Season of Harm

“You’re right,” Schwarz said. “I believe, with time, we can crack this code.”

“Knock it off,” Lyons grumbled. He put his hand to his face and then to the back of his aching head. “Analysis.”

“Clearly drop points,” Schwarz said. “Even better, turn it over.”

Pol realized that Schwarz was looking at something on the curled corner of the map. He flipped it and they saw another set of notations written in the margin next to one of the street grid listings. It read, “Van 1, Van 2, Van 3.” Under each of these headings was a list of product quantities with the letters H and M.

“Heroin,” Schwarz said, “and meth.”

“And three vans.” Lyons nodded. He immediately regretted moving his head that much.

“Looks like we’ve got the route they plan to use,” Blancanales said.

“And that’s powerful information for NetScythe,” Schwarz said. “We can use this to coordinate with the Farm and intercept those vans before they get where they’re going.”

“We know where they’re going, don’t we?” Lyons asked.

“Yes, but not when,” Schwarz said. “We can use this data so Barb and NetScythe can help us figure out when they’re likely to get there. Then we can arrange to be there right on schedule.”

“That I like,” Lyons said. “Call the Farm. Arrange for a cleanup crew out here. Let’s police up what we can and get gone before the cops come and start asking us about the body count. And let’s make sure this place doesn’t burn to the ground while we’re at it. No need to cause a forest fire.” He paused, making a sour face. “Also, make sure Barb knows that I saw Thawan but he got away.”

“Don’t sweat it, Ironman,” Schwarz offered. “We’ll get him.”

“Oh, we will,” Lyons said. “And when we do, I owe him a nearly broken face.”

“Payback?” Schwarz asked.

“Payback hell.” Lyons shook his head, groaning. “That’s just me saying hello.”

“I’d hate to see you say goodbye, then,” Schwarz said.

“So will Thawan,” Lyons vowed.

CHAPTER SIX

Outside Yangon, Union of Myanmar

The slight Chinese man, gaunt and wiry even for an Asian, was dressed in a loose-fitting pair of drawstring cotton trousers and a rumpled, matching shirt with baggy sleeves. The flowing garment had not entirely concealed the butt of the stainless-steel revolver in his waistband, next to his skin over his appendix. McCarter had taken note of that when they met and exchanged code phrases at the airport. The Briton didn’t know exactly how much in bribe money, international saber rattling or other geopolitical pressure had been brought to bear here in Myanmar. All that mattered was that the old Toyota Land Cruiser had been waiting for them, Customs hadn’t met or searched their chartered plane and nobody had challenged the men of Phoenix Force, who were carrying weapons most certainly illegal to the mere mortals on the ground in what had once been Burma.

Yangon, for that matter, was better known to most people as Rangoon. McCarter did not care much for the way various parts of the world, and the former British Empire, much to his chagrin, had been renamed, rebranded and repackaged in the past few decades…but then, nobody was asking him, and he had better things to be worrying about. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

The little Chinese man had introduced himself only as Peng. Price had transmitted a limited dossier from the Farm on the flight in. Peng’s name had been offered by Interpol when a discreet query regarding local assets was made through the international intelligence community’s various networks. The Farm had gotten word to Peng and he had simply turned up at a time and place specified, whereupon arrangements for his rendezvous with Phoenix were made. Supposedly he was intimately familiar with the Triangle’s operations, though why that was the case was either classified or unknown. McCarter had to admit that knowing so little about their guide, the man who was supposed to be the key to getting close to and inside the Triangle’s operation here in Burma, made him nervous.

Peng’s exact governmental affiliation was unspecified in his dossier, which meant it was secret. That told McCarter the man was a double agent of some kind, probably tied to the local intelligence services while working for, and feeding intel to, the Central Intelligence Agency. The specific agency might vary and Peng’s true story might be something else, but the Farm vouched for him as far as it could, which meant he was probably trustworthy.

Peng was Chinese Burmese, specifically, part of a community of Chinese immigrants to the nation, raised from childhood in Myanmar. From the look of him he might have been of mixed race; it would explain his skin tone, among other things. The Chinese Burmese population was widely known to be underreported in Myanmar. Standing officially at three percent, the true figure was probably much higher. That little factoid had been part of Price’s electronic briefing package.

Peng’s file also said that he spoke Burmese, Mandarin and English, as well as a couple of obscure dialects specific to upper Burma. He was supposed to be expert with small arms and no slouch with a blade—which, if McCarter’s eyes did not deceive him, he carried on a metal ball chain around his neck under his shirt. The little man had said nothing after their initial exchange, simply pointing in the direction they were to take the Land Cruiser once Phoenix Force was aboard and ready.

Grimaldi had stayed at the airfield to guard the plane and keep it ready for a fast departure. While it would have been nice to have his air support for the mission, they had been unable to secure a suitable local equivalent to the Cobra gunship Grimaldi had flown in Thailand. Other choppers were available, but they were unarmed civilian models. To McCarter’s mind the benefit of having Grimaldi’s eyes in the sky was not sufficient to risk turning the pilot into a target, albeit an airborne and moving one.

Through whatever technology and magic the NetScythe satellite employed, the Farm had been able to identify a facility in Burma that was, if not the termination of a Triangle drug trafficking line between Thailand and Myanmar, at least a major spoke in the network. The exact nature of the facility was unknown; satellite thermal imagery registered that it was there, in an area thick with vegetation. That was why Peng had been drafted for this duty; he was their local guide. He knew the terrain, knew the landmarks and knew the local crime scene. He would, at least in theory, stop them from reinventing any wheels as they performed their mission. If he had any thoughts about where he’d rather be or whether he wanted to be helping the Stony Man commandos penetrate what was looking like an increasingly isolated location miles from Yangon, he was keeping that to himself.

As if reading McCarter’s mind, Peng spoke up in English. His accent was noticeable but not impenetrable. “You will come to a fork in the road,” he said. “Take the right fork, and move slowly. We will have to stop frequently.”

“Stop for what?” T. J. Hawkins asked. He was driving the Land Cruiser. Peng was seated in the passenger seat. McCarter and the other members of Phoenix Force rode in the back of the big old SUV, whose suspension was functional but had obviously seen better days.

“We will need to stop to defuse each mine,” Peng said calmly.

“Wait, what?” Hawkins said, his drawl shortening as he looked at Peng with concern. “There are mines?”

“Every mile or so.” Peng nodded. “For the unwary.”

“Bloody hell,” McCarter muttered.

“So the Triangle are known by the locals to be operating here?” Encizo asked from the backseat.

“Of course,” Peng confirmed. “The operation is large enough that it would be impossible to hide. They do not try to hide it. The police, the military…they are paid to stay away. The Triangle protects its holdings with violence so total that none dare oppose it.”

From his seat between Encizo and James—Manning was sitting with the equipment in the rear cargo area—McCarter looked at Peng sharply. Something about the way the man had said that sounded bitter. The Briton found himself wondering precisely what the history between Peng and the Triangle might be.

“What’s the Triangle’s body count around here?” Calvin James asked.

Peng looked back over his shoulder at the black man. “Body count?” “He means,” McCarter said, “just how much damage do they do in the course of their operations? What price is paid to allow them to keep running?”

Peng was silent for a moment. He looked out the window as the scenery jounced past. “The price is high,” he said finally. “High for some, at any rate. The Triangle cares little for human life. All who get in the way, or those who are no longer useful, are discarded. Removed, like vermin…or like garbage. Many die. Many more are never seen again, and must be dead, but none can say.”

McCarter frowned. This was what they fought; this was the reason the trade in which the Triangle engaged was far from the victimless crime some would claim drug use to be. Demand for drugs in Western nations fueled regimes tolerant of this type of cancer. It supported murderers like the Triangle and, if McCarter was any judge of people, it led to the victimization of people like Peng, or of their friends and loved ones.

“Gary,” McCarter said, gesturing to Manning, “give him a hand when it comes to it.”

The big Canadian nodded. Peng made no comment. McCarter’s motives were not altogether altruistic; Peng was trustworthy enough, or so the Farm said, but McCarter wanted someone from the team to keep an eye on him during any activities as sensitive as dealing with explosives that could kill them all. He didn’t intend to let Peng out of their sight for the duration of the operation. Unless and until Peng did something that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not be compromised by the enemy, McCarter and the members of Phoenix Force would be careful around him. McCarter thought it unlikely that Peng would double-cross them, though. Unless he was an Oscar-caliber actor, his hatred for the Triangle was very real. That alone did not make him trustworthy, however. The former SAS commando had seen plenty of men lose their heads and do something rash out of blind hatred.

Hawkins guided the Land Cruiser through the ruts of the twisting dirt road. Tree and scrub cover closed in around them; the area had a lush, claustrophobic feel to it. They were on the cusp of the rainy season, which meant the temperatures weren’t too bad, and the morning shower had already fallen. McCarter was familiar enough with the country to know to expect more rain that afternoon, most likely.

“There,” Peng said, pointing to a hump of earth not far ahead. It looked identical to several other mounds they had passed or even driven over along the way.

“Why this one?” McCarter asked as Hawkins stopped the Land Cruiser.

“It is six,” Peng said. It took McCarter a moment to realize what the smaller man meant. Peng had been counting the mounds.

I just hope he doesn’t lose count as we go, he thought.

Peng climbed out of the Land Cruiser. Manning opened the rear hatch and climbed out over the gear, his Kalashnikov at the ready with the stock folded. McCarter watched as the big Canadian kept a close eye on Peng and on the surrounding area as Peng worked. The Chinese Burmese operative, using a small entrenching tool borrowed from the gear in the truck, dug out the end of the mound and exposed a large metal disk about the size of a dinner plate. A wire trailed from the center of the heavy disk and disappeared into the earth mound.

“There will be a string of these,” Peng explained, “perhaps six or seven, through the length of the mound. Pressure from a vehicle will detonate the string.”

“How powerful?” McCarter asked. He had gotten out of the truck and was standing by the passenger door.