Doom Prophecy

“Get in the jeep,” Stewart said without ceremony. Not a large man, he was lean and wiry, with dark eyes and a long nose.

McCarter didn’t take the comment as rudeness or impatience. He scanned the tree line again, then glanced back at Manning. The Canadian’s sharp eyes naturally sought out places where a stealthy rifleman could hide. As Phoenix Force’s usual sniper, Manning could anticipate where the enemy would most feel comfortable setting up a lethal, long-distance shot.

Manning continued to keep watch as Hawkins grabbed the Canadian’s gear and threw it in the back of the jeep. Once they were loaded up, the barrel-chested sniper came down the steps and slipped into the vehicle. The driver floored it and pulled away as the transport plane crawled along the tarmac toward its hangar.

“We’ve got company,” the burly, soft-spoken Canadian said.

“The plane’s moving and so are we,” Stewart stated.

“It’s not enough,” Manning answered. “Incoming!”

The asphalt behind them erupted in a fountain of flame, dust and stone chunks. McCarter whipped around and saw the telltale crater of an RPG rocket, a cottony cloud trailed from the impact zone, stretching back four hundred yards to the tree line.

Manning and Hawkins opened their rifle cases as McCarter pulled his updated Browning.

“Everyone else has to deal with lost luggage when they fly internationally,” the Briton snarled as automatic rifle fire crackled from the perimeter. “We get shot at in the bloody airport!”

“They’re out of range for your pistol, David,” Hawkins called out. He shouldered his M-486 rifle. Converted by John “Cowboy” Kissinger to the new Special Forces standard caliber 6.8 mm SPC round, the bigger, heavier bullet made the short-barreled rifle a precision killing machine, even at six hundred yards. With the Aimpoint scope mounted on the rifle, the Southern-born Phoenix Force shooter could easily pepper a target with a salvo of lead.

Hawkins swung his M-486 toward one set of targets. Two men were busily reloading an RPG rocket. Hawkins was about to trigger the rifle when one of the grenadiers suddenly jerked at the same time a crack sounded near the Southerner’s shoulder. He turned to see Manning adjust his aim and tag the second RPG man with a single shot from his Heckler & Koch MSG-90.

“Three more, eleven o’clock,” Manning whispered to Hawkins. He gave the American a wink and swung to engage more targets with his marksman’s rifle.

Hawkins picked up on the targets that his Canadian partner pointed out to him and ripped into them with a trio of short bursts. The 6.8 mm round performed as it was designed to. At 450 yards, the rifle slugs smashed into the marauders and nailed their corpses to the ground. Meanwhile, Manning calmly picked off single shots.

McCarter watched the proceedings as he pulled his own M-486 out of its carrying case. He fed it a fresh magazine and realized that most of the marauders were still five hundred yards out, and still closing with the airfield. Sentries reacted to the newcomers, but even so, the combined rifle work of Manning and Hawkins took away targets as they appeared.

The Phoenix Force leader shouldered his weapon and spotted that another group had penetrated the perimeter at ninety degrees to the main force. He judged, with the aid of his scope, that they were about 350 yards away. They had cut through a gully that was overseen by two guard towers. A quick glance confirmed for McCarter that the guards in the towers were dead, sniped from the ditch before they’d had a chance to react.

“They’re a diversionary force,” McCarter called as he swept a line of long-range slugs across the new attackers. Since they were now only a little over three hundred yards from the jeep, they were well within range for their AK-47s. “T.J.!”

“I’m on you, boss,” Hawkins snapped back.

Manning turned and gave them cover fire. Between the efforts of the Phoenix Force trio, the squad of marauders trying to rush the airstrip was caught in a triple salvo of Stony Man lead. Enemy rifle fire skipped and skidded across the tarmac, the attackers aiming too low, their weapons falling short of the jeep, at least until one bullet ricocheted into the wheelbase of the vehicle. Tire blown out, the driver struggled to keep the 4X4 from lurching, but McCarter, Manning and Hawkins were hurled from their positions.

McCarter slid out of the shotgun seat, centrifugal force tossing him around like a doll. He hit the tarmac and rolled instinctively, feeling the breeze of the jeep’s fender barely miss the small of his back. If he hadn’t gotten out of the way, his vertebrae would have been crushed and he’d be left, paralyzed on the airfield. His M-486 clattered out of his reach, bouncing several yards away.

Even the sturdy Manning had trouble staying seated, but he’d managed to hold on to his rifle.

McCarter looked up, sore from his impact on the concrete. He watched the marauding gunmen grow closer, rifles chattering. He started for his M-4 when a bullet bounced off the tarmac and whizzed too close to his thigh.

The enemy was getting their range, and the Phoenix Force leader was caught, unarmed.

CARL LYONS FLASHED his federal badge as he entered the former offices of HedSpayce, Inc., but even as he walked in from the street, the sight of white outlines where San Francisco police officers had fallen tore at his soul like a vulture at carrion. He was no stranger to murder scenes, and by far, he’d seen enough murdered policemen in his days as a cop and as the leader of Able Team. Seeing the first murdered cop was too much for Lyons. To him, cop killers were among the lowest of scum.

Inside the large warehouse loft office, evidence technicians and photographers were hard at work. Lyons frowned.

The description of the criminals, from the surviving officer who first responded to the scene, were unusual. One was a giant of a man, with a shock of red hair. Another was the exact opposite, a four-foot-tall dwarf carrying an odd little silver bottle-like weapon that sliced through squad car doors as if they were tissue paper. The third was a tall, scrawny, snakelike man who moved with boneless grace and speed, dodging and weaving out of the path of oncoming bullets while he cut loose with a pair of handguns.

The Able Team leader was a workaholic, constantly studying rap sheets and files on known terrorists, mercenaries and criminals. In his line of work, he had to know his enemy. The trio’s descriptions nagged at Lyons’s memory as he squatted, sticking a pen through the casing of a long, narrow bullet.

“We’re trying to figure out what kind of ammunition that is, sir,” a technician wearing white, paper coveralls said. “Do you have any idea?”

“It’s 5.7 mm X 27 mm,” Lyons answered as he examined at the casing.

“We thought it might be some kind of rifle round. What kind of gun uses that?” the tech asked.

“It’s a new, proprietary round from Fabrique Nationale. The reason you guys never came across it is because it’s issued to police departments and special military units for the FN P-90 submachine gun and the Five-seveN pistol,” Lyons explained. He squinted at a pair of ring-shaped imperfections on the casing. He looked at the floor and saw several empty links.

“Do you know if there’s any gun that has belt links for the 5.7?” the technician asked.

“No production weapon that I know of,” Lyons answered. He looked at a metallic half ring on the floor. “May I?”

The tech handed Lyons a pair of latex rubber gloves and the ex-cop put them on. He picked up a belt link. “Too small to get any prints.”

Lyons nodded toward a fingerprint kit the evidence cop carried. He dusted the link, but it was clear of whorls and swirls. “The dwarf was said to have a belt-fed gun that cut through even police car doors.”

“Right. The 5.7…?”

“It’s armor-piercing. Designed to cut through body armor. A Crown Victoria wouldn’t stand a chance,” Lyons replied.

“Scary shit in the hands of a bad guy.”

“Looks like the dwarf was smart enough to wear gloves when he was preparing his ammunition,” Lyons muttered. He stood and looked at the crime scene. The floor was peppered with markers where empty cartridges ejected and littered the floor.

“You color coded the markers,” Lyons noted.

“Right. Yellow for those weird cases,” the tech began. “Red for the 9 mm ammo. Blue for the 12-gauge shells.”

Lyons looked at the floor. “Do you have an example of the 9 mm and 12-gauge?”

“Sure, but—”

“I’ll just make an imprint on a piece of paper,” Lyons answered.

The tech nodded and got a couple pieces of notepaper and a pencil.

While he ran the pencil across the bases of each cartridge through the paper, he thought about the crime scene.

This had a mixed feel to it. As an investigator, Lyons developed a sense of how a murder took place, just by standing at the scene. Even before the days of evidence markers, he could feel the vibes from a crime. Here, the vibes were mixed. This was at once an act of passionless slaughter and a thrill kill committed by madmen.

The dwarf stayed still. He could see the shape of his fallen brass, and he stood still, spraying the office with precision bursts. Like a turret. No chasing after victims. No exposing himself to more danger than he had to. The little guy was a pro, and he was at the center of things.

All his brass of the one with the 9 mm pistol was centered around a bloodless tape outline.

“Who was killed here?” Lyons asked.

“Amanda Cash, owner of the company. She was strangled and her neck was broken,” the technician said.