Doom Prophecy

His body tensed and he looked to Encizo. “Rafe!”

That’s when an explosion ripped through the night. Splinters of the shattered boat sailed on a wave of billowing orange flame.

GARY MANNING THREW HIMSELF out of the jeep when he realized that David McCarter had just developed a case of road rash. T.J. Hawkins was hot on the Canadian’s heels, somersaulting to the ground as a wave of AK-47 steel-cored bullets hammered at the vehicle they exited. Stewart flopped to the ground, wincing in pain from his clumsy dive for cover.

The driver, however, wasn’t so lucky. He was pinned to the driver’s seat for the rest of his short life as 7.62 mm COMBLOC rounds punched through his chest, soaking his woodland camouflage with slick, red blood. Manning’s jaw tightened as he watched the lifeless chauffeur flop over the steering wheel moments before the vehicle’s destroyed tire snagged on the tarmac. The jeep preformed a flip, and if the poor bastard was still alive after being cored by a wave of flying bullets, Manning knew it was too late as several tons of steel sandwiched his corpse between itself and the ground. The Canadian came out of his roll and brought the MSG-90’s scope to his eye.

There would be time to mourn later. Right now, he had to help repel the sudden invasion on the base.

The transport jet they’d come in on gouted flames where an RPG shell had ruptured its hull. Luckily, the grounded bird didn’t need its hydraulics to fly, and its wings were where the volatile fuel was stored. A subsequent hit, however, could change all that.

Manning homed in on an RPG crew and the Bushnell scope atop his rifle brought the faces of the two rocketmen into sharp relief. One was a native Kenyan by the look of him, while the other was an Arab. Somehow, the two nationalities seemed to have come to an agreement of mutual hatred against the U.S. It didn’t matter how they got that way. In a moment, they would both be united in death.

The Phoenix Force sniper triggered his MSG-90 and planted a 175-grain precision match bullet through the forehead of the Kenyan, spraying his brains out the back of his skull in an eruption of crimson and stringy tissue. The Arab, waiting for his companion to load the next shell into his rocket-propelled-grenade launcher, gawked in momentary horror at the disintegration of a large part of his partner’s head. He scrambled for the next shell, but Manning leveled the crosshairs on the base of the terrorist’s neck and milked the trigger again.

He watched to make sure the Arab’s corpse landed on the ground, a massive chunk of spine torn out by the 7.62 mm NATO round, even at a range of 400 yards. Satisfied he hadn’t left a killer still able to fight, he shifted his aim and realized that the remaining guard towers were coordinating their fire. The brawny Canadian turned toward the ditch and saw that the enemy had closed to nearly two hundred yards.

Hawkins hammered out long bursts from his M-4 carbine, 6.8 mm slugs crashing into the attackers even as Air Force and Army personnel flooded out of their barracks. The surprise attack had been slowed enough by Phoenix Force’s instantaneous reaction that the U.S. military garrison could mount a counterattack. Half-dressed soldiers armed with M-16s raced into view.

McCarter, however, was caught out in the open without the protective bulk of the overturned jeep to shield him from incoming fire. Armed only with his custom Browning, he did the only thing he could think of—charge the enemy. There was a method to the Englishman’s madness. While the marauders were still adjusting their aim after engaging in a long-distance shooting match with the other members of Phoenix Force, they were unprepared for the lean, sleek Briton’s mad dash. As they struggled to shoot at the serpentining Phoenix Force leader, McCarter mentally counted down the distance between himself and his foes. All he needed to do was to get within one hundred yards. Precision rifle fire from Manning was buying McCarter some breathing space, while Hawkins and the other U.S. servicemen were doing their best to bat cleanup. AK-47 fire still gouged the ground at McCarter’s feet, and he kept pressing.

When he guessed he was within one hundred meters, he threw himself forward, landing flat on his stomach. Hot 7.62 mm slugs sizzled over his head, barely missing him. Now prone, McCarter swung his front sight to the nearest target and squeezed the trigger on his Browning twice. One hundred meters was a long shot for a pistol, but McCarter was an Olympic-level handgun marksman, and he practiced with his Hi-Power regularly at extreme ranges for emergencies such as these.

His first target was already tumbling into the afterlife when he swung the muzzle to a second terrorist and sent him a few more 9 mm pills to cure him of his antisocial tendencies. Sprays of slugs chewed up the ground in front of the Briton, and he rolled over three times, feeling the thump of bullets strike so close to him. When he came to a stop, he noticed that the squad of attackers was thinned out by the efforts of his partners, but there were still enemies kicking.

Worse than kicking, they were shooting. McCarter ripped out six shots in rapid fire, 9 mm brass ejecting from the breech and raining on his back as downrange, his sweep of Parabellum slugs scattered the remaining attackers in that group. A rifle round rebounded off the tarmac and sliced across his shoulder. It burned only skin deep, but it was enough to make the Phoenix Force commander roll once more, triggering his Browning as he flipped over. Even tumbling, he managed to tag the rifleman whose weapon’s muzzle-flash flickered at him.

The gunman jerked and sprawled lifelessly as McCarter’s 9 mm rounds punched into him. The sound of gunfire rose to a crushing crescendo around the SAS veteran, then died out.

As quickly as the attack had begun, it was repulsed.

McCarter pushed himself shakily to his feet, his flesh wound trickling blood down his triceps. He was out of breath, and his chest hurt where he slammed hard into the ground. His aches were catching up quickly to him as his adrenaline rush died away. He dumped the partially empty clip from his Browning, and was surprised to see there were still rounds in the magazine. He fed the gun a fresh 17-round stick, however. This could have been only a lull in the action.

He looked back to Manning and Hawkins. Both shot him a thumbs-up, indicating that they were unhurt. McCarter was glad for that, but he’d seen enough of the defending servicemen hurt and killed by this attack to realize it was hardly a perfect victory.

Another thing nagged the Phoenix Force commander—how in the hell did these bastards know that they were coming?

Apparently, even the cloak of secrecy around Stony Man Farm wasn’t protection enough against the powers of the deadly Ka55andra.

McCarter holstered his Browning as his partners got closer, Hawkins bringing his fallen M-4 carbine. This was just the opening shot in Phoenix Force’s fight with AJAX’s forces in Kenya.

CARMEN DELAHUNT FELT in a daze as she walked into the Moscone Center, San Francisco’s premier meeting and exhibition hall. She’d been to the twenty-acre facility before, for previous Law Enforcement Technology expos, helping to keep Stony Man Farm abreast of some of the latest developments in computers, programs and tech gear devoted to helping fight crime. Before, even though she’d grown jaded and cynical in her career, the awesome expanse of the convention managed to shake loose her sense of wonder and awe.

Now, all of that was numbed beneath guilt and mourning. Delahunt couldn’t help but think that if she hadn’t employed Hedspayce’s white-hat hackers in tracking down Ka55andra, her friend Amanda Cash would be alive today. A deeper emotion, rage, nagged at the edges of her haze of mourning.

She wanted revenge for her friend. Though she was part of Stony Man Farm’s elite cybernetics crew, Delahunt managed to keep her fiery temper cooled in relation to the atrocities that she encountered on a daily basis. She had a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that her computer wizardry enabled the two action teams of the Farm to go out and strike blows for justice against the predators of the world.

But Amanda was personal.

“This is Houston control to Carmen, come in.” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz’s voice cut through her daze. She turned and looked at the friendly, mustached face.

She pursed her lips, sending a command for a smile, but not quite making it. “Hi, Gadgets. You’re not with Carl?”

“Ironman wanted to do the cop thing, and he thought Pol and I would only get underfoot,” Schwarz answered.

Delahunt raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was telling the truth. It was likely, Carl Lyons had a tendency to engage in a bit of lone wolf activity, but she sensed that Schwarz and his partner, Rosario “Politician” Blancanales, were with her for another reason. Even as her suspicions were raised, she already noticed the nondescript, massive frame of a Secret Service command center truck in the parking lot.

“You think that Ka55andra might make a move here?” Delahunt asked.

“You caught me in a lie, Carm,” Schwarz said, shaking his head.

Blancanales made his way through the crowd toward the duo. He looked around before speaking. “This place has the potential to be a security nightmare.”

Schwarz shrugged. “It looks like the convention center staff is handling things well enough.”

“Sure, they can handle a rowdy crowd, and maybe a few creeps with switchblades. Maybe even someone with a .38 and an urge to blow away Bill Gates,” Blancanales noted. “But against someone…”

Able Team’s diplomatic Puerto Rican glanced at to Delahunt.

“You’re talking about the freak show that killed my best friend and her company staff,” she answered.

Blancanales nodded. “They’ll blow through this place like a tornado through a trailer park.”

“We just have to figure out when and where,” Schwarz replied.

“And who,” Blancanales added.

“Well, the President, and the deputy director of the Department of Homeland Security, Riddley Mott, are going to be appearing here Saturday,” Delahunt confirmed.

“Mott?” Schwarz asked. He threw a glance to Blancanales.

“Yeah,” Delahunt answered.

“He was in the Special Forces,” Blancanales said.

“We worked with him on a couple operations,” Schwarz added. “But even back then, he was a pompous, know-it-all ass.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard you guys grumbling about him when he was hired to the position of deputy director,” Delahunt answered.

“I’ll never forget the time he started into you for your parents being ‘wetbacks,’” Schwarz said to Blancanales.

“It was all Mack could do to keep me from pounding Mott to a pulp right then and there. I didn’t care if I got thrown in the brig. I was born in Puerto Rico, but my parents risked their lives to bring me to a country where I could grow up in a better place,” Blancanales replied. “My father and mother worked hard to become legitimate citizens after getting here, and I joined the Army as a way of repaying my new country. Me, a wetback?”

“It’s cool, Pol,” Schwarz began.

“Sorry, Gadgets,” Blancanales answered.

“He certainly cleaned up his act once he’d gotten into politics. He must have worked his ass off covering up all the stories about his old life,” Carmen stated. “Right now, he’s as bulletproof as you can get. A true-blue American patriot.”