Drawpoint. Don Pendleton

eye out for the hostages and do not hesitate.”

      A chorus of quiet acknowledgment greeted him, as each Phoenix Force member in turn spoke discreetly for his transceiver’s benefit.

      “Cal, T.J.,” McCarter directed, “cut around the back of this building and retrace our route. Find those snipers and take them. See if you can spot any other guards. Remember, they may know somebody’s coming.”

      “Right,” James said.

      “Understood,” Hawkins said.

      “Gary, you take the back,” McCarter said jerking his chin toward the ramshackle house, little better than a shanty, that leaned precariously at the opposite end of the block. It was composed of equal parts scrap wood, corrugated metal and tarps. The entire neighborhood, a claustrophobic maze of narrow alleyways and stained, crumbling structures that looked to be falling down where they stood, stank like an open sewer. Rotting garbage was piled in some of the shadowed lees of the buildings. A man was lying against one of the closer hovels, and McCarter gave him a very careful look to make sure it wasn’t a terrorist guard shamming as a drunk or a beggar. On closer inspection, however, he realized it was a body. The decay was unmistakable, even if the smell was lost among the other odors in the alley.

      “Lovely,” McCarter muttered.

      Manning was already on his way. McCarter motioned to Encizo. “You’re with me, mate. We’ll take the front. Let’s go.”

      “Right.” Encizo nodded.

      They kept their Tavor rifles low against their bodies as they went, but they made no real effort to hide the weapons. Any attempt to operate within the auspices of the Indian government had been fouled by Gopalan’s interference and Phoenix Force’s interception of him. McCarter was not about to accept another “liaison” he did not know and could not trust, so they were going to do things his way, and damn the consequences. If the Purba Banglars were sitting on the uranium and someone holding the Jignesh family knew where it was, there was no reason to delay and no point in playing bureaucratic games. McCarter preferred it that way. They passed plenty of locals, some of them dead-eyed, others alert enough to take note and hurry in the opposite direction. Places like this the world over shared a universal, overriding law. Don’t get involved. The only resistance McCarter anticipated would come from the hostage-takers themselves. He was itching to bring the fight to them.

      C ALVIN J AMES WORKED his way along the alley, then forward, cutting around the sniper positions while keeping the miserable shacks between him and the enemy shooters. At the same time, Hawkins cut around the opposite side, staying low. The teammates did not have to exchange words to work effectively. They had been through scenarios like this time and again.

      James had time to consider the sprawling debris around him. Slums were slums the world over. Grinding poverty like this made human life cheap and human beings desperate. It meant they were that much easier to turn, to buy off and to push around. Those they faced, be they Purba Banglar terrorists or just hired muscle off the streets of Nongstoin, would be capable of anything if the price was right.

      When he had flanked the first sniper’s position, he found a stack of crates spilling over with refuse. He used these to climb up onto the rooftop of the shanty facing them. On top of the rusted, corrugated metal roof, he found a maze of clutter. Everything from wooden crates to metal and plywood additions to the huts below dotted the artificial landscape. He took full advantage of the cover to carefully cross the ramshackle roof.

      As he crept closer to the first of the sentries, he watched to verify that the target was still there. The man obligingly shifted in place, exposing his shoulder and head, as he looked through the scope of a Dragunov-type rifle. He was partially hidden in the lee of a precariously listing stack of rusting chicken-wire cages. These might once have housed some sort of livestock, maybe even birds of some kind. They were empty now and looked to have been for some time.

      James got as close as he dared. When he judged that he, too, was partially obscured by the debris around him, from the perspective of the target house, he placed his Tavor rifle gently on the roof next to him. His hand went to the butt of the Desert Tan Columbia River M-60 fixed blade on his belt. The six-inch blade slid free quietly as James tightened his grip on the textured handle.

      The sentry sensed death coming for him at the last minute. He turned, his eyes widening as James landed on him, his free hand clamping in a vise-like grip over the man’s mouth as the M-60’s blade slid between his ribs. James grimaced and worked the knife in and out to finish the job, making sure the sentry’s cries went unheard under his palm. The man’s death rattle was barely audible as his eyes lost focus and the light left them.

      James rolled the sentry aside. He picked up the Dragunov knockoff, looked it over briefly and pulled the bolt back just far enough to verify that a round was chambered. Then he settled into the spot just vacated by the dead sniper. The front window of the target house was bright and clear through the scope, which was a surprisingly expensive German model. The scope and the rifle itself were covered in scratches that showed little regard for the weapon, but it felt solid and appeared to be functional. His Tavor was within reach if he needed it, which he might. Using an unknown weapon, which might or might be sighted in properly, which might not even fire when the trigger was pulled, was hardly something he was eager to do. But just in case others among the Purba Banglars were watching the sniper positions, it was important that there be a body up there behind the rifle. Unless they were using binoculars, James thought what little of him was visible would be sufficient to fool the enemy. If, however, they were keeping a close—and magnified—view of their rooftop shooters, he was made already, and there was nothing to do about it. The rest of Phoenix Force would deal with that, if those in the house grew suspicious and started shooting.

      “This is Cal,” he said quietly, knowing his earbud transceiver would pick up his words. “One down.” There was no response from Hawkins, nor did he expect one until T.J. had his sniper neutralized. He could only assume the man had matters well enough in hand.

      T.J. H AWKINS HAD MATTERS well in hand. While he never underestimated an enemy—he’d seen too many battles go south too quickly for that—so far he wasn’t very impressed with the opposition. He’d located and skirted around his sniper well enough, where the man knelt hunched against a two-story shanty made of plywood and tarps. He was smoking, his cigarette smoke forming a plume that marked him as an amateur and served as a beacon to his location.

      Hawkins found a foothold on one side, where several large holes had been punched, kicked, or otherwise pushed into the wood. A dirty blue tarp positioned inside the hovel protected the interior from wind and rain. As quietly as he could, mindful that there could be and likely were occupants of the slums in this building or in the nearby structures, Hawkins lifted himself up to the roof of the first story.

      “This is Cal,” came the voice in Hawkins’s ear. “One down.” That was the younger man’s cue. He started to move forward, his hand going to the ergonomic grip of the Columbia River Ultima fixed blade on his belt.

      His foot dragged against a piece of loose wood anchoring the tarp-covered rooftop.

      The sniper spun in place, his head ducking out from behind cover, dark eyes wide and locking with the Phoenix Force commando. Hawkins did not hesitate. Crawling, crablike, on the roof, his Tavor was gripped in his left hand by the plastic stock. Instead of trying for it, he went for the Beretta M-9 in the inside-the-waistband Kydex holster behind his right hip. He whipped up the weapon, wiping the safety off with his thumb, and double-actioned the first 9mm round. The bullet snapped the sniper’s head back.