Don Pendleton - Close Quarters

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.

“Stay out of this!” Lyons exclaimed with a new flush to his face. He leaned close to Harland’s ear before continuing. “Now listen to me and listen good, you little son of a bitch. I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing but whatever it is you’ve got about five seconds to come clean or I swear I’ll snap your arm in two.”

“What is happening here?” Schwarz said.

Lyons looked at him and replied, “You want to know what’s happening? Our friends down in Paraguay just got hit by Hezbollah terrorists and nearly all of them bought the farm. One of them was injured.”

Lyons turned his attention back to Harland, who could barely talk fast enough, his voice little more than a high-pitched squeal of outrage mixed with pain. “Let…me…go!”

“I’ll let you go,” Lyons said. “I’ll let you go right out that window if you don’t talk and talk now!”