Terminal Guidance. Don Pendleton

was not Lewis Winch. A short-bladed knife caught the light as he slashed at McCarter.

      The Briton ducked under the sweeping blade, ramming his shoulder into the attacker’s midsection. The guy grunted as he felt the force of the lunge. McCarter kept pushing, wanting to knock him off balance. The problem was his adversary was not just broad, he was solid and well muscled. And quick. His free arm swept down and chopped at McCarter’s gun hand, knocking it aside. McCarter blocked the next swing of the knife, curling his own fingers around the man’s thick wrist and forcing the blade away from his body. They held each other motionless for seconds, each attempting to gain control.

      McCarter had no intention of allowing the stalemate to continue. He had no time for delay. Every second wasted gave Winch more of an opportunity to evade capture. There was no way the Briton would allow that to happen.

      He let go of his pistol, turned his body toward his opponent, brought up his right arm and executed a swift hip throw. The guy left the floor, a startled cry bursting from his lips as he was slammed down on his back. McCarter followed through, levering the man’s knife arm across his thigh until he heard bone crack. The knife slipped from his opponent’s fingers and McCarter scooped it up, half turned and sliced the blade across the exposed throat, cutting deep. Dropping the knife, he snatched up his Browning and sprinted along the corridor in pursuit of Winch.

      Ahead of McCarter a door was swinging shut. The Briton reached it and booted it open, plunging through with a reckless disregard for his own safety. In the split second it took to cross the threshold, he saw he was entering a study all tricked out with computers and terminals. Winch was at a wide, curving desk, reaching for a phone, his finger already pressing a speed dial number. The security agent threw a startled glance over his shoulder and saw McCarter charging across the room like a runaway locomotive.

      McCarter hit Winch head-on, spinning the traitor along the side of the desk, arms and legs windmilling. Winch tried to club him with his autopistol, but McCarter twisted his upper body and the blow missed. There was no restraint in McCarter’s punch as his left first connected with Winch’s jaw. The blow crunched home with a solid sound, the force knocking the man to the floor. He landed hard, losing his grip on the pistol, and watched it bounced out of reach across the carpet. Winch rolled, scrabbling his way in the direction of the fallen weapon. McCarter gave him no chance. He tossed his Browning on the desk, reached down and grabbed Winch by his jacket, then hauled him upright. Winch’s bleeding mouth spurted even more blood as McCarter drove him across the room with his pounding fists, until he slammed into the wall.

      “You can’t do this,” Winch yelled. “Breaking into someone’s home and—”

      “Oh, that’s right,” McCarter said. “I should have waited until you were on your doorstep and then shot you. That the way you bastards do it around here?”

      Realization gleamed in the security agent’s eyes. He spit blood, sucking in air through his battered nose. “I should have guessed. You’re one of those fucks Henning sent out to look over Prem’s place. Much good it’s done him. At least they can say he died doing his duty to queen and country.”

      “Wrong there, sunshine. You might be a smart snitch, but as a hit man you failed the test. Henning is still alive. And under so much protection even the queen couldn’t get in to see him.”

      “You’re lying.”

      “You should have stayed around to make sure he was dead. You’re a bloody amateur, Winch. Admittedly a creepy one, but just an amateur.”

      Winch uttered an enraged cry. He dropped his right hand into his pocket, jerked it back out, showing the butterfly knife he held. His hand and wrist flicked in a controlled action and the naked blade sprang into view, locking in place.

      McCarter stayed exactly where he was, no flicker of emotion crossing his face.

      “Is this where I’m supposed to be scared to death? Isn’t going to work, chum. Come ahead if you think you can carve me up with that little boy’s knife.”

      White lines formed at the corners of Winch’s taut mouth. “I’ll show you,” he said, his voice rising.

      McCarter saw the bunching of muscles under Winch’s shirt, then the slight lean forward before he launched himself. The man was no knife fighter; the way he rushed McCarter showed his lack of expertise. Also his absence of judgment. His headlong lunge might as well have been in slow motion, since every scrap of movement was telegraphed to McCarter. The Phoenix Force commander held his position until the last moment, then turned his lean body, right hand snapping around to grasp Winch’s wrist. McCarter slid his left arm under Winch’s just below the elbow joint. He bore down on the wrist, heaved up with his left arm and snapped the forearm bone. Winch screamed in a high falsetto as the jagged end of the broken bone tore through the flesh, gleaming white against the bloody flesh. McCarter dragged him forward, turning him, and slammed Winch facefirst into the wall. The brutal impact crushed his nose and split his cheek. Winch slumped to his knees, sobbing in agony, hugging his ruined arm. Blood coursed down his face. The butterfly knife was on the floor beside him. McCarter snatched it up and closed it. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

      “The thought that you turned on Henning pisses me off,” the Phoenix Force commander said. “I really don’t like people who do that to my mates.”

      “They’ll get you. Get you all,” Winch rasped through clenched teeth. “You won’t stop…Prem…or Rahman…?.”

      “One thing for sure, mate, you won’t be around to see it either way.” McCarter raised his right leg and slammed his foot into the back of his opponent’s neck. Winch’s spine was severed by the blow, the force driving his face into the wall with a sodden crunch. His body arched and then slumped to the floor, all resistance vanishing in death.