Don Pendleton - Extinction Crisis

“So we utilize more appropriate weaponry,” James said.

“Like what?” Farkas asked.

“Shotgun saboted slugs?” Kristopoulos suggested.

“You read my mind,” James returned. “Then I’ve also seen bomb disposal robots which utilized a .44 Magnum Redhawk.”

“That’s old school,” Kristopoulos said. “How old are you again?”

James looked at the Greek woman, then smiled. “I’d tell you, but it’d depress me.”

“Give me some credit, Mr. Farrow,” Kristopoulos replied.

Farkas was on the phone to his allies in Unit 777. Encizo scanned the air overhead, frowning.

“Is the UAV still up there?” James asked.

“It’s moved on,” Encizo replied. “Just the same, I wouldn’t go close to the robots until the bomb squad has dealt with them.”

“At least it wasn’t armed,” James returned.

“No, but now whoever is in control of these machines knows what we look like,” Encizo said.

James frowned. “General appearance.”

“So how many tall African-Americans and stocky Hispanics have you seen running around with weaponry in Egypt?” Encizo asked.

James sighed. “I’ll get back on the horn to Barb to see if we can get some sanitization of our identities.”

“Paranoid much?” Kristopoulos asked.

“Says the woman using a code name plucked from mythology,” James said. “I thought Mossad and Unit 777 trusted each other and didn’t have to hide behind fake identities.”

Kristopoulos wrinkled her nose. “Point taken.”

“A demolitions team will be by to deal with the carcasses,” Farkas announced. “And an ambulance if our Israeli visitor is inclined to go to the doctor.”

“It was far from my heart,” Kristopoulos answered. “I’ll deal with the pain.”

“Stubborn as one of us,” Farkas sighed.

“Help me up, Farrow,” Kristopoulos said. “I don’t want to look hurt in front of our hosts.”

James nodded and assisted her to her feet.

Encizo continued to watch the night skies, as if he could penetrate the gloom and his sense of dread to find the mysterious foes who had caused so much mayhem on this quiet Egyptian street.

The Paris bakery was run by a friend of one of David McCarter’s friends. A network of people around the globe could give the Briton access to weaponry when he needed it. Sure, there was a long streak where Phoenix Force had military flights or passes through customs with huge suitcases of rifles and grenade launchers, but the truth was, such free rides weren’t always reliable. More than once across the long and storied career of the team, they’d had to rely on utensils found on-site.

Daniel Mittner was one such supplier of wares in McCarter’s network of European contacts. In Europe, it was becoming more difficult to find reliable, decent arms dealers with access to the kind of gear Phoenix Force required in the field due simply to harsher regulations. Not that the less scrupulous dealers had such qualms, but when it came to gun runners that McCarter could trust with quality equipment and privacy, Mittner was a rare deal for the team.

Mittner glanced up from his counter in the nearly empty bakery, his bleary eyes recognizing McCarter instantly. “Oy. Three unsavory chaps like you blowing through my door? It’s a bloody good wager someone would think you’d come looking for guns. Lord knows you’d draw a touch of interest from John Law.”

McCarter looked around the bakery and saw a lone man, disheveled with a jaw covered in stubble, take a sip of coffee. The reaction on his face told the Briton that whatever he had just drank ranked with Aaron Kurtzman’s worst pots of brew. The coffee drinker was a local Frenchman, and from his state, McCarter could tell that he was an armed, undercover police officer. McCarter glared at Mittner, making his look as dirty as he possibly could.

The Frenchman took a bite of a scone that crunched as if it were made of plaster.

“What? Just because we came in here with a dumb American Southerner…” McCarter began.

Manning tapped McCarter on the arm. “You’re being redundant.”

Hawkins nodded. “And wrong. I might have been born in the dirty South, but I was raised in Texas. There’s the South, and then there’s Texas. Never the twain shall meet, got it, hoss?”

McCarter rolled his eyes at the interruptions. “Sorry. Just because we have a redneck idiot—”

“Redundancy,” Manning interrupted again.

McCarter gave Manning a scowl. He looked at Hawkins, who merely nodded in approval over the latest appelation the Briton had given him. Presumably after the faux pas with stereotyping the French, he was accepting pennance for his Texas cliché.

“Just because we have a Texan with us does not mean we’re gun-obsessed morons with no sense of awe and wonder,” McCarter finished. “Can’t a bloke walk into a bakery for biscuits and tea?”

Mittner nodded at the lone patron, who nodded in return as he stood. “If you will excuse me, I must retire to the men’s room. This coffee runs through a man as if it were a flood tide.”

“You know where to go, Bertrand,” Mittner stated.

Bertrand nodded to the counter man and walked down a hallway.

“We don’t have much time,” Mittner said. “He’s paid well to ignore certain things, and he doesn’t agree with the current administration of intelligence services in this country.”

“So he knows, but he can’t say what we’re doing here if he’s in the loo for the bulk of our conversation,” McCarter concluded.

“Makes things a little simpler,” Hawkins said, standing in the hallway leading to the washroom. “You know him, David?”

“No real names, Texan,” McCarter cut him off.

Mittner nodded in agreement. “He knows the type. A no-bullshit officer. You’ll want locker FP5.”

Mittner slid a key onto the counter that McCarter took, exchanging it for euro notes with numbers written into the margins. Mittner looked them over. “You’ll inform me of the replacement code when you’re satisfied?”

“I’ll be satisfied with combat Tupperware?” McCarter challenged.

“I told you, finding a Hi-Power in France at this time is like trying to find a public official who takes a shower,” Mittner returned.

Hawkins stifled a snort of laughter at Mittner’s comment.

“Which package did you provide?” McCarter asked.

“Your first option,” Mittner told the Phoenix Force commander.

“Well, can’t be too bad, then,” Manning said. “If it’s your first choice—”

“It’s not locked and cocked and made of steel, but it’ll do,” McCarter cut him off. “Thanks, Mittner.”

“Whatever you do, don’t get caught. It’s all well and good being an outlaw to do the right thing, but the French government doesn’t have much patience for outlaws,” Mittner warned.

“I promise not to kick their asses too badly,” McCarter replied.

Mittner handed the trio a small plate of almond croissants and three lattes. “On the house.”

“Thanks,” McCarter replied.

Hawkins took a bite of his pastry reluctantly, after remembering the condemnation Bertrand had given to Mittner’s cooking. He was surprised at the flavor and freshness of the croissant. “Where does Bertrand get off insulting his cooking?”

“Bertrand is on a budget, and he can’t justify spending money on Mittner’s good cooking, so he’s forced to eat the day-old baked goods,” Manning said. “Besides, if Mittner were to start making good stuff for the French agent hanging out at his shop, watching for arms deals, his supervisors would think that there was some form of collusion between them.”

McCarter took a sip of his latte. “Which there is, but the appearance of propriety makes up for a lot in terms of French collaboration.”