers would find themselves losing both goods and payment, and that wasn't
  how they operated. Khariza's policies didn't interest them any further than the cash in hand. His
  goals were his business, not theirs, and they had no intention of coming out the losers. So the
  Iraqi had to curb his impatience and wait.
  There had been an unexpected complication in the form of the journalist, Abe Keen. Despite
  Khariza's security, the man had discovered the meeting at the villa. He had taken photographs
  and had slipped away before any of Khariza's people could stop him. By the time he had been
  located, Keen had left his hotel in San Remo and was on his way to the airport. Although
  Khariza's men had followed him, the journalist had reached the airport and had even gone
  through Customs to wait for his flight in the departure lounge. Unable to prevent him leaving
  the country, Khariza had contacted his team in London, where Keen lived, and had given them
  the instructions that would lead to the eventual death of the man.
  Now Keen was dead and the photographs he had taken were in Khariza's hands. Why then, he
  kept asking himself, did he still feel uneasy?
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  Perhaps because he wasn't totally convinced that Keen hadn't sent copies of the photographs to
  other interested parties. With that thought uppermost in his mind, Khariza had quit the villa and
  brought his team on board Zehlivic's boat. It would serve as a floating base of operations until
  Khariza could arrange other accommodations.
  "So, my friend, are matters progressing as you wish?"
  "Not as well as I had hoped by this time. We have to find Ibn el Sharii. And quickly. Until I can
  get those damn code numbers, I cannot release that money."
  "Razan, you know I'd help if I could. But the amounts you need to satisfy those…"
  Khariza turned from the window and smiled at Zehlivic.
  "You've done enough already. Helping me out of Iraq, providing the villa, funding much of the
  U.S. project. All this. What have I done to deserve such a friend?"
  "You have helped me in the past. So I return the favor. What kind of a friend would I be if I
  turned my back on you?"
  "Thank you, brother. I will speak of you in my prayers as always. Your loyalty will not go
  unnoticed."
  Zehlivic bowed his head. "Nothing is more important to me than your friendship. You honor
  me, Razan Khariza."
  "We honor God. In his name we pledge ourselves to this cause. And because we are walking in
  the light of truth we cannot do anything but succeed."
  Zehlivic crossed the saloon to the drinks bar and helped himself to a large glass of chilled fruit
  juice from the cooler.
  In his early forties, he was a large man, carrying too much weight for his frame. He had tried all
  kinds of diets to reduce his bulk. Nothing worked for him. His physician had examined him, run
  tests and had only one thing to tell him. That his condition was hereditary and there was little
  that could be done. He would always be overweight. Zehlivic had really known this already. His
  father had been a big man who enjoyed his food, too much wine and too many large cigars. But
  once he had accepted the inevitable, Zehlivic decided he might as well enjoy life's pleasures while
  he could.
  He stood beside the cooler, drinking the large glass of juice, a little out of breath from simply
  walking to the bar.
  "How is that young wife of yours, Radic?" Khariza asked. "Still in Paris spending your money?"
  "At the moment," Zehlivic said.
  "And does she still make you happy?"
  Zehlivic smiled. "What can I say? She keeps me young. She may well be the death of me, but I'm
  not complaining."
  Khariza joined him at the bar and helped himself to a glass of Zehlivic's finest whiskey.
  "Don't look at me like that, Radic. I am only testing the corruption of the West so I can better
  understand how to fight it."
  Zehlivic couldn't help laughing. He knew Khariza had a liking for whiskey, and who was he to
  deny his friend such small pleasures.
  A telephone rang. It was at the far end of the bar. Zehlivic answered it, then held the receiver out
  to Khariza.
  "For you."
  Khariza took the phone. "Yes?"
  "We have located him. He is in London."
  "Are you there yourself?"
  "Yes. I am on my way to London now."
  "Have you informed your people?"
  "Yes. They are seeking him out as we speak. We do have a problem, though."
  "What?"
  "The Israelis have also located him. It seems he was seen by a Mossad agent in London going
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  into a local mosque. Since then they may have spoken to him. Perhaps made him an offer of
  protection."
  There was silence as Khariza absorbed the information.
  "Find Sharii first. Do what you have to. Use whoever you need. I don't care how many Zionists
  you need to kill to get to him. Especially if they are with Mossad. We have many scores to settle
  with them. Just keep me informed. And remember the importance of finding this man. He must
  be taken alive. Understand? He's no use to us dead."
  "Of course."
  "I hold you fully responsible. There cannot be any mistakes."
  "Depend on me."
  Khariza replaced the receiver.
  "Now we wait," Zehlivic said.
  "And while we do, we must plan ahead."
  Khariza drained his glass. "I need to talk with the others. Please ask them to join me, Radic."
  Ten minutes later they were all assembled. The same four men Khariza had met at the villa in San
  Remo. In the time since that day and the discovery they had been seen and photographed, each
  man had moved on to progress his own particular section of the long-term plans they had
  formulated. This meeting on Zehlivic's boat was the first time they had come together again.
  They had gathered in the luxurious comfort of the main salon. They sat in deep leather
  armchairs, with rich, thick carpet beneath their feet. The low ceiling reflected the gleam of
  polished wood paneling the walls. The armchairs were set in a loose circle around a wide, oval
  coffee table made from polished teak. On the table, a large silver tray held a steaming coffeepot
  and small cups. One of the men handed Khariza a cup of the hot coffee. He took it, inclining his
  head in thanks, then sank back in the armchair.
  Khariza tasted the spiced coffee, taking the opportunity to gaze around the assembled group.
  His group. Faithful to the party. True men of the fedayeen. In Khariza's eyes they were the
  saviors of the Ba'ath Party, dedicated followers of Saddam Hussein. But in truth they were all
  Razan Khariza's men.
  While following the party line he had groomed them over the years to follow his way, which
  would insure continuity in the event of any breakdown of the regime. Khariza, if nothing else,
  was a man who lived in reality. In as much as he had been true to Hussein, the dictator of Iraq
  had been less than cautious in his ways. There had been times when Khariza, watching and
  listening, had been disappointed by his leader's attitude. There had been too much dependence
  on the tried and trusted ways of the regime, an entrenched stubbornness to even contemplate
  anything might change, never any moves that might have strengthened the grip the party had on
  the country. And the increasing voraciousness of the central ruling group had done little to
  bolster confidence. Too little attention had been paid to the overall readiness of the military.
  The belief had been that despite the threats of the West, no one would actually take that final
  step and invade Iraq.
  When it had come, the shock had left the whole of the regime in near panic. There had been
  varying degrees of reaction. Some had grabbed what they could and had left the country. Others
  had immediately surrendered. The order from the top had been that every element of the Iraqi
  defense machine stand and fight to the death. There was to be no capitulation. Doubters were
  openly executed in front of their brothers-in-arms. Television and radio fell silent. No one was
  allowed to see any news reportage in case it showed the true state of affairs. And as the days
  wore on and the Iraqi strongholds fell one after another, the propaganda machine worked in
  overdrive to put out ludicrous claims of how the brave and victorious Iraqi military was
  defeating the American-led incursion at every turn.
  It had been a short-lived war. Resistance crumbled quickly and, apart from the odd, stubborn
  holdouts, the main campaign reached its conclusion very speedily. The regime tried every
  desperate measure it could to remain in power, but the Americans had overcome them all.
  Page 29
  
  Death and destruction overwhelmed Iraq. The clique of hard-line rulers, from the top down, saw
  the end coming and had made their escapes. There were still many loyal to the regime, and there
  was no difficulty making their bids for freedom. Many already had places arranged where they
  could go to hide. The money they had hidden away during the years of rich pickings went to
  insure they wouldn't lose the luxurious lifestyles they had become used to. Secret accounts in
  global banks made sure of that. Others simply went to their secret hoards and packed bags full
  of banknotes, taking them with them when they fled.
  In the first months of enforced exile, the flickerings of anger at the brutal removal from their
  exalted positions began to stir thoughts of a return. Khariza and his group, men of former high
  rank, saw the possibility of working their way back into Iraqi life. Khariza's own exile had
  proved a frustrating time. Matters moved slowly as he'd gathered his people and made his initial
  moves to pull back from the brink and look to the future. There was a great deal to
  accomplish—retribution as well as a return to his homeland.
  The Americans, the catalysts of the whole affair, wouldn't go unpunished. They still imagined
  they were masters of the world, and their arrogance was sometimes astonishing. Khariza wanted
  to challenge that assumption. He had studied the Americans and their ways, and he knew well
  enough that they had their weaknesses. He would exploit those weaknesses and deliver a strike
  that would make them think again.
  Khariza had loyal followers already living in America. They were established in jobs and, after
  the Coalition strikes against Iraq, they were more than ready to make America pay. They would
  be given their orders at the right time and Khariza knew they would carry out those orders to
  the letter.
  The buildup, by necessity, would be gradual. There was much to do to prepare. Khariza wanted
  to achieve two main goals. One was a powerful strike that would deliver suffering and pain to
  the Americans. He also wanted to initiate long-term aggression in the form of guerrilla strikes
  within the U.S. Simpler, but still effective, would be small, well-armed bands of his followers
  moving around the American mainland, striking here, vanishing, then striking again at some
  distant point. America was a vast continent, too large to police as thoroughly as the
  administration would like. Isolated communities, great distances. He knew, from reports, that in
  the great heartland of America, people knew little about the world at large. Often they had scant
  information about places within America itself. They lived in their own communities, safe and
  content to go about their daily business, believing that what went on across the other side of the
  world would never touch them. Sudden, shocking events occurring in their rural, self-sufficient
  communities would bring home the events taking place in the real world. Khariza saw this as an
  ongoing campaign. Something that would upset the tranquility of their self-indulgent lives.
  To that end Khariza had sent one of his followers, Kamal Rasheed, to purchase weapons and
  explosives and arrange to have them shipped to locations inside the U.S. Rasheed, a born
  deal-maker, had ventured abroad during the regime's tenure. He had contacts. And more than
  that, he was a man who had a fascination with weapons. Guns were his preoccupation when he
  was free from his official duties. His personal collection of firearms was legendary, and he had
  even managed to take most of them along with him when he'd left Iraq.
  Rasheed had been making headway, already having completed a number of deals. Shipments of
  weapons had been transported over the Mexican border into the American southwest, where
  they were picked up and relocated in the place chosen as a main base for the armaments.
  Disaster had struck when an American undercover team set up a fake deal in the Central
  American state of Santa Lorca. The heaviest loss, as far as Khariza had been concerned, was the
  capture of Kamal Rasheed. The Americans had taken him out of Santa Lorca, and Khariza
  assumed that Rasheed was now being detained somewhere in the U.S. In the hands of the
  Americans, Rasheed would be tortured for information and probably executed out of sight. His
  death would be a blow to Khariza's plans, but he would at least receive his just reward in the
  afterlife. One thing was certain. No matter what the Americans did to him, Rasheed would never
  Page 30
  
  divulge the information he carried inside his head.
  The money Rasheed had been carrying had also been lost. That meant little to Khariza. There
  was ample money available in the short term to purchase what they needed for the American
  campaign.
  Thoughts about money brought Khariza to the problem he still had to resolve. If anything
  contributed to his concerns, it was money. To be exact, the huge deposits of cash locked away in
  a number of bank accounts. Accounts that were denied to Khariza until he got his hands on the
  access codes that had been stolen by an ex-member of Khariza's group.
  Khariza had to get his hands on those deposits. There were literally billions of dollars salted
  away in those restricted accounts. Offshore accounts. Swiss banks. Khariza tried not to let the
  frustration get to him. If he did, he might easily lose his composure. Ranting and raving wouldn't
  solve the problem. But he had to get to that money. Without it his ambitions to forment unrest
  in the Middle East region might not come to fruition. There was so much depending on that
  money.
  Not just a strike at the very seat of power within Iraq itself, but far-reaching plans to initiate
  full-blown destabilization across the region. One of the focal points would be the
  Israeli-Palestinian situation. Peace plans were ongoing. There was always mistrust, suspicion,
  hard-liners on both sides just waiting for a chance to point the finger given the excuse. It
  wouldn't take a great deal to unleash the pent-up hatred and turn the area into a war zone.
  Already, Khariza's people were making inroads. Small incidents, created to resemble attacks by
  each side on the other. The next step would be to launch a strong attack on one side, then create
  a retaliatory strike from the other. Well orchestrated, it would have the Israelis and Palestinians
  at each other's throats. There would be similar incidents within the region, planting suspicion
  within rival groups, destroying trust and opening age-old rivalries. With the Middle East in
  turmoil, the attention would be drawn away from Iraq, albeit for a short time. The Americans
  would be in a quandary, unsure what to do and realizing that even with its vast military machine
  it couldn't police every incident. And while the world stood back in dismay, Khariza would
  make his own move.
  His master plan depended on his being able to purchase the ordnance required. The financial
  outlay was immense. It needed the clout of the billions held in the locked accounts. Being denied
  that money was forcing Khariza to place his operation on hold.
  He brought his attention back to the moment and specifically to Ibn el Sharii. One man was
  preventing Iraq's destiny being altered. Khariza tried to understand how he had missed the
  change in the man's feelings. He had, he now accepted, made a grave error when he had
  executed the man's brother. At the time it had seemed a wise move. When it happened, Sharii
  had been under the illusion his brother was still being held in prison, as Khariza had told him.
  There had been no doubt as to Sharii's brother being involved with an outlawed pro-Western
  organization. Proof had been obtained. Photographs and audio recordings had been stolen and
  shown to Sharii as proof. Sharii had exhibited anger and then embarrassment. His own position
  within the regime had been placed at risk. Then Khariza still believed in Sharii. His trust was lost
  to Sharii, unbeknown to him at the time, when the pro-Western group managed to get their
  hands on evidence of what had been done to Sharii's brother while he was in prison. Graphic
  evidence showing the extreme torture that had been inflicted on the man, leaving him a pitiful,
  ruined victim. The final, damning evidence, had been the moment when Khariza himself had
  executed the man.
  Ibn el Sharii had concealed his feelings following the revelations. He had realized there was
  nothing he could do in the short term. The Americans were commencing their military action
  and the country was starting to fall apart. He was aware of Khariza's intention to flee the
  country, along with the close group he had within his sphere of influence. Sharii had become
  aware, too, that his safety lay in his own hands. And at that time he realized there was something
  he could do to harm Khariza's plans.
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  The answer was almost too simplistic.
  Sharii had unrestricted access to the regime's bank accounts. He had, in fact, been deeply
  involved in setting up the computer program that controlled the accounts. Within the data banks
  were all the codes and passwords to those accounts. It was a simple matter for Sharii to go into
  the data banks, extract the information and record it on a disk. As a precaution, he made two
  copies. The next step was to create and plant a virus program within the main data bank. His
  skill as a computer programmer gave him the opportunity to devise a virus that would lie
  dormant until someone accessed the account data. The moment the program was opened, the
  virus would be initiated and it would spread rapidly through the entire database, wiping it
  completely with no way of rescuing any of the information. Sharii refrained from deleting the
  program immediately because if it was discovered before he managed to leave Iraq himself, his
  life would be in danger before he reached the city limits. It was simply a delaying tactic he hoped
  might give him precious time to escape.
  His involvement might have gone unnoticed if the regime's paranoia hadn't already reached its
  highest escalation. There were hidden TV cameras in every sensitive area of the establishment,
  placed there so that even the most trusted of the trusted were under observation. Sharii's
  attention was fixed on what he was doing and it never crossed his mind that he was being
  watched. There was too much going on within his head that he let his concentration lapse in that
  area. Luck was on his side initially. Because of the situation with the advancing Americans, there
  had become a need for all available people within the administration to help with vital tasks. The
  man assigned to observe activities on the TV monitors was assigned to something else. To cover
  the period he was away from his post, the man flicked on the banks of video recorders linked to
  the cameras. All activities seen by the cameras was caught on tape for later viewing.
  By the time the tape from the TV camera in Sharii's office was seen, he was long gone. Once he
  had the virus installed and his copied disks in his pocket, Sharii had walked out of the office. He
  had made his way out of the building, nodding and speaking to people as he did so. He even saw
  Khariza himself at a distance. Outside the building he had paused to watch the smoke rising
  from targeted buildings American bombs had hit the previous night. Sharii had turned in the
  opposite direction from where his car was parked and had made his way along the wide avenue
  until he'd spotted a cruising taxi. He had hailed it and asked to be taken to his apartment. The
  driver had been calm, discussing the current situation as though he was talking about an
  everyday event. It had surprised Sharii just how normal everything seemed within Baghdad in the
  daytime. The night before, there had been explosions, flashes of light and the wail of sirens. With
  daylight the city returned to normal.
  At his apartment Sharii packed a few belongings, his passport and a hoard of cash he always
  kept for emergencies. When he left the apartment, he made his way to a public telephone. A
  quick call put him in contact with the pro-Western group. He told them he wanted to leave.
  They agreed to help him out of respect for his brother. A car picked him up within thirty
  minutes. The next few days passed in a daze. Sharii was moved and passed from group to group
  as they transported him across the country. He finally found himself on board a freighter leaving
  for Europe. When the freighter reached Holland, Sharii was smuggled into the country and
  hidden out by the group for two months until he decided to move on, aware he was taking up
  their time and resources. He had family in the U.K. and made the move to enter the country,
  asking for one last favor from the pro-Western group. They had done what he asked. Two days
  later Sharii was in the U.K., in a cramped flat in London's Bayswater.
  He was on his own now. The flat overlooked a busy thoroughfare, with people and traffic
  moving back and forth all day and most of the night. Sharii sat in that small flat, staring out of
  the window and trying to make some sense out of his current position. The ceaseless flow of
  humanity below, going about their business, oblivious of the conflicts raging inside his head, was
  a blur to him. He had broken all ties with his home country, placing himself in danger because of
  what he had done.
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  During his stay in Europe, news had filtered through that Khariza himself was dead. Killed by
  the Americans during fighting in Tikrit. Sharii heard the reports and for a short time he felt
  relief. That relief was short-lived. The more he thought about it, the stronger became his belief
  that Khariza was still alive. It was nothing more than a feeling, which became stronger as time
  went by. He couldn't explain it. He didn't express his feelings to anyone else. But he became
  convinced that he was not mistaken. Khariza's death was nothing more than a distraction.
  Something to throw the Americans off the trail.
  As his time in London began to put a strain on him, and his enforced stay in the flat brought on
  a mild depression, Sharii knew he had to do something to prevent himself from falling apart.
  He had, during his infrequent forays out of the flat—to buy food and other
  necessities—discovered a mosque at the far end of the main thoroughfare, set back off the road.
  One evening, when his solitary existence became too strong to fight any longer, he went out into
  the rainy London gloom and walked the quarter mile to the mosque.
  The moment he entered, feeling the peace of the mosque slip around him like a welcoming
  cloak, Sharii felt a contentment he thought he had lost forever. He moved inside, taking his place
  among the gathered congregation and kneeling. His loneliness had been washed away by the
  gentle murmuring of the imam as he read from the holy book. Sharii reached out with his heart
  and asked God for reassurance. When he'd experienced the warmth that came with awareness,
  the tears fell from his eyes and he wept with the joy of belonging.
  In the days that followed, Sharii returned to the mosque as often as he could, taking growing
  comfort from the serenity of the holy place. It was a return to his roots. His faith. And the
  longer he spent within those sacred walls, the more certain he became that he had done the right
  thing in leaving Iraq and denying his previous allegiance to the evil that had been the Hussein
  regime.
  Something deep within him urged Sharii to document everything he knew about Khariza and his
  group. During his time working within the tight circle Khariza had created, Sharii had heard
  many things. He knew faces. Names. There were contacts Khariza often called, many of them
  outside Iraq, people with whom he had strong ties, people who could, if the time came, help
  Khariza and his group. A secret network of people and places. The murmuring about a possible
  American-led strike against Iraq had been in the cards for months. Khariza and his group had
  many meetings in those months and Sharii had attended a number of them. At the time he was
  concerned with his own part—dealing with finance and associated matters. He'd often sat on the
  periphery of the meetings. Answering questions when they were directed at him, sometimes
  offering advice. Then there would be nothing for him to do but sit in silence while other business
  was discussed. His agile mind absorbed facts and figures, names and places. They were retained
  in some distant, half-conscious memory bank, present yet never summoned for recall.
  Until now, as Sharii sat with pen and pad, bringing back all those meetings and transcribing the
  ebb and flow of conversation. Fragments, perhaps, but his agile mind began to sort and collate
  until he had written down a cohesive narrative of things Razan Khariza and his group had
  proposed in those frantic times before the day the Americans had launched their first strikes
  against Iraq,
  With his thoughts down on paper, Sharii fell back into his mundane routine again.
  He had been using a local cafe to eat in when he needed to leave the flat. Shortly after he'd
  started to visit the mosque he accidentally overheard a news report on the television on the
  counter of the cafe. The report stated that a well-known investigative journalist had been found
  murdered in his London apartment. The report also stated that the journalist had been working
  on a series of articles about the possible whereabouts of ex-Hussein regime members.
  Photographs had been found in his apartment, in an envelope mailed in San Remo, Italy, where
  the journalist had last been working. The report suggested the journalist had mailed the prints to
  himself for security. Claiming a "scoop," the report went on to say it had copies of the
  photographs. They were then flashed on the screen and Sharii found himself staring at men he
  Page 33
  
  had hoped never to see again.
  The final one was of someone even the reporter said had been claimed was dead.
  Razan Khariza.
  Not dead, but alive, well and looking extremely healthy.
  Sharii had sat in stunned silence long after the report was over. He had eventually stumbled from
  the cafe, wandering the busy street, realizing that whatever brief moments of peace he had found
  inside the mosque had been blown away by what he had just seen.
  His suspicions about Khariza had proved to be accurate. There was little satisfaction in that
  small victory.
  He had returned to his flat, locking the door, and had spent the rest of the day with his gaze
  fixed firmly on the faded pattern on the wallpaper.
  If Khariza was alive, he would be looking for Sharii. If there was anyone alive who might be able
  to help with the secret bank accounts, as far as Khariza was concerned, it was Ibn el Sharii.
  Which meant Sharii's freedom, if it could be called that, was coming to an end.
  Khariza's influence was far-reaching. He had already settled with the unfortunate journalist who
  had stumbled on his existence. Sharii saw himself next on the list.
  It was at that point he began to think about something he had done shortly after settling in
  London. He had packaged up the two disks, along with a note explaining how important they
  were and that they must not be disclosed to anyone, and that he would explain when he came to
  collect them, and had mailed them to his sister in the north of England. Now, with conclusive
  proof that Khariza was still alive, Sharii realized the danger he had put his sister in. Unwittingly
  he had drawn her into his own troubles. And with Khariza emerging from the shadows, that
  danger would be of the most vicious and painful kind conceived.
  He knew he needed to go to her to retrieve the disks and move as far away from her as he could.
  It was too late telling himself he shouldn't have sent the disks to her. It had been done. All he
  could do now was to try to undo that error before it was too late.
  He had gone to the mosque again that evening, hoping he could ease his anguish and clear his
  mind for what lay ahead.
  And that was where a Mossad agent recognized him, approached him and, when he'd heard what
  had happened, moved Sharii to a safe location while arrangements were made to keep him out
  of harm's way.
  Khariza's shock at what Sharii had done had been instant and had left him stunned. When the
  effect of the virus had become evident, the access codes to the accounts corrupting in front of
  his eyes, Khariza had ranted at his operator, demanding the man do something. He'd refused to
  believe there was nothing that could be done. He'd stood and watched the list break up and
  vanish, and was helpless. It had taken no more than a minute or so, ignoring the frantic
  keyboarding of the operator. The blank screen had mocked him and for a time Khariza had
  remained immobile, unable to react. Hours later, after his computer people had confirmed that
  the access codes were irretrievably gone, he had calmed to the point where he was able to accept
  the fact. He was, if nothing else, a man capable of accepting something that could not be
  changed, so he did just that. But his mind was working on solutions even then. He was sure there
  was something he had missed. It took the revelation that Sharii was the guilty party when the
  video tapes came to light to make Khariza realize all was not yet lost.
  "Sharii has been located in London. We are moving to detain him even as I speak."
  Abdul Wafiq, small and slender, balancing his coffee cup on one crossed knee, leaned forward.
  "Will the loss of the arms shipment from Santa Lorca have consequences?"
  "At this stage it is more of an irritant. To be honest, the capture of Rasheed concerns me more.
  Weapons can be replaced. Someone like Rasheed cannot."
  Wafiq inclined his head in agreement.
  "Any loss of a brother is sad. At this time it is something we could do without. Rasheed also has
  a great deal of knowledge concerning our aims. If that should…"
  Page 34
  
  "That is one thing we do not have to be worried about. Rasheed will die before he allows
  himself to betray us."
  "I understand that, Razan. My thoughts were along the lines that we have lost his input. Rasheed
  brought enlightenment and expertise to our meetings."
  "Then we must work harder to compensate for his loss."
  "I have some information from the training camp," one of the others said.
  He was Tarik Bader. A formidable figure, especially when he wore his military uniform, Bader
  still impressed with his powerful presence. Due to a wounding in a confrontation with an
  anti-Saddam Hussein group, Bader had been struck in the face with a knife. It had left him with a
  scar down his left cheek and the loss of his vision in his eye. He had worn an eye patch ever
  since.
  "Give us your report, Tarik."
  "The input of volunteers has risen again. A new group arrived at the camp in Chechen three days
  ago and are settling in well. Training is proving to be useful. We already have a number of
  people proficient with the operation of the explosives."
  "At least it's better news than we have been getting lately," Saeed Hassan, the third member of
  Khariza's group, said. "Razan, we need to push forward with the arming of our groups in Iraq.
  Until they are supplied with enough weapons it makes it difficult to control those areas we are
  weakest in."
  "In a few days we will have the means to fly in a supply of arms for a delivery to the camp in
  Chechen. It has taken a little longer than expected to acquire the correct aircraft, and the location
  of someone to fly the plane has taken longer."
  "We have someone now?"
  "Yes. One of our Algerian brothers. A good man by all accounts. He was taught by the French."
  Amer Khaliz, who had remained silent so far, raised the next topic.
  "The nuclear devices?"
  "Our friends in North Korea assure me they are almost complete. When I am able to transfer
  the appropriate funds, they will be available. And the other main armament will also follow once
  payment is made. And I hope that will be soon."
  Wafiq made an angry sound. "We are being denied our chance because of that damned coward,
  Sharii. Nothing will happen until we recover those account codes."
  "I am aware of that, Abdul. The matter is being dealt with."
  "Is there no way around this?" Khaliz asked. "No way of financing by other means? Cannot the
  Koreans supply us and let us pay later?"
  Khariza found himself smiling.
  "Did I say something amusing?" Khaliz asked.
  "It struck me that you sounded just like an American, my brother. Is that not the way they run
  their economy? Buy now—pay later?"
  There was a ripple of laughter from the assembled group. Even Khaliz managed a weak smile.
  "If I even thought I had been tainted by the Americans I would wash out my mouth with soap."
  "Listen to me, friends, I understand your frustrations. Sharii did us a great disservice when he
  stole those codes and left his virus in the computer system. It destroyed our link to the banks
  and denied us the money we need so badly. If we are unable to gain access to that money, our
  plans will be of little use to us. But we have not lost everything yet. We must keep our faith. God
  will not desert us. Our day will come. As for the North Koreans, they are only doing what any
  good businessman would do. Their need for hard cash is as strong as ours for the weapons they
  can supply. If they allow us to take the weapons and we fail to pay, their loss is doubled.
  "We will let our people loose in London. Allow them to hunt down Sharii. And we will continue
  to send weapons to our people in America, give them the time to prepare for what is to come.
  Saeed, I want you to increase the unrest across our region. Encourage the strikes against every
  target they can. Especially between the Palestinians and the Israelis. Agitate. Create mistrust.
  Page 35
  
  Find every weakness and exploit it. If the streets must run red with blood, then let it be so."
  CHAPTER FOUR
  London, England
  "How come we don't get to ride like this every mission?" Hawkins asked.
  "Because most trips we're flying to some godforsaken place, weighed down with equipment and
  probably jumping-out at thirty thousand feet."
  Hawkins nodded, stretching his frame out in the comfortable seat. "I could get to like this,
  boss."
  "Don't get too comfy. The way this thing flies we'll be touching down before they get round to
  serving us any bloody drinks."
  McCarter peered out the side window. They were already at altitude and well over the Atlantic,
  the Gulfstream C-20F cruising smoothly and silently. They were due to touch down at RAF
  Lakenheath. Their ride was being provided by the U.S. Air Force's high priority unit, which
  explained the VIP standard. The C-20F had been assigned to McCarter and Hawkins via special
  dispensation from the President himself.
  One of the cabin crew appeared from the rear of the aircraft. "Can I get you anything,
  gentlemen?"
  "I could go for a cup of coffee," Hawkins said.
  "And you, sir?"
  "You have any Coke?" McCarter asked. "I mean, the genuine article. Not some pansy
  substitute."
  "Bottle or can?"
  "Bottle. Hey, is it chilled?"
  The crewman smiled. "Would we serve it any other way?"
  Minutes later McCarter and Hawkins were enjoying their respective drinks. The Briton was well
  suited with his Coke Classic. The bottle had condensation frosting on the glass.
  "If the Iraqis get wind of this guy we're looking for, his life isn't going to be peaceful for very
  long," Hawkins said.
  McCarter lowered his bottle. "They get wind of him, the poor sod is in deep trouble."
  "If Sharon managed to locate him so easily, the opposition could do the same."
  "Exactly, T.J., my boy."
  Everything was ready for them. The moment the U.S. aircraft landed, a car came out to meet
  them. McCarter and Hawkins stepped out of the climate-controlled atmosphere of the jet into a
  damp U.K. day, carrying their belongings in leather carryalls. The car, a dark blue Chrysler
  Neon, rolled to a stop. The driver was a young USAF sergeant. The name tag on his jacket read:
  DENNING.
  "Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "Have a good flight?"
  McCarter jerked a thumb in the direction of the Gulfstream. "In that? What do you think?"
  Denning smiled. He began to speak, but his words were drowned as an F-15E Strike Eagle
  burned its way into the sky. The jet fighter was part of the U.S.'s 48th Fighter Wing based at
  Lakenheath. Three more F-15s followed the first, climbing with breathtaking speed. The rumble
  of their passing remained after the jets had become tiny specks in the gray sky.
  McCarter glanced across the wide spread of the base. There was a great deal of activity going
  on. A number of the fighter aircraft were moving along the feeder strips toward the main
  runways.
  "We come at a busy time, Sergeant?"
  "The base is on alert in case unrest in the Middle East gets any worse. But I guess you people
  know all about that."
  They climbed into the car and the sergeant drove them across the apron to a low building set
  slightly apart from the main complex. They pulled up outside.
  Page 36
  
  "Car's all fueled up. Documents are in the side pocket, sir," Denning said, handing McCarter the
  keys. He indicated the building. "Direct phone line via satellite as requested."
  "Thanks," Hawkins said.
  They watched as Denning walked away.
  "So polite," Hawkins remarked.
  "For a bloke who probably wonders who the hell we are and why we rate so much clout—very
  polite."
  They took their bags inside the building. It was basic, but McCarter had no intention of spending
  too much time here. It was simply a base for them to take off from.
  There was a plain wooden desk, USAF issue, that held a telephone. The Phoenix Force
  commandos used the desk to dump their carryalls so they could get at their personal weapons.
  McCarter had his 9mm Browning Hi-Power; Hawkins, the Beretta 92-F. They slipped off their
  jackets and donned shoulder rigs, checking that the handguns were locked and loaded. They
  each carried a couple of spare magazines for the weapons. McCarter took a pair of identical cell
  phones and handed one to Hawkins. They were Triband models, capable of sending and
  receiving calls from any location.
  "Better let Hal know we've arrived," the Briton said.
  He used the telephone on the desk to dial the number that would connect them to Stony Man via
  the satellite link. Barbara Price answered.
  "Is the boss there?"
  "No. He had to go to see the President. Things are happening. More problems in the Middle
  East. A minister in the Iraqi government was assassinated a couple of hours ago. He had just
  stepped out of his house in Baghdad and took a bullet in the head. From what we've been able
  to learn, it looks like a sniper shot. This was no suicide attack. The guy was deliberately targeted.
  He was one of the moderate Iraqi politicians. He had no patience with the agitators or the
  hard-line pro-Hussein opposition."
  "Lakenheath looks like it's on standby in case things start heating up."
  Price sighed. "We've had reports of similar shows in Israel. Tanks are patrolling the Gaza Strip.
  There have already been a number of demonstrations. The Israelis are holding back for the time
  being, but things are looking increasingly fragile. Every news program is hitting the TV screens
  with rolling reports."
  "We're moving out to meet up with Sharon. Contact from now on can be through our cell
  phones. Let Hal know we're up and running."
  "Talk to you later."
  McCarter put down the phone.
  "You set?"
  Hawkins nodded.
  They took their bags with them and placed them in the trunk. McCarter held up the keys.
  "Feel lucky?"
  "Driving on the wrong side of the road? I'll let you take this one, boss."
  "No spirit of adventure. That's the problem with you colonials."
  "Yeah, whatever." Hawkins grinned.
  They left the sprawling airbase, McCarter pushing the Neon along the A1065, heading for the
  A-l1 and eventually the M-l1 motorway. They had seventy miles to cover before they could link
  up with Ben Sharon. The roads were busy, McCarter driving as fast as the conditions permitted.
  His driving skills proved useful as he edged by slower vehicles, gaining ground as the miles slid
  by. He was able to speed up when they reached the M-ll, ignoring the sudden shower of rain that
  turned the motorway into a glistening strip, fine spray misting the air from beneath the wheels of
  other vehicles.
  "You always drive this fast?" Hawkins asked after a prolonged silence.
  "Hell, chum, this isn't fast."
  Page 37
  
  "My mistake," Hawkins said. "If you see anyone selling worry beads, stop so I can buy a couple
  of sets."
  The M-ll gave way to the M-25, the circular route that ringed London. The M-25 had been built
  with the intention of easing traffic around the capital, but it was prone to long holdups, with
  long tailbacks of stationary vehicles. The M-25 had been rechristened the largest car park in the
  U.K.
  McCarter headed west, his destination one of the service stations that allowed for gassing up and
  refreshments. This was where Sharon would be waiting for them.
  "They serve strong liquor here?" Hawkins asked as McCarter eased the car into a parking slot.
  "My driving that bad?"
  "Let's say jumping at thirty thousand feet with no chute would offer better odds."
  McCarter tossed the keys to his younger partner.
  "Go fill up," he said. "I'll find Ben."
  McCarter recognized the Israeli easily when he did find him. Sharon's dark good looks made
  him stand out in any crowd. He was tall and leanly muscular. His clothing was sober, dark pants
  and shirt and a light brown leather jacket. He moved forward as he spotted McCarter, reaching
  out to take the Briton's hand.
  "You made good time," Sharon said.
  "The way things are going, time is something we don't have a lot of."
  "Tell me." Sharon paused. "I was sorry to hear about Yakov. He will be missed. I liked that man
  a lot."
  This was Sharon's first contact with McCarter since the death of the Israeli former commander
  of Phoenix Force. In the past he had worked closely with the commandos on active missions.
  He and Katz had always maintained a close working relationship, passing information back and
  forth. Sharon's Mossad connections had proved useful on many occasions, as they were now.
  McCarter could see that Sharon's concern was genuine. As Phoenix Force had lost a
  irreplaceable comrade, Sharon had lost someone he considered a true friend.
  The Briton nodded. Time still hadn't diminished the feelings and the respect he held for Katz. It
  would be a long time, if ever, before the loss faded.
  "What's the drill, Ben?"
  "We go from here to north London. It's where we tracked our man."
  "So how long have you been in town?" McCarter asked.
  Sharon smiled. "Long enough to know I'm missing home. But this needs doing. I've been trailing
  this group for a while now. Trying to get a feel for what they're planning."
  "And?"
  "Khariza is determined to get back into Iraq and into the government. He has friends from the
  old regime still there. He has contacts and they have some money to buy what they need. Up to a
  point. They still need to get their hands on the bulk of the money that was salted away by
  Hussein and his faithful during the last couple of decades. Until they do, they're having to put the
  big events on hold."
  "Did you read the report on Rasheed?"
  "Pure example of what we've been concerned about. Khariza's group are going to go all-out to
  buy in weapons. Until they break out the big money, all they'll be able to do is buy small arms.
  But they can still do a lot of harm with those."
  "Sharii. What's his story?"
  "Sharii has been on the move since he got out of Iraq," Sharon said. "Once he broke from the
  party he knew his life was over unless he kept one step ahead. One, he knew too much. Two, the
  fedayeen don't take kindly to being betrayed, and as far as they are concerned that is exactly what
  he did when he wiped those access codes from the computer system."
  "He tried to keep out of the spotlight in Holland. Eventually he made it to London. When Sharii
  settled in London, he stayed low profile. If he hadn't started attending a local mosque, one of
  Page 38
  
  our undercover people might not have spotted him at a prayer meeting. He seemed relieved
  when our man approached him and told him we could help. It now appears he has a sister living
  in the north of England. This is what he told us when he talked to our contact man. We didn't
  know anything about her until that meeting. Sharii is scared the fedayeen might find out about
  her and use her to draw him out. There's something they don't realize yet. The backup disks he
  made holding the access codes—he sent them to his sister for safekeeping. He's decided that
  wasn't such a smart thing now his regime friends are after him. He wants to get to her to retrieve
  them."
  "Ben, can he give us any deeper background on Khariza? What the bloke is up to?"
  "Sharii was pretty close to the inner circle of Khariza's when it came to finance. He was able to
  sit in on meetings and give his advice on how to arrange payments, hide money. When they
  murdered his brother they expected him to toe the line. What it actually did was to make him
  step over. He decided to get out before he was next."
  McCarter's face revealed his suspicion. "Tell me, Ben, is he genuine?"
  "That's exactly the way I felt when I first heard," Sharon said. "We did some background
  checking and Sharii is a wanted man. What he did hurt Khariza's plans badly. They want him so
  they can pull him apart and try to get their missing account codes back."
  "You don't think he's playing games with us all."
  "Why would he? It wouldn't get him much. We looked at it from every angle. Look, the guy
  wants some kind of sanctuary. A safe place to live. He knows what the fedayeen can do and he
  doesn't like it. He sees Khariza on the loose and he knows the man isn't going to sit back and
  forget Iraq."
  McCarter stared out across the busy parking area. He found it hard to accept what Sharon was
  telling him. It wasn't that he didn't trust the Israeli. Sharon had always been straight with Phoenix
  Force when they had worked together before. The Briton trusted the Mossad agent. It was the
  so-called contact he doubted.
  He realized he was being a little paranoid, but put it down to the job. The kind of work Stony
  Man undertook left little time for instant trust and believing without rock-solid confirmation. It
  wasn't paranoia. Just a healthy attitude toward sudden changes of heart. Switching loyalties did
  happen. McCarter accepted that. He also knew this particular enemy, and they weren't noted for
  casting aside their beliefs so easily. Extremists such as the fedayeen were, by nature, ultraloyal to
  the cause. Loyal to the death. Cutting themselves free from what they lived and breathed for was
  a drastic move. And McCarter had to see it from that angle, and be fully convinced otherwise
  before he walked into the line of fire.
  "I understand your reluctance," Sharon said. "I'm going into this with both eyes wide open until I
  know better. On the other hand, we can't pass up the chance."
  McCarter nodded. "Let's hope you're right, Ben. If not we're both bloody fools who need their
  heads examined."
  "I haven't been to the new location yet," the Israeli said. He showed McCarter the address
  written on a slip of paper. "You know how to get there?"
  "I know," McCarter said.
  "Easy to get to?"
  "Getting in isn't the problem."
  "Tough area?"
  "Sort of place where even the kids walk around tooled up."
  "Translate."
  "'Tooled up' is an old criminal expression. Means going around carrying a weapon. Gun. Knife."
  "Sounds like most places I end up in."
  McCarter grinned. "Ben, don't play the old woman with me. You wouldn't know what to do in
  polite society."
  "Must be why I feel comfortable in your company."
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  "Okay, let's go find my partner and we can get this circus on the road."
  McCarter drove, using his knowledge of the city to get them across London to the area where
  Sharon's contact was hiding. Hawkins followed behind in the Neon, sometimes struggling to
  keep up with the Briton. McCarter cut him no slack. It would keep the younger man on his toes.
  Less than an hour later McCarter eased Sharon's Ford into a parking slot a street away from the
  building where the Mossad had Sharii housed. McCarter climbed out of the vehicle and waited
  until Sharon joined him. Hawkins pulled up behind.
  Sharon checked the address again and indicated a building across the street.
  "That's the one."
  The area was edging toward shabbiness. The long stretch of road was lined with three-story
  buildings, a mix of businesses and residential: video stores and all-night provisions convenience
  stores, ethnic restaurants catering for a wide range of tastes. Even from their position across the
  street McCarter and Sharon could pick up the food aromas vying for attention.
  "Up market doesn't seem to be the word here," Hawkins said.
  McCarter breathed in deeply. "Just smell that," he said. "Now I know I'm back in London."
  "The entrance is down the side of the Greek restaurant," Sharon told them.
  "Let's get in there, Ben. Sooner we control things, the better."
  They crossed the road and walked down the alley flanking the restaurant.
  McCarter caught Hawkins's eye. "Watch our backs."
  "You got it."
  "Using the local patois, are you two tooled up?" the Mossad agent asked.
  McCarter grinned. "Always."
  The Briton pushed his jacket aside and slid his 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol from its
  shoulder rig. He held the weapon down at his side, the barrel parallel with his leg. Hawkins
  eased his Beretta from its shoulder rig.
  "Let's do it," he said.
  Midway along the alley, stone steps, with an iron rail on the open side, led up to a door on the
  second floor. A plastic number was screwed to the door. Toward the rear of the alley were a
  number of large, wheeled garbage bins. Hawkins remained at the bottom of the steps, covering
  McCarter and Sharon. As they reached the top of the steps McCarter scowled. He pointed at the
  door and Sharon saw that it was ajar.
  Sharon reached inside his jacket and eased out a SIG-Sauer P-226. Glancing across at McCarter,
  the Mossad agent nodded.
  McCarter stretched out his left hand and gently eased the door open, pushing it away from him.
  He followed the widening gap, using every advantage he could gain. The Briton lowered his
  body height to reduce his target area, crouching, the muzzle of the Hi-Power tracking ahead as
  he peered along the passage the opening door exposed. Sharon was leaning forward slightly to
  one side, double-checking where McCarter had already scanned.
  A hunched figure was on the floor a few feet along the passage, hands pressed to a stomach
  wound that was leaking blood between his fingers. As the door swung open, the wounded man
  turned his head and saw McCarter and Sharon. His eyes widened in recognition when he saw
  Sharon. Despite his wound, he raised one bloody hand extending four fingers, then indicated the
  far end of the passage.
  McCarter picked up the low murmur of voices coming from that direction. He was about to
  warn Sharon when he caught a flicker of movement at the far end of the shadowed passage. The
  shadow moved from left to right. A sudden surge of voices alerted the Phoenix Force
  commander.
  From somewhere inside the flat came a sudden, unexpected cry of pain. More voices. Urgent.
  Insistent. A harsh torrent of words.
  "Damn!" Sharon said, and pushed by McCarter.
  The Briton followed Sharon along the passage, and being behind the Mossad agent, he was able
  Page 40
  
  to pick up on the armed figure stepping into view. The man was stocky, dark, and he was
  brandishing a stubby SMG, the muzzle already tracking Sharon's moving figure. McCarter didn't
  hesitate. He brought up the Browning, snapping off two quick shots that caught the gunner in
  the left shoulder. The 9mm slugs cored in, tearing a bloody chunk out of the man's shoulder,
  spinning him in a half circle. A spray of flesh and splintered bone erupted from the exit wound,
  blood spreading in a red spray as the guy went down in a moaning heap. McCarter hit him again,
  a single shot to the head that took the man out for good.
  Sharon had continued running, reaching the end of the passage and only just managing to haul to
  a halt before he exposed himself. As he flattened against the wall a second armed man appeared
  from the junction of the corridor. He was moving to check out what had happened. He had a
  cell phone to his ear and was speaking rapidly in Arabic. The moment he saw Sharon he opened
  his mouth to yell. The Israeli used his SIG-Sauer to club the man across the side of the head,
  repeating the blows until the gunner fell to his knees, a weak hand trying to ward off the Israeli.
  Blood was streaming down the side of his face, spilling out over his coat collar. Sharon snatched
  the SMG from the man's other hand. Spotting the cell phone, Sharon bent and snatched it from
  the man's fingers, slipping it into a pocket.
  "Bastards got here first," Sharon yelled. "They'll…"
  McCarter eased past the Israeli, putting his head around the corner to get a look at what lay in
  front of them. The angle of the corridor opened onto a large living room that had sliding doors
  at the far end that opened onto a balcony. The first thing McCarter saw was a man on his knees
  in the center of the room, head down and dripping blood on the carpet. There were two other
  men, armed, one standing over the kneeling man, the other staring around the room as if he was
  looking for a way out. The armed men were talking to each other and neither was listening to
  what his partner was saying. It was obvious that they hadn't expected to be disturbed. The
  sudden appearance of McCarter and Sharon had thrown them. The condition might only be
  temporary, but it presented McCarter and Sharon with a narrow window of opportunity.
  The Briton tapped the Mossad agent on the shoulder.
  "Now!" He didn't wait because their window was closing fast.
  One of the gunmen was bringing his SMG around to aim the muzzle at the newcomers.
  McCarter stepped clear of the wall, his Browning leveling even as he moved. He caught the
  gunman in his sights and triggered two fast shots. The slugs impacted against the side of the
  man's skull, burned through his brain and emerged out the other side with enough force to
  detach a large chunk of bone. The shooter stumbled sideways, then fell, his body shutting off as
  a large percentage of his brain came away with the bone casing. He hit the carpeted floor a
  deadweight, all resistance gone from his body. The impact geysered bloody debris across the
  carpet.
  Moving slightly to one side of the Briton, Sharon angled his SIG-Sauer in the direction of the
  second gunman and fired the second he had target lock. The P-226 spat out a volley of 9mm
  slugs that hit the target in the chest, shattering bone and puncturing lungs. The man toppled
  backward, arms and legs flailing as he lost all coordination. He hit the floor on his buttocks, the
  impact rippling up his arm and jerking his finger against the trigger of his SMG. It stuttered
  briefly, sending a burst of gun fire into the kneeling man, slamming him facedown on the carpet.
  McCarter left him to Sharon. The Briton was more concerned with making sure none of the
  opposition still had weapons. Even a wounded man could put up a fight. Knowing these
  extremists as he did, McCarter decided he wasn't going to allow them the option of trying again.
  He moved to each man, clearing guns and searching them for additional weapons.
  "How is he?" McCarter asked.
  Sharon didn't answer. He was on his knees beside the man McCarter presumed was Sharii,
  desperately trying to stem the blood streaming from the man's upper chest and shoulder wound.
  The Israeli's hands were already red.
  McCarter pulled his cell phone and hit a speed-dial number. It was a number Stony Man had
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  negotiated through the British government that gave Phoenix Force access to a medical service
  used by the U.K. security services. He was connected quickly and ordered medical backup. He
  gave the location.
  "No time for bloody questions. Just get that help here now. This is priority. If it wasn't, I
  wouldn't have this number, would I?"
  Behind McCarter the man Sharon had pistol-whipped had crawled into view. He was pushing
  against the wall at his back, trying to get himself in a sitting position. Pushing to his own feet,
  McCarter crossed the room to stand over the man.
  "Planning on going somewhere, chum?"
  The man stared up at the Briton with a gleam of anger in his dark eyes.
  "If I had my gun, I would kill you where you stand."
  McCarter smiled. "That might even be funny if it wasn't so bloody pathetic. Listen, mate, you
  had your chance and blew it. So your next move will be to a nice quiet cell. You're going to have
  to answer some questions. If you think we're bad, wait until you meet the blokes who are going
  to be asking those questions."
  "You think I am afraid of your torturers? We were told what would happen if we were captured.
  The things you would do to us. It will make no difference. It will not stop us. More of us will
  come. They are waiting for the chance to come here and be allowed to sacrifice themselves."
  "And what's that for? Just exactly what is it you jokers are trying to prove? That you can kill
  yourselves by the dozen? Haven't you people got real lives to live instead of this bloody waste."
  "We do these things because we choose to."
  "Because Razan Khariza tells you to. You buggers want to keep the war going. More killing.
  More suffering. All so Khariza can get his hands on stolen money."
  "No. Khariza wants to free Iraq. Give it back to the people."
  "My mistake," McCarter said. "I forgot he's such a humanitarian. He take lessons from
  Saddam?"
  "You people have no idea what we die for."
  "Right. So you dead and me left alive is pushing your cause to the front?" McCarter couldn't
  resist a smile. "I see a flaw in your argument. A big, bloody flaw."
  "And what is that?"
  "It won't achieve a damn thing. People will die. On both sides. But in the end everything will be
  the same. It's self-defeating. All you'll do is make us more defiant. You can blow things up till
  eternity plus one. We'll bury our dead. We'll grieve. And then we'll just rebuild and carry on.
  You think you're the only ones with perseverance? If you think we don't have the stomach for
  this fight, then you've been given a bum steer. So where's the gain for you in that? Tell me,
  because I am bloody curious."
  "We will achieve immortality in paradise. Our sacrifice will repay us a thousand times."
  "So you're telling me all this is just so you get to live happy ever after? Bit extreme, isn't it? Are
  you sure you've got it right?"
  McCarter glanced at Sharon. "I give up."
  T. J. Hawkins heard the crackle of gunfire coming from the flat. He resisted the urge to go check
  what had happened. Until he had made certain the area was safe, it was his responsibility to stay
  alert.
  As he rounded the end of the building, Hawkins heard the sound of a car engine starting. He
  moved behind one of the trash bins, trying to ignore the stale smell from the dumped leftovers.
  He stayed there as a dark-colored Toyota Avensis rolled into view. As it cruised by him,
  Hawkins saw two men in the front seat arguing heatedly. The passenger seemed to want to go.
  He kept gesturing to the driver, shaking his head. The car stopped at the bottom of the steps.
  The driver made a sharp gesture and shoved his door open, climbing out. He ran around to the
  bottom of the steps, pulling a handgun from inside his jacket as he turned to look at his partner,
  holding out his free hand, beckoning the man.
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  The passenger turned to open his own door.
  Hawkins knew his time was up. If he waited any longer, these two backup men would be up to
  the flat.
  He stepped out from the cover of the garbage bin, his 92-F already rising to target the man on
  the steps.
  "Put the gun down," Hawkins yelled.
  The driver became aware of the American's presence. His reaction was predictable. He brought
  his pistol into action, swinging the muzzle to line up on Hawkins.
  The driver's weapon had almost settled on Hawkins when the Phoenix Force commando pulled
  the trigger. Two fast shots caught the man in the chest and knocked him off the first step. He
  thumped back against the brick wall, his pistol bouncing from his hand as he went down,
  moaning at the pain spreading across his chest.
  Hawkins had been moving forward as he fired, bringing himself down the side of the car. He
  could see the passenger struggling to pull his own weapon and exit the car at the same time.
  The passenger shouldered the door open and half fell out, attempting to bring his weapon on
  track. He fired, more in panic than anger, the bullet flying wild. Before he could gather himself,
  Hawkins was on him. He slammed his foot against the car door, kicking it shut against the man's
  upper body. The inner frame bounced off the guy's skull. His gun fired again as his finger jerked
  against the trigger. The bullet struck the concrete at Hawkins's feet, whining off at an angle. The
  Phoenix Force commando used the barrel of the Beretta to hit the man's gun hand. The sound
  of breaking bone was audible. As the pistol fell from the man's hand, Hawkins reached down,
  caught hold of him by the collar of his jacket and dragged him bodily from the car. Swinging the
  guy around, Hawkins yanked him upright, then slashed the Beretta across the side of the man's
  jaw. The man sagged to his knees, blood dripping from the gash the Beretta had opened.
  Hawkins stepped back, covering both men. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the number that
  would connect him with McCarter. When the Briton answered, Hawkins gave him a brief
  rundown on what had happened.
  "You okay?"
  "I'm fine. Just a little fracas down here."
  "Keep an eye on them," McCarter said. "We have a situation up here."
  "Is Sharii there?"
  "Yes, but he's been hurt. T.J., I've called for medical backup. They should be on site soon."
  "No problem. Hey, I always thought London was such a quiet place."
  "T.J., you think Texas is tough? One day I'll take you on a real tour of this town."
  Half an hour later the area had been cordoned off after a horde of security personnel appeared.
  The black-clad response squad, fully equipped with body armor, helmets and SMGs, swarmed
  over the alley and the building. There might have been confusion if McCarter hadn't contacted
  Brognola before they'd arrived. The big Fed had it all in hand, getting through to the
  appropriate department in the U.K., and by the time the response squad arrived they had their
  orders to cooperate fully with McCarter—cover name Jack Coyle—and with icy reserve that was
  what they did.
  "I'm Greg Henning," the response team leader announced, ignoring McCarter's offered hand.
  "I washed it this morning," the Phoenix Force Leader said casually.
  "Oh, a comic."
  "If you want. But at least I have good manners. Is downright rudeness something they teach you
  buggers, or are you just a miserable sod all the time?"
  Henning's cheeks darkened with anger. "Who the fu—"
  "I'm someone who just shot a couple of people a while ago. So did my partner over there. So go
  easy on me, Mr. Henning, I'm not in the most stable condition at the moment."
  McCarter turned and left the man standing. He crossed over to where Sharon was watching the
  Mossad agent being placed in the ambulance that would take both him and Sharii to the secure
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  medical facility just outside London.
  "How is he, Ben?"
  "They managed to stop the blood. He was knifed pretty badly. But they believe he'll pull
  through."
  "You know him?"
  "I worked with him a few times. He has a family back in Haifa. Two young children. I haven't
  identified the other two yet."
  McCarter squeezed the Israeli's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your people."
  "Sharii has bullets in his upper chest and shoulder. Before that those bastards had worked him
  over pretty hard. His face is all broken up. They snapped some fingers, too."
  "Did he say anything to you?"
  "He was angry they found him, especially after we said we'd look after him. Dammit, he trusted
  us and we let him down."
  "Don't blame yourself, Ben. There's no such thing as total security. Sounds good on paper, but
  we all know how life screws things up. You cover all the bases, then something happens that
  turns it upside down. We know Khariza's people have been looking for Sharii."
  "We should have had it covered."
  "You did. But Khariza's people had, as well. They got lucky and traced Sharii here. How? Maybe
  they laid out such good bonuses somebody talked. Maybe they have smart people out on the
  street, too."
  "We need to move pretty fast. Khariza's men kept asking Sharii about the disk copies he made.
  He tried to bluff it, but they told him they had him on surveillance cameras back in Iraq. They
  know what he did. It gives Khariza an added incentive now. He'll want those disks. They
  searched the flat but couldn't find anything. They kept at him and Sharii let something slip about
  his sister. Khariza will figure it out."
  "Do we know where this sister lives?"
  Sharon nodded. "Sharii gave me her location. It might give us an advantage. Khariza is going to
  have to do it via databases, so he might be behind us timewise. But he will find her."
  "We need to get a move on, then," McCarter said.
  "I can help you with that."
  McCarter turned and found himself face-to-face with the response team leader, Henning.
  "Mr. Coyle, I apologize for my attitude. You were right, I was a miserable sod. Out of order.
  No excuses."
  Henning put out his hand and McCarter took it immediately.
  "We all have bad days," McCarter said. "Sometimes I think I have more than most. Now about
  this help?"
  Less than an hour later McCarter, Hawkins and Sharon were on board a SA-341 Gazelle
  helicopter, piloted by Henning himself. The French-inspired machine, originally the first ever to
  feature a Fenestron tail rotor, was one of three belonging to Henning's anti-terrorist squad. The
  chopper was equipped with weapons pods that held HS missiles. It also carried an M-134,
  7.62mm, General Electric minigun, fitted into a traversing nose pod. Henning had explained
  that the M-134, fitted to all three of the special helicopters, were unusual in that the ordnance
  wasn't the norm in the U.K.
  "The response team is relatively new," Henning explained. "We were formed after 9/11. A
  reaction to the new situation."
  "You seen much action?" Hawkins asked.
  "Some. More since the Iraq war. A lot of bloody false alarms, but we've had our moments."
  "You might have seen some action today if we hadn't jumped in," McCarter said, glancing across
  at Henning.
  "Don't get me wrong," Henning said. "I'm in no hurry to get my head shot off."
  "Sensible kind of bloke," McCarter said. "My kind of man."
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  "These people we're going after," Henning said. "Iraqis still hanging on to the old regime's way?"
  "They're doing their best to stir the pot," McCarter said.
  Henning glanced at the on-screen computer map. Their course had been fed into the computer
  from Henning's HQ, following McCarter's data input on the location of Sharii's sister.
  "If we meet up with any of these Iraqis?" Henning asked. "What I mean is…"
  "No bloody quarter is the answer, Gregory, my old mate. You saw the way they operated back
  at the house. No question about it. We're in a bloody war situation here. It's just that it spilled
  over from Baghdad and settled in the U.K. These boys want to play rough, then that's the way
  it's going to be."
  Henning squared his shoulders, reaching out to adjust a setting.
  "Fine by me," he said.
  "Fighting talk," Hawkins said in a slow drawl.
  "Don't mind him," McCarter stated. "He comes from Texas and can't get the Alamo out of his
  system."
  "Let me take him down the East End at throwing-out time on a Saturday night," Henning said.
  "When the locals fall out of the pubs, they don't take prisoners."
  "They really that rowdy?" Hawkins asked and failed to understand why both McCarter and
  Henning burst out laughing.
  CHAPTER FIVE
  Nuevo Laredo, Mexico
  Rosario Blancanales stepped out of the cantina and made his way across the street. He took his
  time, pacing himself to the mood of the day. Hurrying would only have made him stand out.
  This was no place to go around as if life was ending and there was a lot to do. Blancanales was in
  Nuevo Laredo for a reason. Right then he didn't want to tip his hand to any opposition by
  stepping out of line, which meant staying in the background and not attracting any attention.
  He reached the dusty Oldsmobile parked at the curb on the opposite side of the street and
  opened the driver's door. It was hot inside the car, the air heavy with the smell of plastic and
  metal. Blancanales settled himself, turning on the engine. He sat for a moment considering his
  next move. The man he had come to meet hadn't shown up. Blancanales considered that to be
  something to worry about. Able Team's contact, Tomas Barranca, had stressed the importance
  of the meeting, implying that it couldn't be delayed. Now Barranca had failed to make the
  meeting, which was out of step with what he had said. Blancanales didn't like it when
  arrangements fell through. It made him nervous.
  Blancanales took out his cell phone and made a call. It was answered by Carl Lyons, Able Team's
  commander. When he heard what his teammate had to report, Lyons's response was a curt grunt
  of annoyance.
  "That it?" Blancanales said.
  "What do you want, Pol, a round of applause?"
  "Something a little more than a grunt would go down well."
  "Feeling a little delicate, are we? Too much local beverage? Maybe we can't handle it like we
  used to."
  "We are likely to kick your monkey butt when we get back."
  "So where do we go from here?"
  "Only option is to make a house call."
  "Fine if we knew how to get to Barranca's place. Aaron's file forgot to give directions."
  "I'm heading there now."
  "Should I ask how you found that out?"
  "I just used a little charm on the guy who runs the bar. He knows Barranca. I convinced him I
  needed to see the guy bad. I'm only passing through and I had some family business to handle
  for his brother up in Taos."
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  "Barranca have a brother in Taos?"
  "Yes. Barranca told me when he called to set up the meet. I told you the guy was worried. He
  wanted to talk, so we talked. People skills, Carl, you remember those, don't you?"
  "Getting close," Lyons muttered.
  Blancanales grinned at the cell phone. Sometimes it was so easy to wind Lyons up it wasn't as
  satisfying as it had been when the Ironman stayed sharp.
  "Follow me in, but don't get too close in case I'm being tailed. The way things are going, I don't
  trust anyone in this damn town. Including that bartender. He could have been setting me up
  instead of giving me information."
  "Sad for someone to lose their trust in human nature at such an early age."
  Blancanales broke the connection. He turned the Oldsmobile around and drove off. He kept
  checking his rearview mirror and after a couple of minutes he spotted the Ford that his partners
  were using. It stayed well behind him, allowing a couple of other cars to push into the space.
  Blancanales watched these vehicles, wondering if his suspicions had been correct. Then one of
  them turned off onto another street, leaving only a battered, peeling pickup truck behind him.
  The back of the pickup was loaded with wire-mesh boxes holding live chickens. The load was
  high and secured by thin ropes. It swayed from side to side as the driver drove along the uneven
  road.
  It took Blancanales almost half an hour to reach the area where Barranca lived. It was on the
  outskirts, where property values had to have been at an all-time low. The houses lining the street
  were wooden, not in the best condition, and the locality seemed to be a dumping ground for a
  large percentage of Nuevo Laredo's abandoned automobiles. A number of them had been
  burned out. Blancanales drove by one that was still smoking, presumably from the previous
  night.
  According to the information he'd been given, Barranca's house stood at the far end of the
  street, separated from its neighbor by a wooden fence. When the fence came into view
  Blancanales drove by, checking out the house. He felt satisfied enough to turn around and drive
  back, easing the Oldsmobile up onto the dirt parking area. There was a car already there. A
  bright red Pontiac, some years old, with Mexican plates. House and car matched the description
  Kurtzman had supplied.
  Blancanales switched off the engine and sat studying the house. It looked to be larger than any of
  the others on the street, but still had the same dilapidated appearance. Blancanales called Lyons
  on his cell phone.
  "You see me?"
  "Yeah."
  "I'm going in."
  "Okay."
  "I'll leave the phone open."
  Blancanales exited the Oldsmobile and made his way to the entrance to the house. It was on the
  left side. He reached under his loose shirt and made sure his Beretta pistol was available. He
  paused at the step, checking to see if there was a bell. Nothing. Blancanales knocked on the
  wooden frame. No response. It was quiet. Too quiet. Blancanales moved along the side of the
  house until he located a window. He peered around the edge of the wood frame and looked in
  on the open living area. It was neatly furnished. Everything looked to be in its place.
  Except for the naked arm poking out from behind a leather sofa. The arm was extremely bloody
  and some of the fingers on the hand looked to be bent into unnatural positions. Blancanales
  pulled back from the window, taking a breath. Then he drew his Beretta and spoke into his cell
  phone.
  "You better get up here. And stay sharp, guys."
  Blancanales moved back to the door. He tried the handle and felt it give. When he pushed, the
  door swung open. He eased off the Beretta's safety and waited to one side of the door until
  Page 46
  
  Lyons and Schwarz appeared.
  "What?" Lyons asked.
  "Looks like a body on the floor inside the living room."
  Lyons and Schwarz took up covering positions as Blancanales went in. He moved to the left, flat
  against the wall, tracking the area with the Beretta. Once he had confirmed the room was safe, he
  moved on. He didn't check behind him because he knew his partners would be there, covering
  him as he ventured farther into the house. He couldn't see them, but the whisper of sounds they
  made reached his ears. Blancanales's faith in Lyons and Schwarz was strong enough to give him
  that degree of confidence.
  The leather sofa he had seen through the window was hiding the naked body of a man.
  Blancanales saw the face first and, despite the severe beating he had taken, Tomas Barranca was
  still recognizable. In addition to the facial beating, Barranca had been cruelly tortured with a
  knife. His tormentor had obviously known what he was doing. Barranca had been mutilated
  both above and below the waist. There was a wide pool of dark blood spreading out from the
  body.
  Blancanales crouched beside Barranca. He didn't have to touch him to know he was dead. The
  skin had already started to take on the pallor of death. Flies were starting to hover over the
  corpse, and Blancanales could almost taste the sickly sweet taint of decay.
  "If he knew this was what they might do to him, I can understand why he was scared."
  Lyons stood looking down at Barranca. "Did he give you anything?"
  "Only that the new man he'd seen was an Arab. His words."
  "I guess you don't see many around Nuevo Laredo," Schwarz said.
  "What do you think?" Lyons asked. "One of Khariza's people?"
  "Could be." Blancanales stood, putting his gun away. "The guy was shopping around for
  weapons, and this is a good area for buyers."
  "So why this?" Schwarz asked.
  "Barranca asked for a meet because something about the guy scared him. He had a feeling he
  was after more than just personal weapons."
  "He isn't going to tell us now."
  Blancanales crossed the room and stopped beside Barranca's work desk. It held a computer,
  scanner and printer. Papers were strewn across the desk and more littered the floor around an
  overflowing waste bin.
  The computer was switched off. Blancanales checked that it was connected to the electrical
  outlet and switched it on. As it powered up, he went through the papers on the desk. He
  couldn't find anything to suggest why Barranca's visitors had needed to kill him. He sat at the
  desk and stared at the monitor. He used the mouse to open the Documents window. It was
  empty. He checked the desk for disks. There were none. Someone had cleared Barranca's
  supply. Blancanales tapped his fingers against the desktop in frustration. If the disks were gone,
  anything Barranca might have put down was lost. He stared at the screen again, eyes flicking
  across the various icons until he spotted the one labeled Recycle Bin. The icon showed the bin
  held discarded items. Blancanales clicked on the icon and opened the window. There were two
  items showing. He moved the pointer to Restore All Items and sent them to the Documents file.
  Returning to the Documents file, Blancanales opened each item and studied it. One of the files
  was in Spanish. The second was in some kind of machine code.
  "What have you got?" Lyons asked.
  Blancanales shrugged. He was reading the Spanish text document.
  "It's some kind of report. Barranca says he'd noticed considerable interest in weapons purchase
  among the local dealers. Automatic pistols, assault rifles and SMGs. Requests for rocket
  launchers, grenades. Explosives. He'd picked up on talk about buyers contacting or asking for
  contact with anyone ready to deal. Mention of bigger ordnance. Ground-to-air missiles. A big
  order for those. Lot of interest shown from Central America. The talk is of someone who wants
  Page 47
  
  to move the ordnance to the U.S. border regions. Money no object. Something here about
  shipping to the West Coast region. Other consignments to the Gulf Coast as far along as Corpus
  Christi."
  "Anything about the buyers? Who they are?"
  "Yeah. Here. Barranca keeps using the phrase Arab-type people."
  "Could be Khariza," Schwarz said. "Easier for them to buy in Central America."
  "Ties in with Phoenix and that broker down in Santa Lorca," Lyons said. "There any names we
  can move on?"
  "Only a couple. Luiz Santos. We already know he's involved. And Philo Vance."
  "Vance? I know that son of a bitch. He works out of Vegas. He'll buy and sell anything as long as
  it makes him a buck. He's handled weapons in the past. Has some out-of-state contacts, too."
  Blancanales turned back to the computer and used the mouse to connect the internal modem.
  Then he opened the e-mail facility. He tapped in the e-mail address that would be accessed by
  Kurtzman, typed a message about the names they had found and the files he was sending,
  attached the files and hit the send button. A couple of minutes later he received an
  acknowledgment.
  "If anyone can unravel that machine code, Bear can."
  Aaron Kurtzman was a computer genius, a man who could break the most complex codes with
  ease. He had an affinity with the cyberworld second to none, but made the worst coffee on the
  planet.
  Satisfied the data was in safe hands, Blancanales emptied the Recyle Bin.
  "What now?" Schwarz asked.
  "Let's go see if we can smoke out Luiz Santos."
  They had a location for Santos. He worked out of a meat-packing plant on the edge of Nuevo
  Laredo that supplied specialist products to the catering trade in the local area and to
  establishments over the border. The man was known in the area but as with most of his kind,
  Santos had connections. According to his file, he was suspected of illegal business but it had
  never been proven. His influence ran high in the local law enforcement agencies. The honest
  cops had never made any kind of charge stick because Santos bought and paid for people who
  ran interference all along the line. Nothing ever got past the initial crime sheet. Reports were
  lost. Witnesses vanished or lost their memories. It had also been known for stubborn individuals
  to turn up dead. A couple of the local cops had suffered the same fate when they'd persisted in
  trying to push for a conviction.
  Able Team wasn't open to bribes, and they didn't play by any rules, local or otherwise.
  Intimidation wasn't in their book, either.
  Stony Man had provided them with identification sheets for Santos and his principal lieutenants,
  along with photographs for them to memorize.
  The packing plant was a working business. It made a good profit, though that would be small
  when compared to (he turnover of Santos's illegitimate enterprises. The plant covered a large
  area, fenced off.
  "Must be a lot of meat burglaries around here to warrant all that security," Blancanales
  murmured as Able Team did a drive by.
  The chain-link fence and high gates were complimented by a gatehouse, where a couple of
  security men wearing side arms checked people and vehicles in and out.
  "Could be a hard nut to crack," Schwarz observed as the plant fell behind them.
  "If it's hard, there's only one way to do it," Lyons said.
  "And that is?"
  Lyons stared at Blancanales over the top of his dark glasses. "No crap. We wait until dark then
  go over the fence and make things happen."
  "That little speech just wiped out years of strategic planning and feasibility studies," Blancanales
  said.
  Page 48
  
  "The way it goes is this. The background of this mission, and any others involving this guy
  Khariza, are all running on a time limit. Agreed?"
  There were nods all around.
  "So we don't have time for screwing around. Assessing whether we should or shouldn't.
  Checking the wind factor is going to eat up time we don't have. If Khariza and his bunch are
  planning chaos, it might happen anytime. So we have to make the play, and if that means going
  over the wall and making noise, we do it."
  "When you explain it so beautifully," Schwarz said, "who am I to argue?"
  Blancanales sighed. "Reduced to basic street talk I guess you are saying let's go kick some ass."
  "I thought you'd never get it."
  They had used the Oldsmobile, picking up their combat gear from their motel, and making the
  run to the packing plant by a route that brought them in along a narrow dirt road that ran
  parallel to the rear of the site. Schwarz rolled the car into a dry gully about a quarter mile from
  the plant, cut the engine, and Able Team exited the vehicle and assembled at the rear.
  They had donned blacksuits and dark baseball caps. Lyons wore his holstered .357 Magnum
  Colt Python while Blancanales and Schwarz carried 9mm Beretta 92-Fs. Their primary weapons
  were the M-16 A-2s. Lyons's rifle had an underslung M-203 grenade launcher and he carried a
  number of 40mm loads for the weapon on his body harness. The other team members had
  fragmentation and incendiary grenades. Each man had a sheathed combat knife on his belt. For
  communication purposes they wore lightweight Tac-Com units. Before leaving the car the trio
  had smeared combat cosmetics on hands and faces.
  "Set?" Lyons asked.
  Blancanales and Schwarz nodded. "Let's do it."
  They eased out of the gully and cut off across the moonlit scrubland. They moved quickly,
  silently, the only mark of their passing the soft puffs of dust from their booted feet. Lyons called
  a halt when they reached the halfway point, giving them the chance to rest while they checked out
  the plant.
  "Looks quiet," Blancanales said. He was eyeing the building on the far side of the fence.
  "Vehicles parked up. Security lights across the loading bays. I can't see many people around."
  "Hey, Carl, might not be any ass to kick," Schwarz said.
  "Always got you pair," Lyons replied. "C'mon, let's move."
  They closed on the perimeter fence, taking the last stretch flat to the ground and reassembling at
  the base of the barrier. They took time studying the plant. The complex of buildings used for the
  meat processing were scattered around the site in a random fashion. Directly ahead of them
  were the loading bays, with tracks backed up to the ramps. None of the shutter doors used to
  move the meat out onto the ramps was open.
  "I hear a truck engine," Schwarz said.
  The others picked up the sound.
  "Maybe a special delivery being loaded—or unloaded," Lyons said.
  He took a look up at the top of the fence to see if he could spot any sensor wires. He saw
  nothing.
  "No cameras," Blancanales reported.
  "Let's see if it's our lucky night," Lyons suggested.
  "What a decisive guy, Pol. No wonder they made him boss."
  "That's the thing about democracy. It allows all kinds to reach the top," Blancanales said.
  Lyons ignored them. He slung his M-16 and reached out to grip the chain fence. Using his
  powerful muscles, he climbed the fence at a rate that had Blancanales and Schwarz throwing each
  other glances.
  "Now that is just showing off," Blancanales said.
  "Yeah," his partner said. "Go ahead, Pol, show him he isn't the only fit guy in this team."
  Lyons had swung over the top of the fence. He hung from his hands before dropping lightly to
  Page 49
  
  the ground, then unslung his rifle and crouched at the base of the fence.
  Blancanales followed Lyons's example, a little slower, but he managed to join him without
  breaking too much of a sweat. They both covered the area as Schwarz brought up the rear,
  finally dropping to the ground beside them.
  "Yeah," he said to no one in particular.
  They moved through the shadows, reaching the cover of a line of industrial waste bins. The
  sickly sweet smell of decaying meat hung around the containers.
  Lyons scanned the way ahead. "We can use the loading bay for first cover before we reach the
  end of the building," he said, indicating the position. "Pol, you go first. I'll stay here so Gadgets
  can follow."
  They made another sweep, checking that the area was clear, before Blancanales moved out. Once
  he broke cover he moved quickly, knowing that his partners were covering him and would warn
  him if there were any problems. He reached the long loading bay and crouched at the base, his
  back flat against the concrete siding. Once he had the area covered, he spoke quietly into his
  Tac-Com unit. Seconds later Schwarz rounded the end of the garbage bins, crouching as he cut
  across the open space and made for Blancanales's position.
  "Cover Carl," Blancanales said. "I'll take this side."
  The moment Lyons received the all-clear, he swung around the garbage bins and crossed to the
  loading bay.
  "That engine we heard," Blancanales said. "Parked around the other side of that storage
  building. I hear voices, as well."
  "Let's do it," Lyons said.
  They used the same formation as before. Blancanales first, Lyons covering Schwarz, then
  Ironman making the final run.
  Flat against the end wall, they edged to the corner, giving themselves the chance to observe what
  was taking place. Lyons, crouching, peered around the corner.
  There was a refrigerated truck near the open doors of a storage building, the rear doors open.
  Inside the chilled interior of the vehicle he could see hanging beef carcasses and plastic trays of
  prepared meat, curls of white mist swirling around the meat. The load held less interest for
  Lyons than the foot-deep false floor section set beneath the freezer compartment. A metal plate
  had been removed so that the compartment was fully exposed. Men were exiting the storage
  building, carrying plastic-wrapped packages. The packages were being slid into the
  compartment. Each package was secured to the next by the knotted ends, then pushed deep into
  the false floor by a couple of men using long poles. The size and shape of the packages told
  Lyons all he needed to know.
  Automatic rifles. Illumination from the lights on the building walls allowed Lyons to identify the
  weapons through the clear plastic—AK-74 assault rifles. Flatter packages held magazines for the
  5.45mm loads.
  Lyons counted three armed Mexicans standing watch over the loading. A little way off he could
  see three more men standing beside a long black car.
  One was Luiz Santos. The big guy next to him was a bodyguard. Lyons could tell by the man's
  stance and the way he constantly checked the area around his employer.
  The third member of the group, slender and dark, his face adorned by a thick mustache that
  made him a leaner Saddam Hussein, was in conversation with Santos. The Mexican appeared to
  be in a generous mood as he smiled and replied to his companion.
  Lyons pulled back. "Meat in the freezer, weapons stored in a compartment underneath the main
  body."
  "How are we going to handle this?" Blancanales asked.
  Lyons turned to stare at him. "Say what?"
  "We don't know if those weapons are heading for the U.S., and if they are, where are they
  going?"
  Page 50
  
  "I think he's saying if we take these guys on we could end up with nothing," Schwarz said.
  "I understand," Lyons snapped. "Only way we can do this is to let the truck go then follow it."
  "There's a second way," Blancanales said. "One of us trails the truck. The others stay here and
  wait until it leaves, then move on this place. See if they can pick up anything from Santos and his
  people."
  Lyons considered the option.
  "Makes sense," Schwarz said. "Gives us two chances."
  "Okay. Pol, you stay. Gadgets, you get back to the car and follow the truck. We can keep in
  touch using the cell phones."
  Schwarz nodded. He turned and left the others, making his way back to where they had entered
  the compound, keeping to the dark shadows and watching for any roving security people. There
  didn't seem to be any additional guards around. He scaled the fence and retraced his steps back
  to where he had left the Oldsmobile. He stowed his weapons and Tac-Com unit in the nylon
  carryall in the trunk and changed back into civilian clothing, using a removal cream to clean off
  the camou paint from his face and hands. He started the car and drove back along the road they
  had come in on until he located an intersection that gave him access to the strip that ran
  alongside the packing plant. He killed the lights and sat waiting. He could see the main gates of
  the plant from where he was parked.
  His cell phone rang.
  "The truck is getting ready to leave," Lyons said.
  "I'm in position."
  "Good."
  "You guys take care."
  Schwarz cut the connection. A couple of minutes later he saw the truck roll out of the gates and
  turn right. It vanished ahead of him, its taillights winking through the darkness. Schwarz gave it a
  good start before he eased the car back onto the dusty road. He drove steadily, passing the plant
  and settling down for the drive.
  Schwarz figured it would take around half an hour to reach the border crossing, if that was
  where they were heading. He considered contacting Stony Man and asking for help getting
  through the checkpoint. If the guards decided to inspect his car and opened the trunk, it was
  going to take some explaining away of the weapons he had stored there.
  Schwarz decided he was going to have to take a chance. It was fine getting Stony Man to use its
  clout to allow him through without formalities, the downside was the possibility of border
  guards being on Santos's payroll. Any order for them to stand down at Schwarz's presence
  might warn any bought officials, giving them the chance to alert Santos's vehicle. Schwarz
  figured he was going to have to bluff it out. If he was discovered, then he might have to call
  home so they could bail him out.
  He kept the truck in sight as it made its way through to the border crossing bridge. There was a
  steady stream of freight moving back and forth between Mexico and the U.S. at this time of
  night. Schwarz stayed three vehicles behind the truck. The driver chose to move across to a
  particular gate. When he stopped, Schwarz saw a Mexican customs agent step out of his booth
  and pause to talk to the driver. After a couple of minutes the customs agent wandered around
  the truck, peering underneath, checking randomly. Then he returned to speak to the driver again,
  waving him through. The truck pulled away and Schwarz watched as it took the bridge.
  It took him almost ten minutes to reach the checkpoint. As he slowed his approach, Schwarz saw
  the same Mexican watching him from inside the booth. The man strolled out as Schwarz braked.
  He ignored the documents Schwarz held out and walked around the car, then stopped beside
  Schwarz's door.
  "Nice car," the Mexican said as he took Schwarz's documents. "Did you enjoy your stay in
  Mexico?"
  "Very informative," Schwarz said.
  Page 51
  
  "That is good, senor. Please come again."
  A couple of minutes later Schwarz was back in the U.S., trying to figure out just what the heck
  had taken place.
  He took out his cell phone and called Stony Man. He was routed to the Computer Room and
  Carmen Delahunt. After explaining Able Team's current status he gave her details of the truck
  and where it was at that moment. He also gave her the name of the customs agent who had seen
  him through the border crossing—the man's name had been on his uniform shirt.
  "Gonzalez? Is that it, Gadgets?"
  "I know it's not much, but I'm sure you can narrow it down to a customs agent working the
  Nuevo Laredo bridge crossing tonight. If you get anything, patch it through to the Mexican
  authorities in the vicinity and tell them this guy might be worth checking out. The feeling I've got
  tells me he's taking from Luiz Santos."
  "I'll run a make on him and let you know if anything comes up."
  "Carl and Pol will call you if they have anything to report. Until then keep phone silence. No
  calls that might give them away."
  "Understood."
  The conversation over, Schwarz put his foot down as he went after the truck. He spotted it a
  short time later.
  Computer Room, Stony Man Farm
  Carmen Delahunt turned away from her monitor, easing her shoulders as she leaned back in her
  seat.
  "I never realized how many people there are with the name Gonzalez in the Nuevo Laredo
  area."
  Aaron Kurtzman, who had been totally absorbed with the machine code Able Team had sent
  him, suddenly pushed his wheelchair back from his workstation and rolled across the room to
  where his infamous coffeepot was gently simmering. He poured himself a mug, then turned to
  face the team.
  "Cracked it," he said. He wasn't bragging. Simply stating a fact.
  "And I have your Gonzalez, Carmen. Barranca had been working on names and locations.
  Meetings. Even bank records. That guy was no slouch when it came to amassing statistics."
  Kurtzman returned to his monitor and transferred the data to one of the large wall screens. He
  scrolled through the readable text he had translated from Barranca's machine code.
  "Hector Gonzalez. Works the border crossing. Barranca has him linked with a guy named
  Manuel Sottero. Sottero is a known associate of our main man Santos."
  "Confirms Gadgets's suspicions," Delahunt said.
  "Better call and update him. Gonzalez being linked to Santos could change the situation.
  Gadgets needs to know."
  Delahunt nodded and reached for her telephone, tapping in Schwarz's speed-dial number. The
  number failed to connect. Delahunt tried again. Nothing. Schwarz's cell phone was dead.
  "Problems?" Kurtzman asked.
  "Can't get a response. Nothing."
  Kurtzman tried the number from his station. "Damn."
  "You think Gadgets might be in trouble?"
  "Could be."
  Texas
  The truck had cut off across country after Laredo, leaving Interstate 35 and picking up U.S. 83.
  It drove steadily, fast but within the posted speed limits. Schwarz stayed well behind. There
  wasn't a great deal of traffic, so he maintained a decent distance from the vehicle.
  They had been driving for close to two hours when the truck slowed and made a right turn onto
  an unpaved road. Schwarz slowed until he was almost stationary.
  Once he turned off the main highway and fell in behind the truck, he would be committing
  Page 52
  
  himself fully. There would be no turning back. If Able's Team's suspicions concerning Luiz
  Santos proved correct and the weapons inside the truck were destined for some kind of terrorist
  action, then risk didn't even enter into the matter. It was something that had to be done.
  Cutting the Oldsmobile's lights, Schwarz turned the car onto the side road, feeling the tires sink
  into the dusty ruts. The Oldsmobile, built for urban roads, swayed and rolled as it negotiated the
  undulating track. Schwarz gripped the wheel, easing the big car in the wake of the truck. He still
  kept a good distance between himself and the vehicle he was following, using the truck's rear
  lights to maintain visual contact.
  Schwarz heard, then saw, the large 4x4 that emerged from somewhere beyond the edge of the
  track. When the spots mounted on the 4x4's roof blazed on, filling the rear of the Oldsmobile
  with stark light, Schwarz realized he had been tagged.
  The Able Team commando reached for his Beretta, placing it beside him on the seat. He was at
  a disadvantage. The car he was driving wouldn't get far if he turned off the rutted road. The
  terrain on either side was rough and treacherous. Too much for the low-slung Oldsmobile to
  handle. The 4x4 would outrun him with ease.
  Up ahead the refrigerated truck had stopped. Schwarz decided he was only fooling himself
  keeping his headlights off, so he flicked the switch and turned them on. He saw two dark figures
  emerging from the cab of the truck, moving to the rear.
  The sound of the 4x4's engine revving warned Schwarz something was about to happen. It
  occurred before he had time to react. The 4x4 surged forward, the solid crash-bar mounted at
  the front slamming into the Oldsmobile's rear, the impact driving the car forward. Schwarz had
  to fight the wheel as it whipsawed from side to side. A second impact almost threw him off his
  seat. He had to reach out and grab the Beretta before it slid to the floor. He jammed it behind
  his belt. Grabbing the wheel again, he hit the gas pedal. The thought struck him he wasn't going
  to go far in the cumbersome Oldsmobile, but he had to attempt some form of resistance
  before… The 4x4 crashed against the car for the third time, coming in at an angle. The driver
  had picked up speed and the impact threw Schwarz across the seat. He heard metal creak and
  felt glass shower over him as a window shattered. The driver of the 4x4 kept up the pressure,
  shoving the Oldsmobile off the track, lifting the driver's side wheels off the ground.
  Schwarz struggled to right himself, rapidly realizing he was losing the battle. He yanked the
  Beretta from his belt, braced his feet against the tilted floor of the car and peered through the
  windshield. The two figures from the truck were close now. They carried stubby SMGs.
  The 4x4 pulled back and the Oldsmobile dropped onto all four wheels. The dazzling lights, still
  directed at the car, blinded Schwarz.
  "Get out of the car. Hands where we can see them. Leave the gun behind."
  The voice was hard, commanding. A man used to issuing orders. A military background?
  And it was American.
  It was one of those superfluous thoughts that often intruded in the middle of a difficult situation.
  Schwarz ran through his options. It didn't take long.
  He shoved open his door and threw out the Beretta. As it hit the ground, one of the men from
  the truck moved forward to pick it up. He stood by as Schwarz stepped out of the car.
  "Smart fucker," the man said. His accent was Mexican. He moved then, slamming the barrel of
  his SMG across the side of Schwarz's face. The impact knocked Schwarz back against the side of
  the car. Pain flared and he felt blood coursing down his face, dripping onto his shirt.
  "Who is he?" someone demanded.
  Schwarz recognized the voice as belonging to the man who had ordered him out of the car. The
  American. The man had climbed out of the 4x4 and moved forward so he could study Schwarz
  closely.
  The man who had struck Schwarz said, "A cop? Probably some nosy federal agent. We should
  do him now."
  "Uh-uh. We need to know who he's working with. How much he's found out." He paused. "Put
  Page 53
  
  him in the back of the truck. Let him cool off for a while." He laughed at his own joke.
  The man with the SMG looked over his shoulder to where his partner stood. "Cover him while I
  check him over. You," he said to Schwarz, "turn around. Hands on the roof. Breath out of turn
  and I'll hurt you."
  Schwarz didn't doubt the man's sincerity. He faced the Oldsmobile and assumed the standard
  position for being frisked. The man knew what he was doing. His hands were thorough. He
  found Schwarz's cell phone and his wallet. He passed them to the 4x4 man.
  He methodically stripped down the phone, throwing the parts in all directions. The power pack
  was crushed under his boot. The SIM card snapped and discarded.
  SMG Man sniggered. "ET ain't phoning home tonight." He spun Schwarz around to face him.
  The Able Team commando held the man's hostile stare. "I don't like this bastard."
  The American glanced up from Schwarz's wallet. "Bet you wont be on his Christmas card list,
  either."
  SMG Man hit Schwarz again, driving his weapon into Schwarz's stomach, then cracking it across
  his face. Schwarz felt a numbing blow across his cheek.
  "Okay. Enough games, Sottero. Get him in that truck. And lock it up good and hard. Come on,
  let's move. We've a schedule to meet. I don't want to miss it."
  "What about his car?"
  "By the time it's found we'll be long gone."
  "We could burn it."
  "And advertise where we are? Just get him in the freezer and let's go."
  Schwarz was prodded into motion. He did what he was told because he had no option. By the
  time they reached the truck, SMG Man's Mexican partner, Sottero, had the back door of the
  freezer open.
  "Get in," he said. "Just do it. Go be a side of beef, gringo."
  Schwarz hauled himself up on the metal step and went inside the freezer unit. As he moved, he
  felt the chill wrap around him. Before he could even turn, the door swung shut, thudding into
  position. Schwarz was left in total darkness and freezing cold.
  CHAPTER SIX
  Santos Packing Plant
  Carl Lyons gave the truck a five-minute start before he signaled to Blancanales. They eased
  forward, M-16s up and ready. Prior to moving out, Lyons had armed the M-203 launcher with
  an M-576 round. This was in effect a canister filled with buckshot, a deadly projectile for use in
  close-quarter combat situations.
  Santos and his group had remained outdoors for a short time before making their way inside the
  storage building. The loading crew, dismissed, had climbed into a battered pickup that had left
  the site. One of Santos's men had followed them to the gate to let them through before locking it
  again. This same man stayed outside, lounging casually near the door to the storage building, an
  M-4 carbine hanging from his hands. He was standing with his back toward Lyons as the Able
  Team commander moved in.
  Lyons slung his M-16 and eased his combat knife from its sheath. There was no hesitation as he
  stepped up behind the unsuspecting guard and clamped his big left hand over the Mexican's
  mouth. The knife in Lyons's hand flashed briefly in the light as it made its single deep cut across
  the guard's throat. The man began to jerk and kick, uncontrolled resistance to the injury caused
  by Lyons's blade. Maintaining his grip, The Able Team leader dragged the guard away from the
  door and pulled him down on the ground, still keeping his hand over the man's mouth until the
  guard stopped moving. Lyons cleaned the blade of his knife on the dead man's shirt, sheathed it
  and unslung his M-16.
  "Go," he said.
  They moved in quickly, not wanting to lose any advantage, reaching the open door to the
  Page 54
  
  storage building and peering inside. Large freezer units comprised the far end of the building.
  Before that section the main area was taken up by metal storage racks that held boxes and
  cartons. Large metal and plastic barrels stood on the floor. Parked just inside the main door
  were two bright yellow forklifts.
  While Santos and his buyer stood at a workbench, the bodyguard a little to one side, the other
  two guards had put aside their weapons and were packing more weapons into plastic bags and
  storing them inside flat containers.
  Santos was turning his attention to a black attache case. The case was laid flat on the bench, the
  lid open. He peered inside, nodding in satisfaction at what he saw.
  "I've seen enough of this cozy crap," Lyons rumbled into his Tac-Com microphone.
  He stepped inside the open doorway, covering the group ahead with his rifle. Blancanales
  moved in on the opposite side of the door so they were well clear of each other.
  "Let's hope you all understand English," Lyons said loudly, "because I'll shoot the first man to
  move."
  Santos said something in Spanish.
  Blancanales, who spoke the language fluently, made no show of understanding. He spoke quietly
  into his Tac-Com unit. "Santos told them to take us down."
  No one moved. Lyons stepped forward, the muzzle of his M-16 tracking back and forth
  between the five men.
  "Anyone with a gun I want to see it. Now."
  Blancanales moved forward a few feet, keeping his distance from Lyons and putting himself
  where he could effectively cover the two packers who were casting furtive glances between
  themselves.
  Dammit, they were going to do something.
  Turning his head slightly so his mouth wasn't visible, Blancanales spoke softly into his
  microphone.
  "The two packers. Watch them close."
  "Don't make me ask again," Lyons called loudly. "Weapons out now."
  One of the packers had edged forward a few inches. He stopped, but his eyes were turned in the
  direction of his SMG that was lying on the edge of the workbench.
  "Okay, that's enough," Blancanales yelled, jerking his M-16 in the direction of the packer who
  had been moving. "You, don't move."
  Only then did Blancanales realize he had been suckered. It wasn't the man who had deliberately
  moved who made the attempt. It was his partner, on the edge of Blancanales's vision, who
  snatched a handgun from where it had been tucked in his belt at his back.
  As the pistol swung at him, Blancanales yelled a warning to Lyons, then pulled the muzzle of his
  rifle at the man with the pistol.
  The M-16 crackled, loud inside the building, and the would-be shooter caught the burst in his
  chest. He spun in a half circle, his trigger finger pulling back on his handgun, sending a single
  shot that missed his own partner by a fraction. The guy ducked forward, reaching out for his
  own SMG. His fingers came within a hairbreadth of contacting the weapon before Blancanales
  followed up with a second burst that cleaved through the front of the target's skull, pared the
  top off in a sudden splash of red, and dropped him to the concrete floor.
  The moment Blancanales engaged the packers, Santos's bodyguard stepped in front of his
  employer and the buyer. The bulky Mexican dragged a large pistol from under his coat and drew
  down on Lyons, firing as he moved. The weapon was heavy-caliber and, when he heard the loud
  blast, Lyons recognized a .45 Colt automatic. He felt the powerful slug ripple the air close to his
  cheek and returned fire, loosing off the M-576 buckshot round from the M-203 grenade
  launcher.
  The spray of buckshot caught the bodyguard in his midsection, tearing at flesh and bone and
  almost cutting the guy in two. As the guard's scream of agony was drowned in the echoing
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  detonation of the charge, Lyons saw Santos and his buyer pulling back, recoiling from the
  overshoot. The buckshot tore at their clothing and seared flesh. The buyer went down on his
  knees, one hand at the side of his face where blood was streaming through his fingers. Yet the
  man still managed to drag a handgun from his pocket, bringing the weapon around in Lyons's
  direction.
  The Able Team leader had already changed position, crouching as he dropped the muzzle of his
  M-16 and triggered a burst that hit the buyer in the chest, flipping him onto his back. The gun
  slipped from his fingers as the man clutched his chest.
  Santos, erupting with a torrent of abuse, scooped up the .45 the bodyguard had dropped and
  began firing in Lyons's direction. The Able Team commando felt one of the heavy bullets tear at
  the fabric of his blacksuit's left shoulder. He returned fire, his burst catching Santos in the throat.
  The Mexican toppled over, blood erupting from his wound. He hit the concrete floor with a
  heavy thump, legs kicking wildly. He was clawing at his ruined throat, gargling sounds coming
  from his bloody lips until Lyons punched another round into his head. Santos's body jerked,
  turning half over as he died, blood spattering the concrete from his shattered skull.
  Blancanales moved quickly around the workbench to pick up weapons and check out the two
  packers. The one he had hit in the chest was still alive, breathing in short gasps, blood bubbling
  around his mouth. He stared up at Blancanales without any kind of recognition in his eyes and
  before the American could even kneel to check him closely, the man died.
  "Clear over here," Blancanales said. He pushed to his feet and joined Lyons, who was moving
  weapons from the floor around the downed men.
  "Why can't people just come quietly when you point a gun at them?" Lyons asked.
  Blancanales shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me."
  "Cover me," Lyons said as he knelt beside the buyer.
  "I know you understand English," he said. "Where are those guns heading?"
  The buyer, sucking in hard breaths, simply gave a thin smile, shaking his head from side to side.
  "I should have expected that."
  Lyons went through the man's pockets. An expensive wallet was stuffed with U.S. currency.
  There were various credit cards, a couple of business cards and some receipts. Lyons zipped the
  wallet away in a blacksuit pocket. The only other thing he found was a slim cell phone and a
  passport. It was a U.K. passport, the photograph inside identifying the owner as Jafir Rasifi. It
  had him down as a U.K. citizen. He showed phone and passport to Blancanales.
  "Might tell us something."
  Lyons pushed to his feet, pocketing the objects as he crossed to the workbench and inspected
  the weapons the packers had been bagging and storing in the containers. They were AK-74s,
  identical to the weapons that had been stored in the truck's false floor.
  "I wonder what else Santos has stowed away," Lyons said.
  He took a quick tour of the building. There was nothing in the floor to suggest an underground
  location for weapons. The only other structure within the building was the large meat location
  room. Lyons crossed over and hauled the large door wide. As it opened, lights came on inside
  the room. Soft tendrils of vapor curled from the open door. Lyons could feel the cool
  temperature inside.
  "I'll take a look," Lyons said over his shoulder.
  "Okay. Hey."
  "What?"
  "Stay cool."
  Lyons stepped inside the meat locker. The interior held metal bars from which were hung sides
  of beef. He moved back and forth, checking the room. The walls were smooth. Grilled vents
  high up the walls blew in the chilled air and he could hear the whir of the fans.
  He found what he was looking for after a couple of minutes. Metal grilles made from
  heavy-gauge aluminum comprised the floor. As he moved back and forth across the room
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  Lyons noticed that one square of the grille sections wasn't sitting as neatly as the others. He knelt
  beside it, reached down and hooked his fingers between the bars and lifted. The four-foot square
  panel lifted without resistance. Lyons pulled it fully clear and slid it aside. He found himself
  staring down into a cutaway, with layers of boxes and cartons in sight. Lyons reached in and
  caught hold of a strap on a box. He heaved the box into the clear, seating it beside him on the
  floor. He freed the clasps on the lid and flipped it open.
  More AK-74s. Lyons stared down into the cutaway and made out a number of similar boxes.
  The smaller ones he decided had to be ammunition. He sat on his heels, pushing the baseball cap
  to the back of his head.
  The Mexican connection was coming up with the goods. All Lyons needed to know now was
  where they were heading. That was where Schwarz would come in.
  Lyons pushed to his feet and went back to where Blancanales was waiting. "Back there," he said.
  "More guns and ammo."
  "We're not going to get anything from these guys," Blancanales said.
  "I know, I know. What was I supposed to do? Sweet talk them out of shooting?"
  Blancanales shrugged. There wasn't much he could say in light of the two men he'd fatally shot.
  Lyons pulled out his cell phone and called Stony Man. He got Brognola himself.
  "We have a situation down here. You need to call in someone from the Mexican authorities. Isn't
  there a U.S.-Mexican task force looking into the trafficking business? A team from Justice? Leo
  Turrin is involved. He can make this thing run. Let them know there are fatalities, including
  Santos and a guy named Jafir Rasifi. Had a U.K. passport. I've got that now with the guy's wallet
  and cell phone. There's also a substantial weapons cache. AK-74s and ammunition in the meat
  locker. We need to get out of here before any locals show up.
  We'll take Santos's car and leave it at the motel when we pick ours up. When we get to the
  crossing we'll need some kind of official clearance so we don't have to screw around. Soon as
  we're over the border we need to pick up Gadgets's trail. Did he call?"
  "While you take a breath, I'll bring you to speed," the big Fed said. "I'll arrange an escort for you
  at the bridge crossing. All I can tell you about Gadgets is that he called in to let us know he was
  following the truck from the Santos plant. He tracked it along I-35 and then onto U.S. 83. We
  haven't heard any more from him, Carl. Last time we tried to contact him his cell phone didn't
  respond. No signal. Nada."
  Lyons waited a few heartbeats before he spoke. "Have someone waiting for at the crossing. I
  want to pass over Rasifi's stuff. Have it flown back to you priority."
  "You going after Gadgets?"
  "We need to locate him and that truckload of guns. Damn, this has gone belly-up on us."
  "Easy, Carl. It's early days."
  "Yeah? Hal, how long does it take to pull a trigger?"
  Texas
  Brognola had worked his end of the deal. The Able Team pair were cleared to cross the bridge
  by officials from both the U.S. and Mexico. Everything was done quickly, without delay, and
  Lyons wondered just what had been said to get them such priority. A courier from Stony Man
  was there to meet them when Lyons and Blancanales completed their trip across the bridge and
  into Texas. Lyons dropped the cell phone, the passport and the wallet they had taken from Jafir
  Rasifl into the secure bag the courier held out. The courier got back in his car and drove away,
  heading for Laredo International Airport, where a Learjet waited to fly him back to Virginia.
  Blancanales was behind the wheel of the Ford, waiting. Once Lyons was back in the car,
  Blancanales moved off. They had a map of the area and Lyons traced the route Schwarz had
  described.
  "Isn't much to go on. I-35, then onto U.S. 83. That's one hell of a long route," he said.
  "Hey, there's a gas station," Blancanales said. "I'll fill up before we get too far out."
  While Blancanales gassed up the Ford, Lyons took himself clear of the station and called Stony
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  Man again.
  "Barb, how soon can the Air National Guard get that spotter plane up for us?"
  "They said in the next couple of hours, as soon as it gets light. They'll have a better chance of
  spotting anything then."
  Lyons felt like yelling they weren't doing enough. The problem was everyone was doing
  everything they could. It just didn't seem enough as far as Lyons was concerned. Especially with
  one of his team having disappeared.
  Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  "Carl, we do what we can do. If we could make it lighter sooner I'd throw the switch myself. But
  we can't. Do you think you're the only one worried about Gadgets?"
  "I guess."
  "That was a reluctant yes."
  "Best you're going to get."
  "Right now we're running some checks on Philo Vance and Manuel Sottero. See if we can tie
  them up with any of the other names we're collecting."
  "We'll keep in touch."
  "Do that. We're here 24/7, Carl."
  Price put down the phone.
  "The Ironman getting tetchy?" Kurtzman asked.
  "You know Carl. Always the hard way."
  Kurtzman rolled his chair away from his workstation, crossed to the coffeepot and filled his
  mug. "Heads up, people," he said.
  The full team was there, and they left what they were doing at Kurtzman's call.
  "I know you're pulling out all the stops, but I'm going to ask you to pull even harder. Able and
  Phoenix are trying to make sense of all this damn stuff. Right now they're coming up against
  brick walls. So we need to throw them something. Anything. Let's do it, people."
  Barbara Price emerged from the washroom, turning down the corridor on her way back to the
  Computer Room. She had taken a few minutes to splash cold water on her face. She had been on
  her feet for so long she had lost track of time and, despite numerous cups of coffee, she had
  reached the point where she needed a time-out. As she neared the doors to the Communication
  Center one of them opened and a familiar figure stepped into the corridor, a thick folder tucked
  under one arm.
  "Hi, Erika," Price said.
  Erika Dukas, the Farm's newest recruit, swung her head around and smiled in recognition.
  Just under Price's height, Dukas was a strikingly attractive young woman. In her late twenties, she
  had thick, slightly curly dark hair that reached her shoulders. Brown eyes, bright and barely
  concealing a touch of mischief, peered over the top of reading glasses perched on her nose. Her
  smiling mouth was full-lipped and mobile. She wore a cream, open-necked shirt, dark slacks and
  flat-heeled leather shoes.
  "I was just on my way to the inner sanctum," she said.
  Price chuckled. "Facing The Bear in his den?"
  "Well, if my findings are what he wants, he might not bite my head off."
  "Have you completed the translation?"
  Dukas nodded, indicating the file she was carrying.
  Erika Dukas was an accomplished, if not the most accomplished, linguist Price had ever come
  across. She had been at the NSA at the same time Price had been there. Even then Dukas had
  outshone her colleagues in the linguistic section. Already able to speak, translate and fully
  understand French, Arabic, in all its dialects and subdialects, Japanese, Cantonese and Spanish,
  Dukas was now progressing with German and Greek. She learned quickly, picking up languages
  with an ease that was the envy of her colleagues. Her high learning rate gave her an affinity with
  the written and spoken word, allowing her to assimilate new languages and grasp the root core
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  with ease.
  Price had remembered the young woman during a conversation with Hal Brognola and Aaron
  Kurtzman. They had been debating the need for an expert linguist for the Comm Center.
  Someone with an in-depth ability to be able to translate foreign languages and take the linguistic
  capabilities of the department to a higher level. Price had no hesitation in recommending Dukas.
  After the discreet security investigations into her background, Brognola had asked Price to
  make the preliminary approach. When she'd spoken to Dukas and told her she had been selected
  for a position in the ultracovert organization that Price herself worked for, the young woman
  had said yes without hesitation. She had missed Price when she had moved from the NSA, and
  as far as Dukas was concerned if it was good enough for Barbara Price, then it was fine by her.
  Erika Dukas fit into Stony Man without a hitch. Once she'd accepted the position, it was
  explained to her that she couldn't talk about the SOG to anyone, and she'd sworn an oath. Her
  initial tour around the Farm, above and below ground, had fascinated Dukas. The nature of the
  SOG, its anonymity and its direct responsibility to the President himself, leaving a deep
  impression.
  She had been with the SOG three weeks when Kamal Rasheed's organizer had been passed over
  to the Comm Center for analysis and translation. It had landed on Dukas's desk and she'd
  immediately set to working on the Arabic script that filled many of its pages. It had taken her
  only a short time to realize that the translation would be a challenge even to her skills.
  Over the centuries Arabic script had developed and spread to a number of Arab nations. With
  the expansion came subtle changes, brought about by individual nationalities. Local area dialects
  introduced more vocal and written changes.
  Within the Arabic alphabet, the twenty-eight letter forms alter shape depending on their position
  within a word, others retain the shape but are given a different meaning by the addition of dots
  in and around the letter. As Dukas immersed herself in the elegant curves and swoops of
  Rasheed's flowing script, slowly starting to see a semblance of awareness, she'd been forced to
  go back to previous sections as the narrative became lost in the translation. It had taken her
  most of the first day before the truth dawned. Rasheed was using an obscure form of the Riq'a
  script form and was making very subtle changes within that style to produce a coded narrative.
  When the words finally began to make sense, Dukas would return to the beginning again, using
  her acquired code-breaking knowledge. From that point she was able to start the painstaking,
  literal translation, typing it directly into her computer system. Even now she would come to a
  dead stop when she reached an entry that briefly defied even her linguistic ability. It seemed that
  Rasheed wasn't averse to breaking his own rules and introducing yet another dialect string. She
  had to admit the man knew Arabic in all its forms. Dukas was no slouch herself and proved it by
  finally breaking through Rasheed's literary astuteness.
  She'd remained at her workstation until all but a few pages of Rasheed's input had been
  deciphered and safely loaded in her computer, sustaining herself through the long hours by sheer
  determination. She was driven by not allowing Kamal Rasheed to beat her and also by the
  knowledge that the information in the organizer was important to the Stony Man combat teams.
  On completion of the task she'd sat back, stretching her spine and scrubbing her hands through
  her mass of dark hair. Glancing at her monitor, she'd picked up on the time and date, realizing
  just how long she had been at her station. She needed rest but had dreaded that that would have
  to wait until she presented her findings to Kurtzman.
  She printed off the data. The document ran to nine pages and though she hadn't spent too much
  time taking in the English version, there were some facts and figures that did stand out. It struck
  Dukas, more than anything that had been explained before, that Stony Man did deal with
  life-threatening situations. It also made her aware of how important it was to get the data across
  to the Computer Room.
  Barbara Price led the way to the Computer Room, letting Dukas enter in ahead of her.
  The full cyberteam was there, as well as Hal Brognola. They all turned as Dukas appeared.
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  The full impact of all those eyes focusing on her made Dukas hesitate for a microsecond. Then
  she felt Price's hand against her shoulder, heard the whispered words, "Go and show them I was
  right about you, girl."
  Brognola was the first to respond to her appearance.
  He could see she was slightly taken aback at the confrontation with the full cyberteam
  complement.
  "Erika, we're hoping you have something for us."
  Dukas nodded. She held up the file. "Sorry it took so long. Rasheed used some complicated
  Arabic written dialects. He created his own code, jumping between alternate script forms. It had
  me fooled for a while."
  "All very interesting, but did you break the code, Miss Dukas?" Kurtzman asked with his usual
  brusqueness.
  "Yes, I did, Mr. Kurtzman," Dukas responded with equal sharpness, her moment of
  awkwardness evaporating. "If I recall, it's the reason I was offered the job. Because I'm good at
  it. They tell me you're the same with computers."
  There was a momentary silence. At the back of the room Akira Tokaido cleared his throat.
  Kurtzman abruptly spun his wheelchair from his workstation, rolling it across the room until he
  was directly in front of Dukas. He raised his head to meet her stubborn gaze, his eyes searching
  her face for any sign of weakness. He found none.
  The silence stretched, then Kurtzman stuck out his huge right hand.
  "Miss Dukas. Erika. How about a cup of coffee?"
  "He must like her," Carmen Delahunt whispered to Hunt Wethers. "He doesn't offer his coffee
  to just anyone."
  "I know," Wethers replied. "One small blessing in a troubled world."
  Behind them Tokaido gave a sigh of admiration. "Is she cool, or what? Talking to The Bear like
  that."
  Delahunt glanced over her shoulder at the younger man, smiling at the expression on his face.
  "I do believe our boy is smitten."
  Kurtzman wheeled across to his infamous coffeepot and picked up a clean mug, poured a
  generous amount, and returned to hand it to Dukas. His eyes were fixed on her face as she took
  a swallow. She savored the hot, black brew, not a flicker of an expression showing until she
  raised the mug in Kurtzman's direction.
  "Now that is coffee," she said.
  Kurtzman had a mile-wide grin on his face. "Always said it needed an expert to appreciate it."
  No one noticed Dukas's quiet moment as she turned to the Computer Room conference table
  and caught Barbara Price's eye, or the whispered, "I owe you for letting me know about the
  coffee."
  Dukas placed her file on the table and spread the printed sheets out so they could all be seen.
  "I have all this on my computer," she said, "so it can be downloaded on any of your machines."
  "Does it give us any pointers?" Brognola asked.
  "First, Rasheed has a number of locations within mainland U.S.A. Each location has a name and
  telephone number. The location seems to be the important part of the notation, so I'm taking a
  guess they could be sites where weapons are hidden. I'm only theorizing here, you understand.
  This isn't my field of expertise."
  "Erika, you're doing just fine," Brognola said.
  "Thank you, sir."
  "Just one thing. The name is Hal. The queen of England hasn't given me a knighthood yet, so
  drop the sir."
  "Sounds good, though," Price said. "Sir Hal of Stony Man."
  "Barb," Brognola warned.
  She smiled. "Okay, Hal."
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  "We'll run checks on those locations," Kurtzman said. "See what they turn up."
  "This next section had me struggling," Dukas continued, warming to her subject now. "Until I
  broke through the padding. In brief, this is a shopping list. Weapons from small arms all the way
  up to and including ground-to-air missile systems. This section has ticks next to the items, so I'm
  assuming he has taken delivery of those. Or they've been located. Here he has communication
  equipment, tracking systems. Footnotes on this page also detail a contact in North Korea, a man
  named Sun Yang Ho. There's reference to a meeting in a Hong Kong hotel with someone from a
  company called Chang Li Ltd. of Kowloon, a man named Kim Yeo."
  "Hunt, take this Korean and Hong Kong stuff," Kurtzman said. "Run it through the databases."
  Wethers nodded.
  "I'm on it."
  "Carmen, the location list."
  "Erika?" Brognola said.
  "There were names I think you already know about. Abe Keen, the murdered journalist. Ibn el
  Sharii. I found references to possible attacks in Turkey, Kurdish-held territory in Iraq and
  suggestions concerning sabotage on Kurdish oil fields. There's more. Some of the entries tended
  to ramble on a little. Rasheed's personal thoughts. I think he was using this as a journal as well as
  for information he needed to remember."
  Carmen Delahunt interrupted them. "I think you should all take a look at this."
  On one of the wall-mounted TV screens the CNN logo was rolling aside to show images that
  were being beamed in from Israel, according to the captions and the voice-over.
  Merkava battle tanks were traversing dusty streets, their turrets swinging back and forth. Smoke
  hung in the air in the background. The crackle of small arms fire could be heard behind the
  urgent voice of the news anchor as he described the action by the Israeli army as retaliation to
  terrorist attacks on Israeli patrols. There were shots of bodies lying in the streets, a burned-out
  truck. The tank closest to the camera swung around, its 120mm cannon locking on to some
  distant target before it fired. The camera swung in a fast pan, trying to keep up with the shell and
  picked up just as it exploded against a building. Clouds of dust and smoke mushroomed into
  the air. The thump of the detonation drowned out all other sound for few seconds. Debris flew
  from the point of impact.
  "This attack is just another incident in the ongoing hostilities that have struck the West Bank
  over the past few days. Deaths have occurred on both sides. Three Israeli soldiers were killed in
  a sniper attack, followed by further incidents in which two more Israelis were wounded during a
  gun battle with suspected Hamas members. Each side is blaming the other. The only odd note
  here is that both sides seem genuinely surprised by the attacks. Ever since the American peace
  initiative, which was put into operations months ago, the lull in attacks from both sides seemed
  to indicate a real attempt at building some solid foundations for a lasting settlement. The
  question is why would either side suddenly start the shooting war all over again."
  "Good question," Delahunt said as she muted the sound. "Do we believe what we're seeing is the
  real thing? Or is it someone trying to stir up trouble? Especially following on from the
  information we've picked up."
  "Thanks, Carmen. That's a talking point for later, Barb," Brognola said.
  "Fine. Now let's get back to Erika's report."
  "Rasheed has some kind of timetable, dates for deliveries, drop off points in Iraq. Some are
  located in Israel outside Tel Aviv and a camp in Chechnya. And there were a few references that
  I translated but couldn't figure out. Like here. He mentions MOAB. It seemed to ring a bell, but
  I couldn't put my finger on it. But according to Rasheed the delivery of this MOAB was
  imminent."
  "Would that be Massive Ordnance Air Burst?" Tokaido asked. "MOAB. The bomb that
  replaced the Daisy Cutter? The Air Force tested it just before the Iraq war and threatened to use
  it but never did."
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  "Where did they test it?" Dukas asked.
  "Air Armament Center at Eglin AFB in Florida."
  "Exactly what Rasheed has noted here," Dukas said.
  Brognola glanced across at Price.
  "Are you thinking the same?" she asked.
  "Let's find out."
  Brognola turned to Kurtzman. The man was way ahead of him, swinging his wheelchair back to
  his workstation where he started to hit the keys, sending out his probing electronic fingers to do
  some backdoor investigations.
  "What's he doing?" Dukas asked.
  "Hacking into the military database, specifically the Air Force to see if they're missing any of
  those MOAB bombs," Price told her.
  "You can't be serious. Weapons don't go missing that easily. Do they?"
  "It has been known," Brognola said. "The news seldom gets out if something major happens. No
  point panicking the public. More importantly so that the service that lost the weapon don't get
  red faces."
  "Are these MOAB weapons some kind of nuclear device?"
  "No," Tokaido said. He moved up to the table. "These are conventional bombs, not nukes. No
  radiation. They're filled with a mix of TNT and aluminum powder. When they detonate, the mix
  is in the form of a fine mist. It spreads, then detonates. This is close to the ground. It creates a
  massive fireball. It would incinerate everything within a defined radius. The Daisy Cutter, the
  first version, was used to clear jungle so that an instant helicopter landing zone was created.
  Then the notion came that it could be used to kill the enemy, as well, a virtual firestorm that just
  ate up everything and everyone in its path. The MOAB is just an updated version. It's much
  larger at twenty-one thousand pounds of ordnance. The threat of that being used over Iraq, say
  on a city, had one hell of a physiological effect."
  Dukas was envisioning the effect on a crowded city in America.
  "You're not saying Khariza would do that?"
  "We're certain he has something in mind for the U.S.," Brognola said. "If he did get his hands on
  one of these MOAB units and managed to detonate it over a heavily populated area, imagine the
  damage it could do, not to mention the aftereffects."
  "According to the stats I read," Tokaido said, "this MOAB creates a high-pressure wave, then a
  near vacuum. It would cause lung and eye rupture. As the blast area expands, the effects would
  lesson, but there would still be injuries."
  "Add-on effects in a city would be from debris, fire hazards. Power stoppages," Brognola said.
  Kurtzman swung his chair around.
  "Hal," he said, "he didn't get his hands on one. There are two MOAB bombs missing from Eglin
  AFB."
  "That's all we need. Khariza's group getting their hands on a couple of MOABs," Brognola said.
  "Any detail on how it happened and when?"
  "I'm checking that now," Kurtzman said. "The Air Force is trying to keep this low key. Nothing
  to the media. Only information between key sections of the AF. I'd lay odds, Hal, they haven't
  even told the Man."
  "Keep looking," Brognola said.
  He turned back to Dukas. "I hardly dare ask what else you've turned up, Erika."
  "I'll go through it all. Then I need to get back so I can decipher the last few pages. I thought you
  needed to see the bulk of the translation first. Now I have a couple of other items that are
  puzzling me. Reference a couple of times to a date—April 9. Rasheed had it written down a
  couple of times, always emphasized. Circled."
  Brognola glanced around the table, over his shoulder, seeking a response.
  "If it refers to some incident, we're already running out of time," he said. "April 9 is close."
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  "The other item is this," Dukas said. She pointed to a name. "Rod McAdam. He has it with a
  question mark beside it."
  Brognola looked up. Before he could say anything Kurtzman raised a hand and waved it around.
  "I heard. Run it through the system. Okay, I'm on it."
  Brognola smiled. "You'll get used to him," he said to Dukas.
  She eyed him over her reading glasses. "Oh, don't worry. The coffee got me into his club. I'm
  way ahead of you."
  Brognola realized there was a great deal more to Erika Dukas than showed outwardly. He liked
  her style.
  And her confidence. She was already proving to be a valuable addition to the Stony Man team.
  Brognola made his way back to his office in the farm house. Tokaido had sent him the
  information on the MOAB weapon and it was on his monitor now. The big Fed sat scrolling
  through the data, which made chilling reading.
  The MOAB was the latest incarnation of the weapon that had started life as the Daisy Cutter.
  The latest version even had smart-bomb capabilities. Once dropped from a carrier aircraft it
  would be guided by satellite and its detonation set for around six feet off the ground. It had
  never been used in action. During the Iraq war the threat had been broadcast, along with video
  footage, showing the MOAB's capability. That had been a psychological attack, simply showing
  to the enemy what the U.S. could do if it wanted. The hostilities were over before the MOAB
  needed to be used—if it ever would have been.
  Brognola had no doubt that if Khariza had MOABs under his command he would use them.
  The man and his followers seemed determined to cause some death and destruction on the U.S.
  mainland. If he was able to reach the weapon-ready condition, Khariza would press the button.
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  San Remo, Italy
  Calvin James walked outside and stood beside the pool, turning to look at the villa.
  The deserted villa.
  Razan Khariza and his group were long gone. The spacious villa was empty, and nothing had
  been left behind. Khariza had been extremely thorough.
  James glanced up as he heard footsteps to see Rafael Encizo coming around the side of the villa.
  The Cuban shook his head before James even asked the question.
  "Nothing in the garage except tire marks on the floor."
  "Talk about batting zero," James said.
  "Khariza is pretty good at covering his tracks, Cal. It's why he's stayed on the loose for so long."
  "Hey, you two, I think we might have something."
  James and Encizo saw Gary Manning standing in the open doorway, holding something in his
  hand.
  "You remember the Hitchcock movie Psycho?"
  "Don't tell me you found Khariza's mother preserved in the cellar," James said.
  Manning smiled. "When Marion Crane's boyfriend and her sister are looking for her in the
  Bates's Motel, what did they find in the bathroom?"
  "Beats me," Encizo said.
  "He finds a scrap of paper in the toilet bowl with figures on it."
  "Uh-huh. And the answer is?"
  Manning showed the torn section of a piece of notepaper in his hand.
  "It's blank," Encizo said.
  "It has the impression of writing on it. I had a look around. There's a writing pad on the
  nightstand beside one of the beds. This matches the sheet torn off it."
  "Are you saying someone wrote something on the pad, took it, then tore off the next sheet
  because of the impression?"
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  "Trying to be thorough. Maybe because they were in a hurry they tossed this in the toilet and
  flushed it away. Thought they had flushed it away."
  "Can you make out what the impression says?" James asked.
  "It's a number," Manning said. He held up the paper and angled it until the light picked out the
  numbers. He read them out as James jotted them down. "What do you think?"
  "Looks like a phone number to me," James said. He held up the written number so Encizo
  could see it. "Rafe?"
  "I'd go for that."
  Manning took out his Tri-Band cell phone and hit the button for Stony Man.
  Computer Room, Annex, Stony Man Farm
  Aaron Kurtzman read the number back to Manning.
  "Okay. I'll run it through the system. I'll call you back soon as I have anything."
  "Anything come up on those other searches you were making?"
  "Khariza has a longtime buddy called Radic Zehlivic, an Albanian Muslim. They went to school
  in the U.K. Zehlivic has made himself a fortune playing the stock markets. He's quite a
  wheeler-dealer. Dark horse kind of character who doesn't form attachments easily. But the
  friends he does have he keeps. Has a reputation as a ladies' man. Played the field until he recently
  got married to a much younger woman. French girl called Monique Cadot. Zehlivic seems
  happy to let her play around and spend money. New York. Paris. Rome. The usual circuit."
  "Was Zehlivic involved in Khariza's disappearance from Iraq?"
  "Let me get back to my searches and I might be able to answer that."
  "Okay."
  Manning signed off.
  Kurtzman turned to his monitor and tapped in key words and phrases, then sat back while his
  deep data banks began to scan for answers. He had entered a wide-ranging set of parameters,
  asking for anything that might involved Khariza, Zehlivic, known terrorist organizations and
  locations. He had included vague references that would allow the searching computers to pull in
  the loosest data and tie it in to his general request. Kurtzman's program, developed by the Stony
  Man Farm cyberteam, based on previous experience at tying together the most flimsy
  information scraps, was now one of the most useful pieces of data-gathering they had. Kurtzman
  himself was often surprised at some of the things it dredged up.
  The first response concerned the number he had typed in. It was a cell phone number, and the
  number belonged to Radic Zehlivic. As Kurtzman watched, the computer threw up a
  call-receive list going back a couple of months. He transferred the list to Carmen Delahunt's
  computer and asked for a rundown on the numbers.
  "Give Gary a call and tell him who we have for the cell phone number. Run a make on Zehlivic
  and see if there's anything we can give Gary."
  On his return to his own monitor Kurtzman found another result.
  The listening satellite system, Echelon, had analyzed and identified voice patterns in calls from
  Zehlivic to Razan Khariza over a period of weeks. The connection that led to Khariza hadn't
  been recognized at first. There were only a few recorded examples of his voice, taken before his
  alleged death, and no one had been looking for him with any dedication until key phrases were
  picked up. Then a definite isolation of the other party on Zehlivic's caller was initiated and
  Khariza had eventually been identified. There were also conversation snatches between Khariza
  and Zoltan Dushinov a Chechen Muslim. Dushinov wanted total autonomy for the region. He
  had no love for Mother Russia or her politics. He saw Chechnya as a separate state, capable of
  running its own affairs without interference. He ran his part of the country like his own fiefdom,
  fairly free of Russian control. It was an isolated area, lacking in amenities for the greater part,
  and the Russians had neither the men, equipment, nor the heart for long-term engagement with
  Dushinov and his stubborn, experienced fighters. The Russians had branded Dushinov as a
  terrorist.
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  There had been rumors Dushinov had been allowing fellow Muslims to hide out in Chechnya.
  Providing them with a camp where they could plan future activities in their ongoing battle with
  the West. Kurtzman was sure other intelligence agencies had been picking up these exchanges.
  No one had taken any action. Long-term analysis and agency deliberations as to whether action
  should or shouldn't be taken simply exacerbated the problem.
  The detailed information on the individuals had rested within the Echelon data banks while
  other priorities were looked at. Echelon, for all its propaganda, wasn't infallible, nor could it
  pick up every snatch of information and readily identify it. There was still a long way to go
  before the system became fully cognizant with every form of communication transmission, and
  there were still times when it failed to live up to its reputation. Despite this, it had become a
  useful listening post for what were termed hostile transmissions.
  Kurtzman, using another of his back-door programs, took a sneak peek at agency databases,
  running a check on whether they had recorded any of the details his probing had unearthed. He
  found indications that confirmed agency filtration of the Echelon data had been acknowledged,
  but only banked for further evaluation. The computer wizard sighed in frustration. Sometimes
  he failed to understand the policy of some agencies when they sat on information he thought
  should have been acted on straightaway.
  He was about to exit when he spotted something that spiked his curiosity. Data on the calls
  between Khariza and Dushinov had been intercepted by a CIA agent and pulled out of the main
  data bank and placed in a restricted file. From what Kurtzman could see, the data had been
  lifted out of the general CIA information stream and isolated before sent to the main
  distribution list. In essence, someone had seen the data and had removed it before anyone at
  CIA could read it. Kurtzman stored the data in a separate file of his own before he closed his
  program.
  He took a mug of coffee and sat back, studying his monitor, a frown furrowing his brow as he
  wondered why.
  The CIA keeping secrets from itself?
  On reflection he knew it wouldn't be the first time someone had a separate agenda from the
  Agency's own policies. But considering the implications of the people and possible actions they
  might be involved in, he found this particular piece of deception worrisome.
  Kurtzman set the search looking for any name that might be attached to the CIA reference. He
  put it on a background file and left it to run. If a connection was eventually found, it would alert
  him.
  "Zehlivic owns an oceangoing motor vessel called Petra," Delahunt said. "Guess where he likes
  to drop anchor?"
  "Please tell me it's San Remo."
  "I just ran a check through the San Remo local coast guard computer. The Petra was in San
  Remo harbor for a couple of days around the time Abe Keen was taking his photographs. She
  left soon after. According to the coast guard data the Petra was moving up the coast on a cruise.
  No final destination or duration given."
  "Coincidence? Zehlivic is around when his friend Khariza returns from the dead, and he leaves
  just after Khariza is spotted by Abe Keen. What does that suggest to you?"
  "More than a lucky chance."
  "What are these guys up to?"
  "You want me to expand the searches?" Delahunt asked. "We know Khariza is on the hunt for
  weapons. Recruiting, as well. It looks like he's after the big money now, so he must be looking to
  buy more than just small arms."
  "If Khariza has been pushing weapons into the U.S., he must be working on something. Let's go
  for broke. Every connection we can make. Look for anything. Buying. Stealing. Mix and match.
  Tie it in with the data from Erika's translation notes, those locations she came up with. We need
  a handle on this thing because right now we don't have a clear idea what's going on. Call Hunt
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  and Akira. Tell them their coffee break is over. I want them back in here now. We need a full
  crew on this."
  Wethers and Tokaido had taken their first break since the breaking of Kamal Rasheed's notes in
  his organizer. The Computer Room had been on full steam following Erika Dukas's revelations
  and slowly small data bits were starting to come together. Aware that despite their enthusiasm
  his team needed breaks, Kurtzman had sent out Delahunt first, then Wethers and Tokaido. The
  pair had been gone for just twenty minutes, but if the need arose, Kurtzman would cancel
  Christmas to get the job done.
  Delahunt picked up her phone to make the call that would bring Huntington Wethers and Akira
  Tokaido back to the Computer Room.
  While Delahunt put out her call, Kurtzman made a link with the SARS satellite. This was a piece
  of Canadian equipment Kurtzman had used before. The SARS, working on C-band technology
  on a 5.6 cm wavelength, provided sharp, detailed feedback utilizing microwave signals.
  Brognola had used presidential clout to get priority access to the satellite at short notice. And it
  also helped that Kurtzman had connections at the SARS facility. He watched as the satellite
  came online, its orbit taking it across southern France and Italy, out across the Ligurian Sea.
  Kurtzman led the image across Corsica and Sardinia, sweeping south, then off to the east into
  the Tyrrhenian Sea skirting Corsica and into the Mediterranean. Kurtzman tapped in the
  coordinates that would realign SARS so that it turned its electronic eye along the Italian coastal
  area initially. If he failed to find what he seeking, he could expand the parameters so that the
  satellite encompassed a greater spread.
  He was looking for the Petra. The SARS capability, utilizing its powerful imagery, gave
  Kurtzman added flexibility as he brought vessels into sharp relief, scanning configurations and
  angling in to check names. He spent the next twenty minutes tracing an imaginary line along the
  coast, taking the satellite out at least thirty miles from land. He had asked SARS to work in a
  grid search, so that no area was overlooked. The satellite swept back and forth, locking on
  whenever a vessel was located so that Kurtzman could make a detailed pass before moving on.
  The entire operation was being digitally recorded for later examination if required.
  It was at the latter end of the twenty-minute period when Kurtzman made his catch. The satellite
  focused in on a motor vessel that was almost out of Kurtzman's thirty-mile area scan. As the
  SARS' eye locked on the image and Kurtzman asked for close detail, the orbiting satellite altered
  its degree of travel, bringing the vessel into sharp relief. With a little more judicious
  manipulation Kurtzman was rewarded with an image of the name across the stern.
  Petra.
  Kurtzman logged the time, position and course of the vessel, realizing it was heading out in a
  southerly direction, away from land, toward the Mediterranean.
  "Get me Gary, Carmen."
  San Remo, Italy
  "Best we can do is keep tracking that boat until it makes a call," Kurtzman said. "I'll make
  another sweep before we lose the window, see if I can identify anyone on board. Nothing else I
  can do until they make a move."
  "Okay," Manning said. "Let's hope they're not booked for a long cruise."
  He cut the connection, turning back to the others and raising his shoulders in a shrug of
  resignation. There wasn't much they could now but wait. Manning found himself hoping that
  McCarter and Hawkins were getting better results.
  Cumbria, Northern England
  "This is some green country," Hawkins said as the Gazelle swooped in across the Cumbrian
  landscape. Interspersed with the undulating landscape were stretches of gleaming water, the lakes
  that gave the area its name: the Lake District.
  It was an area of natural beauty, a tourist attraction that brought thousands flocking each
  summer. This early in the year there weren't as many tourists, but at this moment in time there
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  were visitors to this particular stretch of the countryside, though not the kind Cumbria would
  make welcome.
  Henning glanced at the GPS unit installed in the chopper and tapped McCarter on the shoulder.
  "Coming up," he said.
  McCarter glanced at the screen. They were no more than a quarter mile from their target.
  Ibn el Sharii's sister, Haruni, lived in a converted farmhouse. Since her move to the U.K. nearly
  eight years earlier, Haruni had stayed in London for six months before moving up to Cumbria
  with her then partner. He wrote and she was an accomplished artist, with a deep love of pottery.
  They had bought the old farm between them. He had set up his study where he could write.
  Haruni had converted one of the downstairs rooms into a pottery studio and had devoted
  herself to designing and creating her pottery. She combined the artistry of her home country
  with that of her new one.
  Slowly, over the next few years, she'd begun to produce examples of exquisite and colorful
  objects. She'd put her pottery in local exhibitions at first, then gone farther afield, her name
  becoming known. Her work had sold well and Haruni had been able to open her studio to
  visitors. During the summer tourist periods, her studio was never short of visitors.
  Unfortunately her partner failed to acknowledge her success. His writing career hadn't taken off.
  Haruni's success eventually came between them. He'd begun to drink, become jealous, and one
  day packed his bags and left. Haruni had received two letters from him. One asking if she
  wanted to buy his share of the farmhouse. She did, becoming the sole owner. The second letter,
  some months later, informed her he had just gotten married and was leaving for Australia.
  Haruni was never quite sure why he'd felt the need to tell her. She was over him. Happy on her
  own and busy with her growing business.
  Her happiness was always tinged with sadness because both her brothers had stayed in Iraq. She
  had always refused to accept the Hussein regime. It was the reason she had left the country.
  Despite her denial of the regime, she'd maintained what contact she could with her brothers,
  hoping one day they might have a change of heart and join her.
  Then she'd received news that her elder brother had been murdered by the regime. When the
  American-led invasion began she feared she would never hear from Ibn ever again. But then she
  had received the package from him, a brief telephone call, telling her keep the package hidden
  until he contacted her again.
  McCarter took a look around the area as Henning swung the Gazelle in a wide curve that would
  bring them in at the rear of the farmhouse. According to the local area map, Henning had pulled
  up via the onboard police computer, the house stood on a large section of land, with hills
  surrounding it, overlooking one of the area's minor lakes. A narrow, winding track led from the
  main road that ran parallel with the lake. There were wooded sections to the northeast and to the
  south of the farm.
  "Is that the farm?" Sharon said.
  They all followed his finger.
  "That's it," Henning said. "Lake over to the west. Woods to the northeast and south."
  "And bloody visitors," McCarter said. "Two SUVs. Something tells me they haven't come to
  look at pottery."
  "How the hell did they get here so fast?" Henning asked. He put the chopper in a steep dive,
  heading directly for the farmhouse.
  "Figure it out," Sharon said. "You must know there are Islamic terrorist cells in the U.K. It's the
  same everywhere. Since the Iraq war, they've been put on alert in case a strike is called for. It's
  why your unit was formed. To combat instances like this. All Khariza had to do was get his
  commander in the U.K. to call up a local unit, give them their orders and send them out."
  "Lock and load, lads," McCarter said. "Remember why we're here. We need to get hold of those
  disks Sharii sent to his sister, and we need to keep her alive if possible. I don't think she deserves
  to get caught up in this if we can prevent it."
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  As Henning dropped the Gazelle with dizzying speed, the pair of SUVs roared to the top of the
  track, dust billowing in their wake. The lead vehicle cut across the lawn that fronted the
  farmhouse, smashing through a flower bed and demolishing a display of clay pots. The SUV
  bounced from the grass onto the stone-paved area fronting the house and came to a
  rubber-burning stop.
  Doors flew open and four armed figures jumped out, rushing toward the house.
  Aware of the approaching Gazelle, one of them turned and raised his weapon, loosing off a
  burst of autofire. A number of the slugs clanged against the chopper's landing struts.
  "Bastard," Henning said. "I had to sign for this machine."
  He swung the Gazelle around and reached across to activate the M-134 minigun. His finger
  touched the firing button and the six-barrel machine gun let fly a short burst. The Gazelle
  vibrated under the power of the electrically driven weapon.
  The shooter who had turned on the chopper vanished in a haze of earth and stones as the burst
  hit the ground first, then enveloped him in dozens of 7.62mm slugs. The concentrated impact of
  the rounds shredded the man, turning the dust cloud red. As the Gazelle overshot the stricken
  figure it toppled to the ground, reduced to bloody, steaming rags and tattered flesh.
  Henning arced the chopper around to face the farmhouse. The moment the machine was on the
  ground McCarter, with Hawkins and Sharon close behind, stormed out of the cabin. They hit the
  ground running, pistols out and ready as they confronted the invading force.
  The second SUV had bolted to the rear of the farmhouse, crashing through anything in its way.
  It came to a bouncing stop and its armed crew, five of them, exited the vehicle and made for the
  rear of the house.
  "Five heading for the back of the house," McCarter yelled, waving wildly at Hawkins and
  Sharon. They turned and ran around the side, following the five-man crew.
  McCarter had business of his own to handle, as he saw two more shooters emerge from the first
  SUV. One was working the cocking bolt of his weapon as he hit the ground. The Briton took
  him out with a double tap to the side of the head that bounced the guy off the side of the SUV,
  leaving a bloody print on the paintwork. As the dead man hit the ground, McCarter sank to one
  knee, his Hi-Power held in two hands as he tracked the other shooter. This one had paused to
  take aim at McCarter, but the Phoenix Force leader was still faster, calm even in a combat
  situation. He fired twice while the other guy was still leveling his gun. McCarter's 9mm slugs hit
  the man in the chest, over the heart, and he went down in an ungainly heap, jerking in a final fight
  for life. He had lost that fight by the time McCarter paused beside him and snatched up the
  unfired Heckler & Koch MP-5, a weapon the Stony Man soldier was well versed in. The 9mm
  submachine gun felt comfortable in his hands. He noted that it was fitted with the 30-round
  magazine, with a second one taped to it for speedy reloading. McCarter snapped back the bolt,
  cocked the weapon and turned to move in on the trio who had first exited the SUV.
  He sprinted toward the direction of the farmhouse front door, spotting the last man as he made
  to run inside. McCarter raised the MP-5 and triggered a burst that smashed into the target's
  back, severing his spine and dropping him, screaming, to fall across the step. McCarter kept
  moving, silenced the yelling man with a short burst to the back of the skull, then went in through
  the open door full-tilt.
  He took in the open room, heard the crash of feet as they thundered across the wooden floor,
  and spotted one of the hitters as he paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor.
  The man turned, his face etched with rage when he saw the Briton wasn't who he had expected.
  McCarter hit him with a savage burst that slammed him against the wall, blood geysering from a
  ravaged throat. The man coughed, spitting more blood as he struggled to return fire. McCarter
  fired a second time, stitching the guy across the chest, dropping him on the stairs.
  A woman screamed. There was a crash of breaking crockery and someone yelled in anger.
  McCarter followed the sound, heard a man yelling in Arabic, then the sound of an MP-5 on
  full-auto drowned all other noise. Without breaking his stride, the Stony Man commando went
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  through the door ahead of him and into the wide, beamed-ceilinged kitchen. Smashed crockery
  lay on the floor, as did overturned chairs. At the open door leading outside, one of the raiders,
  his back to McCarter, was firing his SMG and yelling. McCarter didn't know whether it was from
  rage or adrenaline.
  The Briton's entry into the kitchen was less than silent as he trod on broken crockery and kicked
  a smashed chair out of the way, stumbling briefly as he regained his balance.
  The shooter at the door turned without warning and brought his MP-5 with him, mouthing
  something at McCarter the Briton failed to understand. All McCarter saw was the muzzle of the
  MP-5 tracking in on him. He began to pull his own weapon online. Something slammed into him
  from behind, knocking him aside. As he stumbled, McCarter heard the heavy boom of a
  shotgun. Out the corner of his eye McCarter saw the shooter's chest blown open by the triple
  shots that sent the shotgun charges into him. Bloody chunks flew from the ravaged torso and the
  shooter was driven back against the door frame where he hung for a second before crashing to
  the kitchen floor in a bloody, lacerated heap.
  "You okay?" someone asked.
  McCarter glanced around, into the face of Greg Henning. The antiterrorist cop was cradling a
  Franchi SPAS-12 combat shotgun. The 8-round semiauto weapon had a powerful delivery. The
  Briton nodded in Henning's direction, then heard a crackle of gunfire coming from the rear of
  the farmhouse.
  Hawkins and Sharon heard the gunfire as they ran around to the rear of the farmhouse. They
  passed the SUV, its doors wide open and the last of the five-man crew disappearing around the
  edge of the building.
  Hawkins flattened against the wall, peering around the corner, and saw the five armed men
  spreading out around the paved area. The Phoenix Force pro dropped to a crouch, extending
  his Beretta as the tail-end man turned, the muzzle of his MP-5 rising. They locked eyes and there
  was a moment when the other guy hesitated. Hawkins didn't know why and it made no
  difference. He triggered the Beretta and the pair of 9mm slugs punched into the target's left
  shoulder. A dark chunk flew out from the back of the man's shoulder, blood following. The
  would-be shooter twisted, seeking a way out, the MP-5 dropping from his hands as he clutched
  at his shoulder. It was his last living act. Ben Sharon, leaning over Hawkins's crouched figure,
  delivered a single shot from his P-226 that cored through the guy's skull.
  Ahead of the pair the remaining four hitters were converging on the back door. The crackle of
  autofire could be heard from inside the house.
  A woman ran out the rear door. She was dark-haired, slim and had a brown envelope clutched
  to her chest. Before she was aware she had run directly into the path of the lead crew member.
  He was tall, lean, his head shaved. He was wearing a long leather coat. The man caught hold of
  the woman, turning her so he had her back to him. One arm circled her neck, pulling her close.
  His right hand, gripping a Glock pistol, turned the muzzle so it pressed against the side of her
  skull.
  "Oh, great," Hawkins murmured.
  "I will kill her. Make no mistake," Leather Coat said in clear English.
  McCarter and Henning appeared at the kitchen door.
  Leather Coat backed up, his armed crew spreading out to cover McCarter and company.
  "This isn't going to happen," McCarter said, stepping out into the open, his MP-5 directed at
  Leather Coat and the woman hostage.
  "He will kill her," Sharon called.
  "You know him?" Hawkins asked.
  Sharon nodded. "His name is Barak, Khariza's trained dog. He's an assassin and a sick son of a
  bitch. We know him."
  Barak had moved farther across the paved area. One of his crew moved in closer and snatched
  the package from the woman's hands. He opened the package and showed Barak the disks.
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  "So?" Barak said. "Do we kill each other now? Let this woman die, too?"
  "It could happen," McCarter replied.
  The Briton kept his MP-5 trained on Barak and Sharii's sister.
  "Somehow I do not think you have solved my problem," Barak said. "It seems I will have to do
  it myself." He lowered his head, his lips moving. After a few moments he looked up, a smile
  edging his lips.
  McCarter realized the man had been speaking into a compact radio unit attached to the collar of
  his coat.
  Calling in reinforcements?
  His question was answered seconds later when the rising throb of rotors reached his ears. It was
  coming from somewhere behind Barak, beyond the farm outbuildings. The sound rose to a roar
  as a helicopter swept into view, sweeping in over the outbuilding roof. A Sikorsky S-76, it
  hovered, black and menacing, the side door open to reveal a swivel-mounted machine gun that
  arced around to cover McCarter and his group.
  "One word, you all die here and now," Barak said, and McCarter had no doubt he meant every
  word.
  The chopper sank to within a few feet of the ground.
  "Boss?"
  McCarter glanced at Hawkins. He knew the unasked question. His gaze flicked back to Haruni,
  still in Barak's threatening embrace, and he knew there was no way he could endanger the young
  woman's life. One brother dead. Sharii in hospital with life-threatening wounds.
  Barak sensed the Briton's hesitation. He knew he had won, but he was wise enough not to let it
  show. Mocking his adversary at this point might just tip him over the edge and push him to do
  something reckless. The Iraqi snapped orders to his crew and they all backed away, converging
  around the S-76, one by one climbing inside until only Barak and his hostage were left. Barak
  worked his way onto the floor of the helicopter, willing hands pulling him and the woman inside.
  The helicopter began to rise. Haruni was being held in the open hatch, fear showing on her face.
  McCarter lowered his MP-5, letting out a snort of frustration.
  "He'll kill her now," Sharon said. "Once they're out of range they'll get rid of her. We missed our
  chance, dammit."
  Barak's chopper swung over the crest of the hills behind the farm and vanished from sight. The
  echo of its engine could still be heard.
  "Let me go after them," Henning said. He turned to face McCarter.
  "No way you could do that without them spotting you."
  "I could get air control to track them on radar. At least we can get an idea where they're
  heading."
  "Do it," McCarter said.
  Henning headed for the Gazelle.
  McCarter slumped against the wall of the house. He fought back the urge to let it all out. To yell
  and curse at the way the odds had gone against them, but there had been no other way. He didn't
  care about Sharon's disappointment. The day he let himself act like the animals they were
  fighting against was the day he was finished.
  He had been forced into making a tactical decision. Whether to attack, putting himself, his own
  people and Haruni in the firing line, or to stand off and let the Iraqi and his team go. He had
  chosen the latter because Barak's team had had the superior firepower at that given moment and
  when the shooting started they would have outgunned McCarter's people. The odds had been
  too great in Barak's favor. McCarter couldn't have exposed his people to those odds. There was
  no doubt in his mind that to have gone against Barak would have been nothing less than a
  wasteful gesture. The Briton's reckless nature, held down now by his position of command over
  Phoenix Force, might once have led him into doing something off the wall. Now he was able
  keep the urge to grandstand under control.
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  Even so, all he could register was the fact they had been that close to getting their hands on the
  disks and now that chance had slipped away from them.
  He took out his cell phone to call Stony Man to let them know what had happened. It was not a
  call he was looking forward to.
  Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  "David, don't beat yourself up about it. You had to make a call. You did, and that's an end to it.
  I'm not going to chew you out because you chose not to sacrifice people just to complete your
  mission."
  "We nearly had the bloody disks, Hal. They were no more than thirty feet away."
  "And if you'd gone ahead? Could you guarantee you would have got the disks? No answer there,
  David, because you might all have been dead. If not, there would have been heavy casualties. I'd
  rather have my people alive."
  McCarter couldn't answer that.
  "Listen, get yourselves back to London. We've had the translation of Rasheed's organizer. It's
  given us some indication where Khariza might be doing his negotiating with a North Korean
  named Sun Yang Ho. We have a point of contact in Hong Kong. Guy called Kim Yeo. We need
  some backup on this. Is Mei Anna still in London?"
  "Last time I spoke to her she was."
  "Maybe she can arrange a meet with some of her people in Hong Kong. They might be able to
  help with this Kim Yeo."
  "Worth a try." McCarter paused. "Hal?"
  "I'm still here."
  "Thanks, mate."
  This time the silence was at Brognola's end of the line. "None needed. David, I want live people
  who know when to back off. Not dead hotheads."
  "Hey, I used to be that hothead."
  "I said that to Katz when he put you up for his job."
  "What did he say?"
  "I'll tell you when you finish this mission."
  "Bloody hell, Hal, why not now?"
  "I don't want you crying into that cell phone. You know how much they cost?"
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  Texas
  Hermann Schwarz lost track of time after the first half hour. The ride in the freezer
  compartment of the moving truck was uneven, and he was thrown from side to side as the
  vehicle went over bumps or swerved. He couldn't be certain whether they were simply traveling
  across hard country or the driver was just playing games with his passenger. Whatever the
  reason, Schwarz had no choice in the matter. He could have sat, feet braced against one of the
  metal frames that ran the length of the interior, and rode out the trip. That notion was discarded
  the moment he had developed it. The low temperature inside the compartment meant he would
  have frozen solid if he'd just sat immobile. His only chance at surviving was to keep moving.
  Schwarz knew he had to keep his body warm enough to avoid letting the freezing temperature
  weaken him. Once he gave up and let himself fall into a stupor, there would be no waking up.
  Schwarz kept on the move, around and round the freezer compartment. To the door end, then
  back to the front. He moved as fast as he could, working his arms as well as his legs. He thrust
  his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He tried to ignore the rise and fall of the truck
  floor and to keep his momentum up. There were times he failed and fell, banging himself against
  the aluminum side, other times slamming into the swaying beef carcasses hanging from the
  curved hooks on the rails bisecting the interior of the compartment. His body was soon aching
  from the bruising it received when he did come into violent contact with the unyielding objects.
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  One fall slammed him face-first against the metal side of the compartment. Schwarz felt a sharp
  pain in his left cheek as the flesh was cut. He felt warm blood start to ooze from the wound. It
  slid down his cheek and wet his lips, some getting into his mouth. The brassy taste of the blood
  made him angry. Schwarz pushed to his feet and continued his endless movement. He wasn't
  going to give in.
  It wasn't on the cards. He had been through too much to end up dead and frozen. If the bastards
  sitting in the cab of the truck thought they were going to find him frozen to the floor like an
  oversize ice-cream treat, they were in for a damned surprise.
  It was a struggle of mind over matter. His body wanted to slow down, to rest and let the
  seductive cloak of the cold lull him into immobility. In his mind Schwarz was telling himself his
  only chance was to stay on his feet, on the move, and to hell with the sadistic sons of bitches who
  had locked him in this freezing hell.
  He tramped up and down the length of the compartment, becoming so used to the routine that
  he soon found he didn't need to worry about walking into the end panel or the door. He knew
  when he had reached the limit, turning automatically and retracing his steps back the other way.
  Come on, Hermann, this is easy. It's just a little cold air. Nothing to worry about. You've been in
  worse situations than this. He couldn't think what those other situations might have been, but
  that wasn't the point of the exercise. He needed to keep his mind focused.
  He felt the truck slow. The swaying eased off as the truck came to a stop. Schwarz rounded on
  the door end of the compartment. He couldn't hear anything. The construction of the insulated
  freezer compartment acted as efficient soundproofing.
  Schwarz made his way to the door and waited. There was movement and the doors swung open.
  Car lights a little way off illuminated the interior of the freezer. To one side Schwarz could see
  the American. The man was watching as the Mexican, Sottero, approached to rear of the truck
  and stood directly in front of Schwarz, a taunting smirk on his face.
  "Hey, cabron, get your chilled ass out of the truck."
  Schwarz took the first step to climbing down out of the truck, staring into Sottero's grinning
  face. He never knew what made him do what he did next, and later he realized how close he had
  come to placing himself on the edge, but at the time it just felt like the right and proper thing to
  do.
  "Come on, gringo, I don't have all fuckin' night to wait for—"
  Schwarz drove his right foot into Sottero's face. He had already raised his foot to take a step
  down, so it was no effort to swing it back a little more, then put every ounce of rage into the
  kick. The blow landed hard, crushing Sottero's nose flat to his face, splitting his lips wide open
  and loosening a number of teeth. Sottero staggered back, blood squirting from his mangled
  nose, streaming down his face and soaking his shirtfront. The Mexican went down on his knees,
  screaming in pain, reaching up to clutch both hands to his injuries. Blood began to well from
  between his fingers.
  From the side of the truck other figures moved into the light, weapons rattling as they covered
  Schwarz as he walked down the metal steps of the truck and stood waiting.
  "Back off," the American said. He walked up to Schwarz. Glanced down at the moaning,
  bloody-faced Sottero. "For a man in your current position, that might be considered a reckless
  thing to do."
  Schwarz, shivering in the chill Texas air, managed a shrug. "Seemed the right thing from my
  angle. He was getting to me."
  The American smiled. He ran a hand over his cropped hair. "Yeah, well, he's that kind of guy.
  But he probably won't see it that way."
  "Right now Sottero doesn't even rate on my scale."
  The American gestured to one of the waiting gunners. "Get him in the plane."
  One of the men bent over Sottero and helped him to his feet. The Mexican was still moaning,
  head down, blood stringing from between his fingers. The gunner led him away.
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  "Over here," the American said to Schwarz.
  When Schwarz neared him, the American reached out and gripped his arms. His hands were
  pulled together and he felt the cold bite of plastic cuffs being looped over his wrists, pulled
  tight.
  "Am I safe, or do I do your feet?" the American asked dryly.
  Schwarz didn't reply. The American escorted him away from the truck. As they tramped across
  the rough ground, Schwarz saw that the thin light of early dawn was just pushing its way in from
  the east. He made out flat, desolate country. A scattering of rocks, clumps of brush. Nothing
  much else to see.
  Apart from the Beechcraft King Air aircraft waiting on a crude landing strip. The twin
  turboprop engines were turning.
  "Let's move it, hotshot," the American said, pushing Schwarz ahead of him.
  They reached the plane and Schwarz was ushered inside. The gunner who had taken Sottero held
  his SMG on Schwarz as he was taken to one of the seats. The seat belt was pulled into place over
  Schwarz's arms and buckled.
  "I'll watch him," the American said. "Go help with those guns. Tell the others to make it quick."
  "Sottero's up front."
  The American nodded.
  When they were alone, the American leaned against the seat across from Schwarz. "The flight
  might be smooth, but it's going to get rough at the other end. You get my meaning?"
  "I didn't expect cookies and a glass of milk."
  "The people we're supplying tend to get a tad upset if they think they're up against it."
  "What do they expect? Buying guns to kill Americans. Not exactly the best way to make
  friends."
  "If you're trying to appeal to my patriotic side save your fuckin' breath. I gave that crap the
  heave-ho a long time ago. These days I go where business takes me. If the assholes in
  Washington screw around with foreign governments, they got to have their heads up their
  collective ass if they don't expect shit to happen."
  "Shit in this case could be more than just a few guns being used."
  The American took a breath to consider his reply. "The way things are going, we'll all go down
  together one day. You understand what I'm saying? It's going to happen one way or another. I
  did my time. Wore the uniform. Even got the medals. For what? Most of my buddies dead. Or
  sent home with half their bodies missing. The fuckin' government doesn't give a shit. Too many
  mothers busy hatching their own plans."
  Building empires. Selling out to the enemy. The CIA with its own agenda. Spooks running wild
  all over. Making deals with regimes the grunts have spilled blood taking out. Trying to get their
  own people in place. Every agency, the military and the government. They all have the big plan.
  And each one is certain theirs is the best. You know something, pal? The whole world is in a
  mess. Tying itself in knots. There's only one way to survive. Look out for yourself before the
  other guy screws you." The American leaned forward, an amiable grin on his face. "Sottero? I've
  been waiting for something like that to happen to him. The guy is a jerk-off."
  He turned away and moved along the aircraft.
  Twenty minutes later the Beechcraft was in the air. Schwarz, peering through the side window,
  studied the sky and tried to work out which way they were heading. With the sunrise taking place
  he figured they were flying west. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. If he was
  correct, they were still in Texas. He looked down at the terrain below them. No urban sprawls.
  Just open, desolate country. A couple of times he caught the gleam of water as they passed over
  meandering water courses.
  "I could draw you a map," the American said.
  He had moved up to stand beside Schwarz's seat. Without warning, he leaned over and
  unbuckled the seat belt.
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  "I don't think you're going very far."
  Schwarz had taken note of the armed men who had come on board once the smuggled weapons
  had been brought onto the plane. They were spaced out along the compartment. He relaxed,
  letting the warmth inside the plane permeate every inch of his body. The chill from his time in
  the freezer was slowing ebbing away. It was taking time. Schwarz flexed his muscles, working at
  the stiffness that had invaded his body. He wanted to be ready for whatever lay in wait when they
  reached their destination. He was working on what he would do once he broke away from his
  captors. Not if, but when. Schwarz worked on a positive plane. He saw no profit in being
  pessimistic. Once he allowed himself to accept defeat, the game was already closing. He had to
  work on the assumption that at some time ahead he would see a chance—and take it. Now
  wasn't the time, but when they reached wherever they were going a window, however slim, might
  present itself and he would take it.
  He glanced up and met the American's stare. "Not the time," Schwarz said.
  "Damned if I didn't know you were going to say that."
  "Like you told me. Every man for himself."
  "Hell, yeah. The American Way."
  Left alone again, Schwarz found himself wondering what the rest of Able Team was doing.
  Knowing Lyons and Blancanales, they wouldn't be sitting on their butts with their heads in their
  hands.
  En Route, Texas
  Lyons peered through the windshield of the Ford as it bumped its way along the dusty track. He
  was sweating a little because the air-conditioning unit in the car kept cutting out. When it did, the
  air inside the vehicle became oppressive. He couldn't open a window because all that did was to
  let in the fine, choking dust billowing up from under the wheels. Lyons had tried banging the
  unit with his hand but that had failed to achieve anything. He decided to call the unit names and
  again achieved nothing. So he sat back and sweated until Blancanales switched the unit off, left it
  a few minutes, then turned it on again. When cool air started to circulate, Lyons said something
  uncomplimentary under his breath.
  "Was that aimed at me or the air conditioner?" his partner asked.
  "Now I know why I don't like Texas," Lyons said, ignoring the question. "It's hot. It's dusty and
  it's miles from anywhere."
  "I don't understand the last part. What is miles from anywhere?"
  "You name it and it is."
  Blancanales shook his head. There were times Lyons's thinking bordered on the surreal. This was
  one of them. He decided for his own sanity not to take it any further.
  "You see that damn spotter plane?"
  Blancanales took a look. He picked up the single-engine spotter plane from the Texas Air
  National Guard that had been assigned to locate the Santos truck. They had been following it for
  the past couple of hours, first along U.S. 83 and then onto the rutted, dusty back road that
  headed into the silent, near desolate landscape of southwest Texas. They had located the
  Oldsmobile that Schwarz had been driving. It had been damaged from some kind of impact, the
  rear and one side stoved in.
  The car had been pushed off the track. When they had taken a look, the vehicle was empty.
  There was no sign of Schwarz except for the scattered pieces of his cell phone. It didn't take
  much figuring to work out that he had been taken prisoner.
  All they could do was continue to follow the tracks left by the truck and a second vehicle.
  "He's still up there."
  As Blancanales spoke, the Military Band radio they had been loaned crackled and the pilot from
  the spotter plane came on.
  "I see the truck. She's a mile and a half ahead. You keep on this road you'll come in sight. I done
  a fly-by and there's a 4x4 there, too. Didn't see any folk around."
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  Blancanales glanced across at his partner. Lyons's jaw muscles were clenched tight, bunched hard
  under his skin as he digested the pilot's report.
  "Damn," Lyons said. "They've changed transport. Met someone to pass over the guns and
  moved on." He slammed his fist against the closed window.
  Blancanales picked up the handset and keyed the transmit button.
  "Hey, Sarge, did you see any sign of anything heading away from the area? Tracks? Tire marks?
  Over."
  The radio crackled. "Saw some kind of leveled section. Looks like somebody fashioned a
  cut-price landing strip. Bet those boys had a plane come in and pick them up. Over."
  "They use light aircraft out here like we use cars in the city," Blancanales said. "And I'll bet local
  air traffic control can't pick up on every damn flight that comes and goes. Most of these guys
  just hop in and fly by the seat of their pants."
  "You're a great help," Lyons said.
  "Anything else I can do for you guys?" the spotter pilot asked.
  "I guess we're done here, Sarge. Listen, thanks for your assist. Pass it on to your base
  commander. Much appreciated. Over."
  "If you need anything else, give us a call. Hope you find your buddy. What I can do is have local
  air traffic control see if they can find any trace of this plane. But don't hold your breath, guys."
  "Any help is appreciated, Sarge. Over."
  "Take care now. Over and out."
  Blancanales saw the plane waggle its wings before sweeping in a wide turn that put it back on
  course for its base.
  "Looks like it's down to us, buddy," Blancanales said lightly.
  "You can cut out the Lone Ranger-Tonto crap," Lyons snapped. "Now let's find that damned
  truck."
  Lyons prowled around the abandoned truck and 4x4 like some big cat. He was in silent mode,
  searching for anything that might give a clue as to where Schwarz was. Blancanales left him to it.
  There was no point telling Lyons there was nothing to find. All that would have got Blancanales
  would have been an angry rebuttal. So he did his own survey of the scene, which simply
  confirmed the fact that the area was clean.
  One truck, the back open to expose the beef hanging inside to the hot Texas sun. The freezer
  unit had been turned off when the truck had been abandoned. The temperature had risen, and
  now the sides of beef were dripping greasy water onto the truck floor. The false floor sections
  had been pulled out and the weapons removed. Next the 4x4. It was new, with the plastic covers
  still on the seats and less than three hundred miles on the clock. There were no plates on it. Very
  smart, Blancanales thought. No ownership to trace. No documentation. The interior of the 4x4
  was as clean as the moment it had rolled off the line. A stolen vehicle for a once-only trip. Used
  and abandoned.
  He used his cell phone to call Stony Man Farm and give them the news. Barbara Price listened,
  then advised she would contact local law enforcement agencies to check the vehicles over.
  "Let them pick up the pieces. It's their jurisdiction, anyway." She spoke to someone then came
  back to Blancanales. "Jack touched down at Laughlin Airbase about an hour ago. He should
  have the Lady in the air by now so he'll be calling to make a rendezvous to pick you guys up."
  Lyons appeared at Blancanales's side. "Have they got anything we can move on?"
  Blancanales asked the question.
  "I think we have," Price said.
  Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  Carmen Delahunt had been evaluating information about Radic Zehlivic. She had the man's
  statistics on both her screens, dividing her attention between them.
  "Everything else apart, Zehlivic is a clever guy," she said as Barbara Price leaned over her
  shoulder to take a look. "He started from nothing and built his empire over a ten-year period.
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  Never put a foot wrong anywhere, and always comes out on top every deal he makes."
  "Lucky or clever?"
  "I'd say clever. He moved into areas most everyone else shied away from, took chances. He
  seems to have an instinct for picking the right deals. I guess he did his homework before he
  stepped in. It paid off and still is. The man has a good head on his shoulders for business."
  "Not so smart where women are concerned."
  Delahunt smiled. "That's the only area where he's lost out. A string of failed relationships. They
  all cost him. But as far as Zehlivic was concerned it was pocket change. Now look here. Three
  years ago his luck changed. He married for the second time, a French model, half his age, but
  they seem to have made it last. Still together, when she isn't traveling or spending his money.
  Plenty of coverage of her in the gossip columns. Paris. London. The U.S., mainly the West
  Coast. Seems she enjoys the climate. And especially San Francisco."
  "What's this?" Price asked. She pointed to a number of photographs and an article in a San
  Francisco newspaper. Zehlivic's young, blond wife performing some kind of ceremony outside a
  store. A bookstore named Cadot's Nest.
  "Cadot's Nest?" Price asked.
  "Monique Cadot. Her family name."
  "Hey."
  Hunt Wethers's call alerted both Price and Delahunt.
  "Hunt?" Price asked.
  "The name of that bookstore in 'Frisco?"
  "Cadot's Nest."
  "Yes, yes, yes," Wethers chanted. He transferred his monitor screen to one of the wall screens,
  highlighting sections.
  "Cross-referencing all the intel we've pulled in from various sources. Cell phones, Barranca's
  data. Jafir Rasifi's wallet. There are connections starting to show." He highlighted one section of
  data and magnified it. It was a credit card slip. "Rasifi paid for a room at a motel in a place
  called Bucklow, Texas. The credit card used at the Bucklow Star Motel was issued to a Cadot's
  Nest. Until you mentioned the name Cadot, I didn't make a connection. Zehlivic must have used
  his wife's own name when he set up the company. Everything is in her name. He's covered
  himself by using the bookstore for activities he doesn't want broadcast."
  "Simple but effective," Kurtzman said, wheeling himself across to stare up at the wall screen.
  "Not the first time that's been done. Hunt, check to see what brought Rasifi to a place like
  Bucklow, Texas."
  Kurtzman brought up a map of the area once he had established Bucklow's location. It was in
  Bucklow County, in the Big Bend country of West Texas, near the rising slopes of the Davis
  Mountains. The area had driven a wide swathe of industry in the mid-1800s, from cattle to horse
  breeding, lumber from the forested slopes of the mountains. Back in the 1920s there had been a
  few oil finds. They had petered out just as quickly, leaving Bucklow County with its core
  businesses—beef production, and farming to a degree.
  Kurtzman went through the town's back history, trying to establish why this isolated community
  in West Texas had been chosen as Jafir Rasifi's destination.
  The thought also occurred to him that this was where the illegal weapons had been heading.
  Rasifi had been the buyer. The abandoned truck had been stripped of its cargo that had been put
  aboard a plane that had taken off out in the middle of nowhere for…?
  Kurtzman stared at the monitor, his brow furrowed as he read and reread what he had in front
  of him. It was possible he was completely wrong, that the contraband guns hadn't been taken to
  Bucklow. That Rasifi's visit to the town had had nothing to do with where the weapons had
  gone.
  He banged his fist against the edge of his workstation. He refused to accept that the two pieces
  of information didn't go together. It was too much of a coincidence.
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  Rasifi, Bucklow.
  There had to be a connection.
  "Come on, people, we should be able to get this damn thing together."
  "Try this," Wethers called.
  Wethers had done some further searching and come up with a checking account for Cadot's
  Nest. He found that the company had leased a wood-chipping mill, situated a few miles outside
  Bucklow for twelve months. The full amount had been paid up front.
  "The Cadot account hadn't been used for months after the initial payments. Then we have a
  number of transactions over the past couple of weeks. One for car rental. Fuel. Then the motel
  charge."
  "What would Cadot's Nest want with a wood-chipping mill?" Delahunt asked.
  "Maybe the same reason we have one," Tokaido said. "As cover for something else."
  "A place to hide illegal weapons?" Delahunt said. "Maybe even distribute them in the company
  trucks."
  "Makes some kind of sense," Tokaido added.
  Wethers swung his chair around, his expression hard. "Aaron, you've been checking Bucklow's
  history. Does it give a date when it was finally established as a proper community?"
  Kurtzman tapped his keyboard. The whole of the Computer Room turned to look at the wall
  monitor that mirrored what he had on his screen.
  "There," Kurtzman said. "Bucklow was recognized as a township 150 years ago."
  "See the date?" Wethers said.
  "April 9," Price read out loud.
  "The date referred to in Rasheed's organizer," Wethers said. "The date we couldn't put our
  finger on for certain."
  "How were we to know it meant Bucklow's?" Price argued.
  "We were looking for the same date, different meaning," Wethers replied. "The one we should
  have known. April 9—the day designated by the new Iraqi governing council when they first
  met. They chose the day Baghdad fell to U.S. forces. What's known as Saddam Hussein's
  Downfall Day."
  Tokaido let out a slow breath. "Now it makes all kinds of sense," he said. "But for the wrong
  reasons."
  "And the wrong time," Delahunt said. "Today is April 9."
  Aboard: Dragon Slayer
  Lyons, Blancanales and Grimaldi listened to the information Price gave them over the combat
  chopper's radio linkup.
  "I hate to bring this up," Blancanales said, "but there's the matter of the two missing MOAB
  devices."
  "Don't you think we haven't been working on that?"
  "Working on it isn't going to help Gadgets if he's in the vicinity when it goes off," Lyons
  snapped back.
  "You know for sure?"
  "April 9. It's a special date for the Iraqis. Bucklow is celebrating its birthday. That means a lot of
  people in town. If I was Khariza I'd go for it. A perfect time to make my point. Jesus, do you
  need a goddam picture?"
  Grimaldi checked his instruments. "Heads up, guys, we're homing in now. Bucklow is five
  minutes flying time ahead."
  "Jack, can't you boost this thing any faster?"
  "She's on full throttle, Carl. You want faster, get out and push."
  Grimaldi scanned his instrument readouts. He could feel Dragon Slayer pushing hard, the
  powerful turbines howling as they burned out the power that thrust the helicopter to its
  maximum. The Stony Man pilot had no concerns about the chopper maintaining its
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  performance. The sleek black machine was kept at its peak performance level by thorough and
  meticulous servicing after every outing. Any suspect part, program, no matter how small, was
  picked up on and the offending item replaced. Grimaldi was always involved in the mechanical
  or electronic checks. He had the final word on whether the aircraft had passed the inspection
  and repair standard required. Grimaldi saw no problem with that. After all, he was the man who
  flew Dragon Slayer, so he figured he had more right than anyone to see that the chopper was in
  prime condition each time he sat behind the controls.
  "Can't we get through to the sheriff's department?" Lyons persisted. "Or don't they have one?"
  "We're trying," Price said. "We haven't been able to raise anyone yet."
  Wood-Chipping Mill, Bucklow County
  Schwarz opened his eyes to a world full of pain. The effects from his time in the freezer unit
  faded to nothing compared to the physical beating he had taken at the hands of his captors. He
  hurt from head to toe. It felt as if every inch of his body had been punched, kicked, beaten. His
  face was a bloody, battered mask. He could taste it in his mouth where the inside of his cheeks
  had been driven against his teeth. The left side of his face had taken the worst and it was swollen
  badly. His eye was almost closed. Each time he took a breath, pain stabbed at his lungs from
  bruised ribs.
  The only consolation he derived from his condition was that he was still alive. He had to be. If
  he had been dead there wouldn't have been such pain. Or so he kept telling himself.
  For the moment his tormentors had left him alone. He had been warned that when they returned
  he had better have answers to the questions they had been asking.
  Where is Jafir Rasifi?
  Who do you work for?
  What have you learned about our operations within the U.S.?
  How many of you are there?
  Where are you based?
  Who betrayed us?
  Each question punctuated by a barrage of blows. Not the subtlest of interrogations. Schwarz
  had realized there was a degree of agitation behind the questions, as if his captors were short on
  time and needed his answers quickly. Which only made his resistance stronger.
  One of Schwarz's interrogators was the Mexican, Sottero. Schwarz didn't fail to notice the man's
  suffering. Sottero's face looked extremely sore from the full-on kick Schwarz had delivered.
  Sottero's punches were fueled by rage and though many landed, his coordination was poor. He
  put a great deal of effort into his work but his blows had less impact than Sottero imagined.
  There were a number of interrogators. In the time before his questioning got under way,
  Schwarz was able to satisfy his curiosity about his captors. There were two more Mexicans. The
  American who had spoken to Schwarz on the plane had a couple of partners. The man in charge,
  Schwarz had no problem identifying. He had seen the man's face in one of the photographs
  during the initial Stony Man briefing. Schwarz couldn't put a name to the face, but he knew the
  Iraqi was one of Razan Khariza's people.
  This one asked the questions. His voice was gentle, well modulated. He never once raised it.
  There was a persuasive quality to it. This man was well used to interrogation.
  The only thing he lacked was an in-depth knowledge of the man he was questioning.
  He didn't know Hermann Schwarz at all. If he had, he might have saved himself some wasted
  time.
  The sudden end to the interrogation left Schwarz semiconscious and not a little curious as to
  why it had ended so abruptly.
  By the time he was able to focus his attention on his surroundings, taking in the untidy office,
  furnished with out-of-date wooden desks and chairs, the wall hung with fading calendars and
  charts describing the benefits of chipped wood, Schwarz realized he was entirely alone. His
  captors had left him tied to one of the office chairs. If he hadn't been secured to the chair, he
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  would have fallen from it.
  Schwarz didn't dwell on his injuries for too long. He had no idea why he had been left alone, nor
  did he know how long the situation might last. So he needed to do something to reverse his
  position.
  He tested the rope that held him to the chair. It had been expertly tied, around his body and his
  wrists, holding him firmly in place. Schwarz checked out how secure he was held. There was
  some movement. Not a great deal. It was going to take him some time to loosen the rope.
  Turning his head, Schwarz was able to look out through the glass partition that composed the
  upper section of the office's outer wall. Beyond was a walkway that overlooked the mill's
  operation section below. The machinery he could see wasn't in use, nor could he see any
  employees. The plant looked to be deserted.
  At the far side of the building, large wooden doors stood open. A group of people were
  standing on the loading dock. Schwarz recognized his captors. They were gathered together
  staring out beyond the building, and it looked as though they were waiting for something.
  Schwarz checked out the rest of his close surroundings. He failed to see anything in the office
  that might prove useful in helping him to free himself.
  He braced his feet on the floor and raised himself as much as he could, lifting the chair off the
  floor. Then he banged the chair down hard on the rear legs. The impact jarred through his body.
  Schwarz felt the chair give a fraction. He repeated the action a number of times, putting all his
  strength into the moves. He checked the group standing outside the mill doors. The sound
  didn't seem to have reached them. Schwarz increased his escape attempt, encouraged by the fact
  he couldn't be heard. He felt a slackening in the rope around his body.
  When he tested the chair, he felt it sagging to one side. He continued to bang the chair against
  the office floor. Sweat began to trickle down his face, stinging his cut and bruised skin. It soaked
  through his shirt, but he ignored the discomfort.
  The chair had taken on a distinct twist and the more Schwarz strained against the rope, the more
  the chair began to sag.
  Schwarz took another glance through the window, checking out the gathered group.
  And saw the Mexican, Sottero, walking back inside, cutting across the floor of the mill.
  "Son of a bitch," Schwarz said through swollen, bleeding lips.
  He pushed to his feet again, finding the rope's slackness allowed him to stand almost upright.
  With a final effort he slammed the weakened chair down hard. He heard wood splinter, felt the
  binding rope go completely slack, and went down on the floor hard. The impact drove the
  breath from his aching lungs. Schwarz coughed harshly, sucking air into his lungs. He lay, hurt
  and stiff, willing himself to get to his feet because he could hear Sottero stamping his way up the
  wooden stairs leading to the office. He fought himself free of the tangled rope, rolled to his side
  and dragged himself to his knees.
  He was in that position when Sottero appeared in the office doorway. The Mexican took in the
  sight of the American free and on his knees and mumbled a curse.
  He reached under his leather jacket for the pistol he had tucked into his waistband.
  Schwarz sucked in a ragged breath, summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, and
  pushed himself upright, launching himself at Sottero. As he came up off the floor, the Able
  Team commando closed his right hand over one of the splintered chair legs, gripping it tight
  and pushed it forward as he lunged across the office. His left hand smacked against Sottero's
  upper chest, driving the Mexican back against the door frame, pinning his gun hand behind his
  back. Sottero opened his mouth to yell the instant before the slivered end of the chair leg
  smacked into the soft flesh under his jaw. There was a soft, wet sound as the length of wood
  penetrated the Mexican's throat, emerging just below his ear and severing the jugular vein on its
  way out. Blood began to spurt from the wounds, cascading down the man's front. Any sound he
  might have been about to make was cut off, leaving Sottero capable of little more than gurgling
  moans.
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  Schwarz maintained his grip on the chair leg, keeping up the pressure. He ignored the rush of
  warm blood that drenched his hand and spilled across his shirt. He held Sottero's panicked
  stare, as the man struggled wildly until massive blood loss took its toll and his movements
  slowed, became weaker and finally stopped. Sottero became a deadweight. Schwarz pushed his
  hand under the Mexican's coat and located the pistol. He freed it, then stepped back and let
  Sottero drop to the floor.
  Schwarz moved back, leaning his weight on the edge of the closest desk. He stayed there until
  the waves of nausea eased off. If anything, he was hurting more now then when he had been tied
  to the chair. He checked the handgun, a P-226. Schwarz checked the clip, snapped it back in
  place and cocked the weapon. He took a quick glance out the window and saw that the group
  was still in the same position. Moving to where Sottero lay, Schwarz went through the man's
  pockets. He found two extra clips for the pistol.
  He also found a cell phone. Schwarz switched it on, waited until it powered up, then checked the
  signal. It was there but weak. Schwarz tapped in the Stony Man number and offered a prayer
  there was enough signal to transmit to the satellite link. The connection seemed to take forever.
  Schwarz spotted a water cooler against the wall. As he neared it, he could hear the unit humming
  softly. He snatched up a plastic cup and filled it. He took a long swallow of the blessed chilled
  water. It had never tasted better. He took a second cup and splashed it over his aching face. A
  third he downed in a single gulp, then turned and went to the window to run another check on
  the opposition.
  They were still there, though they had moved farther out from the door.
  His attention was drawn to the connection being made. He heard distant sounds. A voice he
  couldn't recognize. He identified himself, his swollen jaw making talk difficult. As he spoke he
  moved around the office, trying to locate a stronger signal spot. He stepped out of the office
  and the volume on the cell phone suddenly rose.
  "Gadgets? That you?"
  Now he could recognize Brognola's voice. "Yeah. Hal, I might not have much time."
  "Where the hell are you?"
  "Somewhere in Texas as far as I can work out. I'm in some plant. Looks like a wood-chip mill of
  some kind."
  Someone on an extension broke in. "Bucklow? Bucklow, Texas?" It was Kurtzman. "Gadgets,
  we think it's where stolen MOAB bombs may be stored. It's likely Khariza's people have them.
  We also believe at least one of those bombs may be detonated in or around Bucklow. Today.
  April 9."
  Schwarz tried to absorb all the information.
  "I could—"
  "Gadgets, Pol and Ironman are on their way to your location. We figured out what was going on
  and sent them in Dragon Slayer to try to intercept."
  Barbara Price broke in. "They should be over your location any time now, Gadgets."
  "And me still not up and about," Schwarz muttered.
  "What was that?"
  "Nothing. Just let them know I'm down here. I don't want flyboy dropping his heat-seekers on
  me."
  Aboard: Dragon Slayer
  "Gadgets is down there." Grimaldi repeated the message he had just received over his headset.
  "Inside the mill building."
  Lyons glanced up from checking the Franchi SPAS-15, 12-gauge shotgun he had pulled from the
  arms locker. The SPAS-15 was the next generation of Franchi combat shotguns. Instead of the
  under barrel loading tube of the SPAS-12, this model had a 6-round magazine just forward of
  the trigger, making for faster reloading. Lyons clicked in a full magazine, slipped an extra one
  into a pocket of his blacksuit and cocked the weapon.
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  "About time he showed up."
  "Here comes Daddy Care Bear," Blancanales said.
  Grimaldi flew over the wood-chip mill. There were a number of panel trucks parked behind the
  building. A quarter of a mile away a Beechcraft turboprop aircraft stood at the end of a flattened
  landing strip. As the combat chopper swooped past the main building, the occupants could see
  a group of men on the loading dock. They appeared to be staring in the direction of Bucklow
  town.
  Grimaldi took Dragon Slayer in toward it.
  "Something tells me we're running out of time," Blancanales said. He checked his watch.
  "Almost noon."
  "That supposed to mean something?" Lyons asked.
  "I just read through that data Bear sent us about Bucklow's April 9 celebration. They're holding
  it on the town picnic ground. The whole town and the surrounding neighborhood is expected to
  be there. Town band. School. Veterans. Up to a thousand people expected to turn up."
  "Hey, they got the town sheriff on the line," Grimaldi said. "Patching him through."
  He put the radio on the cabin speaker.
  "Sheriff Cooper here. Now what the hell is going on? Who are you people?"
  "We're a Justice Department team on our way to Bucklow," Lyons said. "We just flew in over
  the wood-chipping mill. No time to explain, Sheriff. You need to get your people away from the
  picnic ground. We have reason to believe there's a massive bomb somewhere near you. You
  have to evacuate the area. Now."
  "You foolin' with me, boy? If you are I'll—"
  "Sheriff, get your fucking town away from that picnic ground. Don't argue. Do it before—"
  The whole area in front of Dragon Slayer was obscured by a brilliant white flare that stung their
  eyes. The flare might only have lasted for a few seconds, but to the men in the chopper it seemed
  longer. The white light was replaced by a huge ball of incandescent red-orange fire that grew in
  size with terrifying speed. It expanded outward and upward, encompassing a wide area. The
  huge mass of flame lashed across the surface of the landscape, devouring everything in its path.
  It seared and burned and turned to crumbling ash anything it touched. The terrible force of the
  fireball turned fertile earth to scorched ruin. Grass and wood and metal succumbed to the
  horrendous power of the fire. The Bucklow picnic ground and the massed people on it were
  obliterated in an instant. The celebrating crowds, unaware of what was happening, died in a
  millisecond. Flesh vanished and bone was destroyed in the hungry maw of living fire. The
  temperature rose to a degree high enough to buckle metal, ripping through the rows of parked
  vehicles and reducing them to red-hot hulks. Fuel tanks ignited, adding more fire to the already
  solid ball of horror.
  Following the fireball came the rumbling thunder of the detonation. The sound crackled and
  increased, the heavy sound expanding in a ripple effect, sound and fury merging into one.
  Dragon Slayer shuddered as she was hit by the edges of the shock waves. The chopper yawed,
  swinging out of control for long, dangerous seconds before Grimaldi pulled himself out of his
  daze and clamped down on the helicopter's wayward flight. His hands and feet worked the
  controls, swiftly bringing the aircraft back under his command.
  "Oh, my God," Grimaldi whispered at the sight ahead of them.
  A rising pall of smoke rose above the fire burst, curling and swelling to form a mushroom
  shape. The dust and debris sucked up into the superheated air began to fall back to earth. As the
  massive fireball began to shrink, having done its deadly work, a dark cloud formed over the
  scene of destruction.
  "Hal, you there?"
  "Carl, what's happened?"
  "Listen hard, Hal. Massive explosion near Bucklow. I mean massive. Get the emergency services
  in the immediate vicinity to Bucklow. We need to get to the mill. Can't tell you much now. Just
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  send those services in."
  "We're on it," Price called.
  "Carl, what does it look like over there?"
  "Like Hell just dropped in and landed on Bucklow County."
  Lyons racked the SPAS, pushing the first shell into the chamber.
  "We making a house call?" Grimaldi asked.
  "Damn right we are, Jack, and I've brought my calling card with me. Now get us on the ground
  before those bastards figure it's time to leave."
  Wood-Chipping Mill
  "Jesus," the American said. "You never said anything about that, Kerim."
  The Iraqi glanced at the American mercenary, a thin smile on his serene face. "If I had told you
  the effect would not have been the same."
  "I still might have wet myself."
  Kerim glanced at his watch. "Wet or not, Ramsey, would you hurry that fool, Sottero. We need
  to leave now, before the authorities start looking for us."
  Ramsey turned to look in the direction of the offices. He held his gaze for a moment, then shook
  his head.
  "No, he couldn't have."
  As the thought took hold, Ramsey stepped back inside the mill and made his way across the
  shop floor, making for the stairs that gave access to the upper floor.
  Kerim gestured to the others. "The panel trucks are loaded and ready. Go now. Make your
  deliveries, collect your payments and move on. You will be contacted as soon as we receive
  more consignments."
  The Mexicans and one of the Americans stepped down off the loading dock as Dragon Slayer
  dropped from the sky, Grimaldi making a powered landing that kicked up dust and wood chips
  from the open yard in front of the processing plant. The side hatch swung open on hydraulic
  rams, Carl Lyons, still in his blacksuit, jumped out and ran across the yard, his SPAS combat
  shotgun up and ready. Close behind was Blancanales, wielding an MP-5.
  Lyons headed for the loading dock, while Blancanales cut away to catch up with the two
  Mexicans and the other American.
  The American standing next to Kerim yanked his handgun from its hip holster. He swung
  around, leveling the weapon at Lyons.
  Lyons kept on his line of attack, closing the gap quickly. The sight of the black-clad figure
  rushing in his direction unnerved the American mercenary long enough for Lyons to take the
  advantage.
  The black muzzle of the SPAS tracked in on target, Lyons tripping the trigger. The 12-gauge
  load ripped tissue and bone from the mercenary's left shoulder, taking a wedge out of his upper
  arm, as well. The merc screamed as the blast ripped into him. Blood showered from the gaping
  wound, splashing across the side of Kerim's face. The Iraqi stepped back, revulsion etched
  across his features. He was in time to see the results of Lyons's second and third shots. The
  up-close impact tearing the target's chest and torso open and kicking him back across the
  loading dock.
  Kerim, reaching inside his jacket for the Glock handgun he carried, turned to run for the open
  door at his back.
  Lyons scrambled up on the dock. "Turn around, you bastard."
  Kerim knew he couldn't outrun the shotgun. He turned, the Glock in his grasp under his jacket.
  "Whatever you do to me is too late. The deed has been done and we have our revenge."
  "Is this what it's all about? Revenge? Because we beat your asses and brought down that psycho
  Hussein?"
  "He was our leader. What we did here today was the first strike in a new war."
  The rage in Carl Lyons's eyes was a terrible thing to see. "Yeah? Well yours ends right now."
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  Kerim realized what the American meant. He put out his left hand as if it would stave off his
  adversary. His right began to pull out the Glock, and up to the moment when the first shot from
  the SPAS hit him, he believed he could make it.
  Lyons triggered the SPAS, placing the remaining 12-gauge loads into Kerim's head and torso.
  The Iraqi went down hard, his body far removed from the living form it had been only seconds
  before. Trailing bloody debris in its wake the corpse came to rest against the front wall of the
  mill.
  With the sound of Lyons's shotgun in his ears, Blancanales rounded the end of the building,
  pausing briefly to assess the situation ahead of him.
  The three men he was pursuing had begun to separate as they'd raced along the end of the mill.
  One of the Mexicans, yelling something to his partner, swung round to fire a hasty shot from the
  handgun he produced. The shot came close and Blancanales came to a dead stop, raised the
  MP-5 and laid a short burst into the shooter. The 9mm slugs cored in through the lower back,
  severing the man's spine. He tumbled facedown, screaming in agony at the pain. His partner
  turned to see what had happened and in the short space of time he was motionless Blancanales
  stitched him in the chest with a second burst from the H&K, laying him flat out on the ground.
  Blancanales moved on, pulling his Beretta and, as he passed the back-shot man, hitting him with
  a double tap through the back of his skull.
  The third man, the American, had vanished around the end of the building. Blancanales flattened
  against the wall, MP-5 up and ready.
  He heard the sound of an engine bursting into life, the sound rising as the driver hit the gas
  pedal. Blancanales heard the whine of tires as they fought to gain traction. He stepped around
  the end of the building and saw the American staring at him from behind the windshield of one
  of the panel trucks that had been visible from Dragon Slayer. The truck was already moving,
  kicking up a thick dust trail as the driver decided on the fast-getaway tack. His judgment was out
  because the ground under the truck was uneven and the overrevved vehicle was bouncing as the
  wheels struggled to maintain an even grip.
  Blancanales raised the H&K. He took seconds to establish his target, then eased back on the
  trigger, holding the weapon steady while he laid a long burst in through the windshield. Glass
  shattered, sending broken shards back into the cab. The driver's face was turned bloody in
  seconds as the glass struck, followed by the stream of 9mm slugs that tore at his throat and
  chest, punching ragged holes in him. Blancanales stepped aside as the panel truck swerved
  toward him then rolled in the opposite direction. The driver's foot had to still have been on the
  gas pedal. Instead of slowing, the truck roared past Blancanales, across the open ground until it
  came to a sudden, hard stop against a rusting, abandoned piece of machinery left on the edge of
  the area. The truck's engine burned to a steam-spouting stop, the driver's bloody upper body
  flopping loosely out of the open door. It hung head down, dripping blood across the step.
  Blancanales moved to the rear of the panel truck. He yanked open the doors and peered inside.
  The load area held plain wood boxes and crates. The impact had thrown them across the floor
  and Blancanales pulled at the loosened top of one crate. Inside were M-16s. He checked other
  crates and found ammunition. Grenades. One box held a half dozen LAW rocket launchers. He
  also found cartons of C-12 explosive compound and packed in other cartons detonators and
  timers.
  The sight of the weapons only reinforced Blancanales's thoughts about Khariza's followers. They
  were totally committed to causing as much suffering and death as they could on the American
  mainland.
  The detonation of the MOAB device proved that without a shadow of doubt.
  Ramsey reached the stairs leading to the office and charged up two at a time. As he hit the top
  step and turned toward the office, he saw Sottero lying across the door opening. From the
  massive pool of blood spreading from under his head, Ramsey knew the Mexican had to be
  dead. The merc pulled his handgun, snapping back the slide. He stepped to the side, flat against
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  the wall, and advanced in the direction of the door. He couldn't see anyone inside the office, but
  that didn't mean it was deserted. Ramsey did see the remains of the broken chair their prisoner
  had been tied to. He could see the coils of the rope that had held the man down.
  Damn!
  That was all they needed. A loose cannon running around when they needed to make a clean
  break.
  The crash of breaking glass caught his attention and Ramsey turned, momentarily distracted. He
  saw an object fly through the air, out the side window of the office. It curved out of sight to fall
  to the mill floor below.
  Ramsey swore, calling himself every kind of fool for being caught by the oldest trick in the
  book. A false move to call his attention from the main objective, and he had fallen for it like a
  recruit straight out of boot camp. He turned his attention back to the office door as a moving
  shape materialized there.
  Too late.
  Something punched him in the chest. A hard, debilitating blow that knocked him back a step. It
  was followed by a second punch. This one cored in deep, and Ramsey felt pain over his heart. A
  third shot, because now he heard the sharp cracks, and Ramsey felt his legs go out from under
  him. He sagged back against the wall, gun arm slipping to his side as the pistol became too
  heavy to hold.
  The day turned shadowy around him. Sound seemed a long way off, as if coming down a long
  tunnel. Ramsey could hear his own breathing, harsh and labored. He sensed movement in front
  of him, concentrated his gaze and saw the battered, bloody features of the man they had taken
  captive. He was crouching in front of Ramsey. The guy had Sottero's P-226 in his right hand. He
  knew it was Sottero's because of the fancy scrollwork on the slide.
  The man was speaking. His words were dulled by Ramsey's fading hearing. He did pick up the
  final question.
  "Where's the other bomb?"
  Ramsey shook his head. The truth was, he didn't know. The truth, too, was that he was going to
  be dead soon, and the twist was he didn't like the idea. But he had walked into this with his eyes
  open. Maybe his ears had been closed to what Kerim and his bunch had wanted to do because
  the money had been so tempting, and Ramsey wanted out of the whole shitty game. He just
  wanted his money so he could find somewhere quiet and peaceful. That had been a fucking great
  joke, too, because Razan Khariza wanted the whole world tearing at each other's throats like a
  pack of rabid hounds. The Iraqi wanted his pound of flesh and then some.
  Ramsey stared up into the eyes of the man who had shot him. Schwarz stared right back,
  mouthing the question again.
  "Where's the other bomb?"
  "Ask Vance. Philo Vance…"
  His words came out in a bubbling red froth. Ramsey felt a rising, paralyzing burning sensation
  that engulfed his chest. The silence became profound and the darkness closed in with frightening
  speed, engulfing Ramsey completely.
  Hermann Schwarz pushed to his feet. He walked out of the office, favoring his bruised body and
  becoming more aware of his facial injuries with every passing moment.
  The gunfire from outside the mill had died down. As Schwarz crossed the mill and stepped out
  onto the loading dock, he barely paused to look at the dead lying there.
  Lyons stood in the yard, his gaze directed toward the heavy, mushroom cloud of smoke rising
  from the distant site of the bomb explosion.
  "I can't believe the bastards actually did it," Schwarz said.
  Lyons turned to look at him, taking in the condition of Schwarz's face, the blood soaking his
  shirt.
  "Can you make it?"
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  "I'll make it for as long as it takes to find Philo Vance."
  "Vance?"
  "Someone told me he might know where the other MOAB is."
  Grimaldi had left Dragon Slayer. He came across to join Lyons and saw Schwarz.
  "Gadgets?"
  Schwarz saw Blancanales coming around the end of the building.
  "Before I have to repeat it too many times, I'm okay. I just need to take a minute." He sat on the
  edge of the loading dock, lowering his head into his hands. "Jack, just don't tell me any funny
  stories. I have a feeling it's going to hurt if I laugh."
  "Okay, that's it," Grimaldi said. "Let's get him inside the Lady. I need to take a look at him."
  Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  "It's terrible," Barbara Price said from the Communications Room. "We have a feed from a
  local TV news crew. Carl, there's very little they can do. The area where the bomb detonated is
  just burned out. Emergency services haven't located a single survivor within the main blast area.
  From what we've been able to get from on-the-spot people, there's nothing left. First estimates
  are talking about eight to nine hundred people."
  "We were still in the air when the bomb went off. The chopper was hit by the shock waves, and
  they kicked us around some."
  "Hold on, Carl, there's something coming in." Price turned to look at one of the wall monitors
  where a news flash had interrupted the main news. The voice-over announced that a tape had
  been received from a group claiming responsibility for the attack. The tape was run. It showed a
  solitary figure, seated in front of an Iraqi flag. The figure, clad in military fatigues, read from a
  prepared script.
  "The attack on the American town of Bucklow, Texas, was carried out on the authority of the
  members of the Fedayeen Militia. We do not, and will not, recognize or surrender to the puppet
  government put in place by our enemies. The strike against Bucklow had a number of objectives.
  To pay back the U.S. for the unprovoked and cowardly attack on Iraq by letting the American
  people see how it is to suffer. We also wanted to show that Americans are not safe at home any
  longer. We have the means and the will to strike within your borders when and where we like.
  The American government is powerless to stop us. There will be more attacks. We have our
  people in place and we have the weapons. You in the West consider April 9 as the day Iraq fell
  to your outlaw forces. We of the fedayeen consider April 9 as Day One of the new war we now
  wage against America and her allies. Prepare yourselves. America's days are numbered."
  CHAPTER NINE
  Washington, D.C.
  "Sit down, Hal," the President of the United States said.
  Brognola sank into one of the chairs facing the President's desk. It was late. Too late in one sense
  of the word. Try as he might, Brognola was finding it hard to erase the images of Bucklow from
  his mind. Local and federal law had been on the scene for hours, assisted by units of the Texas
  National Guard, trying to establish some kind of sanity to a nightmarish scenario, and Brognola,
  along with the rest of the team at Stony Man, had been witness to the harrowing images sent to
  them via the closed-TV relay being shot by one of the federal teams.
  The mill site had been closed off while teams went through it and examined the panel trucks
  loaded with illegal weapons. Locating these weapons was a bonus for the federal teams, though
  it had come at a price, with the death of Tomas Barranca.
  Death had also come swiftly to the community of Bucklow. The hundreds who had died in the
  initial bomb burst had suffered only briefly before they'd ceased to exist. Others, on the
  perimeter of the sudden firestorm, hadn't been killed with as much mercy. There were dozens,
  now in hospitals, or on their way, with terrible burns. Others, farther out from the epicenter of
  the blast had lesser degree burns, but also injuries from flying debris. The death toll was still
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  increasing as severely injured died while in transit to emergency departments. Others were on
  critical lists. Survivors had still to be told that whole generations of their families had been
  killed. Many would never be able to see their deceased relatives due to the severity of the burst.
  In many cases there was nothing left to identify. The explosion hadn't just killed, it had torn out
  the heart of Bucklow, devastating the whole community. Pinpointing the area as a monument to
  man and his lack of humanity. The dark cloud of smoke drifting over Bucklow bore mute
  testimony to the black soul of humankind at his worst.
  The town itself hadn't escaped damage. The section of Bucklow closest to the blast had caught
  shock waves. Windows had been shattered, buildings scorched by the heat. Fires had been
  started where gas tanks had exploded, the flames spreading quickly in the dry Texas air.
  Bucklow's fire house, with a skeleton crew on duty, had responded with the only engine left in
  the building. The others had been at the picnic ground, having taken part in the celebratory
  parade.
  "Have you been keeping track of current events?" the President asked.
  "Hard not to," Brognola said. "Armed attacks against Americans in Iraq. Snipers, suicide
  bombers. Similar in Israel. Kuwait. It's like a damn plague. It all seems to have started at the
  same time."
  "We're starting to get similar reports from here in the U.S. Six different locations so far. Two
  suicide bombers. One in Detroit. Another in Boston. Someone wearing an explosive device just
  walked into a restaurant and blew himself up. We have twelve dead in Detroit, eight in Boston.
  Just as many wounded. Luckily the death count has been small from those. I think the fact we
  raided locations with the speed we did took the edge off those kinds of attacks." The President
  stood and paced the Oval Office. "At least your intel allowed us to go for those locations. We've
  taken out over twelve of them. Found stored weapons and explosives. In some there were
  detailed plans of operations, where the targets were located and the best times to hit them."
  "Any prisoners?"
  "Right now we have twenty in custody. Three shot themselves rather than allowing themselves to
  be taken. I can't say that bothers me in the slightest, Hal. There are still sieges taking place in two
  of the locations. Atlanta and Casper."
  "We've been expecting something like this ever since the World Trade Center disaster,"
  Brognola said. "More after we went into Iraq. We've done everything we can to defend
  ourselves. We told ourselves it was going to happen. To be honest, Mr. President, it still comes
  as a hell of a shock."
  "We have one thing that always works against us, Hal," the President said. "Despite all the
  precautions, the preparations, we're still a society that believes in freedom. We still let people in.
  We trust and we accept. And those bastards out there know that. They use our way of life against
  us. They preach their thoughts of hate against America and at the same time they use our
  openness to abuse us. Maybe it's time we started to hit back using their methods. It's time we
  stopped playing by the rule book our enemies discarded a long time ago."
  "Mr. President, my people are ready to go after these people using whatever is necessary."
  "Give me an update."
  "Able Team is moving on a possible lead they received from a man involved with Jafir Rasifi. A
  man who is known to have dealt in illegal weapons. Philo Vance. He operates out of Las Vegas."
  "Another American?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "I want this passed to your teams, Hal, and I'll put it in writing if need be. Any American found
  to be consorting with Razan Khariza's group, comes under the hostile heading. If they think so
  little of this country they're prepared to sell her out for money, they can die for that betrayal. No
  mincing words on this, Hal. Clear and simple. They forfeit any and all considerations of mercy,
  clemency, whatever you want to call it. If anyone makes a fuss, just remind them about Bucklow,
  Texas." The President paused. "Now tell me where Phoenix Force is."
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  "They're working in two groups at the moment to give them more stretch. One section, along
  with Ben Sharon, has gone to Israel, following the final translation of Kamal Rasheed's
  organizer. The information looks as if it could match word Sharon received from an inside
  operative. He's in with an active fedayeen group, and he came up with information about an
  operation based in the Negev Desert. The second team is in Hong Kong, looking into the
  supply of weapons over there. We also have reason to believe that Khariza's group, now they
  have the access codes to the secret deposits, are increasing their overtures to the North
  Koreans."
  "More than just a boatload of Kalashnikovs?" Brognola nodded. "Way heavier than that, Sir."
  The President sighed. "Pity Phoenix Force didn't manage to get their hands on those disks." He
  held up a hand. "I'm not criticizing, Hal. Your people were lucky to come out of that
  confrontation without casualties. McCarter's field decision was the right one."
  "He'd be grateful to hear that, Mr. President."
  "Did they locate the helicopter? Or the hostage?"
  "By the time the helicopter was located, the passengers were long gone. They landed at an old
  RAF station on the northeast coast of England. Apparently a private jet took off from there.
  Last that was heard it had cut off across country and set course for somewhere in Europe. The
  flight had been preapproved so there was no reason for anyone to challenge it. It was later
  established the plane was refueled in Denmark before taking off again. After that, the trail
  became hazy. It looks as if Khariza's people paid for their flight to be left off the books. Khariza
  has loyal followers of his cause in surprising locations. That or the fact he's able to pay for
  assistance gets him what he wants."
  "Any guesses what their destination might be?"
  "Possibly the camp in Chechnya. The rebel leader, Zoltan Dushinov, has made it clear he backs
  the struggle of the fedayeen against the West. His Islamic background strengthens his cause. He
  hates the Russians. He hates the U.S. He loves his Iraqi brothers. What can I say, Sir?" The
  President slumped back in his seat. "Get the word to the teams, Hal. I want these missions to
  proceed with extreme prejudice. Khariza and his damn Fedayeen Militia have decided to wage
  war on this country. So let's give them one, Hal. Give the bastards all the war they want.
  Understand? I want this made clear to Stony Man through all levels. We are on a war footing."
  Hong Kong
  David McCarter heard the light tap on the door of his room. He crossed over and stood to one
  side of the door.
  "Yes?"
  "Henry Lee."
  McCarter unlocked the door and opened it enough so he could check out his visitor. The man
  standing in the corridor was exactly as Mei Anna's photograph had shown him, except for the
  smart business suit, white shirt and maroon tie.
  McCarter opened the door and let the man in. He locked the door behind Lee.
  "I would only dress like this for Anna," Lee said, smiling as if he needed to apologize for his
  appearance.
  "She has a way of getting people to do things they don't like."
  Lee's smile widened. "Tell me about it. How is she?"
  "Still on the mend. The wound from that bullet hit turned bad. She was ill for a long time, and it
  knocked the wind out of her sails. Took away a lot of her confidence."
  Lee sighed. "That and the fact she had been driving herself for far too long. She was exhausted
  long before she took that bullet. But she refused to even consider taking time off. According to
  her, the Chinese Dragon never slept and it would swallow us whole if we let down our guard.
  Anna could be very poetic at times."
  "Still is."
  "You have become good friends?"
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  "I like to think so."
  "It's time she had a friend, Mr. Ryan. Anna explained your problem."
  "Can you help?"
  Lee nodded. He reached inside his jacket and produced a number of photographs. He showed
  them to McCarter, identifying each individual for him.
  "Kim Yeo is known to us. It's been difficult proving anything against him. He has strong
  protection from the Chinese. We have been looking into his business dealings, and we know he
  works with the mainland Chinese. He supplies goods they want. Anything from cars to domestic
  refrigerators. He has contacts that reach all across Southeast Asia. If he is dealing with the North
  Koreans, he's moving into dangerous territory. Lucrative but risky. The Koreans are hard
  people to do business with, and they do not tolerate mistakes."
  "The authorities in Beijing let this go on?"
  "If it causes unrest in the region, especially where the Americans or any Western government is
  concerned, they turn a blind eye."
  "Still up to their old games?"
  "Which is why we have plenty to do."
  McCarter tapped one of the images. "Sun Yang Ho?"
  Lee nodded.
  "Not a person I would be happy being around. He's one of North Korea's dealers. His job is to
  try to sell their weapons. A shrewd negotiator. Also very successful. Now that the sea lanes are
  being monitored for illegal cargoes, Ho sees this a challenge. He will find other ways to move
  his merchandise if he can."
  "Sit down, Henry," McCarter said. "You want a drink?"
  "Coffee would be nice."
  McCarter crossed to a small table and he picked up a Thermos jug. "Had some sent up just
  before you got here." The Briton filled two cups, handing one to the Chinese. They sat facing
  each other.
  "Tell me what is behind all this," Lee said.
  "We believe Iraqi ex-fedayeen members from the old Hussein regime are looking to buy some
  serious weaponry. Not just AK-47s and a box of grenades. They'll need those for sure, but these
  blokes are in for the long haul so they want big stuff, as well. The Koreans are in that business.
  They'll sell providing the buyer has the big bucks. You've heard about the bombing in the U.S?"
  Lee nodded. "A terrible thing to happen. So many people dead. Families. A whole community."
  "Khariza has been purchasing small arms for some time. We confirmed this when we broke up
  his buy in South America. But he has bigger plans from what we've been able to work out. He
  needs larger ordnance. For that he needs to get his hands on the bulk of the money the Hussein
  regime banked in secret accounts."
  "These stories about missing billions of dollars. They are true?"
  McCarter nodded. "Hussein's cronies salted away so much money you wouldn't believe it. They
  had it in secret accounts spread all over. They had a problem when one of their blokes got
  pissed off and quit the regime. Before he did, he planted a virus that wiped all the account codes
  from their system. It meant they couldn't tap into the funds. The Koreans wouldn't hand over
  the shopping list until they actually had payment."
  "And?"
  McCarter smiled. "The guy who went over the wall made disk copies of the account codes and
  took them with him. The fedayeen found out and went after him. We tried to keep the disks
  from getting into their hands but we dropped the ball."
  "So now these Iraqis will be able to get their money and buy their weapons?"
  McCarter sighed. "Don't rub it in. I feel bad enough we let them snatch those bloody discs back.
  And take a hostage."
  "Even so, there must still be time to do something. You said yourself these people are looking
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  for heavy ordnance. Not the sort of equipment you can place in the back of a car and drive
  home with."
  "Kim Yeo?"
  "He operates a diverse company. He has restaurants in Kowloon and Hong Kong. Couple of
  hotels. Also a shipping company that trades all over the South China Sea farther up the coast in
  the New Territories. His ships are involved in all kinds of freighting. Including much for the
  mainland Chinese."
  "He do anything for the Koreans?"
  "Oh, yes. He does quite a trade with North Korea. We only found this out recently because the
  amount of traffic has increased."
  "And the search ships can't be everywhere all the time."
  "What are you thinking?"
  "That it might be worthwhile taking a close look at the Chang Li company."
  "Where is the rest of your team?"
  "In another hotel," McCarter said. "We didn't want to show up in a group in case it attracted too
  much attention."
  "Good idea. I'll arrange things for you and get back by late this afternoon. As I said the Chang
  Li warehouses and main offices are up the coast a way. We can go in by boat."
  "Henry, we came in clean. Had no choice. Anna said you might be able to supply us with
  weapons."
  "I'll bring them along before we go in."
  After Lee left, McCarter used his cell phone to contact Encizo and Manning to bring them up to
  date.
  "Let's hope we find something," the little Cuban said. "David, this could get close. The Chinese
  aren't going to like it if we make a noise, especially if this Yeo character is under their
  protection."
  "We'll handle it, Rafe. Okay?"
  "You're the boss."
  "Don't bloody remind me."
  They were beyond the glitzy tourist area of Kowloon, farther along the coast in the direction of
  the New Territories, in among the commercial trappings of the dock area. The bright lights were
  far behind them, a neon haze in the darkness. The busy period had passed and the dock area was
  less hectic than it was during the daylight hours. The slow-moving junk, the Chinese workhorse
  of the water, chugged across the harbor, staying in the shadows of the moored freighters and
  cargo ships that worked the South China Sea. They were one among many and no one paid them
  any attention. Two of Lee's men worked the boat as crew.
  McCarter, Encizo and Manning stayed beneath the canvas-covered area at the stern of the junk.
  They wore plain, dark clothing. Their hurried move to Hong Kong, by commercial flights, had
  prevented them from bringing along any specialized gear, so they had been forced to rely on
  civilian clothing.
  The same had applied to weapons. The Hong Kong Chinese authorities were known to be hot
  on security, so Phoenix Force had been forced to arrive clean, depending on Mei Anna's
  Pro-Democracy group to help. Henry Lee didn't disappoint them. Once they were on board the
  junk and away from the shore, he produced a leather bag that held a selection of handguns.
  There were two 9mm SIG-Sauer P-226 pistols, a pair of Glock 17s, also in 9mm and a .357
  Magnum Ruger GP-100 revolver.
  "Some mix there," Manning said as he hefted a P-226.
  "We have to get our weapons where we can," Lee explained.
  "Hey, I'm not complaining. These are damn fine weapons."
  "There are magazines in there, too," Lee said. "Plenty of spares."
  While the others chose their weapons, McCarter and Lee went over the floor plan of the Kim
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  Yeo building.
  "The two lower floors are where the goods are stored and dispatched. Doors open onto the
  loading dock at the front. There are facilities at the rear for handling trucks. The top floor is
  where Yeo has his offices. His personal office suite is here on this corner section, overlooking
  the harbor."
  "What about alarms? It's not going to help if the bells start to go off the minute we go in."
  Lee smiled. "Already taken care of."
  They cut across to the dock area near the Chang Li Ltd. building. The helmsman guided the junk
  through the darkness and into a narrow dock that had been cut into the main area. A vessel was
  moored there, in total darkness, and the junk eased up alongside it. The motor was cut, and all
  they could hear was the soft slap of water against the sides of the junk and the other vessel.
  "This is a dredger," Lee explained. "Only used when there is a buildup of mud in the shallow
  sections of the harbor. When it is not in use it just sits here. No crew, so it's ideal for what we
  need. A place to hide."
  Lee spoke to his crew. They produced matte-black AK-47s and took up defensive positions on
  the junk's deck.
  "They've done this before," Encizo said.
  "A few times."
  Lee led the way up the crusted ladder fixed to the dock wall. He checked out the area before
  stepping on to the dock. Phoenix Force followed him as he crossed the dock and they all
  flattened against the front wall.
  "Anyone on watch?" McCarter asked.
  Lee shook his head. "Kim Yeo is under protection. The criminal fraternity knows that. No one
  would even consider trying to steal from Yeo. So he has no need of guards."
  "Why does that make me feel uncomfortable?" Manning asked.
  "Because the guy has the Chinese army on call," Encizo pointed out. "And all I got is a P-226."
  "Stop complaining," Encizo said. "You've got three full magazines to go with it."
  "Enough chatter, girls," McCarter snapped. "Let's get to it."
  He tapped Lee on the shoulder. The Chinese moved along the wall until he reached a single
  door, a simple wooden slab with a standard lock. Lee produced a small leather case from his
  pocket. When he opened it he took out a number of steel lock picks. He bent over the lock,
  inserting the picks and manipulating them until he heard the tumblers click. He put the picks
  away, gently turned the handle and the door swung inward with barely a sound.
  McCarter followed the Chinese inside, Manning and Encizo following close. Once they were in,
  Encizo, bringing up the rear, closed the door behind them. He was about to turn away when he
  spotted bolts on the inside. He slid them into place. It was a precaution against anyone coming
  in behind them.
  The deep spread of the storage area was in shadow, with faint light filtering down from lamps
  set high overhead.
  "Where do you want to start?" Lee asked.
  McCarter had taken in the huge expanse of the warehouse facility.
  "We could spend all night and the next bloody day going through this lot. I think checking out
  the offices might save time."
  They made their way to a set of steel stairs that led to the upper floor. Reaching the level, they
  turned to the next set of stairs.
  A blaze of light burst in their faces, dazzling them. There was the rattle of weapons, the sound of
  rushing footsteps.
  A harsh voice reached out from behind the blinding glare. "Put down the weapons and show
  your empty hands. Refuse and you will die now. A simple choice."
  Figures stepped forward, assault rifles trained on Lee and Phoenix Force. The men behind the
  rifles were Chinese. McCarter counted four of them. To one side an unarmed man moved
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  closer. He had his hands clasped together, resting against his rounded stomach. McCarter
  recognized him from the photographs Lee had shown him.
  Kim Yeo.
  "The guns?" he asked.
  McCarter was the first to place his pistol on the floor. The others followed suit. Lee was the
  most reluctant.
  "Do it, man," McCarter said. "Dead, you're no good to anyone."
  "Your friend is right," Yeo said.
  Lee dropped his weapon and stepped back. "Who betrayed us?" he asked.
  Yeo smiled. "One of your loyal people saw a chance to redeem himself and make a little money
  in the process. When he learned about your proposed interference with my business he took the
  opportunity to make amends for his lapse of conscience and informed me of your imminent
  arrival."
  Lee glanced across at McCarter. "I have let you down."
  "You haven't."
  Yeo turned to his armed men, raising a hand. He spoke in rapid, harsh tones. The armed men
  moved to group around McCarter and the others. One of them retrieved the weapons placed on
  the floor, dropping them in a leather satchel hanging from his shoulder.
  "You wanted to see what we were doing here? Very well, I will show you. And then we will go
  and see someone who is anxious to meet you."
  Yeo led them deep into the large warehouse. It stretched for a long way, the floor space filled
  with stacks of crates and drums, pieces of machinery that ranged from car engines to farm
  tractors and harvesters.
  "What we supply for our special clients is all part of the business," Yeo explained as he led the
  way. "One tool i's just like another. All that differs is the use of that tool. And the price, of
  course."
  They stepped through a sliding door into a further extension of the warehouse building. Here
  the area was smaller, but still expansive by most standards. In neat bays, cases and boxes were
  neatly stacked.
  "Here," Yeo said, stepping into one of the bays. He lifted a top from a long crate. "AK-74s.
  New. Ten to a crate. There are fifty crates in each bay here. Next to them are more 74s. These
  are used. All have been reconditioned and are in perfect working order. Again ten to a crate.
  Along here the smaller boxes hold filled magazines for the 74s. As many as the client wants. In
  the next bay we have two hundred SR-88As. 5.56mm, made in Singapore. A fine weapon. The
  manufacturer has failed to find out where the missing batch went."
  The catalog of ordnance went on as Yeo pointed out the large cache ready for shipment.
  McCarter recognized box markings for SIG-Sauer P-226 pistols, Russian fragmentation
  grenades, cartons that contained C-12. There were detonators, timers. There were a number of
  containers marked USA—LAW rocket launchers, M-249 SAWs.
  "These I am particularly proud of. One hundred Russian SA-18 Igla surface-to-air missiles, an
  extremely efficient and powerful weapon."
  "You've been shopping around," the Briton commented.
  "I go where the market offers the best. Our current client is extremely demanding when it comes
  to quality merchandise."
  "Can we stop playing games?" McCarter snapped. "We all know who your client is. Call him by
  his bloody name. Razan Khariza. Ex-fedayeen. One of Hussein's regime."
  Yeo turned to stare at the Phoenix Force leader. His face bore a faintly amused expression.
  "If nothing else, I admire your honesty. Before you were evicted from Hong Kong, you British
  always managed to maintain face. In some ways I miss the British administration. Beijing has not
  yet managed to grasp the complexities of being handed the most cosmopolitan of colonies in
  existence. Global enterprise, Hong Kong style, is something new to them. Their heavy hand
  Page 91
  
  sometimes leaves me wondering if we did wrong. Perhaps it would have been better to let the
  British stay for another ninety years. Raising the rent, though."
  "Why? So you can go on supplying weapons to whoever wants them?"
  "Coming from a British subject, I find that slightly hypocritical. Or am I wrong when I mention
  your country, and the United States, both having extremely lucrative arms dealings? Should I list
  all the countries they have done deals with?"
  "We've paid for our mistakes. I'm not denying what happened."
  "Now you are on the receiving end," Yeo said. "Somehow that strikes me as ironic."
  He turned and spoke rapidly to his own men. The armed escort closed in around their captives,
  gesturing with their weapons.
  "We will go now. As much as I would like to carry on, our discussion time does not allow me
  the privilege."
  They were walked through the warehouse, emerging on the far side, where a number of trucks
  were parked.
  McCarter and his team, along with Henry Lee, were made to climb into the rear of one of the
  trucks, the armed Chinese following them.
  "The journey will not be long," Yeo said. "We will transfer to an aircraft for the main trip."
  Negev Desert, Israel
  Dry wind blew in across the sandy terrain. Grit peppered the sides of the IDF combat helicopter
  resting in the shallow depression. The pilot cut the power and the rotors began to slow.
  Calvin James slid open the side hatch and swung his lanky frame from the cabin, one hand
  steadying the H&K MP-5 he carried. He was clad in desert camou fatigues, a long-peaked
  fatigue cap on his head. Protective goggles hung around his neck. He moved out from the
  chopper, scanning the surrounding terrain as T. J. Hawkins followed him. Ben Sharon brought
  up the rear.
  As well as the SMGs, each man carried a holstered handgun and a sheathed combat knife.
  The pilot, a young Israeli, called Davi, exited the chopper on the far side, his 9mm Uzi carried in
  one hand. His task was to remain with the helicopter, maintaining contact with the combat team
  via their Tac-Com units. The equipment had been checked and tested during the flight in from
  Beersheba. They had landed a half mile away from the isolated oasis, where, according to data
  from Rasheed's organizer, a fedayeen unit could operate from. The information had been
  clarified and confirmed as likely to be genuine from one of Ben Sharon's informants. The man,
  working inside a pro-Iraqi group in the West Bank, had been gathering his data for a number of
  weeks and had only just made his findings solid enough to contact Sharon. James and Hawkins
  had already been on their way to Israel to meet up with Sharon. The Mossad agent had returned
  to his homeland when McCarter, Manning and Encizo had shipped out to Hong Kong. He had
  immediately contacted James and Hawkins, arranging for them to join him and pool their
  information.
  Stony Man had satellite information on the Petra.
  Zehlivic's boat had made a rendezvous with another ship on the approach to Cyprus, and
  though they hadn't witnessed any actual transfer, it was felt that the Petra had transferred a
  number of its passengers to this new vessel. Kurtzman's skilled manipulation of his satellite eye
  had managed to get some identification of this ship. It was a cargo steamer that plied its trade
  around the Mediterranean, calling in at a number of ports along the North African coastline.
  This particular voyage was finalized when it docked in Tripoli.
  With the unrest already escalating in the Middle East, including more unexpected incidents
  between Israel and the Palestinians, attacks by Turkish military units against the Kurdish
  oilfields, and the sudden murders of a number of the new Iraqi governing body, the fragile peace
  in the region seemed to be teetering on the brink of collapse.
  "We don't have definite proof that any of Khariza's group jumped ship," Barbara Price said as
  she gave James the information via sat phone. "But the way things are moving at the present we
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  have to make some assumptions and go for them. Join up with Ben Sharon and see if his and our
  intel fits together. Something is happening out there. Find it, Cal, and deal with it."
  In Israel the two-man Phoenix Force unit met Sharon in Tel Aviv. They passed along the data
  from Rasheed's organizer and Sharon gave them what he had.
  "In all that information there's got to be something that gels," James said.
  "Let's go for the common denominator," Sharon replied.
  They had shipped out within the hour, flying to Beersheba, where the combat chopper was
  waiting for them. James and Hawkins were equipped courtesy of Mossad, and after a quick meal
  they boarded the helicopter and took off for the Negev, where they were now.
  "Let's move out," James said.
  He raised a hand to Davi. The pilot nodded and spoke into his Tac-Com unit.
  "Good luck."
  His voice came through their headsets.
  The three moved out, staying within the depression that cut its way across the dun-colored
  desert terrain. They moved steadily forward, aware of their scant cover and accepting the
  possibility of arriving at the oasis to find it deserted. Even so, they had to check it out. Rasheed's
  entries had, so far, been fairly accurate, and Sharon's information had the ring of truth to it.
  There was nothing else they could do in the face of what had happened at Bucklow. The
  intention of Razan Khariza's group couldn't have been made more clear following the attack on
  the Texan community, since the bomb burst there had been, and still were, attacks on targets in
  the U.S., the Middle East and Israel. On the flight in from Beersheba the combat team had
  received an update. Two suicide bombers had struck in London. There had been more strikes
  against Israel, supposedly by Palestinian militants. Equipment and clothing that had survived the
  explosions had been identified as the type used by the Palestinians. There had been strong
  denials from the Palestinians. The Israeli armed forces, already on alert, had started to close in
  on the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. As well as mobile units, Merkava battle tanks rumbled
  along the streets. Tensions were at their most explosive. It was a situation that could erupt into
  full-scale violence at any moment. There was a need to defuse the standoff.
  Rasheed's scant entry, on one of the final pages Erika Dukas had translated, gave a map
  reference that had turned out to be an oasis in the Negev Desert, followed by a single word.
  Dimona.
  The location of the Israeli nuclear plant.
  A possible and likely target for Khariza's terrorists, backed up by the information smuggled out
  by Sharon's undercover man.
  James called a brief halt as they neared the oasis. He checked out the Tac-Com link.
  "You still picking us up, Davi?"
  "I hear you."
  "We're close. We'll leave the link open so you can follow progress. If you hear anyone yell 'help,'
  come running."
  "Understood."
  Sharon had edged forward to scan the terrain ahead. James and Hawkins joined him. "There," he
  said, pointing.
  They saw the collection of ancient buildings, stone-built and in a state of semicollapse. Just
  beyond the buildings was a patch of greenery, a few palm trees and the gleam of water.
  "See any movement?" James asked.
  Sharon shook his head.
  "If there is anyone there they'll be keeping out of sight in case any overflying planes spot them."
  "How far to the Dimona plant from here?" Hawkins asked.
  "Around ten miles."
  "They have to have some kind of transport available," James said. "If they're going for the plant,
  they'll need more than a couple of assault rifles."
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  "Maybe this is just a forward post," Sharon said, "gathering intel and passing it back."
  "It's worth considering. Main force standing by, waiting for the go. Could be they'll fly in the
  attack group along with heavy weapons."
  "Coming from where?" Hawkins asked. "Jordan? Egypt?"
  "Khariza could have allies in either country. There are sympathizers for his cause all across the
  Middle East," Sharon reminded them. "Syria, even Saudi Arabia."
  "Nice to know we could be attacked from more than one direction," Hawkins remarked.
  "Hey, listen up," James said. "I see movement."
  They turned their full attention on the oasis and saw a single figure moving out from one of the
  buildings. He wore desert camou clothing and had a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. The
  man made his way across to the pool of water and went down on his knees to fill a canteen.
  "Makes me thirsty just watching," Hawkins said.
  "I have heard tell the water here is very fresh and sweet," Sharon said. "It comes from an
  underground source."
  "Right now all I'm interested in is who is down there."
  Sharon checked his MP-5, cocking the weapon. "Shall we go find out?"
  They waited until the water carrier had trudged back into the building before they moved,
  staying low, and skirting the perimeter of the buildings. The undulating terrain aided their
  approach. They were able to crawl the final hundred yards flat to the ground, using the hollows
  and the wind eroded ridges to conceal their approach.
  "Let's spread," James said softly into his microphone. "T.J., you take left. Ben, go right. I'll take
  the center."
  They continued their advance, coming in against the facing walls of the clustered buildings.
  James, his back pressed to the warm, crumbling stone, heard the affirmative calls from Hawkins
  and Sharon. Turning his head he was able to see, some twenty feet away, Hawkins crouching at
  the base of a wall. Sharon was just visible at the other extreme, partly concealed behind a pile of
  stone from a collapsed wall. The Israeli held up a hand, fingers pointing to his eyes. Then he
  moved his hand to show three fingers.
  Three spotted.
  Until they actually moved in, there was no way of knowing how many more there might be.
  James risked a verbal command. "Okay, we go in on three. One. .two.. three…"
  In unison they pushed to their feet and made their assault.
  Las Vegas, Nevada
  Philo Vance worked out of a truck dealership situated at the northern end of Vegas, in sight of
  the intersection of I-15 and U.S. 95.
  Able Team had driven in from McCarron International, where a USAF jet had landed them, just
  after 8.30 p.m. They picked up the Lincoln Navigator waiting for them courtesy of Stony Man.
  Schwarz, his torso heavily bandaged beneath his civilian clothing and still showing severe
  bruising, took the wheel, adjusting the power driver's seat to his satisfaction. Blancanales took
  the rear seat, a large canvas bag containing their weapons and equipment. Carl Lyons slid in on
  the passenger side. He glance across at Schwarz.
  "We're in your hands."
  "Just how I like it."
  He started the SUV, switched on the headlights and rolled it across the tarmac, heading for the
  side gate that would take them to the main highway. Schwarz picked up I-15, easing the
  Navigator into the slow lane that would let him ease into the off-ramp when they reached their
  intersection. The powerful SUV covered the short trip quickly, and Schwarz was able to make
  his exit without fighting traffic. The blaze of the Vegas lights lay behind them.
  Blancanales had passed out weapons. Lyons holstered his big Colt Python and dropped a couple
  of speed loaders into a pocket. Blancanales and Schwarz had Beretta 92-Fs.
  Schwarz pushed the SUV along the feeder road and pulled to a stop just short of the wide lot
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  that fronted Vance's truck agency.
  "Some place," Blancanales said, eyeing the rows of trucks lined up on the concrete strip.
  There were lights on in the low building at the rear of the lot.
  Lyons took out his cell phone and called Stony Man. When Barbara Price came on she answered
  his question before he asked it.
  "Local law enforcement has been advised to stand off until they get the call from us to go in.
  They've been instructed this is a matter being dealt with on a federal level and you are to be
  treated accordingly. Feel better now, Carl?"
  "Better than Vance is going to. Thanks for the assist."
  "Good luck."
  Schwarz drove across the lot, easing the SUV to a stop near the glass doors that led into the
  showroom. Lyons and Blancanales climbed out.
  "You still want me to stay here?" Schwarz asked.
  "Cover our backs," Lyons said.
  Schwarz nodded. He understood Lyons's reluctance to let him go inside. His body was still stiff
  and sore from the beating he'd received, and Schwarz would have been the first to admit he
  wasn't one hundred percent able-bodied. If he went in with his partners, he would have been
  putting them under pressure because they would have worried about his ability to cope with any
  emergency situation. That concern could have got them killed. Schwarz stayed with the vehicle,
  his Beretta across his lap.
  Lyons led the way inside. The glass doors were automatic and they slid open to let the Able
  Team duo inside. The showroom held a couple of tractors, all gleaming paintwork and shiny
  chrome fittings. At the rear of the showroom were glass-fronted offices, furnished in plain but
  expensive furniture, pale wood and stainless steel. Each of the desks they could see held a large
  screen computer and enough telephones to keep a small company in business.
  The offices were deserted, but the reception desk was occupied. The man lounging there was
  hard-looking. He blocked Able Team's way.
  "Closed," he explained.
  "We're looking for your low-life boss, Vance," Lyons said.
  The man took a long, slow look around the showroom.
  "Looks like he isn't here. Now you have to leave."
  "Maybe he's upstairs," Blancanales suggested.
  "I was thinking that myself," Lyons said.
  The security man pushed his jacket open to expose a heavy pistol tucked in his belt.
  "Just move your fuckin' asses back outside."
  "It's the high-class people you meet in Vegas that makes it so appealing," Blancanales said.
  "The hell with high class," Lyons said, and delivered a solid kick to the guard's testicles. The man
  let out a shivering groan, knees starting to buckle. Lyons timed his next move perfectly, driving
  his right knee up into the guard's descending face. Bone snapped and blood squirted in long
  streams. The guard went over on his back, crashing hard onto the showroom floor. "Give me a
  hand."
  Between them Lyons and Blancanales dragged the limp form across the floor to one of the
  showroom tractor units. Lyons pulled some plastic cuffs from his back pocket. He looped one
  around the guard's wrists, then used a couple more to secure the man to a towing loop under the
  tractor's front bumper bar. He took the guard's pistol, ejected the magazine and took the
  weapon apart, throwing the bits across the showroom.
  "Upstairs?" he asked. Blancanales nodded.
  Lyons headed for the open-plan chromed-metal stairs that led to the upper office. He went up
  fast and didn't stop when he reached the top. He raised a hard foot and kicked open the pale
  wood door. It swung in and thudded against the inner wall. As Lyons stepped inside he pulled
  the Colt Python, his gaze covering the large room.
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  A lean figure, blond-haired and tanned, was standing at a desk, pushing papers into a briefcase.
  He glanced up in alarm as the door was smashed open.
  "Who the hell…?" he said.
  "Still not learned any grown-up words, Philo?"
  Vance leaned forward, peering hard at Lyons. Recognition dawned.
  "Son of a bitch. I know you."
  As he spoke, Vance pushed papers aside and grabbed for a stubby pistol in his briefcase.
  Lyons crossed the office in long strides. His right hand came down, slamming the barrel of the
  heavy pistol across Vance's hand. Bone cracked. Vance howled in pain. He was still moaning
  when the Able Team leader caught the front of his shirt and swung him around. He swept the
  Python across the side of Vance's head, blood spurting as the blow turned the man in a half
  circle.
  Lyons raised his foot and planted the sole of his shoe against Vance's buttocks, shoving hard.
  The force threw the man across the top of the desk, scattering everything aside. Vance crashed
  to the floor on the other side of the desk. He was still trying to gather himself when Lyons stood
  over him, grabbed his jacket and hurled him against the wall. Vance crumpled to the floor,
  blood streaming down his face, dazed and moaning in pain.
  Lyons bent over the trembling figure, bunched a fist into the man's shirt and held him rigid. The
  muzzle of Lyons's Python ground into Vance's cheek, hard against the bone.
  "Look at me, Philo," Lyons ordered. "Look at me and listen. I was there. At Bucklow. I saw it
  happen. All those people. Women, kids, whole families burned to ashes, Philo, and you're
  responsible."
  Lyons drew the hammer back, screwing the cold, hard muzzle deeper into Vance's cheek.
  "No. You can't hang that on me."
  "The jury is already out, and I see a guilty man. And there's no appeal on this one, Philo. You've
  walked away for the last time. Hell you're out of your league. You should have stuck to selling
  Saturday Night Specials, Philo."
  Vance's frightened gaze looked beyond Lyons to the figure of Blancanales as he moved up
  behind his partner.
  "Tell him he can't do this. Jesus, this isn't the way. This is America, not some jackshit country."
  "You sold out, Philo," Blancanales said evenly, "so the rules don't apply now. I'm here to see he
  doesn't miss, is all. If he only blows out half your brain, I'll have to finish it. I'll tell you, though,
  I'm not such a good shot. Might take me some time."
  Vance looked between his two tormentors, fear showing in his eyes. There was no way he was
  going to talk his way out of this—except by giving them what they wanted.
  "All I did was set up the deal. Paid off the guys at the airbase. They delivered the bombs to my
  crew and fixed it so they could drive out of the base. We switched vehicles and lost the military
  truck. We delivered the consignment to…"
  Vance stopped. He refused to meet Lyons's angry stare.
  "Who to?" Blancanales asked.
  "His name was Kerim. He had his own drivers. I passed over the truck. He paid me and I took
  off."
  "How much did you get?"
  A faint gleam of hope showed in Vance's eyes. "More than enough. Hell, there's plenty to go
  round. I could cut it three ways and we'd all still be able to buy a small country each. You know
  what I mean?"
  Lyons eased off the pressure.
  "Christ, you guys play rough," Vance said, some of his confidence returning.
  "Yeah," Lyons agreed. "It's a shitty game we're in."
  "So?"
  "You think we're going to let you walk away without proof? We get screwed and you sail into the
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  sunset with your stash intact."
  "Hey, would I fuck around with you guys? You think I'm stupid? I can take you to the money
  right now. Give me an hour and you can be driving back home with more cash money you ever
  thought existed."
  "And what happens if we end up burned extra crispy when the next bomb goes off?" Blancanales
  said.
  "That's crazy."
  "Think about it, Philo. The odds might be long but it could happen. For all we know it might be
  set to go off down the road in Vegas. Those Iraqi mothers want to make big noises. They're
  going to choose somewhere high profile for the next one."
  "Money's no good if we get wiped out, Philo," Lyons said. "You're a gambler. Would you take
  those odds?"
  Blancanales leaned forward, shaking his head. "No way I' in risking it. Finish it. Shoot the
  bastard and let's get the hell out of here."
  "Works for me," Lyons said. "Back off. This close it'll get messy."
  "Hey, why make it easy for him?"
  "What do you mean?"
  "Dead men get away easy. Put a couple of shots through his spine. Paralyze him so he can't ever
  move again. Remember Gilman? Took a slug in the back three years ago. He's still alive. Can't
  move anything below his neck. If you call that living."
  Lyons reached out to turn Vance over. The man began to scream and yell, struggling to stay
  upright.
  "Don't fight it, Philo," Lyons said. "With all that money you'll be able to buy the best medical
  attention around. Nurses round-the-clock to hold your drinks and wipe your ass."
  Blancanales reached down to help. It took their combined strength to turn the hysterical Vance
  onto his front. Blancanales put a foot against the back of his neck, holding him secure.
  "This a softwood floor?" Lyons asked.
  "Hard to tell. Why?"
  "Don't want any slugs bouncing back and blowing his balls off too."
  "Won't make much difference. He isn't going to be needing them."
  "Damn, you're right."
  Lyons pushed the Python against Vance's lower spine, grinding the barrel into the flesh.
  "About there?"
  "Just do it. I want to get the hell out of here."
  "Shame, Philo, we could have cut a deal. Say goodbye to your ass."
  "Oh. Jesus Christ, don't fuckin' do it, man. I'll tell you. Just…please…don't…"
  He began to sob, his whole body shaking in sheer terror.
  "I want to hear, Philo, and don't give me any crap. Think about it. If you give me wrong
  information I'll come back and I will shoot out your backbone. Don't believe otherwise."
  Five minutes later they had the information. Philo Vance told them everything he knew about
  the mainland operation. Even down to where he had hidden his payment for the services he had
  provided to Khariza's fedayeen.
  "Only reason I know is 'cause I saw his laptop. He had it open on my desk. His guy, Ramsey,
  called him out to deal with something. I was curious so I sneaked a look. He had data on two
  sites. One was Bucklow. Something about April 9. Didn't mean much to me at the time."
  "The other site?" Lyons asked.
  "Some place along Interstate 20. An airstrip outside Dallas. Coyote Field. It had a date next to
  it, as well. April 12. That's all I know."
  Blancanales walked out of the office, taking out his cell phone.
  "Hey, what's he doing?"
  Lyons managed a cold smile. "Canceling our reservations at the Dallas Holiday Inn."
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  Vance chewed that one over. Something clicked in his mind and he stared at Lyons.
  "You lying mother. That…all that crap with the gun was a fuckin' con. Just to get me to talk.
  Well, the hell with you, buddy, 'cause I was doin' you. Yeah. Dallas ain't the place. I told you
  something you wanted to hear. So find out for yourself."
  "You told us the truth, Philo. You were too scared to make anything up."
  "So you say."
  "Okay, Philo. You screwed us. So I'll take you on a trip. To Dallas. Make sure you have a
  ringside seat so you can sit through the blast that isn't going to happen. Then you can have a big
  laugh on us when you don't get crisped."
  Vance's desert tan paled visibly as he stared at Lyons's impassive face. The Ironman's expression
  was fixed.
  "No way. I ain't going anywhere with you maniacs."
  "Philo, you don't have a choice. If you lied, there's nothing to lose. All it means is you get to stay
  out of jail a little longer."
  Blancanales reappeared. He nodded to Lyons. He had called Stony Man and asked them to
  check out Coyote Field.
  "We're taking Philo on a road trip. He's decided Dallas isn't the site after all, so I told him he can
  confirm it by sitting it out until after the deadline."
  "Pretty smart way of proving his point."
  "Oh, sure. Philo's really smart. Right, Philo?"
  Vance realized he was on the spot. He had talked himself into a corner and there was no
  comfortable way out.
  "No need for the trip. Dallas is the real site."
  "Maybe we should still take him," Blancanales suggested. "Be embarrassing if it turned out he
  was lying."
  "The hell with you bastards," Vance screamed. "You some kind of sick mothers, or what?"
  "That's open for debate," Blancanales said.
  "Time we left," Lyons said.
  He used more of his plastic cuffs to secure Vance's ankles and wrists.
  "Hey, hey," Vance yelled, struggling. "I need to change my pants. I wet them you fuckers scared
  me so bad."
  "At least it'll give the police shrink something to talk to you about," Blancanales said.
  Vance's yelling and ranting accompanied them down the stairs and outside.
  "Vegas P.D. should be here in the next few minutes," Blancanales said as they climbed back in
  the SUV.
  "We get a result?" Schwarz asked as he rolled the Navigator back toward the highway.
  "Yeah," Lyons said. "Back to the airport. We're going to Dallas."
  CHAPTER TEN
  Chechnya
  Conditions at the camp were far removed from those on board the Petra. As far as Razan
  Khariza was concerned, it was a mere passing thought. His time on the Petra had been an
  enjoyable but transitional period between then and now. Khariza had no problems with his
  current surroundings. They served their purpose and that purpose, had little to do with personal
  indulgences.
  Khariza looked around the stone shelter. He had, in his time, lived in worse. He reminded
  himself he was an Iraqi warrior, a fedayeen who could mount a horse with ease and ride across
  the desert to face his enemy. That wasn't such a bad life to contemplate. Let the Americans, with
  their modern weapons, face a force of mounted and armed Iraqis. Then they would see how a
  war should be fought.
  Khariza uttered a self-deprecating sound, snapping out of his reverie and back to the present.
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  To immediacy.
  He pushed the wooden chair he was using away from the battered desk and crossed the chilled
  room to gaze out of the grimy window at the bleak Chechen landscape. There was no sun here,
  no sweep of dusty desert with a lone hawk circling the blue emptiness. Only gray rock and
  barren slopes, smoke rising from the other stone buildings of what had been a living village full
  of people. Now it was a mute reminder of its former self, windswept and wet from the cold rain
  that seemed to be a permanent feature at this time of year.
  Khariza saw a battered, ex-Soviet military truck lurch into sight around the bend that signaled
  the beginning of the village. He watched it bump and bounce over the rutted ground, sending
  heavy spurts of water from beneath its wheels. Khariza watched it jerk to a stop. It lurched as the
  driver forgot to put it into neutral before he took his foot off the clutch. That meant the driver
  would be Dushinov. The Chechen Muslim, though an eager driver, hadn't yet mastered some of
  the techniques, so that driving with him was a new experience each time.
  The driver's door crashed open, almost coming off its hinges, and a large, bearded figure, clad
  in bulky clothing, climbed out.
  Zoltan Dushinov stood six foot four inches tall. He was broad, as well, making him a
  dominating presence. His resistance to the Russians was legendary in the area. Depending on
  which side you were on, Dushinov was either a hero or a murderous brigand. If he had been
  forced to choose, Dushinov would have favored the brigand title.
  Not wanting to appear inhospitable, Khariza crossed the room and opened the door, moving to
  stand in the passage so that he was the first person Dushinov saw when he entered the building.
  "Welcome back, my brother," Khariza said.
  "Razan."
  The two embraced, then stepped back. Khariza's eyes searched the other's face for a trace of the
  news he was expecting. Dushinov remained silent for a moment, then smiled, briefly, and
  nodded.
  "We have the weapons on the truck. As we suspected, the airdrop was affected by the storm. It
  blew the consignment away from the drop zone. But we found it. Intact."
  "That is good news."
  Dushinov spread his arms. "Tomorrow you can start to train those recruits of yours. By God,
  they need training. Most of them can't tell one end of a gun from the other."
  "I cannot fault them for that," Khariza said. "Those faithful have come great distances to help
  our fight. It would have been foolish of me to expect all of them to be seasoned fighters. But we
  will show them. Between us we will make them into fedayeen, into the fighters who will help to
  reshape Iraq."
  "What about your Korean friends?"
  "Much more receptive now I am able to access those accounts. Already we have started to
  transfer money into a new facility where I will be able to withdraw without so much difficulty.
  The Swiss may be good at storing money and keeping it safe, but when it comes to paying it out
  they suddenly become like snails. There is so much protocol to go through. So many regulations.
  They are such a dismal people."
  "You should let me put it in my bank," Dushinov said.
  "You mean, the one under your mattress?"
  Dushinov laughed. It was a loud, booming sound that rattled the windows.
  "Maybe. But I can get to it when I want. Day or night, my bank never closes."
  "Zoltan, do not forget I will be bringing you some of the money when I finish dealing with the
  Koreans. A small way of thanking you for what you have done."
  "I won't refuse it," Dushinov said. "It will be very useful. You know I would have helped you,
  anyway. The money is secondary to how I feel about you and what has happened to Iraq."
  "With your help I will train my soldiers and we will do what is needed to drive out the
  Americans and their allies."
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  "I'll get some help and have that truck unloaded for you."
  Dushinov turned to go, then paused and turned back to Khariza.
  "Is something wrong?" the Iraqi asked.
  "These people who have been interfering with your plans."
  "What about them? Are they here?"
  "My people tell me they have heard of men offering money for your whereabouts."
  "Who? It doesn't sound like the ones who captured Rasheed. Or who killed Rasifi and Kerim.
  They were professionals. Not the kind to offer money. If they come, it will be unexpectedly and
  they will have guns not checkbooks."
  "So who are these men?"
  Khariza shrugged. "If they show up again perhaps we will find out."
  Dushinov turned and left the building. After a few moments Khariza made his way to the rear of
  the building, where Abdul Wafiq and Saeed Hassan were packing thick stacks of hundred-dollar
  bills into backpacks. The money was to be used to purchase a number of vehicles for use when
  Khariza went back into Iraq. There were faithful fedayeen in Iraq who could use the cash to buy
  vehicles and arrange hiding places for Khariza and his group. Within the country hard cash
  would be a necessity. Khariza needed secure places to hide prior to some of the hard action he
  had promised his faithful.
  Khariza sat at the table and idly toyed with the thick wads of dollars.
  "The Americans gave us the money in the first place," he said. "Now we use their money to
  destroy their hold on Iraq. Quite fitting."
  "We were listening to some of the radio reports about the bombing in Bucklow. Do we accept it
  as a success, Razan?"
  Khariza glanced across the table at Wafiq.
  "Of course. The death toll will make the Americans reconsider just how safe their country is
  now. I could tell them that. It is not safe. Not any longer. We have proved we can enter America,
  purchase weapons and use them in our struggle. America's size and the diversity of their culture
  makes it easy for us. The country is too large to keep fully secure. And their communities are
  spread out so widely the authorities are unable to be in all places at once. So we strike here,
  there, many different locations. No pattern so they will not be able to trace us. Given time they
  might form some kind of trail after us. But by then our people will have completed their tasks
  and moved on."
  "What about the cells the Americans have raided?" Hassan asked. "The locations lost and the
  people arrested?"
  "Regrettable," Khariza said. "I have to admit something puzzles me. How the Americans
  suddenly seemed to become aware of those locations. How they walked in on Kerim during his
  visit to negotiate with that Mexican gunrunner. Coincidence? No. Too much happening at once.
  There has to be a sound explanation."
  "Has someone betrayed us?" Hassan asked.
  "It is to be considered," Khariza admitted. "As much as I hate to accept it."
  "Sharii betrayed us," Wafiq reminded him. "Others could do the same."
  "Then we will have to be vigilant."
  "Trust no one," Wafiq went on.
  "Does that extend to us?" Hassan asked.
  Wafiq simply raised his shoulders.
  "If we fall out among ourselves, all it does is benefit our enemies. Abdul is suggesting that we
  take care. My brothers, we have too much to achieve. Dissent within our own ranks is not an
  option." Khariza held out his arms, smiling. "Come, let us go and inspect these new weapons
  Zolton has brought. Then we should sit down and discuss our upcoming strategy."
  They left the building and commenced the walk to the large storage building where the new
  consignment of weapons was being offloaded.
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  "This is a miserable country," Wafiq said. "I fail to see why Dushinov wants to fight over it.
  Does the sun ever shine here?"
  Khariza laughed, "Abdul, no one could ever accuse you of being an optimist."
  The truck was being unloaded into one of the stone buildings. Khariza led the way inside and
  they located the crates Dushinov had brought. The Iraqi released the catches holding down a top
  and raised the hinged lid. Inside the crate, resting on polystyrene-molded shells, were SA-18
  ground-to-air missiles.
  "Kim Yeo has more of these at his warehouse, ready to be shipped," Khariza said. He looked at
  the other boxes in the consignment. There were more assault rifles, handguns, ammunition.
  "I will feel better once we have completed our deal with the North Koreans," Wafiq said. "All
  the rifles in the world won't deter the Americans."
  "Now we have the main accounts back in our hands, that will happen soon. Kim Yeo will be
  talking to Sun Yang Ho anytime now. Once he does, the Koreans will start to move our
  consignment."
  "Including the nuclear devices?"
  "Especially the nuclear devices," Khariza said. "If we have to use them, the effect in Iraq will far
  outweigh what we are doing in America."
  Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  "Listen up," Kurtzman said. "Something interesting came through from the FBI. While they
  were going through Vance's books they found a couple of semitrailer units missing from the list.
  According to the stock records, they were still on site, but when they checked them out they
  were gone. So the Feds had a hard word with Mr. Vance, and it came out he let the rigs go to
  the wood-chip mill at Bucklow."
  "Son of a bitch," Lyons said over the link to Dragon Slayer.
  "We also have a preliminary report from the CSI investigation team at Bucklow. They've
  established the detonation point. Turns out the MOAB was mounted on a semi-trailer. The
  vehicle was burned down to the steel chassis, which was buckled to all hell, but the
  manufacturer's production number on a plate was still readable under lab analysis. The CSI team
  checked out that number and it was one of the missing units from Vance's lot."
  "So the vehicle we're looking for can be identified from a similar chassis number if we need to?"
  "Exactly."
  Blancanales voice came over the link. "Question. The MOAB is supposed to be launched from
  an aircraft. Dropped by parachute over the target, then guided in by laser control. How the hell
  did they do it from the back of a trailer?"
  "I spoke to some people at the facility where the MOABs are built. The bomb is fitted with a
  device that detonates it six feet from the ground. No hardship to mount the bomb that height
  on the trailer. It was probably concealed under a canvas sheet and driven to the picnic ground
  with all the other local vehicles. From what we learned there was a parade of trade vehicles as
  part of the celebration. The wood-chip mill was part of the local community. Who was going to
  question it being there? The driver only needed to position the vehicle and wait for the chosen
  time. My contact at the MOAB builders said it would be possible for a manual detonator to be
  fitted. All the driver had to do was set the detonator and wait to push the button."
  "He went up with the truck?"
  "It would be a surer way of setting the device off than relaying on a distance detonator. Too
  much interference from electronic equipment around the site. It could have blanked the signal.
  So they chose the easy option."
  "Easy? Not for the guy who pushed the button."
  "A suicide bomber, Pol. It's nothing new in the terrorist world."
  "What the hell has it come to?"
  "How close are you to Coyote Field?"
  "I'd say we should be over the place in thirty," Grimaldi said.
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  "I'm trying to get some access to a satellite eye. See if I can spot the field and anything on it."
  Akira Tokaido broke in. "I'm sending through details on the semi-trailer and the chassis number
  for ID."
  He tapped in the transmit code and sent the data through to Dragon Slayer's onboard
  computer.
  "Do I have to go through this again?" Brognola asked. "Just tell me which part you didn't
  understand, Captain Douglas."
  The voice on the other end of the line rose again. The hard twang of the speaker's Texas accent
  grated on the big Fed's nerves, and he was fast losing patience with the stubborn attitude of the
  Ranger captain, who seemed to have taken everything Brognola had explained on a personal
  level. It was as if the man felt Brognola was treating him like a child. The fact he was acting like
  one hadn't escaped Brognola's attention.
  "Now listen, Douglas," the big Fed snapped, dropping the rank, "I've had enough of your crap.
  I tried polite. I tried diplomatic. Obviously neither of those things are within your mental reach.
  So we'll do it your way. You stay away from the designated area. You make certain those
  roadblocks stay in place and you keep civilians away. I don't have time to argue. This isn't a
  request. It's an order that comes from as high as it gets. Try playing hero and we might end up
  with a second Bucklow. I take it you heard what happened there?"
  "We heard. You think we don't have communications down here? Mister, this is Texas we're
  talking about, not the ass end of Hicksville."
  "Then understand me, Douglas. Do what you've been told. I don't care if it upsets you, or makes
  you look useless. I'm trying to prevent a catastrophe and personal feelings do not bother me in
  the slightest."
  "Mister, you are starting to piss me off."
  "Douglas, is this number where you can be reached anytime?"
  "Damn right it is."
  "Stay by the phone. In about five minutes you could very well be getting a call from someone
  who will convince you and your people to stay put."
  "The hell you say. The only man who could make me do that is the President of the United
  States."
  "Douglas, I take some of my comments back."
  "Huh?"
  "Just don't make him mad, because he's not having too good a day."
  Brognola broke the connection and punched in his White House direct number. He was smiling
  when he heard the President's voice on the other end of the line.
  In the Computer Room there was an air of expectancy as Kurtzman's SARS satellite came
  online. As soon as Kurtzman had control, he set the tracking coordinates and directed the
  satellite's electronic eye to scan the area of Texas where Coyote Field was located.
  He had done some preliminary work and the field was used infrequentiy now, mainly by a few
  locals. The facilities had never been kept up to date and Coyote Field had lagged behind other,
  more sophisticated establishments. There was a rundown control tower and a couple of
  dilapidated hangars.
  Kurtzman saw these now as the SARS focused in on the derelict field. He brought the image up
  close and scanned the perimeter of the dusty, overgrown area, setting his computer to make a
  record of everything he was picking up.
  The first item of significance was the main hangar, its doors open wide. Shadow prevented
  Kurtzman from making a detailed identification, but he did make out the rear end of a
  semi-trailer.
  Coyote Field, it appeared, wasn't as deserted as might have been expected.
  Kurtzman made contact with Dragon Slayer to pass on the news.
  Aboard: Dragon Slayer
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  "How do you want to do this?" Grimaldi asked.
  He had the combat chopper on hold, some distance from Coyote Field, the engines on silent
  mode to reduce the chance of detection.
  Lyons glanced up from viewing the monitor screen. Stony Man had patched through the SARS
  images for Able Team to absorb, giving them time to make their decision.
  "I say we go in fast. You drop us, then ease off and use your weapons to back us if we need
  them."
  Grimaldi nodded. "You got it."
  "You okay for this?" Blancanales asked Schwarz.
  Schwarz raised his eyebrows. They were about the only part of his face that didn't ache.
  "I take that as a yes? Or are you impersonating Roger Moore again?"
  They were in blacksuits, armed and ready to go. Able Team and Grimaldi were all aware of the
  importance of getting control of the second MOAB. The Bucklow atrocity was still on their
  minds. The images they had seen would be with them for some time to come and the taped
  message broadcast from Khariza still lingered in their thoughts.
  Khariza and his fedayeen were intent on causing as much damage and suffering as they could
  within mainland U.S. Because of the information that had come from Rasheed's organizer, the
  local and federal agencies had been able to take out a number of the strike teams situated around
  the country. There were others still to be handled, and everyone involved was aware that
  Khariza might still have other cells, not listed by Rasheed, who would now be staying out of
  sight. Those cells, possibly now denied supplies of weapons, wouldn't go quietly. Their
  intentions would still be as they had been. To make strikes against vulnerable American targets.
  To create as much unrest as they could.
  They might not find their way as free and clear as they had anticipated. Now that Khariza's plans
  had been identified, the American agencies and the American people would be ready to fight
  back. And fight back they would. Putting the U.S.A.'s back to the wall would make a difference.
  A big difference.
  "Coming about," Grimaldi said.
  Lyons tapped him on the shoulder. "Put the pedal to the metal, Jack. Time to rock and roll."
  Dragon Slayer dropped from the sky like a huge, sleek, black bird. Under Grimaldi's sure touch,
  the chopper streaked in across Coyote Field's weedstrewed strip, then swept broadside on as
  she hugged the ground, coming to a controlled hover a few feet above the concrete apron. The
  side hatch hissed open and Able Team went EVA, hitting the ground running, fanning out with
  their weapons online.
  The second the last man exited the chopper Grimaldi hit the power and took the black aircraft
  into a rapid climb, bringing her nose around to cover the hangars and control tower.
  "On your left," Lyons snapped into his mike.
  "Got him," Blancanales replied.
  An armed figure had emerged from the control tower door. Lean, dark and wielding a 9mm
  Uzi, the man opened fire as he spotted the black-clad Blancanales. His rapid burst was well
  short, chipping the concrete.
  Blancanales, equipped with an M-16, pulled it to his shoulder, aimed and triggered a quick burst
  at his target. They punched him in the center chest, knocking the guy off his feet. He hit the wall
  behind him and fell facedown, his Uzi clattering across the concrete.
  Somebody began to shout in Arabic and there was a flurry of movement from the second
  hangar. Armed men opened fire on Able Team. The Stony Man trio had already spaced
  themselves well apart. They returned fire from three positions. Schwarz had an M-203 grenade
  launcher attached to his M-16. He had loaded it with a smoke canister which he fired in through
  the hangar door. It landed with a soft thump, coils of thick smoke starting to issue from the
  canister when it detonated.
  Lyons had cut off to one side, coming in at the hangar from a sharp angle, firing his SPAS
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  shotgun as he neared the hangar opening. He caught one armed figure as the guy leaned out,
  coughing from smoke inhalation. The powerful charge took him in the left side of his torso,
  close to his shoulder, tearing out bloody flesh. The man went down on his knees, screaming
  wildly, clutching at his left arm as it hung by bloody tatters of flesh.
  Gunfire erupted from both hangars, clipping the concrete around Able Team as they moved in
  with relentless determination, laying down steady and accurate return fire. Their shots pushed
  the hangar defenders back from the openings, deeper inside the structures where their ability to
  respond was reduced.
  One man tried to clear the main door of the hangar holding the semi-trailer, exposing himself so
  he could take aim. He was targeting Lyons, briefly ignoring the other Able commandos. It was a
  fatal, final mistake. Schwarz, his M-16 snug against his shoulder, tracked the guy and fired. The
  M-16 jacked out two close shots. They hit the would-be shooter over the heart. He took a
  faltering step back, then sank into a sitting position on the hangar floor, remaining upright for a
  few seconds before folding over at the waist.
  Blancanales hit the outside wall of the hangar, flattening against the metal. He edged along the
  wall until he reached the open doorway. From his position he could see the semi-trailer's rear.
  He could also hear movement from the shadowed interior—the scrape of footsteps. He held his
  position for a few seconds.
  "Going in," he said into his throat mike.
  Without further delay Blancanales ducked low and went inside, moving instantly to his left, eyes
  searching the comparative gloom of the hangar. He could still hear movement deeper inside the
  structure. Blancanales dropped to a crouch and closed in on the semi-trailer's rear. He lowered
  his head and flattened out, sliding in beneath the vehicle, checking out the back section of the
  hangar.
  He saw legs and feet. Counted three people.
  Blancanales took the farthest target first. He brought his M-16 into target acquisition and
  triggered fast shots that ripped through the hardman's lower limbs, dropping the guy to the
  floor. As the screaming gunner's weapon clattered to the floor, Blancanales hit him with a single
  shot to the head, laying the guy out flat. Swiveling, Blancanales tracked a second guy as the man
  began to move. He caught his target on the run, putting 5.56mm slugs in through his ankles,
  splintering bones and removing the man's ability to remain upright. As the man collapsed on his
  knees, the Able Team commando put three shots into his lower torso, one of the slugs blowing
  out the far side of the man's body. He fell sideways, his skull cracking against the concrete as he
  sprawled on the floor.
  The third man took off for the rear of the hangar, his footsteps hard against the concrete.
  Blancanales rolled out from beneath the semi-trailer and pushed to his feet, scanning the interior,
  and spotted the guy heading for the far end of the building and a possible exit.
  The rear section of the hangar held a lot of equipment that had been pushed there to keep it out
  of the way. Blancanales's quarry missed his way and found himself blocked off from the
  building's far wall. He paused, looking for a way through, then realized he was losing ground.
  He turned, brought up the SMG he carried and laid a burst in the direction of the man following
  him.
  Blancanales heard the slugs hit the concrete, lifting thin flakes from the surface.
  "Give it up," Blancanales yelled.
  "No." The man raised his weapon.
  Blancanales hit him with a short burst from the M-16, knocking him back into the metal barrier.
  The guy bounced off and fell facedown, his blood spattering the oily floor.
  There was a rattle of sound behind Blancanales. He spun and spotted a moving figure in the cab
  of the semitrailer. The man was pulling an assault rifle into position, freeing the driver's door at
  the same time. The Able Team commando raised the M-16 and jacked off another burst that
  blew out the windshield and went on to punch into the gunner's chest and throat. The man
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  jerked in agony, falling back against the seat, the rifle slipping from his dead fingers.
  Blancanales scanned the hangar. There was no more sound or movement. He headed back
  toward the semitrailer. Reaching the rear, he yanked the locking lever and released the doors,
  swinging them wide open. As light flooded the interior, Blancanales saw the orange-yellow,
  thirty-foot outline of the MOAB, resting on a metal trestle.
  "Bomb located," he said into his mike.
  Schwarz heard Blancanales's words as he returned gunfire coming from the hangar into which he
  had lobbed the smoke grenade. The thick smoke was still rolling out the door. No one else had
  come out of the hangar, which concerned Schwarz to a degree. He was sure there were more of
  the opposition in there but their no-show had him puzzled.
  "Hey, Pol, is there a back door in these hangars?"
  "Yeah."
  "Great," Schwarz said.
  "You want backup?"
  "I'll handle it. You keep your eye on that bomb."
  "Watch yourself."
  "And you."
  Schwarz moved to the wide doorway and peered inside. The thick, curling smoke obscured his
  vision. He saw that the density was less on the far side of the hangar, so he slipped inside and
  angled across.
  The building contained two panel trucks and a dusty Ford 4x4.
  As Schwarz emerged from the smoke, he saw two armed figures making for the parked vehicles.
  One man wrenched open the driver's door of the Ford while the other turned, attracted by
  Schwarz's footsteps.
  Schwarz raised his M-16. "It's not going to happen," he said. "Put the guns down and get on the
  floor. Do it now so I don't have to shoot you."
  "Why should I listen to you?" the closer man asked.
  "We have the bomb now. You don't get to use it."
  The two men exchanged glances. "No. You are lying. As all you Americans lie."
  "Just don't start with old propaganda speeches. I'm not in the mood. Put down the guns."
  The man who had been opening the Ford's door became agitated. He began to yell at Schwarz
  in Arabic, punching the air with his fist. He stepped away from the 4x4, still shouting.
  "I told you…" The guy suddenly brought his SMG up from where it hung by his side.
  "Damn you," Schwarz breathed and fired, laying a pair of slugs into the man's chest. The impact
  kicked the guy backward, bouncing him off the side of the 4x4. He slithered to his knees, then
  toppled back, ending up halfsitting against the front wheel.
  The moment he pulled the trigger Schwarz moved the muzzle of the M-16 to cover the second
  guy. He had turned to look at his fallen partner, then swiveled at the hips, his own weapon
  angling up in Schwarz's direction. The trigger went back and the SMG stuttered loudly, shell
  casings jumping from the eject port to bounce as they hit the concrete floor.
  Schwarz felt something burn across his left hip, the force of the impact pulling him off balance.
  Even so, he held the M-16 on target and returned fire, and saw his shots punch the other guy in
  the high shoulder. Dark flecks blew out from the guy's shirt. Schwarz hauled himself upright and
  gripped the rifle, taking a second to hold his aim before he fired again, jacking two, three shots
  at the target. This time his aim was on line and the 5.56mm slugs thumped home with deadly
  effect. One shot shredded the side of the man's throat, blood starting to pump out almost
  instantly. The guy fell against the Ford, hands splayed out across the front fender. Blood jetted
  across his hands, streaking the paintwork of the 4x4 as the guy lost his balance and hit the
  concrete.
  Schwarz clamped a hand over his aching hip. He could feel blood leaking out of the rip in his
  blacksuit, wetting his fingers.
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  "Damned if this isn't my week," he muttered to himself. "Hey, Jack, you picking me up?"
  "I'm here."
  "Could do with a bandage."
  "You got it, pal."
  Carl Lyons kicked in the door to the control tower. He went up the worn wooden stairs two at a
  time, the SPAS shotgun tracking ahead of him. As he neared the top he picked up excited voices
  and the scrape of footsteps on the floor above him.
  His blood was up.
  Lyons was as angry as he could be. Over the past few days the intrigue and the twisted plans of
  Razan Khariza had pushed the Ironman to the edge. He had seen enough death and destruction
  caused by the fedayeen crew to last him a lifetime. Bad enough what they were doing in their
  own region of the world, but they had brought it to America, to his country, importing their
  fanatic hatred, their stolen money to buy off whoever they wanted, and the sheer baseness of
  their brutality.
  Bucklow, Texas. A small community where the population most likely carried little, or no,
  hostility toward Iraq. Where families only wanted the same as any family the world over. To live
  safe. To get on with their daily lives. And to watch their babies and children grow and play and
  laugh in the Texas sun. That right. That simple, God-given right, at the heart of every family in
  America, had been wrenched from their grasp in those terrible moments when the bomb had
  detonated at the Bucklow picnic ground. The hungry, grasping, life-devouring fire had denied
  them their birthright.
  Carl Lyons's eyes mirrored those dying moments as he reached the head of the stairs and turned
  to face the trio of fedayeen loyalists, the barrel of the shotgun already on line. His face was
  hardened by his thoughts, lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl of utter contempt for the
  men who were willing and ready to bring down the same fate on yet another American
  community.
  The sound of a single pistol shot was drowned by the hard boom of the 12-gauge. Flame and
  smoke gushed from the muzzle as Lyons tripped the trigger and used the remaining shots in the
  magazine.
  He fired and traversed and fired again, his bursts blurring almost into a single rip of sound. His
  targets, their own attempts at defending themselves snatched from their hands by the relentless
  onslaught, were blown across the control room in a welter of blood, pulped flesh, splintered
  bone and shredded clothing. Blood spattered the control tower windows, splashed the control
  board.
  When the SPAS locked on an empty chamber, Lyons stood stock-still, silently observing his kill
  zone. He heard one of the hit men groaning, moving slightly where he had slumped across the
  control board. He was bloody and in shock, one hand flapping ineffectually.
  Lyons moved closer, easing his Python from its holster. He put a single shot through the
  wounded man's bead, then he turned and did the same with the other two downed terrorists.
  The radio crackled into life and a voice began to speak in Arabic. Lyons crossed to the control
  desk and leaned over it. He picked up the hand mike and pressed the transmit button.
  "Who the hell is this?" There was a pause, then a voice spoke in accented English.
  "Am I speaking to Coyote Field?"
  "Damn right, you prick, and I'm guessing you were expecting your fedayeen brothers. Am I
  right?"
  "Who are you?"
  "I'm the American son of a bitch who just blew your buddies all to hell."
  Lyons picked up the approach of a heavy aircraft. He peered out the control tower window as
  the sound grew louder.
  "Permission to land denied. You won't be picking up your bomb load, sucker. Not today. Not
  ever. You came to my country and tried your shit. Well, not this time. You want pain? You want
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  suffering? You can have it."
  Lyons cut the connection and spoke into his throat mike.
  "You get that, Jack?"
  "Affirmative."
  "Can you get a lock on that bastard?"
  "Already have. He's starting to turn away. Looks like you scared him off."
  "Take him out, Jack. That fucker doesn't go home."
  Dragon Slayer slid into view, then accelerated as Grimaldi boosted the power. The combat
  chopper climbed rapidly, tailing the dark bulk of the aircraft that had been making its approach
  to Coyote Field.
  The radio crackled again and the accented voice came through the speaker.
  "American? American, are you there?"
  "Want to beg now?"
  "I want to negotiate. We are unarmed."
  "Negotiate? Like you let all those people in Bucklow negotiate?"
  "That was an act of war. And as this is war, we must be treated as prisoners. You will accept our
  surrender. We will land and you must take us prisoner and recognize our rights."
  "Jack, you get that?"
  "I heard."
  "What do you say, Jack?"
  "I say I got these suckers in my sights."
  "Finger on the button?"
  "Just so."
  "Hit it."
  The heat-seeker missile shot from the weapon pod under Dragon Slayer's stub wing and it
  lanced across the sky, curving slightly as it picked up the source from its target.
  The explosion was hard, flame and smoke blossoming as the aircraft's disintegration was aided
  by its own fuel tanks blowing. Debris was scattered in a wide arc, dropping to the empty ground
  below, followed by the broken, blazing carcass of the plane itself. A secondary explosion
  followed the impact. Dark smoke billowed into the sky, the rumble of the detonation rising,
  then rapidly fading back to silence.
  "Welcome to America," Lyons said. "Fuck with us we fuck you."
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  Negev Desert, Israel
  Calvin James cleared the low, crumbling stone wall and dropped to a crouch, eyes scanning the
  immediate area. The first thing he saw was the large camouflage net extending out from the
  roofs of the low buildings, across the area where they had been secured on posts driven into the
  ground. The sandy enclosure concealed by the net held the accoutrements of a small group, kept
  neat and stored so that the camp could be quickly evacuated.
  He didn't have time for much more thorough scan. On the far side of the enclosure an armed
  guard turned, alerted even though James had made barely a sound. His hands swung the AK
  from his shoulder, eyes seeking the intruder.
  The Stony Man commando was already ahead, his H&K on line the moment he had touched
  down from his jump over the wall.
  James eased back on the trigger, firing a short burst that hit the guy in the chest, tumbling him
  back and off his feet. The guy landed hard, starting to gag as blood bubbled up his throat from a
  punctured lung.
  There was movement from inside the building, more from around the far side where Hawkins
  had made his entrance, and the camouflaged enclosure erupted with the sounds of autofire.
  For Ben Sharon the next few minutes became the most important of his life as he battled to stay
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  alive while defeating the invaders of his country.
  He had, like the others, breached the enclosure and found himself confronted by a startled man
  carrying an ammunition box. As they held each other's gaze for a heartbeat, it was Sharon who
  broke the frozen moment. He was almost touching the other, so he swung his MP-5, slamming it
  hard across the terrorist's head. The brutal blow spilt the guy's skin, blood welling up instantly
  and streaking his face. As the hardman stumbled back, dropping the ammo box and grabbing
  for the pistol on his hip, Sharon stepped in close. He drove one knee up into his adversary's
  testicles, drawing a shrill cry, then delivered another kick with the hard sole of his boot into the
  guy's left knee. Sharon didn't hold back and he heard the crunch of shattered bone as the leg
  gave and guy fell, his leg unable to support his weight. Briefly in the clear, Sharon stepped back,
  brought his H&K around and fired a burst that punched into his opponent's heart.
  Moving on, Sharon caught a glimpse of someone ahead of him, emerging from an opening
  door. The Israeli caught the gleam of a rifle barrel as it swung in his direction. He dropped to
  the ground, hearing the crackle of autofire and the vicious snap of the slugs hitting the wall
  behind him. Gritty dust showered his back. Sharon rolled, twisting, and pulled his H&K from
  under his body. He saw the shooter turning to find him, then he was triggering the H&K,
  angling the muzzle up in the direction of the moving figure. The spray of shots climbed from the
  target's waist up to his chest. From his almost-prone position Sharon fired again, his second
  burst coring in under the guy's jaw, through his head, lodging just beneath his skull.
  Sharon was on his feet before the man hit the ground, heading directly for the door the guy had
  exited by. He ducked below the low top of the door and was confronted by a guy pushing up
  off a canvas seat in front of a communication system. The man was reaching for the assault rifle
  leaning against the com set table. Bringing the H&K on track, Sharon hit the guy with a burst
  that pushed him across the room and slammed him against the wall. The stricken man slid down
  the wall and lay curled up at its base.
  The sound of autofire was heavy in the air as T. J. Hawkins came face-to-face with his first
  adversary. The guy was big, stripped to the waist, his torso muscled and toned. He lunged at
  Hawkins as the Phoenix Force warrior stepped around the edge of a crumbled wall. Hawkins
  swung his H&K into play, but the terrorist was too close. The guy's big hands snatched at the
  SMG, using it to swing Hawkins off balance. He let go with one hand and used it to back-fist the
  American across the side of the head. The blow dazed him and sent him reeling. The other guy
  moved in fast, his free hand swinging and clouting Hawkins across the face.
  Hawkins tasted blood as he dropped to the ground, still holding his SMG. The other guy clung
  to the other end of the weapon, refusing to give Hawkins any advantage. It meant he had to
  bend over to maintain his grip, and Hawkins launched a full leg kick, connecting with the guy's
  face. The terrorist grunted from the solid kick, his grip on Hawkins's H&K slackening, giving
  the American the slight advantage he needed. Hawkins yanked the H&K from the big man's
  grasp, rolled until he was clear, then came up on one knee. The muzzle of the MP-5 targeted on
  the other guy, then spit out 9mm slugs that cored in through the target's chest and destroyed his
  heart and lungs. The guy went down without a sound.
  Hawkins pushed upright, moving forward. As he rounded the corner of a wall, he saw James
  ahead of him, there was a body on the ground close by the black Phoenix commando.
  Movement caught Hawkins's eye and he spotted two armed figures emerging from a doorway
  behind James.
  "Cal, behind you," Hawkins yelled, and ran forward, his H&K tracking the pair.
  James dropped to a crouch, twisting to face the newcomers.
  Hawkins targeted the hardman closer to his teammate, firing instantly, his shots punching in
  through the guy's side. Bloody slugs burst from the guy's body as he collapsed to the ground.
  James and the second terrorist fired together, their shots merging.
  Hawkins saw James jerk to one side, pain etched across his face. The guy the black commando
  had fired on stumbled, then went facedown in the sand, body jerking in response to the sudden
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  pain.
  Hawkins ran across to where James had sunk to his knees, hand pressed to his hip.
  "Cal? You hit?"
  James shook his head. "Thought I was."
  He moved his hand and Hawkins saw the shattered handle of the sheathed knife on James's belt.
  A bullet had struck it a glancing blow, driving the knife against James's hip.
  "You are one lucky dude."
  "Yeah. And only a bruise to show for it."
  Hawkins turned, checking their surroundings. It had been the sudden silence that had unnerved
  him. He remained alert until Ben Sharon stepped into view.
  "I think we're clear," he said, glancing at James. "You okay?"
  "A bruise is all," James said. He unsheathed his knife and held it up. "Close, but no cigar."
  "Come and look at what they had in here," Sharon said. He led them into the airless room and
  the communication system.
  "Small generator on the outside wall for juicing up the battery pack, and a radio for vocal
  communications. The laptop here is connected to a satellite uplink."
  Sharon led them around the edge of the wall and indicated the dish antenna mounted on an
  extendable aluminum pole that could be raised up through the open roof and through the
  camouflage net.
  "Gives them plenty of range and access to satellite scanning," James said. "They can talk to
  anyone they want from here and use digital scanning to pinpoint ground images."
  Back in the communication room James bent over the laptop. There was an image on the screen
  that looked like a satellite terrain scan. He used the keyboard to access data input and was
  confronted by text in Arabic.
  "Anybody?" he asked.
  Neither Sharon nor Hawkins could help.
  James perched himself on the canvas seat and began to access the computer system. He worked
  silently for a few minutes until he found the e-mail facility and established contact with Stony
  Man.
  "Can he do that?" Sharon asked.
  Hawkins nodded.
  Once he had the e-mail link established, James was able to send a message to Stony Man. He
  worked quickly, explaining what they had found and advising that he was going to transmit the
  data. He informed Stony Man that the documents would need to be translated, and that the team
  might have to move on. Any intel would have to be sent to Sharon's Mossad contact in Tel Aviv.
  James sent the message. He waited until he received confirmation it had been received, then
  deleted all the current information.
  "Ben, why don't you call Davi in with the chopper?"
  Sharon nodded and moved outside to use his Tac-Com unit.
  James and Hawkins searched the communication room. Apart from the radio and laptop, there
  was nothing else of value. The occupants had committed nothing to paper. Everything they had
  was on the laptop. James noted that it was a high-end Japanese machine. The radio equipment
  had been manufactured in the same country.
  "Somebody is probably making big bucks selling this equipment," he said.
  "Always a market for this kind of stuff, Cal. Same as the arms dealing. If you have the money,
  you've got all you need."
  Sharon reappeared. He had a bundle in his arms and threw it on the ground.
  "Our dead guys are a mix. Iraqi, possibly Algerian. No Palestinians. But look at this. All
  Palestinian-made clothing. The bastards even left the labels inside."
  "Little crude, isn't it?" Hawkins said. "Doesn't exactly scream genuine, does it?"
  "The climate in the region is fragile at best," Sharon said. "If these were waved in front of TV
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  cameras, people wouldn't ask why were they left behind. It would be enough to set off a few
  hotheads. Maybe a few hundred hotheads. By the time they reached the streets and spread the
  news, there would have been bodies found wearing those same clothes."
  "Brushfire tactics," James said. "Start a small fire and before you know it you have an inferno.
  And by then it's too late to put out."
  "Maybe we can use this stuff to turn things around," James said. "Get your TV people to show
  what we found here. Show the communication setup, identify the bodies, convince the Israeli and
  Palestinian public this is a ploy by someone trying to mix things between you both."
  "We don't have anything to lose," Sharon said. "Davi should be here in a few minutes. I got him
  to contact the military. They're going to send in an armed unit to take over this place and deal
  with anyone who might turn up."
  "What about the thought that maybe these guys were here to guide someone in? Namely
  something in the air," Hawkins said.
  "There will be air cover over this region within the hour. Radar scanning, as well. Anyone who
  flies into this area will be tracked and challenged."
  "They might still try," Hawkins said.
  The sound of Davi's chopper reached their ears.
  "I hope they do," Sharon said.
  They waited until the helicopter had touched down. They would have to wait at the oasis until
  the military squad showed up.
  "Come on, and I'll let you taste that water," Sharon said.
  "I'm bringing along this laptop," James said, uncoupling the computer. He tucked it under his
  arm. "We might be able to pull more data from it."
  Hawkins turned to follow Sharon. James trailed after them, his bruised hip starting to ache now.
  He took his time, but not just because of his hip. He had things on his mind, such as the fact that
  Khariza was willing to launch an attack on a nuclear plant, despite the possible aftereffects across
  the region. If radioactivity was released, it could drift across the border into Egypt, across into
  Jordan or Saudi Arabia.
  James began to wonder if Razan Khariza was more than just irresponsible. He was thinking
  along the lines of maybe a little crazy.
  There was another, heavier worry he was carrying—how was the other half of Phoenix Force
  faring in Hong Kong?
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  Over Korea Bay, Yellow Sea
  McCarter leaned toward the window, peering out as the plane began to bank. They were over
  the Yellow Sea and gray light was starting to show in the early-morning sky. As the plane started
  to descend, he was able to see the ragged coastline of North Korea. Out in the bay were
  scattered islands, and McCarter realized they weren't aiming for the main landmass. Instead the
  plane had leveled out, coming down faster now. They were going to land on one of the islands.
  Slumping back in the rigid seat, McCarter caught Encizo's eye. The Cuban leaned forward.
  "This could be interesting," he said.
  "That's one way of putting it."
  Manning, sitting beside Encizo, opened his eyes. For the past hour he had been sleeping, or at
  least feigning sleep.
  "You wanted to find out where they were getting their weapons. Looks like your wish will come
  true, Dorothy."
  One of the armed Chinese stood and approached the Phoenix Force trio. He thrust his assault
  rifle in their direction, snapping harshly at them.
  McCarter's slim knowledge of Cantonese got him the gist of the words. He didn't let on he
  understood. Playing dumb where the language was concerned could help at some stage, though
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  not right now. McCarter simply shrugged, holding up his cuffed hands.
  "What's got up your nose? What the hell am I going to do? Take over the plane?"
  "They do not trust you. Even though you are secured."
  McCarter glanced up and saw Kim Yeo standing to one side.
  "You lot aren't as dumb as you look," the Briton said.
  "You continue to bait me," Yeo said. "Be careful. I may rise to your taunts and decide to kill you
  now."
  McCarter refused to back down, staring directly at Yeo until the Chinese looked away. He spoke
  to the guard who returned to his seat.
  "Enjoy the rest of the flight. We will be landing in a few minutes."
  "Hell, David, are you trying to get yourself shot?" Encizo asked.
  "He hasn't brought us all this way to kill us now."
  "You're one-hundred-percent sure of that?"
  "No."
  "I didn't think so."
  They felt the bump as the plane touched down, then sped along an uneven runway. The brakes
  were applied and the aircraft began to slow. Glancing out his side window again, McCarter saw
  they were running parallel with the sea. The wing of the plane extended out over the edge of the
  island. Even though McCarter was able to see the choppy water of the bay, he could barely make
  out the North Korean coastline. The plane slowed, rocking slightly as wind buffeted it, then
  came to a full stop. The engines were cut and as the noise faded, the sound of the wind could be
  heard.
  "No sunblock needed here," Manning said.
  "You will come now," Yeo ordered. "Remember you are now on North Korean soil. They really
  do not like Westerners. I suggest you contain yourselves. Unlike we Chinese, these Koreans have
  little sense of humor."
  "Would you if you lived here?" Manning asked.
  Yeo only smiled briefly.
  Standing beside the plane Phoenix Force and Henry Lee looked around. The outlook was bleak.
  The island, larger than they had realized, had little to recommend it. Rocky and flat, with barely
  any form of vegetation, it was open to the extremes of weather. The wind they had felt rocking
  the plane was stronger in the open. It buffeted them, tugging at their clothing and chafing their
  exposed skin. There were frequent sprays of sea water, picked up by the wind as it swept across
  the island. The spray was chilled.
  Yeo called out orders to his men and they ushered their captives across the open landing area.
  Some three hundred yards away were rows of long, low buildings. As they got closer, they were
  able to see that the buildings were large, with wide, roll-up doors. A number of open trucks
  were parked outside one of the buildings and a lesser number of Jeep-type vehicles.
  McCarter glanced across at Manning and Encizo, who nodded slightly. The Briton turned to
  look in Lee's direction. The Chinese gave him a similar response.
  Yeo directed them toward one of the buildings. One of the Chinese ran ahead and pushed open
  a small door set to one side of the main one. They all trooped inside and the door was closed
  behind them.
  The interior of the building was lit from banks of fluorescent lights suspended from the roof
  beams. They threw cold illumination onto the floor of the building.
  Down the left side of the structure a line of rooms, built from wood panels and glass partitions,
  ran half the length of the building.
  The main floor area was given over to storage. Here were lines of wooden packing cases of
  various shapes and sizes. A number of men in plain coveralls were busy with open packing cases,
  filling them from pallets being moved around on forklift.
  "It's all very impressive, don't you think?" Yeo asked. "The first time I saw it I realized how
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  efficient these North Koreans are."
  "Not so efficient at feeding their own people, are they?" Manning said. "Too busy building
  missiles and statues to the Great Leader."
  "You could put that to our host," Yeo suggested. "His reaction would be interesting to see."
  He turned, indicating a slim figure dressed in a simple black tunic and pants. There was
  something in his manner, his thin face with its high, prominent cheekbones, that warned them he
  was a man of distinctly hostile moods. He moved quickly, hands at his sides, the hard-soled
  shoes he wore making sharp rapping sounds on the hard floor.
  A silent pair of black-clad men followed him closely. The carried auto pistols in holsters on their
  belts.
  Kim Yeo turned to face the man, inclining his head as a form of greeting. The other made no
  response. Instead he stopped to inspect the four captives.
  Sun Yang Ho, the North Korean weapons negotiator, the man who was offering Razan Khariza
  his deal.
  "Why have you brought these people here?" Ho asked in English, it being the common language
  between himself and Yeo, because neither could speak the other's native tongue.
  "I am on my way to a rendezvous with Khariza after we complete our business. He will want to
  see them. And I thought it would interest them to see how efficiently your operation is run. After
  all, they have been interfering in Khariza's operation for some time. Now they can see how futile
  their efforts have been."
  "Keep them out of my way, Yeo. They are American garbage. We have matters to discuss. There
  is no time to be wasted on these animals." He was about to turn away when he saw Lee. "Why is
  he with them?"
  "Their contact man. He belongs to one of those irritating freedom groups working against the
  government."
  "Then you should have killed him immediately. Not wasted valuable time bringing him along.
  Yeo, have you not learned anything? Alive, your enemies are dangerous. Dead they can do no
  harm."
  Yeo considered the Korean's words. As he fell in beside Ho, he spoke quickly to one of his men.
  The Chinese turned around and raised his assault rifle.
  Encizo, watching the Chinese, realized what was going to happen. The Cuban pushed by
  Manning, already forming a shouted warning, but he was too late.
  The assault rifle punched out a harsh volley of shots that hit Henry Lee in the torso, knocking
  him back. Lee stumbled and fell to his knees, his face showing an expression of stunned horror.
  He started to fall over, pushing out his bound hands to stop himself. The Chinese triggered
  more shots and they burst through Lee's upraised hands, taking off fingers, before they struck
  him in the face. Lee hit the floor, his body shuddering.
  "You piece of…" Encizo yelled.
  He would have gone for Yeo if one of the Chinese guards hadn't stepped in front of him. He
  raised his rifle and slammed the butt across the side of Encizo's head. The solid blow dropped
  the Cuban to his knees, head down.
  "You see how they react," Ho said. "Too much emotion. They act before they understand the
  situation. And ultimately they suffer for it."
  Ho led Yeo across the building, pushing open the door to one of the rooms. He indicated for
  Yeo to sit across from him at the table dominating the room. There were computer terminals
  and telephones on the table. Ho used one of the keyboards and brought data on to the screen of
  the monitor in front of him.
  "Khariza's deposits have been transferred to our account," the Korean said. "Shipments are
  already under way. Further shipments will now follow."
  Ho tapped more keys, and on a side table on the other side of the room a printer began to push
  out a continuous sheet. The Korean pushed to his feet and collected the printout, folded it and
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  handed it to Yeo.
  "Please deliver this to the colonel when you see him. It is a list of the ordnance in the first
  shipment."
  Yeo took the printout. He placed it on the table, gently tapping it with the fingers of his right
  hand.
  "Am I detecting some impatience, Kim Yeo?"
  "Much of Khariza's strategy revolves around the availability of the nuclear devices. He will be
  asking about them when I meet him."
  The Korean nodded. He leaned forward and worked at his keyboard. Finally he raised his head.
  "Purchase of the warheads from our Russian contact took time. Following the actual delivery,
  my technicians had to convert them from the original configuration to something capable of
  being carried easily. And there was the matter of the trigger devices." Ho stood and crossed the
  room. A coffeemaker stood on a wheeled trolley. Ho poured two cups and returned to the
  table, placing one in front of Yeo.
  "Understand this, Yeo. I am not offering excuses. It is not in my nature. I am merely explaining
  the longevity of this operation. It is not as simple as making this coffee."
  "I was not suggesting any deliberate lateness. It is more a need to placate Razan Khariza. Now
  that he has his operation under way, he is becoming increasingly anxious to carry it through."
  "Which I understand. Military strategy requires forward momentum. Too many delays and the
  advantage can be lost. You can inform the colonel that his nuclear devices are now complete and
  are being loaded as we speak. They will leave within the next half hour. Delivering nuclear
  devices is not the same as sending out crates of rifles. Assure the colonel that we are taking every
  precaution possible. He will get his bombs. He needs to remain patient a little longer."
  Yeo nodded. "I will pass along your message. And thank you, Ho, for being so direct. I
  understand the reasons for your caution."
  Ho sipped his coffee. He placed his cup carefully on the table, nudging it with the tips of his
  fingers.
  "Tell me something, Kim Yeo, and this conversation will not go further than this room. What
  are your feelings about Colonel Khariza? Do you truly believe he is capable of carrying out his
  plans for Iraq?"
  Yeo smiled. "I have had the same thoughts myself. When Khariza first contacted me, it took me
  a little time before I accepted he could do it. I believe he can. He has people placed within the
  U.S. Weapons and funds are available to them. Many of his people have been in America for a
  number of years. After the first Gulf War, Hussein ordered Khariza to infiltrate America with
  loyalists prepared to sit by and wait for the day the call came. They were told it could be years
  but nothing had to be done until then because it was to be an all-out campaign. Since the Iraq
  war, those infiltrators have been put on alert. Many others have been smuggled into America
  from many places. Islamic believers have volunteered, willing to sacrifice themselves. And
  Khariza's people have recruited Americans themselves, people willing to work for the vast
  amounts of money being offered."
  "Greed can close the eyes to anything," Ho said. "We have had a number of our own people
  selling out for money and a new life. Some have succeeded, others we have caught and dealt
  with."
  "It was a cell of Khariza's people who organized the theft of the two MOAB bombs from the
  American airbase in Florida," Yeo informed him. "They worked on that for almost six months.
  They used computers to access personnel files, seeking out likely individuals they might recruit.
  In the end they found two people with Muslim backgrounds and went to work on them."
  "Blackmail?"
  "Extremely direct. They kidnapped a member from each family and made them vanish. Then
  they contacted each man and sent them tapes showing them their family members being
  tortured. The threat was simple and explicit. If the men did not cooperate, further members of
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  their families would be taken and subjected to the same situation. Both men and their families
  were to carry on as normal. They were being watched and to prove it they were sent
  photographs of themselves going about their everyday existence. There was no discussion. No
  negotiation. To make the two men realize they were not making empty threats, they were each
  sent a package. The packages contained a severed hand from the kidnap victims. Not very
  sophisticated. Or even original, but it emphasized the severity of the threat. And of course if
  there were any approaches to the authorities in any way, the packages would start to arrive
  regularly."
  "And they got their bombs," Ho confirmed.
  "Indeed. One was detonated as Khariza had planned. On April 9."
  Ho managed a smile. "A clever touch. A date significant to both Iraq and the town of Bucklow.
  What about the second bomb?"
  "I believe it should have already been detonated. I sensed a little reluctance on Khariza's part to
  discuss it when I last spoke to him. He was disappointed that a number of his weapon caches
  within the U.S. had been discovered by the local and federal authorities. Not all, by any means,
  and there have been a significant number of attacks on the American mainland."
  "He seems to be having better results from his decoy attacks around the Middle East region.
  And within Iraq itself."
  "An easier option," Yeo said. "The Middle East is an area already restless. States are eyeing their
  neighbors with suspicion, fearful who will be next. And Khariza's loyalists are there to keep the
  fires stoked. An attack here, another there. Implicate the neighbor over the border and let the
  fires burn. If Khariza can keep things going, he could have the whole region in uproar."
  "His plan to use the nuclear devices? Has he given you any details on this?"
  Yeo shook his head. "That one he is keeping silent about. No matter how many times I have
  asked him Khariza is not talking."
  "No matter. As long as he was willing to pay for those three bombs, I am happy to sit back and
  wait."
  "My commission for arranging the deal will satisfy my curiosity."
  Ho finished his coffee. "Let us have another cup, then we will go and look at what Khariza's
  money has bought him."
  War Room, Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  "I still keep seeing the look on Aaron's face when you stood up to him," Barbara Price said. "It
  was worth the wait."
  Erika Dukas, seated across the table from Price, shuffled her papers. They were the first to
  arrive in the War Room following Brognola's call.
  "To be honest, I was ready to run at first. Then I figured, why not go for it? What could happen?
  He wasn't really going to eat me." She caught Price's eye. "Was he?"
  Price grinned. "No. And you proved your point. There's something I wanted to say before but
  never really got a proper chance. That was brilliant work you did on the translation, Erika. it
  gave us some important pointers."
  "Thanks. But like I said, it's what you got me here for. So I was just doing my job."
  "Some job," Price said.
  They heard the secure door open, and several people entered the room.
  Kurtzman led the way. Akira Tokaido was close behind, a pleased grin on his face when he
  spotted Erika at the table. Able Team was here in force. Hermann Schwarz took his time as he
  crossed to the table. His face was badly bruised, the swelling increasing the effect. Dukas had
  heard about the beating he had received at the hands of Khariza's people during his captivity.
  This was the first time she had seen him since Able Team had returned from the field, and she
  was a little shocked at his appearance. If anything, it brought home to her the reality of the work
  these men did. The risks they undertook to keep the peace as it were.
  Seeing Schwarz returned Dukas's thoughts to what had happened in Texas. The entire Farm had
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  been shown the TV footage of what had happened at Bucklow. It had been the simplest way of
  demonstrating how far Khariza and his group were prepared to go to maintain their threats. The
  sights and the distress of the survivors had been sobering viewing. Nothing had prepared Erika
  Dukas for the utter callousness of the attack. As the newest recruit to the Stony Man roster,
  Dukas had become a part of what was a group who worked out of the limelight and who faced
  on-the-spot crisis with a calmness and a dedication that surprised her. It also made her realize
  she had been granted a chance to be part of this team. For that she would always be grateful to
  Barbara Price for thinking of her.
  Hal Brognola was the last to take his place at the table. He placed a file in front of him and
  opened it, then paused for a few seconds.
  "Still no contact with Phoenix," he finally said. "Two of Henry Lee's team found dead isn't a
  good sign, but it doesn't mean we write Phoenix off. No way that's going to happen."
  "What's the answer, Hal?" Blancanales asked. He looked around the table. "Do we go in and
  look for them? Cal and T.J. are still on assignment in Israel. No way we can pull them out."
  "We're working on something right now."
  "What about Mei Anna?" Lyons asked. "She knows the territory out there. Why not ask for her
  help?"
  "Barb spoke to her some hours ago. Anna is on a US AF plane heading right for us as we speak.
  They flew her out of Lakenheath. She'll land at Andrews. I'm going out to meet her once we
  wrap this up."
  "So let's move on for now," Price said. "We need to cover other things. Aaron?"
  Kurtzman passed out thin files containing copies of data he had extracted from his computer
  searches.
  "Everything we've been able get from the stuff you people brought back. Cell phones. Credit
  cards. Anything we could check on. Telephone accounts. Numbers called."
  Tokaido held up one sheet. "We hacked into anything with a name attached to it. Like this guy,
  Radic Zehlivic. On the surface he's a clever guy who made his fortune buying and selling. Very
  smart. So smart he started to get lazy. It could be he figured no one would connect him to what
  he was doing on behalf of Khariza—providing a lot of supposedly covert assistance soon after
  the Iraq war started. All in the background. Telephone calls are the quickest way to make
  contact. Trouble is, they leave traces, and Zehlivic seems to have believed using the Cadot's Nest
  account would hide everything from prying eyes. Once we made the connection between the
  business and Zehlivic, it gave us a base to start from."
  "We have enough to connect Khariza to all the players in the game," Kurtzman said. "The
  gunrunners in Santa Lorca. In Mexico. We cross-checked calls back and forth. Luiz Santos. Jafir
  Rasifi. Philo Vance. Read the lists. It all starts to come together. In brief, Khariza has one hell of
  a network running his operation. We've hit him where it hurts and done a great deal of damage
  to his plans—cut off his South American arms supply, terminated a good number of those
  weapons caches throughout the country, stopped the second MOAB from being used."
  "Not the first," Schwarz reminded them all.
  "We can't always be in the right place at the right time," Brognola said. "We don't win every
  round. David is still kicking himself because Khariza's people snatched those disks right from
  under his nose. Come on, people, we haven't come out of this too bad."
  "There's a way to go yet," Price reminded him.
  Brognola leaned back in his seat. "Let's hear what Erika has for us."
  Dukas passed out her printed sheets. "The data Phoenix sent us from Israel translated as a
  timetable for Khariza's forces in the Middle East. It's written in a way that encourages his
  followers to forgo any kind of survival expectation. Their mission is all-important—to
  destabilize the region and cause much confusion among the various countries. He calls on all
  loyal Islamics, regardless of where they are from, to rally to the cause. Khariza has three main
  objectives. Major disruption within Israel. An ongoing guerrilla campaign within the U.S. and
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  the U.K. He holds the U.K. as responsible as the U.S. for what happened in Iraq. His third
  objective is the restoration of Ba'athist-fedayeen control of Iraq. There is to be continued
  resistance within the country. All outside agencies, whether military or civilian, are to be
  targeted. In his words 'the Infidels who have defiled Iraq must be made to pay in blood.'"
  "How does he expect to achieve that?" Blancanales asked. "No way is he going to walk in and
  take over. And how does he expect to defeat the U.S. coalition force? If Hussein's entire military
  machine couldn't, how does Khariza figure to do it?"
  "He simply says if his followers keep their faith, God will show the way," Dukas said.
  "And will they believe that?" Tokaido asked. "I mean, are they so easily persuaded to accept
  Khariza's word as given?"
  "They have an abiding faith in what they believe," Dukas said. "Much stronger than Western
  ideologies. Their faith, their way of life, is so different from ours. What we call democracy,
  freedom? They see the opposite. Our open society is as alien to them as theirs is to us. In the end
  it's a diversity of what's right as seen by both sides. Each is convinced it has the correct path. If
  we don't compromise, step back and consider what we're doing, this division is going to go on
  forever."
  "Nicely put, Erika," Schwarz said.
  "So how do we stop it?" Tokaido asked.
  "Isn't it the old political two-step?" Lyons said. "Same dance, different tune. We have to stop all
  this jigging about on the edge. Get everyone in the circle and hammer at it."
  "I'm not disagreeing, Carl," Brognola said. "Haven't we all been coming up against this time
  after time? Stop one bunch and another jumps into the empty space. This goes deeper than a
  handful of extremists with guns and bombs. Look hard at it. We're up against people who have
  been taught from birth that we are the enemy, that we're the most corrupt and evil people ever
  to walk on two legs. We can't be trusted. We're unholy, cruel, greedy. We have no values. And
  we use the excuse of democracy as a cloak to hide our misdeeds. Did I miss anything? It's what
  we're up against. They see what we do. What we say. And they don't forget the wrongdoings
  against them. A generation on, they don't forget."
  They live in their back streets and sit watching pictures of the West on television. They see our
  excesses and our vices, and we do ourselves no favors by the way we squander our riches. That
  must hurt them. So they listen to their leaders and advisers and they believe because—and don't
  doubt this—they take their religion far more seriously than we do. Just as Erika said. They see it
  as their mission to make us atone for what we do and what we have done."
  "You don't think we have that kind of faith?" Blancanales asked.
  "Pol, I'm no theologian. There are days when I'm not even sure I have any religious beliefs left. I
  just know that what we're facing is a hell of a lot stronger than anything the West has to offer in
  its place."
  "You make it sound as if we don't have a chance of beating them in the long term," Schwarz
  said.
  "Hell, if I believed that, I wouldn't be here. I'm just trying to say we need to view the threat by
  trying to understand it."
  "Hard to do when you're staring down the barrel of a gun," Lyons pointed out.
  "I didn't mean try to convert them. More to understand what drives them. Know your enemy
  and you have an advantage."
  "FDR?" Dukas said.
  Brognola smiled. "We know Khariza is determined to get back into Iraq and some sort of
  control. We also have confirmation he's negotiating a deal with the North Koreans through Kim
  Yeo. And he's intent on causing as much confusion as he can both here in the U.S. and the
  Middle East."
  "My people will continue to monitor every angle," Kurtzman said. "We're still sifting
  information, checking out all our sources in the Middle East. There's so much going on over
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  there at the moment we could choke ourselves on data. The main problem is sorting it into
  some kind of order. The minute we hook on to something useful you'll have it."
  Ten minutes later Brognola, and Price and Kurtzman were alone in the War Room. At the
  conclusion of the meeting Kurtzman had indicated he'd needed to talk with the pair of them.
  "I need to show you something. I set a search on something I spotted, that had to do with the
  calls between Khariza and Zoltan Dushinov. They were intercepted on a computer belonging to
  the CIA. The odd thing is they were picked up and isolated before they could be logged on the
  main CIA system."
  "Someone blocking input into the CIA?" Price asked. "Someone running a covert program?"
  "It's happened before."
  "Aaron, can we get a fix on who it was?"
  "Already ahead of you. The computer had password protection and enough firewalls to hold
  back the Mississippi. It took a little time, but my program doesn't give up, and it eventually
  came up with a name."
  Kurtzman hit the keyboard set in the surface of the conference table and one of the
  wall-mounted monitors activated.
  "Remember that name Erika came up with? It didn't mean anything at the time. That's where I
  started. Rod McAdam. CIA. When my search broke the password on that computer, it
  identified it as McAdam's."
  The screen showed the image of a middle-aged man. Sandy hair and intense blue eyes. He was
  staring directly into the camera lens, almost defying it to show him as he really was.
  "My search brought up some interesting links. McAdam knows General Chase Gardener, U.S.
  Army. Gardener is a dedicated hawk. So much so, I'm surprised he doesn't have feathers. He
  doesn't go much for the government's stance and thinks we're letting the country down. If he had
  his way, Gardener would most probably nuke the Middle East and North Korea based on gut
  instinct."
  Gardener's image showed him as a lean, tanned man in his late forties, a professional soldier
  through and through. His graying hair was short, his mouth held in a taut line.
  "Sleeps at attention," Price said softly. "Arms at his sides."
  "Do I detect a trace of hostility?" Brognola asked.
  "Just an observation."
  Kurtzman brought up a third image. An immaculately dressed and turned-out man whose silver
  hair was worn slightly long.
  "Senator Ralph Justin. He's one of Gardener's staunchest allies. When they're together they
  demolish any argument like an advancing army. He's well-known in Washington. Like Gardener,
  Justin is independently wealthy. Treats the world as if he owns it. Probably does have a large
  percentage. Word is, Justin is an arrogant bully. And our CIA man, McAdam, knows Justin,
  too."
  "What detail do you have on McAdam?" Brognola asked.
  "He's a busy man. His CIA file has him running his own section, which the honchos at Langley
  use when they need something special done. He's worked a lot of covert ops for the Agency
  over the years. He must have dirt on a lot of people in the service. His file has him as extremely
  ambitious, and likely to take risks. He's considered to be crowding the edge. Could be why he
  hasn't advanced as quickly as he might."
  "So what's his connection to Gardener and Justin? And why show up in Rasheed's notes?"
  Brognola turned to Price.
  "Gadgets and Grimaldi can go take a look at what those three are up to. Confirm or eliminate
  them from our current involvement. Set it up. I'm heading out to see Mei Anna. I want Carl and
  Pol on standby to go with her to Hong Kong."
  Andrews Air Force Base
  "Is there anything I can get you?" Hal Brognola asked.
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  Mei Anna shook her head. She glanced around the interior of the Air Force Gulfstream C-20F.
  "They looked after me very well during the flight."
  Brognola sank gratefully into one of the seats. It was comfortable. Almost too comfortable.
  "You look tired, Mr. Brognola."
  "It's been a busy time."
  "As I have been hearing."
  "Miss—"
  She held up a hand. "Anna. Please."
  "Then call me Hal. Look, Anna, I wish I didn't have to ask for your help again so soon."
  "I owe you and your organization more than I can ever repay. Never feel you are asking too
  much."
  "When you spoke on the phone you said there was something important you needed to discuss."
  Mei brushed black hair back from her cheek. Her eyes were fixed on Brognola's face. "I found
  out why David and his team were caught by Kim Yeo. They were betrayed by one of my own
  group. Someone who has abandoned us and informed Kim Yeo. That is why Henry Lee and
  your team was captured."
  "Do you know who this informant was?"
  Mei nodded. "Yes. The traitor has been identified, though he does not realize he has been
  discovered. We decided to leave him feeling safe until he can be compromised. Then we can
  question him and try to find out where David and the others have been taken."
  "Let's hope it works."
  "When I show up in Hong Kong, our betrayer will see a chance to hand me over to the
  authorities. They would like very much to get their hands on me."
  "Anna, that's a hell of a risk."
  "Life is a risk. Every day is a risk. I have stayed away for too long. London has become an easy
  option. It's time I returned and picked up the pieces."
  Brognola studied her for a moment, seeing the determination in her bright eyes. The set of her
  firm jaw. "Now I can understand what David sees in you."
  "Flattery from a handsome man," Mei said. "Worth the trip just for that."
  "Two of Able Team will go in with you. One way or the other, we have to locate David and his
  team."
  "My only worry is that Yeo might have involved Sun Yang Ho. That man has a bad reputation. If
  David and the others are near Ho, they could really be in harm's way. Ho is totally indoctrinated
  into the North Korean ideology. He has no regard at all for Westerners. He considers them to
  be below him. Less than nothing. Ho is a perfect creation of the revolution."
  "Then the sooner we get you back on home ground, the better." Brognola took a long look at
  her. "Are you sure you're up to this?"
  Mei Anna reached out to touch his cheek.
  "I am much better. Almost back to normal. All that rest and care you arranged has paid off. I
  know David still believes I am too weak to do anything but look nice and let him pamper me. I'd
  be lying if I said I hadn't enjoyed it. But it is time I moved back into the real world. For the past
  weeks I've been working out each day. Hal, I'm stronger than I look."
  "I can believe that, Anna. Now tell me what you need."
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  Hong Kong
  Hard rain swept in across the harbor, the junks and smaller boats rising and falling on the heavy
  swells.
  Mei Anna turned away from the hotel window and paced across the room, impatience showing
  on her face.
  "Anna, sit down," Blancanales said. "I'm wearing out just watching you."
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  She glared at him, the tension between them almost visible. In the next breath she relaxed and
  went back to sit in the chair she had been using earlier.
  "Sorry. I shouldn't take my feelings out on you. It's just—"
  "You just want to get on with the job. Nothing wrong there."
  "That and the fact I'm still getting back into the business."
  "You don't get out of this business," Lyons said.
  "You can take a break, but it's still going to pull you back."
  The telephone rang. Mei picked it up and spoke rapidly. She replaced the receiver.
  "The car will be outside the hotel in five minutes. We should go."
  The car was a large BMW. The rear door swung open as Mei Anna and Able Team stepped out
  of the hotel. They climbed in, Blancanales pulling the door shut as the car began to move. It
  swept around to the street and eased into the traffic, headlights on against the mist of torrential
  rain. The windshield wipers were working hard to keep the glass clear.
  The man seated beside the driver turned to face Mei. He stared at her, then smiled and reached
  out to grab her hand. He began to speak in Cantonese until the woman shook her head.
  "We have company, Tony," she said in English.
  "Of course." He acknowledged Lyons and Blancanales. "Forgive me. I forgot myself."
  "No problem," Lyons said.
  The Chinese reached out to shake their hands. "I'm Tony Chan. We have much to thank your
  people for. Anna is important to us. Very."
  "Tony, you are embarrassing me."
  "Mei Anna embarrassed? Never."
  "Tell us what you know."
  "Okay. As far as we can work out, Kim Yeo was waiting for Henry and the others when they
  reached his warehouse. We couldn't understand how it happened until one of our people saw
  Tsui Kwan with two of Yeo's men. They were acting extremely friendly and money was passed
  to Kwan."
  "Tsui Kwan?" Mei leaned forward and grasped Chan's arm. "There is no mistake?"
  "No mistake. It was only after this discovery that things became clearer. Kwan had been acting a
  little strange recently. Disappearing often. No one thought too much of it until Kwan was seen
  with Yeo's people. We have been keeping watch on him ever since. He is behaving oddly."
  "Having second thoughts?" Blancanales suggested.
  "Or maybe nervous because he has been asked to stay with the group and offer them more
  information," Chan said. "He reacted when he heard you were coming back."
  "Remember what we talked about on the flight?" Lyons said. "That this guy might be waiting so
  he can turn you in? Maybe that's why he's nervous."
  "He won't get the chance," Mei said.
  "We have to be careful," Chan pointed out. "If we expose Kwan too soon, he might not talk. He
  may be our only lead to where Yeo has gone."
  "Maybe not," Lyons said. "These people who work for Yeo. You know them? Where they hang
  out?"
  "Of course," Chan said. "Why?"
  "If they work for Yeo, they'll know where he is. Kwan might not have been given that kind of
  information."
  "Anna, I think I like your friends."
  "Then let's do it."
  "The video store is one of Kim Yeo's enterprises here in Hong Kong," Chan explained. "Just
  one of his sidelines."
  "He doesn't make enough money from selling guns?" Blancanales asked.
  Chan laughed. "The store is nothing but a cover. Yeo has a video pirating operation going on.
  He distributes his products across Asia, and it brings in a lot of money. Kam Leong and San
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  Tung work out of here. They front for Yeo in Hong Kong."
  They were parked across the narrow street from the video store which had just closed for the
  night, along with the other businesses. The staff had already left. The continuing downpour had
  cleared the street.
  "Tung has rooms behind the store. Most nights he and Leong work late after the store has
  closed. That is Leong's car parked in the alley."
  Chan pointed to a sleek black Porsche.
  "Business must be good," Lyons said.
  "Do they have any backup?" Blancanales asked.
  "Why would they need backup? They work for Yeo, and he has official protection. Local
  criminals know better than to move against someone like Yeo."
  "Being out-of-towners, we wouldn't know about that," Lyons said.
  He opened the rear door and stepped out, turning up the collar of his jacket. Blancanales
  followed. They were both armed with pistols Chan had provided. Chan's driver stayed in the
  car.
  "Lead the way, Tony," Lyons said.
  The Able Team commandos followed Chan and Mei across the street and down the side alley.
  They skirted the Porsche, and Chan indicated a side gate. He pushed it open and they moved
  into the dark rear yard.
  The back of the store had been extended. A concrete-and-brick structure that added another
  twenty feet onto the original building. The one window in the wall that faced them was shuttered,
  but some light showed through the overlapping slats.
  "The door is this way," Chan said, and led the way. The door was plain wood with a metal
  handle. He tried it. Locked.
  "Looks like we have to do it the hard way," Lyons said. "When we get inside, let me handle it.
  Just translate anything I say and don't cut them any slack."
  "I don't understand any way but hard," Chan said.
  "Your kind of guy," Blancanales said, smiling when Lyons scowled at him.
  Lyons checked the feel of the door. He put his weight against it, pushing to see where the secure
  areas were, then stepped back. He drew the SIG-Sauer P-226 that Chan had given him, then
  launched himself at the door, hitting it hard with his left shoulder. The door gave, wood
  splintering as it burst open.
  Lyons went in, Chan and Blancanales close behind. Mei followed, quickly closing the door and
  staying close by it, her own pistol in her hands.
  The room was filled with banks of both VCRs and DVD copiers. Shelves were stacked with
  blank tapes and disks, with others holding already-copied material. At one end was a desk and a
  couple of chairs. Ducted ceiling fans spun, pulling out the heat generated by the running
  machines.
  Just as Chan had predicted, there were only two men. As Lyons crashed into the room they
  jerked up from what they were doing, surprise etched across their faces. They recovered quickly,
  one of them turning for the desk, reaching for the handgun he kept there.
  Lyons kept moving. He took long strides across the room and reached the man going for the
  gun. The Able Team leader caught a handful of the man's thick hair, yanking back and pulling the
  man to a dead stop. Still clutching the hair, he spun the man, swinging him across the room and
  into a bank of DVD machines. The impact knocked a number of the recorders off the shelf.
  They crashed to the floor, taking the Chinese with them.
  The other man, seeing the weapons trained on him, held his hands up in front of him, offering no
  resistance. Blancanales used his own pistol to indicate he wanted the man to move aside.
  "Who?" Lyons asked as he bent over the Chinese on his knees.
  "That's Tung," Chan said.
  Lyons moved so he was standing to one side of Tung. As the man started to get up, Lyons
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  launched a kick that drove into his ribs. Tung gasped, lurching across the floor, the big
  American following him and delivering another hard kick. The force drove Tung up against the
  desk. He was still attempting to steady himself when Lyons reached him. He caught hold of
  Tung's expensive silk shirt and hauled the man upright. The thin material split. As Tung's head
  came up, flushed with rage, the Able Team leader backhanded him with the barrel of the SIG,
  drawing blood and knocking him to the floor. Lyons picked up Tung's pistol off the desk and
  threw it to Chan. Bending over the moaning figure, he dragged Tung upright, slamming him
  against the wall, then pushed the muzzle of the P-226 into the man's throat.
  "Tell him I want the answer to a simple question. Where has Yeo taken our people? If he doesn't
  tell me what I want to hear, I'll shoot him in the knee."
  Chan delivered Lyons's message. Tung's eyes flicked to his tormentor's face. The look in the
  American's eyes told him he had no easy way out. He replied to Chan's words in rapid
  Cantonese.
  "He says how does he know you won't shoot him, anyway."
  "He doesn't. And I will."
  Lyons moved his gunhand until the SIG was aimed at Tung's left knee. The Chinese gave a
  frightened cry and began to speak.
  "Yeo took our people with him on a flight to see Sun Yang Ho. He had dealings with the North
  Koreans on Khariza's behalf. All Tung knows is they flew to an island off the North Korean
  west coast. He doesn't know the location."
  "You believe him?"
  "The man does not want his kneecap shattered."
  "Ask him why Yeo took our people all the way to this island."
  "It seems that when his business is done, he flies on to deliver your team to Khariza himself."
  Stony Man Farm, Virginia
  "We need to locate that camp in Chechnya," Kurtzman said. "If we want a chance at Khariza, it's
  possible that's where he is."
  "Can we get satellite time?" Wethers asked. "Give us that and we might have a chance."
  Kurtzman looked at the time on his monitor.
  "Give me an hour and I can get some SARS time. It's our best shot right now."
  Hong Kong
  Chan called in a car that had been waiting a couple of streets away. Katn Leong and San Tung
  were bundled into it and driven off.
  "We'll follow," Mei said. "We have a safe house. Kwan will be there."
  It was a thirty-minute drive to the house. It was out of the city, in the hills, isolated.
  "I have told the others to wait a few minutes before they bring the prisoners inside," Chan said.
  They went inside the safe house. The moment Mei appeared she was greeted by the four Chinese
  in residence. Only one held back for a moment before he greeted her.
  "That is Kwan," Chan explained to Lyons and Blancanales.
  "I don't think he expected to see her so suddenly," Blancanales stated.
  "He'll have a heart attack when he sees his buddies," Lyons said.
  "Yes," Chan said, "I believe he just might."
  When San Tung and Kam Leong were brought into the room, Lyons saw the shock that crossed
  Kwan's face. He looked like a man caught in a trap of his own making.
  "Nowhere to go, Kwan," Mei said. "Now we have you all. Tell me, was it worth it? Did the
  money these two give you take away your guilt?"
  Tsui Kwan looked around the room, seeing only hostility in the eyes of his former friends. He
  saw nothing when he looked at his confederates.
  "They can't help you," Chan said. "They have their own problems."
  Lyons edged away and joined Anna. "I know you have your own way to deal with these guys," he
  said, "but we're on a tight schedule."
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  "If Yeo still has weapons in his warehouse, we can't ignore them," Blancanales said. "Wherever
  they end up, the U.S. is going to be on the wrong end. They could go to the mainland to be used
  against the American public, or they might end up in Iraq killing more U.S. military personnel.
  Either way, those weapons need to be neutralized."
  "You are right," Mei said. "The matter we have to deal with here is ours. It shouldn't interfere
  with your mission."
  She went to speak with Chan. He nodded and followed her back to Lyons and Blancanales.
  "I will arrange things. We can show Yeo he doesn't have everything his own way."
  New Territories Docks
  The rain, still sweeping in across the bay, had covered their approach. There was no junk used
  on this trip. A fast powerboat brought them in close to shore, Chan at the wheel. He knew the
  waters and the pattern used by infrequent patrol boats. There was a risk, and they all knew and
  accepted it. The possible price that might have to be paid if Yeo's stored weapons were destined
  for anti-U.S. targets was more than either Lyons or Blancanales were prepared to gamble with.
  Mei Anna, clad in black like the rest of them, kept watch as Chan negotiated his way between
  moored boats, working them closer to the dock where Henry Lee had taken Phoenix Force. He
  brought them to the same mooring, alongside the dredger, cutting the powerful motors. The
  powerboat drifted in alongside the dark bulk of the dredge.
  "The warehouse is the one directly in front of us," Chan said.
  "We make this a simple in-and-out," Lyons said. "Get inside, plant the charges, then leave. If we
  meet any opposition, we take them out with the minimum of fuss. Understand?"
  Chan and Mei nodded.
  "Let's do it."
  Mei's group had provided them with weapons and explosive charges from one of their caches.
  Lyons and Blancanales had backpacks to carry their equipment. In addition to the handguns,
  they also had matte black Kalashnikovs.
  Chan led the way across the rain-lashed dock. By the time they reached the warehouse frontage
  everyone was soaked.
  "This place alarmed?" Lyons asked.
  "Probably," Chan said.
  "What's the likely response time?"
  "On a night like this I'd say at least half an hour. That's if everything is working. If not, there
  might not even be a response."
  "You guys like living on the edge," Blancanales said.
  "They're crazier than you," he added for Lyons's benefit.
  "Door here," Lyons said.
  Chan used a set of steel lock picks, and it took him only a short time to free the lock. He eased
  the door open a little, then used his hand to explore the interior, his fingers seeking any alarm
  trips. Satisfied, he opened the door far enough so they could all slip inside. Chan closed the
  door behind them and they crouched in the semidarkness. While the others adjusted to the
  shadowed interior Chan checked over the door as a precaution. He eventually found a broken
  contact.
  "Looks like we did trip some kind of alarm," he said.
  "Then we'd better move," Lyons said. "We'll do this faster if we split into pairs to locate what we
  came for and set charges. We can detonate with the remote. Check your watches. We get out of
  here in…ten minutes from now." Mei and Chan took one backpack and moved off to one side
  of the warehouse. Lyons and Blancanales went the other way.
  It was a long ten minutes.
  Both teams had to locate and identify their targets, then set charges before moving on. The
  deeper they moved into the cavernous warehouse, the more the chance of discovery increased.
  If the alarm had been picked up, any interception seemed to be taking time to show up. That was
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  Lyons's greatest concern. He didn't let it deter him from completing the exercise. If the hammer
  came down, they would handle it at the time. Until then he and Blancanales carried on laying
  their charges.
  They were nearing the end of the ten-minute period when they came across the bays of weapons
  Kim Yeo had shown McCarter. The consignment had still to be sent out. They identified the
  weapons—rifles and rocket launchers, SA-18s and cartons of C-12.
  They placed their final charges.
  "We got any spare detonators?" Lyons asked.
  "Always bring a few spares."
  They opened a number of the C-12 packages and added the detonators.
  "Time to go," Lyons said.
  They backtracked, reaching the door they had entered seconds before Mei and Chan returned.
  "Everything set?" Blancanales asked.
  Mei nodded.
  "All our charges set. Little red lights flashing."
  "We clear the dock before we detonate," Lyons said. "If all the charges go, we should expect one
  hell of a bang."
  Chan eased open the door. The hiss of the rain deadened any sound coming from outside. He
  slipped his assault rifle from his shoulder before he moved outside. Mei went next, with
  Blancanales close behind. Lyons was the last to leave.
  "Damn," he heard Blancanales mutter. "We've got company coming in, and I don't think it's to
  say welcome."
  "Yeo's protection squad," Chan said.
  Lyons caught the bouncing beams of powerful flashlights cutting through the sheeting rain,
  heard the sudden sharp commands. Dark figures raced toward them across the dock.
  The shouts were punctuated by the crackle of assault rifles. Slugs whined off the concrete.
  Lyons brought up his AK-47, aiming at, then slightly above, the flashlight beams. He touched
  the trigger, feeling the rifle jerk against his side. One of the light beams jerked skyward as the
  man holding it went down, punched off his feet by the 7.62mm bullets.
  The others turned their weapons on the advancing crew, cutting a swathe through the front rank.
  The Chinese were firing on the move, reducing their accuracy. Figures stumbled, hit the wet
  ground, light beams shooting in all directions.
  "Head for the boat," Lyons yelled. "Get the damn thing fired up before we have the Red
  Chinese Army down here."
  Chan, with Blancanales on his heels, ducked and ran. Blancanales laid down cover fire once they
  reached the edge of the dock, leaving Chan clear to go down the ladder and drop into the
  powerboat.
  "Get to the dock," Lyons told Mei as she snapped in a fresh magazine.
  The Chinese had scattered, their return fire sporadic as they sought to relocate themselves.
  Lyons maintained his bursts, pausing only when he had to reload. He used short, selective
  bursts, his aim accurate, taking down a number of the dark, hunched figures. Out the corner of
  his eye he saw Mei scuttle across the dock, then drop flat on the edge alongside Blancanales. The
  pair set up covering fire for Lyons as he ran to join them.
  Below the dock, the powerboat's engines burst into life.
  "Let's go," Chan yelled above the noise.
  "Move out," Lyons said.
  Blancanales and Mei went down the ladder.
  A number of the Chinese started across the dock, heading directly for Lyons's position.
  He pulled the remote from inside his jacket, extended the short antenna and flicked the power
  switch. The indicator light flashed red. He pressed the button.
  Rain hissed across the dock, autofire crackled from the darkness.
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  Nothing happened immediately, and Lyons found he was holding his breath.
  Seconds slid by. Lyons looked at the remote in his hand. The red light held steady. Then he saw
  it flicker for a microsecond.
  The warehouse blew apart. The detonation deafened them. Heat washed out from the center of
  the blast, singeing Lyons's clothing, stinging one side of his face. The concussion came, pushing
  Lyons over the edge of the dock. He let go of the remote and grabbed hold of the metal ladder
  as his body went over the edge.
  The Chinese, upright and exposed, took the full brunt of the blast. They were enveloped by the
  heat, clothing igniting, flesh charring. The force of the blast picked them up and hurled them
  across the dock into the water below. Other lacerated and scorched bodies were scattered
  across the dock, clothing and flesh alight. The front wall of the warehouse vanished in the initial
  blast.
  Lyons, feeling the heated air, slid down the ladder as scattered debris began to rain down on
  him. He felt something strike his left shoulder.
  The warehouse was rocked by a second, even larger explosion as the extra C-12 Lyons had
  activated detonated with all the other material. The roof of the building was torn open, a
  massive fireball rising into the dark sky. Lyons felt the dock wall tremble as the blast reached its
  peak.
  He dropped the last couple of feet, grabbing the side rail as Chan gunned the engines to
  maximum and took the powerboat out across the water, away from the inferno that had been
  Kim Yeo's warehouse.
  Flames were rising into the sky, smoke coiling in thick clouds. Shattered debris was splashing
  back down into the water.
  "Son of a bitch," Blancanales said softly. "It was worth being here just to see that."
  "And worth coming back for," Mei said. "I just wish David had been here to see it."
  Ho's Island
  "Rafe?"
  Encizo, his head still down on his chest and a hand pressed over the bloody gash, remained
  leaning against a wooden crate.
  "I'm okay."
  McCarter bent over him. "What are you up to?"
  "When I go down, see if you can get one of those Chinese over here."
  "Gary?"
  "I heard. It's worth a try."
  Encizo groaned and let himself slump to the floor. Manning knelt beside him, while McCarter
  held out his bound hands and gestured at one of the Chinese.
  "Hey, give us a hand. Can't you see he's hurt?"
  The Chinese glanced at his companions, saying something in Cantonese.
  McCarter caught the words "What shall we do?"
  "Go and look."
  "You hit him too hard, Kee."
  "You're no help."
  Kee, ignoring the laughter from his companions, turned toward the three captives, his rifle
  pointed at them as he approached.
  Encizo groaned again.
  "Help him," Manning pleaded.
  Kee used the muzzle of his rifle to push the Canadian to one side. He peered down at Encizo's
  prone figure. All he could see was the blood streaking the side of the Cuban's face. Encizo
  continued to moan, holding Kee's attention.
  "He will not—" the Chinese began.
  McCarter leaned in closer and clamped his right hand over the butt of the pistol in the holster
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  strapped to Kee's waist. He yanked the weapon free. It was a SIG-Sauer P-226, a benefit of
  working for someone like Kim Yeo, rather than having to use one of the Chinese
  home-manufactured weapons. McCarter flicked up the safety and jammed the muzzle into Kee's
  side. He pulled the trigger, drilling a 9mm slug into the man's side.
  As the stricken Chinese fell, Manning made a grab for the Kalashnikov, yanking it from Kee's
  fingers. He clamped his fingers around the hand grip, jammed the stock against his side and
  braced his arm against it. He turned the muzzle in the direction of the other Chinese and
  touched the trigger. The Kalashnikov began to jack out shots, the 7.62mm slugs spraying the
  area, scattering the Chinese before they could return fire.
  McCarter had turned away from Kee the moment he had triggered his first shot. Now the Briton
  faced around, the P-226 rising to track in on one of the moving guards. McCarter was in a better
  position to use his handgun, and his next shot caught its target on the move, the 9mm slug
  punching through the side of the man's neck, opening a wound that began to pulse with blood.
  The Chinese stumbled, then skidded facedown across the floor.
  Encizo pushed aside the body sprawled across him. He got to his feet, checking out the area
  around them. The proliferation of packing cases would give them good cover in the first
  instance, at least allowing them sanctuary even if it was only for a short time.
  "Move back," he yelled.
  Still firing the Kalashnikov, Manning moved to follow the Cuban. McCarter wasn't far behind,
  dropping and rolling behind the cover as Yeo's guards began to return fire from their own
  protective areas.
  "Keep moving," McCarter said, measuring his shots from the 15-round magazine.
  They edged back through the rows of crates, toward the entrance. They were ignorant of how
  many, if any, armed personnel Ho had on call. The only people they had seen were Ho's two
  bodyguards and the workers packing the crates. The packers had scattered the moment the
  gunfire started, leaving open boxes and tools strewed across the floor. It was Encizo who
  spotted a pair of cutters one of the workers had dropped. He snatched them up, turning to
  McCarter.
  "Hey."
  McCarter turned and saw what the Cuban was holding. He stuck out his bound wrists and
  Encizo cut the plastic loop. Moving to Manning, Encizo freed his hands, then passed the cutters
  to the Canadian so he could be freed himself.
  "Now that feels better," the Briton said.
  Manning, now able to manage the Kalashnikov correctly, began to lay down his shots with
  precision, keeping Yeo's two men from advancing.
  McCarter kept watch while Encizo checked out some of the crates close by them. Peering into
  one after the other, he came across one containing fragmentation grenades and, without
  hesitation, picked a couple from the box. Pulling a pin, he hurled the grenade across the
  building. It landed just ahead of where Yeo's men were crouched. The grenade's sharp blast tore
  the wooden crates apart and threw splintered wood at the pair of Chinese. Bleeding, they
  stumbled away from the smoking remains of the crate and walked into Manning's controlled
  burst. The hail of slugs cut them down, their bleeding corpses tumbling heavily to the floor.
  Encizo launched a number of grenades, in different directions, insuring that the explosions were
  close enough to the stacked crates to inflict damage on whatever they contained. One blast
  touched off something flammable, flame erupting in a boiling cascade. Sizzling trails of fire
  arced across the building.
  When his P-226 locked back on an empty breech, McCarter tucked it behind his belt, turned and
  equipped himself with a couple of grenades. He launched his first one in the direction of the
  office block where Yeo and the North Korean had gone. It fell a couple of feet short, though the
  blast was still powerful enough to shatter glass and splinter door panels. McCarter ducked and
  moved closer, so that when he launched a second grenade it arced in through one of the
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  shattered window frames and exploded inside the office block.
  Armed with more grenades the Phoenix Force trio moved across the building, laying down a
  trail of destruction that turned the interior into smoking chaos.
  "Look at that," Encizo said, indicating a cluster of weapons on a large, flat metal pallet, roped
  down and ready to be moved.
  The recognition came quickly, from Stony Man briefings on ordnance: it was a North Korean
  heavy machine gun, designated M-1983, quad in 14.5mm. Normally mounted on a battle tank,
  this weapon had been fitted to a base capable of being fixed to a truck chassis. The four-barrel
  machine gun operated on a recoil basis and was belt fed. A hefty weapon designed for use in
  rough terrain, it had a rate of fire that punched out around 600 rounds per minute from each
  barrel.
  "You think these are for Khariza?" Manning asked.
  "Could be," McCarter said.
  He indicated the crates and boxes spread around the building.
  "Grenades, rocket launchers, assault rifles, machine guns. All stuff he's going to need to make
  good his promise to make life difficult in Iraq. Let's face it, that bloke is serious. We know that
  already."
  "Talking of rifles," Encizo said. "Take these."
  The Cuban thrust Kalashnikovs into their hands. The weapons were already loaded. Encizo
  leaned into the crate he had discovered and pulled out one for himself. He handed McCarter
  and Manning extra magazines, which they tucked behind their belts.
  There was a dull explosion some distance from where they stood. Something their grenades had
  detonated. Metal debris clanged to the floor. Smoke rose and gathered in the apex of the roof.
  "I want Yeo," McCarter snapped.
  "We should be making for that plane," Manning said. "Time we got the hell out of here."
  "Yeo first. And if you see that bloody Korean, sort him out, as well."
  Manning glanced across at Encizo, who merely shrugged.
  They ran in the direction of the office block. Smoke was still swirling around the wreckage of the
  outer wall. Doors hung loosely from their hinges and glass crunched under their feet as they
  closed in.
  A hunched and bloody shape lay against the inner wall, the left arm torn from the shoulder. One
  of Ho's bodyguards. The other bodyguard was nowhere to be seen.
  "David, on your right," Encizo yelled as he spotted a dark figure emerging from the smoke.
  It was Ho.
  The Korean, his black clothing torn and streaked with dust, face bloody from glass cuts, swung
  around a door frame, holding himself upright with one hand, while a pistol filled his other. His
  mouth was open in what McCarter thought was the beginning of a yell. A closer look revealed
  that the left side of Ho's mouth had been blown away, exposing lacerated gums where teeth had
  been torn out.
  McCarter half turned as he registered the Korean. He saw the rising gun in Ho's hand.
  The Kalashnikov in the Briton's hands erupted on full-auto. The lethal burst of fire slammed into
  Ho at waist level, shredding the wooden door frame he was clinging to. There was a burst of
  splintered wood and bloody chunks of flesh as the 7.62mm slugs impacted. Ho's slender form
  was almost shredded. He flew back, arms wide, and crashed to the floor in a grotesque slide,
  leaving a bloody trail in his wake.
  A figure burst out from the shattered office block, firing a handgun wildly. It was Kim Yeo. The
  Chinese arms trafficker turned in an attempt to cover himself behind a stack of crates.
  Manning opened fire, his stream of slugs chewing through the wood and blowing out the other
  side. The slugs, impacting against the wood, had distorted and ripped ragged holes in Yeo as he
  ran directly into their path. The man crashed to the ground. By the time Phoenix reached him
  Yeo was leaking copious amounts of blood from the half dozen pulped wounds.
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  While the others stood watch, McCarter knelt beside the dying Chinese.
  "It is painful," Yeo said.
  "I hope so," McCarter said coldly.
  "Because I had Lee killed?"
  "Bloody right."
  "We all make choices."
  "I choose to let you die right here, you bastard."
  Yeo turned his head for a moment as the sound of jet-powered aircraft took off and flew over
  the building.
  "Too late for you," he said. "I have at least fulfilled my contract with Khariza."
  "Meaning what?"
  "The most important of the weapons I negotiated on his behalf have just left, and you failed to
  stop them."
  "The hell with you. Play your bloody games, Yeo. We handled Khariza's other weapons. We'll
  do the same with whatever just left."
  Yeo struggled to stay coherent long enough to speak.
  "You have no idea where that plane is going. Or the type of aircraft to look for. Time is not on
  your side. Khariza will have the cargo in his hands before you locate him…too late to stop
  those—" Yeo's eyes began to glaze over "—three nuclear devices…"
  "Did I hear that right?" Encizo asked.
  McCarter pushed to his feet. "Yes. You heard it right. It sounds as if our friend Khariza has just
  gone nuclear."
  * * * * *
  The heart-stopping action concludes in
  FULL BLAST, available in June.
  Page 127
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Audiobooks/P/Don Pendleton/Stony Man/Don Pendleton - Stony Man 76 - Gathering Storm by Mike Linaker (v1.0).pdf