Don Pendleton - Extreme Arsenal

“That’s the box,” Lyons stated. He pointed toward a ripple of shadows and outcroppings. “Sarlets, put us down. We’re on foot from here.”

“I’ve got no clean spots to land. This is rough terrain,” the pilot answered.

“That’s good news,” Blancanales replied. “They couldn’t bring heavy antiaircraft along.”

“How about a crane helicopter?” Schwarz asked.

Lyons shook his head. “This place is too close to Yuma to pull that kind of—”

“The drones were invisible to radar,” Gadgets reminded him.

The Able Team leader’s jaw set firmly as he scanned the shadowy terrain ahead. “If they had stealth robot tanks, then they could build a stealth helicopter.”

A red light buzzed on the control console. “We’re hot! Target radar lock!” the pilot announced as he wrenched the helicopter hard.

Strapped in, Lyons felt jerked like a puppy on a leash. Out of the darkness, he saw a flaming halo growing in intensity and following the aircraft’s movements as the chopper thrashed.

He knew exactly what the flaming halo was—the rocket exhaust of an antiaircraft missile, the lethal shaft of its warhead forming the black void in the center of a hellfire ring.

Death shrieked at the men of Able Team on a jet of flame.

Virginia

T.J. Hawkins sighed and slipped his Glock 26 into its hip holster. A second, identical tiny Glock was holstered at his ankle, and two 12-round magazines were clipped to his belt. He looked over to Calvin James as the man checked the loads on his .45-caliber Colt Commander and his backup short-barreled Colt Python.

“Jet Aer G-96 in an ankle sheath,” James told Hawkins.

“We’re going to CIA Headquarters. They’re just going to try to take our weapons away anyhow,” Hawkins replied. “Why do we have to run this drill every time we go out armed?”

Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo both shook their heads as they made sure of their weapon loads.

James, a tall, black man, held up his hand to the others. “T.J. hasn’t done as much legwork as we have, guys. Just because we’ve had some pretty soft travels for the past few years with him on military flights and not a lot of street-level investigation…”

Manning, a brawny Canadian, nodded. “I know. You were dropped in without being told how cold the water was with us. Since the majority of our activities lately have been paramilitary operations, T.J. hasn’t been given much exposure to the classic Stony Man Tourist Luck.”

“Stony Man Tourist Luck?” Hawkins asked.

Encizo, a handsome Cuban, grinned widely. “Whatever can come out of the woodwork will come out of the woodwork.”

“Terrorists at the airport,” James began.

“Thuggee assassins with strangling scarves,” Manning added.

“Don’t forget wolves,” Encizo admonished Manning. “Of all the times to have been without my PPK…”

“And ninjas,” James stated.

“Like cucarachas.” Encizo spit.

“This is CIA Headquarters, guys. Not downtown Beirut,” Hawkins explained. “Sometimes I think McCarter’s feeding you paranoid pills.”

“We tried,” James said with a sigh.

Manning slipped a magazine full of .357 Magnum slugs into the grip of his Desert Eagle and stuffed it in his shoulder holster. “No knives. But I have an Impact Kerambit wrench in my right front pocket.”

The others nodded.

“Come on,” Manning ordered. “T.J., you drive.”

Hawkins saluted the Canadian with an index finger touch to his brow. “Yes, sir.”

AGENT SAM GUTHRIE looked at his desk clock and saw that his noon appointment with the four Justice Department agents was only minutes away. He closed the top button of his shirt, readjusted his tie and made sure his shirt was tucked into his suit pants. Being a tall, slim man, it was hard to find clothes that fit him so that he matched the image of a neat, suave spy. At least the short bristle of his graying blond hair was hard to mess. He turned off his computer and stepped out of his office.

“Want anything from the commissary on my way back, Xian?” Guthrie asked his secretary.

Xian, a pretty Vietnamese-American woman, gave him a warm smile. “No thanks. My roommate Dawn packed some quesadillas for me and I picked up some pop on the way in.”

“All right. I’ll catch you later,” Guthrie said, and left for the meeting, which was being held outside in a courtyard. The small park was ringed with white-noise generators concealed under bushes to prevent eavesdropping. It was also in sight of several low-profile guard emplacements, with Marine sharpshooters on duty. It may have seemed paranoid, but Guthrie knew from recent history that even Langley wasn’t immune to attack.

The four “Justice Department” agents looked like a motley crew to Guthrie—a tall, slender black man, a barrel-chested Caucasian, a stocky, swarthy Hispanic, and a lean, but average-looking Caucasian.

“I’m Roy. That’s Rey, Farrow and Presley,” Manning stated. “Hal Brognola arranged this interview.”

“Right. Something about an old acquaintance of mine,” Guthrie replied. “It wouldn’t be Roberto DaCosta, would it?”

Manning nodded. “What have you heard?”

“That he was murdered last night,” Guthrie replied. “I used to work with him down in El Salvador.”

“Doing what?” Encizo asked as Guthrie directed them to a granite table with matching semi-circular benches.

“We were investigating ORDEN and the ESA, the governing body of El Salvador and their pet killers, back in the eighties,” Guthrie replied. “Roberto was an asset within the organization, and he kept us up to date on ORDEN’s less than legal operations.”

“Death squads,” James challenged.

“Among other things,” Guthrie responded. “Even back then, we weren’t too excited to be associated with professional murderers. Once the Sandinistas murdered an American missionary in Nicaragua, and it appeared as a full-page spread in Newsweek, we became a lot more gun shy about who we worked with.”

Guthrie shook his head at the thought. “Roberto wanted out desperately, and I arranged for his relocation to London after ORDEN collapsed. Even though someone went to town exterminating the death squads that made up the ESA, it really wasn’t safe for him in-country anymore.”

Encizo nodded at the answer. He remembered Able Team’s wars with Fascist International, the primary supplier of right-wing death squads to Central and South America. Though he’d only been involved in one operation against the Reich of the Americas, he kept up with after-action reports and knew that when Able put Fascist International in its collective grave, the world became a better place to live. He ruminated for a moment on how much of a link there might be between a revived FI and the assassination of DaCosta.

“Did DaCosta keep close tabs on things back home?” Hawkins inquired.

Guthrie shrugged. “I tried to limit my contact with him. I didn’t want to compromise his new location.”

“You still refer to him as Roberto, though,” James stated. “He was more than just an asset.”

Guthrie frowned. “You picked up on that.”

“We’ve been around a few times,” Manning said. “What did you hear?”

“His nephew is on the run from something,” Guthrie replied.

“What happened?” Hawkins asked.

Guthrie shook his head. “I don’t know. That much didn’t get back to me, but I started trying to find him through my own resources…”

The throb of a helicopter cut through the air and caught the attention of the assembled men.

“Classic Stony Man Tourist Luck,” Hawkins muttered loud enough for James to hear over the approaching aircraft before the hiss of rockets split the air. Rooftop targets spit up geysers of flame, and Hawkins realized that the helicopter had just destroyed the heavy antiaircraft emplacements nestled atop the office buildings.