The Black Alchemists

by Gar Wilson

  "We're wondering whether or not to allow you to attend these conferences in the future," Cercueil lied smoothly. "After all, you're only interested in the money, Cole. How reliable can you be? A man who would help blackmail his own government..."

  "It's a white man's government," Cole spat. "Not mine."

  "Spare us another lecture about how you suffered because of your skin color," the Black Alchemist leader said with a sigh. "The chemicals you prepare for us are used to sabotage goods which are purchased by Americans — black as well as white. Don't pretend to have any scruples, Cole.''

  "You don't have any business criticizing me," Cole snapped. He regretted the remark as soon as he made it. Cercueil was not a man to trifle with.

  "I served President Duvalier loyally until his death in 1971," Cercueil declared proudly. "I would have served his son as well if Jean-Claude had not betrayed me. Colonel Guerre and I have a goal that justifies our role in the Black Alchemist operations. We intend to return to Haiti and seize control from that arrogant pup."

  "So what are you going to do about that moron the cops caught in Illinois?" Cole asked. "Within forty-eight hours the pigs'll have him singing like a goddamn canary in heat.''

  "So let him talk." Guerre shrugged. "He doesn't know about us or where our headquarters are located."

  "That's true," Cercueil agreed, tapping the death's-head handle of his cane against his palm. "But he might tell the authorities about the location of the Chicago base. If the police raid it, our operations throughout the Midwest would be in jeopardy."

  "Then you want the man terminated?" Guerre asked.

  "Within forty-eight hours," Cercueil confirmed.

  8

  "There's Jenson," Colonel Katzenelenbogen announced, gazing through an infrared Starlite night viewer. "He's shaved off his beard, but I recognize him from the mug shots."

  Calvin James sat next to the Israeli behind the steering wheel of a Volvo parked half a block from the Springfield Police Department. In addition to the Starlite viewer, Katz also had a Hunter's Ear long-range listening device trained on the police station and the five men who had emerged from it.

  Howard Jenson, clad in denim, his hands cuffed behind his back, was sandwiched between four men. The escorts wore "executive" uniforms — single-breasted suits, white shirts and striped ties. Katz had little doubt who they were.

  "Looks like the FBI has already convinced the local police to put Jenson into its custody," the Israeli declared as he watched the group walk to a pair of sedans parked at the curb. Two more Feds waited by the cars.

  "Thought that might happen," Katz muttered. "We'll have to put plan B into action."

  "Jesus," James whispered. "I never figured I'd be helping kidnap a prisoner from the FBI."

  James had been stunned by how rapidly events had unfolded within the last eight hours. After his initial briefing at Stony Man Headquarters, he had been taken to an enormous arms room containing an incredible assortment of firearms, explosives, knives and other weapons. His SWAT weapons had been left behind at the Hilldale Bank because the guns could be easily traced if they had to be discarded during the mission.

  David McCarter had acted as tour guide through the arms room. The Briton told James that he could help himself to whatever weapons he desired. McCarter also urged him to keep his selection practical for the type of mission involved. The SAS veteran further advised James to pick reliable cartridge. "Make your decision, and remember: your life might depend on it later."

  James chose weapons he had previous experience with, and refamiliarized himself with them at an indoor firing range. Then he was issued special combat clothing and other gear. Finally, he joined the other members of Phoenix Force to discuss strategy.

  Plan A was conceived when Kurtzman's computer links discovered the FBI planned to take custody of Howard Jenson. Phoenix Force hoped to beat the Feds to the Springfield station. Then Manning and James would simply impersonate FBI agents and remove Jenson from police custody without any hassle.

  Plan B would not be so easy.

  "Well," Katz began as he picked up a communicator. "At least we won't have to use plan C."

  "Yeah," James sighed with relief. Plan C would have gone into effect if they were forced to break Jenson out of his jail cell.

  "Let's not be too sure," said Katz, putting the transceiver back into its cradle. "Looks like the competition just showed up."

  The Israeli quickly grabbed his Starlite viewer and locked in on the police station, where half a dozen strangers in jeans, dark jackets and ski masks had suddenly materialized. The assailants pointed an assortment of silencer-equipped weapons at the FBI agents and Howard Jenson. The startled Feds hastily shoved their prisoner to the pavement and reached for sidearms under their jackets.

  Through the Hunter's Ear, Katz heard the muffled phut-phut-phut of silenced gunshots. Three FBI men tumbled to the sidewalk as the terrorists raked the group with gunfire. The remaining Feds jumped behind the closest sedan for cover.

  The attackers moved in for the kill. Two FBI agents returned fire with their pistols. A terrorist crumpled to the pavement, clutching his bullet-torn abdomen. The others scrambled for the shelter of parked vehicles.

  "Go!" Katz snapped into the transceiver.

  James immediately shifted the Volvo into drive and stomped upon the gas pedal. The car squealed toward the gunfight. No one in Phoenix Force had foreseen that the Black Alchemists might try to rescue or terminate Jenson. The Phoenix Force team would have to use its limited arsenal and play it by ear.

  In case it needed to take out the police or the Feds, Phoenix Force had brought several Bio-Inoculator pistols and two Anschutz air rifles loaded with sleep darts. These nonlethal weapons are not suited for serious combat. James did not know how much deadly hardware his companions carried, but all he had was a .45-caliber Colt Combat Commander — hardly an even match against opponents armed with submachine guns.

  "Shit, man," he rasped as the Volvo sped toward the terrorists.

  "Watch out for the backup team," Katz warned, drawing an Israeli-made .357 Eagle autoloader from shoulder leather.

  "Backup team?"

  "Six terrorists wouldn't try to pull a stunt like this without a backup," Yakov explained. "Probably in a vehicle. Maybe several."

  "Great," James groaned.

  Two figures wearing ski masks appeared in front of the Volvo, aimed subguns at the car and opened fire. Bullets smashed into the windshield, instantly cracking it into a jagged road-map pattern.

  James ducked as low as possible behind the wheel. He clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to swerve away from the gunmen. His foot remained solidly down on the gas pedal.

  "Eat my fender," he snarled.

  The terrorists cried out and tried to dodge the charging Volvo. One was not fast enough: the car slammed into him with terrific force. His body was hurled eight feet. It cartwheeled across the street to the curb. Broken and bleeding, the terrorist died as he had lived — in a gutter.

  James savagely turned the steering wheel to the right. The Volvo veered sharply, lurched to the curb and jumped onto the sidewalk. The black warrior stomped on the brake and killed the engine, and he and Katz quickly tumbled out.

  After witnessing the fate of their comrade, the surviving terrorists had again retreated to cover, and continued to fire at Katz and James. Luckily for Phoenix Force, the terrorists used their weapons with plenty of desperation but little skill.

  A black Mazda suddenly shot into the middle of the street. Rafael Encizo drove while David McCarter poked the muzzle of his Ingram M-10 out the passenger-side window. The Briton fired on a trio of terrorists crouched behind a squad car on the curb. He hit two of them. The impact smashed them into the prowl car. They slumped lifeless to the ground. The third terrorist shrieked in horror but managed to escape the horizontal volley of metal hail.

  Katz and James took advantage of the distraction. As James covered him, the Israeli spun from the shelter o
f the Volvo and dashed to an Oldsmobile that a terrorist was using for cover. James was surprised and impressed by the middle-aged Israeli's speed and agility.

  The enemy gunman's attention was still on the Mazda as Katz scrambled to the rear of the Olds. The terrorist either sensed danger or caught a glimpse of movement. He turned sharply to see the Israeli's .357 autoloader pointed at him.

  With a deranged snarl, the gunman swung his Smith & Wesson M-76 submachine gun at Katz. The Phoenix Force commander responded by rapidly triggering his Eagle pistol. Two 125-grain jacketed hollowpoint projectiles punched into the man's chest.

  One of the potent man stoppers ripped through the terrorist, mushrooming through a lung before making a gory exit through his back. The other struck the center of his chest and burst the bone to send fragments into his heart. The gunman's body was thrown backward across the pavement, leaving a crimson trail.

  Only one member of the terrorist hit team remained. Young Frank Tate squatted behind a squad car, face dripping sweat, knuckles white as he gripped the frame of his Skorpion machine pistol. Tate was a half-baked anarchist who claimed to be a Marxist although he had never read the Communist Manifesto and he thought Adolf Hitler had written Das Kapital. He also claimed to be an atheist, but now he found himself praying for deliverance.

  The response to his supplications was immediate. A small object struck the side of his head as sharp pain lanced through his brain and hot lava seemed to bubble inside his skull. His last thoughts were two questions: Did God strike me dead for my sins? Will I go to hell? He died without knowing the answer to the former, but no doubt found out about the latter.

  "Did we get them all?" Encizo spoke into his transceiver as he braked the Mazda.

  "Everybody's down except our guys," replied Gary Manning, who had the best observation post.

  "What about Jenson and the Feds?"

  "Only one Fed survived," the Canadian replied.

  "I shot him and Jenson with sleep darts. They're both napping. Nailed one of the terrorists too, but I don't think he'll ever wake up. Bastard moved his head just as I squeezed the trigger. Dart hit him right in the temple."

  Blue-uniformed figures burst from the front door of the police station. The Springfield Police were not cowards. They were not stupid either. The cops had no intention of rushing into such a fierce firefight with just service revolvers. The officers who emerged from the building were decked out with flak jackets, riot helmets and shotguns.

  "You can bet there are other cops at the windows with rifles and tear-gas canisters ready," James told Katz when he joined the Israeli.

  "Show them your FBI id," Yakov said. "Tell them we're a special antiterrorist strike force the Feds sent to back up their regular agents."

  "Think they'll buy it?"

  "They can see we're not wearing ski masks," Katz replied with a shrug.

  "Heads up!" Manning's voice warned from the transceiver on Katz's belt.

  A large van, the type used for moving furniture, suddenly appeared from the east. It rocketed toward the area like a mechanical behemoth and screeched to an abrupt halt. The back door rolled open and six men clad in terrorist chic — dark jackets and ski masks — hopped out.

  "Wondered what happened to the backup team," Katz commented, almost casually.

  Two terrorists dropped onto their bellies, instantly setting up a belt-fed M-60 machine gun complete with bipod. The pair trained its formidable chatterbox on the police station and opened fire. A tidal wave of 7.62mm rounds lanced into the cops. Black-tipped armor-piercing projectiles punched through flak vests as if they were made of tissue paper. Bloodied bodies tumbled down the stairs as other police started shooting from the windows.

  "Cabrόnes!" Encizo growled with anger when he saw the slaughter.

  The Cuban popped open the glove compartment and reached inside for a smooth-shelled M-26 hand grenade. Encizo bolted from the Mazda and dashed toward the machine gunners. Needles of pain traveled up his leg as the steel pin in his ankle made itself known. Ignoring his discomfort, the Cuban scrambled to a car parked a few yards from the M-60 team.

  Crouched behind the vehicle, Encizo judged the approximate distance to the terrorists and pulled the pin from his M-26. Waiting for two heartbeats, he snapped the grenade at the machine gunners. It struck the ground, bounced and rolled to the killers before the detonator erupted.

  The fragmentation grenade showed no mercy to man or machine. The blast sent the M-60 into the night sky, a mangled chunk of twisted steel. Ragged, torn fragments of human beings showered the street with grisly debris.

  Three terrorists retreated behind the van. Unfortunately for them, their backs were turned to the camera shop on the roof of which Gary Manning watched them through the sights of a .41 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver.

  The Canadian aimed carefully, squeezed the trigger. The big S&W bucked and roared. A high-velocity .41 Magnum wadcutter crashed through a terrorist's skull. His head exploded like cabbage hit by a sledgehammer.

  The ghastly corpse fell upon the remaining terrorists. The startled pair knew not the source of the new threat until Manning fired his Magnum again. Another .41-caliber devastator blasted into the chest of an enemy buttonman. The big projectile dropped through the terrorist's torso and made a gory exit between his shoulders.

  "On the roof, shithead!" the burly driver of the van shouted as he emerged from the cab with a 12-gauge pump shotgun in his fist.

  Although the driver had seen Manning, he failed to notice Keio Ohara. The Japanese warrior had climbed down a fire escape to the alley and was stealthily creeping toward the van, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  It arrived.

  Ohara burst from the alley with a running leap. His right leg extended, he executed a tobi-geri, flying kick. His boot struck the door of the cab, slamming it upon the van driver. The shotgun clattered to the sidewalk.

  The other terrorist pivoted sharply, a compact M-11 Ingram in his fists. He fired a rapid salvo at Ohara. Half a dozen copper-jacketed .380 rounds pierced flesh and pulverized human organs.

  The driver's body slumped to the pavement, his chest a crimson pulp. His comrade with the M-11 had blasted the wrong target. Keio Ohara had dived to the sidewalk in a fast mae-ukemi, shoulder roll. None of the .380 slugs had touched his body as he tumbled across the cement.

  The roll carried Ohara to the terrorist gunman. Before the startled killer could re-aim his Ingram, Ohara struck once more. From a prone position, the Phoenix Force pro lashed out a long leg and kicked the M-11 from his opponent's grasp.

  He immediately followed through with a vicious scissors kick, his legs trapping the gunman's ankles in a firm vise. A hard twist sent the terrorist facefirst to the sidewalk. Ohara pounced on his back and lashed the side of his hand across the base of his skull. The shuto stroke cracked bone, severed the spinal cord and smashed the man's face into concrete.

  Only one terrorist had survived the firefight. Terrified, the man panicked and ran into the street. McCarter cut off his escape route and fired a 3-round burst at his feet, hoping to urge him to surrender.

  The gunman bolted in terror toward the squad cars. This put him directly in the line of fire of the police riflemen whose bullets plastered him against a cop car. He slid to the sidewalk and bowed his shattered head against a tire.

  "Well, that's the last of them," Manning's voice announced with relief.

  "Are you certain?" Katz asked via his communicator.

  "Yeah. None of the bad guys made it, unless you count Jenson. Keio tried to take one of them alive, but things didn't work out that way."

  "Let's grab Jenson and pull out," Katz said.

  "Gary, get down here in case we have to talk to the police."

  "Right," Manning agreed.

  "I sure hope Jenson is worth all this trouble," Calvin James remarked to Katz.

  The Israeli replied, "We'll find out soon enough."

  9

  Howard Jenson groaned as he regained consc
iousness. Slowly he opened his eyes: the lids felt as if they were lined with lead. Fog seemed to surround him, but a brilliant globe of light burned through the mist.

  "Your vision will clear in a minute or two," Calvin James told him. "You'll probably have some vertigo, so don't try to get up."

  "Where am 1?" Jenson asked. His jaw was numb, his speech slurred.

  "You're still alive," Katzenelenbogen declared. "That ought to be enough for now."

  The fog lifted, but the glare of a 150-watt bulb from a gooseneck lamp nearly blinded him. Jenson squinted and turned away.

  "Who are you guys? You're not cops, are you?"

  "We're not Black Alchemists either," Yakov told him bluntly. "Your comrades tried to kill you tonight."

  "Bullshit," Jenson replied, unable to see his captors clearly. "They shot down those federal bastards to try to rescue me."

  "Shee-it," James snorted, slipping into ghetto jive because he knew Jenson was a product of the streets. "Those dudes used machine guns like they were spraying for roaches, and you would have been just another bug, man."

  "Screw you, nigger," Jenson growled.

  "Watch your mouth," Rafael Encizo warned. "Unless you want it washed out with Janitor-In-A-Drum."

  "No sweat." James chuckled. "I don't give a damn what a two-bit junkie punk calls me. He's not worth getting excited about."

  "He's not worth anything period unless he tells us about the Black Alchemists," Katz remarked dryly.

  Katz thrust his prosthetic limb under the lamp. Jenson gasped fearfully when he saw the steel hooks snap together like a bear trap.

  "We don't have all night," the Israeli said in an icy voice. "If you insist on wasting our time, I may become impatient and decide to snip off a finger for every rude remark that slithers out of that cesspool you use for a mouth. Understood?"

  Jenson bobbed his head in reply.

  "Look, sonny," James began. "We know all about you. You're an ex-con with a heroin monkey on your back. If the Feds locked you up and kept you cold turkey for a few days, you'd blab your head off to get a fix. You're a waste product, man. Your buddies know they can't rely on you to keep your mouth shut. It would be easier to dust you than try to break you out of the joint."