Terminal Guidance

The mole was revealed to be Lewis Winch, an agent on Henning’s team. Henning had found proof that Winch had been in contact with Samman Prem at the man’s London office. Winch’s operational position at the counterterrorism unit would have given him the opportunity to know about U.S. and U.K. personnel who were victims in the recent wave of assassinations and the Peshawar bombing.

The note also detailed Winch’s home address in London.

Henning had signed the note “Gregory.”

McCarter called ahead. By the time he reached the hotel, James and Hawkins were waiting. They climbed into the new rental and McCarter pulled back into the traffic. He had already fed Winch’s address into the built-in sat-nav unit.

McCarter handed the note to James so he and Hawkins could read Henning’s information.

“How is he?” James asked.

“Not too good right now,” McCarter said, “but he’ll survive. This bastard Winch shot him on his own doorstep. Luckily for Greg, the bugger didn’t check his work.” McCarter muttered something under his breath, then said, “Next to sneaky buggers I hate amateurs.”

“Do we know if this Winch guy has backup?” Hawkins asked.

“Let’s assume he does,” McCarter said.

“Way you said that I take it you hope he does,” James said.

McCarter glanced at him, his face taut. “Is it a problem?”

James shook his head. “No. You shouldn’t need to ask, David.”

McCarter let out a hard breath. “No, I shouldn’t. It’s been a hell of a night.”

Winch lived in southwest London in, an older house standing back off the residential street. The frontage was studded with trees and hedges, with a short driveway leading up to the front door. A couple cars were parked in the drive. McCarter drove by, circled and turned back. He parked four houses short of Winch’s.

“Lights on all floors,” James said. “He’s got guests or he’s nervous. You want us to go around back? Come in from the rear?”

“Yeah,” McCarter said. “Put phones on vibrate and give me a call when you’re in position.”

Once out of the car, they moved along the sidewalk, James and Hawkins slipping out of sight along the low dividing wall at the side of the house next to Winch’s, leaving McCarter to his frontal approach.

The two agents pushed their way through thick hedges running the length of the house, trying to ignore the fine spray of rain that flicked off the vegetation as they disturbed it. They were glad they had decided to don waterproof topcoats from the car.

“Hold it,” James said, pressing a hand to Hawkins’s shoulder.

“Company?”

“Yeah.” Light from the rear of the house cast a semicircle of illumination across the lawn, and James had spotted the dark-clad figure pacing back and forth. “And that isn’t a garden tool he’s toting.”

In fact the man, clad in a bulky weatherproof jacket, was carrying a squat SMG.

Hawkins peered across his partner’s shoulder. “Looks like a suppressed MP-5,” he said. “And here we are with nothing but our faithful 9 mm Berettas.”

They wore the 92-F pistols, complete with suppressors, under their coats.

“Maybe this guy is part of the neighborhood watch,” James said.

“Right,” Hawkins said.

“We can’t stand here all night. David will start paging us any minute.”

“Let him know we’re in position and he can start the show,” Hawkins suggested. “If he makes some noise it might draw that guy toward the house.”

James took out his cell and tapped the speed dial for McCarter’s phone. “Hey, David, in position. Only we have a guy armed with an MP-5 blocking our way in.”

After James disconnected, Hawkins asked, “What did he say?”

“’Watch and learn,’” James answered.

MCCARTER POCKETED HIS CELL, took out his suppressed Browning Hi-Power and went up the steps. He scanned the door, assessing its makeup, and decided it wouldn’t present all that much of a problem. He took a couple steps back, then launched himself, shoulder first, at the barrier. There was toned muscle under the Briton’s coat. The impact broke the inner latch, sending the door wide open, smashing the glass panels inlaid in the upper section. McCarter followed on, the Browning held in both hands. The muzzle swept back and forth, searching the entrance hall.

An armed figure burst into view, attracted by the noise. The guy swept his SMG round to target the intruder. McCarter’s Hi-Power fired twice. Nine millimeter slugs slammed into the guy’s chest, over his heart, punching him back against the frame of the door he had just exited.

A figure moved at the head of the stairs ahead of McCarter. The Phoenix Force leader recognized him from the image Stony Man had sent.

“Winch, hold it right there,” he yelled, raising his Browning.

“No chance,” Winch said, and stepped to the side, vanishing behind the edge of wall.

McCarter went up the stairs fast, pulling out his cell and hitting speed dial.

“Don’t hang about,” he said into the phone. “It’s going down now.”

“LET’S MOVE, T.J.,” James said, and stepped from cover, his Beretta raised.

The armed guard spotted the Phoenix Force warrior. To his credit he was fast to react, the MP-5 arcing around, his finger already stroking the trigger. A stream of suppressed 9 mm slugs went over James’s head, taking chunks out of the brickwork. He felt slivers pepper the back of his neck.

“Down,” Hawkins yelled. As the black Phoenix Force commando dropped to a crouch, Hawkins tracked in with his Beretta and hit the moving gunner with a trio of 9 mm slugs.

The man went down, hitting the rain-soaked lawn on his back, the MP-5 spilling from his hands.

“As David would say, nice one, mate,” James said.

They moved quickly now, heading for French windows that stood partly open. The room beyond was dimly illuminated, but there was enough light to show James and Hawkins the armed figure approaching. The guy opened up with a stream of hissing 9 mm slugs that shattered glass and splintered wood in their faces…?.

CHAPTER SIX

McCarter reached the top of the stairs and swung to the right, where Winch had gone.

As he faced the corridor, a bulky figure launched itself in his direction. The guy was broad, with a shaved head and a thick mustache. He was not Lewis Winch. A short-bladed knife caught the light as he slashed at McCarter.

The Briton ducked under the sweeping blade, ramming his shoulder into the attacker’s midsection. The guy grunted as he felt the force of the lunge. McCarter kept pushing, wanting to knock him off balance. The problem was his adversary was not just broad, he was solid and well muscled. And quick. His free arm swept down and chopped at McCarter’s gun hand, knocking it aside. McCarter blocked the next swing of the knife, curling his own fingers around the man’s thick wrist and forcing the blade away from his body. They held each other motionless for seconds, each attempting to gain control.

McCarter had no intention of allowing the stalemate to continue. He had no time for delay. Every second wasted gave Winch more of an opportunity to evade capture. There was no way the Briton would allow that to happen.

He let go of his pistol, turned his body toward his opponent, brought up his right arm and executed a swift hip throw. The guy left the floor, a startled cry bursting from his lips as he was slammed down on his back. McCarter followed through, levering the man’s knife arm across his thigh until he heard bone crack. The knife slipped from his opponent’s fingers and McCarter scooped it up, half turned and sliced the blade across the exposed throat, cutting deep. Dropping the knife, he snatched up his Browning and sprinted along the corridor in pursuit of Winch.