the family’s money ran out. Once he learned he was off the bull’s-eye, he crawled out from under his rock and decided he wanted to fight the Great Satan. Judging by his record, he’s otherwise pretty unremarkable.”
“Hey, give the guy his props,” Blancanales said. “He is an international fugitive, after all.”
Price smiled. “I won’t grace that with a response. Obviously our big concern here is that a known terrorist snuck into the United States. He’s dead. But we know for a fact that he didn’t come alone. Before they entered the house, Drew told her dispatcher that a pair of vans was parked outside the house. She also radioed in the numbers for the license plates, both of which were stolen. By the time their backup arrived, both vans were gone.”
“So we have a couple of carloads of terrorists touring the West Coast,” Blancanales stated.
“And, while we can assume they’re here to launch an attack,” Brognola said, “we have no other specifics. That’s where you guys come in. I want you to beat the bushes, find out what these bastards are up to. We’re expecting a big bang. We just don’t know when, where or how. Your mission packet contains plenty of background on these guys. And we have a couple of contacts for you to look up, including one in San Diego. There’s a plane waiting on the landing strip. While we’ve been talking, a team of black-suits has been loading it full of weapons and equipment, all your usual favorites. I want you guys in the air and ready to hit the West Coast within an hour. The Man is worried. So am I. We need you to hunt these guys down and to find out what they’re up to. He’s also been very explicit as to how you deal with them once you accomplish those tasks.”
“Exercise our full diplomatic authority?” Blancanales queried.
Brognola nodded. “Exactly. Kill them.”
CHAPTER THREE
Monrovia, Liberia
David McCarter navigated the van through the throngs of soldiers, bystanders and journalists gathered two blocks from the American embassy.
The van bore the symbol of a humanitarian organization, an effort by Phoenix Force to disguise its approach. If his opponents were smart enough to seize a well-guarded embassy, McCarter figured they also were smart enough to station observers among the crowds gathered outside the perimeter. Wheeling the panel van to the curb, he brought it within thirty yards of a rug store that had been evacuated and converted into a command center. The embassy lay straight ahead, its top floors visible over the security fence. At least one terrorist was visible from the rooftop, watching the approaching vehicle through a pair of binoculars.
“Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” asked Gary Manning, who was riding shotgun.
“Hope the bastard gets a good look,” McCarter said. “Pretty soon, one of us is going to be the last thing he sees.”
Shifting the van into park, McCarter and Manning disembarked. Motion in a second-story window caught the Briton’s attention. Glancing up, he saw a figure fill the embassy window, watching his every movement. Two more sentries, brandishing AK-47s, faces swathed in brightly colored scarves, also were visible through the bars of the security fence surrounding the embassy compound. The brazenness didn’t surprise McCarter. He knew the terrorists assumed they’d be safe so long as they had hostages. Their threat had been clear: for every terrorist harmed, two hostages die.
He averted his gaze and proceeded to the back of the panel van.
As he moved, he took in the burned-out or bullet-pocked buildings, leftovers from a civil war that lasted nearly a decade and killed hundreds of thousands of Liberians. Rounding the rear of the van, he saw the other three members of Phoenix Force—Calvin James, Rafael Encizo and T. J. Hawkins—disembarking, carrying with them coolers and insulated boxes used for transporting food. Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi had remained at a nearby airfield, ready to provide air support, if necessary.
McCarter grabbed one of the boxes, lifted it. He felt a hand clap him on the shoulder as he came to his full height.
“’Bout time you decided to join the working people,” Hawkins drawled.
“I’ll be happy to do just that, mate,” McCarter said. “If I ever find them.”
Laughing, Hawkins hefted a cooler and started to walk away from the van.
A pair of U.S. Marines stepped into their path, their M-4 rifles held in easy reach. McCarter and his crew had already been through two other checkpoints, and the Briton was starting to lose his patience with all the security hoops being forced upon him.
“Halt and identify,” the first Marine ordered.
McCarter set his cooler at his feet. Fingering an ID card bearing his picture and fake credentials suspended by a small chain around his neck, McCarter held it up for the soldier to inspect. “Rick Cornett,” he said, using an alias supplied by Stony Man Farm. “Your man should have alerted you to my arrival.”
The soldier studied the ID for another moment. He nodded over his shoulder. “Mr. Colvin’s expecting you. He’ll see you immediately. I’ll show you inside.”
“Bloody decent of him,” McCarter growled.
Stepping inside the shop, the Phoenix Force warriors stripped away their white coveralls, revealing black combat suits. Opening the coolers and insulated food bags, they emptied their contents—weapons and equipment—onto the floor, each man arranging his gear in a neat pile. Five Marines donned the coveralls and hats. In about five minutes, they’d load up in the van and leave, their faces hopefully obscured by the hats and the coming dusk.
McCarter and the others readied their weapons. The Briton heard footsteps moving in clipped cadence approaching from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a slender man, about five feet eight inches, his white hair trimmed close to his pinkish skin and flat on top, moving toward them. He halted about ten feet away and scrutinized each member of Phoenix Force with a hard gaze, saving McCarter for last. Scowling, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the Phoenix Force leader.
“So you’re the hot-shit commandos the White House made us wait for,” he said. “God, give me strength.”
“He just did, mate,” McCarter said, “in spades. You got a name?”
“Colvin. Steve Colvin.”
“You’re State Department?”
Colvin nodded. “Diplomatic Security Service. And you’re Justice Department.”
“Rick Cornett,” McCarter said, using his alias. He didn’t bother to introduce the other men. He didn’t plan to start a long-term relationship with Colvin.
“You with the FBI? Hostage Rescue Team maybe?”
“No.”
“Delta Force?”
“No.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No.”
His cheeks reddening, Colvin glowered at McCarter for a stretched second. Despite his rising impatience, the Briton didn’t avert his own gaze. Colvin
