Gathering Storm

It was still dark in the kitchen. Keen heard a third man moving around. He heard the sound of the Venetian blinds being closed. There was a soft click, and the light under the cabinet unit to his left came on.

The man facing him was leanly fit. He had strong shoulders under the long leather coat he wore. It was buttoned right up under his chin. His face was shadowed in the dim light, the curve of his shaved skull gleaming softly. His eyes shone like bright pinpoints as he leaned forward to stare at Keen.

“No time-wasting, Mr. Keen. We both know why we are here and what we want. Let us take it and this can be over quickly.”

His voice was soft, with a Middle East accent.

“And then you’ll let me go so I can report it to the police? You must imagine I’m stupid.”

“Taking those photographs was not exactly the act of a smart man. Did you not think we would have taken precautions against such things?”

“We all make mistakes.”

The man nodded.

“Certainly so in your case. Now, the photographs?”

“In my bag,’’ Keen said. “The middle-size one.”

His luggage was dragged off his shoulder. Keen, still in the grip of one of the other men, watched as the bag was opened and the contents spilled out across the wide work surface.

“Are these the only copies?”

“I only need one set to prove my case.”

“Have you shown the photographs to anyone?”

“In the time I had in San Remo? Go figure.”

The man in the leather coat pawed through the rest of the bag’s contents. He held up a packet.

“These are the negatives?”

“Fuck you, find out for yourself. I don’t figure I’m coming out of this alive, so why the hell should I make it easy?”

Leather Coat sighed as if he was disappointed. He said something to his two men that Keen barely heard.

The man gripping his arms swung Keen around suddenly. He placed one hand at the back of Keen’s head and smashed the journalist facedown against the work surface. Keen’s world exploded in stunning pain as his nose was crushed flat under the impact, blood squirting across the pale wood surface. His left cheekbone cracked and his lips split open. He groaned, trying to pull free from the grip of the man who had pushed his face into the work surface. Pain rose, engulfing his battered face.

He was in no condition to see Leather Coat reach out and pick a heavy cast-iron fry pan from the hook on the wall. Leather Coat stepped up behind Keen and slammed the pan down against the back of Keen’s skull. Keen grunted in shock, arms flailing helplessly. Leather Coat repeated the blow over and over, the thick cast iron descending with terrible effect against Keen’s skull. Flesh lacerated, bone crumbled and Keen’s skull became a bloody, misshapen mess. The journalist’s shuddering, twitching form became still. It was only the grip of Leather Coat’s partners that kept Keen from falling to the floor. Leather Coat, breathing strongly, threw aside the iron pan. It was slick with blood and had fragments of bone and flesh adhering to the underside. The work surface itself was streaked with more blood and broken skull pieces.

On Leather Coat’s orders Keen’s body was allowed to slip to the kitchen floor. The killer gathered up the photographs and the negatives. He placed them inside his coat. He gestured to his pair of helpers and they followed him out of the kitchen, along the hall and out through the front door.

CHAPTER ONE

Memo: Barbara Price/Aaron Kurtzman to Hal Brognola

Recommendation for action based on collated data.

Major Kamal Rasheed. Member of the Ba’ath Party. Loyalist fedayeen. Hard-line Hussein man. He got out of Iraq once the writing was on the wall. He dropped out of sight for a while, but rumors started to circulate he’d been seen in Iran, then Afghanistan. As with other members of the inner council, this man won’t let go. We’ve picked up Internet chatter he’s working with other members of the old regime to make some kind of comeback. There’s all kinds of speculation flying around, but there has to be some truth in among all the rumors. There are too many messages flying around the Middle East, calls for Islamic loyalists to come together to oust the Americans and their stooges from Iraq.

When we picked up details of increased movement down in Santa Lorca, Central America, concerning the increase in illegal arms, it didn’t come as a surprise when information was received about a Middle Eastern buyer looking for small arms. The other matter tagged on to this was the hint that these weapons might be destined for the U.S. This could tie in with the information we’ve picked up from our main security agencies about upcoming strikes within the U.S. and their connection with the resurgence of ex-Hussein loyalists. One of our contacts came through with a photograph. Not the best, but when it was put through the computer program the closest match it gave was Kamal Rasheed.

We need to confirm just who it is buying weapons down there, because if it does turn out to be Rasheed, it more or less confirms that the data we were receiving about the old regime getting its act together is genuine.

I suggest we set up an operation. Get a team into Santa Lorca, offering a good deal on the kinds of weapons being sought, and identify the main buyer. If it does put Rasheed in the frame, our suspicions will be confirmed. An added bonus would be to get our hands on Rasheed and bring him back. Let our security services put him through a debriefing session. See what they can get out of him.

Santa Lorca, Central America

THE MAN’S NAME WAS REGAN. His gaunt, lined face was tanned and unshaven. He was wearing a crumpled white suit. On the beer-stained table in front of him was a sweat-stained Panama hat, the brim curled and frayed. He watched the man across the table from him through watery blue eyes, constantly blinking as he toyed with the squat bottle of local beer.

“You better be straight with me, Bubba,” he rasped. His voice was coarse, low, as if he was unable to raise it above a whisper. “This ain’t fuckin’ Paducah. Mess with the locals here and they’ll cut off your balls and barbecue them in front of you. Understand me?”

The tall, rangy man facing Regan made no comment. He was calm, his hands mobile and sure as he rolled a cigarette using paper and tobacco. He stuck the finished cigarette between his lips and lit it with a battered black lighter. He took a long draw, visibly enjoying the taste of the smoke.

“You been listening to me, Bubba? I don’t make speeches just to hear myself talk.”

“You had me fooled,” the other man said. His accent was British, hard-edged, and Regan became aware that he wasn’t dealing with a novice. “Let’s stop buggering about, Regan. Neither of us is here for the beer—and I can see why after tasting it. We arranged a deal. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can move on and you can count your money. Two weeks in this bloody place is playing hell with my social life.”

“You can provide me with the ordnance I need? Anything from handguns to rocket launchers?”

“And everything in between.”

Regan rubbed his stubbled chin. He glanced over the Briton’s shoulder, just to make sure his two bodyguards were still in place. The pair sat at a table near the door, doing nothing except making their beer last as long as possible.

“Understand what I’m going to say next, Bubba. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the people I’m brokering this deal for are fussy. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“They want to see I’m not peddling you a load of scrap iron?”

Regan spread his hands. “You show up hawking a cargo of weapons. So you say. How do I know you ain’t screwin’ me around?”

The Briton nodded.

“I guess with the kind of money they’re offering they have a right to see the merchandise.”

“So it’s no problem?”

“No.”

“How soon can you show me samples?”

“Boat is standing by. I can pick up what we need and have it here later tonight. Your warehouse?”

Regan nodded, smiled and picked up his beer.

“Four a.m. I’ll bring along my client. Let him check the stuff out. If everything is okay, we can complete by tomorrow evening. Just remember he’ll want the full shipment up front before he hands over any cash.”

The Briton stood. “I’ll go and get my people working on it.” He dropped a folded paper onto the table. “My hotel and room number. Give me a call if anything crops up.”

As soon as the Briton had left the bar, Regan beckoned to his men. They came to his table.

“Follow him. Let’s see if he’s who he says. I don’t want this deal screwing up.”

“Don’t you trust him?”

Regan smiled, scrubbing at his unshaven jaw. “I don’t trust anyone.”

One of the bodyguards grinned. “You trust us.”

“Do I? Who the fuck ever said that, Bubba?”

THE BRITON LEFT the bar and made his way along the street. It was already dark. The night warm and sticky. He took his time, knowing full well that Regan would have him followed. It was what he would have done in Regan’s place. He returned to his hotel, collected his key and went directly to his room. Inside he crossed to the window overlooking the street and saw one of Regan’s bodyguards lounging against a storefront on the far side, half hidden in shadow. The man was lighting a cigarette and trying to look as though he belonged. He failed badly. No matter how casual his attitude, he still identified himself as an overmuscled hardman, even down to the bulge where his too-tight jacket fitted over the shoulder-holstered gun he was carrying. The other man had obviously gone into the hotel and was, even now, probably paying the desk clerk to take a look at the Briton’s details in the guest register.

George Reese, British National. Home address, London.

That was what it said in the register. If a deeper probe into Reese’s background was carried out, his background in dubious operations would show. Suspected of involvement in arms smuggling, some drug dealing. His sphere of operations would catalog deals in the Middle East, Asia, South and Central America. George Reese, though traceable if anyone wanted to follow through, was in fact a totally fictitious character who only existed in the computer files at Stony Man Farm, Virginia, U.S.A. Any requests for information on the character would be routed through to Stony Man, where his fictitious profile would be accessible to any tracer. George Reese was nothing more than a cover for one of the Phoenix Force operatives on this particular mission.

David McCarter.

TURNING BACK from the window, McCarter took off his jacket and tossed it onto the bed, went to the dresser and picked up a pack of Player’s cigarettes. He needed one to take away the taste of the tobacco he had purchased from the hotel bar. It was rough, running a close second to the home-brewed beer they sold in the area. He lit the cigarette and took a long draw, sighing with relief.

He took a cell phone from his pocket and hit a speed-dial number. When his call was answered, McCarter asked, “Did you pick me up?”

Calvin James affirmed his query.

“We trailed you back to the hotel. Watched one guy go in while the other stood across the street. Hey, your first guy just came back out. He’s crossing to meet the other one.”

“Let’s hope they bought my biography.”

“Hell, these guys don’t exactly look like they work for the Oxford English Dictionary.”

“You and T.J. follow them. See where they go. Who they meet. Call me if anything happens we need to know about.”

McCarter broke the connection, waited a couple of minutes, then made another call. This time it was to Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo. They were on board the sixty-foot motor vessel anchored off Santa Lorca, along with the cargo Phoenix Force was offering for sale to Regan.

“I did my deal with Regan,” McCarter told Manning when the Canadian answered his call.

“And?”

“I show him samples. Early morning call. Four a.m.”

“Okay. Let’s hope he brings his buyer along. If he doesn’t, we’ve come a long way and set this deal up for nothing.”

“Took our pessimistic pill this morning, did we?”

“You have to admit this has been a hell of a long shot from the word go.”

“So? We’ve worked thinner operations before.”

“Yeah? This one is so thin Stevie Wonder could see through it.”

“Bugger me, is that Canadian humor I hear?”

Manning chuckled softly. “I’ll see you later.”

McCarter glanced at his watch. A long time to go before he made his rendezvous with Regan. He figured to allow himself a couple of hours to get to the boat, pick up the samples and get them to the dock area where Regan’s warehouse stood. Until then he had little to do, so he decided to relax. If anything cropped up, the others would let him know. James and Hawkins were keeping in the background, acting as shadows to cover McCarter, without showing themselves to Regan or his men.

McCarter sauntered down to the hotel bar and asked the man behind the counter if he had any chilled Coke. To his surprise the barman produced cold bottles from a cooler. The Briton took half a dozen and climbed the stairs back to his room a relatively happy man. He closed the door and settled down on the bed, switching on the TV set. It was lucky he had the Coke. It helped to ease the pain of watching old U.S. series dubbed in Spanish. He did some channel hopping and came across three Western series, yet another rerun of Star Trek, and ended up watching Mannix, with every character mouthing out-of-sync Spanish.

McCarter watched the episode, through. He smoked three more cigarettes and downed two bottles of Coke. He was feeling better. He switched off the TV, eased his long frame off the bed and crossed to the window. It was quiet down below. The Briton spent a few minutes at the window, letting the faint breeze cool him. He was about to turn away when he picked up a sound from the other side of his room door. McCarter stepped away from the window and crossed the room to stand against the wall to one side of the door. He turned his head slightly and picked up a scrap of sound. It was the sound of a floorboard creaking under weight. The weight was quickly removed but only made the board creak again. A man’s hushed voice expressed impatience and elicited a sharp response.

At least two.

But what were they doing outside his room?

The Briton decided he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. As he eased his Browning Hi-Power from the shoulder holster he was wearing, the door handle moved slightly as pressure was put on it from the other side. He flicked off the main room light, leaving on just a small lamp on a table beside the bed.

The door swung open and two men stepped inside, scanning the room as they did. Both were armed with pistols. Seeing the room apparently empty seemed to confuse the pair for a few seconds and McCarter used the time to his advantage. He booted the door shut and as the gunners swung around he launched himself into action.

The barrel of the Browning cracked down across the wrist of the closer man, the hard blow numbing his grip on the pistol he carried. As the man grunted in pain, McCarter rapped the Browning against the side of his skull, hard, stunning the guy. As the first man slumped to his knees, McCarter turned his upper body and drove his bunched left fist into the second man’s face. The blow was delivered with full force, cracking against the target’s jaw. His head snapped around, blood spraying from a split lip. The guy fell back against the wall. The Phoenix Force leader was already closing on him, his right knee coming up in a blur to drive into the guy’s exposed stomach. The breath gusted from his slack mouth and the man clutched himself. He offered no resistance as McCarter snatched his pistol from his hand. Stepping back, the Briton kicked the first guy’s gun across the room, then backed up himself to cover the two men.

“I don’t suppose you bums are room service? No? Didn’t think so. So who are you?”

“Someone you don’t want to mess around with.”

McCarter glanced at the speaker. The accent wasn’t local. There was something familiar about it. European? Slavic maybe? Difficult to tell. The man had been mixing with other cultures and had lost a degree of his native cadence.

“Might be a good idea if you stopped watching cheap movies,” McCarter said. “Coming up with a line like that. Bloody terrible. Now why don’t we stop being silly. Just tell me who you are and what you want.”

“We want you out of Santa Lorca. We do business here. This is our territory.”

McCarter grinned. “Losing out, are you? Tough. You blokes never heard of competition? Now I suggest you get the hell out of my room and stay away from me.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand. But take it from me, chum. If you keep this up I’ll kill you. No second chances. Keep that thought when you leave. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

The two men glanced at each other. They were in a bind. No weapons, and it was plain to see that the man they had come to hassle was in no way disturbed by their presence. They gathered themselves and moved to the door. McCarter followed them into the passage and stayed until they had disappeared down the stairs. He went back into his room, closing and locking the door. He picked up the discarded weapons and placed them in his leather holdall. Then he got back on his cell phone and spoke to James again. He explained what had happened.

“You think this could cause us problems?”

“If we’ve stepped on the toes of the local union of gunrunners it could get busy. The sooner we have our meet with Regan’s buyer, the better. All we need is to identify the buyer, grab him if he fits the bill, then get the hell out of this sweatbox and go home.”

“Our boys here only went back to the bar and spoke to Regan. Looks like he was just checking up on you. We’ll keep an eye on them.”

“Okay.”

McCarter put in a call to Manning and gave him an update.

“Let’s hope they don’t decide to do something drastic like hit the ship,” McCarter said. “Losing a piece of action is making these guys a little tetchy.”

“Let’s hope your meet goes smoothly,” Manning said.

MCCARTER PULLED UP outside Regan’s warehouse, cutting the engine of the battered Jeep 4x4 he’d rented from a local contact. He checked out the dock area. It appeared deserted, but the Briton never took anything on face value. There were a hundred places where a man with a weapon could hide. Taking that thought to its logical conclusion, McCarter realized there could be a hundred armed men in hiding. It was a sobering thought. Enough to make him pull a pack of Player’s cigarettes from his pocket and fire one up. The smoke he took in eased his tension a little. McCarter exhaled and glanced quickly at his watch. Almost time.

At the far end of the dock a car appeared, easing around the edge of the most distant warehouse. It moved forward slowly, headlights picking out McCarter’s parked Jeep. The Phoenix Force leader reached across to make sure his Browning was still beside him on the passenger seat.

The advancing car came to a stop twenty feet away. Both front doors opened and Regan’s hardmen stepped out. They moved to the rear doors and opened them. McCarter saw Regan step out of one door. The man who emerged from the other side of the car was unknown to the Phoenix Force commander. Dressed in a dark suit and shirt, even down to a black tie, he stayed a few steps behind Regan, who led the way along the dock until he was no more than a couple of feet from the Jeep.

“At least you’re on time, Bubba,’’ he said as McCarter stepped from his vehicle.

“And I’ve brought your samples.”

McCarter turned to the rear of the Jeep and lifted out a rolled tarp. He carried it to the front of the vehicle and laid the tarp on the hood. McCarter unrolled the bundle to expose two M-16 A-2 rifles, one fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher. There was also a Beretta 92-F and a LAW rocket launcher.

Regan stepped forward to look over the weapons.

“Go ahead,” McCarter said. “They won’t fall apart.”

Regan picked up one of the M-16s and examined it thoroughly. He knew his weapons, expertly stripping the rifle and reassembling it with practiced ease. He did the same with the Beretta.

“Good condition,” he said. “If I asked where you got them?”

“You’d get the same answer I would if I asked who you banked with.”

Regan chuckled. He turned to his rear seat passenger. “You want to check these out?”

The man moved forward into a patch of light. He was lean, his complexion dark, a trimmed beard and mustache covering the lower half of his face. He wore steel-rimmed glasses. He barely glanced at McCarter as he reached out to pick up one of the Berettas, turning it over, working the slide. Once he had the weapon in his hands his attitude visibly changed. His stance relaxed, his gaze fixed on the pistol. The weapon worked like a drug, soothing him. He nodded slowly, his lips moving as he carried on some inner conversation with himself, slender fingers caressing the smooth, cool metal.

McCarter felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly. The man was a little creepy, he decided. The Briton glanced across at Regan, who returned his gaze and offered a brief shrug.

The prospective buyer placed the Beretta back on the tarp. He gathered his thoughts and cleared his throat.

“Excellent. I believe we can make our trade. You know what we require, Regan. The price as agreed. I will bring cash. U.S. dollars. Make your arrangements.” He offered McCarter the briefest of glances. “I will take delivery myself.”

He turned then and made his way back to the car, leaving McCarter and Regan alone on the dock.

“I thought he was going to make a bloody date with that Beretta,” McCarter said.

“As long as his money is genuine, I don’t care if he takes the fuckin’ thing to bed with him, Bubba.”

“Regan, you’re all heart.”

“Ain’t I just. You got enough stock on that boat to fill this order?”

“No problem. Just tell me where and when.”

“Right here. How about this evening? Around eight?”

McCarter wrapped his weapons back in the tarp. He placed them in the rear of the Jeep.

“I’ll have the boat in the harbor, waiting for my call,” he said to Regan.

Regan nodded and turned back toward his car.

McCarter waited until he was alone before he took out his cell phone and called Manning.

“ID confirmed. The buyer is Kamal Rasheed.”

“Have you arranged the deal?”

“Eight o’clock tonight. Regan’s warehouse.”

“I’d better let Jack know. We want him standing by at the airstrip. This is where it could get hairy.”

“It’s been quiet up to now,” McCarter said. “I don’t feel comfortable with the setup.”

“You worry too much.”

“Somebody has to.”

MANNING CONTACTED Jack Grimaldi. The Stony Man pilot was waiting at a small airstrip a few miles along the coast from Cristobal. He had an old but fully maintained Douglas DC-3 on standby, ready to airlift Phoenix Force out of the country. He had flown in two days earlier after receiving a signal from Manning. In Santa Lorca, anything more sophisticated landing at the airstrip would have aroused deep suspicion and questions.

“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Grimaldi had said after Manning had advised the deal was to go through the following evening. “This going to be a quiet farewell party? Or do I break out the flak jackets?”

“Anybody’s guess, Jack. You know how these things can change. David did have some unwelcome visitors at his hotel. Santa Lorca Mafia tried to scare him off.”

“Wish I’d been there to see that.”

“Just keep your eyes open in case. I have a feeling when we come to hitch our ride we’ll be in a hurry.”

“No problem. Let me know when you’re getting close.”

Manning cut the call and turned to Rafael Encizo. “Let’s go check the charges.”

Encizo nodded and the Phoenix Force pair went belowdecks to check out the thermal charges Manning had installed in the motor vessel’s hold. They were more for protection than anything else, a noisy distraction in case the team needed to make a rapid withdrawal.