Don Pendleton: Extreme Instinct

“Yeah, I know,” Lyons growled, slipping a hand inside his windbreaker to loosen the Colt Python in his shoulder holster. “I just spotted it a second ago.”

The other men needed no further encouragement to get their own weapons ready for combat, and the van was filled with the soft metallic clicks of working arming bolts and safeties disengaging. Every car in the parking lot was dusty and badly needed to be washed, as if they had been there for days without moving. This was exactly the sort of detail that a street cop looked for to spot an abandoned vehicle parked along a busy downtown street. Now a grieving family might leave a car here for a few hours, or even overnight, but certainly no longer than that, and not ten of them. That was way beyond the limits of probability. These cars were merely window decorations to make the place look more inviting and less empty. Which meant the entire cemetery was a trap. But was it for them or somebody else? Did the enemy know Able Team had arrived, or were they still waiting for a target? Only one way to find out, and that was to go ask them, face-to-face.

The soft recon had just gone hard.

Stony Man ®

America’s Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agency

www.mirabooks.co.uk

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

Caucasus Mountains, Russia

A cold winter wind was blowing through the forest preserve, and the full moon illuminating the land with a clear silvery light made everything look as if it was cast in steel.

Rumbling steadily over the rough terrain, the BTR-70 “Battering Ram” armored personnel carrier plowed through a thick wall of shrubbery and came to a halt in a small clearing on the side of a hill. The dense stillness was only disturbed by the soft ticking of the massive diesel engines as they began to cool. Down in the valley below, the darkness twinkled with a million lights of the top-secret Russian army weapons facility code-named Mystery Mountain.

“Something is wrong here,” muttered the master sergeant inside the APC, resting scarred hands on top of the steering yoke. The curved banks of twinkling controls illuminated his stern features.

In the rear of the vehicle, the troops angled around in their jumpseats to look out the numerous gunports. Several worked the arming bolts on their new AK-108 assault rifles.

“What is it, Sarge?” a stocky woman asked, squinting into the night. “Think we got some more TV reporters nosing about?”

“Don’t know yet,” the master sergeant replied slowly, trying to put into words a gut instinct honed in a thousand fights.

“Looks peaceful enough to me, Sarge,” a private countered, craning his neck to glance outside.

The powerful halogen headlights of the BTR-70 banished the night, giving the recon platoon a clear view of the surrounding area. The forest was beautiful, old pine trees rising majestically into the starry sky and a thick blanket of laurel bushes covering the ground, the red winter berries glistening among the greenery like hidden jewels.

Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted and was answered by a lake loon. The master sergeant tensed slightly at that. Odd, we’re nowhere near water…

“Sir! Radar reads clean, sir,” a young recruit reported crisply, both hands working the compact monitoring station in the rear of the APC. The other soldiers merely grunted at the pronouncement and tried not to show their opinion of the young boot.

“Be sure to check the sonar,” one of the older veterans muttered sarcastically.

The green recruit immediately started activating the underwater controls on the amphibian APC before he paused, then darkly scowled. “Blow it out your ass,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

Amused, the other soldiers openly grinned.

“Shut up, all of you,” the master sergeant growled uneasily, reaching down to loosen the service automatic holstered at his side. “There is something wrong here. I can feel it.”

The troops prepared to go EVA, pulling on insulated gloves and tightening the scratchy wool scarves around their throats. There was no snow on the ground, but the standing joke was that Russian winters killed more people than Stalin ever had. It was probably true, in spite of the best efforts of the blood-thirsty madman.

Just then the radio crackled. “Base to Wolf Nine, why are you not moving?” a voice demanded. “Confirm status, please.”

Taking the hand mike, the master sergeant thumbed it alive. “Wolf Nine to Base, we…that is, I….” The master sergeant paused awkwardly, unwilling to tell the duty officer that he had stopped a security patrol because of a bad feeling. He did sense that something was out of place, but everything looked fine on the hillside.

“Wolf Nine, report!” the speaker demanded.

“All clear, Base,” the master sergeant said, throwing the APC into gear and lurching into motion. “Nothing wrong here. We were just…using the bushes.”

There came a friendly chuckle. “Can’t blame you for that,” said the voice over the speaker. “I’d also be guzzling coffee out in that bitter cold.”

“Confirm, Base,” the master sergeant replied, checking the rearview monitor one last time for anything suspicious in the clearing. “Wolf Nine back on patrol. Over and out.”

AS THE SOUNDS of the APC rumbled off into the distance, the leafy ground cover stirred and five figures slowly rose like ghosts escaping from the grave.

Covered with frost and dirt, the Foxfire team was dressed in camouflage gillie suits, twigs and leaves deliberately attached to the material as additional disguise. Their faces were streaked with different colors of paint, and insulated hoods covered their heads to help keep them warm and also to hide their throat-mike radios.

Scanning the area with a pair of stolen Russian night-vision goggles, Andrew Lindquist checked for any guards, either human or mechanical. “The zone is clear,” he announced, tucking the goggles away into a belt pouch. “Everybody okay?”

“No. Jimmy’s dead,” George Hannigan stated bluntly, looking down at the tread marks of the APC on the ground. Off to the side there was a slowly spreading dark patch in the soil, a bent human finger sticking out.

“The goddamn thing must have parked right on top of him,” Sonia Johansen stormed, shifting her grip on an old AK-47 assault rifle. The cylindrical silencer attached to the end of the compact weapon gave it a futuristic appearance, and oddly, no moonlight reflected off the dull black metal. On this mission, every piece of equipment was either Russian made or legally purchased in the country. Even the military crossbows. Misdirection had always been the best friend of any mercenary.

“Same thing happened to me,” John Barrowman said through clenched teeth, cradling his left arm. The limb was bent at an impossible angle, the sleeve of the gillie suit torn and spotty with blood.

“Let me give you a shot for the pain,” Saul Kessler offered, swinging around a small Red Army medical kit.