Doom Prophecy

“Yeah. Remember my nickname,” Blancanales said. “Politician. Not just because of my diplomacy, but because I could put on a second face and prance around completely in character. If I came up to you tomorrow, in a full beard and my head as clean as the bottom of a bowl, I could have you going for an hour before I let you recognize me.”

Blancanales glanced toward the auditorium stage through the double doors. “Mott’s an actor, too. Except, he’s acting to save his ass. If people knew what a total jerk he was…”

“He wouldn’t have a job at the top of one of the biggest federal agencies in America,” Schwarz concluded. “An agency which, if it wanted, could squish the Farm if we got into his face.”

Blancanales frowned. “We never shirked away from doing the right thing before because the enemy was too powerful. And Striker never backed down, either.”

Delahunt nodded. “Pol, if we find anything out that’s fishy about Mott, we’ll bring him down. But right now, we’re supposed to be protecting the Department of Homeland Security.”

“Yeah, well, I thought the goal of the guy who proposed it was to decrease the size of government, not create a bloated bureaucracy,” Blancanales muttered.

“We can’t do everything by ourselves,” Schwarz answered.

“Yeah, but you’d think that American law enforcement could coordinate without this petty jurisdictional bullshit,” Blancanales quipped.

“The day that happens, I’ll hang up my shotgun,” a new voice cut in. The Able pair looked to their commander, Carl Lyons.

“Hey, Ironman,” Schwarz greeted.

“What is this? Point/Counterpoint?” Lyons asked.

“Just reminiscing about an old buddy of Pol’s and mine, Riddley Mott.”

“Oh, yeah, he was in the Special Forces, too,” Lyons said. He paused and looked at Delahunt. For a moment, his gruff exterior softened. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Delahunt looked up and smiled weakly. “Yeah, Carl, thanks.”

Lyons nodded.

“Listen, I’m going to my room and hop on the laptop. I want to see what Bear and the others have going,” Delahunt told them.

“Wait,” Lyons said. He handed her a few scraps of notebook paper. “I took impressions of bullet casings used in the massacre, and I have a list of likely suspects.”

“You do? But the police weren’t able to identify them yet.”

“No, they don’t have pictures from any security cameras, but they had descriptions. That, and their style at the crime scene gave me a strong hunch,” Lyons said.

Delahunt read the names. “Linn Keller. Jacob Cannon. David Lee Haggar. These are some pretty heavy hitters on the FBI’s most-wanted list.”

“I know,” Lyons answered. “I keep up to date on that. Have Bear run some checks to see if I’m barking up the right tree.”

“Knowing you, you’re probably dead on,” Delahunt said. “I’ll fax these over.”

“Thanks.”

She headed back to the hotel while Blancanales and Schwarz only looked at him.

“What?” the blond ex-cop asked.

“We’re just wondering who you are and what you did with the real Carl Lyons,” Blancanales said first.

“I’m betting it’s pod aliens,” Schwarz chimed in.

“You always think it’s pod aliens,” Blancanales returned.

“All right, all right, enough grab-assing,” Lyons snapped.

“Ah, he’s back to normal,” Blancanales said.

“Temporary alien mind control.” Schwarz chuckled.

Lyons popped Schwarz lightly on his shoulder. “Cool it, Mr. Wizard.”

Schwarz rubbed his arm, still chuckling. Even a light tap from the Ironman was enough to raise a painful bruise. “Okay, Mr. Stone.”

“We’ve got a lead?” Blancanales asked, slipping back into professional mode.

“If I know David Lee Haggar, he loves to hang out at biker bars,” Lyons said. “And in San Francisco, he’s rumored to hang out at the Skulls and Chains.”

“Not waiting for Aaron to confirm that Haggar was involved?” Schwarz asked.

“I think the proper terminology in police work is ‘interviewing a person of interest,’” Blancanales offered.

“Saying hi to a perp is still saying hi to a perp,” Lyons said. “You guys wearing your vests?”

“Just like my credit cards. Don’t leave home without them,” Schwarz quipped.

“Then let’s roll.” The Able Team leader grunted. “The sooner we find these murderers, the sooner Carmen…”

He trailed off, aware that Blancanales and Schwarz were smiling.

“The sooner we find the killers, the better,” Lyons concluded.

CHAPTER FOUR

Rafael Encizo kicked up through the black, murky water and glanced around. As soon as the second motor launch disappeared in a flash of orange flame and splinters, he dived into the harbor. Blinking droplets from his eyes, he looked around. He wasn’t concerned about immersion affecting the MP-5 for its brief dunking, but he wanted to know where his partner Calvin James had disappeared to. Johnstone and the rest of his crew had evacuated the boat, as well, and they were popping up through the surface around him.

Something grabbed Encizo’s ankle and he felt himself being yanked under again. In the inky-black waters, he could barely see the outline of a shadowy diver who hung on to him. He let go of the machine pistol and let it float on its sling, and pulled his knees tightly up to his chest. The stocky, Cuban-born Phoenix Force commando somersaulted toward his attacker, head and shoulders ramming into the chest of the enemy swimmer.

The impact and the leverage of Encizo’s tumble combined to pop his ankle free from the underwater killer’s grasp, and the Cuban reached up, hooking his fingers around the hose leading to the diver’s face mask. With a savage kick, he twisted again and hammered his knees into the attacker’s chest, yanking back with all his prodigious strength. While he wasn’t a weight-lifting powerhouse like Carl Lyons or Gary Manning, he was easily the second strongest member of Phoenix Force. His might was enough to tear the mouthpiece from the wetsuited marauder’s lips.

A knife scythed through the water and deflected off his body armor, Kevlar and water resistance teaming up to save Encizo from being instantly gutted. The swarthy Cuban diving expert pulled his own Cold Steel Tanto knife from its sheath and in a single fluid motion raked the chisel-shaped tip across the face of the killer. The enemy diver thrashed violently as the blade carved through one cheek between his teeth and out the other. An explosion of bubbles and black blood spiraled stormily to the surface.

Encizo’s lungs were starting to burn, so he knew he had to finish this quickly. A kick to the underwater attacker’s knife arm jarred the enemy blade loose. A hard tug on the hose connected to the swimmer’s tanks and the Phoenix Force diver pulled his foe closer and plunged his knife deep into the joint between the killer’s neck and shoulder. With a quick twist, he’d gotten his knife free, then wrapped his lips around the diver’s mouthpiece. He exhaled and sucked in a fresh lungful of air, the foul taste of the chemicals in a Draeger bubbleless rebreather filling his mouth.

No wonder the swimmers had snuck up on the boats. He looked around, trying to make sense of the situation, but saw only mayhem as bodies thrashed underwater. Taking another deep breath, he stomped his foot into the chest of the dead attacker and kicked toward the surface, hoping to find James.

As Encizo broke the surface, he noticed that Johnstone’s remaining forces had been halved yet again. The enemy swimmers had taken them by storm, and the one thing that the Phoenix Force pro knew was that he was a sitting duck if he stayed in the water.