Extreme Arsenal

McCarter exploded into action. He charged the gunman in the street and fired directly at the assassin’s face. The armored attacker froze at the sight of the Englishman’s sudden attack, and was blinded by the point-blank muzzle-flashes and 9 mm rounds smashing into his armored faceplate. The gunman let out an inarticulate yell that gave McCarter all the opportunity he needed. He threw his empty handgun aside and grabbed his enemy’s submachine gun. With a savage twist, he pried the weapon to one side and slipped behind his black-clad opponent’s body. The other gunman tracked him and opened fire on instinct.

McCarter’s human shield jerked as slugs punched into him. He hauled the armored assassin’s arm around to grab the killer’s weapon. The black-clad body slumped and turned into deadweight as the Briton clawed the subgun out of its grasp. With a kick, the Phoenix Force commander threw himself to the ground and out of the path of another burst of fire.

For a moment McCarter thought that the weapon in his grasp was a mini-Uzi. It had the same feel, but when he triggered it, the bullets that erupted tore through the Mini-Cooper’s door as if it were made of tissue paper. The surviving gunman jerked as the slowed slugs hit him. He charged around the back of the vehicle.

The sound of a revolver split the air and sparks erupted on the gunman’s body. Pat had seen the killer and she followed McCarter’s advice. It was enough to distract the murderer and he twisted to pump a burst into the doorway, but McCarter cut him off and emptied the machine pistol’s magazine into the armored attacker.

This time, the gunman folded over and dropped to the ground, dead. McCarter discarded his empty magazine and frisked the corpse for spare ammo. He looked up to see Pat’s pale face, eyes wide with fear. He winked at her. “Chin up, love.”

She nodded.

He checked the top round in the machine pistol and saw that it was a bottle-nosed bullet. It took a moment for him to figure out what the cartridge was, when he remembered the Saab Bofors Dynamics CBJ MS personal defense weapon. Based on the mini-Uzi, it could be modified to fire 6.5 mm armor-piercing bullets from a bottle-necked 9 mm case. The extra powder charge behind the narrow slug allowed it to pierce Kevlar and ceramic trauma plating with all the authority of a rifle round. He charged up the Bofors and headed for the low wall when he noticed another of the armored gunners crawl into view.

“What the…” the assassin demanded, then saw the lean-faced Briton, armed with the deadly machine pistol. He dropped out of sight before McCarter could trigger the weapon, so the Phoenix Force warrior leaped to the top of the low wall and went prone. He aimed his machine pistol into the darkness, then lined up on the glint of a streetlight on the curved dome of the dark assassin’s helmet.

McCarter didn’t give his enemy a chance. He cut loose with a salvo of high-powered slugs that chopped into the armored helmet. Chunks of bullet-resistant material flew, smashed to splinters by the Bofors slugs.

He dropped to the lawn and raced toward the house. Through the window, he spotted an armored gunman line up his shot on a cowering woman.

“Not on my watch, mate.” McCarter growled as he triggered the Bofors CBJ. Glass shattered and the assassin jerked violently. He still stood, which told the Briton that it would take a close-range salvo, without the interference of even a pane of glass, to neutralize the enemy. He charged the window and dived through even as the would-be assassin recovered.

McCarter felt the heat of the gunner’s burst cut closely over him. He triggered the Bofors one last time and stitched his adversary from crotch to throat. The woman screamed as the armored man’s corpse smashed violently against the china cabinet. The ex-SAS commando crossed to her and saw that she was uninjured.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” he asked. She looked at him, her dark brown eyes pools of fright.

“Yo no…”

“Esta otros en la casa?” McCarter quickly corrected. He knew his accent and grammar were horrible, despite his practice with his teammate Rafael Encizo and Rosario Blancanales of Able Team, but he still got the point across.

“Mi tio,” she stammered. Her uncle. She pointed, knowing that gestures were easier to understand.

McCarter held his hand out, palm down. “Abajo.”

She nodded. She would stay down, and wisely crawled behind a sofa. The Phoenix Force leader turned and moved deeper into the house. Chances were, there were at least one or two more killers in the building. He dumped his depleted magazine and fed in a fresh one.

McCarter reached the bottom of the stairs, then ducked back as the floor erupted. A hail of gunfire chopped the floorboards to splinters and would have sliced him off below the knees. Crippled and mutilated, he would have been easy pickings for the assassins.

“Hurry up!” a voice shouted. McCarter spotted an apple resting in a bowl by the stairs. He reached for it, pulled the stem out and spit it. Then he hurled the phony grenade up the stairs. “Shit!”

The gunman lurched into view, flushed from the top of the stairs and into the Phoenix Force commando’s line of fire. McCarter ripped off a short burst that smashed the gunman’s arm to a useless pulp. He swiveled the muzzle and ripped the assassin across the knees. He was going to need answers, and since these guys spoke better English, he picked the one on the steps. The gunman and his weapon slid down the stairs. McCarter rushed to the fallen killer and punched a short burst at the man’s outstretched wrist. The black-clad hardman had nearly reached his weapon when the 6.5 mm Bofors rounds completely severed the limb.

“Stay put, mate,” McCarter said as he kicked the submachine gun farther down the hall as a precaution. “I want to chat with you in a bit.”

He charged up the stairs and saw the last of the armored assassins surge into the hallway. McCarter dropped to the floor instantly, a scythe of burning lead tearing the air where he’d stood moments before. He blasted the black-clad killer across the shins. The high-powered CBJ rounds splintered bone and pulped flesh in their passage, and dumped the murderer to the floor. McCarter rose to go after him, but dropped back down as the hit man wouldn’t give up. A Bofors bullet grazed the Phoenix Force leader’s shoulder after it punched through the top step.

“Bloody bastards don’t know when to quit.” He popped up and swept the floor with the submachine gun, turning the landing that the gunman laid upon into a mass of splinters, shredded armor and gore. The Bofors locked open, empty, and instinctively he reloaded the last magazine into the weapon. He wasn’t going to be caught off guard.

McCarter approached the last corpse. Bare skull poked through the shattered helmet.

He entered the room that the assassin had just left, then froze. A bloodied sheet covered an immobile lump in the middle of the bed. McCarter shook his head. He’d been too late for the victim. He stepped over to the body and turned on the lamp to look at the man. His features were familiar, but the Briton couldn’t quite place them. He frowned and heard the sirens of police cars outside.

The Phoenix Force leader stepped back outside and looked down the stairs. The gunman who’d been deprived of his limbs convulsed, shrieking in pain. McCarter went to the base of the stairs, stripped his machine pistol of its magazine and popped the round out of the chamber. He dropped the empty weapon and laced his fingers behind his head, elbows up.

Two armed policemen burst through the door, the muzzles of their Glock 17 pistols leveled at him.

“There’s a dead one in the sitting room, one at the top of the stairs, and they murdered the owner of this home,” he offered. “My name is David King. I’m former SAS…”

He turned to let them see that he was unarmed. One officer rushed over to frisk him.

“You’ve got empty holsters on your hip and ankle,” the policeman said.

“I lost my Browning in the street, and my companion has an empty revolver,” McCarter replied. “I gave it to her to protect herself.”

The policeman fished out his wallet. “You have permits for the handguns, and to carry them concealed. You must be pretty important.”

“I’m supposed to be armed. There’s an unarmed woman in the sitting room. She speaks Spanish, and she’s very frightened. She’s the niece of the home owner,” McCarter explained.

“Does she speak English?” the other officer asked.

“No. I tried,” McCarter replied.

“Do you speak Spanish?” the officer who frisked him asked.

McCarter nodded. “Not fluently, but I can get by when I’m not under pressure.”

“Could you help, then, sir?” the policeman asked. “You can lower your hands now.”

McCarter relaxed. “Sure. No problem. Bring my friend in?”

The policeman nodded and spoke into his radio. It was going to be a long night, and McCarter didn’t want Pat stuck out in the cold dampness alone.

MCCARTER SCREWED HIS KNUCKLE against his eye socket, fighting off the need for sleep. The sun burned in the window, shining on him like God’s flashlight. He glanced toward the sofa where Pat slept fitfully, curled tight with her shoulders drawn against a chill that was deeper than her bones.

“Thank you for your patience, Mr. King,” Inspector Byers said. “You’ll be in the London area for a while?”

McCarter nodded.

Stony Man Farm had enough pull with the British government to arrange for the Phoenix Force leader to leave the city should he be called away on an emergency mission.

“All right,” Byers said, reluctance coloring his words. “You’re free to go. Just keep in touch.”

McCarter shook the detective’s hand. “Much obliged, mate.”

He walked over to Pat and touched her shoulder. Her pale eyes flickered open immediately.

“What now?” she asked.

“I’m taking you home, love,” McCarter answered. He helped her to her feet and laced his arm with hers. Together they walked slowly to the front door and left the crime scene. A police car was out front, waiting to take them wherever they wished.

They remained quiet on the drive back to her flat. It wasn’t difficult to fake exhaustion. McCarter could feel the passage of blood cells through his cheeks like the rumble of underground trains. Pat leaned against his shoulder, a warm reassurance that she was all right. His empty holsters felt all wrong, though. The police had, understandably, confiscated the side arms for evidence in the shooting. Byers was thorough, and McCarter bit back his discomfort at being disarmed. Even his spare magazines and strip of .38-caliber cartridges to reload the Charter Arms had been taken away.

Hal Brognola would move heaven and earth to make sure those weapons were retrieved from the evidence locker and replaced with sanitized replicas. The originals bore too many of the Briton’s fingerprints and their serial numbers would be traced to David King, his cover persona. All records of the investigation would eventually be purged of any mention of the Phoenix Force commander, the levels of secrecy that Stony Man Farm operated under restored to protect their phantom war against those who thought themselves above the law.

McCarter’s mouth was pressed into a tight, brooding frown. Six trained commandos with high-powered weapons and bulletproof armor and helmets hadn’t been sent to eliminate any old man living in obscurity in London. The bastards he’d fought were too good.

It would have been easier if he hadn’t gotten involved, but McCarter hadn’t become one of the most experienced warriors in the world because he didn’t care. When people needed help, he acted, the consequences of doing the right thing be damned.

They left the squad car when it stopped at her apartment building, and McCarter saw Pat safely to her door. Minutes later he was in a taxicab and back in his room at a nearby hotel.

He went to his luggage, opened a bag and pulled out a spare pistol rug. McCarter unzipped it and revealed a Glock G-34 in 9 mm Parabellum and a smaller Glock 26 in the same caliber. He held up the blocky pistol. The members of Phoenix Force were evaluating the handguns, and as the leader of the team, he had reluctantly accepted the pistol to wring out at a couple of ranges with his fellow SAS men. Calvin James and Rafael Encizo had been the first to fall in love with the Austrian-built handgun and managed to recruit Gary Manning and T.J. Hawkins to their side. The fact that the two men had been able to shoot the gun under water, and had done so in combat, only endeared it further to the experienced divers. The grip, though a little more square, was similar in feel to his Browning. In 9 mm, the G-34 had a 4-shot greater capacity to his beloved Browning, with only a shade more height and thickness to compromise its concealment. Since he usually dressed in oversize, often rumpled clothing, that was no problem.

“The times, they are a changin’,” McCarter murmured as he checked to make sure the chamber was loaded. Assured that the Glock was hot, he holstered the gun. The New York 1 trigger, in Glock nonclementure, meant that it was a trigger-cocking only action, only needing a smooth, 7-pound pull of the trigger to fire off a shot. At first he was iffy about the lack of a thumb safety, but the New York trigger’s pull was enough to stave off a discharge and the pull of the Safe-Action trigger was as slick and complementary to precision shooting as the single-action trigger of his favored Browning. Plus, the members of the SAS that McCarter had been catching up with had been sold on the Glock family of handguns. The British elite troopers were very excited by the light, safe pull of the new series of pistols. As a bonus, the G-34, while being concealable, had a rail on the dust cover that allowed the men of Phoenix Force to attach laser-aiming modules or various flashlights for low-light combat.

He stuffed the Glock into his waistband. He loaded the little Glock, as well, and deposited it back in the pistol rug.

He zipped it up and carried it to the nightstand. The cell phone looked like a metallic dead rat, a reminder that, for all intents and purposes, his vacation was now over.

Though on a busman’s holiday, McCarter was also in London to reinforce some old contacts in the SAS and MI-6, and he’d decided to spend some time with Pat. He plucked the cell from its resting spot in his suitcase and pressed the speed dial, reaching the Farm’s secure number.

Barbara Price, as usual burning the midnight oil, took his call after Stony Man’s computers pronounced his signal clear of prying ears. “David?”

“Hi, Barb. I came across a situation in England,” McCarter explained.

“I know. David King showed up on Scotland Yard’s background check,” Price stated.

“That’s why you’re awake—to chew me out, eh?” the Phoenix Force commander asked.

“You know, it’s usually Striker or Carl who can’t take a decent vacation without getting into a war,” Price responded.

“I felt left out,” McCarter quipped. He then broke into an account of the men he’d encountered and the murder of the old Hispanic man.

“We’ve been running a check on the victim. Interpol’s firewall is giving Aaron’s team a headache,” Price said. “The name we entered activated their cyber-security and clamped things down tightly.”

“Bloody inconvenient of them,” McCarter snapped.

Price sighed. “It’s for the best. The firewall is under their witness protection protocols. It should be too tough to crack.”

McCarter frowned. “That’s why he seemed so familiar.”

“You might know who it is?” Price asked.

“Try Roberto DaCosta,” McCarter suggested.

Price muffled the receiver and passed on the information. McCarter waited, knowing it wouldn’t take long.

“David?” Price asked.

“What’d you find out?”

“Roberto DaCosta was a Catholic bishop from El Salvador. He testified against the old Organización Democráticia Nacionalista—ORDEN—regime and the ESA. Able Team once pulled security for him against one of their teams,” Price responded. “It was a brutal, dirty mission.”

McCarter frowned. “Well, I was too late to help him out. ORDEN…Did they hire American mercenaries?”

“Why do you ask?” Price inquired.

“They spoke English and they sounded American,” McCarter responded.

“They have recruited experts from all around the world, but right now, ESA is pretty much a dead issue,” Price responded. “Most of them are either dead, deported or serving jail time. Again, a lot of ORDEN and their death squads went down hard under Able.”

“Maybe someone had a plan to undeport,” McCarter replied.

“Someone’s trying to make a comeback?”

“Start the guys rattling cages,” McCarter answered. “I’m going to check out a few more things on this side of the pond.”

“Do you want Phoenix over there?” Price asked.

McCarter shook his head. “No. They could be put to better use working in tandem with Carl and his boys until we pick something up.”

“All right. I’ll make sure one of Hal’s irregulars is on the case to get your pistols back,” Price responded. “Do you need to acquire some weapons?”

“I’ve got the evaluation Glocks.”

“Really? I never thought you’d be happy with the new Glock,” Price responded.

McCarter patted the gun stuffed into his waistband. “It’s not that I have to be happy. If I’m going to trust this gun to protect my boys, then I have to trust it to protect my arse.”

“I’ll mark this day in history,” Price joked.

McCarter chuckled. “I’ll never hear the end of this, will I?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he told her.

“You’ll leave your phone on?” Price asked.

“Yeah, I’ll keep my phone on. If you don’t reach me, leave a voice message,” McCarter replied. He hung up.

CHAPTER TWO

“Black seven on red eight.” McCarter’s voice cut through the darkness.

Christopher Reasoner looked up from his table, solitaire cards splayed out. “It doesn’t count as a win if you get help, David.”

McCarter, in a knee-length black peacoat, stepped from the shadows. He looked like a floating head in the darkness beyond the pale cone of light thrown down by the desk lamp. “Like you’d have noticed?”

Reasoner moved the stack over under the red eight, then placed a blotter sheet on top of them. “What’s up, David?”

“I’m looking for a ship that came in a while back, say within the past week,” McCarter replied. “They paid to be left alone.”

“You know as a dock authority, I’m supposed to subject all craft to a search,” Reasoner answered. He laced his fingers together and gave the SAS veteran his most honest look.

McCarter clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Chris, don’t give me that crap. Someone came in. They didn’t do any offloading. I’m thinking, they came from South America.”

“David, you’re hurting my feelings. When have I ever been duplicitous with you?” Reasoner asked.

McCarter rolled his eyes then leaned forward. He motioned with his finger for Reasoner to come closer. The man glanced toward the door. McCarter tilted his head, a warm friendly smile setting the dock man to ease. Reasoner bent nearer to McCarter, then felt a hand clamp over the back of his head. Before he could resist, his face hammered down into the blotter and he felt his nose crunch sickeningly.

“Bloody hell!” Reasoner howled, streams of blood pouring from his nose like a waterfall.

McCarter yanked the man’s head down into the table once more and Reasoner’s eyes crossed from the pain. The official’s fingers clawed at the rough green construction paper, crumpling it as his tormentor hauled him up, glaring at him angrily.

“Listen, you little tosser,” McCarter snarled. “The people on that ship shot at me and nearly shot a close friend.”

Reasoner coughed. Red droplets spattered and disappeared on the heavy wool of McCarter’s coat. “Oh, fuck me…”

McCarter pushed Reasoner’s face into the puddle of blood forming on the crumpled blotter. He applied his full weight to Reasoner’s neck, and the official kicked at the smooth concrete floor.

“My neck!” Reasoner sputtered. “You’re breaking my bloody neck!”

McCarter sighed and leaned back, letting Reasoner sit up again. “You were a whiny bitch back at the regiment. How long does it take to grow a pair?”

Reasoner reached for a drawer, then heard the snick of a safety. He froze and looked down the nearly half-inch diameter black hole of a muzzle. “I’m getting a box of tissues for my face, you right bastard!”

McCarter nodded, his aim unwavering. “Go ahead and get the box. If you touch anything else, though…”

“You’ll kill me?” Reasoner asked.

McCarter smiled. “I’m a better shot than that. I’ll just make you wish you were dead, and still leave you able to write the answers I want.”

Reasoner saw McCarter shake his head behind the big square slide of the pistol leveled at him. He set his box of tissues on the desktop, pointing out to the SAS man the .357 Magnum revolver resting in the top drawer. The dockman’s eyes narrowed. “Were you born a bastard, or did you take lessons?”

“I’m a natural, but that doesn’t mean I don’t keep training. The amateur trains until he gets it right. The true professional trains until he never gets it wrong,” McCarter answered. “Nice Maggie. Hand it over by the barrel.”

Reasoner set the revolver on the desktop and sighed. “Okay. A ship called the Kobiyashi came in the other day.”

“Japanese registry?” McCarter asked.

“Mix of Asians and Hispanics on the crew. Liberian registry, as usual,” Reasoner replied. He pressed a wad of tissues to his upper lip and it soaked immediately through and through.

“Where was its last stop?” McCarter inquired.

“Since when did you start taking to plastic pistols?” Reasoner interrupted. He was trying to stall and regain his composure. “Isn’t that the new Glock?”

McCarter glared at Reasoner. The 9 mm hole in the business end of the pistol glared at the official with only slightly less intensity and intimidation. After a long, uncomfortable moment, McCarter spoke up. “You like eating through a straw?”

“A straw?”

“Liquid nourishment. Actually, you wouldn’t taste it without a tongue, since they’d stick the tube through your nose and straight into your stomach.”

“So like I was saying. The Kobiyashi was just out of Panama,” Reasoner replied. “Came across the canal. Before that they were in the Pacific.”

McCarter frowned. “Any idea where?”

“Up in the armpit between Baja, Mexico, and the mainland,” Reasoner said. He wiped more of his blood off his chin. “Why?”

“I’m writing a book,” McCarter answered.

Reasoner nodded. “Then I’ll keep the words short and easy for you to spell.”

A thunderbolt went off in Reasoner’s right ear, hot flames licking at his eyes. The official screamed and covered his head. Hot stickiness filled the inside of his head and when he opened his left eye, he saw a wisp of smoke rise from the barrel of McCarter’s pistol.

“Sorry. Underestimated the muzzle-flash,” McCarter replied. It sounded as if he was trying to speak through a pillow. Reasoner reached up and found that his right ear was still there, burned and tender from the nearby muzzle-flash that clamped his right eye shut, but he came away with fresh blood.

“What…”

“I think I blew the eardrum. Sorry, mate,” McCarter answered.

Reasoner shuddered. “You’re insane.”

“I just don’t have any patience for smugglers,” McCarter responded. “Or the bastards who make it easy for them.”

“Listen…” Reasoner began.

“You were kicked out of the regiment for selling off our equipment,” McCarter said. “Your lawyer kept you from becoming some bloke’s boyfriend in prison, but if it were up to me, you’d be lucky to take a long drop off a short rope.”

“I didn’t sell to the Provos,” Reasoner answered. “And it was old gear…back stock.”

McCarter was unmoved. “What berth?”