by Gar Wilson
Coughing and wheezing from the tear gas, Encizo and Katz dragged the two dead terrorists to the wall behind the door, and hastily removed the M-17 masks. Semiblinded by their watery eyes, the pair inspected the masks by touch more than sight.
"Mierde," Encizo rasped when he discovered a bullet-shattered filter and broken eye lens. "This mask is shot... literally."
"I'll try to get you another one," Katz replied.
The other M-17 had not been damaged. Katz slipped it on, pulling the strap to the back of his head with the hooks of his prosthetic device. Katz gathered up his Uzi and headed for the door.
A canister of CN-CD tear gas stood at the threshold, jetting out clouds of noxious fumes. Two terrorists lay senseless on the floor. A third was on his knees, hands clasped to the sides of his dazed head. An M-17 mask concealed the man's face. He was rocking with silent pain.
Katz was surprised by the dazed man's clothing. He wore a replica of a United States cavalry blue dress uniform with silver eagles on the shoulder boards. The Israeli would later find it was Colonel Guerre, second in command of the Black Alchemists.
But at this moment the room itself intrigued Katz more than the oddly dressed disabled terrorist. A bulky short-wave radio sat in one corner and an IBM computer dominated the center of the room. A large map of the United States hung on a wall. Colored flags pinned to the chart most likely represented target areas.
"Their files must be here," Katz exclaimed with relief. "Thank God."
Guerre gazed at the Israeli. He yanked his hands away from his ears and snatched for the .45 on his hip. Katz rushed forward and swung his Uzi at the terrorist's skull, hoping to take him alive. Guerre reacted like a cornered cobra. He struck, his arms rising rapidly to block Yakov's attack.
The Israeli was taken by surprise by the wounded Haitian's speed and strength. Guerre grabbed the Uzi, pulling Katz off balance. Yakov, unprepared for the sudden jerk, automatically pulled back. But there was no resistance. Instead, there was a shove. He went over backward landing on his back with a painful whack.
Tear gas in his lungs had weakened the Israeli. The Black Alchemist commander leaped onto Katz's chest and straddled it. He pinned Yakov's left arm under a knee and shoved the steel frame of the Uzi under Katz's chin.
The Phoenix Force veteran felt the terrible pressure jabbing into his throat. Guerre was trying to crush his windpipe. Katz realized it would be pointless to attempt to wrestle with his opponent. The Haitian was larger, stronger and younger than the one-armed Israeli. Katz had to do something fast or die. And he had to do it right the first time.
Yakov raised his prosthetic and thrust the hooks at Guerre's face. The sharp tine of a steel prong hit the terrorist's gas mask. An eye lens cracked. Guerre screamed as the metal stabbed mercilessly into his eyeball. Katz shoved hard. He drove the hook deeper and deeper, piercing inside the eye socket to the Haitian colonel's brain. Between the two, the horrible fight was silent. Guerre's jaw hung down in a silent, unending scream. Blood filled the eyepiece and trickled over the cracked glass.
"Yakov?" Encizo called as he stumbled into the room, half-blind from the tear gas. "Are you all right?"
"Yes." The Israeli pushed Guerre's dead weight off his chest. "Don't use this fellow's gas mask. It has a hole in it." He wiped the prosthetic on Guerre's mock uniform and polished the tip on the Nazi insignia stitched to the tunic.
* * *
The other members of Phoenix Force had charged through the main entrance of the building. They entered the lobby. Dazed and unconscious terrorists littered the floor.
Several Black Alchemist gunmen were still on their feet. Blood streamed from their ears and nostrils, but they still had some fight left despite their exposure to the flash-bang concussion grenade blasts.
They fired. McCarter and Ohara hit the floor, rolling in opposite directions. James and Manning supplied cover fire from behind. The terrorists were taken off guard when their targets suddenly scattered. Some used their weapons too quickly and failed to aim. Others hesitated a moment too long. Survival seldom accepts compromises. It demands precision.
Manning's H&K rifle and James's M-16 delivered high-velocity hellfire. Three Black Alchemists tumbled to the floor. A fourth swung his M-76 chattergun toward the pair. McCarter and Ohara hit him with a double dose of Ingram slugs that kicked him backward six feet and tore his chest apart.
"Look out!" James shouted when he saw a gunman dressed in Ton Ton Macout fatigues emerge from a room in the west wing.
The killer aimed an MAT submachine gun at McCarter. James quickly blasted a trio of 5.56 mm missiles into the Ton Ton's upper torso. The Black Alchemist hoodlum collapsed against the door, forcing it open. A hand reached for the knob to close it, but fearfully retreated rather than risk attack.
James and McCarter dashed for the room. Ohara headed for a flight of stairs leading to the second story while Manning turned his attention to another door in the east wing. The Canadian aimed his SG-1 rifle at the door that had opened a mere crack.
A projectile struck Manning's backpack. He heard the report of a pistol as the slug tunneled through the plastic explosives in the pack. Composition Four is extremely stable and cannot be detonated by a bullet. The C-4 served to slow down the 9mm round but did not stop it.
The bullet slammed into Manning's left shoulder blade. The impact knocked him to the floor. The Canadian landed hard and did not stir.
Keio Ohara spun about. He saw Manning fall and spotted the Black Alchemist gunman who had shot him. One of the victims of the concussion grenades had recovered consciousness and pulled a 9mm Star automatic from his belt.
The terrorist swung his pistol at Ohara and squeezed the trigger as the Japanese fired his M-10. The gunman's bullet, a 115-grain full metal jacket flat-nose slug, ripped into Ohara's belly. At the same instant, three .45 rounds shattered the Black Alchemist's skull. Blood and brains sprayed over the floor as the terrorist's body thrashed and kicked its death throes.
Ohara groaned. His body jackknifed from the burning pain in his bullet-punctured stomach. Fortunately for Ohara, the bullet bored through his abdomen neatly and without mushrooming. He fell to his knees. He tried to stand, tried to control his breath, tried to conquer the pain. The molten lead inside him flared into a sunlike furnace. His strength faded rapidly. Nerve endings seemed to be scorched by fire. Ohara's body shrieked. It begged him to surrender consciousness.
"Ee-ya!" a voice snarled.
Keio Ohara glanced up to see a monstrous shadow rush forward, and the flash of polished steel. The Ingram was smashed from Ohara's hand. His index finger, caught in the trigger guard, snapped like a cheap pencil.
A Zombie Warrior swung the nunchaku, aiming for Ohara's head. Two decades of martial-arts training had already motivated Ohara's reaction. Conditioned reflexes took control of his pain-racked body as he instantly rolled away from the assailant. The nunchaku struck the floor instead of Ohara's skull.
Two Zombie Warriors had been training in the dojo, the gymnasium, when the attack occurred. They had been spared from the concussion blasts by retreating there when the grenades were lobbed into the lobby. However, they did not have fast access to firearms. They waited for a chance to attack the invaders with their karate weapons. The wounded Ohara seemed a perfect target.
Asai spun in one warrior's fists as he moved toward Ohara. The other closed in quickly and whipped the nunchaku across the Japanese commando's lower back. Ohara grunted in pain while the first aimed the points of his sai and lunged for his opponent's eyes.
"Haaii-ya!"
Ohara's battle cry filled the lobby. It was a cry filled with pain and fury. He bolted away from the sai thrust and pivoted on one knee to face his assailants. The nunchaku whirled again and Gaston prepared another sai assault.
Ohara's hand streaked to the haft of his wakazashi short sword. Samurai steel slashed as the nunchaku swooped toward his head. Metal met wood. Six inches of oak hopped from the nunchaku when the blade sliced thr
ough one of the sticks. It fluttered away, out of balance.
Ohara spun on his knee to continue the sword stroke. One of the Zombies retreated from the flashing wakazashi. The Phoenix Force fighter corkscrewed to a standing position, his sword held ready in a two-hand grip. Blood welled from the bullet hole in his stomach, but Ohara's face was a samurai battle mask of fierce determination.
The Zombies glanced at each other and exchanged nods. They attacked in unison. The damaged nunchaku swung high while the sai lunged for Ohara's torso. The Japanese dodged the first weapon and turned to block the sai. Steel rang against steel. The sword met a sai blade. The other weapon found flesh. The point pierced Ohara's left bicep, gouging muscle and scraping bone.
The pain was terrific. Ohara's scream expressed less agony than fury. A last squirt of adrenaline surged through his system. He raised his sword sharply and rammed the kashira butt of the pommel into one attacker's mouth. The blow splintered the Haitian's upper jaw. He staggered backward, stunned and bleeding.
The other lashed the nunchaku at Ohara's right temple. The stick weapon missed its mark, but struck a glancing blow to the crown of the Oriental's skull. Keio Ohara did not even flinch. The adrenaline now held full sway.
He suddenly executed a cross-body sword stroke. The wakazashi hissed, a bolt of silver lightning wielded by a warrior Zeus. Sharp steel cut into the side of the terrorist's neck. It sliced through tendons and vertebrae, then on to nothingness. His head fell and rolled across the floor like a gruesome giant marble.
The Zombie indeed became a walking corpse. His decapitated body stumbled awkwardly around the room as blood fountained in a deep red rush from the stump of its neck. The Haitian's knees buckled and the hideous apparition crashed to the floor.
Ohara pivoted to deal with the living Zombie. However, even a samurai is not immune to the effects of pain, fatigue and the loss of blood. Ohara was not fast enough to parry the sai.
The Haitian's left-hand weapon trapped the samurai sword between its center blade and a hooked tine. Ohara tried to block the sai with his other fist, but his wounded left arm was all but useless and refused to cooperate. The enemy swordsman thrust the point of the sai into Ohara's solar plexus.
Steel pierced the Phoenix Force commando's chest cavity. He cried out, no longer able to restrain his agony. His attacker smiled and shoved the sai deeper. Ohara's blood splattered upon the other's fist and forearm.
The samurai sword fell from Ohara's grasp. Suddenly his arm rose. Ohara's hand executed a fast hiraken panther punch. He pumped his last burst of strength into that final, desperate karate stroke. The semiclosed fist struck the terrorist in the throat. Knuckles smashed into the Zombie Warrior's windpipe and crushed his thyroid cartilage.
Ohara and the terrorist fell together. The Phoenix Force commando watched his opponent twitch feebly. The Haitian clawed at his wrecked throat as his heels drummed against the floor. His convulsions soon ceased and all life left his body. The Japanese nodded in grim satisfaction.
Then Keio Ohara's heart stopped.
The pain abruptly vanished. He closed his eyes and peacefully accepted the final judgment of death.
* * *
Unaware of the plight of their fallen comrades, Calvin James and David McCarter scrambled to the room in the west wing. The corpse of a slain terrorist still lay across the threshold.
The black commando stood behind the open door. McCarter, armed with the compact Ingram, dived to the floor and rolled to the opposite side of the doorway. No shots were fired at his hurtling form.
"You get one chance," James shouted. "Either throw out your weapons and surrender or we toss in the hand grenades."
"This is a chemistry laboratory," a trembling voice replied from within. "I've got potassium chlorate, magnesium sulphate and white phosphorus in here. You know what that means?"
"Yeah," James answered. "It means you'll go up like a Roman candle, fella."
"And you guys will go with me!" the terrorist shrieked.
"Sounds like an American," McCarter whispered to James.
"And he said / instead of we," the black fighting machine added. "He's probably alone in there."
"Ten to one he's a chemist on their payroll," the Briton commented. "Not likely he's eager to die for the cause."
"Sure doesn't sound like it," James agreed as he put down his M-16. "I've got a plan. Just in case we have to do any shooting, better stick to handguns. I don't think he's lying about the explosive chemicals in there."
"Right," McCarter said, drawing his Browning Hi-Power.
"Hey, turkey," James called to the terrorist. "We figure you've had enough time to decide. Say your prayers, chump, 'cause we're all gonna meet our Maker together."
The black commando tossed an M-26 hand grenade across the threshold. He heard the lone terrorist scream. Shoe leather scrambled across tile. McCarter dashed into the room. James stayed by the doorway, the Colt Commander Combat ready to supply covering fire.
"I've got the bugger," McCarter announced cheerfully.
He had easily found the terrorist. A young black man clad in a white lab smock was huddled in a corner with both hands wrapped over his head. McCarter approached the frightened youth and pointed his Browning at the man's head.
"Just place your forehead against the wall and put your hands at the small of your back, lad," the Briton instructed.
"What?" The terrorist gazed up with a confused expression on his sweat-soaked face. "How...? The grenade..."
"The bloody pin wasn't pulled, you idiot," McCarter growled. "Now do what I told you before I get annoyed and decide to kill you."
"Okay, mister," the man hastily agreed. "Don't do nothing radical."
"Lord love a duck," the Briton snorted. "You're a dandy excuse for a terrorist. Whatever happened to all that rot about dying for the revolution?"
"Look," the youth said. "I'm just a chemist."
"So all you did was help make poisons for Cercueil and company to use to kill innocent people," James said dryly, holstering his Colt.
"They made me do it, man. I didn't want to, but they..."
"Sure," James snapped. "They made you take the money too. Save it for your trial, kid. Where's Cercueil?"
He bent to retrieve his M-16. Then the object of his question suddenly materialized in the hallway. A sinister figure dressed in black with a top hat perched on its head stood before Calvin James. Light danced along the naked blade of the cane sword in his fist.
James grabbed the M-16 as the Haitian master criminal slashed a vicious sword stroke at his face. James dodged the flashing steel, the assault rifle in his fists. Cercueil lunged like a veteran fencer, aiming the sword tip at James's heart.
The aluminum receiver of the M-16 blocked the blade. Cercueil hissed and immediately swung an overhead stroke at James's head. The rifle rose to check the attack. Steel clanged harshly against steel. James quickly swung a heavy boot into his opponent's abdomen. Cercueil grunted and stumbled backward.
James reversed his grip on the M-16, trying to point the rifle at Cercueil and insert his finger into the trigger guard. The Black Alchemist uttered an obscenity in patois and executed a sword thrust toward James's throat.
The black warrior weaved away from the blade. It stabbed the empty air less than an inch from his left earlobe. James quickly raised the barrel of his M-16. Steel struck steel once more. He shoved hard and pushed the blade toward its wielder.
"No!" Cercueil cried out when he realized what was about to happen.
James fiercely pressed the rifle downward in a hard diagonal stroke. The violent motion shoved the edge of the sword into the side of Cercueil's neck. The Phoenix Force combat champ revolved his shoulders and twisted his trunk sharply. This dragged the blade across Cercueil's throat.
Blood gushed from the horrible wound. The Black Alchemist boss stared at James, his eyes filled with astonishment and sheer terror. Calvin James spat in Cercueil's face and suddenly delivered a furious butt stroke to the
Haitian's skull.
The blow almost decapitated Cercueil. Flesh ripped and the tear in his throat widened. The Black Alchemist's head snapped backward and recoiled. Suspended by strands of skin and muscle, it drooped against his shoulder blades. Maurice Cercueil fell. He landed on his back, but his face struck the floor first.
"Jesus, Cal," McCarter remarked as he escorted the prisoner from the lab. "You sure know how to hurt a guy."
"Are you two all right?" Rafael Encizo called as he approached the room.
"A hell of a lot better than most people around here," James replied.
"I noticed," the Cuban said, glancing at the grisly remains of Cercueil.
"Did you and Katz take care of everything upstairs?"
"Yeah." Encizo's expression was grim. "We've got casualties."
"How serious?" James asked, reaching for his medical kit.
"Gary's been wounded," Encizo replied. "And Keio... Keio is dead."
The taste of victory suddenly seemed very bitter indeed.
23
"The records you found at the Black Alchemist headquarters have been turned over to the Justice Department," Hal Brognola said to the men of Phoenix Force in the Stony Man War Room.
Five solemn faces gazed up at him from the conference table. Brognola realized they had suffered a great loss. One of their own had fallen in battle, never to rise again.
"The Black Alchemist conspiracy has already been crushed," Brognola continued. "Federal and state authorities are rounding up the remnants of the organization. The President wants me to congratulate all of you on a job well done."
"Thank him for us, okay?" said Gary Manning.
"How's your back?"
"Just a little sore," the Canadian answered. "The bullet was slowed by my backpack. It barely broke the skin. All I got was a bruised shoulder blade. The terrorist probably would have finished me off if Keio hadn't been there."
"He was a damn good man," Brognola stated.
"One of the best," Rafael Encizo agreed. "Hell, they had to shoot him, stab him and club him before he'd go down. Even then, Keio killed them before he died."