Gathering Storm

“Okay.”

McCarter put in a call to Manning and gave him an update.

“Let’s hope they don’t decide to do something drastic like hit the ship,” McCarter said. “Losing a piece of action is making these guys a little tetchy.”

“Let’s hope your meet goes smoothly,” Manning said.

MCCARTER PULLED UP outside Regan’s warehouse, cutting the engine of the battered Jeep 4x4 he’d rented from a local contact. He checked out the dock area. It appeared deserted, but the Briton never took anything on face value. There were a hundred places where a man with a weapon could hide. Taking that thought to its logical conclusion, McCarter realized there could be a hundred armed men in hiding. It was a sobering thought. Enough to make him pull a pack of Player’s cigarettes from his pocket and fire one up. The smoke he took in eased his tension a little. McCarter exhaled and glanced quickly at his watch. Almost time.

At the far end of the dock a car appeared, easing around the edge of the most distant warehouse. It moved forward slowly, headlights picking out McCarter’s parked Jeep. The Phoenix Force leader reached across to make sure his Browning was still beside him on the passenger seat.

The advancing car came to a stop twenty feet away. Both front doors opened and Regan’s hardmen stepped out. They moved to the rear doors and opened them. McCarter saw Regan step out of one door. The man who emerged from the other side of the car was unknown to the Phoenix Force commander. Dressed in a dark suit and shirt, even down to a black tie, he stayed a few steps behind Regan, who led the way along the dock until he was no more than a couple of feet from the Jeep.

“At least you’re on time, Bubba,’’ he said as McCarter stepped from his vehicle.

“And I’ve brought your samples.”

McCarter turned to the rear of the Jeep and lifted out a rolled tarp. He carried it to the front of the vehicle and laid the tarp on the hood. McCarter unrolled the bundle to expose two M-16 A-2 rifles, one fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher. There was also a Beretta 92-F and a LAW rocket launcher.

Regan stepped forward to look over the weapons.

“Go ahead,” McCarter said. “They won’t fall apart.”

Regan picked up one of the M-16s and examined it thoroughly. He knew his weapons, expertly stripping the rifle and reassembling it with practiced ease. He did the same with the Beretta.

“Good condition,” he said. “If I asked where you got them?”

“You’d get the same answer I would if I asked who you banked with.”

Regan chuckled. He turned to his rear seat passenger. “You want to check these out?”

The man moved forward into a patch of light. He was lean, his complexion dark, a trimmed beard and mustache covering the lower half of his face. He wore steel-rimmed glasses. He barely glanced at McCarter as he reached out to pick up one of the Berettas, turning it over, working the slide. Once he had the weapon in his hands his attitude visibly changed. His stance relaxed, his gaze fixed on the pistol. The weapon worked like a drug, soothing him. He nodded slowly, his lips moving as he carried on some inner conversation with himself, slender fingers caressing the smooth, cool metal.

McCarter felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. The man was a little creepy, he decided. The Briton glanced across at Regan, who returned his gaze and offered a brief shrug.

The prospective buyer placed the Beretta back on the tarp. He gathered his thoughts and cleared his throat.

“Excellent. I believe we can make our trade. You know what we require, Regan. The price as agreed. I will bring cash. U.S. dollars. Make your arrangements.” He offered McCarter the briefest of glances. “I will take delivery myself.”

He turned then and made his way back to the car, leaving McCarter and Regan alone on the dock.

“I thought he was going to make a bloody date with that Beretta,” McCarter said.

“As long as his money is genuine, I don’t care if he takes the fuckin’ thing to bed with him, Bubba.”

“Regan, you’re all heart.”

“Ain’t I just. You got enough stock on that boat to fill this order?”

“No problem. Just tell me where and when.”

“Right here. How about this evening? Around eight?”

McCarter wrapped his weapons back in the tarp. He placed them in the rear of the Jeep.

“I’ll have the boat in the harbor, waiting for my call,” he said to Regan.

Regan nodded and turned back toward his car.

McCarter waited until he was alone before he took out his cell phone and called Manning.

“ID confirmed. The buyer is Kamal Rasheed.”

“Have you arranged the deal?”

“Eight o’clock tonight. Regan’s warehouse.”

“I’d better let Jack know. We want him standing by at the airstrip. This is where it could get hairy.”

“It’s been quiet up to now,” McCarter said. “I don’t feel comfortable with the setup.”

“You worry too much.”

“Somebody has to.”

MANNING CONTACTED Jack Grimaldi. The Stony Man pilot was waiting at a small airstrip a few miles along the coast from Cristobal. He had an old but fully maintained Douglas DC-3 on standby, ready to airlift Phoenix Force out of the country. He had flown in two days earlier after receiving a signal from Manning. In Santa Lorca, anything more sophisticated landing at the airstrip would have aroused deep suspicion and questions.

“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Grimaldi had said after Manning had advised the deal was to go through the following evening. “This going to be a quiet farewell party? Or do I break out the flak jackets?”

“Anybody’s guess, Jack. You know how these things can change. David did have some unwelcome visitors at his hotel. Santa Lorca Mafia tried to scare him off.”

“Wish I’d been there to see that.”

“Just keep your eyes open in case. I have a feeling when we come to hitch our ride we’ll be in a hurry.”

“No problem. Let me know when you’re getting close.”

Manning cut the call and turned to Rafael Encizo. “Let’s go check the charges.”

Encizo nodded and the Phoenix Force pair went belowdecks to check out the thermal charges Manning had installed in the motor vessel’s hold. They were more for protection than anything else, a noisy distraction in case the team needed to make a rapid withdrawal.

JACK GRIMALDI HAD the DC-3 ready and waiting by late afternoon. He had topped up the fuel supply, paying the owner of the strip in cash. The man had retreated to his control hut, putting up the shutters for the rest of the day.

With the instincts of a born pilot, Grimaldi had spent the previous few hours running checks on the aircraft. It wasn’t in his nature to leave anything to chance. Faults that occurred at fifteen thousand feet took on a significance that might not have seemed so bad on the ground. Grimaldi had too much respect for his, and the team’s, lives to allow something like that to happen.

With the DC-3 locked down, Grimaldi retreated to the cockpit. He had the plane positioned so he could see the approach road from Cristobal. He settled into the pilot’s seat and leaned over to check the 9 mm Uzi and Beretta 92-F stored at his side.

Satisfied, he relaxed and wound down to wait. As a backup pilot for the Sensitive Operations Group, much of Grimaldi’s time was spent waiting. He usually didn’t resent it. His was one of those functions that required him to be there when he was wanted, and when that time came he had to be on the spot, with all engines running. He got involved in the action from time to time, and always acquitted himself well. Jack Grimaldi was no slouch when it came to battle. Conversely he had learned the combat soldier’s creed of always resting when the situation allowed. The same applied to food and drink. Any break in hostilities meant weapons checks, food and rest. Once the heat was turned up again there was no way of telling when there would be another lull. So refueling, mentally and physically, were the priorities. Grimaldi’s mentor, Mack Bolan, had opened the ace pilot’s eyes to these unwritten rules. He had taken them to heart and lived by those rules every time he went on a mission.