Don Pendleton: Maelstrom

“Well, let’s talk about that,” McCarter said. “Your federal boys don’t know anything about these tapes yet, right?”

Halsford nodded.

“That means they don’t necessarily have to know about it. And if our people can get a look at those tapes, then maybe, just maybe, we could make sure whatever information we get we share with you.”

Encizo smiled and whistled. “That would look awfully good on you and Kornsby, huh? You’d be the first to crack the case. I’m already picturing it—press releases, newspaper headlines, CNN interviews.”

“Not to mention the commendations and promotions,” McCarter said, adding some additional fuel to Encizo’s already roaring fire.

“Did you say promotions, mate?”

“You bet,” Encizo said. “We’re talking at least captain, maybe even major.”

There was a long silence and the two Phoenix Force warriors could tell from Halsford’s expression that the wheels were turning. Of course, they didn’t have any real control over that stuff, but a word from the Oval Office could make a little go a long way. And they certainly wouldn’t leave Kornsby’s people hanging on this. They would find some way to make good on it without actually promising anything. Stony Man’s connections ran wide and deep, and touched members of the highest governmental circles in nearly every foreign government.

“Very good, then,” Halsford finally said. “As the Americans like to say, ‘We have a deal.’”

And the trio shook on it.

Brooklyn Heights, New York

Carl “Ironman” Lyons was angry, and with good reason.

Yeah, it bothered him when innocent people died, but when they died because of their skin color, that really riled him. In fact, it put him in a damn foul mood, and when he got feeling like this, not even his long-time friends and brothers-in-arms liked being around him. Still, neither Hermann Schwarz nor Rosario Blancanales would have thought even a moment of abandoning Lyons—not in a million years.

So Lyons decided to hold his temper in check until they could get the gist from New York City’s finest. In fact, he was all smiles as he questioned the lead detective while Schwarz and Blancanales maneuvered their way through the broken glass and twisted metal of storefronts, stooping to look into the faces of the Arabic victims who owned the variety of shops and eateries along Atlantic Avenue.

“So explain this to me again,” Lyons said.

“It’s just like I said, sir,” the detective replied. “Everything you’re seeing here is corroborated by the stories we’ve gotten so far from witnesses. We’re still canvassing, but I don’t think anyone we talk to from here out will have much to add. It just happened too damned fast.”

The detective was a guy from the neighborhood, a third-generation Lebanese assigned to one of the local boroughs. He’d introduced himself as Elmore Nuri. Lyons didn’t know if that was his given name, but it didn’t much matter. The guy seemed pretty knowledgeable about the area, and he was acting as though the devastation now before them was nothing new. Nothing behind Nuri’s dark eyes betrayed he was the least bit surprised by the carnage. It was a whole new world.

Lyons looked around him again. The scene was gruesome.

At approximately 1545 local time, a school bus stopped in front of a group of shops on Atlantic Avenue where it borders Cobble Hill. Witnesses claim at least fifteen men and women, dressed in combat fatigues and armbands emblazoned with the Star of David, and toting assault rifles, jumped off the bus and lined up in front of the shops. Moments later, they simultaneously opened fire on the commercial area that was chock-full of citizens from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, although predominately Middle Easterners and Asians. The butchery continued for nearly a full minute as the terrorists periodically reloaded their weapons and each delivered at least two full magazines worth of wanton violence and destruction.

It had all occurred less than two hours earlier, and apparently it hadn’t ended there. A pair of transit cops who had just emerged from a subway station apparently tried to evacuate nearby citizens in an orderly fashion when the terrorists spotted them. Several members of the terror group turned their weapons on the officers—the transit cops never stood a chance. Several witnesses also said that they watched helplessly from alleyways or behind cars as the heavily armed assailants then entered several of the shops and polished off any possible survivors of the barbaric attack. Less than two minutes had elapsed when the terrorists got back on the bus and it fled the scene well before the first squads arrived.

As soon as the first of it went out over the airwaves, computers at Stony Man Farm alerted Kurtzman and his team. Able Team had been on its way back from a mission via chopper when Price called and ordered them to detour to JFK. The details had been sketchy at that point, and even now they didn’t know much more than they had when they arrived. Nonetheless, Price had told them they had authorization from the highest levels and to use their standing credentials as a special task force of U.S. Deputy Marshals with the Department of Homeland Security.

“What can you tell me about this area?” Lyons asked, turning his attention back to Nuri.

The detective shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the neighborhood. Is it mostly Arabic?”

Nuri half coughed, half snorted. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Look, Detective, I don’t have any time for games,” Lyons replied with a scowl. “So let’s cut this small-talk shit and stick to facts.”

“Yes, sir…sorry, sir. Mostly, it’s a pretty mixed neighborhood. This part of the Heights is older and we’ve got a pretty good mix. There’s a section of Russians, French and even Hispanics, but it’s primarily Arabic.”

“Any Jewish population?”

“You bet,” he replied with a nod. “In fact, the population concentration in this part is Middle Eastern. I’m talking Iraqis, Iranians, Pakistanis, Jews, Indians. Hell, there’s practically every known representation of the Fertile Crescent here. And for the most part, everyone’s always gotten along. Brooklyn Heights just isn’t known for these kinds of hate crimes. I mean, this was some serious shit.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around lately, guy,” Lyons told him. “Thanks for your help. I’m going to go take a look-see with my partners now. I may have some more questions, so don’t get lost.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Nuri replied. “I’ve got the feeling I’m going to be around here for quite a while.”

Lyons nodded and then turned on his heel and went off in search of his comrades. The Able Team warrior found “Gadgets” Schwarz first inside one of the small Mediterranean restaurants. He was kneeling over the body of a little, dark-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than six or seven. There was a large, gaping wound in her forehead, and the prone corpse of woman—the back of her bloody coat shredded—covered the better part of the girl’s frail form.

“Probably her mother,” Lyons said quietly. “Looks like she was running for cover with the girl when the shooting started. She bought it, girl got pinned beneath her and then one of the bastards came in and finished the job.” Lyons pointed to his forehead for emphasis.

Schwarz looked at him with a gaunt expression and Lyons saw something dangerous in the man’s brown eyes.

“Easy there, pal. You look like maybe you want to lose control.”

Schwarz stood and took one lasting look at the girl. “I’m cool, Ironman. We need to find these bastards—and quick.”