he good?” McCarter demanded over one shoulder. His weapon’s muzzle never wavered from Abu Hafiza’s face. “Is he good?”
Beside the Briton, Manning fired his M-60E in a short 4-round burst. A crawling Iraqi terrorist shuddered under the impact of the 7.62 mm slugs and lay still. Encizo turned toward the Phoenix Force leader and shouted back.
“Yeah, he just had the wind knocked out of him. Maybe bruised ribs, maybe cracked—we don’t know, but he’s ambulatory.”
“He’s also right goddamn here,” James snapped, sitting up. “He doesn’t need you talking about him as if he were incapable of speech.”
“Good,” McCarter replied, his voice echoing weirdly under the mask. “I got our boy but he needs patching up before we yank him back to Wonderland.” McCarter switched to his throat mike. “Akira, how we look out there?”
“You got vehicles coming up the street. You’ll have more bad guys on site very shortly. I’m still sitting on Hellfire number three.”
“Fine. Hit ’em at the gate and cause a further choke-point but save number four for my direction.”
“Understood.”
McCarter pulled back as James moved forward, medic kit in hand. Abu Hafiza looked at the black man with real hatred as the ex-SEAL ripped open the thobe and began to treat the Iranian’s wounds.
“Give him morphine,” McCarter said as he rose. “We’re going to have to carry him anyway with those leg wounds. It’ll keep him docile.”
“I’ll be the one to play doctor here,” James said.
“Fine, you’re the medic—what do you want to do?”
“Probably going to give him a heavy dose of morphine to keep him docile.”
“Whatever you think is best.” McCarter shook his head.
Encizo spoke up. “What about the son of a bitch Saheed el-Jaga?”
McCarter looked over at the Cuban combat swimmer. “You guys tag and bag him?”
“Yep,” Manning interrupted as he rose. “We got him against the wall.” The big Canadian began to move down the length of the room toward the blazing hole in the building, checking each of the downed bodies as he did so.
“We aren’t prepped to carry two deadweights out of here,” McCarter pointed out.
“What’s the penalty for treason?” Manning asked.
“Firing squad,” Encizo said, an ugly smile splitting his face.
James looked up from bandaging the glowering Abu Hafiza. “Where will we find volunteers?”
McCarter turned, lifted his M-4 to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Across the stretch of floor broken by the rapidly thinning clouds of CS gas the corrupt Iraqi police officer Saheed el-Jaga caught the 3-round burst in the side of the head.
Blood gushed like water from a broken hydrant and the blue-gray scrambled eggs of his brains splashed across the floor with bone white chips of skull in the soupy mess. McCarter lowered his smoking M-4.
The ex-SAS commando leaned down close to the wounded Iranian. “Abu Hafiza, you see I’m a serious bastard now?”
The al Qaeda commander paled under the scrutiny of the coldblooded killer. His eyes shifted away from the death mask McCarter’s face had become. Then he jerked and winced as James unceremoniously gave him an intramuscular shot of morphine.
The black man smiled with ghastly intensity at the captured Iranian terror master. “Don’t worry,” he said. “If we shoot you, it’ll only be in the gut.”
Manning and Encizo reached down and jerked the now stoned Abu Hafiza to his feet. McCarter spoke into his throat mike. “Akira, how we look?”
“Clock’s ticking. You got stubborn bad guys trying to dig their way through the burning barricade I made out of the first-wave vehicles. I’m still sitting on my last Hellfire.”
“Good copy,” McCarter said. “We’ll be rolling out the back door in about ten seconds. Why don’t you go ahead and blow me a hole out the back fence now?”
“One escape hatch coming up,” Tokaido replied.
“Phoenix,” McCarter said. “We are leaving.”
En route to Bolivia
IN THE BACK OF THE Cessna executive turbojet Able Team prepared for their mission briefing. Scrambled with their preassembled kits directed by Barbara Price, the Stony Man direct-action unit had been wheels up and flying south even before Hal Brognola had finished being fully briefed by the President.
Now, via sat link the big Fed and director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group gave them a rundown on the situation.
“Currently FBI counterintelligence, counterterror and hostage-rescue units are scrambling to deal with a crisis. In Boliva, Juan Evo Morales holds power. A committed socialist and champion of the coca-leaf growers, he is a strong ally of the Venezuelan strongman Hugo Chavez, and no friend of the United States.
“A plane filled with U.S. citizens has been taken hostage in the eastern lowlands where thick tracts of Amazonian rainforest carpet the topography. Officially the Morales government is helping the U.S. with the situation. Behind the scenes the government is restricting the movement, investigation and resource deployment of the FBI field team in order to maintain ‘sovereign integrity.’
“NSA has managed to discover that covertly, the Bolivian special forces, the Polivalente, are running a joint operation with Venezuela’s DISIP, or Directorate of Intelligence and Prevention Services. Faced with this obstruction we need you to run a simultaneous black operation to locate and free the kidnapped hostages independent from the official FBI efforts. You must infiltrate the country, acquire intelligence, perform tactical reconnaissance and execute the rescue.” Brognola paused. “Tactical specifics will be given to you once you arrive in Bolivia.”
Schwarz cocked an eyebrow and turned toward Blancanales. “Is it me or does the old man seem to be getting even more blasé as we pull off one impossible stunt after the other?”
Blancanales shrugged. “What am I going to do at my age? Start over and teach school?”
Lyons leaned forward and addressed Brognola through the sat link system. “No worries. We’re on it.”
La Paz, Bolivia
THE TAXI took Lyons away from the more affluent area and into the poorer neighborhoods, far from the Hyatt hotel, American consular branch office and the giant grocery store. Here Colombian refugees formed a strong minority, completely dominating some neighborhoods stacked with poorly constructed tenements and scattered with small shops.
This fact was punctuated to Lyons by his driver, named Jose, who spoke serviceable if broken English. At one point he noted to Lyons that they had entered an area exclusive to Colombians, a tent city from 1978 that had grown up into a labyrinth of winding, narrow streets separating concrete apartment buildings and one-room shops of every description.
After fifteen minutes of travel, the taxi entered another Colombian enclave and stopped in front of a four-story apartment building. Standing on the street, waiting for him, was Hermann Schwarz in street clothes. The American had allowed his beard to grow in under his thick mustache.
Lyons paid the driver and got out of the cab. Schwarz was holding open a steel door and he nodded and smiled in greeting.
“Que pasa, jefe?” he said, letting Lyons through the gate into a small courtyard, then directing him into the building itself. Lyons nodded a greeting and began to ask the Able Team commando a question, but Schwarz shook his head and whispered, “Upstairs.”
Lyons followed Schwarz as they climbed four stories up a narrow, bare concrete staircase. At each landing