place. “We wash our hands and let someone else do our dirty work.”
Brognola met the President’s gaze. “Sir, the team currently has the man in custody. They have been in this situation before and produced results in manners your predecessors found acceptable. Give them an hour.”
“An hour?” Both the President and the general stared at Brognola in shock.
The Justice man nodded. “They have very…forceful personalities.”
Dushanbe, Tajikistan
GOTRON KHAN WAS nervous. He had every right to be. The warlord was tied to a chair in a cellar, facing five of the most dangerous men on Earth. Khan sat beneath the single bare bulb and sweated while Phoenix Force stared at him, as silent as headstones. The criminal swallowed with difficulty and screwed up his courage. “I want a lawyer.”
The men of Phoenix Force regarded him like a bug.
“I have been exposed to illegal war gas and wish medical treatment…and an interview with Red Cross representative.”
Calvin James leaned against the wall with his arms folded. “You hungry, Khan?”
“I…” Gotron winced. His body had detoxified the CN/DM gas in his bloodstream, but he was still green around the gills and the violent stomach spasms he’d endured left him hunched and beaten as if he’d gone ten rounds out of his weight class. “I think n—”
“How about a nice, cold, greasy pork sandwich?” James suggested.
Khan paled.
“Mmm, tallowy.” James Calvin sighed. “With a nice, tall, cool glass of olive oil with a butter floater to wash it down and—”
The sweat sheening Khan’s brow began to run in bullets.
Hawkins shook his head at Calvin. “You are one sick dude.”
Gotron Khan was the man who was sick. The warlord was as white as a sheet.
McCarter gazed down at Khan condemningly. “Where are the rest of the nukes?”
“I…don’t…” Khan gasped.
McCarter pulled a spent grenade casing out of a ditty bag and wafted it in front of Khan. A hint of apple blossom and pepper was discernable in the close confines of the cellar. Khan made a gobbling noise as his stomach spasmed in recognition of the scent. It was said that fatigue made cowards out of all men, but pain and fatigue could be endured through training, personal toughness and willpower.
Chemically induced nausea leveled the playing field, and Adamsite gas would bring Superman to his knees.
Gotron Khan shook like a man who had spent a bad eight days sailing the North Sea in winter and had been told he was going back out.
“No…” Khan gasped. “N-no, please, I…”
McCarter held the spent casing a little closer to Khan’s nose. “Where.”
“I…cannot tell you.”
McCarter spun on his heel. “Gas him again.”
Gary Manning slipped a grenade out of his jacket and pulled the pin.
Khan shrieked. “No!”
The big Canadian kept his thumb on the cotter lever and raised an eyebrow at McCarter. The Englishman turned and stared down at Khan implacably. “Where?”
“I do not know, but—”
“But you might know someone who does?” McCarter suggested helpfully.
Khan’s eyes were riveted in horror at the cylindrical grenade in Manning’s hand. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps you’re about to puke so hard you’re going to bring up your bloody shoes.”
“No!” Khan’s eyes rolled in revulsion and terror.
“Or perhaps not.” McCarter shrugged noncommittally. “It’s up to you.”
“I—” Khan scuttled back as far as his restraints would let him as the Englishman loomed over him.
“Khan.” McCarter peered deeply into the man eyes. “I really want you to get this right.”
U.S. Embassy, Dushanbe
PHOENIX FORCE SAT in an arc around a titanium laptop attached to a satellite link. David McCarter checked his watch. “The lad’s late.”
T.J. Hawkins walked in on cue. He held an ice bucket loaded with drinks and set them on the table with a frown. “Explain to me how I became manservant for this chickenshit outfit, again?”
“Because you’re the youngest.” Calvin James reached over and snagged a beer. The lanky black man grinned. “And it would be politically incorrect for me or Rafe to do it.”
Hawkins considered for a half second suggesting Manning get up off his dead ass, but the big Canadian had put his feet up on the table and apparently was waiting for it with a smile on his face. Hawkins let that one die on the vine.
“T.J.?” McCarter pulled a bottle out of the bucket and frowned. “What is this?”
“Uh…a Coke?” Hawkins pointed at the wasp-waisted, fluted-glass bottle defiantly. “Look at that shape.”
McCarter stared at Hawkins unblinkingly. “It’s diet.”
Hawkins stared at the bottle. Aside from the Coca-Cola logo it was covered with incomprehensible scrawl. “You read Tajikistani?”
“No, Tajikistan doesn’t bottle Coke. They import from bottlers in Russia and the former Soviet states. This is Ukrainian, and diet. You can tell by the gold cap and the Cyrillic writing.”
Hawkins blinked. “You need an intervention.”
McCarter shoved the offending soft drink back into the bucket and pulled out a beer.
“Man…” Hawkins dropped into a chair and cracked himself a Russian brew. “How do I get transferred to Able Team?”
McCarter hit some keys on the computer. “Khan gave us two names.”A picture of a bullet-headed man appeared. His shaved head and his face had uniform-length stubble. His flat black eyes lived up to his nickname. “Here we have Sharypa ‘The Shark’ Sharkov. He’s Russian mafiya, and represents Moscow organized crime interests in Tajikistan. Interpol has a rap sheet on him as long as your arm. Standard provincial mafyia scumbag. He breaks legs, extorts, runs guns and prostitutes, and sends a piece to Moscow.”
“First we get ‘The Goat’ and now ‘The Shark’?” Rafe snorted in amusement. “All we need are Camelboy and the Limpet and we’ll have our own bad-guy petting zoo.”
McCarter hit another key. A disturbingly handsome man appeared on the screen. His black wavy hair was pulled into a short ponytail and his Vandyke made him look like Satan in an Armani suit.
