Promise To Defend
Blancanales popped open his eyes in time to see his opponent drawing a bead on him with the AK-47. Snap-aiming, he fired the Uzi. The swarm of 9 mm slugs speared through the man’s lower stomach, shoving him back as the bullets devastated his internal organs.
Ears still ringing with gunfire, Blancanales nevertheless sensed motion to his left. He spun and caught another shooter, this one armed with a sawed-off shotgun, popping up from behind a chair. Blancanales stroked the Uzi’s trigger as he swept the SMG in a figure-eight pattern that lanced through the overturned furniture and drilled into the man’s center mass. In a last act of resistance, the man triggered his shotgun, the weapon unleashing a thunderous blast that tore into the ceiling.
Getting cautiously to his feet, Blancanales traded the Uzi for his Beretta. The thrumming of the helicopter sounded from outside. The aircraft’s noise combined with their distance from the street made it impossible to tell whether the police, sirens blaring, were descending upon the building. But he knew it was only a matter of time before the local cops hit the scene. Scanning the room, he took in the battlefield littered with corpses, shattered glass and shredded plaster. He couldn’t help but mutter an oath under his breath.
Lots of carnage and no information.
From behind a couch, he heard a grunt that unmistakably belonged to Lyons.
At the same time he also noticed that Schwarz was nowhere in sight, and a cold sensation traveled down his spine. Where the hell was he?
“C’mon, lady, give me a break here,” Lyons said.
First things first.
The Beretta leading the way, he rounded the couch and found Lyons tussling with a woman. She was dressed in black jeans, fashionable boots and a cranberry-colored, long-sleeved shirt. He couldn’t see her face, but her glossy black hair had spilled over the floor. From her profile, he could tell she was Asian. She also was giving Lyons a pretty fair tussle. Lyons had straddled the woman at the waist. He held her wrists in his big hands, but the woman continued to struggle.
“Get your hands off me, you bastard,” she yelled. Blancanales recognized the voice in an instant, felt his heart skip a beat. Shit! What was she doing here?
“Relax, lady,” Lyons was saying. “You jumped me, remember?”
Shaking off his surprise, he closed in on the pair, each step intensifying the squeezing sensation on his heart. In an instant he recognized the woman from her brown eyes and full, coral-colored lips, to the fiery temper that seemed to emanate from every pore.
It was Donna Ling, a woman from his distant past. And they had a history.
WITH GRAVITY TUGGING at his feet and the punishing wind of the rotor blades smacking into him, Schwarz knew he had only one chance for survival.
He raised the Uzi and fired the weapon at Hakim, dragging it across the man’s exposed knees. Hakim’s eyes widened in shock and the pistol fell from his fingers as 9 mm slugs tore through flesh and bone. He stumbled forward. At the same moment the pilot gave the chopper a hard jerk, an apparent attempt to knock Schwarz from the landing gear. The sudden motion caused Hakim to pitch out the door, his face instantly morphing from shock to fear as he went forward.
Schwarz looked down, saw the distance between himself and the roof. He guessed a good twenty feet already separated him.
Hell.
Letting go of the landing gear, he watched as the rooftop rushed up to meet him.
THE PRESENCE of someone approaching from behind had caused Lyons, his face red with anger and exertion, to glance over his shoulder. When he saw Blancanales, he rolled his eyes, but his teammate barely noticed. In the same instant, Blancanales’s gaze intersected with Ling’s and they stared at each other. He watched as the anger and fear fueling her struggle drained away to be quickly replaced by shock, the same emotion roiling inside him.
“Let her go, Carl,” Blancanales said.
“What?” Lyons shouted. “Are you crazy?”
The woman stopped struggling, whipped her head toward Blancanales. “Pol?” Ling said.
“I can explain,” Blancanales said to Lyons.
“This ought to be good,” Lyons fired back.
More gunfire crackled outside, followed by the sickening thud of something heavy hitting the roof. Almost immediately, the chopper’s whine grew louder and the sound of the aircraft’s engine more distant.
Gadgets!
Blancanales was sprinting for the door. Lyons was on his feet and following, the Colt Python gripped in his right hand.
The Able Team warriors burst through the door. Blancanales swept his gaze over the rooftop. He saw a man, Hakim, writhing on the ground, his pant legs stained dark with blood, his flesh rent by bullets. Schwarz stepped into view, his Beretta held in front of him, muzzle aimed at Hakim as he closed in on the Arab. He was shouting for the man to stay down.
The thrumming of the chopper’s engine grew louder. Peering up, he saw the craft circling and coming back for another pass, its side door pulled open. A hardman cut loose with a burst from the AK-47. The volley of rounds slammed into Hakim, causing him to convulse wildly. A half-dozen geysers of blood erupted from his torso.
Schwarz dropped into a crouch and fired upward. A trio of bullets sailed through the aircraft’s door, driving the man inside. The chopper grabbed altitude almost immediately and left.
“Damn!” Lyons yelled.
Able Team converged at Hakim’s body. Schwarz already had moved to the terrorist’s side and was examining him for a pulse. He looked up at the two men and shook his head.
“Need a séance to interrogate this guy,” he said.
“Wonderful,” Lyons commented. “I guess we’re back at square one.”
Blancanales looked over at Ling. “Maybe not.”
CHAPTER SIX
James heard someone approaching from behind. Propelled by instinct, he thrust himself forward, the movement sparing him the full impact of a buttstroke to the head delivered by his attacker. A glancing blow, however, caught the back of his skull, rattling his teeth and rocking his world. Staggering forward, he went to his knees, twisted at the waist and raised his crossbow.
He caught a brief impression of his opponent—a lanky man, head and face wrapped in a black scarf, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and athletic shoes. James fired the crossbow. The bolt plunged into the man’s shoulder, causing him to drop his assault rifle.
James followed up by lashing out with a blurring kick that caught the side of the man’s knee, snapping it, causing him to teeter. The Phoenix Force commando surged up from the ground and dropped on the guy like a stone, his weight driving the air from the man’s lungs. Fisting his combat knife, he pressed its keen edge against the man’s throat and, with a deep stroke of the blade, killed the man.
Wiping the steel clean on his opponent’s shirt, James dragged the corpse into a nearby stand of bushes. He recovered his crossbow, reloaded it and continued through the embassy grounds, immersing himself in the shadows.
A cough followed by the scratch of a lighter’s wheel sent a cold sensation plummeting through his belly. He halted and dropped back into a crouch. He saw an orange flicker several yards away, illuminating a terrorist’s face as he lit a cigarette.
The rank amateur move surprised James. Terrorists were by no means a match for well-trained commandos, but their training and weapons had become increasingly sophisticated over the years. To see one of these men break such a basic rule caused James to feel suspicious. Was the man just undisciplined, or was he trying to call attention to himself? A distraction, perhaps? Regardless, James would assume the worst.
Encizo’s voice sounded in James’s earpiece. “Two down, Cal. Your status?”
He had enough distance that his quarry never would hear a whisper. He cast a glance around and began to reply. Before he could, he caught another shadow closing in from his right.
Encizo’s voice, still cool, crackled again in his earpiece. “Cal? Cal?”
Powerful leg muscles coiling and uncoiling, James thrust himself forward. A glance right revealed a man closing in on him, weapon held at hip level, spitting flame and lead. The volley of shots sliced the air just above James.
Still in midair, he fired the hastily aimed crossbow. He was rewarded with a one-in-a-million shot, planting the bolt into his attacker’s right eye socket. Dropping his weapon, the man covered his face with both hands and cried out in pain. Stopping in midstride he pitched backward, his foot twitching as he plummeted into death.
James’s superbly conditioned body hit the ground. He launched into a roll and let the crossbow slip from his grasp. The man with the lighter began unloading a small grease gun in James’s direction. The bullets struck the ground, shredding grass and kicking up bits of dirt. Still rolling, the warrior plucked his sound-suppressed Beretta from a thigh holster and squeezed off three shots. The first two went wild, missing the terrorist, but coming close enough to foul his aim. The third round made a neat hole in the man’s shoulder before exploding from his back. The man stumbled backward, his injured shoulder unable to raise the rifle. The Beretta coughed twice more. Parabellum slugs drilled into the man’s sternum, chewing through his heart and spine before dropping him in a boneless heap.
“Cal?”
James keyed his headset. “Go, Rafe.”
“Shit, man—”
“I know. I know.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your position?”
James told him.
“I’m on my way,” Encizo said. “You get your two guys?”
“Three, man. You gotta start carrying more water here.”
“Son, I was carrying water when you were still pissing in your diapers.” Encizo’s grin was almost audible through the line.
James stood, dusted himself off and put a full clip into the Beretta, pocketing the partially spent one. Holstering the handgun, he brought around the sound-suppressed MP-5 and set it for 3-shot bursts.
His eyes roved the terrain for other attackers. At the same time his mind roiled, particularly over the terrorists’ errant gunfire. The noise had been unwanted, but unavoidable. Now the bastards inside knew a hit was coming. That brought heightened urgency to the mission.
Encizo’s voice came over the com link. “Coming up on your six.”
“Clear.” Within moments, the two men were crouched together, next to a two-story, redbrick outbuilding.
EXITING THE TUNNEL, McCarter, Manning and Hawkins fanned out over the dimly lit room in the embassy basement. McCarter, in concert with the other two men, swept the muzzle of his MP-5 over the room, but found nothing other than computer servers, two computer workstations and a minifridge.
“Embassy Command,” he whispered into his com link. “Embassy One and team are inside.”
“Clear,” Colvin replied.
McCarter nodded toward the door and headed for it. The other warriors fell into step behind him, spreading out in a triangular formation. McCarter knelt next to the door and let his MP-5 hang loose on the shoulder strap. He extracted a handheld device outfitted with a small television screen and a lengthy, tubular camera lens. He slid the lens through the space between the door and the floor and checked the screen. The door led into a corridor. A pair of Arabs stood in the hallway, smoking cigarettes and talking. One man carried his AK-47 on a shoulder strap, the barrel canted toward the floor. The other man had leaned his against a wall. His hand rested on his pistol.
McCarter turned to his friends and with hand signals indicated the number of opponents and their positions. The men nodded.
Pocketing the handheld camera, McCarter brought the SMG back around. For the hostages’s sake, he knew that they needed to keep the element of surprise for as long as possible. They’d need a quick, quiet takedown. Resting a palm on the doorknob, he held the MP-5 ready. A glance at his comrades told him they, also, were ready to go.
McCarter surged through the doorway, the sudden motion causing the Arabs to turn toward him. The men scrambled for their weapons. But their inattention would prove fatal. The man who’d abandoned his AK-47 dropped into a crouch and scrambled for his pistol. McCarter’s MP-5 chugged out a burst of 9 mm rippers that shredded the man’s middle, killing him.
The gunner who’d held on to his assault rifle proved to be a livelier target. He raised the weapon to acquire a target. Manning rewarded the man’s efforts by laying down a burst from the sound-suppressed MP-5. The slugs stitched the man from right hip to left shoulder, launching him back several feet. To McCarter’s relief, the man didn’t trigger his weapon in a death reflex.
As Manning and McCarter had fought, Hawkins had taken out the surveillance cameras with a small device he, Schwarz and Kurtzman had developed. The zapper could be aimed at a camera and destroy the fiber-optic cables by bombarding it with microwaves. A dead camera would attract attention, but not with the urgency of images of two bloodied corpses.
A quick check of the rooms in the basement revealed them to be empty. McCarter led the other men down the hall and to the stairs, which they took to the ground floor.
AS THE PHOENIX FORCE commandos stood on the stairwell, McCarter knelt next to the door leading into the first floor. He swept the camera’s tubular lens again under the door, trying to determine what he and his comrades were preparing to walk into.
He saw a vision of hell.
The corpses of Marines killed during the initial raid still lay scattered throughout the lobby, in pools of blood. Spent shell casings littered the floor. A half-dozen terrorists, their heads swathed in scarves, armed with Uzis and AK-47s, walked among terrified embassy employees and other bystanders who were crouch on the floor. He saw three huddled against the wall just outside the door, and made a mental note to draw fire away from that area as soon as possible.
McCarter’s stomach churned with rage. His face grim, he let the other men take a look at the viewer. Judging by their expressions, both shared his reaction.
“Embassy Two,” McCarter whispered into the com link. “Status report?”
“In position,” Encizo replied. “Ready to move on your command.”
“Clear. Stand fast.”
McCarter reached into a belt pouch and extracted a pair of flash-bang grenades. In a brief conversation, he, Manning and Hawkins etched out a quick plan to take the room.
McCarter gripped the MP-5 by its pistol grip and grabbed the door handle. Hawkins shot to his feet. Manning took a final glance at the viewer. He gestured for the other men to wait, beckoned them to look at the screen.
The Briton knelt again. He saw the terrorists yanking people from the floor, walking them to the exterior walls, positioning them in front of windows. He whispered a terse oath. A human wall. The bastards were surrounding themselves with hostages.
Damn!
A clatter sound from upstairs heralded yet another change in McCarter’s plans. He whipped his head toward the noise to identify it. Hawkins, who’d been watching the stairs, wheeled toward the other two, his eyes wide.
“Grenade!” he breathed.
ENCIZO GAVE the rope one last tug. Satisfied that the grappling hook was set, he stepped to the roof’s edge, crouched and waited for McCarter to give them the go.
As he waited, he swept his gaze over the rooftop, let it linger on a pair of terrorists lying together in a tangled heap, their chests glistening where blood had saturated their shirts. Encizo and James had downed the two men moments earlier and begun preparations for a two-pronged, lightning-fast insertion through the second-story windows.
James was crouched next to Encizo, his MP-5 held steady as he covered them both. Encizo flashed a thumbs-up and James grabbed his own rope. The Little Cuban reached inside his combat pouch and palmed a flash-bang grenade. The plan was relatively simple. Scale the wall, toss the stun device through the window, disorienting the terrorists and the hostages. After that, it would be basic shock and awe. The orders were explicit: grab one or two terrorists for interrogation purposes.
Everyone else went out in body bags.
Encizo could live with that.
“Been a while,” James said. “You want to check in with David?”
Encizo nodded. Before he could make another move, a peal of thunder seemed to erupt from within the building. A cold sensation rolled down Encizo’s spine like a rivulet of ice water. He and James exchanged quick glances. Before either man could say a word, though, they heard the muffled rattle of gunfire from within the building.
“Shit,” Encizo said.
He keyed his throat mike. “Embassy One. Sitrep?”
McCarter’s reply was instantaneous. “Taking fire. Proceed as planned.”
Encizo and James rose as one and started for the edge of the roof. Encizo placed one foot onto the parapet and prepared to step off. Steel clanged against brick, snagging his attention. He and James looked in unison at a service door leading onto the roof and saw that it had slammed open. Three armed men spilled from the doorway, fanning into different directions, flames spitting from the muzzles of their weapons.
Bullets chewed into the rooftop at the warriors’ feet, shredding the rubber roofing material. His hand moving with practiced ease, Encizo freed the Beretta from his hip holster, raised it and acquired a target. The Beretta sighed, dispatching a trio of Parabellum rounds. Encizo had a vague impression of his target being slammed back, red geysers of blood springing from his chest. In the same instant, a million fiery needles stabbed inside his chest as something slammed into him, causing his legs to go rubbery. He stumbled backward, trying desperately to regain his footing. His hands flew up to his chest defensively and he realized that he’d dropped the Beretta.
He glimpsed James’s face, saw the panicked expression there as his comrade mouthed his name.
He had no time to think about it. It wasn’t until he flipped over the ledge of the roof that some corner of his mind realized that he’d been hit. His body armor had stopped the bullet, but the blunt-force trauma of the hit had ripped away his breath, racked him with pain.
As he plummeted toward the ground, his hand stabbed out into space, caught hold of something 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.