their backs. Fighting knives of surgical-grade steel were clipped to calves or forearms as weapons of last resort.
The stench of industrial pollution was a constant background miasma. Halfway across the dirt lot the smell was cut suddenly by the sharp putridness of rotting meat.
Alarmed, Carl Lyons, ex-LAPD homicide detective and Able Team leader, turned his head in the direction of the stink and saw a dead dog lying in a shallow depression. The NVG’s amplification of ambient light was so good he could see the squirming white mass of maggots covering the corpse.
Hermann Schwarz, former Army reconnaissance specialist and electronics genius, turned his head and spit the taste out of his mouth.
“This place has really gone to the dogs,” he muttered in a low voice.
Rosario Blancanales, former Special Forces soldier, opened his mouth to reply and suddenly froze. The unmistakable sound of a rattlesnake buzzed out of the bushes near his foot.
Lyons spun instantly, cursing softly. His head swiveled as he scanned with the NVGs, looking for the snake. Both he and Schwarz drew their Beretta 92-F pistols with 4-inch silencers screwed into the specially threaded barrels.
“Where is it?” Schwarz snapped.
“There.” Blancanales pointed to the ground at his feet.
Both of his teammates lifted their pistols but were too slow.
The Western Diamondback rattlesnake uncoiled like a trap going off, striking even as Blancanales tried dancing backward. It stretched out four feet and its blunt head rammed into the Puerto Rican’s leg with the force of a baseball bat.
“Jesus!” Blancanales grunted and staggered.
He felt the hot needle of a fang slide into his calf, and instantly agonized jolts of pain raced up and cut his breath off.
Schwarz and Lyons, using their NVGs, fired.
The snake blew into three separate chunks like a severed noodle. The squat, ugly head of the Diamondback hung for a moment from the top of Blancanales’s boot, then dropped off.
“Christing hell!” Blancanales swore.
“Sit down,” Schwarz said, moving to help his old friend.
“You have anything in the med kit to help?” Lyons demanded.
The ex-cop took a knee as he holstered his pistol. He swung his M-4 up and provided security. Blancanales sat heavily on the rubble-strewed ground and yanked his pant leg up out from where it was tucked into his boot.
“Like a snakebite kit? Antivenom?” Blancanales laughed. “Nope. Just the standard trauma stuff.” Ironically, the ex-Green Beret was the one most often charged with medical responsibilities on Able Team. “This is supposed to be an urban area, goddammit.”
Schwarz leaned over, turned on the IR penlight set on his night-vision goggles and illuminated the wound. Even in that uncertain light the leg was already obviously swollen. The puncture mark was a neat, red, raised hole leaking thinned-out blood.
“Looks like it only got you with one fang,” Schwarz observed. “The other one got caught on the leather of your boot top.”
“Let’s get him up and back to the vehicle,” Lyons said. “We’ll scrub the op.”
“Screw that, Ironman,” Blancanales said in a raspy voice. “Only one dose? It’s not that bad—I’ve got time. The poison isn’t that fast acting. I’ll be sick, sure. I’ll wish I could cut off my leg, but I’ve got hours before it’s really life-threatening. We are going to continue the mission.”
Lyons frowned, silently debating his responsibilities.
“You don’t have any antivenom,” he pointed out. “It’ll kill flesh.”
“The pendajos we’re here to hit put those DEA agents’ heads on poles, man. They put their heads on poles,” he repeated. “I’m not blowing this.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Schwarz interrupted before Lyons could object further.
“Sure,” Blancanales said. “Pressure dressing and an EpiPen. Shoot the Epi right into my leg above the bite.”
“What freaking good is that going to do?” Lyons demanded. “You going into shock?”
“No,” Blancanales denied. His body was covered with sweat. “But epi works as a vasoconstrictor. It’ll slow the spread of the venom.”
“I’m on it,” Schwarz said.
He saw Blancanales suddenly shiver despite the oppressive heat and he prayed the man was right.
“Fine,” Lyons agreed. “We’ll do it your way. But I want us back in our vehicle and we’ll swing around and come into the building on the other side. We’re not going to have you walking any more than necessary.”
Already sweating, Blancanales nodded. “Whatever you say, boss.”
CHAPTER TWO
Pan African Cross-Country Rally
Kenya
The dirt road cut a dusty brown seam through the rough terrain.
The Nissan 4x4 pickup tore along the road at break-neck speed, sheets of dust streaming behind it. The engine growled as the driver gunned it hard, putting it through its paces like a trainer working a racehorse.
The heavily modified off-road vehicle was painted black and yellow with heavy grilles placed over enhanced headlights. In the back, two extra wheels, jerricans filled with reserves of high-octane gasoline, motor oil and pioneer tools of ax, shovel and pick were strapped down in the bed.
David McCarter took his foot off the gas, slapped the clutch and shifted up out of third gear. He stutter-stepped back on the gas and the tricked-out pickup lunged forward, gaining speed.
The left front tire dropped into a pothole on the dirt track and the steering wheel jerked in his hands. He rode out the recoil and guided the truck out of the hole, his teeth clenched under his helmet against the jolt.
“Jesus Christ!” T. J. Hawkins protested from the passenger seat. “I think I just tasted my own balls!”
“If that were true you wouldn’t be complaining, mate!” McCarter shouted back.
The road turned in a brutal switchback, and the ex-SAS trooper casually used the emergency brake to slide around the turn. He released the brake and pushed the gas. The big knobby tires gripped the hard dirt, and the Nissan shot forward out of the fishtail.
“Screw you,” Hawkins replied.
The Texan was an ex-Army Ranger and ex-Delta Force commando. He held a Audiovox Jensen NVXM 1000 GPS system and was furiously working applications on the unit’s four-inch screen.
A Nexus Google phone set to speaker rested on his lap, providing communication uplinks to the support team. The device
