The RPG rounds struck the convoy almost simultaneously. The rockets hammered home with ruthless force. James’s round was an inch low and struck the hard gravel road exactly between the front and rear driver’s-side tires. The round detonated, spreading a lethal umbrella of shrapnel and flame that first shredded then ignited the vehicle’s fuel tank.
The secondary explosion was massive, picking up the light sports utility vehicle and its armed tribesmen and flipping them upside down in a bonfire of orange flame and roiling black smoke. Bodies spun like pinwheels as limbs were ripped free and thrown next to scorched torsos.
Encizo’s round cut across the distance at a sharp angle with a screaming, swooshing sound as distinct as any human voice. The rocket skipped off the angled hood of the old Soviet-era truck and skimmed into the windshield. Flames shot out the truck cab through windows in all four directions.
The expanding concussion wave of the exploding RPG warhead ripped back through the dash and hammered into the truck’s massive engine block, igniting the vehicle’s fluids.
With two well-placed applications of ballistic high explosives, Phoenix Force had effectively pinned the convoy in place on the narrow mountain road. The remaining terrorist troops were left with nowhere to run, no where to escape, and the surrounding terrain made a counterattack virtually impossible.
Manning opened up with his RPK, the weapon hammering out a long burst of 7.62 mm ComBloc rounds that he stitched down the exposed side of the trapped vehicles from one burning truck to the next. His rounds perforated the thin metal of the light-skinned trucks, hammering out divots and burrowing into scrambling, screaming, frantic flesh. His burst broke bones, opened wounds and split skulls as the hapless terrorists twisted and danced under the withering fire.
On the opposite end of the spectrum Hawkins turned his sniper optics on, the nighttime target range as brilliantly lit as a summer day in his home state of Texas. He fired, rode the recoil, adjusted his aim and fired again with an industrial efficiency so smooth it was almost appalling.
First he killed the drivers, then he allowed himself the luxury of picking out a diversity of targets, even killing a struggling terrorist for no other reason than to spare the burning man an agonizing death. Once he saw a terrified and panicked gray-bearded elder desperately attempting to work the buttons on his sat phone. Hawkins used the 4-power magnification of his PSO-1 telescopic sight to put a single 7.62 mm round from his Dragunov SVD through the man’s thick, low forehead.
Blood rushed like a river from a cracked dam as the man crumpled and fell away, his satellite phone dropping to the ground from lifeless fingers.
“On ropes!” McCarter shouted.
Both Encizo and James fired their second volley and Phoenix Force prepared to launch its final assault on the convoy.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dominican Republic
The cabdriver was skilled and as interested in avoiding trouble as Able Team. He circumnavigated the trouble spots and police checkpoints throughout the city until he was able to drop them off within blocks of their objective.
Moving quickly down narrow alleys and across vacant lots, Lyons led the team by as surreptitious a route as possible under the circumstances. The U.S. government safehouse was a single-bedroom walkup in an older building set above a fruit warehouse.
The locals watched them with open curiosity, and Lyons noticed the prolific presence of machetes immediately.
“Blending in is going to be a problem,” Schwarz noted, voice dry.
“You think?” Blancanales replied, equally sarcastic.
“Could be one of the problems our missing agent had,” Lyons pointed out.
“Only in the tourist-heavy areas would he have been able to blend in,” Schwarz agreed. “Screw it, we ain’t gonna be invisible so we might as well get inside and gear up.”
“True,” Lyons said. “I was tired of all this sneaking around anyway.”
Blancanales rolled his eyes in humor as the team crossed the busy street and approached the outside staircase leading to the safehouse.
Lyons’s apprehension grew as he moved closer to the building. If elements within the Dominican government were responsible for the agent’s disappearance, then they would have the resources to keep the location under surveillance.
Seeming to read his mind as they crossed the cracked sidewalk, Blancanales spoke up. “According to the Farm, this place isn’t believed to be compromised.”
“Virginia is a long way from here,” Lyons replied evenly, his eyes searching the rooftops.
From a few blocks over there was a sudden burst of weapons fire, and in response the crowd loitering on the street grew animated.
“Fuck it,” Schwarz said. “A police patrol could come by at any minute. We need to get out of sight for a while.”
“Let’s go.” Lyons turned his head and spit. “Just to be safe, Pol,” he said, “why don’t you hang at the bottom of the stair while we check the place out—watch our six, see if anything shakes loose.”
“You got it, amigo,” Blancanales said.
The former Green Beret peeled off from his friends and wandered down toward the end of a foul-smelling alley toward where an ancient Chevy flatbed delivery truck was parked next to a row of overflowing garbage cans.
Lyons walked forward. The staircase was an ancient, weathered structure obviously decades old. It ran up a story then doubled back under a covered flight of steps, where it ended at an awning-overhung porch. The door set there was dark. From inside the alley the sounds of the street, of automobiles, conversations and blaring radios was muted and sounded farther away by some trick of acoustics.
Lyons moved up the staircase slowly, making little noise. Taking his lead, Schwarz followed his example. Below them Blancanales glanced up, established their position, then scanned the area for signs of trouble.
At the door Lyons paused and looked down. He frowned at what he saw and ran a finger over the door latch, noting the scratches obvious on the faceplate. His proximity sense clanged like a submarine klaxon.
He turned his head on a neck as muscled as a professional boxer’s and put one big, thick finger to his lips in warning. Schwarz nodded once, hand poised on the railing. With his other he alerted Blancanales that something was amiss.
Carl Lyons reached out slowly and pushed against the unlatched door. It swung open to reveal a short, dark entranceway. The light of the setting Caribbean sun pushed a cluster of shadows backward. From farther within the apartment the Able Team operatives heard the slight sound of movement. Lyons closed his right hand into a massive rock-hard fist and stepped softly forward.
Schwarz slid slowly forward behind Lyons, turning sideways into a loose karate stance. Moving quietly, the two men penetrated the apartment safehouse. Schwarz saw a modestly furnished but modern space. It boasted a flat-screen television on a far wall next to a window, curtains drawn, which faced the street outside. The TV was the center piece of a loose half circle of furniture including a couch and chairs next to a pedestrian dining set.
Beyond that space was a small kitchen, and running past the open service areas of the apartment was a hallway, leading, presumably to bedrooms and living spaces in the rear of the government residence.
Just behind a closed door down the hallway the sounds of movement were clearly audible now. Schwarz pulled his face into a frowning mask. Common sense suggested that if the intruder was Dominican police or intelligence, the perpetrator would not have inserted without backup.
Having discovered no one serving overwatch either outside the building or inside, all indications