turned his attention back to the suspects. They had just finished loading their van and gotten into the front. “We could just pull over their vehicle…”
“But what would keep them from blowing up their van to eliminate any evidence we’d capture?” Kristopoulos asked. “Remember, the Negev meltdown would have irradiated hundreds of miles, making it impossible to reach minimum safe distance without suffering debilitating, if not lethal, effects.”
“Besides, we want to keep an eye on how these guys are doing this,” James added. “Those men are only delivery boys, pawns.”
“You’ve got that correct,” Farkas agreed. “I know those two from our files. They’re errand boys who get handed all manner of shit duty, as you Americans so colorfully put it.”
“That’s believable,” Encizo said. “A lot more than some of the ideas we’ve been tossing around for the past minute. Okay, start her up.”
Farkas fired up their Peugeot and the station wagon pulled out to track the Brotherhood’s van as it drove toward the Inshas Nuclear Research Center. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that filled his gut. Tonight, a twenty-two-megawatt nuclear reactor was going to be assailed by terrorists armed with a form of technology that sliced through high-tech and low-tech defenses like a knife through butter.
Tonight, a radioactive nightmare could conceivably come true.
D AVID M C C ARTER LIT another cigarette to give his hands something to do. The Phoenix Force leader hated to cut short his vacation with Gary Manning and T. J. Hawkins, even if it was just a working holiday. The remaining members of Phoenix Force were in England to engage in a little cross training alongside elements of the SAS, so for McCarter it felt like a homecoming, despite the bruises and aches he sported from martial arts sparring with a crew of hardheaded Cockney recruits who reminded the Eastender of himself as a man in his twenties.
Still, the news of the French Department of Nuclear Energy headquarters break-in was a sobering splash on McCarter’s reminiscences. Right now, in the regiment’s guest barracks at Hereford, they were awaiting news from Barbara Price back at Stony Man Farm for permission to launch their Paris investigation without interference from DCRI, the French version of the FBI or Homeland Security. As a British citizen, McCarter had every right to hop on the Channel ferry or to board the Chunnel train to shoot on over to Paris without much paperwork, but he would have to undertake such a trip unarmed and ill-equipped to deal with what had been reported as a mysterious commando team raiding the DNE offices with surgical precision.
The European Union’s views on firearms ownership by private citizens, no matter how sterling their prior military service, was at best intolerant of people with the determination to defend their lives. Of course, this meant that McCarter’s text message to a friend in Paris would be what their operation hinged on if they couldn’t get official clearance. McCarter knew people around the globe, and was able to acquire supplies of reliable weapons from them.
His cell phone burbled with a text message answer to his initial inquiry. What he read soured his mood.
“Can scrounge gear for you and your two friends. No Grand Puissants in inventory, alas.”
The Grand Puissant was the French term for a Browning Hi-Power, one of David McCarter’s preferred designs and his trusted companion across the globe for his entire professional warrior career. His comfort with the reliable, accurate 9 mm autoloader enabled him to squeeze every ounce of performance out of the classic design. Naturally, his disappointment sparked interest from his younger partner.
Hawkins read McCarter’s screen, then checked the look on his commander’s face. “Y’all make that sound like we’ll be landing in the middle of a nest of ninjas the moment we were within sight of the Eiffel Tower. So what if you have to pack a Glock for a while?”
Gary Manning regarded the youngest member of Phoenix Force with a wry grin. “Once you’ve acclimated yourself to true perfection, attempting to cope with an egotistical Austrian’s proclaimed flawless design is a troubling disappointment.”
McCarter chortled. “Besides, I’d be happy to have a row with a troupe of Japanese in black pajamas leaping about with swords and what have you. They’re so much fun when you head butt them and get their gobs all messy under those scarves.”
The laptop with the teleconference software burbled to life. Stony Man’s mission controller, Barbara Price, appeared on the screen, and she wasn’t very happy.
“I wonder if she’s grumpy over your lack of a Hi-Power, too,” Hawkins murmured.
“Don’t make me murder you in your sleep, lad,” McCarter quipped. “What’s wrong, Barb?”
“The big new French interior intelligence agency has been comparing notes with itself, and they decided they don’t want to play with American-sponsored Interpol investigators anymore,” Price replied. “Especially in matters of French nuclear-energy security breaches.”
“We’ve been on good terms with both French Intelligence in the past,” Manning said. “What is the problem now?”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” McCarter growled. “The head of the new amalgamated agency has his head up his arse. Though it’s not as if the bloody wankers sitting behind the desk realize that they’re telling us to sit this one out and leaving it to the second or third best in the world.”
“Pride is unbecoming of you, David,” Price admonished.
“Bollocks,” McCarter continued to snarl. “It’s the same ‘I know what’s best’ shit that happens every time we have to work with some department. We go somewhere and some half-wit thinks he’s the cock of the walk when he’s just a flounder in a bucket.”
“Well, Hal doesn’t want you to get caught. And if DCRI sends someone after you, try not to maim them,” Price ordered.
McCarter sneered. “Just a dent on their chin and a slap on the ass to run home to mother.”
Manning pulled out his Smart phone and began the process of ordering Chunnel train tickets. “Looks like you’re going to have to grin and bear it with whatever your mate supplies you.”
“I don’t care if it’s a wooden shoe that I have to break off in someone’s bum,” McCarter returned. “It’s time to show the DCRI how professionals deal with infiltrators.”
Manning grinned. It was good to see a flash of the cocky McCarter. It was also an indication of how much the enemy was going to regret pulling an operation that showed up on the Phoenix Force commander’s radar.
CHAPTER TWO
Lyons stood in the hallway, battered forearm wrapped in an athletic bandage to secure it in case the blow it had taken had resulted in a hairline fracture. The bandage would serve as a temporary splint until the forearm could be x-rayed. The Able Team leader didn’t intend to remove himself from the crime scene until the technicians had all of the data they needed to track down the escaped robot’s murderous masters. He had seen the killer, but he didn’t know its origins and who had sent it. The evidence linking Mare Hirtenberg’s murder to the rash of security breeches at international nuclear power plants was purely circumstantial, but Lyons couldn’t dismiss the possibility that someone had used a compact mechanical assassin to penetrate the Department of Energy’s Washington, D.C., offices with the
