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.
“Nice work,” Encizo said.
“I like subtlety,” James said.
“Maybe that’s what they’ll put on our tombstones.”
MCCARTER DARTED from the stairwell, hit the floor and rolled, bullets chewing into the tiled floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw his comrades do likewise, each man grabbing precious distance from the impending explosion.
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