Close Quarters

“We’re taking fire!” Manning said.

“Un-ass this AO!” McCarter shouted.

Fortunately the Phoenix warriors had debarked from the plane with concealed pistols so they weren’t entirely unarmed. Hawkins ordered Russell to help him wrestle Encizo from beneath the overturned bags while McCarter, James and Manning broke free of their confines and crawled to the rear and a shattered back window. Manning removed the jagged shards at the edge of the frame with a few swift kicks of his boot before lurching through it feet first, propelled by grabbing the crossbar typically used for standees. Clear of the wreckage, Manning took one knee and produced a .45-caliber Colt Government Model pistol from shoulder leather. He panned the rear flanks with the muzzle of the pistol but didn’t detect any muzzle-flashes. Either the enemy had taken concealment or they were positioned on the opposite side. Their stopping point with the nose of the shuttle bus facing the leeward edge of the road may have well been their only saving grace, and Manning thought it made good sense to take maximum advantage of such good fortune.

James and McCarter followed him out and Manning briefed them.

“You two cut around and head toward those trees,” McCarter directed. “See if you can draw their fire.”

The pair nodded and left the position of safety without hesitation.

The chatter of full-auto reports—some kind of light squad weapon, Manning and James guessed—reached their ears as they dashed for the tree line. Rounds bit at the ground just ahead of their path, churning dust and stone chips from the gravel road as the enemy gunner tried to gauge an appropriate lead. They reached the trees unharmed and dived into the cover of deep grass and thick, gnarled tree trunks.

“That was too close!” James observed.

Manning nodded in agreement and said, “We’re not dealing with novices.”

The Canadian risked a glance through a gap in two ground vines and spotted the winks of flame from the muzzle of the machine gun just a heartbeat before it stopped. Manning pointed in that direction and James nodded. The pair raised their pistols, Manning leveling his .45 and James wielding a 9 mm H&K P-2000. They opened up hot on the enemy position, pumping as much lead as they could downrange. Maybe they wouldn’t hit their target but at least they could keep the heat off their friends long enough to buy them time to get clear of the vehicle.

* * *

AS SOON AS MANNING AND James took off, McCarter turned and headed in the opposite direction with a Browning Hi-Power in hand.

As he ran along the road, hunched to minimize his profile, the Phoenix Force leader listened for the direction of the fire. The targets his friends presented had obviously commanded the full attention of the enemy gunner because McCarter didn’t detect any rounds buzzing over his head or chewing the ground at his feet. He ran toward a large rock near a copse of trees and dived for cover. McCarter grinned when he peered around the rock and got his first look at the enemy position. He had a clear line of sight, and even through the shadows provided by the tree line he could see two of his opponents.

McCarter took careful aim on one of his targets, estimating the distance at fifty yards, and waited until his friends opened up from their position. He stroked the trigger twice. Both 9 mm Parabellums hit their mark and McCarter detected just the faintest hint of spray, confirming once more the reason he’d taken home prize after prize for his pistol marksmanship. The hits took their enemy by surprise, obviously, because McCarter perceived a bit of scrambling among those trees and heard a shout.

Maybe they no longer had the advantage of surprise, but McCarter figured at least this one time he’d made it count for something.

* * *

T. J. HAWKINS PANTED, the muscles in his shoulders bunched like knotted cords as he dragged the unconscious Rafael Encizo through the opening and down the shallow slope of the road that provided a defilade. Russell followed on his heels and dropped to his belly in a cloud of dust.

“You. Stay here and watch him,” Hawkins ordered. He handed Russell his pistol and said, “You don’t leave his side for any reason. Got it?”

Russell took the weapon with unflinching resolve and nodded, his lips pressed into a thin set.

Hawkins slapped his shoulder, then dashed back to the shuttle bus and dived inside. He quickly located the duffel bag he sought. He unsnapped the clips with practiced efficiency, reached inside and came away with exactly what he’d hoped. The M-4 A1/M-203 A1 was the perfect small-arms weapon in Hawkins’s mind. Not only had the weapon proved itself through its parent model, the M-16 A2, but its lighter weight and compact profile made it perfect as a tactical operations alternative to the full-size deal. Hawkins reached into the bag again and withdrew two readied 30-round magazines, one of which he inserted into the well.

A yank of the charging handle brought the weapon into battery. Hawkins searched the wrecked vehicle like a dog mad on a scent until he found the hard box that contained 40 mm HE grenades. He loaded one into the breech of the M-203 A1—a special military variant of the M-203 designed specifically for the M-4 A1—and stuffed two more into the pocket of his khaki trousers.

Hawkins cleared out and rounded the corner of the shuttle bus. He immediately flattened to the ground, avoiding a volley of high-velocity rounds that burned the air just above him. Hawkins had the leaf sight up and in position. He estimated his distance at sixty yards max, settled the stock of the M-4 A1 tight against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The pop and kick from the grenade launcher mimicked that of about a 12-gauge shotgun but the results were much more spectacular. The high-explosive blew on impact, blowing the machine gun position and its owner apart in a fifteen-foot tower of flame.

Hawkins pressed the attack by following with a second grenade before charging the position and triggering short bursts on the run. He looked to his flanks and saw McCarter, James and Manning leave their own positions to provide covering fire. Hawkins produced a rebel war cry as he continued to advance on the

enemy’s position—or what was left it—his M-4 A1 spitting 5.56 mm rounds at anything that appeared to move. The four warriors converged on the tree line simultaneously with weapons blazing, more intent on keeping heads down and shocking the enemy into panic or retreat than on taking viable targets. Hawkins had expended his first magazine by the time they breached the position, and rammed the second one home as he knelt and gestured for the others to continue forward while he provided cover.

The other three Phoenix Force warriors crashed through the trees, careful to circumvent the immediate area seared by superheated gases and what was left in the wake of the twin grenades. They expanded their search and found three bodies. McCarter was certain one of them was the one he’d shot, while the other two were close to one another just behind the smoking, broken shell of a machine gun wedged in the mud.

“The gunner and his spotter, more than likely,” Manning said.

“You think this was it?” Hawkins asked.

“No bloody way to tell, mate. But I’m guessing if there were any others they’re moving away from here as fast as possible.”

James stared into the darkened jungle and said, “That’s okay. We’ll catch up with them later.”

“Bet on it,” McCarter agreed.

The four men retreated to the vehicle and James immediately began to work his magic on Encizo, performing a full assessment and breaking out smelling salts and water. Hawkins and Manning provided a loose

perimeter while Russell helped McCarter salvage whatever equipment and weapons they could find. McCarter only had to look at the body of the driver for a moment to know the guy was long gone.

Yeah, they would catch up to whoever had done this.

And there’ll be bloody hell to pay when we do, David McCarter thought.

Miami, Florida

THE WINDOW AIR-CONDITIONING unit produced a drone as it blasted ice-cold air into the hotel room. Able Team hadn’t picked the choicest place in town to stay but it was large, clean and comfortable. They’d immediately changed their plans with Harland including switching vehicles, accommodations and wardrobe. They now sat ranged around the small coffee table of the suite.

Schwarz sat back on the couch and propped his feet on the table. “Ah, now this is more like a vacation.”

Blancanales had just returned from the kitchen and handed a bottle of water to Harland before cracking the top on his own. As he plopped next to Schwarz on the couch, his friend asked, “Where’s mine?”

“In the fridge,” Blancanales said as he took a long pull and smacked his lips. “Ah, very refreshing.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t get me one.”

“I’m not your mother.”

“Shape it up, you two,” Lyons said, rubbing vigorously at his blond hair, wet from the shower. “We have weapons to clean and decisions to make.”

The cell phone at Lyons’s belt signaled for attention with the theme from Mission Impossible.

“Really?” Schwarz said. “Really, Ironman?”

Lyons’s waggled his eyebrows before he answered, “It’s your nickel.”

He turned and left after listening a moment, retreating to the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

“Must be a new girlfriend,” Blancanales said, although he knew otherwise.

“He’s been so mysterious lately,” Schwarz quipped.

The pair sat and watched television with Harland for about five minutes before Lyons emerged from the bedroom. His face had colored a dark hue. Blancanales and Schwarz realized he hadn’t liked whatever he’d heard, a fact that became even more evident when Lyons stormed across the living area, grabbed Harland by the shirt and hauled the young man out of the overstuffed chair. Lyons dragged Harland into the center of the room, yanked his arm behind his back and shoved him to his knees.

“Ironman, what the hell—” Blancanales began.