“Agreed. Which one of us do you think can get the most out of that trip?”
“Probably you. You’re younger and smaller.”
James checked his watch. “We’ve got forty seconds to H-hour.”
Hawkins nodded and James could see from the intensity on his friend’s face he was mentally preparing himself for the sprint. McCarter had radioed the plan in very cryptic terms. Manning planned to rig a satchel charge to blow a large hole at the front southwest corner of the building, the reception and seating area. Phoenix Force hoped it would make the terrorists think they were trying to breach the building and force them to re-focus their defensive posture on that area. They couldn’t be sure it would make them redirect their firepower to the front, but McCarter had indicated he thought it might just divert enough attention to buy James and Hawkins what they needed to get up close on the station house. Heavy-purpose machine guns weren’t much good in close-quarters battle.
The explosion came right as James called “mark” in his mental countdown. He slapped Hawkins after a three-count, and the Phoenix Force warrior burst from cover. James steadied his M-16 and let loose a sustained volley of 5.56 mm rounds. The weapon chattered, muzzle spitting flame, as James laid on a firestorm that blew out glass and chewed through the facade. Hawkins had nearly reached the wall before the machine gun started up, but by that time the terrorists were too late—they couldn’t possibly hit him at that angle.
Hawkins made the wall, turned and crouched with his back to it. The machine gun stopped firing as he yanked an AN-M14 TH3 incendiary hand grenade from his harness, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb through the shattered window from which the smoking barrel of the machine gun protruded. James could hear the shouts of surprise. A moment later those shouts became screams of agony as the grenade exploded and distributed 4,000-degree molten iron capable of burning through armor up to a half-inch thick. That heat would melt that machine gun to slag and neutralize any enemy within immediate reach.
James ceased firing, jumped to his feet and sprinted to his teammate. He took a similar position, back to the wall, and grinned. “Nice job, pal.”
Hawkins nodded in reply, apparently still too winded to speak.
Shouts of shock and pain still emanated from the window near the machine-gun emplacement as James and Hawkins made their entry through the rear door by shooting out the lock. They crossed the threshold, stepped over the body of a terrorist and were greeted by a horrific scene. The TH3 had done its job. The smell of cooked flesh nearly overwhelmed the pair.
James pumped a pair of mercy rounds into each of the terrorists, then said, “Let’s see if we can find our prisoner.”
T HE EXPLOSION FROM M ANNING’S diversion signaled a time for action to McCarter and Encizo.
The pair left the cover of the police vehicle and split off to storm the station house from two directions. McCarter suspected at least one of the machine-gun emplacements had been destroyed by Manning’s onslaught from the chopper, which left only one machine gunner to contend with. As they got close to the front door of the station, the machine gun began to sound off.
But only one.
Encizo intended to take care of the other one. The Cuban rolled behind a large, decorative boulder positioned on the front lawn of the building. Rounds from the machine gun zinged off the rock or chewed up the ground around the boulder.
Encizo nodded at McCarter, who had secured cover behind the single, large tree directly opposite the boulder. The warrior dropped to a knee, leveled his HK33E carbine in the general direction of the enemy emplacement and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle of McCarter’s assault rifle spit flame as it delivered its 5.56 mm rounds at a cyclic rate of about 700 per minute.
Encizo primed a pair of M-67 fragmentation grenades, stood and tossed them one after the other through the run of windows. He and McCarter ducked behind the boulder. Moments later the grenades exploded, seconds apart. The Phoenix Force duo charged the front door. They waited on either side, backs to the wall, until Manning showed up with his M-60 and then made entry. Encizo went right, Manning left and McCarter straight up the middle.
Two terrorists popped up from behind the reception desk and leveled their SMGs at Manning. McCarter realized his teammate couldn’t respond in time with his bulky weapon and provided a solution to the problem. The Briton eased back on the trigger of the HK33E carbine and caught the first terrorist with a flesh-shredding burst to the chest. The man dropped from sight behind the counter. The second terrorist lost his head with McCarter’s follow-up shot as a pair of high-velocity rounds split his skull down the center, splattering blood and brain matter in all directions. The terrorist staggered blindly while what was left of his brain told the rest of his body he was dead. Then he crumpled to the floor.
“Hold position,” McCarter ordered Encizo.
The Cuban turned so his back faced the hallway and then tracked the room with the G-11 while McCarter and Manning sprinted down the hallway to the jail. McCarter demanded a sitrep from James and Hawkins as Manning filled the bolt lock of the door leading into the cell block with C-4 plastique.
“All clear,” James replied.
McCarter acknowledged him and peered through the square, bulletproof glass window of the heavy metal door. He looked to see Manning use a pencil to form a hole in the center of the plastique packed into the lock. The Canadian explosives expert then inserted a blasting cap with a small electronic receiver on the end of it.
“Let’s go,” Manning said, and the two backed a respectful distance and turned away their heads.
The big Canadian made a show of raising the small detonator box and flipping a switch. The powerful plastique made short work of the lock with an explosion that was deafening in the confines of the hallway. The pair rushed the door and Manning kicked it aside. He and McCarter nodded to each other, then burst into the cell block.
Manning spotted a terrorist exit a cell at the far end, the one where they were holding the prisoner. He shouted a warning to McCarter as the hardman sprayed the narrow walkway with a firestorm of lead. Manning and the Phoenix Force leader went prone and opened with an equally violent reply. Dozens of high-velocity slugs perforated the terrorist, opening bright red splotches in his belly and chest. The impact slammed the enemy gunman against the concrete wall and he slumped to the ground.
The Phoenix Force warriors got to their feet and rushed to the cell. The sight wasn’t pretty. Their prisoner sat partially upright on the metal bunk that folded out from the wall, his head cocked at an odd angle and his tongue hanging free from his gaping mouth. Blood and bits of flesh were splattered across the back wall in a grisly mosaic. More blood ran freely from the numerous bullet holes in his upper torso. Many were so close together and in such number that parts of the man’s intestines and other internal organs were visible.
“They executed him,” McCarter said. “Just in case he talked.”
“W HATEVER INTELLIGENCE our prisoner might have had,” David McCarter announced to Price and Brognola, “al Qaeda definitely wanted to make sure we didn’t get our hands on it.”
“We agree,” Brognola replied. “I can’t see them going to that great a risk unless the man was somehow critical to their operations.”
“Well, obviously they know we’re onto them now,” Price added. “They’ll be even more careful.”
“Right,” McCarter said. “Which is going to make it bloody hard to pick up their trail.”
“Can’t your Panamanian contact with the government assist with that?”
“Who? Nativida?” McCarter asked. He directed a pointed look in Manning’s direction.
Manning didn’t take his eyes from McCarter’s as he replied, “Well, there might be a bit of a problem with that. I’m afraid he’s feeling a bit uncooperative with