Santo Domingo was a city on fire.
Working on his navigational program, Lyons snarled in disgust and shoved the CPDA away. “The damn thing only wants to give me obvious thoroughfare,” he explained, voice terse with frustration. “We roll down main avenues and we’re going to hit crowds and riot police every fifty fucking yards.”
“Oh, now you don’t want to be obvious?” Blancanales called out from the back seat.
Schwarz reached the end of the service lane and swerved off onto a side road to avoid running into any official traffic working checkpoints or coming from the opposite direction.
He swerved to avoid a stray dog and ran the vehicle through a rut into a long shallow puddle of polluted ditch water. They entered a winding street of the shanty slum and were immediately forced to slow because of the people milling around. Though not rioting, this group of citizens was clearly anxious about the situation and crowded the sides of the street.
A sea of dark faces turned in surprise toward the three men in the jeep. Dogs barked as bystanders pointed with open curiosity at the sight. Other vehicles, freight trucks, minibikes and taxis, began to clog the road, slowing Schwarz’s speed.
Lyons mulled over his situation as Schwarz expertly guided the vehicle through the narrow twisting lanes. Groups of young males, some openly carrying machetes, began to appear on street corners.
“We’ve still got five miles to go to the docks,” Blancanales pointed out. “We’re going to be playing Russian roulette in a couple of minutes once we get into the industrial and merchant areas,” Blancanales continued. “I don’t mind putting a couple of this regime’s bully boys to sleep to get a ride, but I don’t think a gun battle is going to be productive.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” Lyons said, hooded eyes watching the crowds and vehicles for any sign of a threat.
“Why don’t we take a taxi?” Schwarz offered.
“We don’t have any cash and I didn’t think to rob those clowns from the airport,” Lyons replied.
“We barter?”
“What? Not weapons?” Lyons demanded.
“Why not? You said it yourself—we either do what we have to do to save the American or we go home now. We’ve been put in an imperfect situation. We can either keep a moral high ground or, you know, actually succeed at the goddamn mission.”
“We got a cell phone,” Blancanales leaned forward and pointed out. “I can use that and the lead officer’s pistol to get us a ride, I think. If you want, I can use my pocket knife to juke the fire pin so that it looks all right but will snap when fired.”
“I doubt they’ll even look as long as there are bullets in the clip,” Schwarz argued. “If you want we could just toss the recoil spring altogether. No harm no foul…sort of.” He grinned through his mustache.
Lyons nodded once. “Let’s do it.”
Within half a block of deciding to act, Blancanales had expertly sabotaged the 9 mm pistol. When they found a driver in a battered silver Kia Sophia taxi three minutes later, Blancanales was forced to add the keys to the jeep into the mix but Able Team had secured a driver.
They quickly pulled down a narrow dirt lane overhung with laundry and the curious eyes of the slum’s inhabitants. Using their own lightweight jackets as makeshift covers for their longer weapons, Able Team left the government jeep behind and piled into the cramped confines of the taxi.
The driver was in his sixties, scar-faced, with arthritis-gnarled hands and flawless British-accented English. The man watched his passengers with a wary eye but quickly navigated the car away from the scene.
Within seconds Able Team was driving into the heart of an urban firestorm of riots and military police units.
Kyrgyzstan
ABOVE THE CENTRAL ASIAN HILLS clouds began to form, casting dark shadows on the already dark terrain. On the ridgeline above the narrow mountain road Phoenix Force lay in wait, five ambush predators waiting for their quarry.
Weapon muzzles tracked the approach as gleaming headlights appeared on the twisting road. The engines snarled as the vehicle operators ground the gears up the steep grade.
Watching through his night-vision goggles, McCarter felt a professional satisfaction as he surveyed his ambush site. It was a perfect amalgamation of satellite imagery and tactical experience. It was a lethal kill box.
The operation was designed to neutralize an informational node terrorist cell propagating chaos and unrest in underdeveloped and weak countries. The traveling team were graduates of al Qaeda training camps in the former Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. The command-and-control instructors educated local radicals in logistics, administration, financing and target selection, ruthlessly turning clumsy, disorganized gangs of killers into streamlined, corporate models of murderous efficiency.
Phoenix Force was about to execute their own lessons in murderous efficiency.
“Wait for my call,” McCarter said smoothly. “On my call, strike our predetermined targets.”
“Copy,” Hawkins answered.
“Copy,” Encizo acknowledged.
“Copy,” James echoed.
“Copy,” Manning finished.
Below the ex–SAS commando the terrorist convoy ground past. He watched the scout vehicles crawl past his position, close enough now to see the glow of the occupants’ cigarettes. Fifty yards down the line, the last truck brought up the rear. The convoy commander had allowed the rough terrain to cause his drivers to bunch up too closely together.
It was a fundamental mistake McCarter intended to exploit.
Slowly, McCarter lifted the butt of his AKS and nestled it into his shoulder. His trigger hand found the curve of his 30-round magazine and his finger lay on the smooth metal curve of the M 203’s trigger as his free hand grasped the grenade launcher by its grooved tube.
To either side of him he could feel the men of his unit tensed and poised for his command, ready to unleash a heavy curtain of hellfire on the terrorists below him. He moved his boot slightly and dislodged a stone.
The pebble slid free of the initial lip of the ledge and slid downhill, dislodging a miniature avalanche of gravel that petered out halfway down the incline grade. McCarter let the pent-up air in his lungs escape in a slow hiss as he squeezed his trigger.
The recoil of the shot rocked his carbine back into his shoulder as the round discharged with its signature bloop sound. As the first-strike signal, McCarter had reserved the right to call his target on site instead of taking an assigned target as they’d discussed in their mission workup.
Due to the heavy firepower potential of the 20 mm antiaircraft gun in the last truck, he made the decision to put his first HEDP into it. With surprise, aggression of action, command of terrain and superior training Phoenix Force held the upper hand in the conventional military ambush. If there was any possible game changer then it was the heavy weapon serving as the convoy tail gun.
His round arched into the night, its velocity low enough that he could just trace the arc of its movement as it sailed out across the length of a soccer field toward the truck.
In the next instant there was a flash of light, followed by the thump of the HE round going off. Then men started screaming as fire rolled up in a brilliant orange ball toward the sky and the battle began.
Keyed to the actions of their team leader, both Calvin James and Rafael Encizo reacted instantly, triggering their RPG-7s within breaths of