Unified Action

At the kitchen table Schwarz was quickly mixing a small amount of commercial glue taken from desk supplies in the apartment with common tap water. He worked methodically while the computer next to him began warming up.

“Where’s your badge?” the woman demanded, trying to turn the tables.

Lyons smiled at her and lifted one big, blunt finger to his lips. “Sshh. You felt my badge upside your head just a minute ago.”

“Someone will have heard that pistol shot,” she warned. “They will call the police.”

“In this neighborhood? In the middle of a riot? For a car backfire?” Lyons shook his head gently and the girl slumped into the chair.

Blancanales came back into the room carrying a black canvas backpack. “She found the safe,” he said, and dumped her pack out onto the table next to where Schwarz was working.

“She crack it?” Lyons demanded.

“Nope, but she would have,” Blancanales answered. “I found this.”

The Puerto Rican Special Forces veteran lifted out a black electronic device the size of a commercial Pocketbook computer with two coaxial cables dangling from it. The implement was a top-of-the-line digital safecracker. Lyons let out a long, slow whistle of appreciation.

“That’s not exactly gear I would associate with a common street burglar,” he said.

The woman looked away. From the kitchen table behind her Schwarz scanned his fingerprint sample into the safehouse computer. “I’m sending it through now,” he said into his com link.

The Stony Man supercomputers would compute a match at speeds that far outstripped the power of the field station equipment.

“Why don’t you save me some time, lady,” Lyons snapped. “No one’s buying the burglar act.”

“Who are you?” the woman asked, voice steady.

Lyons opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Schwarz, the man’s voice thick with sardonic irony.

“Who are we, Ms. Felicity Castillo?” Schwarz laughed. “As of now, we’re your contacts.” He turned toward Lyons. “She’s one of ours.”

Lyons got a look of disgust on his face. “I already hate this fucking town.”

CHAPTER SIX

Kyrgyzstan

“Phoenix to Stony Man,” McCarter said. There was only silence in answer. Surprised by the lack of response, McCarter put his finger up against his communications device, tapping it slightly. “Stony?” he repeated.

There was still no answer. He looked over to where Calvin James squatted in the dark, weapon at the ready. James looked at him expectantly and the Briton nodded once.

“Phoenix to Stony,” James tried. The medic shook his head. “Nothing.”

Each of the remaining team members attempted to make contact, but none of their geo-sat uplinks were working. In the space of a heartbeat Phoenix Force found itself cut off from the outside world.

McCarter turned toward the hulking form of Gary Manning. “Jammer?”

The big Canadian Special Forces veteran nodded his head slowly. “Sure. It’s possible. But it’d have to be a little more upscale than we’d expect from a crew of local clowns like the ones we’re supposed to hit. I suppose it’s just as possible we have low-earth-orbit interference.”

“The plot deepens,” Encizo muttered.

“We still going to make the meet?” Hawkins asked.

McCarter nodded. “I’ll put Hawkins out on flank in an overwatch position. Manning will move forward, then set up the machine gun for a secondary angle of fire. The rest of us will go in paranoid.”

“Let’s do it,” James agreed.

Phoenix Force moved out in a slow accordion formation toward their RZ, or rendezvous point. U.S. intelligence had set up a meeting with a local indigenous asset who would provide them with materials and transportation their rapid response infiltration had made impossible to bring with them.

In this case a local smuggler friendly to Western money had agreed to supply them with a heavy-bodied diesel engine truck of the type used by local military units. Calvin James carried a fanny pack filled with local currency in the sum of eighteen thousand U.S. dollars.

Such pay-to-play operations were inherently dangerous for obvious reasons, but were common in tribal regions removed from the influence of a centralized government. Cold hard cash had become as much of a tool in the paramilitary operators’ arsenal as carbines and shape charges.

The three-man fire team consisting of McCarter, James and Encizo slid into position behind a screen of sturdy mountain shrubs with oily, cold-resistant leaves and sticklike branches. Ahead of them they saw the old truck sitting beside the dirt road that eventually led into town.

The night was silent except for the wind through the pines. Nothing moved out beyond their perimeter. McCarter lifted his weapon and utilized his night scope in precise patterns, covering vectors in a methodical manner. He could detect no sign of obvious human presence.

James leaned in close and whispered into the Briton’s ear. “You see the driver door is open?”

McCarter nodded. A bar of shadow separated the gloomy metal gray of the door from the body of the cab. The hair on the back of the ex–SAS commando’s neck began to rise in almost preternatural warning.

“Feeling hinky,” he muttered.

“Big time,” James agreed.

Encizo shifted his weight and leaned in toward the other men. “I’ll slide up and check it out.”

McCarter frowned as he realized the exposure the man was vulnerable to, but then nodded. If the plan was going to unfold, they needed the truck. Giving up on the truck at this juncture meant giving up on the hostage. He wasn’t willing to do that until he had exhausted every possibility.

Encizo carefully rotated his Soviet-era submachine gun around on its sling until it hung muzzle down across his back. He pulled his silenced pistol from a shoulder holster on his web gear and silently disappeared into the dark.

McCarter waited patiently, James at his side. The two men scanned the darkness as clouds began to gather overhead, further obscuring the terrain. Long, tense minutes later James quietly nudged McCarter with his elbow.

The Phoenix Force leader turned away from his survey of the far side of the roads and watched the dark shadow of Rafael Encizo slide out of the ditch next to the back of the truck. Both men gripped their weapons tightly.

Encizo moved like water flowing over the ground, staying low to present a subdued silhouette as he edged toward the front of the big truck. Carefully using his free hand to peel back the canvas tarp covering the cargo bed of the five-ton vehicle, he held his position, peering inside. Satisfied, he gently lowered the edge of the tarp back into place and crept forward.

Moving in silent increments he approached the open door to the vehicle cab. The blunt muzzle of his pistol silencer led the way like a hunting dog on point. He reached up with his free hand and made contact with the truck, checking for trip wires or other obvious booby traps.

Suddenly he put a combat foot on the running board and stepped up, swinging the door open and leveling the pistol. Behind him McCarter and James tensed, mentally prepared for a sudden hellstorm of gunfire.

Encizo froze for a moment in the open doorway, his broad-shouldered back orientated toward his teammates, making it impossible for them to see past him. After a long, pregnant pause, the Cuban turned and hauled something out of the truck before jumping down.

McCarter swore silently as he saw the limp body strike the hard-packed dirt road like a sack of loose meat. His eyes ran over the corpse with an expert forensic eye. The head was obviously concave on one side, either from a point-blank firearm shot or some blunt instrument.

If the ambush was going to come it was going to come now, he realized. His finger took up the slack on the smooth metal curve of his trigger. Beside him he felt James stiffen in readiness. Across the little clearing Encizo had taken a knee with his back to the truck. His pistol was back in its holster and his submachine gun was now up and ready in his hands.

Nothing happened.