Doom Prophecy

“Do you have a photograph?”

The tech handed over a copy. “We’re using digital cameras, and printing up with a mobile printer.”

“Good quality. Very useful,” Lyons said. He looked at the woman’s face. He remembered that this was Carmen Delahunt’s friend, and he shoved a pang of regret deep into the recesses of his subconscious and let his analytical mind take over. There, the regret for his friend’s loss could smolder, building into a flame to add to his fury over the loss of fellow officers. There, his mind could harden, and he’d be in the right frame of mind to handle this trio of mystery killers. He could hone that anger, that rage, into a razor-sharp precision edge with which he could rip through the murderers. His friends and superiors often described Lyons as a berserker, but that wasn’t the case. While his rampages could be legendary, his fury was controlled. He’d never take an innocent life, he’d never harm anyone on his side. He’d talk and grumble a good show, but when it came down to the line, the powder keg of retaliation burning down in the middle of his powerful frame was as focused as a laser, despite its destructive force.

Berserkers didn’t care who they hurt. Lyons took his rampage of revenge and laid every ounce of seething anger and hatred on top of the guilty. And he washed it away completely in his torrent of action. He never let it stick with him, and after every battle, he cleansed his mind. No lingering bitterness stayed, nothing to harden his mind and soul against the suffering of those he put his life on the line for. Everything gouted out of him like a stream of napalm, immolating his foes.

He looked at Cash’s face, keeping his conscious mind clear, analytical. She was racked with fear and sorrow. Her bulging eyes and furrowed brow showed that she watched most, if not all, of her friends, partners and co-workers slaughtered by the three-man wrecking crew. The freak who strangled her wanted her to watch, wanted her to feel that loss. It wasn’t enough for her to suffer only an instant with a 9 mm bullet in her head. It wasn’t enough to live through the agony of being strangled to death. Lyons knew that the killer wanted her to watch shock after horror after atrocity. The murderer probably fired over her shoulder and allowed her see where every one of his bullets stuck home.

It had to have been the thin man, the one who was like a snake. He may have looked scrawny, but it took a hundred pounds of force to shatter bone. To do that with one arm, it took strength that could only be surpassed by the giant, who waded into the cubicles after tossing a human being like a missile. But the snake, he was a constrictor. He loved the feel of a squirming victim against his chest. If he hadn’t been a killer for hire, he’d have become a serial killer.

That left the giant. The man-mountain had waded in, and that told Lyons two things. One, he trusted the dwarf’s aim. Two, he was like Lyons in that he preferred his violence at point-blank range. That was where their similarities ended, however. The mammoth who stampeded through the cubicle farm was a beast who unleashed a murderous rage upon unarmed, helpless victims. He reveled in being splattered with blood from contact-range shotgun blasts, and enjoyed the feel of bodies crushed in his massive fists.

Amanda Cash was just one of five victims who didn’t die of gunshot wounds, but as opposed to the pretty redhead, the others died swiftly. Smashed to pieces by being hurled through office equipment or having their necks broken by savage twists or brutal punches. The titanic killer was a professional, and thorough, shooting his victims in the head to make sure they were down, but there was a lethal fury at work in this killer, a desire to crush and pulp those smaller and weaker than he was.

Lyons got an imprint off the linking ring, and the 5.7 mm casing before he left. The papers would be faxed to Stony Man Farm in an effort to trace the ammunition lots that the murderers used. It would provide some kind of clue, but looking at the trio’s work, the Able Team leader had figured out the identities of the murderers.

Linn “Gremlin” Keller, a miniature master designer of weapons, embittered by shady business practices. He sold his skills as not only a gunsmith and arms supplier, but also as a killer.

David Lee Haggar was called The Mammoth when he was in the underground fight circuit. He reveled in killing with his hands, but also enjoyed the splash of gore present when a shotgun exploded in a victim’s face. After being wanted for several deaths in the ring, he decided to make his living as an assassin, hooking up with the tiny Keller, who designed weapons for the titan’s massive paws.

And the thin man was Jacob “The Snake” Cannon. Exbiker, meth dealer, with a rap sheet that pointed toward him being a serial rapist and an unashamed cop killer. The wild-card madman had to have hooked up with the other two, feeling a kinship with them.

Lyons had figured out who they were, but he didn’t know where they were or where they would strike next.

The only thing he knew for sure was that he was going to lead Able Team against them, and bring them down hard.

He owed the San Francisco Police Department, and Carmen Delahunt, that much.

CHAPTER THREE

Calvin James and Rafael Encizo stood on the prow of the small launch as it chugged through the junks moored in Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbour. The sprawl of floating boats was as much a city as the landlocked skyscrapers and shantytowns that gleamed like a blaze of diamonds on the shore. James and Encizo had both ridden in the passenger seats of F-14 fighters, ferried from Langley airfield to Japan, where they met up with the Tokyo headquarters of the U.S. Homeland Security task force.

There, State Department, CIA and other agency personnel gathered under one roof to coordinate their overseas Southeast Asia efforts. While the “Axis of Evil” focus was on the Middle East, there were still threats from China, North Korea and the Asian heroin trade that kept the Pacific branch of Homeland Security busy on a daily basis. As well, in the Philippines and Indonesia, offshoots of Muslim extremist groups engaged in bombing and murder campaigns against the allies of the United States.

It was just more evidence that terrorism wasn’t simply a matter of a simple skin color or religious creed. Madness and carnage festered like a cancer in the hearts of enough people that there would always be a need for men like Phoenix Force, Able Team and their counterparts in thousands of law-enforcement agencies around the world. That gave James a small pause as they continued navigating the maze of anchored junks in the harbor. What started for the slim black man in a Navy recruitment center years ago as a chance to join the military to escape the thugs running rampant through the streets of Chicago, to get a medical degree and make something of himself, became a different kind of surgery. Instead of closing wounds, James found himself on a crusade, cutting away the tumorous infestations of violent, hate- and greed-driven murderers who unleashed their illness upon the world. Instead of healing the sick, James was engaging in preventative medicine, hunting killers and terrorists before they could slaughter or maim innocents.

However, the one weakness in the Stony Man crusade was that they had to know where the symptoms of terror and crime were evident. People had to suffer and die for the men of Phoenix Force to spring into action to protect further victims.

It was a form of triage, James thought, making sure his FN P-90 hung under his coat, out of view to prevent the harbor residents from panicking at the sight of men with guns. He didn’t like the fact that with that form of triage, he had to wait for people to be hurt, to die.

Every loss still hurt, but James was glad for that hurt. It meant he still cared. The day he stopped sympathizing with the victims of terrorism and crime was the day he knew his career was over. He knew deep down that it was a very real possibility, drummed into him by his deceased mentor and former commander, Yakov Katzenelenbogen. The reason Phoenix Force, and by extension their counterparts in Able Team, were so much better than any other special operations unit, was that they had been chosen because they believed in a cause. They had a passion to protect the innocent that drove them to fight impossible odds on a daily basis. Sure, they received government paychecks, but they were only employees in the sense that they were given the opportunity to engage in a crusade to protect America, and the whole world, from the barbarian hordes laying siege and preying off its suffering.

Now, the sky dark, stars rendered invisible by the fierce glow of Hong Kong’s city lights, James and Encizo were finishing their trek to hook up with a defector from AJAX who had approached the Homeland Security task force.

Her name was Terremota, an Argentinian woman who was known to be a demolitions expert. The nomme du guerre she worked under literally meant “Earthquake” in Spanish. Terremota promised to divulge the secrets of AJAX’s worldwide terror network, if only she could be granted asylum from her partner.

It had been a crash course, but James had learned about Wilson Sere. Sere was a self-proclaimed modern-day ninja, a master of disguise and deception, as well as of martial arts and modern weaponry. The record of kills attributed to him was impressive, and he was known to be responsible for the deaths of at least thirty American intelligence operatives and military personnel since the beginning of AJAX’s reign of terror. Terremota, herself, was no saint. Her bombs had wounded hundreds, and claimed over forty lives in concert with Sere.

She claimed, however, that she had a lover’s spat with Sere, a falling out that had compromised her usefulness to the modern-day American ninja. People who were no longer useful to Sere ended up in the discard pile, usually in unmarked graves.

Hal Brognola wanted James and Encizo to be part of Terremota’s protective crew, simply because one of them was familiar with the Japanese language and both were needed to baby-sit the volatile Argentinian in Tokyo. The pair had been trained in martial arts, and both battled with ninja-trained opponents on several occasions.

The Phoenix Force duo were naturals at handling boats and were expert swimmers.

Brognola figured that the CIA retrieval team could use them as backup.

“This is going to turn out badly,” Encizo said softly to James, the sound of the outboard motor keeping his words from carrying to the other men in the motor launch. Across his knees, under a blanket, rested a Heckler & Koch MP-5, his favorite submachine gun. While it didn’t have the 50-round firepower of James’s FN P-90, it was still a reliable, accurate weapon. Both men were armed to the teeth. Aside from their long guns, both were packing at least two handguns and their favorite fighting knives.

Part of the reason Phoenix Force pushed for the change to the Glock 34 pistols was that their magazines and controls were identical to the minuscule Glock 26. While the Glock 34 was a light gun, and slightly smaller and much flatter than the Beretta M-9 or the Colt Government model, it was still a formidable weapon, with plenty of barrel length to squeeze every ounce of power and accuracy out of their 9 mm ammunition. By contrast, the Glock 26 was tiny enough to slip in a trouser pocket or an ankle holster. James and Encizo both had their backup 26s tucked in their BDU cargo pockets, within easy reach, but still small and out of the way. If necessary, the compact, polymer-framed handguns could use the larger Glocks’ magazines.

Encizo backed his pair of Glocks with a 7.65 mm Walther PPK. While he was a fan of Heckler & Koch weapons, the excellent 9 mm USP wasn’t as ubiquitous as the Glock, and finding spare magazines around the world would be more difficult. As well, the brand-new P-2000 compact didn’t share the Glock 26’s record or reliability, nor the capability to use the larger USP’s magazines. Preferring to have a familiar tool on hand, he went with his Walther, despite a sideways glance from Stony Man Armorer John “Cowboy” Kissinger.

“You might as well just throw it at them,” Kissinger, a fan of the .45 ACP round, stated.

“I’ve had my luck with the 7.65 mm,” Encizo answered with a grin.

In addition to his Cold Steel Tanto knife, he also had three unusual pieces of cutlery in a forearm sheath under his sleeve. A trio of four-pointed throwing stars, the infamous shuriken, rested in the sheath. Encizo’s deceased teammate, Keio Ohara, had instructed him in the deadly mastery of these tiny pieces of metal. He’d been able to save his life on several occasions by having the skill to punch one of the razor-sharp tines through an eye socket or an exposed throat.

James had his favorite G-96 Jet-Aer Boot and Belt knife. It was an old friend, from his ex-SEAL days in the Navy, a trusted implement that had logged countless hours with the black Phoenix Force medic every day, carried concealed, or in a sheath in full combat black. The black-handled, double-edged blade was considered a collector’s item, but James simply felt entirely comfortable with it.

It was a lot of gear to be carrying, especially since the other members of the CIA strike team were carrying only folding-stocked mini-Uzis in shoulder holsters. But both James and Encizo preferred to err on the side of being too prepared for mayhem, rather than end up as statistics.

James glanced at their destination, a single junk parked, without lights. It was a fifty-footer and its railing was low to the water. It would be easy for anyone to scramble on board, even claw themselves up from the water. He looked to his stocky friend Encizo, his instincts on edge.

“It looks like a trap,” the swarthy Cuban commando agreed. “Plus, it’s low enough that someone could jump from a neighboring deck.”

“These boys aren’t going to turn back without Terremota,” James replied. “And I think our girl is expecting just that.”

“A sucker play,” Encizo muttered. “If a fight breaks out here, we’re going to have a hell of a time retreating.”

James glanced at the trailing launch, loaded with more CIA strike force members, then sighed. “The file on Terremota stated that she may have trained al Qaeda operatives for the bombing of the USS Cole.”

“So she knows how to mix water and demolitions,” Encizo answered.

“Johnstone,” James said.

“What is it, Mr. Farrow?” Mills Johnstone, a brawny, pug-nosed man asked. He was the commander of the strike force, and ever since James’s and Encizo’s arrival as Calvin Farrow and Rafael Rey, he’d harbored an edge of impatience in his voice.

“Keep your men on this boat. We’ll go aboard,” Encizo said.

Johnstone’s craggy face bent into a frown. “You boys are too paranoid.”

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” James asked. He glanced toward the rail they were approaching. “Listen, if it’s safe, no problem. If not… Well, you won’t lose any of your men.”

Johnstone snorted. “Fine.”

James slid his hand under his coat, wrapping it around the curved plastic grip of the FN P-90 where it hung by its sling. He placed one foot on the prow of the launch and prepared to hop the rail when he spotted something bobbing in the water.