Terminal Guidance

Someone was standing in the deep shadow at the end of the cul-de-sac. Under Henning’s coat his hand closed around the butt of his 9 mm Glock. He took out his key and inserted it into the lock.

Henning turned the key. Felt the lock give. He pushed against the door and it swung inward. At the same time he pulled his Glock, angling it across his body as he made a swift turn.

He caught a fragmented glimpse of the figure closing in fast. He heard the subdued snap of a suppressed shot and felt a hard blow just below his left shoulder. The impact tipped him off balance. He hit the edge of the door frame, stumbling partway inside. Henning struggled to stay upright as he triggered a shot from the Glock. The report sounded extremely loud in the quiet surroundings.

The other shooter’s weapon fired again, twice. Henning gasped in shock as the slugs struck home. He fired again himself, pulling the trigger as many time as he could. He saw the shooter stop in midstride, and knew he’d scored some kind of hit. The man turned aside, pulling away, and as he passed through the light thrown from the wall lamp above the door Henning saw his face in profile. It was only for a fleeting second but long enough for him to recognize the man.

It was Lewis Winch.

Henning went down in a heavy sprawl, blood pulsing from the bullet wounds in his chest. He didn’t really register hitting the ground, just saw the strange angle of the open door looming above him. The night sky was sprinkled with stars. There was a rush of pain, then a comforting numbness that spread with alarming speed. He picked up sounds far off.

Unconnected.

Henning fumbled his cell from his coat, peering at the screen as he pressed keys for a text message. The effort cost him, pain making him gasp, fingers feeling thick and clumsy. When he located the number for Jack Coyle, he sent a text.

He felt the phone slip from his hand. He sensed people around him, bending over him, anxious voices. Henning couldn’t make sense of any of it. He hoped his text had got through. That was the last thing he remembered.

MCCARTER TOOK OUT his cell, checking the incoming call. It was from Stony Man. He answered and heard Barbara Price’s voice.

“Text message rerouted via the cover number,” she said. “From your cop buddy in London. Henning. He’s in trouble. Something about being shot and knowing who the mole is.”

“I’m on it, Barb.”

“Merry England isn’t sounding too merry.”

“You don’t know the half.”

“Progress?”

“We’re picking up scraps here and there. Names you guys supplied are tying up, but nothing too definite yet. Just feed us anything you find.” McCarter paused. “Heard from the others yet?”

“Only that they’ve located themselves and it’s hot.”

McCarter smiled. “That will be our Canadian member,” he said. “He prefers snow and ice.”

“Let us know about Henning.”

“Thanks, love, I’ll keep you updated.”

MCCARTER MANAGED TO maintain his composure in the face of hospital protocol. It took all his patience and persuasion to even get to the nurses’ station on Henning’s floor. The young woman in charge, an attractive redhead, at least had an engaging personality. She listened to McCarter’s story in silence, lips pursed in a gentle smile.

“You must understand hospital rules,” she said finally. “We can’t have people wandering in unannounced. Mr. Henning is lucky to be alive. He was shot three times. One bullet clipped his left lung. He lost a great deal of blood before the ambulance crew arrived, and he’s had serious surgery.”

“You know he’s a security officer?” McCarter said.

The nurse chuckled at that. “Don’t I know it. Seems as if we’ve had half the Met in here. There’s even an officer on duty outside his room. Look, we’ve been told no one is allowed in unless they’ve been vetted, so there isn’t much I can do.”

McCarter took a breath. He peered at the name tag on the young woman’s uniform. “Nurse Jenny…”

“Actually, it’s Sister Jenny.”

“Sorry,” McCarter said. “Look, Sister Jenny, I’m in the same business. Working undercover with Greg Henning. I’m pretty sure his shooting was because of the case we’re involved with. Right now my only contact is through Greg. I can’t go any higher because our investigation concerns leaks within the security department itself.”

McCarter took out his cell and opened Henning’s text message. He showed it to Jenny. She checked it out, and murmured, “The time on that message is five minutes before the ambulance arrived at Mr. Henning’s address.”

“He must have sent it just after he’d been shot. He was trying to let me know something.”

“I still can’t let you into his room.”

“But you can go in.”

She eyed him warily. “Yes…”

“If he’s awake, ask him if he has anything for me. Just tell him Jack Coyle wants to know.”

Jenny’s expression told McCarter he’d made a connection. “You’re Jack Coyle?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He asked me if you’d been around. As soon as he woke up.”

McCarter smiled. “Good old Gregory.”

She frowned. “Gregory?”

“Mention that to him. It’ll prove who I am. No one else calls him that.” McCarter touched her arm. “It’s important, love.”

“Okay.” The nurse relented.

“So you’ll ask him?”

“Only if you stay right here.”

“Word of honor, Sister Jenny.”

McCarter watched her as she crossed the room, pushed through the double doors and vanished down the corridor. She made the nurse’s uniform look good on her trim, shapely figure. If anything could make Henning sit up and take notice it would be Sister Jenny.

Fifteen minutes later she returned. McCarter was sitting one of the plastic visitor chairs, nursing a can of Coke he’d purchased from the vending machine. He glanced up when she appeared.

“How is he?”

“Weak. In considerable pain. But stubborn and determined. And set on sending you this message.” She held out a sheet of notepaper. “He dictated it, I wrote it. He could barely speak, but he made me listen.”

McCarter took the note and scanned the neat writing.

“Is it helpful?”

“It’s certainly that, Jenny, my girl.” McCarter grabbed her by her shoulders and laid a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Thanks.”

HENNING’S NOTE TO McCarter was characterized by precise detail. The Briton could only marvel at Henning’s ability to be so comprehensive in his current condition.

The mole was revealed to be Lewis Winch, an agent on Henning’s team. Henning had found proof that Winch had been in contact with Samman Prem at the man’s London office. Winch’s operational position at the counterterrorism unit would have given him the opportunity to know about U.S. and U.K. personnel who were victims in the recent wave of assassinations and the Peshawar bombing.

The note also detailed Winch’s home address in London.

Henning had signed the note “Gregory.”

McCarter called ahead. By the time he reached the hotel, James and Hawkins were waiting. They climbed into the new rental and McCarter pulled back into the traffic. He had already fed Winch’s address into the built-in sat-nav unit.

McCarter handed the note to James so he and Hawkins could read Henning’s information.

“How is he?” James asked.

“Not too good right now,” McCarter said, “but he’ll survive. This bastard Winch shot him on his own doorstep. Luckily for Greg, the bugger didn’t check his work.” McCarter muttered something under his breath, then said, “Next to sneaky buggers I hate amateurs.”

“Do we know if this Winch guy has backup?” Hawkins asked.

“Let’s assume he does,” McCarter said.

“Way you said that I take it you hope he does,” James said.

McCarter glanced at him, his face taut. “Is it a problem?”

James shook his head. “No. You shouldn’t need to ask, David.”

McCarter let out a hard breath. “No, I shouldn’t. It’s been a hell of a night.”

Winch lived in southwest London in, an older house standing back off the residential street. The frontage was studded with trees and hedges, with a short driveway leading up to the front door. A couple cars were parked in the drive. McCarter drove by, circled and turned back. He parked four houses short of Winch’s.

“Lights on all floors,” James said. “He’s got guests or he’s nervous. You want us to go around back? Come in from the rear?”

“Yeah,” McCarter said. “Put phones on vibrate and give me a call when you’re in position.”

Once out of the car, they moved along the sidewalk, James and Hawkins slipping out of sight along the low dividing wall at the side of the house next to Winch’s, leaving McCarter to his frontal approach.

The two agents pushed their way through thick hedges running the length of the house, trying to ignore the fine spray of rain that flicked off the vegetation as they disturbed it. They were glad they had decided to don waterproof topcoats from the car.

“Hold it,” James said, pressing a hand to Hawkins’s shoulder.

“Company?”

“Yeah.” Light from the rear of the house cast a semicircle of illumination across the lawn, and James had spotted the dark-clad figure pacing back and forth. “And that isn’t a garden tool he’s toting.”

In fact the man, clad in a bulky weatherproof jacket, was carrying a squat SMG.

Hawkins peered across his partner’s shoulder. “Looks like a suppressed MP-5,” he said. “And here we are with nothing but our faithful 9 mm Berettas.”

They wore the 92-F pistols, complete with suppressors, under their coats.

“Maybe this guy is part of the neighborhood watch,” James said.

“Right,” Hawkins said.

“We can’t stand here all night. David will start paging us any minute.”

“Let him know we’re in position and he can start the show,” Hawkins suggested. “If he makes some noise it might draw that guy toward the house.”

James took out his cell and tapped the speed dial for McCarter’s phone. “Hey, David, in position. Only we have a guy armed with an MP-5 blocking our way in.”

After James disconnected, Hawkins asked, “What did he say?”

“’Watch and learn,’” James answered.

MCCARTER POCKETED HIS CELL, took out his suppressed Browning Hi-Power and went up the steps. He scanned the door, assessing its makeup, and decided it wouldn’t present all that much of a problem. He took a couple steps back, then launched himself, shoulder first, at the barrier. There was toned muscle under the Briton’s coat. The impact broke the inner latch, sending the door wide open, smashing the glass panels inlaid in the upper section. McCarter followed on, the Browning held in both hands. The muzzle swept back and forth, searching the entrance hall.

An armed figure burst into view, attracted by the noise. The guy swept his SMG round to target the intruder. McCarter’s Hi-Power fired twice. Nine millimeter slugs slammed into the guy’s chest, over his heart, punching him back against the frame of the door he had just exited.

A figure moved at the head of the stairs ahead of McCarter. The Phoenix Force leader recognized him from the image Stony Man had sent.

“Winch, hold it right there,” he yelled, raising his Browning.

“No chance,” Winch said, and stepped to the side, vanishing behind the edge of wall.

McCarter went up the stairs fast, pulling out his cell and hitting speed dial.

“Don’t hang about,” he said into the phone. “It’s going down now.”

“LET’S MOVE, T.J.,” James said, and stepped from cover, his Beretta raised.

The armed guard spotted the Phoenix Force warrior. To his credit he was fast to react, the MP-5 arcing around, his finger already stroking the trigger. A stream of suppressed 9 mm slugs went over James’s head, taking chunks out of the brickwork. He felt slivers pepper the back of his neck.

“Down,” Hawkins yelled. As the black Phoenix Force commando dropped to a crouch, Hawkins tracked in with his Beretta and hit the moving gunner with a trio of 9 mm slugs.

The man went down, hitting the rain-soaked lawn on his back, the MP-5 spilling from his hands.

“As David would say, nice one, mate,” James said.

They moved quickly now, heading for French windows that stood partly open. The room beyond was dimly illuminated, but there was enough light to show James and Hawkins the armed figure approaching. The guy opened up with a stream of hissing 9 mm slugs that shattered glass and splintered wood in their faces…?.

CHAPTER SIX

McCarter reached the top of the stairs and swung to the right, where Winch had gone.

As he faced the corridor, a bulky figure launched itself in his direction. The guy was broad, with a shaved head and a thick mustache. He was not Lewis Winch. A short-bladed knife caught the light as he slashed at McCarter.

The Briton ducked under the sweeping blade, ramming his shoulder into the attacker’s midsection. The guy grunted as he felt the force of the lunge. McCarter kept pushing, wanting to knock him off balance. The problem was his adversary was not just broad, he was solid and well muscled. And quick. His free arm swept down and chopped at McCarter’s gun hand, knocking it aside. McCarter blocked the next swing of the knife, curling his own fingers around the man’s thick wrist and forcing the blade away from his body. They held each other motionless for seconds, each attempting to gain control.

McCarter had no intention of allowing the stalemate to continue. He had no time for delay. Every second wasted gave Winch more of an opportunity to evade capture. There was no way the Briton would allow that to happen.

He let go of his pistol, turned his body toward his opponent, brought up his right arm and executed a swift hip throw. The guy left the floor, a startled cry bursting from his lips as he was slammed down on his back. McCarter followed through, levering the man’s knife arm across his thigh until he heard bone crack. The knife slipped from his opponent’s fingers and McCarter scooped it up, half turned and sliced the blade across the exposed throat, cutting deep. Dropping the knife, he snatched up his Browning and sprinted along the corridor in pursuit of Winch.

Ahead of McCarter a door was swinging shut. The Briton reached it and booted it open, plunging through with a reckless disregard for his own safety. In the split second it took to cross the threshold, he saw he was entering a study all tricked out with computers and terminals. Winch was at a wide, curving desk, reaching for a phone, his finger already pressing a speed dial number. The security agent threw a startled glance over his shoulder and saw McCarter charging across the room like a runaway locomotive.

McCarter hit Winch head-on, spinning the traitor along the side of the desk, arms and legs windmilling. Winch tried to club him with his autopistol, but McCarter twisted his upper body and the blow missed. There was no restraint in McCarter’s punch as his left first connected with Winch’s jaw. The blow crunched home with a solid sound, the force knocking the man to the floor. He landed hard, losing his grip on the pistol, and watched it bounced out of reach across the carpet. Winch rolled, scrabbling his way in the direction of the fallen weapon. McCarter gave him no chance. He tossed his Browning on the desk, reached down and grabbed Winch by his jacket, then hauled him upright. Winch’s bleeding mouth spurted even more blood as McCarter drove him across the room with his pounding fists, until he slammed into the wall.

“You can’t do this,” Winch yelled. “Breaking into someone’s home and—”

“Oh, that’s right,” McCarter said. “I should have waited until you were on your doorstep and then shot you. That the way you bastards do it around here?”

Realization gleamed in the security agent’s eyes. He spit blood, sucking in air through his battered nose. “I should have guessed. You’re one of those fucks Henning sent out to look over Prem’s place. Much good it’s done him. At least they can say he died doing his duty to queen and country.”

“Wrong there, sunshine. You might be a smart snitch, but as a hit man you failed the test. Henning is still alive. And under so much protection even the queen couldn’t get in to see him.”

“You’re lying.”

“You should have stayed around to make sure he was dead. You’re a bloody amateur, Winch. Admittedly a creepy one, but just an amateur.”

Winch uttered an enraged cry. He dropped his right hand into his pocket, jerked it back out, showing the butterfly knife he held. His hand and wrist flicked in a controlled action and the naked blade sprang into view, locking in place.

McCarter stayed exactly where he was, no flicker of emotion crossing his face.

“Is this where I’m supposed to be scared to death? Isn’t going to work, chum. Come ahead if you think you can carve me up with that little boy’s knife.”

White lines formed at the corners of Winch’s taut mouth. “I’ll show you,” he said, his voice rising.

McCarter saw the bunching of muscles under Winch’s shirt, then the slight lean forward before he launched himself. The man was no knife fighter; the way he rushed McCarter showed his lack of expertise. Also his absence of judgment. His headlong lunge might as well have been in slow motion, since every scrap of movement was telegraphed to McCarter. The Phoenix Force commander held his position until the last moment, then turned his lean body, right hand snapping around to grasp Winch’s wrist. McCarter slid his left arm under Winch’s just below the elbow joint. He bore down on the wrist, heaved up with his left arm and snapped the forearm bone. Winch screamed in a high falsetto as the jagged end of the broken bone tore through the flesh, gleaming white against the bloody flesh. McCarter dragged him forward, turning him, and slammed Winch facefirst into the wall. The brutal impact crushed his nose and split his cheek. Winch slumped to his knees, sobbing in agony, hugging his ruined arm. Blood coursed down his face. The butterfly knife was on the floor beside him. McCarter snatched it up and closed it. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“The thought that you turned on Henning pisses me off,” the Phoenix Force commander said. “I really don’t like people who do that to my mates.”

“They’ll get you. Get you all,” Winch rasped through clenched teeth. “You won’t stop…Prem…or Rahman…?.”

“One thing for sure, mate, you won’t be around to see it either way.” McCarter raised his right leg and slammed his foot into the back of his opponent’s neck. Winch’s spine was severed by the blow, the force driving his face into the wall with a sodden crunch. His body arched and then slumped to the floor, all resistance vanishing in death.

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