Don Pendleton - Gathering Storm

“Wish I’d been there to see that.”

“Just keep your eyes open in case. I have a feeling when we come to hitch our ride we’ll be in a hurry.”

“No problem. Let me know when you’re getting close.”

Manning cut the call and turned to Rafael Encizo. “Let’s go check the charges.”

Encizo nodded and the Phoenix Force pair went belowdecks to check out the thermal charges Manning had installed in the motor vessel’s hold. They were more for protection than anything else, a noisy distraction in case the team needed to make a rapid withdrawal.

JACK GRIMALDI HAD the DC-3 ready and waiting by late afternoon. He had topped up the fuel supply, paying the owner of the strip in cash. The man had retreated to his control hut, putting up the shutters for the rest of the day.

With the instincts of a born pilot, Grimaldi had spent the previous few hours running checks on the aircraft. It wasn’t in his nature to leave anything to chance. Faults that occurred at fifteen thousand feet took on a significance that might not have seemed so bad on the ground. Grimaldi had too much respect for his, and the team’s, lives to allow something like that to happen.

With the DC-3 locked down, Grimaldi retreated to the cockpit. He had the plane positioned so he could see the approach road from Cristobal. He settled into the pilot’s seat and leaned over to check the 9 mm Uzi and Beretta 92-F stored at his side.

Satisfied, he relaxed and wound down to wait. As a backup pilot for the Sensitive Operations Group, much of Grimaldi’s time was spent waiting. He usually didn’t resent it. His was one of those functions that required him to be there when he was wanted, and when that time came he had to be on the spot, with all engines running. He got involved in the action from time to time, and always acquitted himself well. Jack Grimaldi was no slouch when it came to battle. Conversely he had learned the combat soldier’s creed of always resting when the situation allowed. The same applied to food and drink. Any break in hostilities meant weapons checks, food and rest. Once the heat was turned up again there was no way of telling when there would be another lull. So refueling, mentally and physically, were the priorities. Grimaldi’s mentor, Mack Bolan, had opened the ace pilot’s eyes to these unwritten rules. He had taken them to heart and lived by those rules every time he went on a mission.

Port Cristobal Dock

CALVIN JAMES AND T.J. Hawkins were in position on the roof of the next warehouse along from Regan’s. They had been there since late afternoon, clad in blacksuits and armed with their personal weapons and M-16 A-2 rifles. For communications they wore lightweight Tac-Com headsets.

Down on the dockside McCarter wore similar gear, as did Manning and Encizo on the boat.

They were on the far side of the harbor, in among a scattering of moored vessels, waiting for McCarter’s signal to bring the boat in.

The Briton glanced at his watch. It was seconds before eight. Shadows were starting to crawl out of the corners, pushing over the dock. A soft red glow spread across the Pacific. It would be full dark in an hour.

The Phoenix Force leader turned as sound caught his attention.

The roller door to Regan’s warehouse began to open, rattling against steel guides. As it reached head height, figures appeared in the opening. Regan, flanked by his two hardmen.

Just behind, still in his dark clothing, was Kamal Rasheed. He was carrying a black leather attaché case in his right hand. Three men stood close by him, almost blocking him from McCarter’s view.

“Seven, I can see,” McCarter said softly into his microphone.

“Affirmative. Seven,” Calvin James answered.

“Just remember trust is for children and cute puppy dogs,” McCarter added. “And incidentally, it’s my arse on the line down here.”

“Sorry, boss, didn’t get that last line,” Hawkins said.

Regan walked across the dock and stared out over the harbor. He glanced at McCarter.

“Cute outfit.”

“My tennis whites stand out too much.”

“When you’re ready, Bubba,” Regan said, reaching across and tapping McCarter’s microphone.

“Okay, boys, bring her in,” the Briton said.

The boat eased into view, moving out from the cluster of other vessels and heading toward dockside. Manning was at the wheel, with Encizo standing at the bow. As the craft reached the dock, Manning brought it around, easing the vessel up to the mooring point. Encizo threw a rope to McCarter, who looped it around a mooring ring. The Briton secured the line. Manning cut the engine.

Regan turned to signal his men.

McCarter heard a soft voice in his earpiece.

“Four coming in from north end of dock,” James said. “On foot. All armed.”

“I can’t see them,” McCarter growled. “Where?”

“Behind the yellow dock crane. They’re moving out now.”

The sudden flurry of movement caught McCarter’s attention. He spotted the armed newcomers as they broke into a run, rapidly closing on the warehouse frontage. He reached inside his jacket and hauled out the Browning.

“Friends of yours, Bubba?” he asked Regan.

“Fucking hell, no,” the man yelled, pulling his own handgun.

There was one of those extended moments of immobility as everyone assessed the situation.

And then the dock was racked by the sound of autofire.

The first volley of autofire reached out in the direction of Regan’s hardmen, punching into flesh and taking out one man, dropping the second to his knees. Even as the man tried to pull his weapon, a second burst from one of the attackers tore through his throat and dropped him on his back, blood bubbling from his torn flesh.

Rasheed took a step back, his trio of bodyguards forming a human shield around him. One gave a startled cry as he took a couple of slugs in his right shoulder. The impact pushed him off balance and he fell against Rasheed, knocking the man to his knees. The wounded bodyguard pulled a stubby SMG from under his coat and turned to return fire as the other bodyguards bent to help Rasheed.

From his position on the warehouse roof, Hawkins settled his sights on the lead attacker and put two 5.56 mm slugs in the guy’s chest. Dead on his feet, the target fell, legs giving way under him. He flopped onto his back, the rest of his team pushing forward, still firing.

McCarter, down on one knee, brought his Browning up double-handed and fired. His two shots hit one of the attackers in the shoulder, tearing through the padding of flesh and shattering the man’s collarbone. The guy went down, on his knees, all thought of aggression wiped from his mind as the initial numbness gave way to pain. He put a hand to his shoulder and fingered ragged shards of bone protruding from the wound.

“Gary, Rafe, take Rasheed.”

“You got it.”

Encizo, wielding a 9 mm Uzi, scrambled onto the dock. Manning was behind him, pausing only long enough to activate the timer that would transmit the detonation of the incendiary package he had laid in the hold. On the dock, he followed Encizo.

Hawkins took out another of the attack group, his 3-round burst slamming the guy to the dock in a twisting tumble. The man tried to get to his feet in a show of sheer resistance. Hawkins fired once more, laying the 5.56 mm slug through the top of the target’s skull.

Kamal Rasheed was yelling wildly to his remaining bodyguards. They formed a line in front of him, pushing him back toward the warehouse door in an attempt to get him under cover. At the same time they lifted their pistols at the advancing Manning and Encizo.

Regan turned his attention on the remaining attacker. The man had a transceiver in his hand and was yelling into it.

“Son of a bitch,” Regan screamed, losing control. He raised his pistol and began to fire, pulling the trigger in a frenzy of rage. “Try to queer my deal, you assholes!”