Triplecross. Don Pendleton

it.” James loped off across the snow, silent as a panther.

      “Somehow,” Manning said, going prone in the snow with his RPG at the ready and his Tavor slung, “it’s just not the same.”

      McCarter judged the distance from Manning and gave himself a little more space to stay clear of the backblast from the RPG. He aimed with his Tavor and prepared to fire a targeted burst. Through the futuristic assault weapon’s sights, he watched as men began moving in and around the cab of the flaming truck, first jumping down from it, then climbing back in, then exiting again. A quick survey of the surrounding snowy ground, dotted by rocky outcroppings and scarred by natural trenches carved by the wind, showed him that James was nowhere in sight.

      “They spotted something,” Manning said, speculating. “They saw Calvin but they’re not sure. They’re probably arguing among themselves. Trying to figure out if what they saw is what they saw.”

      “Get ready, mate,” McCarter said. “I think they were laying for us. Using the vehicle and the fire as cover and distraction. They were hoping we’d walk right into their bullets. When we stopped, it ruined their plans.”

      Manning had no response for that. The range was extreme for the RPG, and with James not visible, a shot would be unwise. But there would be no denying the explosive power of the RPG when it came time to light up their foes. McCarter spared Manning’s pack a glance. The big Canadian still had plenty of firepower for the rocket launcher, and there was more loaded in the cargo areas of the MRAPs.

      The gunfire McCarter had been waiting for, the gunfire James, too, had sensed was coming, finally exploded from the truck. There were more shooters than McCarter had anticipated. He judged at least half a dozen men, possibly as many as eight. They must have been crammed pretty tightly in the cab and toward the front of the big truck, because there couldn’t have been many survivors of the blast at the back.

      A muzzle-flash on their ten o’clock gave away James’s position for just an instant. Silhouetted by the guttering flames of the troop truck, a figure fell into the snow.

      Score one for Calvin, thought McCarter. He waited. There was another flash, this time at eleven o’clock. James was on the move, shooting and then changing position. A second body fell from the truck.

      That’s two, the Phoenix Force leader thought to himself.

      McCarter waited long enough to verify that, when James’s third shot rang out, he was farther away from the vehicle, not closer. It was then that McCarter reached out and tapped Manning on the shoulder.

      “Fire in the hole, Gary,” he said.

      Manning pulled the trigger of the RPG. The rocket blazed from the tube, made its deceptively lazy way to the target and struck just to the rear of the cab, blowing a hole in the sheet metal and knocking the truck over on its side. A singed door, ripped free of its hinges, flew through the air and landed in the snow between the doomed vehicle and where McCarter and Manning were stationed.

      “Rafe, T.J., bring it in. Put yourselves on either side of the truck and get those turrets manned. If the Farm has done its part we won’t be lonely for long. Rafe, what’s the latest satellite tracking update?”

      “They’re headed to us, all right,” Encizo said through the transceiver link. “I estimate eight minutes, maybe ten, before we’ve got all the Gera we could ever want.”

      “Then let’s make sure we wrap up the party here first,” said McCarter. He got to his feet and offered Manning a hand up. Given Manning’s size, the Briton had to put his weight into it.

      “You’re not getting any lighter, mate,” McCarter noted.

      “But you’re as charming as ever, David,” Manning retorted with a grin. “Shall we?”

      “Let’s,” the Phoenix Force leader said. He brought his weapon to his shoulder and stalked toward what was left of the troop truck.

      Nothing moved in the wreckage until the two men were practically on top of it. McCarter didn’t see the man who climbed out of the “top” of the truck. With the vehicle on its side, what had been the driver’s window was now the only egress through the hole where the door had been. A single Pakistani gunman, his bloody uniform bearing Jamali’s modified military crest, half jumped, half fell directly on top of McCarter.

      The Briton went down under the weight of the other man. Just as quickly, he surged to his feet, carrying the smaller, lighter Pakistani with him, smashing the man against the burned-out hulk of the troop truck.

      As McCarter was slamming the butt of his Tavor down on the skull of his enemy, he was aware of the gunfire around him. Manning was engaging a contact at close range, and while McCarter dealt with his own enemy, he saw James appear in his peripheral vision. The lanky James sauntered up as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Steam escaped from the neckline of his cold-weather fatigues. He had been pushing hard. His assault rifle was still in his hands.

      “You all right, David?” James asked.

      McCarter looked down where he knelt. The Pakistani was dead. He checked his rifle for damage, but there was none that he could perceive. He took the time to eject the magazine, check it, seat it and make sure a round was chambered. Then he stood.

      “You couldn’t find something a little more unique?” James said.

      “What, mate?” McCarter asked, momentarily confused.

      “You know, like a garden hoe or maybe a rake.”

      “What are you on about, Calvin?”

      “Dude, you killed a guy with an ax a little while ago.”

      It was then that McCarter realized that, no matter what else happened on this mission, he was never going to live that down.