Don Pendleton - Gathering Storm

Manning wasn’t about to allow the opposition time to take cover. He opened fire, placing his shots in the visible front tire, the 5.56 mm slugs tearing and shredding the rubber. The tire flattened and the SUV’s steering went leaden in the driver’s hands. The vehicle lurched and rocked, threatening to overturn, but remained upright as it came to a juddering halt.

One of the rear doors swung open and an armed man sprang out, swinging his own weapon into play. Manning hit him in the chest with a pair of rounds. The man bounced off the side of the SUV, pitching facedown in the dust. Manning immediately switched his aim and began to jack off shot after shot into the windshield and the side windows. Glass imploded and they could see shapes inside the SUV struggling to get clear. The driver’s door opened and an already bloody figure tumbled out, hauling his SMG into play. He fired a burst in Manning’s general direction. Manning hit him with a single shot that entered just above his right eye and cored through and out the back of his head, blowing brain scraps onto the SUV’s door.

The big Canadian took another couple of steps forward, the M-16 already following its next target as another gunrunner emerged from the far side of the SUV. He had stayed low until the moment he raised his head above the hood of the vehicle, searching for the shooter who was eliminating his partners. He never even had time to see his killer. Manning’s M-16 cracked once and the bullet blew off the back of his skull. The man did a complete turnaround before he slammed facedown on the ground.

It became very still after that.

Manning remained on full alert, watching the enemy vehicle. He couldn’t see any movement inside the vehicle and decided that his shots through the windows of the SUV had taken out any others still inside. He took a couple of steps back, freeing the magazine from the M-16 and feeding a fresh one into the receiver.

McCarter stepped up beside him. “Persistent buggers, aren’t they,” he commented.

“Were,” Manning corrected.

The Briton touched him on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here before the Santa Lorca militia decide to chip in.”

“This burg got a militia?”

McCarter shrugged.

They returned to the Jeep and Encizo moved off. He pushed the vehicle as fast as was safe on the dirt road. A couple of miles out from the strip, James put in a call to Jack Grimaldi.

“Crank up that crate, Flyboy. We’ll be checking in anytime now.”

“Ready when you are, ladies. Make sure you wipe your boots before you come aboard. I run a clean ship.”

ENCIZO TOOK the Jeep across the airfield and parked just behind the DC-3. The engines were already running, turning over smoothly. Grimaldi leaned out of the cockpit, waving at his passengers as they made for the open hatch. As the last man in pulled the hatch shut, the Stony Man pilot released the brakes, boosted the power and the aircraft began to move. Grimaldi coasted to the end of the runaway and waited until he had the engines balanced and trimmed. Then he upped the throttles and the DC-3 began to roll along the strip.

They lifted off into a sky that was darkening around them. Grimaldi banked the aircraft onto its correct heading once they were out over the Pacific. He settled back in his seat, enjoying the experience of piloting an aircraft like the DC-3. It was real flying as far as he was concerned. No digital readouts or satellite-controlled flight settings. Just his hands on the controls, a far cry from supersonic jets and even his beloved Dragon Slayer. For Jack Grimaldi this was a flight of pure indulgence and he was enjoying every minute of it.

KAMAL RASHEED HAD BEEN handcuffed to his seat with metal handcuffs. He resented Phoenix Force, making his feelings known whenever anyone came close to him.

“Do all the ranting you want, mate,” McCarter told the Iraqi. “When we reach the U.S. you’ll be handed over to the people who are going to be looking after you from now on, and I can tell you they aren’t as nice as we are.”

Rasheed glared at the Briton. “You should reconsider what you are doing. Do you realize who I am?”

“Don’t remind me. Kamal Rasheed. One of Saddam Hussein’s little helpers. We have a nice long file on you. And what a bloody charmer.”

“You dare to judge me?”

“Damn right I do.”

“Because I am Muslim you have decided I am your enemy.”

“Change the record, Rasheed. You people keep bleating on about your religion like it’s the reason for everything. I don’t care who you worship. This isn’t about religion. It’s about a bunch of bullies who held their own country to ransom, put everyone who wasn’t in their club in fear. You terrorized them, tortured them, kept them in ignorance and stole every bloody thing you could get your thieving fingers on. Kids died from malnutrition while you miserable bastards had gold taps fitted to your bathrooms, ran around in luxury cars and salted away billions of dollars in your personal accounts. That had nothing to do with religion of any kind, so don’t throw that one at me.”

“Because you have me, do you think it will stop what we are going to do? We have God on our side, and we will win.”

“See? You can’t open your mouth without using your religion as an excuse. Just for once talk to me man-to-man. Stop bloody hiding behind God.”

The expression in Rasheed’s eyes hardened. “You are not fit to speak of him. This is why we will destroy you. Maybe not this year. Or the next. But we will in the end, because we are chosen.”

McCarter backed off, shaking his head. “What the hell am I wasting my breath for? This bloke is on automatic pilot. Open him up, I’ll bet you find a recorder inside with a tape-loop quoting the phrase of the day.”

“Hard to communicate with someone tuned out of real conversation,” Hawkins said. “Hey, boss, what do we do with this?”

He held up the attaché case. McCarter reached out and took it.

“We sneak a look.”

He sat on one of the side benches bolted to the DC-3 deck. McCarter laid the case across his thighs and examined the locks. He tried one and the clasp sprang open. McCarter repeated the operation with the other lock. He raised the lid. Stacked inside the case was a thick layer of one hundred dollar bills. The layer was four deep.

“What have we got here?” Hawkins asked.

“My next month’s salary,” McCarter said. “Short a couple of bucks.”

He took out one of the banded stacks of bills and flicked the end with his finger.

“Man, you could buy all the cigarettes you’ll ever need with that,” Hawkins breathed, visibly impressed by the amount in the one stack of bills.

“And have change for a few cases of Coke.”

Hawkins raised his eyes to look across at Rasheed. The fedayeen had his gaze fixed on the case.

“I think we pissed him off lookin’ at his stash,” Hawkins said.

McCarter replaced the money as something else caught his eye. Resting in the leather pocket on the inside of the case lid was a grained-leather personal organizer. The Briton reached for it, pulling it from the pocket and turning it over in his hands.

Unable to conceal his panic, Rasheed lunged forward in his seat, coming to an abrupt stop as he reached the limit of the handcuff chain. The metal of the bracelet dug into his flesh, drawing blood. The Iraqi ignored the pain as he watched McCarter examining the organizer.

McCarter heard the sound as Rasheed fought his handcuffs. He realized it was the discovery of the organizer that had agitated the Iraqi, not the money.

“T.J., I believe we have Mr. Rahseed’s attention.”

War Room, Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Hal Brognola was a worried man. He had reason to be. Things were happening that had given him sleepless nights for the past few days, and his recent visit to meet the President had only added to his concern. The incidents, occurrences, breaches in security and rising tensions—however they were wrapped up in diplomatic words—had spoken volumes to Hal Brognola. They had told him in no uncertain terms that the current status quo was about to be rocked once more.