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
