Lyons said, hooded eyes watching the crowds and vehicles for any sign of a threat.
“Why don’t we take a taxi?” Schwarz offered.
“We don’t have any cash and I didn’t think to rob those clowns from the airport,” Lyons replied.
“We barter?”
“What? Not weapons?” Lyons demanded.
“Why not? You said it yourself—we either do what we have to do to save the American or we go home now. We’ve been put in an imperfect situation. We can either keep a moral high ground or, you know, actually succeed at the goddamn mission.”
“We got a cell phone,” Blancanales leaned forward and pointed out. “I can use that and the lead officer’s pistol to get us a ride, I think. If you want, I can use my pocket knife to juke the fire pin so that it looks all right but will snap when fired.”
“I doubt they’ll even look as long as there are bullets in the clip,” Schwarz argued. “If you want we could just toss the recoil spring altogether. No harm no foul…sort of.” He grinned through his mustache.
Lyons nodded once. “Let’s do it.”
Within half a block of deciding to act, Blancanales had expertly sabotaged the 9 mm pistol. When they found a driver in a battered silver Kia Sophia taxi three minutes later, Blancanales was forced to add the keys to the jeep into the mix but Able Team had secured a driver.
They quickly pulled down a narrow dirt lane overhung with laundry and the curious eyes of the slum’s inhabitants. Using their own lightweight jackets as makeshift covers for their longer weapons, Able Team left the government jeep behind and piled into the cramped confines of the taxi.
The driver was in his sixties, scar-faced, with arthritis-gnarled hands and flawless British-accented English. The man watched his passengers with a wary eye but quickly navigated the car away from the scene.
Within seconds Able Team was driving into the heart of an urban firestorm of riots and military police units.
Kyrgyzstan
ABOVE THE CENTRAL ASIAN HILLS clouds began to form, casting dark shadows on the already dark terrain. On the ridgeline above the narrow mountain road Phoenix Force lay in wait, five ambush predators waiting for their quarry.
Weapon muzzles tracked the approach as gleaming headlights appeared on the twisting road. The engines snarled as the vehicle operators ground the gears up the steep grade.
Watching through his night-vision goggles, McCarter felt a professional satisfaction as he surveyed his ambush site. It was a perfect amalgamation of satellite imagery and tactical experience. It was a lethal kill box.
The operation was designed to neutralize an informational node terrorist cell propagating chaos and unrest in underdeveloped and weak countries. The traveling team were graduates of al Qaeda training camps in the former Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. The command-and-control instructors educated local radicals in logistics, administration, financing and target selection, ruthlessly turning clumsy, disorganized gangs of killers into streamlined, corporate models of murderous efficiency.
Phoenix Force was about to execute their own lessons in murderous efficiency.
“Wait for my call,” McCarter said smoothly. “On my call, strike our predetermined targets.”
“Copy,” Hawkins answered.
“Copy,” Encizo acknowledged.
“Copy,” James echoed.
“Copy,” Manning finished.
Below the ex–SAS commando the terrorist convoy ground past. He watched the scout vehicles crawl past his position, close enough now to see the glow of the occupants’ cigarettes. Fifty yards down the line, the last truck brought up the rear. The convoy commander had allowed the rough terrain to cause his drivers to bunch up too closely together.
It was a fundamental mistake McCarter intended to exploit.
Slowly, McCarter lifted the butt of his AKS and nestled it into his shoulder. His trigger hand found the curve of his 30-round magazine and his finger lay on the smooth metal curve of the M 203’s trigger as his free hand grasped the grenade launcher by its grooved tube.
To either side of him he could feel the men of his unit tensed and poised for his command, ready to unleash a heavy curtain of hellfire on the terrorists below him. He moved his boot slightly and dislodged a stone.
The pebble slid free of the initial lip of the ledge and slid downhill, dislodging a miniature avalanche of gravel that petered out halfway down the incline grade. McCarter let the pent-up air in his lungs escape in a slow hiss as he squeezed his trigger.
The recoil of the shot rocked his carbine back into his shoulder as the round discharged with its signature bloop sound. As the first-strike signal, McCarter had reserved the right to call his target on site instead of taking an assigned target as they’d discussed in their mission workup.
Due to the heavy firepower potential of the 20 mm antiaircraft gun in the last truck, he made the decision to put his first HEDP into it. With surprise, aggression of action, command of terrain and superior training Phoenix Force held the upper hand in the conventional military ambush. If there was any possible game changer then it was the heavy weapon serving as the convoy tail gun.
His round arched into the night, its velocity low enough that he could just trace the arc of its movement as it sailed out across the length of a soccer field toward the truck.
In the next instant there was a flash of light, followed by the thump of the HE round going off. Then men started screaming as fire rolled up in a brilliant orange ball toward the sky and the battle began.
Keyed to the actions of their team leader, both Calvin James and Rafael Encizo reacted instantly, triggering their RPG-7s within breaths of each other. The twin warheads streaked out from the overhang in flashes of ignition fire on traverses almost 180 degrees apart. Encizo fired his round toward the hood and cab of the rear truck already struck by McCarter’s 40 mm round, while James angled his into the undercarriage of the lead pickup.
The RPG rounds struck the convoy almost simultaneously. The rockets hammered home with ruthless force. James’s round was an inch low and struck the hard gravel road exactly between the front and rear driver’s-side tires. The round detonated, spreading a lethal umbrella of shrapnel and flame that first shredded then ignited the vehicle’s fuel tank.
The secondary explosion was massive, picking up the light sports utility vehicle and its armed tribesmen and flipping them upside down in a bonfire of orange flame and roiling black smoke. Bodies spun like pinwheels as limbs were ripped free and thrown next to scorched torsos.
Encizo’s round cut across the distance at a sharp angle with a screaming, swooshing sound as distinct as any human voice. The rocket skipped off the angled hood of the old Soviet-era truck and skimmed into the windshield. Flames shot out the truck cab through windows in all four directions.
The expanding concussion wave of the exploding RPG warhead ripped back through the dash and hammered into the truck’s massive engine block, igniting the vehicle’s fluids.
With two well-placed applications of ballistic high explosives,
