Don Pendleton: Extreme Arsenal

McCarter frowned. “That’s why he seemed so familiar.”

“You might know who it is?” Price asked.

“Try Roberto DaCosta,” McCarter suggested.

Price muffled the receiver and passed on the information. McCarter waited, knowing it wouldn’t take long.

“David?” Price asked.

“What’d you find out?”

“Roberto DaCosta was a Catholic bishop from El Salvador. He testified against the old Organización Democráticia Nacionalista—ORDEN—regime and the ESA. Able Team once pulled security for him against one of their teams,” Price responded. “It was a brutal, dirty mission.”

McCarter frowned. “Well, I was too late to help him out. ORDEN…Did they hire American mercenaries?”

“Why do you ask?” Price inquired.

“They spoke English and they sounded American,” McCarter responded.

“They have recruited experts from all around the world, but right now, ESA is pretty much a dead issue,” Price responded. “Most of them are either dead, deported or serving jail time. Again, a lot of ORDEN and their death squads went down hard under Able.”

“Maybe someone had a plan to undeport,” McCarter replied.

“Someone’s trying to make a comeback?”

“Start the guys rattling cages,” McCarter answered. “I’m going to check out a few more things on this side of the pond.”

“Do you want Phoenix over there?” Price asked.

McCarter shook his head. “No. They could be put to better use working in tandem with Carl and his boys until we pick something up.”

“All right. I’ll make sure one of Hal’s irregulars is on the case to get your pistols back,” Price responded. “Do you need to acquire some weapons?”

“I’ve got the evaluation Glocks.”

“Really? I never thought you’d be happy with the new Glock,” Price responded.

McCarter patted the gun stuffed into his waistband. “It’s not that I have to be happy. If I’m going to trust this gun to protect my boys, then I have to trust it to protect my arse.”

“I’ll mark this day in history,” Price joked.

McCarter chuckled. “I’ll never hear the end of this, will I?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he told her.

“You’ll leave your phone on?” Price asked.

“Yeah, I’ll keep my phone on. If you don’t reach me, leave a voice message,” McCarter replied. He hung up.

“Black seven on red eight.” McCarter’s voice cut through the darkness.

Christopher Reasoner looked up from his table, solitaire cards splayed out. “It doesn’t count as a win if you get help, David.”

McCarter, in a knee-length black peacoat, stepped from the shadows. He looked like a floating head in the darkness beyond the pale cone of light thrown down by the desk lamp. “Like you’d have noticed?”

Reasoner moved the stack over under the red eight, then placed a blotter sheet on top of them. “What’s up, David?”

“I’m looking for a ship that came in a while back, say within the past week,” McCarter replied. “They paid to be left alone.”

“You know as a dock authority, I’m supposed to subject all craft to a search,” Reasoner answered. He laced his fingers together and gave the SAS veteran his most honest look.

McCarter clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Chris, don’t give me that crap. Someone came in. They didn’t do any offloading. I’m thinking, they came from South America.”

“David, you’re hurting my feelings. When have I ever been duplicitous with you?” Reasoner asked.

McCarter rolled his eyes then leaned forward. He motioned with his finger for Reasoner to come closer. The man glanced toward the door. McCarter tilted his head, a warm friendly smile setting the dock man to ease. Reasoner bent nearer to McCarter, then felt a hand clamp over the back of his head. Before he could resist, his face hammered down into the blotter and he felt his nose crunch sickeningly.

“Bloody hell!” Reasoner howled, streams of blood pouring from his nose like a waterfall.

McCarter yanked the man’s head down into the table once more and Reasoner’s eyes crossed from the pain. The official’s fingers clawed at the rough green construction paper, crumpling it as his tormentor hauled him up, glaring at him angrily.

“Listen, you little tosser,” McCarter snarled. “The people on that ship shot at me and nearly shot a close friend.”

Reasoner coughed. Red droplets spattered and disappeared on the heavy wool of McCarter’s coat. “Oh, fuck me…”

McCarter pushed Reasoner’s face into the puddle of blood forming on the crumpled blotter. He applied his full weight to Reasoner’s neck, and the official kicked at the smooth concrete floor.

“My neck!” Reasoner sputtered. “You’re breaking my bloody neck!”

McCarter sighed and leaned back, letting Reasoner sit up again. “You were a whiny bitch back at the regiment. How long does it take to grow a pair?”

Reasoner reached for a drawer, then heard the snick of a safety. He froze and looked down the nearly half-inch diameter black hole of a muzzle. “I’m getting a box of tissues for my face, you right bastard!”

McCarter nodded, his aim unwavering. “Go ahead and get the box. If you touch anything else, though…”

“You’ll kill me?” Reasoner asked.

McCarter smiled. “I’m a better shot than that. I’ll just make you wish you were dead, and still leave you able to write the answers I want.”

Reasoner saw McCarter shake his head behind the big square slide of the pistol leveled at him. He set his box of tissues on the desktop, pointing out to the SAS man the .357 Magnum revolver resting in the top drawer. The dockman’s eyes narrowed. “Were you born a bastard, or did you take lessons?”

“I’m a natural, but that doesn’t mean I don’t keep training. The amateur trains until he gets it right. The true professional trains until he never gets it wrong,” McCarter answered. “Nice Maggie. Hand it over by the barrel.”

Reasoner set the revolver on the desktop and sighed. “Okay. A ship called the Kobiyashi came in the other day.”

“Japanese registry?” McCarter asked.

“Mix of Asians and Hispanics on the crew. Liberian registry, as usual,” Reasoner replied. He pressed a wad of tissues to his upper lip and it soaked immediately through and through.

“Where was its last stop?” McCarter inquired.

“Since when did you start taking to plastic pistols?” Reasoner interrupted. He was trying to stall and regain his composure. “Isn’t that the new Glock?”

McCarter glared at Reasoner. The 9 mm hole in the business end of the pistol glared at the official with only slightly less intensity and intimidation. After a long, uncomfortable moment, McCarter spoke up. “You like eating through a straw?”

“A straw?”

“Liquid nourishment. Actually, you wouldn’t taste it without a tongue, since they’d stick the tube through your nose and straight into your stomach.”

“So like I was saying. The Kobiyashi was just out of Panama,” Reasoner replied. “Came across the canal. Before that they were in the Pacific.”

McCarter frowned. “Any idea where?”

“Up in the armpit between Baja, Mexico, and the mainland,” Reasoner said. He wiped more of his blood off his chin. “Why?”

“I’m writing a book,” McCarter answered.

Reasoner nodded. “Then I’ll keep the words short and easy for you to spell.”

A thunderbolt went off in Reasoner’s right ear, hot flames licking at his eyes. The official screamed and covered his head. Hot stickiness filled the inside of his head and when he opened his left eye, he saw a wisp of smoke rise from the barrel of McCarter’s pistol.