Читать книгу: «Terror Descending», страница 2

CHAPTER TWO

Columbus, Ohio

Walking along the deserted streets, Armando Delacort kept an easy pace, his five bodyguards maintaining a tight formation around the millionaire arms dealer. Their suits bulged from the Uzi machine pistols slung under their jackets, and their heads were shaved in a military buzzcut, giving the men an oddly similar appearance. None of them wore jewelry, and all of them had multiple scars on their hands and faces telling of many battles fought hard and won. After the unexpected retirement the previous year of his Manhattan business rival, business had been booming.

Dressed in white linen as if this was the tropics, Delacort showed no sign of his inner demons, and coolly radiated the sort of easy affluence that only the truly rich and powerful could master. However, childhood habits died hard, and there was a switchblade knife tucked into his hip pocket, a pair of brass knuckles in his vest and a brand-new, state-of-the-art Glock 18 tucked into a tailored shoulder holster.

The weapon was a marvel, justifying the boastful claim that Glock was the premier weapons designer in the world. In appearance, it was absolutely identical to the Glock 17, a simple semiautomatic pistol. But just a touch on the trigger of the Eighteen, and it chattered off seventeen 9 mm rounds in slightly under two seconds. Two seconds! Absolutely incredible. Privately, the arms dealer was eagerly looking forward to the first reasonable excuse to use the new weapon, to see how well it did in combat.

Smiling contentedly at the sun, Delacort ambled along, savoring the clean morning air. As always, the city streets were mostly empty at this ungodly hour of the day, the sun just cresting over the top of the Hyatt Sports Stadium clearly announcing that it was barely 10:00 a.m. All of the commuters were at work, the mob of students attending the four local colleges were in class, and any shoppers were at the upscale shops located far uptown.

Whistling a tune, Delacort sauntered along the sidewalk, taking his time and almost feeling sorry for the hordes of people who had to eke out a living in the daily grind. Few people understood that life was like a fine wine—it should be savored and enjoyed, not gulped like water or guzzled like soda pop!

“Baa…baa…” Delacort said, imitating a sheep at a passing couple on the other side of the street. The man and woman gave no sign that they had heard, but they did hurry around the corner and out of sight.

Chuckling softly to himself, Delacort paused for only a second to check the oncoming traffic, of which there was none, before crossing Main Street even though the traffic light was red.

Straight ahead, on the corner of High and Main streets, the international arms dealer smiled at the sight of the Anchor Café, the green-and-white-striped awning fluttering in the gentle breeze above a score of wrought-iron tables and chairs, which were surprisingly comfortable. Taking a seat at an empty table, Delacort smiled at the other patrons, then snapped his fingers for service. For anybody else, this would only result in them being the last person in the café to get service, but Delacort was feared, and a big tipper, so the staff fought over who got to handle the Little King of Columbus.

“Good morning, sir!” a pretty young waitress said, hurrying over with a menu.

“Good morning, Susan.” The arms dealer smiled, handing it right back. “Eggs Benedict, please, with bacon on the side. Coffee, black, whole wheat toast with orange marmalade and a date tonight? I have tickets for…well, anything that would please you, my dear.”

Taking down the order on her pad, Susan giggled at the pass and calmly walked away without responding. The woman knew full well that the big man did not mean it, even if she had been interested in a brief dalliance with him. This was just a game he played with the staff to amuse himself, that was all. Which suited them fine. There were rumors about some of the other games he liked to play, and only a suicidal lunatic would go to bed with a man whose tastes ran in the direction of silk ties and whips.

Shifting his chair so that the back was to the brick wall, Delacort reached out a hand and a bodyguard passed over a folded newspaper. Nodding his thanks, the arms dealer went straight to the political page. However, there was no more information about the terrorist attack on the airport in France, so he folded the paper and placed it aside. Ah, well, such is life. He always got a vicarious thrill reading about what his clients did with the munitions he sold. The arms dealer knew it was foolish, but if he could not do the killing personally, then at least he could have a note of satisfaction that his weapons were being handled by professionals.

Just then the wail of a police siren caught his attention, and the bodyguards moved fast to close around their employer as a black SUV screeched around the corner. A blond giant was behind the wheel, another man sitting alongside apparently having trouble loading some sort of a shotgun. In the backseat, two more men were firing handguns out the open windows of the SUV at the flock of police cars in hot pursuit.

Instantly everybody in the café started to scream and run for cover, but Delacort knew professionals at a glance, and stayed where he was to enjoy the show. Instinctively the arms dealer identified each of the weapons in sight—Atchisson 12-gauge autoshotgun, Colt .45 pistol, Model 1911 and a classic 9 mm Beretta. Whomever these criminals were, they knew guns, that was for certain. Naturally, the cops were all armed with a boring and predictable 9 mm Glock. A nice enough weapon, if safety, not death, was your main concern.

Wheeling around an island in the wide street, the men in the SUV hammered the police cars with a hail of hot lead, the rounds slamming off the sides of the vehicles, smashing a sideview mirror and shattering a headlight. The cops answered back with their service-issue Glocks, the 9 mm rounds hammering the back of the SUV but failing to achieve penetration.

That piqued his interest and Delacort raised an eyebrow. The SUV had armor plating? Exactly who were these men?

As the cars raced around the island once more, one of the men in the SUV shot out a store window, showering the street with glass. But the resilient tires of the police cars went over the sparkling shards without blowing a tire.

One of his bodyguards grunted at the tactic, and Delacort agreed. It had been a good try, and his respect for these men increased. Mentally, he wished them well. Careening off the side of a parked laundry truck, the SUV fishtailed out of control for a moment, then straightened and took off down Main Street. A police helicopter appeared over the Prudential building, distracting Delacort for a split second, and when he looked back the man saw a female police officer jerk backward as blood erupted from her ruined throat. Grabbing the ghastly wound with both hands, she fell to the ground, her Glock dropping to the street and clattering away to disappear into a sewer grating.

“Sons of bitches!” another cop bellowed, thumbing a switch on his Glock before pulling the trigger.

Incredibly, Delacort thought the weapon had exploded, then he realized it was a Model 18, exactly the same as the one under his jacket. Chattering away, the machine pistol discharged in a continuous roar and the SUV, flipped up. A tire blew, a window shattered and the head of the man loading the shotgun seemed to get hit as blood splashed across the inside of the windshield.

“Good shot,” Delacort noted with a chuckle as bank bags jounced out of the open trunk to hit the pavement and break open. Stacks of bills went everywhere, and a police car plowed through them, sending out a corona of loose bills that the breeze took and began to spread across the intersection like manna from heaven.

Numerous civilians who had been crouched in hiding, now insanely charged into the street to grab whatever they could. More bundles fell from the speeding SUV. But Delacort noticed that these came from the men in the rear seat and were not the bank bags in the trunk. What in the world could those be?

Black smoke exploded from two of the bundles, and then the rest banged loudly, throwing numerous small objects across the pavement.

Plowing throw the smoke, the police cars suddenly lurched of out control as all of their tires blew at exactly the same instant. Riding on only the rims, the drivers fought to control the screeching vehicles as showers of bright sparks were thrown up behind them like fireworks. Forcing the cars to a stop, the police inside jumped out before the crippled vehicles rocked to a halt, and took off on foot. But the SUV was impossibly distant by now, and the snarling men angrily holstered their weapons. A few of them started to shout orders to the civilians dashing around, grabbing at the whirlwind of money, while older and obviously wiser cops started to speak into their radios.

Kneeling on the pavement, a policewoman with a spreading bloodstain on her arm, lifted something small and metallic-looking from the street.

“And what the fuck is this?” she demanded of nobody in particular, turning the object over to inspect it from every angle.

As his bodyguards relaxed their defensive postures, Delacort smiled in amusement, recognizing the item as a caltrop, a primitive device invented by the Romans to stop the advance of barefoot enemies, but it worked equally as well against modern-day cars. It was a small triangular piece of wood with sharp nails driven through to point outward from each side. No matter how they fell, if a tire went over one, the nails deflated it, and that was the end of the chase. Well, against the police, or the FBI, Delacort noted mentally. The CIA and Homeland had puncture-proof military tires. Against those, a thousand caltrops would be as ineffectual as throwing spitballs.

“Still, I wonder if those would sell well wholesale,” the arms dealer muttered, snapping his fingers for the waitress once more before returning to the newspaper. He was hungrier than ever now, and sure that the staff would come out of hiding eventually.

T AKING A CORNER on two wheels, Lyons angled sharply into a parking garage and took the ramp to the second level at breakneck speed. Smashing aside a row of bright orange safety cones, the Stony Man commando slammed on the brakes as the back of a huge Mack truck came into view.

Decelerating quickly, Lyons had the SUV down to only 50 mph when he hit the sloped sheet of corrugated steel leading into the open rear of the cargo truck. The front end crashed against the metal, throwing the people inside hard against their seat belts, the bloody mannequin in the passenger seat—Bloody Bob—flopping wildly. As the interior of the truck filled his sight, Lyons threw the SUV into Reverse. The transmission gave a metallic groan, then slammed the vehicle to a halt, a barrage of shrapnel blowing out the bottom as gears shattered under the abrupt change in direction.

Rocking slightly back and forth on the shock absorbers, the men in the SUV clawed at their seat belts as the blacksuits from the Farm dropped the access ramp, then swung the doors closed. Darkness descended with a strident clang.

Only a few seconds later there came the sound of a police siren racing past the truck, then fading into the distance as the cops streaked along the ramps of the empty garage, going higher and higher.

“Well, that was interesting,” Hermann Schwarz said, wiping his mustache clean with a palm. The hand came away streaked with crimson, none of it from him. “You know, I’ve had fun before, and this isn’t it.” Standing average height, and sporting plain brown hair, Schwarz was an ordinary-looking man, and there was nothing about him to show that “Gadgets” was one of the top electronics experts in the world.

“You can say that again, brother,” Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales muttered, brushing back his wavy crop of salt-and-pepper hair. Built along a more stocky frame, Blancanales had been a Black beret before joining the Stony Man team, and although an expert in psychological warfare, he radiated physical strength the way a furnace did heat.

Schwarz glanced forward. “Carl, how’s Bob doing?”

“He’s dead,” Lyons said, reaching over to shake the human-size mannequin. At the touch, more red fluid gushed from the wound in its head, and a few more plastic teeth sprayed forward to bounce off the dashboard, sounding like rattling dice.

“Damn. Don’t think I can fix him this time,” Schwarz said with a frown. “And still make him appear human.”

“Fair enough. He’s ready for permanent retirement,” Blancanales agreed, placing his Colt 1911 on the seat. “Let him rest in peace.”

“Rest in pieces, you mean,” Schwarz said, chuckling as he reached under the seat to extract a briefcase.

In the front seat, Lyons merely grunted at the feeble joke as he pulled the Atchisson shotgun from the stiff fingers of the mannequin and started wiping the weapon down with a damp cloth to remove the sticky theatrical blood. Personally, Lyons was glad the charade had come off without a hitch. Time was short, and with no other place to start an investigation, this desperate plan was their only way to try to find the Airwolves, and their pretend streetfight could have gone wrong in a hundred different ways. Thankfully there had been no real accidents. The cop who had died in the police car chasing them had only been the sister of Bob, Dyin’ Donna, operated by Schwarz by remote control.

In a muted rumble, the big diesel engine of the Mack truck lumbered into life, revving a few times to build power before smoothly moving forward.

Now that the team was in motion once more, Schwarz opened the briefcase and tucked the partially loaded Beretta into the soft gray foam, followed by the Colt. Then the man extracted a duplicate pair of weapons, only these were adorned with tiny splotches of yellow paint to mark them as real weapons. Passing the Colt to Blancanales, Schwarz briefly inspected the Beretta before slipping in a magazine of live ammunition.

Rubbing off the yellow paint, Blancanales did the same to his Colt. Long ago, the team had learned that using blanks in their weapons to simulate a firefight would not fool professionals. The guns looked the same and sounded the same, but the blanks shot out a feeble spray of sparks from the end of the muzzle instead of a hot lance of flame the way a live round did. That was the kind of mistake that could easily cost lives. So for these kinds of maneuvers, the Stony Man operatives used theatrical weapons acquired from a Hollywood production company.

The safe weapons were identical to real guns, but the interior of the barrel was throttled down to only a slim passage so that the quarter-charge of powder in the cartridges sent off a very realistic-looking muzzle flash. There was even enough of a kick to operate the complex loading mechanism and cycle in the next round. Which was how a studio had its pampered movie stars dramatically fire off machine guns in a film without them looking foolish, or worse, accidentally killing somebody. Blanks sent off wads of cardboard, supposedly harmless, but under the right conditions, they could break bones, and occasionally the cheap brass in the cartridges shattered, sending out a deadly spray of razor-sharp metal that killed every bit as easily as hot lead.

With a jounce, the truck exited the parking garage and started along High Street, heading northward. The police cars howled in the distance, moving east along Main Street.

“Mighty nice of the local cops to help us out on this,” Schwarz said, threading a sound suppressor onto the barrel of his Beretta before holstering the weapon.

“Anything to help Homeland Security,” Lyons replied, inspecting the Atchisson for last vestiges of the fake blood. When satisfied, he eased in a drum of 12-gauge cartridges and clicked on the safety. “Besides, they hate Delacort with a passion that can only be measured in kilotons.”

“The enemy of my enemy, eh?” Blancanales asked, tucking the Colt into a shoulder holster. “Come on, let’s get out of this filthy car and get dressed. I’m covered with fake brains.”

Grinning wickedly, Schwarz opened his mouth to speak.

“Not a fucking word, Gadgets,” Blancanales warned sternly.

The man feigned shock. “Who, me?”

Exiting the battered SUV, the team retrieved duffel bags from restraining straps on the walls of the truck and pulled out designer suits, expensive Italian shoes, Rolex watches and fat plastic containers of moist towellettes. Stripping to the skin, the men washed off the fake blood and began to get dressed again, starting with imported silk shorts. They needed to appear rich, and there was no telling how detailed a search Delacort might have his bodyguards perform.

“So, who are we this time?” Schwarz asked, splashing on some expensive French cologne.

“We’re mercenaries called Red Five,” Lyons replied, slipping on a designer shirt. “We’re a radical splinter group of the Aryan Nation.”

Pulling up his pants, the man stopped. “We’re stinking Nazis?”

“Aryans,” Blancanales corrected. “Not Nazis.”

“The difference being…?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Swell,” Schwarz muttered, buckling his belt.

“How long before we contact Delacort?” Schwarz asked.

“This evening,” Lyons replied, sliding on a pair of sunglasses. “Any sooner and he might become suspicious. We get only one chance at this, so we have to play it low and slow.”

“And if he doesn’t know anything about the Airwolves’ military ordnance?” Blancanales asked, sliding a gold signet ring onto his hand. Clenching his fist, the ring blossomed into a flower of razor blades. Easing his hand, the ring snapped shut, returning to the appearance of mere jewelry.

“Then we convince him to find out,” Lyons said coldly.

CHAPTER THREE

Quintana Roo, Mexico

Swiftly, the massive C-130 Hercules airplane glided through the clear sky like a winged mountain. David McCarter had turned off the huge engines as the coastline of Mexico came into sight, and was now dead-sticking it, flying the colossal warplane with his hands on the yoke, directed by instinct and years of training.

Strapped into the copilot’s seat, a tall, lean man in a military jumpsuit was using both hands to operate a military image enhancer. More than merely magnifying a view of the ground below, the device also scanned in the ultraviolet and infrared spectrum. Boasting window-in-window capability, the display screen showed a real-time view of the ground below, plus a series of static shots, the view constantly shifting as the cameras focused briefly on anything hot enough to register as a potential threat.

Thomas Jackson Hawkins had been raised in Texas, and was outlandishly proud of the fact. A genial man who smiled a lot, Hawkins spoke slowly, but moved with lightning-fast reflexes when it was time to kill. A former member of the elite Delta Force, Hawkins was trained in quiet kill techniques, but much preferred a thunder and lightning blitzkrieg.

“Okay, thermals read clean again. Aside from a campfire some kids built, there’s nothing down there but a coyote. No sign of any motorized traffic or other campfires.”

“Good to know,” David McCarter stated, putting his full attention on the stygian darkness ahead.

The former SAS commando knew that the bustling city of Cancun was only a few miles to the east, but the electric glow of the famous vacation spot was completely swallowed by the sheer distance, along with the endlessly shifting mountains of rolling sand dunes. The Phoenix Force leader felt like he was flying with the windows painted back, the night was so dark. His muscles were starting to ache from the strain of being constantly ready to dodge an outcropping.

The peninsula of Quintana Roo was mostly wild desert that stretched to white sandy beaches, occasionally punctuated with the crumbling ruins of Mayan temples perched atop low rocky cliffs. But that was Mexico; Cancun was as peaceful as Quintana Roo was savage.

“Time,” Hawkins reported, not bothering to check the watch under his sleeve.

Without shifting his sight, McCarter reached out to flip some switches, feathering the propellers and dropping two of the four airfoils. Instantly the huge plane slowed as if plowing into a wall of gelatin.

“Hundred feet…eighty…sixty…” Hawkins read off the altimeter. “Watch out—the freaking temple!”

“I saw it,” McCarter growled, speeding past the stone building and then dropping the last two flaps.

“Guess so, since we didn’t just eat sandstone,” Hawkins snorted, hitting a button on the intercom. “Hold on to your asses, boys, this is it. We’re going in!”

Fifty feet away, in the main body of the huge airplane, past a short flight of stairs, three men sat strapped into jumpseats, their camouflage-colored uniforms covered with military equipment.

“Roger that, Taxes.” Calvin James chuckled.

Over the intercom set into the arm of the jumpseat, Hawkins’s reply consisted mostly of four-letter words.

“Only if you buy me dinner first.” James laughed, a strong Chicago accent announcing his own native city.

Over six feet in height, the lanky man was classically good-looking, although oddly sporting a pencil-thin mustache like a movie star from the Roaring Twenties. Ready for battle the instant they touched down, James had an MP-5 submachine gun strapped across his chest and night-vision goggles at his side. A sleek 9 mm Beretta rode high on his chest in a combat holster, and a Randall Survival knife was at his side, the telltale blade of a Navy SEAL. Unlike the others, his camouflage paint was dull gray to mix with his naturally dark skin.

Surrounding the members of Phoenix Force were large pallets bolted directly to the deck, the stacks of equipment trunks lashed tightly into place. Parked fifty feet away at the rear of the plane was a Hummer, the heavy military vehicle tightly cocooned in a spiderweb of restraining belts. Ready for desert combat, the Hummer was painted a mottled array of dull colors, the headlights covered with night shields, and a M-249 SAW machine gun already attached to the firing stanchion, the breech open, the attached ammo box ready for action.

“And…welcome to Mexico!” McCarter announced over a wall speaker.

Instantly the plane shuddered as the wheels bounced off the hard desert sand. A spray of loose particles peppered the aft belly as the C-130 Hercules airplane rose slightly only to touch down once more. The plane shuddered again, then jerked hard and began to crazily jerk around as it bounced along the irregular ground. Everything loose went flying, and the three men in the jumpseats held on for dear life, not fully trusting the safety harnesses.

The noise of the sand hitting the underbelly of the plane grew to hurricane force, then the brakes engaged and the violent shaking rapidly eased until the gigantic craft came to an easy stop.

“Well, I’m delighted to see that correspondence course in flying is really working out well for David,” Rafael Encizo commented, working his jaw to see if any teeth were loose.

Gary Manning grinned, shrugging off his harness and pulling on a black knit cap, trying not to smear his tiger-stripe combat paint in the process.

Standing, Manning swung around a massive rifle. The bolt-action .50-caliber Barrett was a sniper rifle with a range of over a mile, the monstrous 700-grain bullets were the size of a cigar and fully capable of shooting through a brick wall. Many professional soldiers considered the deadly weapon a piece of field artillery, instead of merely a rifle.

“Good news, people,” McCarter announced from the top of the metal stairs. “Bear hacked into a Quest-Star comm sat and found the airfield. It’s five klicks due east, so leave the Hummer, we go on foot.”

“Low and quiet, just the way I like it,” Hawkins stated, appearing from the flight deck. An MP-5 was in his hands, and the plastic tube of a LAW rocket launcher was slung across his back. These days, many soldiers liked the reusable Armbrust, or SMAW, but the Stony Man team much preferred the one-shot LAW. Afterward, they simply tossed away the empty tube, which saved them a lot of time and trouble. Their covert missions were usually fast, furious and short. There was no supply line. They carried everything, which made every ounce saved vitally important.

Going to the side door, McCarter checked outside through the small observation port, then turned to nod at James. He killed the internal lights and McCarter swung open the door, going from darkness into the night. The others quickly followed, readying their weapons.

Gathering outside, the team members listened to the sounds of the desert for a moment, trusting their ears to tell them if anything hostile was in the vicinity. Silence in the middle of a forest or wild glade always meant the immediate presence of humans. Or a major predator. But savage men hidden in the desert were to be feared a lot more than any mountain lion or poisonous reptile.

Slowly, the insect life recovered from the rude arrival of the Hercules, and began to sing their songs once more. An owl hooted in the distance.

Swinging down his night-vision goggles, James dialed for infrared and scanned the vicinity, while Encizo did the same using the Starlite function. That mode augmented the natural illumination of the stars until the operator could see everything as clear as if it was day. The one drawback being that unless the surge protector was engaged, somebody lighting a match or turning on a flashlight, could blind the operator for several minutes until his eyes recovered, leaving him temporarily helpless.

“Clear,” James subvocalized into a throat mike, the word repeated in the earbuds of the rest of the team.

Turning off his goggles, Encizo gave a thumbs-up to the others.

Satisfied for the moment, McCarter flipped up the lid of the compass on his wrist to check directions, then snapped it shut and started off at a run.

The kilometers passed in total silence, the only sounds the soft patting of their combat boots on the dry sand. As expected, the Mexican desert was very chilly at that time of night. The terrible heat of the day had completely radiated away, leaving the landscape bitterly cold, and soon their breath began to fog. There were small chemical packs sewed into the lining of their ghillie suits that would start to generate a soothing warmth for hours if slapped. But the U.S. Marine Corp hot-packs would make the team members light up a thermal scan like fireworks, so the Stony Man operatives simply ignored the low temperatures and concentrated on moving across the desolate and inhospitable Quintana Roo peninsula.

Reaching a low dune, the team went flat and covered the next hundred yards on their bellies. Cresting the top, the Stony Man commandos tried not to disturb the young sage plants that grew thick from the sand, and looked down the other side using monoculars. The world turned black-and-white, the view crystal clear and wire sharp.

“Bingo,” McCarter whispered into his throat mike with grim satisfaction.

Spreading out in front of the men was a wide area of land that had been cleared of all plants. Off to the side were some old cinder-block buildings, the doors were riveted metal, the windows merely ventilation slits, and lots of sand, rocks and plants were piled high on top on the flat roof. Obviously it was protection from an aerial search.

More importantly, just outside the armored door a fire was crackling inside a fifty-five-gallon oil drum, holes cut into the sides to allow the light and heat to escape. Sitting on folding chairs, there were a couple of men in ponchos talking and smoking stubby cigars, assault rifles leaning against the cinder-block wall nearby. One of the rifles was a brand-new AK-101, the other was a much older AK-47. Obviously, one of the men was new and not given the better, more expensive weapon until having proved his worth.

However, the team members still frowned at the sight. Both of the Russian assault rifles were equipped with 30 mm grenade launchers and infrared night scopes, which could be real trouble.

The sound of metal hitting metal came from another cinder-block building; streamers of light escaped from the canvas sheet blocking the wide front door. More fifty-five-gallon drums were situated under a canvas awning, along with a small electric generator. The Stony Man commandos marked it as the garage. Then they spotted another canvas lump and identified it as the proper size and shape for a heavy machine gun, or maybe an auto-mortar. However, there was no way of telling where they were.

A small wooden shack was set off by itself, clearly identifying it as the outhouse. Several yards distant was a bare metal flagpole, the tattered remains of a windsock dangling limply. Even though it was reduced to rags, the old cloth could still give an incoming plane vital information on wind direction.

Just past the flagpole, cutting across the cleared area, was a wide strip of concrete, as incongruous a sight as a buffalo in a ballet. Smooth and flat, the disguised airstrip reached out of sight, and the members of Phoenix Force nodded in admiration at the sight of pictures of more plants and rocks painted onto the landing strip. Clever. More protection from visual tracking. The team could only see the concrete because of the angle and the silvery moonlight. Otherwise, it would have been nearly invisible.

“Hidden in plain sight,” Hawkins muttered, shifting his grip on the MP-5 to screw on an acoustic sound suppressor. “Same as the Airwolves.”