Promise To Defend. Don Pendleton

hard. Steely fingers closed on the object. His other hand grabbed hold of the same object, his mind clearing enough that he realized it was a window ledge.

      Encizo grunted with more pain, this time from the tearing force that accompanied his last-ditch grab. His lungs opened again. The sudden rush of air caused his eyesight to sharpen, though blood still roared in his ears as his pulse had reached a fever pitch.

      Arm, shoulder and back muscles burning, Encizo, in agony, began to haul himself up, bringing his gaze in line with the window. At the same time, he kicked his right leg upward. After two unsuccessful attempts, he hooked a booted foot up over a ledge and used the extra leverage to raise himself.

      A cacophony of gunshots sounded from the roof and from within the embassy. The knowledge that his comrades and the hostages were in danger injected an extra urgency to Encizo’s movements.

      Suddenly the window above him shattered, showering him with shards of glass. He saw a head, then the battered and bloodied form of a dead Marine flying through the opening. Even before the corpse cleared the window, gunfire lanced through it, forcing Encizo to instinctively flatten against the concrete wall, still warm from baking in the day’s heat. The thump of the body hitting the ground, mixed with the cries of terrified hostages, caused his concern for his friends to be replaced by a red-hot rage for the senseless murder erupting around him.

      Dangling one-handed from the ledge, the anger anesthetizing the pain in his chest and shoulders, Encizo jabbed a hand into his combat pouch and extracted a flash-bang grenade. Activating the device, he lobbed it through the window. He was already scrambling for the opening when sound and fury exploded from within the building.

      Pulling himself level with the window, he looped an arm over the sill and filled his other hand with the MP-5. Hostages, now blinded, deafened and disoriented, continued to scream and fall over one another on the floor as they waited for what they believed to be a sure death.

      One terrorist stepped into the open from an adjoining room. He spun toward the wall, aiming his AK-47 at the window.

      And Encizo.

      The commando stroked the MP-5’s trigger. The subgun kicked out a storm of lead that pummeled the man’s chest, opening it with less than surgical precision. Before the other terrorist got his bearings, Encizo squeezed off another burst that tore apart the man’s midsection, his arms pinwheeling as he stumbled backward. Another volley felled a third fighter who was aiming his pistol at the hostages, ready to fire blind into the innocents.

      He came quickly through the window and sized up the situation. Thanks to a miracle, none of the hostages had been harmed, though several still looked dazed. Encizo chalked up most of the shocked looks to the violence these people—nearly all civilians—had witnessed. He spotted a Marine leaning against a wall, straining at his bonds. Although the soldier’s face had been bruised and bloodied, Encizo still could tell the man was relatively young. Crossing the room in quick steps, he slid his combat knife from its scabbard and knelt next to the young Marine.

      “What’s your name, son?”

      “Wentworth,” the young man said. “Tom Wentworth.”

      Encizo placed a hand on the Marine’s shoulder and leaned him forward. The Phoenix Force soldier inspected the younger man’s bonds, saw his captors had used plastic handcuffs.

      “You seen any action, Wentworth?” Encizo sliced the blade across the plastic strips and they fell away.

      The Marine brought his hands around and rubbed his chafed wrists. “You mean, before tonight?”

      “Yes.”

      “Iraq, sir. One year.”

      Encizo stabbed the knife into the floor. He snatched up a discarded assault rifle and handed it to Wentworth. “Take these people to a safe room. If anyone but me tries to come through the door, drill ’em.”

      The young man took the weapon, checked its load even as he stood.

      “What if you get killed, sir?”

      Encizo shrugged. “There’s a few of my teammates running around. Ask for Rick Cornett. Otherwise, improvise. Any more of these maggots running around here?”

      Wentworth nodded over his shoulder. “In the library. It’s the most secure room in the building. Last I saw, the leader of these guys was hanging out in there. He had Barbara Kendall, our public-information officer, with him. You want to get in there, you need an entry card.”

      “You have one?”

      Wentworth shook his head. “Nah. They took everything.” He gestured at the dead terrorists. “But I’ll bet you search one of these guys you’ll find one.”

      Encizo thanked the young man. He sifted through the pockets of three terrorists before finding a security card. The Marine, who’d busied himself freeing the other hostages, confirmed that it was, indeed, the one he wanted.

      Encizo escorted the group to a nearby room, a lounge of some sort outfitted with large-screen televisions and billiard tables. He left the group inside and felt a slight bit of relief when the door locked behind him.

      As he stepped back into the hallway, he saw another man standing there, surveying the damage. Calvin James. The former SWAT officer grinned at Encizo.

      “You leave any for me?” he said.

      “Nada, amigo. Sorry. And our friends from the roof?”

      James shrugged, sliced his forefinger across his throat. “Hanging with the Grim Reaper. Once I saw you go over the side, I went a little nuts.”

      “I’d expect no less from an old friend.”

      Gunfire continued to rattle downstairs. Encizo quickly told James about the terrorists still holed up in the library. The two men hugged the wall as they proceeded toward the library. Along the way, Encizo stopped and nodded at a security camera moored to the wall. James raised his sound-suppressed MP-5 and loosed a flurry of lead that destroyed the device. The camera sparked as it disintegrated under the subgun’s sustained fury.

      “Nice work,” Encizo said.

      “I like subtlety,” James said.

      “Maybe that’s what they’ll put on our tombstones.”

      MCCARTER DARTED from the stairwell, hit the floor and rolled, bullets chewing into the tiled floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw his comrades do likewise, each man grabbing precious distance from the impending explosion.